by Sarah Bower
She sees a long dormitory, white painted, containing a row of pallets, each with a sheet and a woollen blanket, and a dark wooden cross and a semi-circular basin of holy water nailed to the wall above it. Most of the beds are occupied, but Margaret notices only one of the patients. A tall man, his feet, clad in thick woollen socks, stick out from beneath the blanket. He has very long hair, lying in a coarse, sandy plait over his left shoulder, and his upper lip is overgrown, in the Saxon style, by a heavy moustache. He has extraordinary eyes, bright, yet seemingly opaque, like enamel. Green, of course, she knows they are green, as her own are green, but this opacity is new. As if he knows he is being watched, he turns his head slightly in her direction, but his blank expression never changes and she cannot be certain he has seen her. Perhaps he is blind. That would explain why he never came home. He would have felt ashamed.
“Mistress? I think you are waiting for me?”
“What? Oh, yes, sorry, yes, I have a list…somewhere. From Sister Jean-Baptiste.” She looks around distractedly.
“It’s here, in your hand,” says Brother Thorold, taking hold of one edge of the parchment. Margaret cannot immediately let it go; she has forgotten how her hands work. “Come inside, child, your hand is frozen.”
Brother Thorold pauses briefly, her hand in his, looking from it to its companion as though checking something, before leading her into his dispensary, where he pulls up a stool and presses gently on her shoulders until she sits down. Moving quietly and purposefully around the small room, he prepares the medicines Sister Jean has requested, taking down jars and canisters from shelves, weighing and measuring syrups, powders, dried petals, and leaves. From time to time he comments on his work. He is sorry, he cannot spare so much vervain; the dry weather has been terrible for coughs. But if there is angelica in the castle garden, Sister Jean may try a concoction of its root in wine.
The girl will speak if she wants to. Perhaps she is in love and querying within herself whether she dare ask him for some potion to work on her lover’s affections. She might be wrestling with a vocation, as he himself once did. Perhaps it is simply her age, for though she is clearly a grown woman in the eyes of the world, he can see that in her own eyes, she is still a girl, twin, he guesses, to the one who lost her hand in Lent last year. Didn’t Sister Jean say something about a twin, and a curious bout of the falling sickness? Maybe that is the girl’s problem.
Eventually, soothed by Brother Thorold’s quiet industry, she says, “You have a patient in your infirmary, a Saxon man, not a monk. What ails him?”
“It would not be seemly for me to discuss his symptoms with any but a physician or his relatives.”
“But I am his relative,” she blurts out. “You see, he is my brother, my eldest brother. Tom. I thought he was dead. Killed at Hastings. We all thought he was dead. He disappeared. No one saw him again. And now…and now…I know it’s him, but…he looks as though he doesn’t.” She bursts into noisy sobs.
Brother Thorold pours a little wine into a beaker, mixes it with a spoonful of a syrup he uses to dispel melancholy, and offers it to Margaret. The girl is sincere, he does not doubt it, and, if he is honest, his patient’s identity is a mystery he would like to have cleared up. Curiosity is a sin, yet without it, how could men ever come to know or understand any of God’s creation?
“Calm yourself, child, and tell me everything, from the beginning.”
Margaret wipes her eyes and nose on her sleeve. “There is not much to tell, Brother. There were four boys in my family. All went to fight alongside King Harold…” She breaks off and looks fearfully at Brother Thorold, who nods reassuringly.
“He was our king, for a time appointed by God, and now God has seen fit to give us another. Go on.”
“Aelfred and Harry were killed at Stamford Bridge, God rest them.” She and the infirmarer cross themselves. “And Little Walter, the youngest, on Senlac Ridge. Tom died there also, so we thought, though his body was never found. But time passed, and he did not return home. He has a wife, you know, and a little son he’s never seen. So we assumed…”
“Did his ‘widow’ remarry?”
“Thankfully not. Our new lord, a man called Vital, a vassal of the earl, I have made a representation of him in the embroidery, talking to Duke William…the king, I mean…”
“You are getting off the point, child,” Thorold prompts gently.
