MILES CHRISTI

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Dreams. Such device! They happen. One cannot help but dream though hackneyed anathema. If not, how can God penetrate the conscience in the waking world? Ahg – God again. He can indeed, but we thwart Him. The rare that do are saints and madmen. Such He spoke to Joseph in the Nativity narrative . . .

The child, Nyneve, sat in the chapel against the altar with her gnawed wing. Deadlight in her eyes. In the churchyard, villeins dug her grave, and Tíbald on his knees in prayer before her. Out in the field, the barley bent and withered, and in its midst, a dead bull rolled on its side.

“Why do you visit me, little girl? Your soul is in heaven.”

She did not speak.

“Bayard is there.” His son. He said it without a flutter. 

Nyneve’s eyes fierce, dead but fierce.

“It is not my fault,” Tíbald stammered.

From the window, a clank of a spade. “It’s ready,” the headman said, and footsteps towards the chapel. Nyneve’s lips twisted and she screamed. The villeins burst in. They took her with her dead arms flailing. She screamed as they put her into the earth. She’s covered though her voice will not be buried. And Tíbald cannot breathe---

His eyes opened in the predawn light. This too a dream? Shapes in the tapestries and in the corner a suggestion of movement . . . Aile, next to him, snored. He touched his chest and puffed. This world. This world.

Aile lay pinched on the edge of the ticking, her back to him as every morning. He would touch her hip. But woe if he woke her. Might she sense him now? He swivelled off the mattress, snapped up his clothes and slunk into the hall, closing the door with a whisper, a closed door – congenial barrier, and Aile with the faintest sigh. Now to the chapel and prepare. Mischief finds those not prepared. The blitheful. The obtuse. Near-sighted living. Yet who’s prepared even with preparation? Not a one – in the village, in the duchy, in the world. The Devil seeks, and God chastises as we deserve. It comes from both sides.

That Jesu be between them.

Why a dead bull?

He pinned a sprig of holly to his breast. Three red berries. Jesu between them.

Friday. I hunt on a Friday. Stupid to delay. Should’ve gone yesterday. Maybe better tomorrow . . . I delay. Me. I am my Enemy. When does a boar attack children? When do villeins move a seigneur? The Devil’s in this . . . On Friday, a day of mischief.  All evil happens on Friday. What sin did the charcoal-burner and his wife commit that God would punish them so?

And what sin of Tíbald’s? His own parent’s grief.

I would do it.

There – the crucifix.

I will do it.

Walking out, he caught his reflection in a piece of polished brass hanging in the hall, Aile’s mirror. How he slumped but recovered immediately. And there, the seigneur. What magnificent ugliness. An honourable face, broad and hard. Battle scars of propitious features . . . Fraud, the Enemy whispered. Not that he heard it. Not that he knew he had heard. The world’s full of whispers – hovering cold spots which we pass in and out. Are they speaking to us, truly – these truncated thoughts? Get the bière.

He crossed the bailey covered by an overnight snow towards a cluster of men with saddled horses. In his hands three flagons of warm bière, one of which he’d drunk and had refilled. The snow crunched under his feet and the men turned: Rainald, Ivo, and puers Ugo and Fulk. His little band – brother, mentor, and sandy-haired boys on their first hunt – all restless with their breath visible. The boar, a monster by all accounts that could speak . . . So claimed the charcoal burner’s wife, poor miserable creature. What demons we see through grief’s eyes. Might it not be just a pig? They shared the flagons.

“Another,” said Tíbald, scanning the distant Wood.

They crossed themselves when finished. That the devil sees it. The puers fetched the hounds, two great Alaunts on leashes. They rode out the gate fortified, the Alaunts pulling the boys along.

“Thank you, dómini,” they heard, going through the village on display. “Bless thee, dómini.” “Our Lord protect thee, dómini.”

They rode past the church, Ste Cecilia’s single stone building. Solid, gray, set firmly in the earth near an ancient and venerated oak, whose roots, not a hundred years hence, supped the blood of sacrificial lovers. Thank God the Gospel came. Though there would be practitioners still. For the church, not the keep, forestalled the true dangers. Surrounding them was the living woodland that tied the earth to the old dark ways. Satan’s ground, where adulterers hid and scoundrels stole away. A place of spiders and serpents. God deem it be cut away and made fields for planting.

