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Returning Rebecca Gardyner's body to her parents |
If you have not yet read Chapter 1, here is the link:
The Book Chapter 2 Like a dimpled slab of dull, gray stone, a ceiling of thick clouds blocked whatever warmth and optimism bright sunshine and blue skies might have brought to the somber village. A hundred sooty pillars of smoke billowed from holes in the center of thatched roofs. Only the largest shops and manors boasted chimneys. Polluting the air with their acrid odor, the thick plumes merged and spread across the sky to further smudge the gloomy dawn. Tiny sparks danced on the breeze, glowing like fireflies in the forest, but far more dangerous, the priest thought. He recalled funerals conducted for parishioners who were killed in fires caused by wind-blown embers. The reddish-orange cinders reminded him of The Book and its luminescent scrolling. Pulling the funeral bier that carried the shrouded body of Rebecca Gardyner, Brothers Michael and Stephen struggled behind Father Benedict. Far from the cobblestone-paved area near the chapel, the once-hard road had turned to mud. For nigh onto seven years it had stayed that way through the fall due to the perennial storms that plagued Northern England . The meandering trail to the girl's home guided the trio through a cluster of one and two-room huts. Escaping from between the boards of small, shuttered windows, the musky smell of livestock mingled with the aroma of baking horsebread. Here and there, the lowing of a cow, or the grunt of a hog being led outdoors, greeted the early-morning funerary procession. Fearing bands of thieves and packs of wolves that flourished in Northern England, the village's peasants brought their animals into their homes each evening. Because the livestock population had plummeted, a healthy farm animal could command a price rivaling a full year's wages. Over a harsh winter, a goat or a lamb could make the difference between a family's survival or starvation. Losing a cow or a fat hog represented an unthinkable catastrophe that could not be risked. The few villagers on the trail that morning nodded politely to the priest. Their feet made squishing noises in the slippery muck as they passed. Some slowed briefly to pay their respects, making the sign of the cross, but none stopped to inquire as to the identity of the corpse. Father Benedict and the monks understood. Nearly a quarter of the area's population had perished during the unrelenting famine that began in 1315. Seven years later, death remained so prevalent that few reacted emotionally to it, unless it struck their immediate family. "We should have brought the wagon, Father," Brother Michael complained. "I'm so tired." Grunting with each step, he added, "We were up late, preparing the girl's body as you requested. I hardly slept at all." Squinting as he gazed skyward, the agitated monk pointed, "Father, look at those fat clouds. They're pregnant with rain. What if it should begin to fall?" "Then we'll get wet," Father Benedict replied without glancing up or turning around. "But what about the girl?" the other monk fretted. "It won't make any difference to her, Stephen," the priest declared. "She resides in purgatory this morning, waiting to enter heaven. Besides, it's not far enough to warrant hitching up a horse. We'll be there, soon enough and the Gardyner family needs a place for the child's body to lie during the wake. The bier is narrow enough to fit through their door, a wagon wouldn't." "What if the rains never stop?" Michael fretted. "The crops still haven't recovered, it's been too wet." "Could you possibly find something positive to dwell on, Michael?" Brother Stephen pleaded. "We have more than enough misery to ponder." "We can't survive another year of heavy rains," Michael declared. "We don't have enough livestock, not enough —" "At least you're alive, today," Stephen countered, "And, unless God can't abide your constant complaining, you'll have a place in heaven when you die." Michael scowled as Brother Stephen added, "There, can we at least be thankful for that?" After a few moments of trudging along in silence, Brother Michael spoke again, "Father?" The priest halted, sighed heavily, and turned around. "Yes?" "Did you know she was violated before being strangled?" Michael stared. "Like the others?" "So I assumed," Father Benedict's head drooped. "Last night in the sanctuary, even in the dark, I noticed the dark stains on her dress, between her thighs, and I saw the bruises on her neck. They were profound." Brother Michael shook his head. "How can God allow this to continue?" Father Benedict raised his head and