Beneath Ceaseless Skies #24 Read online

  Meurig considered that. Was it worse, he wondered, to know a mother’s love and lose it, or to never know such love in the first place? Perhaps that was a question he might ask Father Ambrose, for he did not want to cause Caedmon further pain.

  * * *

  In front of the stable, Caedmon finished yoking an ox to a laden two-wheeled cart.

  Meurig hastened to him, buckling on Rhiannon. “Father Ambrose said I might go with you to the mill.”

  “You won’t need your sword,” Caedmon said.

  “I don’t like to leave her behind.” He rubbed the swirled hair on the forehead of the placid ox. “Besides, she finds so much time within doors dull.”

  “You talk about that sword as if it were a live thing.” Caedmon paused as if expecting an explanation. When Meurig remained silent, he changed the subject. “How did you fare at lessons this morning?”

  “I am confused by a great many things. I fear Father Ambrose wearies of my questions. I think that’s why he wants me to go with you. His forehead is smooth when we begin, but by the end of the lesson it is creased and he rubs his temples. I do not mean to give him a headache. Yet how am I to learn if I do not ask questions?”

  Caedmon smiled. “How are we to get to the mill if we do not begin the journey?” He seized the beast’s halter, clucked. The wooden wheels creaked as the ox moved obediently forward.

  The morning was clear and fine, with a hint of cooler days to come. The ox pulled the cart without complaint. The bags of barley and wheat would be made into flour at the mill. There would be enough, Caedmon explained, to supply the monastery for the winter and to give to the poor if needed.

  Meurig set his pace to match the plodding of the ox and Caedmon’s by now familiar if unlovely gait. The hunchback’s breath came soft and gasping, for his twisted frame made it difficult to draw a full lungful of air.

  Meurig had asked Father Ambrose about Caedmon’s infirmity. Why would a merciful God permit one of his creatures to suffer in so painful and awkward a form, especially when it housed so kind and gentle a spirit?

  Father Ambrose had rebuked him. It was not for Meurig to question God’s purpose. Which meant that Father Ambrose did not have the answer. Perhaps, Meurig thought, God meant Caedmon’s twisted back to make others grateful for their own straight ones. But he could not help but feel that manifestly unfair to Caedmon.

  “You’re thinking again,” Caedmon said.

  “Yes.” When they had gone a little farther, Meurig asked, “After Cain slew his brother, he went to dwell in the Land of Nod and he founded a city there, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “If Adam and Eve were the only people, where did the people come from who dwelled in Cain’s city? Were there other Edens? And if so, might there be Edens where man did not disobey God and fall into sin?”

  Caedmon shook his head. “I see how you gave Father Ambrose his headache. I cannot answer your question, Meurig, but beware of heresy. We are not made to understand the ways of God. That is why there is faith.”

  Meurig sighed. “Very well, Brother Caedmon. I have no wish to give you a headache, too.”

  Caedmon laughed and they walked on in agreeable silence.

  An hour brought them to the neighboring village and the mill that stood at the southerly edge. When the miller’s sons had unloaded the cart, Caedmon suggested Meurig explore. “I will take the ox for water. There is a well at the center of the village. You can meet me there.”

  The village was small, featuring some thirty or forty houses of timber, mud, and thatch. The streets were muddy tracks where swine rooted at will and chickens scratched. There seemed neither plan nor ornament, and Meurig missed the well-ordered lanes in the monastery.

  He gave the blacksmith a wide berth; the closeness of so much iron made him ill. The smell from the baker’s outdoor oven was more inviting, and the work of cooper, joiner, and chandler more interesting.

  The villagers, intent upon their work, ignored him, though one or two glanced at his sword worriedly. But he smiled to show he meant no harm and their expressions softened. He paused to watch a young girl herd a dozen squawking geese down a grassy hill toward a small pond. Another girl struggled with two full buckets of water from the communal well at the center of the village. Her face was pink and she blew a strand of loose hair out of her eyes. “You came with the hunchback?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Chevalier de Moissac’s men are tormenting him at the well. I told them it would bring bad luck to harm a monk, but they only laughed. The Devil’s in them. Or drink.”

  Meurig sprinted toward the well.