“I’m sorry. Lord Vital wished it, but did not insist. Perhaps the absence of a body gave him pause. So Christine has remained unmarried. She lives with my parents. She will be overjoyed to know Tom is alive. They had less than a year together before the invasion, and they seemed very happy. Can I see him now?”
“Be patient.”
“I shan’t mind if he’s blind, none of us will.”
“Blind? He is not blind, child, at least not in his eyes. Let me tell you what I know of him, to prepare you. Consider Adam and Eve when the Lord sent them out of the Garden, how some part of them died as the Lord had warned, and yet they were not dead. Sometimes it can be the same way with people even in these latter days.
“Your brother was brought to us a few weeks ago, around Epiphany as I recall. A man who kept his face covered and gave his name only as Martin accompanied him. He was very sick with cold and undernourishment, and to be honest, I did not expect him to live, but he has a strong constitution. For several days he was incoherent, but once he was back in his senses, he told me he was called Sebastian, that he was a second incarnation of the martyr Sebastian, sent to preach the end of the world and the coming of Our Saviour in Glory, and to warn of false messiahs.
“As proof of his identity, he showed me the arrow wounds in his chest, and how they continued to bleed. I had, of course, seen these wounds before during the course of treating him. They were not bleeding, but suppurating due to lack of care and cleanliness. Once I had cleaned them, it became clear they were old scars continually being reopened by some kind of scouring. The original scars might well date back to the time of the invasion.”
“What are you saying exactly, Brother?”
“I’m not sure. I have no doubt the man in the infirmary genuinely believes himself to be Saint Sebastian…”
Margaret gives a little cry, quickly stuffing her fist into her mouth to stifle it. Thorold looks into her round child’s eyes and wishes he could offer more straightforward comfort.
“I do not believe he is a fraud,” he continues, “though the treatment of the wounds makes me think he has been exploited by people less honest than himself. But child, you must prepare yourself for the fact that he will not know you.”
“Surely once he sees me, it will help him remember?” Only yesterday she had called her brothers to mind during the Candlemas service. Surely today’s encounter was a sign of God’s good intentions toward her. He would not tantalise her with a Tom who was not Tom.
“That is possible, but in my understanding, unlikely. Something very terrible must have happened to make him forget, not only his wife and family, but even himself. You will have to be very patient.”
“But he will remember eventually?”
“Only God knows the answer to that, my dear. He and the Evil One are doing battle for your brother’s soul, which is the source of his weakness. Our faith tells us that God will win the war, but perhaps not every battle in it. All we can be sure of is that God has His reasons. I will take you in now.”
***
Agatha takes a deep breath, the cold, dry air invigorating after the stuffy atmosphere of Lanfranc’s study. She feels as though she has been bled, a fine, sharp blade inserted with precision at the optimum points for leeching information out of her. What she has told Lanfranc during their conversation about Odo is scarcely noteworthy or politically sensitive, except that the Archbishop’s avid attention and thoughtful questioning have given her the impression it is. Only circuitously has the subject of Gytha come into their talk. So interesting to meet another of the embroiderers, commented Lanfranc aft
er Margaret’s back. I hear you have suffered some depletion of your ranks. Does the work still progress as planned? Yet Agatha is certain that Lanfranc’s true intention in bringing her here this afternoon has far more to do with Odo and Gytha than with the administration of convents. Lanfranc is after something.
She bids the Archbishop farewell outside the chapter house.
“Oh, by the way,” says Lanfranc, helping her to her feet after she has knelt to kiss his ring, “there’s a rumour of plague in one of the villages to the north. Brother Thorold was called there yesterday. He said he couldn’t be sure, but I thought it only Christian of me to warn you. The city fathers may well decide to bar the gates if any more are found. I can imagine Bishop Odo would not be amused to find his atelier decimated by disease.”