looked Michael in the eye. "He won't." He spoke with firm conviction. "Wait and see." Both of the monks stared at the priest. "What do you mean?" Stephen asked. Father Benedict repeated himself, pausing between each word. "Wait - and - see." Without offering further explanation, he turned and resumed his steady gait along the muddy path. ~ ~ ~ Satisfied that the soup tasted the way her husband, Norman, liked it, Anicia Gardyner smacked her lips and dropped the stirring ladle back into the large, black pot. "That'll do, nicely," she said. "Now we'll let it simmer until time for lunch." To check on her children and escape the heat and smoke that permeated their two-room home, she stepped outside. Sitting on an overturned pail, Barnard, her fifteen-year-old son, leaned against the wattle and daub constructed wall. Appearing bored, he plunged his stick-sword into the mushy earth and asked what every teenaged boy wants to know, "When are we going to eat, Mother?" "We'll eat breakfast when your father's ready," his mother replied. Up since before dawn, Anicia had boiled eggs and baked several loaves of bread before she started the soup. After standing over the fire for hours, the cool morning breeze felt wonderful. Two years older than his sister, Rebecca, young Barnard could already wear his father's clothes. Influenced by his peers, the boy chattered incessantly about fighting bloody battles and someday leading the troops that swore allegiance to King Edward II. "When I become a nobleman," Barnard predicted, "you won't have to lift a finger to prepare our meals." Wiping beads of sweat from her face, Anicia rolled her eyes and said, "I can't wait." "I'll be gifted hundreds of acres for uncommon bravery." He pulled his stick-sword out of the ground and raised it in honor of his future victories. "Rather than inheriting nobility the way Lord Blackstone did, my title will be earned in defense of England and announced before the high court in London." "I'm sure it will," Anicia agreed to appease the boy. He only stopped talking when his mouth was full, or when he slept...and sometimes he talked in his sleep. Feeding and raising Barnard, Rebecca, and their little brother, eight-year-old Guy, presented a never-ending, will-bending challenge. Not seeing Guy, Anicia asked, "Where's your little brother?" "He's out back with Father, cleaning a fish. They caught a nice one." "They did, did they? Wish they'da got it to me sooner. It won't be ready to eat for lunch, but we can have it for supper." Barnard shrugged. Not seeing the family's sow, Anicia became worried. "Where's our pig?" Barnard usually kept an eye on it. "Out back. Father and Guy took her along when they went fishing. She likes the acorns she finds in the forest, on the way to the river." While leaning against the doorway, Anicia squinted and peered into the distance. Someone approached from the village. "I'll cook that fish, all right," she said to Barnard, keeping an eye on the trail. "But don't you be sayin' anything to your mates about it. There'd be hell to pay if Lord Blackstone ever learned of the fish we take from the river. Do ya remember what happened to our neighbor?" All game, were it fish, foul, or animal, belonged to the lord of the realm. Three months earlier, their closest neighbor, William Dendylyoun, had his hands cut off for killing a buck without first obtaining permission or paying for a permit to hunt on Lord Blackstone's property. Coming toward them on the trail, Anicia recognized the black, clerical robes and lanky frame of silver-haired, Father Benedict. Behind him, two of his young monks pulled an all-too-familiar object, the church's funeral bier. Her breath became shallow and rapid, her heart raced, and her legs grew weak and rubbery. Rebecca's parting words echoed in Anicia's mind, "I'll be all right, Mother, you needn't worry." What she had said contrasted with the question on her face and in her eyes. Am I going to be okay, Mother? Watching Lord Blackstone's carriage grow smaller in the distance, Anicia's instincts predicted that she would never see her little girl alive again. The same feeling told her that the approaching cart bore her precious daughter's lifeless body. The combination of grief and guilt were more than she could bear. Her wail of despair and loss caused Barnard to jump up as if a bolt of lightning struck the ground next to him. "What is it?" he shouted, sprinting to her side. He reached her in time to cushion, but not prevent her fall. ~ ~ ~ Anicia Gardyner lay sprawled upon the damp ground, unconscious, when her husband, Norman, and their youngest son, Guy, rounded the corner of the house. Norman called out, "Anicia!" and