Startaker

by Marian Goddard

  He watched fondly as her slight, bent figure ambled off to fetch warm water and cloths and smiled, his white teeth flashing. “Don’t scrub him too hard Berthilda.”

  *

  A thin morning light was beginning to seep through the casement window, casting a feeble glimmer on to the small work table. He sat quietly, turning the bag over and over in his big hands, smelling the animal smell still lingering in the worn leather.

  Strong stitching held its seams firmly and bold, tooled patterns covered the flap and sides, reminding him of the mosques he’d seen in Spain or Morocco, their wall decorations interwoven to form elaborate designs. The rest of the bag was plain. It looked to Andre to be very old, the surface covered in light and dark patches, flaking in some parts, smooth in others.

  He gazed absently at the rough surface; the shifting light casting hazy moving shadows, reminiscent of something he’d seen in the scriptorium, a map inscribed on yellowed parchment. And as his imagination accepted the comparison, it became something more. Shapes were forming on the worn leather. He could make out countries, the borders sharply delineated on the dark hide, see grey blue expanses of oceans and peaks dirt brown and threading through the land like a necklace of arrow heads.

  His eyes narrowed in concentration. He’d often mused on the wooden globe in the library, carved by a monk of beloved memory who’d never been as far as the village square but this, this was different. It was a living thing. He could see the long arm of the Mediterranean; see Tripoli nestled at its edges and Jerusalem shining like a symbol of all their hopes in the centre.

  He knew these lands, had fought in the deserts and defended the pilgrims. The noise and bustle of the monastery faded as he remembered the crimson copper smell of blood, feeling its warm repulsive spray on his face, feeling the tightness of battle fear in his chest.

  How could this be? He did not believe in bewitchment and magic, however much his Order wanted it to be so. It was just a worn travelling bag and the light was playing tricks. He opened the satchel and laid out the contents, a black velvet pouch as travel stained as the bag and a parcel wrapped in faded green silk, its weight heavy in his hand.

  Andre had expected to find the things of a small boy’s childhood, pretty stones or insects, a slingshot or a precious knife. These were not the treasures of youth. He felt the stirrings of the hair at the nape of his neck as he glanced over at the sleeping form in the bed, bundled in blankets; his bandaged face scrubbed pink.

  What manner of child is this?

  He took up the pouch and tipped it onto the table. It was not cheery clinking coins that fell out, but a jewelled cross, intricately worked in gold and set with a wine red ruby. This last lay in the centre of an open, many petalled rose. He imagined it was something a wealthy husband would give to a beloved wife, or doting father to a spoilt daughter. It was a beautiful thing, but not something of particular interest. He replaced the cross in the pouch and took up the parcel.

  Already, he’d deduced that the child had not been born to poverty, concurring with his own judgement on meeting him, despite his outward appearance and the scanty information provided by the wagon driver, if it was to be believed. If the silk wrapped parcel was to be a book, this would add to his conclusion. Books were not available to the majority of the people. He started by examining the wrappings.

  The thin translucent material was pale greenish and very old, embroidered dragons chasing their tails, finely stitched in gold thread. In many places it was only this that kept the fabric together. The colour reminded Andre of a meadow pond in spring, shot through with sunlight.

  Who obtains riches such as these in the heart of a downtrodden Germany?

  He unfolded the fragile covering with the care of a doctor examining a wound. As it fell away in his hands, he could see more leather, dull brown and cracked with age, yellowed leaves and a stiffened spine. He opened it gingerly. It smelled of the wrappings of mummies, the musty sweetness of tombs.

  He’d never lost his reverence for books. As a soldier he’d carried a small copy of the Rubaiyat and guarded it with his life through all the hardships of his fighting years, keeping it close to his chest even in battle. It was hidden under the rough boards in his cell.

  The others would not understand the beauty of the Persian astronomer’s words. To them all were evil Saracens, to be beaten down and hounded out of the Holy Land. He knew differently. His years in Palestine had brought him into contact with many learned men, especially of physic and astronomy and mathematics. He wondered if his brothers realised just how much of his own countryman’s knowledge had been brought to the West from the East with the merchants and the soldier monks such as he.

  The yellowed vellum pages were not stuck together as he had expected, but separated easily, the binding loosening in places as if it had been constantly opened and read. There was no illumination, no inscription; each page was filled with closely set numbers and letters, the ink faded with age, or strange painted pictures of flowers and cavorting maidens. What few words Andre could make out were in Latin or Greek, making no sense to him. He turned it sideways, upside down, tried reading from left to right, back to front. It was as if the whole book was written in code. He gave up. The abbot would perhaps understand better. He was a man of scholarship.

  And then a folded parchment fell from between the pages.

  He picked it up and turned it over. A red seal stood out brightly on the dun coloured page, a triangle with a loop on one side. In the centre of this triangle sat the same cross and rose as the jewel in the pouch.

  There was writing on the front; the hand determined, the lettering scrawled and fluent. “For the Abbot”

  He smiled. Someone had known that the child would be brought to a monastery.