  The ox, generally a meek creature, sidled away from the post where she was tethered. Her eyes showed white around the edges.

  Three men, bearded and brutish, surrounded Caedmon, who lay huddled upon the ground. They kicked him and struck him with stout cudgels. They smelled of sweat and sour wine. One laughed and said something about “breaking the turtle.”

  Caedmon wrapped his arms about his head. His breath came harsh and fast. One of the men put his foot in the center of Caedmon’s chest and pushed, forcing the monk onto his misshapen back.

  “How long does it take a turtle to right itself when turned upon its shell?” The man chortled at his own wit and kept his foot in place, preventing Caedmon from moving.

  White fury filled Meurig. He drew Rhiannon from her scabbard.

  “Let him up,” Meurig said.

  “What’s this? A stripling with a toothpick?” the man pinning Caedmon said. “Teach him some manners, Gilles.”

  “Let him up, or die where you stand,” Meurig said. Wrath was a sin and the Commandment said “thou shalt not kill.” Yet he had killed already and for lesser cause. Caedmon had been kind to him and besides, it was an affront for the strong to bully the weak.

  Caedmon’s breath came in a labored wheeze and his face had taken a blue cast that was not all bruises.

  The one called Gilles swung at Meurig with a cudgel. Rhiannon sheared through the stick. Gilles’ eyes widened as he stepped back.

  Meurig advanced. “You see how my blade cuts through wood. I think it will have less difficulty with flesh.”

  “Take no notice,” another man said. “We are three and he is only one.”

  Meurig flashed his sword and nicked this man’s wrist. Blood flowed and the man dropped his cudgel with a yelp. Meurig approached the third man, the one who still held Caedmon helpless.

  “Shall I take no notice when you are coughing out your life’s blood? Release him, I say!”

  “Enough!” A fourth man approached.

  Meurig felt a sickness rise. This man wore iron. He set his teeth against the nausea.

  “Let the hunchback up, you imbecile,” the armored man said. “He’s gone purple.”

  “Just a bit of sport, my lord,” the man said, but he released Caedmon, who rolled to his knees, whooping draughts of air into his lungs.

  The other two men sidled away, but Meurig did not put up his blade. He knelt upon one knee and put his free hand to Caedmon’s shoulder, though he did not take his eyes from the enemy. “Shall I kill them for you?” he asked softly.

  Caedmon had not yet breath to speak, but shook his head.

  Meurig rose. Rage almost made the bone-deep ache of the nearby iron bearable. “These are your men?” he demanded of the knight.

  “They are. Forgive their high spirits. I will discipline them later. I am the Chevalier Guillaume de Moissac.” His eyes narrowed. “That is a fine sword. I remember crossing blades with it on the field of battle, when I drove the marauders from my lands. You showed more courage today.”

  Meurig chose to ignore the insult. “I am called Meurig of—” he hesitated briefly— “of Saint-Sever. You would do well to school your men to better courtesy.”

  “Go warily, Meurig of Saint-Sever. I may be moved to school you in courtesy, as well. But by the Rood, it is too fair a day for quarreling. Put up your fine blade. Take a cup of wi
ne with me. And you, Brother Caedmon.”

  Meurig did not like the covetous gleam in the chevalier’s eye as he glanced at the unsheathed sword, or the dripping sarcasm with which he had addressed Caedmon. Nor had he any desire to drink wine with a man clad in iron. “Thank you, no.”

  “Then perhaps you will tell me what master craftsman made such a blade? I have never seen its like.”

  Tell him nothing.

  Meurig nearly dropped Rhiannon in startlement. She had not spoken to him since their first encounter with de Moissac. He drew a deep breath and slid the blade into the scabbard.

  “A gift from my father,” he said, because he must say something and he would not lie. Let the chevalier make of that what he would. Meurig bent to help Caedmon rise.

  * * *

  The miller fussed and clucked over Caedmon and pressed a cup of wine upon him, all the while muttering about “evil days when even a monk cannot walk in safety.” Caedmon protested that he was unhurt, though his dark habit was torn and muddied, his cheek bruised and scraped, and he pressed his elbow firmly against his ribs as if he had pain there.

  The miller and his sons loaded the bags of flour onto the cart and Meurig yoked the ox into place.