ran to her side. Bending to one knee with Guy peering over his shoulder, he stroked the side of her face trying to determine the nature of her affliction. "What's the matter, love?" Reaching across his wife, he grabbed Barnard by the shoulder and shook him. "Listen to me, boy! Go into the house. Dampen a cloth with water and bring it here, quickly!" "But, what's wrong with Mother?" Barnard wanted to know. "Do as your told, hurry!" As his eldest son ran off, Norman unraveled his wife's wimple, thinking, Maybe she got too hot, or breathed in too much smoke, standin' over the fire. Worn by all modest, married women, the simple white, head cloth covered her hair and kept it pulled back from her face, making it easier to cook and perform other chores. Loosely, it circled Anicia's neck twice after winding from beneath her chin, to over her head, covering her ears and the sides of her face. Her dark, waist-length, chestnut brown hair spilled onto the ground as Norman unwrapped the cloth. Guy spotted the priest and the monks on the trail. "Father, look," he pointed. "Someone is coming." "Not now, son. We've got an emergency, here." Barnard burst through the opened doorway with the damp cloth. "Here, Father." He held the rag out and stepped back after Norman took it. "Is she any better?" Norman pressed the cool cloth against his wife's forehead. "There you go, love. Nice and cool. Everything's gonna be okay now..." "Father . . ." Guy became more insistent, tugging on his father's arm. "Not now, boy," Norman shook himself free. "Can't you see? Your mother's not well." "But Father . . ." Barnard threw a warning punch at his little brother's shoulder. "Leave him alone, stupid, he's tryin' to take care of —" Anicia groaned, capturing everyone's attention. Even young Guy aborted his attempts to get his father to see the approaching priest. Reaching up, Anicia mumbled, "What happened, where's my . . ." she felt for her wimple, which lay in a twisted heap on the ground next to Norman's feet. "It's right here, love," Norman assured her. He flicked away a few clinging pieces of dirt and placed it in her hand. "I took it off," he explained. "I thought you got too hot from standin' over the fire. Are ya all right, now?" "Yes, yes, I think so," Anicia replied, seeming confused. She sat up, with her husband's assistance. "Not too fast, there," Norman cautioned. "Are ya sure you're all right?" Anicia blinked and looked around at her boys' concerned faces. She reached out and caressed Barnard's face, then Guy's, before saying again, "Yes, I'm okay. I'm sure." "There's no need to rush, now, darlin'." Norman had seen Anicia swoon before. Years earlier, when pregnant she would occassionally pass out. After being revived she would assure him, repeatedly, that she felt better, only to pass out again as soon as she stood. "Anicia?" Norman asked. "Do ya have any idea why you passed out?" Anicia seemed befuddled. "I was standin' in the doorway . . . I don't remember anything after that." "Do you remember what you used to do when you were expectin'?" Norman asked. "You used to tell me you were all right . . ." "But I was pregnant, Norman. I'm not pregnant now." "Are ya sure?" Norman asked, a wry smile replaced the mask of worry he wore. "Yes, of course I'm sure. Help me up." She raised her arms and waited impatiently for him to grab her hands. Relieved to see his mother's improved condition, Guy again tugged at his father's sleeve as soon as Anicia stood. "Father . . . " Having just helped his wife to her feet, and concerned that she might not have completely recovered, Norman's aggravation with Guy exceeded his tolerance level. He drew back his hand, threatening to pop the boy a good one, when he heard the voice of Father Benedict. "What's happening, here?" the gangly priest inquired. Anicia turned and saw Father Benedict, again. Her face turned white, her wimple fell from her hand, and she collapsed into her husband's arms. ~ ~ ~ An hour's ride to the west, in the master's bedchambers of Blackstone Castle, Lord Henry spoke to the comely, sandy-haired lass who routinely brought his breakfast. Propped against the headboard of his opulent, canopied featherbed, he said, "An idea has occurred to me, Lizzy. A quite brilliant one, if I do say so myself. Let me tell you about it. First, though," he instructed, "I need for you to plump my pillows for me." His servant laid the shining silver breakfast tray on the bed and paid him an obligatory compliment, "You're so wise for a such young man, My Lord. You always have such brilliant ideas." While he leaned forward, Lizzy removed and fluffed each of the six, large, feather-stuffed pillows that cushioned