Agatha has lived through several plague outbreaks, as has everybody other than those it has killed. She knows as well as the next person the steps that must be taken to prevent the spread of the disease, one of which is the burning of anything that has been in contact with the sufferers; bowls and drinking vessels, clothing, furniture, bed hangings. If plague enters the castle, Hamo will order the embroidery to be burnt.
As Margaret is not already awaiting her, preoccupied by this new threat to Odo’s great enterprise, she makes her way to the infirmary. The bell is ringing for Vespers; she expects at any moment to encounter Brother Thorold and Margaret among the throng of monks and lay brothers heading for the chapel. When she reaches the infirmary, however, she can see shadows moving against the walls in lamplight and hear voices, Brother Thorold’s soothing, Margaret’s raised and strained, a third, a man’s voice she does not recognise. She enters the dispensary, but some sense of trespass prevents her from intruding through the adjoining arch into the dormitory.
Margaret is crouched beside one of the pallets, holding the patient’s hand, shaking it from time to time as though to emphasise something she is saying. Brother Thorold stands behind her, balanced on the balls of his feet like a man about to begin a race, his arms half stretched toward Margaret in a gesture of failed restraint. Although Agatha cannot hear what is being said, only the inarticulate murmur of voices punctuated by the occasional cry of “Tom” from Margaret, what she sees is enough for her. With a sense of the gathering frost having reached down her throat and settled around her heart, she realises the man lying on the bed is someone Margaret loves. A man, loved by Margaret. A lover. She retreats from the dispensary doorway and goes to the chapter house where she waits, oblivious to the cold which is nothing compared to the chill inside her.
***
Despite Brother Thorold’s warning, Margaret had expected simply to be recognised, a miraculous falling of scales from the eyes. She had envisaged tears and laughter, rapturous embraces, Tom’s delight when she told him about his little boy, Tom striding out of Christ Church at her side, challenging Lord Odo for her freedom, she and Alwys and Tom returning home together to resume their lives as though nothing had ever happened to disrupt them.
But the scales did not fall from those lizard-like eyes, nor the fog clear from his mind. Instead he railed, shouting the Gospel at her as though it were a stick to beat her with, his mouth filled with a holy vomit of false Christs, darkened suns, and falling stars. Enough to make her nostalgic for Lord Odo’s sermons, through which she generally dozes in a gentle miasma of incomprehension, even when, as he sometimes does, he delivers them in English. Tom forced her to contemplate his wounds, struggling upright and clawing at the dressings on his chest until Brother Thorold intervened, leading her quietly back to the dispensary while he calmed the ward and re-bandaged Tom’s chest. Now, seeing Sister Jean waiting for her, straight backed and stern faced, she feels cold and sad, too weary to explain or wonder what to do next.
“Forgive us for keeping you waiting,” says Brother Thorold. “My dispensary is always busy at this time of year. Here are the things you asked for.” He hands a small bag to Agatha, who peers inside it, seeing nothing, before passing it to Margaret to carry.
“I came to find Margaret, but you both seemed to be very engaged with a patient in the infirmary, so I came away again.”
“Yes, he’s…” begins Margaret.
“A Saxon man,” Thorold interrupts smoothly. “I though it would do him good to have some conversation with one of his own people. His mind is greatly agitated.”
Margaret glances from Brother Thorold to Sister Jean. King William’s sister. Perhaps Tom has given something away in his ravings that makes the infirmarer believe it wise to conceal his identity. Tom always had that indefinable edge that made people look up to him. Perhaps he was more important in King Harold’s army than she had imagined and King William would be displeased to find him still alive. She will follow Brother Thorold’s example and say nothing.
“I hope Margaret was able to help.”
“God’s will be done.”
“Amen. Come, Margaret, we must be going. Thank you for the medicines, Brother.”
“Godspeed, Sister.”
Only when they are in sight of the castle gatehouse does Agatha remember that she never thought to ask Brother Thorold about the likelihood of plague.
