The Warrior with the Pierced Heart

by Chris Bishop

  When awake, I would sometimes watch her as she busied herself with her herbs and potions, working at a low stone slab which seemed to have been skilfully hewn from a single rock and had many strange symbols carved into the sides. It looked to be too big to have been hauled there by human hands but must have at least been moved to that position, being so well set just outside the entrance to the cavern in what looked to be a small clearing within the forest. Sometimes I could hear her singing softly under her breath but mostly she worked there in silence.

  Although still weak, I was aware that during this time many people came to visit her – or perhaps they came to see me as they would always enter the cavern and peer at me as I lay there. I would pretend to be asleep when they came lest they ask me about my wound and how I came by it, for there was nothing I could say to explain why I was still alive.

  For what seemed like several weeks Ingar continued to tend to my needs, unashamedly washing down my naked body even though we were alone. Few women would have risked their reputation in such a way, but she seemed to pay it no mind. Instead, she gradually allowed me to remain awake for longer and longer each day and, once my wound started to heal, we would sometimes talk.

  ‘So,’ she asked me on one such occasion, ‘tell me all that you now recall.’

  I told her about floating free from my body and looking down upon the frenzied battle, then about seeing people I knew to have died before me who were sending me away.

  She nodded as though she understood all that. ‘It explains much,’ she assured me. ‘It also shows that it was not your time to die, perhaps because your destiny is yet to be fulfilled.’

  ‘Then why do I feel such guilt at having been the only one to survive?’ I asked.

  ‘The Gods saw fit to spare you,’ she said. ‘Be grateful for that.’

  I glanced down at the wound and shook my head. ‘I sometimes wish I had died along with all the others.’

  ‘You cannot mean that. Life is a precious gift for which you should give thanks to whatever God you worship. It should never be willed away nor taken lightly.’

  ‘But I feel it’s wrong that I alone should have survived when all the others perished on a mission which I selfishly undertook for my own advancement.’

  She said nothing for a moment and I feared I’d offended her.

  ‘I am truly grateful for all you’ve done to heal me,’ I added, hoping to make amends. ‘I will of course repay you when I can. You must tell me what you most need. I am not without means and…’

  She smiled at me then lifted the blanket to cover my shoulders. ‘There are ways you can repay me but not as you think. As for the guilt you feel for the loss of your friends, I can say only that it will ease with time. But Matthew, hear me in this, although the wound to your chest may seem to heal, it will one day claim your life, of that you can be certain. The years you have left are what we call “the given years” and you should use them as best you may.’

  I tried not to listen to her warning, not wanting to hear what she was saying even though I feared she was right given that I still felt much weakened by the wound. Instead, I told her of my life; of how I’d once been a novice monk but had then followed the path of a warrior, proudly fighting at Lord Alfred’s side. I also told her of Emelda and of how I longed to return to her as soon as I was healed.

  Although I was still not strong enough to rise unaided at that point, Ingar would sometimes help me to walk outside the cavern, supporting me about the waist as I strove to manage even a few uncertain steps.

  During all this time she continued to tend my wound each day, wiping away any secretion then applying more balm to soothe it and reduce the bruising until, at last, it did indeed begin to heal. She also gave me a bowl of gruel each day, feeding me from a spoon until I was able to manage for myself. As well as the gruel, she bade me sit up and drink deeply from a flask of strange amber liquid that had an acrid smell and which tasted warm and salty. Once past the smell, it was palatable enough and although she refused to say what it was, she assured me that it would make me stronger. With these ministrations I eventually recovered enough to stand unaided and even managed to get up and walk a little, at first just shuffling as far as the stone slab and back, then gradually going further. One day I was surprised to discover a small pool at the very edge of the clearing which I’d not been able to see from my cot. I assumed she used it for water and for washing.

  ‘It’s called The Bloody Pool,’ she informed me when I asked her about it. ‘It’s named for those nights when the waters take on the light of the moon which turns them almost crimson. It’s said that it marks the place of a terrible massacre in which many innocent people died. The slaughter was so great that their blood filled a hollow in the ground and thus the pool was formed.’

  I confess I was doubtful but didn’t press her further.

  By then I’d recovered enough to spend most of each day fully conscious and free from sleep, though I still needed to rest and remained morose and troubled by all that had happened to my men. One evening, as I lay in my cot, I saw Ingar walk outside. I swung my legs to the floor intending to join her but only went as far as the entrance to the cavern. Not knowing I was watching, she moved towards the pool where she unfastened the girdle she wore around her waist then opened her shift and let it fall from her shoulders so that she stood naked in the moonlight. I couldn’t help but stare at her body which was pale but also rounded and full, her breasts heavy and her limbs long and slender. She then waded into the pool and there bathed herself. When she’d finished, she emerged and walked, wet and still naked, to stand beside the stone slab. I had initially taken this to be some form of work bench where she mixed her cures and potions, but that night all had been cleared away and instead she had placed several curious items upon it as though they were deserving of reverence. These items included some animal skulls and a large piece of rock which contained a prominent vein of quartz. In the centre of all that she’d placed a gnarled and twisted piece of wood which formed the easily recognisable shape of a naked woman standing with her arms uplifted. The wood had not been carved into shape, of that I was certain; rather it had grown that way of its own accord. Anyway, she stood there for some moments with her head bowed, then raised her own hands as if reaching upwards thereby imitating the wooden figure whilst bathing in the glow of the moon. When she had done, she quietly began to dress herself.