his back. She hummed a merry tune as she carefully restacked them against the massive headboard. Blackstone interlaced the fingers of his hands behind his head and lay back. "I had a dream last night that convinced me to invite the village priest to recite a prayer of blessing at the beginning of the feast this weekend." Lizzy looked surprised. "After the message he sent to you last night, through Albert?" "Albert already mentioned the priest's tirade?" Blackstone seemed appalled. "When?" "Downstairs," Lizzy replied. "While I prepared your breakfast. He also said he got caught in that big storm comin' back from the village." "Hmmm," The lord of the castle shook his head. "Perhaps, with his ability to spread the news, I should appoint him town crier. Anyway," Blackstone waved a hand, dismissively, and gazed into the fireplace. All that remained of the huge logs that burned overnight were smoldering embers. "Regarding the priest, it doesn't pay to make an enemy of a man like Father Benedict. The whole village adores him. That's why I'm offering him an olive branch. After the recent, accidental deaths, it might be prudent to make a sizable donation to the parish." Turning to face his chambermaid, he said, "Encouraging God's favor would be wise, don't you think?" Lizzy picked up a piece of freshly-baked bread from a pewter plate, scooped up a generous portion of creamy butter, churned that morning, and spread it across the bread. "I don't know how much it might take to get on the priest's good side, My Lord, but it is a brilliant idea. Quite different, actually, from what I expected you to propose, this mornin'." "And what did you expect me to propose?" Blackstone's eyebrows arched, revealing amused curiosity. Placing the knife and bread back on the plate, Lizzy wrinkled her nose and offered an endearing smile, creating tiny dimples in her rosy cheeks. "I thought you might want to smear some jam on me bubbies, like you did last Friday." Boldly, she perched on the side of the bed and continued, "You could lie back and I could hitch up me skirt and mount you. While I ride you like a horse at full gallop, you could be lickin' the jam off o' me nipples." She unfastened the top three buttons on her low-cut, peasant's blouse and pulled it off of her shoulders to expose her chest. "Pardon me if I'm mistaken, Lord Henry," cupping her hands beneath her full breasts, she juggled them suggestively. "but it seemed as if the jam truly excited you." "Well, yes. I suppose it did." Blackstone chuckled and rubbed his stubbly chin, recalling the zesty encounter. "That was particularly good jam." A thunderous knock on the door brought an annoyed frown to the nobleman's face as Lizzy stood, hurriedly pulled her blouse up, and began to spread jam on the bread she previously buttered. "Yes?" Blackstone cried out. "Come in before you splinter the wood!" The door opened and Albert Bigge stepped in. "Pardon the interruption, My Lord." "Pardoned or not, I remain interrupted and impatient to hear why." Blackstone motioned with his right hand for Albert to get on with whatever he came to say. "A group of townspeople have gathered at the gate, My Lord. They're angry about the young girls that have died." "Angry are they? Hmmm, if they're angry now, wait til they find out about the Gardyner girl. How many, Albert?" "Perhaps a dozen, My Lord. What would you have me do?" "Why must you bother me with such trivialities, Albert? Why didn't you go to your Uncle about this? After all, he's my steward. He's supposed to handle all of the little things for me, just as he did for my father." Uncle Rylan is in the village this morning, My Lord. He's overseeing the collection of taxes at the chapel and making sure all of the supplies we need are picked up for this weekend's celebration." "And why should he be collecting taxes? I do have someone to do that, don't I?" "Not anymore, your lordship. You removed Father Benedict from those responsibilities and appointed the village mayor, James Dunworthy. Last month you had him executed, if you'll remember." "Oh, yes," Lord Henry tapped his chin thoughtfully with his index finger. "He stole from me. I remember, now." Albert squinted, appearing confused. "I heard that he allowed some of the older peasants to pay a few groats less than what they owed." "Right," Blackstone nodded in agreement. "The shortage amounted to five groats, that's twenty pennies, Albert. As I said, the man stole from me." "As you say, Your Lordship." Albert bowed slightly forward, indicating that he understood. "Not to badger you, but again, what would you have me do about the people at the gate?" Turning toward his chambermaid, Lord Blackstone