  *

  13th October

  In the year of Our Lord

  1382

  Beloved Abbot,

  I entrust unto you, the care of my only son Christian. By the time this letter obtains to your notice, I, his father, shall be nought but ashes. His is the family Germelshausen and our home is near Hesse, on the border. But this haven has long been closed to us and we have been hounded like dogs from our own lands. For this reason, I regret, I cannot offer payment for his keep. His lineage is noble but one that has been tainted by accusations of heresy. And the power of Holy Mother Church is such that those holding doctrines other than hers cannot survive. He is quick of mind and gentle of character, even the animals know his heart. Yet he has spirit and wilfulness, traits which I have encouraged, for his trials will be many and his life beset by sorrow. May he be instructed in medicine, for this is where the light of reason will burn most brightly and of all the arts, one that is most in need of faith. As was foretold by the astrologers on the day of his nativity, this is where his calling lies. While yet in his growing years, he will wish further instruction from those who possess greater learning. I beg you; do not hinder this endeavour. The world has much to offer him. My heart cleaves in two to think I will not see him grow to be a man. I take comfort in knowing that he will be safe among those who understand. Pray forgive the indulgence of a loving father but he is prone to night terrors. It has been so since his mother was consigned to the flames. Now there are no more hiding places so I make my stand and commend my Soul to God. I go to be with my Beloved in paradise and leave to you, in humble gratitude, a shining light in this unfathomable darkness.

  In the eternal hope of Peace Profound,

  Otto von Germelshausen.

  Andre, transfixed, held the letter unfolded in his hand.

  The date: October. They were now deep in a February winter. How has the poor child lived these last months? He felt his heart constricting in pity.

  *

  The abbot stood, his stature rigid, his steady grey eyes regarding the younger monk’s blue with interest. His voice was deep and husky, belying the sparseness of his tall frame. “So, Brother, what think you of this?”

  He held the abbot’s gaze. “I
know not Father. There are many things in this letter I do not understand, but it seems to me that the child has been sent here for a reason.”

  The Cistercian Order was held in renown for the devoutness of their brethren and the strictness of their Rule but a rumour remained that its libraries and scriptoriums concealed the works of many held to be heretics. It was also rumoured that in times past these teachings were disseminated amongst those of the Order willing to hear them. He suddenly became pale. Were the letter and the boy a trick, planted by the church to root out heresies? A Trojan horse of faith?

  The abbot smiled, showing a missing tooth that in no way detracted from the austere dignity of his bearing. It was a kind smile, one that gave comfort to those in travail. He was beloved and trusted by brothers and townsfolk alike, a rarity among the noble heads of monasteries.

  Andre looked down at the man’s broad feet, encased in the same rough shod sandals as his own. Not for him were soft meats and feather beds.

  But he had one luxury.

  The room was lined, from the high domed ceiling to the worn wooden boards with sturdy shelves filled with books, spilling on to the floor, piled up beside his battered table, resting precariously on the only other chair in the room. “Sit down Andre, it’s time we talked.”

  When the abbot bent to take the books from the chair he moved quickly to help. No-one knew how old he was, although his frame was sturdy and straight, the eyes clear, the years showed in the wrinkled skin around them and the swollen knuckles of his hands. He seated himself behind his desk and folded his hands, while Andre pulled the hard wooden chair closer.

  ”The boy is well?

  Andre lowered his head. The truth was that he’d been sick with worry for the boy since the unmistakable signs of infection had begun to show themselves. His fever had worsened through the night. A picture formed in his mind of the cowered horses, their hides criss-crossed with lashes.

  “I fear for the child, Father. The lash was fouled with animal matter and swelling has begun in the wound. I have applied poultices and the apothecary has sent coriander for the heat, but he is already weakened by privation and the next few days will be very grave.”

  The abbot’s expression was unreadable as he placed his palms together.” Then we will ask Our Lord to place His mighty hand upon him. The world is sore in need of light in these troubled times. And what of that which was found in the young man’s possession?” The satchel lay innocently on the desk. No map, no moving pictures on its worn surface. The book lay divested of its threadbare silk wrapping, the jewelled cross upon its pouch.

  Andre’s family had prized honesty above all else, even when it came at a cost, like the time his father confessed to killing a doe on crown land to feed a family evicted for not paying their tithe. He’d been handed over to the guards and branded in the village square. He was fortunate. Death was the usual punishment for such a crime.

  The townsfolk pelted him with rotten food for sport, even though they knew him to be a good and generous man. The ten year old Andre had hung his head in shame to see him so degraded, but two days in the stocks and the livid mark of a felon seared into his cheek had not dimmed the defiant glint in his father’s eye, nor slackened the proud jaw.

  He understood now. No price was too high to pay for the truth. “I confess Father, I found the bag to have some…strange fascination for me.”

  The abbot smiled “And I also. If I look at it long enough, it becomes a moving picture book and try as I might, the meaning escapes me. It reminds me of a time in my youth when the magic of the East held great attraction, but the reality was filled with something much darker.

  And what memories did the infernal receptacle hold for you?”

  He felt his stomach settle in relief. “A map Father… and my journey to the Holy Land. A time stained with regret.”