In the pastures, the barley hoary, ruined by the snow. God’s good joke and Tíbald must face Aile. But there’s a chance to save it. A chance with Tíbald – always a chance – myopic and venial.

The village headman stood at the fountain. “Thank thee, dómini.”

Tíbald stopped to wrench the headman by the cowl. “I do this,” he spat in the man’s ear. “Now get them out to that field and do not dare to come in till it’s harvested.”

Across the pastures, the horses cantered, moving past the snow-covered sheaves. Tíbald’s mount, an aging old warrior, tugged at the reins for an enemy to ride down. The hounds, strained by their collars, sniffed for a scent, making for the woods in widening circles. At the garden near the charcoal-burner’s house, they milled and yipped, then froze with noses in the air. Ugo and Fulk held tight. Agitated, the Alaunts howled.

“Loose them,” Tíbald ordered.

The dogs bolted and the boys mounted behind Ivo and Rainald. The riders spurred into the woods and its chilly arms wrapped about them. Pounding hooves, snapping twigs and hounds singing out of sight juxtaposed to an eerie quiet, Fulk and Ugo holding tight. The Wood felt them and leered. Then the glassy air cracked with animals in battle, and the riders to a gallop. But the fight broke off with boar and dogs moving hard away.

Deeper and deeper the creature drew them in till time and distance was lost. Indeed, the day, like the beast they followed, charged beyond their grasp as if the sun was pinioned to its back and the boar hauling it ‘cross the sky. How it dashed, this way and that, tumbling the hounds, toying with them. And still to be seen, for all that they knew was the distant crash. That and a trail of defiled snow.

Tíbald in a sweat, time and again, stabbed into empty thickets thinking they had trapped it. “He’s a devil!”

“Look at the dogs,” Rainald said as they milled about perplexed. “We’ve lost him.”

“We’ve lost ourselves,” Ugo cried, clinging to his back. The forest loomed. “We chase a phantom.”

As they turned, a streak out the corner of their eyes from under the thicket and disappeared through a cluster of saplings. The hounds went wild and on its tail. The riders followed over the slippery bed through buckthorns and brambles, the horses in a lather. The snow thicker here and churned up in chunks. Up ahead, a fallen hornbeam directly in their path. Tíbald over first, an awkward jump from the icy snow, his horse spilled. Ivo over next with Fulk thrown and horse and rider in a ghastly tumble. Snap. Such a sound. Rainald and Ugo pulled short to see the mount buck off. Tíbald, caked with snow, rushed to Ivo – a contorted lump barely conscious. “I cannot move,” his whisper.

“Cover him,” Tíbald ordered the puers.

“Do not let me die unconfessed,” Ivo’s voice thin.

“You’ll not die.”

The puers blanched – he’s dead already.

In the distance, the baying hounds. The boar mocked them.

“Don’t---let me---die---unconfessed.”

“Cover him,” Tíbald snarled.

“We have, dómini,” Ugo said.

“Cover him more.” He took Ivo’s hand. “And rig a litter and take him back.” This was not supposed to happen.

“Death is with us,” Rainald said and scanned the trees. “No more of this. We’re losing the daylight.”

Ivo squeezed Tíbald’s hand with cold fingers. Colder more with Tíbald’s blood up.   “The puers will help you,” his inane response, his world stopping. It must not. It must not.

“We continue?” Rainald incredulous.

“Yes!” Tíbald’s punch against the circumstance, the reckoning to come. “We must kill it!” The reckoning always comes. “It attacked our village. Murdered an innocent. Injured our man. It insults us. We will kill it. Killing is our service.” He looked at Ivo’s glassy eyes. “Hold on, old man.” Then to Rainald. “Go after it . . . I’ll follow.”

Rainald with an anxious look.

“I said, go after it!”

Rainald spurred and rode off.

He turned to Ugo. “Take the horse and ride back for a litter.” Both boys mounted. “Fulk stays here.”