  ‘What were you doing?’ I asked, having returned to my cot before she came back. Her own cot was in a corner which she had screened with a richly embroidered drape.

  She smiled and came across to stand beside me, seemingly unembarrassed to learn that I’d seen her. ‘I’m aligning the cycle of my bleedings with the passage of the moon,’ she said simply.

  I knew little of such matters so said nothing, even when she did the same thing again every night after that for the next four or five days.

  Then one night she came into the cavern without having performed her ritual. She snuffed out all the candles then came over to me and sniffed my wound as she sometimes did and seemed satisfied that it was indeed healing well. A dry scab had formed by then and she saw no cause to disturb it. Instead, she gave me a different potion which she bade me drink. This was quite unlike anything she had ever offered me before and tasted so bitter that I shuddered as I drank it. Having done so, I lay back on my cot in the darkness and gradually realised that whatever the elixir was it was having a very strange effect on me. All my senses seemed to come alive and my vision became as sharp as any sword. It was as though whatever it was had seeped deep into my bones and was gradually taking over my very being. Seeming pleased at this, Ingar helped me from the cot. My legs were still shaky, but she led me gently outside where it was dark but for a few torches which seemed to flicker and set their light dancing on the trees that surrounded us. As I watched and marvelled at the brightness of those lights, I was suddenly aware that many people had gathered in the shadows beyond the slab but had stayed close to
the edge of the forest as though afraid of drawing too close. I could see none of them clearly but those I could make out were all wearing masks or strange headgear that seemed to represent all the beasts of the forest – stags, foxes, bears, wolves and such like, all with skins and furs draped across their shoulders. Even as I stared at them I seemed unaware of my own nakedness as Ingar led me to the pool where she too undressed. To my amazement, the waters had indeed taken on the colour of blood or, if not quite that, they were imbued with something like it. Perhaps it was a trick of my mind, but I confess that at that point my head was filled with strange thoughts that seemed to tumble around inside it. Having bathed together, she then led me to the slab where she gently guided me to sit then made me lie back upon the cold hard stone.

  At this, those watching us began stamping their feet or beating the trees with staves. At first it was just a slow, repetitive beat like that of a distant drum but, as it gradually quickened, they began a strange rhythmic chant that seemed to invoke and possess me until my whole body could not help but move in unison with it. As it did so, I was suddenly aware that all my manly impulses were beginning to stir, so much so that I could scarce control myself. It was as though my blood had become heated from within and wanted only to explode from my being.

  I’ll never know what was in the potion she gave me to drink that night but, by then, it had taken over my whole body. I recall staring longingly at her nakedness, every sinew of my being needing to possess her to the extent that when she knelt astride me all was quickly accomplished. Like a willing slave, I entered her with so much impatience that all it took was a few moments for me satisfy my longing.

  In my defence, I did try to resist her and pull myself away, but she held me fast with her long fingers, gripping me so hard that her fingernails broke the skin on my back and left large red wheals upon it. It was all so intoxicating that, moments later, I entered her again. In fact three times we were united that night until, fully sated, I finally lay back exhausted.

  * * * * *

  My dreams that night were as vivid as any I can ever recall, though, as I began to wake, I remembered very little about them except that they contained some strange visitations. These reminded me of the Holy saints and martyrs and, for some reason, included my old abbot, Father Constantine, who seemed to be watching me disapprovingly. I also recalled seeing young Edmund with his sword raised as we were attacked but realised that was my conscience berating me for having led him and the others into a trap. I shook those unholy images from my mind and crossed myself in the hope of redemption.

  Once fully awake I was distraught and could scarce believe what had transpired the previous night. My first thought was to seek solace in prayer, repenting the fact that I’d allowed myself to be used for some pagan ritual. Even though I’d not committed the sin of my own accord I knew that it would not sit well with my faith and that I would need to do penance for it. Not only that, but in failing to resist the temptations of the flesh I’d betrayed my unspoken oath to Emelda; not knowingly it was true, but once started I’d been as willing as when first I lay with her. And not just once, but three times in all.

  As I gently eased myself from the cot I found that I was dressed in my undershirt and leggings once more, except that they’d been cleaned and mended. I knelt beside the cot and began to pray though struggled to find the words I needed in order to make my peace with God and thereby ease my troubled conscience.

  Seeing me awake and finding me on my knees, Ingar came and offered me water. ‘You have committed no sin,’ she assured me. ‘It was the destiny about which I told you. The reason you were sent back from the afterlife.’