  “Yes. And it’s so often that when we allow our mind to empty it’s the bad memories that fill it first.”

  The younger monk nodded in assent and the abbot, his white robe hanging in folds on his thin frame, settled himself more comfortably in the chair. “But we are men of reason, as well as men of God. It is just an old travelling bag. And what of the other items?”

  Andre fingered the cross on the desk. “A pious woman’s trifle?”

  The abbot seemed full of enigmatic smiles. “No, it has meaning. I have seen one before on my travels.” He brushed his gnarled finger over the finely worked rose.

  ”Some say it symbolises the suffering of the soul upon the cross of life. Some say it is the device of a hidden society of adepts.” The grey eyes regarded him steadily “And some say it is something other than Christian.”

  Andre paled, mysterious letters, bewitched bags and pagan symbols. Heresy. The very word was terrifying. To be associated with heresy was to be in peril of everlasting torment. He’d offered up his life to God in blood soaked deserts and plague infested hovels. Like all soldier monks, he cherished and nurtured his soul.

  The abbot laughed. “I see this disturbs you.” He waved his hand airily at the rows of books. “What think you these volumes contain? Think you that it is all jurisprudence and theological chattering?”

  He folded his hands once again. “My son, I have watched you these last nine years. Who here would tend to the sick at the expense of his own health. Who here would disobey the Rule to defend a child? And who would dare to hide the words of a Saracen poet under his floorboards to read by night in the darkness of his cell?” Andre flinched but the kind face remained passive.

  “You learned much in the Holy Land, did you not? Warfare… yes, but your penchant for medicine for instance, your love of words from the heart? Did you not sense a knowledge more profound than our own? Did you not feel that sometimes it was home?”

  All these things and more had Andre discovered, and felt. And as the unearthly melodies of the evening plain chant flowed softly through the open door, the abbot smiled “Do not be ashamed of what the God of your heart tells you, my son. As even the Roman legions knew when they gave up their lives on a battlefield far from home… Every soil is a brave man’s country. Oh, I know the mention of these things is tinged with danger. The very walls here have ears. But I speak the truth.

  One day all men will be able to stand upright to cry their heartfelt beliefs to the world and not be branded heretic and condemned to burn, even if they are at odds with Holy Mother Church.” Andre watched as the old hands flew about in illustration of his words, the gleam of hope in the calm eyes.

  The abbot sighed “What lives in a man’s heart is his own.” He poured a glass of wine from a plain stone pitcher and handed it to Andre “And what of the book?”

  “I know not Father. I cannot understand it at all. It’s very old but in no language that I have seen. A few words of Greek yes, several of the language of the church but the rest is a mystery to me.”

  The abbot took up the book “And to me. But I believe that it may be a compendium of knowledge, one written in the secret language of the alchemists.” Again Andre felt the blood drain from his face, but the abbot didn’t seem to notice. “As you know, in our time much knowledge is hidden in symbols … to protect those who may be accused of heresy. This book may be no different.” He opened the book to a yellowed page. Beautifully wrought lettering surrounded strange drawings of naked women sitting in ponds or entwined in the roots of trees. Another page was filled with finely drawn illustrations of unfamiliar plants and another, bizarre constellations and stellar maps, detailed and unknown. It gave Andre a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like the boy’s satchel, it had an other- worldliness that felt off kilter. Like a flat note played on a beautiful harp.

  The abbot suddenly stood and walked to the shelves furthest from the door. He reached to take down a faded red book; its binding cracked with age. His face was serious now “My uncle took me to Jerusalem in my fourteenth year, the year my mother and father died of the plague. He thought I should know the world for what it was.
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  We travelled with pilgrims hoping to wash their guilt clean at the Holy Sepulchre but the deserts were infested with robbers then, so six Templar knights escorted us much of the way and those aloof, martial knights inspired such awe and dread in me, I fawned on them as only a youth in the first flush of manhood could. My waking nights were filled with dreams of heroic battles and mighty warhorses.” He smiled “The truth is they smelt like pigs. Their long beards were matted and their tunics filthy with blood and sweat.”

  Andre grinned in return. He remembered the stench of a hundred unwashed knights. The horses smelt liked roses in comparison.

  “They looked at me as if I was a rodent to be stepped on, but one, a tall man with kind eyes and a clean mantle, took pity on me and sat with me at meals and shared his food. I remember his smile and the way he rubbed his horse’s muzzle as if it were his friend, as well as his battle steed. And one night as we sat together watching the stars, he gave me this book. Then he knelt to pray as the Rule dictated.

  I have never forgotten the sight of that battle weary soldier; face shining, head bent humbly in prayer.

  The next morning, we were attacked. We cowered, terrified, as the horde overtook the stragglers and swarmed upon them, slashing with their curved blades. Old men, women and children, it made no difference. Those of us that were left huddled in a circle, the Templars facing outward on their big horses, determined to protect us. I hid in the back of my uncle’s wagon, trembling, all my dreams of valour gone. Not one of us had seen a battle. All we could do was pray. My friend the knight called to me, and made me understand that I must hold on to this book, whatever should befall. Then he bid me goodbye with a salute and joined the others.