In the Arms of Immortals

by Ginger Garrett

  “I stood and bowed. ‘I did what was right. My God will reward me.’

  “He grinned up at me and began the process of raising himself—first to his knees, then pushing one leg up, steadying himself with both hands, and grasping for my help, which I gave. ‘Yes, your God,’ the old man wheezed. ‘He is slow when good things are due, isn’t He? A bent old man is faster.’

  “‘I will stay to please you,’ I said. And so he left on his journey.

  “I made no noise, landing each footfall with care, going heel to toes in a slow, silent arch. My breaths became more shallow as I walked deeper into the darkness. I did not know what I would do when I saw her.

  “I saw her standing in a delicate waterfall that came in from above, the light from the parted rocks making the droplets look like diamonds cascading down her shoulders. She was bathing, her back to me.

  “She turned her face at an angle, so I could see only an outline of her features. Seeing me there, she cried out, grabbing for her long black veil and running back into the darkness beyond us.

  “‘I will take you from here,’ I called. ‘I can take you away, to a land of sun. You do not have to be veiled.’

  “Shadows along the walls betrayed her movement, edging closer to me.

  “‘Why should I leave?’ she asked.

  “‘You are hidden here,’ I said.

  “‘I have my work,’ she said.

  “‘Let me look upon you,’ I said. I heard her footsteps as she ran back into the darkness.”

  Armando exhaled, wiping his brow. “I never saw or heard her again. The man brought me a bag filled with gold coins of many nations. I left that night.”

  Armando laughed, as if to end the story. “I never understood her, not until last night, not until I understood you.”

  Panthea placed her hand in his. She would find a way to love him, to submit against her will, her anger, and ambition. With effort, Panthea tried to soften her features, to look into his eyes as another, weaker woman might. “What is it that I have helped you understand, Armando?”

  “Not all women want to be rescued.” Armando stood. “I must go into the village. They will not know what to do.”

  “You’re wrong!” Panthea said. “I want to be rescued. But I am too strong. I do not know how to be that weak woman you men look for. Why does that make me less desirable?”

  “No man can save you from yourself,” Armando replied. “You are not less desirable, Panthea. But your beauty is wasted. You will never allow yourself to be loved. That is why I leave.”

  “If you leave me at this time, you will never be permitted back into the castle. I will see to it that you suffer griefs unimaginable.”

  Armando bowed to her. “I must go to the people, Panthea. They will need me. Try to understand that and do not blame me. Do not blame yourself.”

  Panthea took off her leather slipper and hurled it at his head. “I blame myself for nothing, you pig! You were always a coward, afraid to take what you wanted! Alas, I will see to it that I do not make your mistake! I have no need of you! I will have all that I desire!” Panthea was shaking as she yelled.

  Armando bowed once again as he exited. “That has always been my wish for you, Panthea. May God deal graciously with us both.”

  Armando was gone.

  The baker was about to set her skirts on fire with his torch.

  Gio snapped her head forward, striking him, splitting open his lips. Cursing, he put a dirty hand to his lips, pulling it back to see the blood. He still held the torch in one hand.

  The smell of the alcohol was strong but not enough to overpower the stench of death upon him. He was covered in swollen black lumps, some beginning to split along the edges, a dark fluid oozing out.

  Gio moved her feet under her skirts, inching back from him.

  “You wretch,” the baker said. “You poisoned me as you did my wife.” He grinned and began lowering the torch to her skirts. “Shall I hold you while you burn, so we may go to her together?”

  “I did nothing!” Gio said.

  Her words had no effect on him.

  “Have mercy on me!” she begged.

  “Mercy is God’s job,” he said.

  He fell forward, dropping the torch away from her. The flames licked around his wrists as he twitched.

  Flung deep into his back was a mace, the iron spikes along the ball driven into his body.

  Raising her eyes from the horror, Gio saw a knight standing over the body now beginning to burn. She did not know if he intended worse torments for her. She tried to move, to keep edging back and away, as the knight stepped closer, reaching for her.

  She turned to run, but he was too fast. His arm caught her at her waist, and he dragged her to his horse, throwing a hand over her mouth to silence her.

  “I will do you no harm,” he said. When she quit kicking at him, he softened his grip, letting her go.

  “You are the one called Armando,” she said.

  “I am,” he replied. “Why would this man want you to die?”

  “He thinks these deaths are a poison I conjured.”

  “Are you a healer then?” Armando asked.

  “There are ways to heal beyond what the Church allows. This is why I am condemned.” It was another lie, Gio realized. But lies had no consequences when all were dying.

  “Can you cure this?” he asked.

  She did not like his tone or expression. A knight should not have fear, and this one surely did.

  “I have never seen this before,” she said.

  Armando studied her. She felt as if she were being drank in, tested in ways she did not understand. Sweat began to form along her upper lip, and she looked away.

  “Collect all cures that might be of use, and come at once to the village. We will save who we can. Children first,” he said.

  Gio nodded, and Armando helped her onto his horse. She had never seen a horse in such good health, with such fine muscles and livery. The horse had a life far better than her own.

