Carol Berg - Flesh and Spirit

By the time I joined him, the boy’s trembling fingers had scarcely got the lid open. Together we lifted out two trays of small, fine instruments—pincers, scalpels, probing tools of thin wire, and the like—laid out between sheets of leather. In the bottom of the chest lay a number of larger, linen-wrapped bundles. The boy dragged out cautery irons, mallets, and strangely shaped implements of unknown purpose. I’d seen enough use of such tools to recognize the wide blade and thin, squared handle of the bonesaw.

“There. That one. That’s likely what he wants. And you’d best take the larger iron as well.”

The boy looked up at me like a begging pup, raising a small key in his hand. “And p-p-poppy extract. He said you’d know where to find it.”

“I’d guess that every wounded man who comes here learns where the good infirmarian keeps Iero’s salvation…” I limped to the corner of the room where the roof truss lapped over the wall, forming a high shelf, and lifted down the heavy iron casket that likely only Brother Badger and I could reach. “…but he chooses not to leave it loose about to tempt boys or weak-minded malingerers like me. It will be a boon to those you’ve seen, as will the care the brothers give them.” Saints and angels, I didn’t want the boy to start weeping.

I wheedled the recalcitrant lock open and handed over the precious brown flask. “Anything else?”

The boy shook his head, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and trotted out the door.

I stowed the nicked herb knife and the pilfered herbs and medicines in my rucksack and tied the bag around my waist with a length of linen bandage. Then I pulled my jaque over my woolen shirt, wrestled my boots onto my feet and my damp monk’s gown over all.

Caution demanded I bolt. To strike out directly across the River Kay behind the infirmary would get me away from the abbey quickest. But the church would hold valuables—calyxes of gold or silver used for noblemen’s offerings, or the offerings themselves—rare oils, coins, gems perhaps, or other gifts from wealthy benefactors and pilgrims. I made Iero’s sign on breast and forehead, vowing to take only enough to pay for my book. Stealing from a god’s house was a risky practice.

Though twilight lingered in the outer airs, night had already settled in the confines of the inner courts. The wood-splitters’ yard was deserted, the wood stacked in the voluminous undercroft, splinters and flakes neatly raked and dropped in weatherworn tinder baskets. The ripe stench of a latrine overlaid the scents of brewhouse and granary. All very natural. Yet I peered over my shoulder fifty times in that short journey, and gripped my alder stick so fiercely I likely put dents in the smooth wood. The guesthouse sat dark. I breathed freely only after I hobbled into the maze of gardens and hedges before the church.

I paused amid the overgrown yews, wondering at the quiet. Perhaps circumstances were not so dire as the fears of naive boys implied. Only a fool would pillage a church and abandon such a comfortable sanctuary without ripe cause. So instead of bearing right into the church, I headed left toward the abbey gates.

Just inside the massive outer wall of the abbey and its twin-towered gatehouse lay the walled enclosure the brothers called the Alms Court. In this pleasant space of fountains and mosaics, where, on ordinary days, Brother Porter dealt with visitors, five dead bodies lay wrapped neatly in linen. A lay brother sponged blood and dirt from a sixth corpse, while a white-haired monk droned prayers over the dead man’s battered head. The mournful Porter, Brother Cadeus, filled a pail at a splashing fountain and dashed it over the paving stones as if to expunge the horror.

Save for these few and a trickle of monks hurrying through with blankets, soup crocks, or rolls of gray linen bandages, the courtyard was deserted. I had expected it to be overflowing with wounded.

“Could you take this, Brother?” An overburdened monk thrust an ale pitcher into my hand. Tucking the heavy pitcher in the crook of my arm, I joined the procession. The gate tunnel itself was quiet, the sharp click of my walking stick and uneven clomp of my heavy boots on the stone paving far louder than the shuffle and swish of passing sandals and cowls. The thick wooden gates halfway along the tunnel had been propped open.

Beyond the vaulted entry lay a scene worthy of the Adversary’s domain. The broad sky blazed with orange-edged clouds and swaths of gray and purple. Torches had been mounted on staves, illuminating, not a hundred, but surely sixty or seventy bloodied soldiers sprawled on the puddled apron of grass before the gatehouse. They didn’t look to be in any condition to cause much trouble for the monks. I had seen the ravages a defeated army could work upon a town or village. And these men were defeated. The wounded huddled quietly, suppressing moans and gasps of pain while mumbling prayers and curses. Other men sat silent, twitching at every noise, each man closed into himself, glaze-eyed with exhaustion and hunger.

Monks moved among the crowd like bees in a clover patch, offering prayers, ale, bread, blankets, and strips of linen men could use to bandage themselves until others could see to them. Fires sprang up here and there as the river damp rolled in with nightfall.

Close by the gate tunnel, an Ardran wearing a ripped tabard and cloak over hauberk and mail chausses fidgeted near a small group of monks. His bearing proclaimed him an officer, as did the sword at his waist and the riding crop in his hand.

The moment the group dispersed, leaving only one stocky, bald-pated brother standing by the gate, the officer pounced. “An hour we’ve waited, holy father,” he said, his tight-lipped sneer more honest than his address. “My lord asks again when the abbot will come and grant his right of sanctuary. Nor have my lord’s wounds been attended as yet.”

“All in good time,” said the monk, his shaven head and the silver solicale that dangled on his breast gleaming in the torchlight. “Abbot Luviar works in our farthest fields today. Though we’ve rung summoning bells, we’ve no horses to fetch him. Perhaps you can explain to me: I’ve granted sanctuary to all comers, but none have entered. They say their officers will not permit—”

“No cowards or gutterwipes will pass this gate before their lord,” said the officer through clenched teeth, “and he will not share a common blessing given by some underling friar. He will have his proper reception.”

“Naturally, protocol must be followed.” The monk spread his hands in helpless resignation. “I’ll encourage our infirmarian to attend your lord immediately.” One could not mistake a barb of indignation amid the proffered roses.

“See that you do, monk.” The officer nodded stiffly and retreated to a knot of men in the very center of the field—a cadre of knights, twelve lances sprouting from them like a stand of needlegrass.

What lord lay there with no horses or banners? Some landless edane, no doubt, who thought himself Iero’s chosen for surviving when mardanes, ducs, and princes lay dead or captive. None of the regular soldiers paid him any notice.

Nestled above the tunnel between the twin gate towers was the room where, as Saint Ophir had commanded, one member of the Gillarine fraternity remained ever alert for those in need of sanctuary—certainly to my own benefit. As I weighed the efforts of finding another haven, someone poked his head from the window and yelled, “Hark, Father Prior!”

The stocky monk craned his neck to see the caller. “Must you shout so loud, Brother Cosmos? Even underling friars must maintain our wits and decorum.” His politeness had shriveled like a currant.

“There are more men on the ridge, Father Prior. Coming this way.” Brother Cosmos damped his volume, but he could not mute the quaver of fear that accompanied his report.