asked, "Whatever shall I do, Lizzy? Should I go down there this minute in my nightshirt and beg their forgiveness? Or, might it be wiser to leap from this bed, get dressed and flee the country in shame?" The voluptuous young servant placed one hand against her chest to secure her blouse and twirled a lock of her hair. Seeming hard pressed, she chewed her lip while pondering the question. She appeared totally unaware of the patronizing little game Lord Blackstone played. "Come now," her master teased, "You must help me decide. We can't expect them to wait all day." "Well..." Lizzy cocked her head to the right and shared her solution. "You could have Albert tell them to go home because you're too busy to see them." Turning to Albert, Blackstone rolled his eyes and waived his hand, "Huzzah! Why didn't I think of that?" His voice dripped with pretense. Lizzy beamed and clapped her hands together, evidently believing that Lord Blackstone valued her advice. Albert nodded and said, "I shall do as you say, My Lord, but if they fail to disperse?" Staring at his vassal as though he shouldn't have had to ask, Lord Blackstone's dark eyebrows arched. "Then kill them." Albert and Lizzy drew in a simultaneous, short breath. "What?" Blackstone feigned distress. "You disapprove?" "I mean not to question your decisions, My Lord. If you be firmly committed, I shall do as you bid. On the other hand, if you wish to reconsider . . ." Blackstone leaned forward in his bed. "Albert, are you implying that I act rashly?" Lizzy's brow wrinkled, showing concern for what might transpire. Noting her interest, Blackstone said, "He's stepped in it this time, hasn't he?" "My role is to serve thee, sire," Albert professed. "To the best of my ability. I merely thought —" "Thinking is not what I require from you, Albert. If you must think, I suggest you consider the welfare of your family. How is your sister, by the way? She's such a pretty little thing." "She is fine, My Lord." "Mavis is her name, as I recall. She is only five years younger than you, is she not?" "She is seven years younger, My Lord. She turned thirteen, last month." "Really?" Blackstone stroked his chin. "Seven years younger than you and ten younger than I. So, she's the same age as the Gardyner girl." He fell silent for a moment, appearing thoughtful, before turning to his eighteen-year-old chambermaid. "I imagine you'd like a day off, now and then. Perhaps we should employ an additional chambermaid? What say you?" After a furtive glance in Albert's direction, Lizzy quickly turned back to Blackstone. Trying not to look nervous, she replied, "I enjoy lookin' after you, My Lord. I don't need no days off." Blackstone nodded and smiled thinly. "Perhaps not at this time. I understand your desire to be with me, Lizzy, but everyone needs a holiday now and then." Turning back to Albert, Blackstone pointed a finger and issued a thinly veiled warning, "Let Mavis know that I have a job waiting for her." Albert stiffened. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and asked, "When might you require her services, My Lord?" "I'm not sure. It may be rather soon, or it might not. It all depends on how certain events transpire." With a casual wave, as if shooing a fly away, Blackstone said, "Take a dozen guards and go speak to the gathered flock whose feathers are ruffled. Don't kill them if you're willing to wager your life that they pose no threat, but I won't abide their presence this weekend during my festival." Blackstone paused, his piercing eyes bore into Albert's as he allowed the full measure of his message to sink in. When the silence reached an unbearable crescendo, he said "Don't disappoint me, Albert. When people do, I become angry." Summoning his most intimidating expression, Blackstone leaned forward. His eyes narrowed as he again extended a finger of warning, "You don't want to be guilty of making me lose my temper, I assure you." Here is the link to continue reading and reviewing...I sincerely appreciate your constructive comments.
Interested in what happens to The Book seven hundred years later? Here is the link:
Please send me a short note. I am always delighted to hear from those who have invested their time in my stories. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see. Write to me at georgelasher@writing.com or send an email to george.lasher@sbcglobal.net. Additionally, you may contact me on Facebook...http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625773285&aid=36414 Writing.com members are encouraged to submit a brief public review. Kindest regards, George R. Lasher "Welcome to my imagination." |
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