  The village disappeared after they crested a hill and began a gradual descent toward the abbey. Caedmon’s breath hitched and his fingers strayed to his rosary, but he did not pray.

  “Are you angry with me, Brother Caedmon?”

  Caedmon wiped his face with the sleeve of his habit. “No.”

  “You are in pain. We can rest a bit.” Meurig pointed to the narrow stream that ran some few feet from the road.

  At the stream, Caedmon knelt and washed his face. He lifted a cupped handful of water to his lips, then sat in silence upon the grassy bank, arms wrapped about his ribs. He closed his eyes. Silent tears ran down his cheeks.

  Meurig paced as outrage returned. “I would have killed them for you. I can go back and do it now, if you like.”

  Caedmon’s eyes snapped open. “Killing is a sin, Meurig.”

  “Is cruelty not also a sin?”

  “It is for God to judge them, not us.” Again Caedmon wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “My bruises throb not so painfully as the hurt to my soul. For when you first offered to kill them, I was tempted. I wanted them dead. And I despaired. In my wickedness I have felt anger with God for giving me this twisted form. And even jealousy of you, my friend, for being straight and tall. That is why I weep, for I am full of sin. I have pretended virtue before now, and in that I fell into pride and grievous error. I fear I am lost, Meurig.”

  Meurig crouched upon the grass so that he might meet Caedmon’s water-filled gaze. He did not know how he might hearten the monk. Caedmon had only ever shown cheerfulness and kindness before. If such a man were lost, what then was he? And how might he ever find redemption for his own sin?

  “If you mistake your way upon the path,” Meurig said, “you have but to retrace your steps and begin again.”

  Caedmon smiled through tears. “Perhaps you have been listening to Father Ambrose, after all. I have not thanked you for coming to my aid, Meurig. God has surely sent you.”

  Not God, Meurig thought. My father.

  As children, he and Selwyn and Rhiannon would sit at his father’s feet and listen, rapt, to the tales of the world’s beginning, when the First Tree lifted the sky upon its branches and sprouted acorns that gave rise to all the birds and beasts and beings of the Wood.

  Now Selwyn was dead, Rhiannon trapped inside a sword, his father implacable. His people had no concept of sin, and no understanding of forgiveness. Meurig might retrace his own path, but he could not undo what he had done.

  3.

  In summer the pestilence came to Saint-Sever. The monks kept vigil and fasted. For some, fear was greater than faith, and they fled.

  Father Ambrose continued Meurig’s lessons, but for shortened hours. In the scriptorium, the scratch-scratch of pen to vellum dwindled and fell silent. The refectory grew cheerless. Survivors dug graves and prayed.

  Meurig toiled alongside Caedmon among the sick. They bathed fevered flesh, held cups of broth to unresponsive lips, carried away soiled linens. Caedmon murmured prayers for the recovery of men he had known from childhood, and wept when prayers continued unanswered.

  Once stricken, fewer than one in five recovered. When they started coughing blood, none lived more than a few hours.

  Meurig despaired when Caedmon fell ill.

  How could the monks’ God permit such injustice?

  In the pest-house, Caedmon lay on his side upon a cot. Fever sweat shone upon his face and Meurig was once again struck by the irony of so beautiful a countenance set upon so poorly made a frame. Perhaps God had been distracted at Caedmon’s making. Perhaps He was distracted now.

  Meurig touched Caedmon’s hand briefly. The fever burned. Caedmon’s lips moved in prayer, but his hands were too weak to do more than clutch his rosary.

  The bell tolled for nones. Meurig sighed, touched Caedmon’s hand once again, and then lifted a basket of soiled bedlinens. These he deposited at the laundry and turned his steps automatically toward the chapel.

  The afternoon sun shone bright and hot. Meurig hesitated, turned and made his way toward the gardens and the orchard beyond, seeking a warmer chapel of earth and sky and cool green. Meurig settled upon the grass before an oak sapling, knees hugged to his chest.

  Green life gave him more comfort than the image of a man nailed to a cross. He sighed, knowing that would displease Father Ambrose.

  Sun and reverie made him drowsy. He passed from doze to dream.