  Armando put his leg in the stirrup, and Gio leaned forward to make room for him. The horse danced, not letting Armando on. A wolf was walking around the flames of the baker’s body.

  “Wolves have broken the fire lines,” Armando said. “They will eat the dead. Or anyone too weak to run.”

  Gio started to cry. She couldn’t help it. All the disasters in the world were flooding down. She wanted a safe place, another day, a day from long ago in her past, before she made so many mistakes that couldn’t be fixed by suppertime.

  “Take my horse. His name is Nero, and he likes a strong hand. Ride with great speed to collect your cures from home.”

  Gio did not reply. Her throat was too swollen from tears.

  “Are you thinking only of yourself?” he asked. “If you are a good woman, you will do as I commanded at once! Go! Go in the name of the Lord!”

  He hit Nero’s flank with the flat side of the sword, and the horse shot off, just as the wolf growled across the flames at Armando.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Panthea was pacing across the floors outside the chamber. She would not go in, but she would not go downstairs and leave the room unguarded. She could not bear another servant stealing anything of her father’s.

  Everything she had been, everything she had set her hopes on for the future, it was all blowing away like smoke from a fire. No matter how hard she tried to grasp and hold on, these things were blowing away.

  Her father was dead.

  His advisers were gone.

  Armando had abandoned her.

  The servants were fleeing for their own lives. Soon those within her castle would rebel. Perhaps they would kill her.

  She heard servants below, whispering, and caught the eye of one peer
ing up and around the banister to mark her position.

  Panthea’s mind worked fast, piecing together what she knew, what she had overheard as a child. Plagues did exist. She could close off the castle, but then would receive no more supplies. If the plague entered a closed castle carried with the supplies, all would die within days.

  She needed more time to make a plan. From the window, she caught scent of fire. She ran to it and peered down below. Men she did not recognize were gathering on the road outside the manor gates, carrying torches and whips.

  One saw her. “Mistress of the castle! Send down your father!” he called.

  Panthea pulled back, pressing herself, hidden, into the wall. They did not know he was dead. She couldn’t tell them. If they knew a woman controlled the manor, they would attack.

  Sucking in a hard, cold breath, she leaned back out the window. “Why should I disturb him?” she called back. “You have nothing to offer!”

  “Has all your gold stopped up your ears?” he yelled. The men were staring at her with hungry, drawn faces. “Death has come to the village! God’s wrath is poured out among us!”

  “Alas for you!” Panthea yelled back. Her servants were coming up the stairs, most looking terrified at the calls from the men on the lawn below.

  “What is it you want here?” Panthea called.

  “Gold, that we may make an offering to the Church, and stop this plague!”

  “You are nothing but mercenaries! You have no care for the Church! Be gone!”

  Panthea was counting those who stood behind her. She had several strong men and all the women, though those did her no good. Only the reed-thin drunkards were below in the kitchen, plus the grumpy, burly cook.

  She would not show fear. It did not matter that Armando had left her. She would hold on to this castle, onto her name and her wealth, all without him. When this was over, there were certainties: the people would need money, and Armando would need a patron. She would see to it that he suffered. His children would hear her name and weep. She promised this to herself and held her post at the window.

  “We will have what we came for,” he called. Men were testing the walls, seeing if any would give. “But to prove faith, we will offer a bargain: if you will not give gold to our precious Lord, then send a man out that he may be scourged for your sins, and thus cleanse your house!”

  This upset the servants, who all began whispering and clutching each other, looking at Panthea in alarm.

  “Don’t be fools,” she said to them. She looked down and her eyes met the cook’s as he stepped out, wiping his hands on his stomach. He made no effort to hide his hatred for her, his desire to see her neck broken.

  Panthea spoke to the men standing closest to her. “Throw the cook out to them,” she said in a soft voice.

  The youngest, the one with great muscles from turning the roasting spits, answered right away. “Good mistress, we cannot do this! It is not right in the eyes of the Lord!”

  “Then you can go outside and get scourged,” she replied.

  He pursed his lips. “It’s a fine plan, mistress. We’ll send the cook.”

  The men moved as one down the stairs and took the man by the arms, forcing him along the passage that would lead to a gate. The cook sneered at Panthea as he was pulled off. He could not overpower the men holding him, but she could see he had no thought of dying. She felt sorry for the men outside. He could be violent if they were not quick.

  Panthea snatched a young boy by the neck of his garment. His mother cried out, trying to pull him away from her. Panthea’s slap across her face echoed in the quiet chambers.

  “Do you want all of us to die?” Panthea asked her. The mother stood without moving, a red splotch across her cheek.

  “I have a plan,” Panthea said, trying to bring her servants together as one mind on this. “You must trust me. All of you.” She knelt down. “What is your name, love?” she asked the boy.

  “Franco,” he replied.

  “Franco,” she said, stroking his worn shirt. It was so thin she could see the tint of his flesh through it. “That is a very nice name. Franco, do you like games?”