  ‘How can such an act as that be my destiny?’ I demanded, still angry as much at myself as I was with her. ‘I’ve betrayed my faith and the woman I love!’

  ‘You have betrayed no one. What was done was a course set by a hand much higher than either yours or mine. Remember what I told you about the given years and how you should use your time with purpose? Well, it was ordained that I would one day conceive a girl child and that she would inherit great and mystical knowledge, combining my own powers of healing with those of a man who even death could not hold. You are such a man.’

  For a moment I was too stunned to say anything. ‘Who foretold such a thing!’ I demanded.

  ‘Think no more on this,’ she said, helping me to my feet. ‘All that has transpired between us is simply a part of your destiny and mine. And the fruit of our loins will be of great import, you’ll see, for she’ll have such powers of healing as may benefit all.’

  ‘You cannot be sure that you’ve conceived a child from our union, much less that it will be a girl!’ I chided her.

  Ingar smiled. ‘You’d be surprised what is given for me to know.’

  ‘Even if what you say is true you must realise that I cannot stay to help you raise a child,’ I protested. ‘As I told you, my duty is to Lord Alfred himself and besides, I’m promised to another and—’

  She put her fingers to my lips to stop me saying more. ‘Matthew, you have no further part to play in this. When you’re strong enough you can return to your woman and think no more upon the events which have happened here, for I have taken all I need of you. Our Earth Mother is a divine provider and she will amply supply whatever else is needed for me to raise our daughter in her ways, as did my mother and her mother before that. Now, let me examine your wound. I fear that all your exertions last night may have taken their toll.’

  ‘My wound is fine,’ I snapped, still angry at having been used by her.

  She looked at me for a moment then went to pick up an apple and a knife which she held up for me to see. ‘Matthew, think of this apple as your heart,’ she said, then used the knife to cut it with barely enough pressure to do more than scratch the skin. ‘This mark shows how the arrow I eased from your chest grazed your heart. If you watch you will see how in time even that slight wound will cause this fruit to rot from within. And so it is with you. Your wound will never fully heal and will one day kill you, just as surely as the small cut in this apple will cause this fruit to wither.’

  ‘But surely the wound will heal in time?’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘No, Matthew. You’re dying,’ she said coldly. ‘You have the given years but they will last only as long as your fate allows.’ With that, she helped me to lie back on my cot where she untied my undershirt and gently opened it to reveal my chest. Normally an arrow wound would be livid and scarred, not just from the impact but also from where a knife had been used to dig out the arrowhead intact, making it much larger than that which had been inflicted. The scars from that were always puckered and swollen, even when fully healed, but mine was not much more than a large blemish, albeit still covered by a crusted scab. That was beginning to bleed again but she wiped away the blood then applied a balm, which she later told me comprised of wild garlic, onions, wine and salt, all of which had been left to brew in a copper cauldron for several days. That she assured me would counter any risk of infection. When that was done she also applied some of the balm to the wheals on my back which had been caused by her nails as she gripped me so hard during our union.

  I began to realise that whatever her convictions, Ingar was as truly committed to her craft as any priest and more skilled than any healer I had ever come across – even at the Abbey where some monks took it upon themselves to make a study of medicines and cures. ‘Is this the same balm that you used to heal the wound when the arrow was removed?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I used a small amount of comfrey,’ she said. ‘It was ground fine and mixed to form a paste with other herbs and the bark of a particular tree that grows beside the stream.’

  ‘And you didn’t stitch the wound to close it?’

  She shook her head. ‘There was no need. Although it was deep, because I was able to draw the arrow so cleanly all I needed was beeswax to seal it, nothing more.’

  ‘You are truly a gifted healer,’ I admitted. ‘But such
craft is forbidden by my faith. You had no right to…’

  ‘Perhaps, but then my calling would not allow me to watch you die when you could be saved.’

  ‘But surely these are dark arts of one form or another and therefore the hand of the Devil lies within them?’

  ‘I’m no witch if that’s what you mean. As I’ve told you, I’m a healer. I use only that which the good Earth Mother has provided. I have no spells or incantations and I promise you that neither your God nor any other was called upon to help in my ministrations.’

  ‘Yet you drugged me with your potions to have your way with me.’

  ‘That much is true. As I said, it was your destiny. Mine was to ensure you could fulfil it. Besides, you said you wanted to repay me and in this way you’ve bestowed a gift more precious than any you could ever imagine.’

  ‘So what was in the strange amber potion that you made me drink each day and which you said would make me stronger?’

  She laughed. ‘I didn’t make you. But if you would know what it was then I will say only that it is the true elixir of life.’

  ‘There’s no such thing!’ I protested.

  ‘Oh, believe me there is, though few would deign to taste it.’

  ‘Why, what is it?’

  She laughed again. ‘It is that which the fool wastes each day but of which the wise man drinks his fill,’ she said teasingly.