  Rhiannon stood before him, her long hair the color of spiderwebs in moonlight. She studied him, eyes green and bright as a spring leaf.

  “I shall lose Brother Caedmon, too,” he said to her. “If only I could pull out sickness the same way I pulled life from the tree when we first came to this realm.”

  “Perhaps we can,” she said, bending to kiss him upon the forehead.

  “You missed prayers,” Father Ambrose said.

  Meurig scrambled to his feet, confused. He had pierced the skin of worlds, however briefly. Now Rhiannon was a sword again, and Caedmon would die.

  “Your pardon,” he said. “My heart is too heavy for my words to rise.”

  The angular planes of the abbot’s face softened. He patted Meurig’s shoulder, the joints of his fingers swollen and red. “You must not despair, Meurig, but have faith in God’s mercy.”

  “But how, Father? Why should God afflict his own servants so?”

  The abbot’s gaze grew sharp and he straightened as if to rebuke Meurig, but then he let out a dispirited sigh. “If I were a better priest, I would have an answer.”

  “You are weary, is all,” Meurig said. “Let me take you to your room.”

  “Just walk with me to the chapel.”

  * * *

  Leaving Father Ambrose at prayer, Meurig returned to the pest-house. He found Caedmon unchanged, unless perhaps his breath was even more labored than before. Meurig seized Caedmon’s wrist and knelt.

  Perhaps we can.

  With his left hand, he curled his fingers around Rhiannon’s hilt. She had kissed him in the dream. Perhaps she was no longer angry.

  “God of Caedmon and Father Ambrose,” he said softly, “Lady of Light and Great Oak, Giver of Life, bestow your blessing to my untrained hands. Send health where there is sickness, and drive the pestilence back into darkness.”

  His hand clutching Caedmon’s wrist ached and began to burn. Meurig’s other hand tingled and grew warm. His head felt light and strange.

  A sensation like a thousand spiders skittering over bare flesh progressed from hand to wrist, arm, neck, and spine. Meurig suppressed a gasp of pain and surprise. When the crawling feeling ceased, he released Caedmon’s hand, swayed unsteadily as he climbed to his feet. Color had returned to Caedmon’s cheeks, and his breathing seemed easier.

  Meurig moved on to the next co
t.

  Twenty beds with twenty brothers near death. Some of them had been vomiting blood, some had lips turned so blue they were nearly black, some had egg-sized swellings under their arms and in their groin. All suffered.

  Meurig went to each in turn, felt again the prickle over his skin. Each healing—he hoped it was a healing—left him feeling faint and sick, as if he were surrounded by cold iron.

  Stop.

  Rhiannon’s voice. He was only at the tenth bed and the weakness in his knees made him stumble.

  Meurig, stop. You are killing yourself.

  He shook his head. Rhiannon might protest, but this must be his purpose. He could not bring Selwyn back from the dead, but he could prevent others from too soon sharing his brother’s fate.

  At the last bed, he sank to his knees. White lights danced before his eyes. He summoned a final reserve of strength.

  Outside, Meurig. The trees. The trees will help you.

  He heard her, but he could not make himself move to obey. He closed his eyes and felt himself fall.

  * * *

  Meurig woke, blinking in sunlight, found himself sprawled upon cool grass, one hand outstretched to a gnarled oak root. Someone nearby recited the Pater Noster. He thought perhaps it was Caedmon’s voice.

  A leaf detached from a branch above and fluttered down gently. He watched it, entranced. When it had settled upon the grass, he noticed its withered brown. He snatched his hand away from the tree. Dozens of other dead leaves lay scattered around him and upon his tunic.

  Meurig tried to rise, but a face loomed over his, a hand pressed him gently back. “Be still.” Father Ambrose held a cup of cool water to Meurig’s lips. The water tasted finer than wine, finer even than the herb-laced mead of home. Father Ambrose eased him back.

  “Thank you,” Meurig said. His voice sounded strange in his ears. All the brothers in their black robes had gathered, even those who had lately lain near death in the infirmary.

  “How came I here?”

  Caedmon said, “The Voice of Our Lady bade us bring you. Surely She has touched you, for you have taken our sickness. We have prayed most earnestly for your recovery and She has answered.”