“Please, dómini, let him come.”

“Fulk stays here. And when you get back, rouse the priest and bring him.”

“Yes, dómini.” And a long look to Fulk before riding off.

Gray clouds swallowed the sun and Ivo still, yet breathing, like the day not quite done. Murders of crows lighted on the treetops. They looked, their bright black eyes without feeling. Fulk shouted to drive them off. Not a stir. In la Forêt . . . On Friday. Tìbald shuddered. The Corvidae looking as much on him. “Valkyrur,” he whispered of the old religion and touched the holly beneath his cloak. In the distance, the hounds with Rainald alone following. His head grew light as if plucked from one world to another though he stood on the same spot. A surge and he mounted.

“Don’t leave us, dómini,” cried Fulk.

He charged as much away as towards, the woods eating him bit by bit. Dusk coming on. Where went the day? Where went the hour? Ivo and the puers gone. It began to snow, a soft and billowy flutter. La Forêt with a hush. The boar and hounds no longer singing. Rainald too gone . . . in this, this . . . otherworld.

A footpath appeared, not so much cut through the trees as them making way for it. How odd this causeway deep in the forest with no beginning or end in which the snow refused to bank. It must lead somewhere. In its trough an apparition appeared. Could be nothing else. A line of beggars.

 Tìbald jerked the reins and the destrier pulled up, its eyes a glare. Did it see them?

They did not move. They did not speak. Nor startled at the snorting destrier. All in black, their tatters like raven wings – the leader, himself, crow-like with sleeves like pin feathers. He raised a begging bowl and bowed though not so much from deference. “Mercy on the afflicted, dómine,” he croaked, one eye spying beneath his cowl. Had he a grin? For a knob was pushed up from his head as if the truth of him could not be hid. How hideous his face to Tìbald, filled with a power as if it the brute ready to trash and crash for what it wants. “Mercy on the afflicted,” its imposition.

Tìbald reared back.

“Mercy on the afflicted, good lord,” he repeated. “Some alms that we may pray for your protection.” A threat.

“Make way,” Tìbald ordered, but the beggar would not move, the top of his cowl white with snow and his face now dark and wolfish.

“Mercy, dómini . . . for your protection . . .” His eyes – one a black deep pool and the other milky like the moon.

Their line broke rank to encircle him.

“. . . to expiate your sins . . .”

Tìbald spurred and drove through them.

“Rainald! Rainald! Where are you?” He looked back and the beggars were gone.

A blast from a horn and this world alive again. Tìbald rode through the undergrowth now a hoary white.

“Rainald!”

“Here! Here!” his voice above a fury.

Onto a swale he burst and there, the boar against a tree, the Alaunts tearing at it. It roared, spinning this way and that with its tusks to gash its tormentors. But upon seeing Tìbald, it charged and thwacked into the destrier’s flank, the tusks opening its belly. Rainald lunged his spear into its hump as it passed under Tìbald’s mount. Its wiry hide leaking blood, but nary a falter. The hounds at its throat till a final spin and it crushed a dog’s ribs. Tìbald jammed his spear. Its shoulder popped. Piss and blood. Snow and trees fouled. It squealed and crumped. They watched. Gleeful for its pain. That Death treat it cruelly. And its eyes big and bright. What’s it seeing? Gyrations ebb. It’s going . . . The final breaths . . . Going . . . Gone.

A hush and snow falling. Tìbald tremulous. Rainald sweating. The boar, not a monster at all, dead. In death but one quality. Whatever good or bad is gone. A levelling – all are equal. A roll of the eyes. Yes – Yes – Yes.

Till it comes for thee . . .

And coming onto the scene who would think moments ago it was possessed? Indeed, by the infamous Legion! O’ – that it could’ve plunged into Galilee and drown. But there it lay, an old foul thing. Flesh like wood. Sour as the charcoal-burner said. It must hang for weeks before edible. Who would want to eat it?  Give it to the dogs . . .

Legion now free, possessing the snow, clinging to the trees. Tìbald did it. Do or do not – tragic crossroad. Doom down every path.