  The bodies were coming too fast. Mariskka was watching from the shadows, hiding in an arch of the church. Scholars had discounted eyewitness accounts from the medieval writers. Scholars said the writers exaggerated the claims that victims could die in a matter of minutes, or hours. Witnesses, the scholars said, could not be trusted. They did not know what we know today, scholars said. They didn’t understand what the plague was, or how it was spread.

  Mariskka looked at the bodies coming down the lanes. Modern scholars did not see, or taste, or feel any of this. Time and distance gave scholars unnatural comfort. True history was terrifying.

  Lazarro was moving among them, his robes dragging through blood and fluids, the stain creeping higher up his calves. He had recruited help from some rough-looking boys who had no mothers to hold them back. These boys restrained the screaming victims as Lazarro lanced their boils, pouring wine and vinegar on them, anointing the people with oil and praying. Lazarro was begging the victims to confess, but the victims were writhing and moaning, the sea of the dying growing wider all around him.

  He could get no intelligent answer out of them. They screamed for water and wailed in hallucinations.

  Lazarro fell to his knees and lifted his arms to heaven. “Who failed, Lord? Have I failed as priest? Have they failed in confession and repentance? Only reveal Your will, and it will be done!” he shouted.

  Victims cried out, reaching trembling fingers to Lazarro, grasping his wet robes, catching him by the ankles.

  “Why has this happened to me?” a girl asked him. Her voice was light and carried above the wailings of the older ones. Lazarro turned to find her and knelt at her side. Her face was bright red, with sweat running down her temples. She was coughing and swallowing back fluid, trying to force a smile for Lazarro.

  “Father,” she said, holding out a shaking hand, “Father, why has this happened to me? Did I sin? Are you angry with me?”

  Lazarro shook his head. “Am I in the place of God, daughter, that I could answer you this?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “You taught us that. You are the voice of God to us. Why do you not answer me? Am I to have no comfort?”

  Lazarro was holding her hand, trying to steady her, but he himself began shaking. He dropped her hand and stood. “He who loves his life will lose it!” he called to them all. “Surrender to God’s judgment while mercy may be found!”

  Lazarro is quick to see the darkness, Mariskka thought. He thinks giving the answer, any answer, is his job. She had to stop him from making her mistake.

  Gio’s legs were burning. She had made the climb up the path to her hidden home many times but had never moved with such speed. Her breath made her ribs burn too, and she pressed a hand against one side to keep moving. Only a little farther, she thought. She had left Nero below. He was too fine an animal for this rough path.

  She ran through a list of herbs in her mind. What did she have? What would be useful? Henbane would ease their pain. And ginger root for the vomiting, but her root had withered a good bit and she had not yet found a trader with fresh. Sage and yarrow, arnica perhaps. She needed cool herbs to counteract the heat of this illness. Cool medicines would balance the heated humours. Gio debated whether to mix these with wine or water. The wine would dampen the smell of death, she decided. She would use wine.

  The Old Man’s body was still lying in her doorway. Gio stopped, staring at it. She would have to cross over it to get inside. This was bad luck. The Old Man had not received Communion and the Last Offices before his death. He was in Limbo now, or a wanderer, coming to her across darkness to drag her away with him. The wanderers were often angry. She had heard the stories as a girl.

  A noise in t
he undergrowth surrounding her house snapped her to attention.

  Keeping her mouth closed so her breath would be quiet, keeping her hands at her side and her feet in their same place, Gio listened to see if the other creature breathed too. She panicked; it could be a Valkyrie, a corpse-eater. She had heard tell of these strange women from the traders who came from northern lands, but she had doubted the tales. She had doubted much, until today.

  No other sound came. Gio closed her eyes and strained to listen harder, to listen with every pore, every bit of flesh and bone. If evil was close, she would feel it. Evil would make itself known somehow.

  Nothing. Whatever was hidden would not reveal itself. Gio glanced to her door. She needed to get inside.

  Marking where the Old Man’s body was and where she stood, she turned her eyes up to the side and inched forward with her arms extended. She should touch the door frame on the left before her feet reached the body lying more to the right side.

  Her hand hit wood and she looked down, keeping her eyes off the body as she jumped past it into the cool, comforting darkness. Inside, the faint perfumes of her home, the soft grit of the dirt under her feet, these made her feel better. She knew these things. They were unchanged.

  The Old Man’s head was faceup on the threshold. Sitting on her rear and using her legs to force the door closed, she grunted as she pushed his thick, wet head back out. She could not look at him or even think on him. His disease sickened her, made her skin feel slick and nasty, made her keep tasting her lips to be sure she was not polluted with it too.

  Having closed the door, Gio curled into a ball and shivered. What had he done to deserve this? What sin could be so great? Gio had dwelled on her own sins for so long she had not considered that others might do worse.

  She did not want to heal them. She wanted to run. And she could; many were fleeing. One more would not be missed. She did not live on much here; she could live on less elsewhere. There would be new lies. New lies about her past, new stories to drop in small bits, knowing the village women collected them and, in secret, pieced them together, adding their own embellishments, creating a story terrible and almost true. Gio could even claim she had never been able to have children. That was true. And that her husband had died young. That was true in its way. Lazarro had died—to her.