***
“Shall I teach you to play?” Odo, sprawled among a heap of cushions before the hearth, rolls over to face Gytha, wincing as his hip bone makes contact with the sharp limbs of the wooden acrobat. Muttering something into his beard, the dwarf Turold lifts his fingers from the strings of his lute, then lays the flat of his hand across them to quell their reverberations.
“What does he say? Before I learn anything else, I must learn to understand French better. You know what they say: if you would possess another man’s soul, know his language.” Laying aside the chemise she has been embroidering, Gytha rubs her tired eyes, kneading the lids with her knuckles, then stoops from the settle to pick up the tumbling man and set his limbs straight. “Clumsy,” she chides her lover.
“He says I should learn to play myself before trying to teach anyone else.”
“He has a point.”
“How would you know? Have you ever heard me play?”
“I…” The rest of her sentence is snatched from her by a gust of wind swirling through the hall door, momentarily flattening the flames on the hearth. A tide of dogs surges toward the door and eddies around the newcomer, tales waving, tongues lolling.
“Lord Odo?” His clothes are spattered with mud, his hair, when he removes his cap, plastered to his head with sweat.
Odo pushes himself to his feet, kicking aside the cushions. “Who wants him?” Though the door is closed and the fire has righted itself, his tone makes Gytha shiver. Messengers come and go continuously between Winterbourne and Odo’s other spheres of interest, tentacles reaching out to Dover or Rochester, to Bayeux and Rouen, London, Paris and Rome. Some are received openly, the letters from John in Liege proudly shared, the worthy deliberations of his diocesan clergy the butt of affectionate jokes. Some sealed parchments and packages change hands in dark corners, obscured by fogs of whispering, and are locked into strong boxes. Gytha has seen pages of unintelligible squiggles and hieroglyphs she assumes are codes, linings of cloaks slit to reveal caches of precious stones, scarred, swarthy men who speak no language she has ever heard and communicate with Odo by looks and signs, pantomimes which seem to her to parody their own unwritten lovers’ communion. This man looks unremarkable in comparison, though he has obviously ridden hard. Why should his arrival provoke the resentful anger she hears in Odo’s voice?
“His Grace the King,” the messenger replies.
“And what does the king want? It’s all right,” he continues with a weary wave of his hand, as the messenger hesitates. “There is nothing the king can say that cannot be heard by these present.”
“His Grace summons you to London, my lord, to brief him on the forthcoming council to be held at Winchester.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. The papal legate will not be able to cross the Alps for a month yet at le
ast. If I brief His Grace now, he’ll have forgotten everything I have told him by the time we go to Winchester. Come and warm yourself while I compose a reply to his summons. Gytha, see to our guest. Get him food and drink.”
Though the royal messenger looks doubtful, he does as he is bidden. Closing the hall door behind her, the last sound she hears is Odo shouting for a scribe.
The scene becomes a familiar one during the next weeks. Every few days a messenger arrives from William, only to be sent packing with some mollifying response from Odo. He will come when the weather improves, when he has news that Cardinal Archdeacon Hubert has left Rome, when the barley is sown, once he is satisfied the stonemason he has employed knows his job. Then one afternoon, returning from an expedition with Freya to hunt for herbs she needs to treat a skin rash that has afflicted Leofwine, she finds Odo seated at the hall table with a man who, by his habit and the fullness of his tonsure, is a clergyman of considerable seniority. Both men look up as the women enter, the stranger grave and watchful, Odo, thinks Gytha, with the expression of a schoolboy caught out in some more than usually serious breach of discipline. She half expects the visitor to untie his cincture and apply its knotted end to her lover’s backside, a thought which induces a secret chuckle in the pit of her stomach, a gorgeous glow of mischief between her thighs.
Odo stands, watching her raise her arms to unfasten her cloak and lift it from her shoulders, slipping his arm around her waist as she approaches the table. Her smile of greeting is fixed, a mask. Her lover slides a knowing hand almost imperceptibly downwards until his fingertips lie in the hollow between her hip and the rise of her belly. She rests her head in the cradle of sinew just below his collarbone. The visitor clears his throat.