Tìbald, hunting knife in hand, cut open the boar’s belly. Such a reek. Rainald attended the wounded horse dripping blood. The one dog sniff, letting out a growl. Tìbald plucked out the liver from the cavity and held it to the nose of the injured hound. A feeble lick between panted breaths, laying on its side. Caressing its jowls, Tìbald killed it with a thrust to the back of its neck. Another thing dead. And more blood. Everywhere – blood. And the snow should be so pretty with its great falling flakes.

The woods darkened. That a hush could be so loud. Tìbald scanned the trees. They were deep in the Wood – in its belly. Never had they gone so far. Had it used the boar for this purpose?

What purpose?

A howl . . .

There, not thirty yards off, a large black wolf on his haunches easy-as-you-please, a mantle of white about his forehead, staring with one blue eye like a voyeur. Tìbald turned for his hunting spear, and there, another black stock still at thirty yards in the opposite direction, snow on the ears and muzzle and clung to its chin like a beard. Its yellow eyes leered. The horses startled. And there another wolf with its head bent low circling into place, its eyes ever watching. Then off behind Rainald a shaggy old hunk licking his paw. Three more at different points completing the circle.

The Alaunt growled and backed itself to the horses.

The light nearly gone and Blue Eyes winked. Mercy on the afflicted, good lord.

The horses skittered and Rainald quickly mounted. The Alaunt, with savage barking, clung fast. But Tìbald, frozen, as if something restrained him.

“Tìbald, come!” Rainald yelled and a blur out of the dark on the alaunt’s back. Another instantly from the brush to tear the dog’s throat. It shrieked.

“Christ, save me!” Tìbald leapt into the saddle only to drop his spear as a wolf bit the destrier’s haunch. The old horse kicked and sent it flying.

Away the mounts flew barely under control – leave the prize of boar and the dogs and escape this day. But no, the pack followed. It wanted them. “Jesu save me! Jesu save me!” Up came the pack beside them. Tìbald locked onto the face of Blue Eyes whose look was afire. A sneer? Mercy on the afflicted, lord. I’m going to eat you---

The horses flagged, the wolves bit, and a buck with every snap. Tìbald and Rainald close to thrown. The gash on Tìbald’s mount widened, its blood flying. The pack driven wild.

Blue Eyes closed and with a leap, clamped on Tìbald’s ankle.

“Brother!” he shouted, pulled from the saddle, and went for his knife as he hit the ground.

They were on him, tugging on feet, tearing at his mantle. Biting arms. Biting legs. Savage their growls. Tearing him to pieces.

Rainald wheeled and drove his spear into a wolf at his brother’s chest. It yelped and piped hot blood over Tìbald’s cheek. He stabbed another in and out, in and out, with such frenzy till the creature collapsed in fitful jerks. Tìbald’s knife hand free, he swiped Blue Eyes yanking on his foot – a full cut through his snout. It cried and let go.

Up Tìbald leapt with fantastical prowess, mounted behind Rainald and off they dashed through a gauntlet of branches – a swipe to the eyes, sting to the cheek, and all the while their hearts pounding. “Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!” Tìbald pressing his brother’s back. How hard they rode, but in what direction? Away – the only one to be had.

Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison! And as if by enchantment He did. They bounded onto the fallow fields just like that, Ste Cecilia in the distance, plucked by an invisible hand and deposited to safety.

A dash past the village and into the bailey, Tìbald dismounted before a full halt, his knees buckling. He clutched his heart. In it, poison. His eyes rolled back. His self, dissolving. Then he saw it and gasped. Rainald caught him.

“The chapel!” his breathy cry.

They clambered up the stairs. Servants cowered. Aile confused and shouting, “What is it? What is it?” And Tìbald a bloody lump before the altar as Alpha and Omega sputtered.

“Ysobel!” Aile screamed for her servant, the sight of blood making her ill. The smell of it . . .

“The relic,” Tìbald tremble, “. . . for my soul.”

Eyes wide, Aile looked to Rainald whose face was affright and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “And water and soap.”

“Holy water,” Rainald said. “And the priest.”