Roche Abbey , Yorkshire, 1199
Brother Peter
The first time I saw him was on a sultry day in early summer, when the air was so thick, the very bees seemed to stumble wearily about the lavender and there was an unnatural quiet over all, presaging a storm.
I had paused to lean upon my hoe as I tended the herb garden at the abbey and beckoned one of the lay brothers to bring water. As I lifted the clay pitcher and tilted my head back to let the cooling water trickle down my parched throat, my eye was caught by a glint of something up on the skyline.
Shielding my eyes from the sun, I looked to the limestone cliff and again saw the flash of something metallic and if I squinted, I could see the silhouette of a horse and rider, motionless against the sky.
As I watched, the rider swayed in the saddle and I exclaimed as he pitched to the ground. I called urgently to the lay brothers, pointed up at the cliff and ran to fetch my satchel from the Infirmary, while they hurried to get a hurdle to carry the injured man and several coils of rope. In minutes they were following me on the steep climb to reach him.
Because I had been working, I already had my habit girded up for freedom of movement and my sleeves rolled up above my elbows. Although in my 41st year, I was physically very fit as a result of my former life, before taking orders and the strict regime of manual work here at Roche. Nevertheless, the climb was steep and the heaviness of the air made for hard going. By the time I reached the top, sweat was trickling down my back and into my eyes and I was panting for breath.
The horse, a big black stallion, was standing to one side, calmly grazing on the short, scrubby grass. Its harness and saddle were fine and richly ornamented. I spoke to him softly and stroked his muzzle as I carefully slid around him to reach the fallen man, who was lying, face down on the ground.
I took off my satchel and knelt by the fallen body, pulling back the long, sandy hair to feel for a pulse in the neck. To my relief, the pulse was there, faint but rhythmic against my fingers.
The knight – for such he clearly was – wore boots, breeches, a mail hauberk, a long surcoat of black linen and a jerkin of quilted black leather. From the centre of his back protruded a wicked looking black arrow, which needed to be extracted, but not here.
The three lay brothers and I were able to lift the knight onto the hurdle, laying him on his belly and strapping him down with ropes. For speed, I climbed back down the cliff and had him lowered down on more ropes. Two brothers then joined me and we carried him to the infirmary, while the third brother took the horse’s bridle and led him down by a slower, less steep route.
Once in my infirmary, I set water to boil on the hearth and had the man transferred to the table I would work on. My assistant and I removed his boots and breeches and having cut off the arrow shaft, were able to carefully strip off his jerkin, surcoat, mail and shirt.
It seemed that the arrow head had not penetrated too deeply, thanks to the protection, but the flesh around the wound already looked blackish and I feared that there was some poison at work here.
My assistant, Brother Bernard, handed me the wire snare, which I would use to extract the arrow head and bracing my knee against the man’s back, I twisted and pulled until it came cleanly away, with a tearing sound and the wound bled freely. I seized the cautery I had set in the fire and the knight moved and groaned, when I applied it, but mercifully did not come back to his full senses. My nostrils twitched as the air was filled with the pungent odour of burnt flesh.
We took a bowl of hot water and sponged down the patient, who had a fine, strong body, marked with the scars of various campaigns. I judged that he was not far in age from myself and like me, led an active life. Now we needed to turn him and move him from the table onto a straw mattress and sit him up, so that we could complete the washing of his body and bandage his wound. Once again this required the help of the lay brothers, who had waited by the door until called for.
I sat on the mattress and held him propped up, while Bernard washed his front and for the first time, I actually saw his face, a strong face, lined with experience and heavily bearded – the face of a warrior indeed.
As I relinquished him to Bernard to hold up, while I applied the bandage, the first clap of thunder shook the Infirmary walls and his body jerked, his eyes flew open for a moment and then closed again, but not before I had seen the flash of green. The bandaging complete, we lowered him onto the bed and covered him with a linen sheet, just as the storm broke and torrents of rain beat upon the roof.
I sent Bernard to the main building by the covered way, to take part in midday prayers and the midday meal. The infirmary is separate from the other abbey buildings for purposes of isolation. Myself, I stayed to watch over the patient and to brew herbal tea and chicken soup, the infirmary being the only place in the abbey where a fire was permitted, apart from the kitchen.
As I stirred my pots, the patient also stirred and I sat by him again, moistening his cracked lips with a wet cloth. I noted that he was sweating heavily now and his face had taken on a greyish tinge. My hand on his forehead confirmed what I had feared – the fever was beginning to take hold.
The Black Knight
Suddenly, they were there, all around us. My men and I were outnumbered and there was nothing we could do but die fighting. Albin, on my right, cried out in pain, Albin, who had been so proud to have survived in the Holy Land and would now die in his own green country. One by one I saw my men fall.
Swinging my sword, I fought two men at once and killed one of them. I was turning my horse to double the attack on the other man, when I felt a hard blow in my back. My thighs clenched around my horse, Blade, in a desperate attempt to stay in the saddle and Blade suddenly bucked, striking an attacker to the ground and then leapt forward.
My back hurt like the Devil and I did not know what it was that had struck me; it could have been a sword, but it felt as if it was still there, right in the middle of my back. I had no strength to stop the horse; holding on to the reins and not falling off was the best I could do. It took some time before the startled beast calmed down enough to stop galloping and slowed down to an easier pace.
My world now seemed very small, existing only in the severe burning in my back. I tried to reach around, tried to feel what was there, but the terrible pain made me cry out and I had to give up when the wood seemed to disappear and all became black around me.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
I opened my eyes to a strange world, some big forest, with great trees and diffused light shining through their tops. I was on horseback, but had no idea how I got there, or where I was heading. Looking down at my hands clutching the reins as if they were a lifeline, I winced when I saw the blood. In vain I tried to remember what had happened and then realized that I did not even know who I was and I dozed off again.
Perhaps it had been no more than a few seconds, because I was still on the horse. I tried to straighten up and the dull throbbing in my back changed into excruciating pain. I cried out, only barely able to stop the horse from running.
Now I understood that I was wounded, in truth, so badly that I could remember nothing. Perhaps I had a fever and it was consuming me from within. For now, best not try to remember anything; I should concentrate on staying awake and on the horse until I could find help. If I were to fall off, I would never be able to remount and I would die a terrible death. Whoever I was, I was not ready to die yet, I decided. I gritted my teeth and wrapped the reins around my hands.
It was as if the horse felt the man on his back was in pain, as he trod very carefully and at a slow pace, avoiding any obstacle on the ground. The wound in my back seemed to spread out liquid fire to my limbs and even though I was sweating profusely, I was shivering with cold. I was very, very thirsty and groaned with relief when I discovered the water skin tied to my saddle. It took me a long time to untie it, as I did not dare to let go of the reins completely, so I could use only one hand. When I finally had the skin in my hand, I drank greedily from the cool water. I kept drinking until it was all gone, unwise as it may have been and then the skin dropped from my hand onto the ground.
The horrible pain which was spreading over my entire body now kept me from falling asleep, but I started to fear I would faint from it. I was relieved when I reached the end of the wood, hoping for a village or a hamlet in the vicinity but all I could see was bare rock and desolation and then I realized I was heading towards the edge of a high cliff.
I looked down, and it was steep, but beneath me I saw people at work in a large garden. *Monks*, my fogged brain told me and that was good, they would come to my aid. I tried to call out to them, but my voice failed and nothing but a hoarse whisper came out.
One of the monks far down did look up though, as if he had heard my cry for help and I knew he had seen me. Relief flooded over me and I felt I could finally let go and closed my eyes, welcoming the darkness, which surrounded me.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
I was in another country, beneath a burning sun, sand as far as the eye could see, but still on horseback. A young man was riding next to me, his face fearless as only given to very young people. He was shouting something, but I could not hear him as there were people screaming and then I saw the sand turning red with blood.
Some time later I was walking through a valley, surrounded by green hills. I saw the big house and my heart jumped in my chest, knowing I was home. I started running towards the house but something hit me in the back and I fell to the ground, crying out in pain, knowing I was bound to die.
I knew this all was a dream, but then the thunder rolled and I opened my eyes to the lightning for a second. The pain was too hard to bear and I fell back into darkness.
Brother Peter
I bathed my patient’s brow with cold water and raised him up again to try and spoon a little of my herbal brew of chamomile, borage and feverfew into his mouth. His wound had been well cauterized and I had bound it with a poultice of woundwort, comfrey and mallow. As my spoon touched his lips, they parted and his tongue flickered out. I quickly tipped some of the medicine into his mouth, holding down his tongue with the spoon and trickling it down his throat. He moaned a little and I ventured a second spoonful, before lowering him back onto the bed and cooling his brow again.
I raised my eyes as a shadow fell over us, expecting that Brother Bernard had returned, but it was our Father Abbot, Osmund, tall and austere in his immaculate white habit, his hands folded beneath his black scapular.
“Father Abbot.”
“Do not rise, my son. Continue to attend your charge. How does he fare?”
“He is clearly a knight of many campaigns, from the old scars on his body, but we can see from the bruised hands and grazed knuckles that he has been in a recent fight.”
I picked up his battered right hand from where it lay upon the linen sheet and showed the Abbot. It was rather a beautiful hand, with long fingers, more suited to a musician or illuminator than a warrior.
“He has a fine war horse, which is being looked after in the stables. So he is a knight of some worth and yet alone. He has no shield, nor coat of arms whereby we might know him. What of his other wounds?”
I frowned,
“His mortal life is threatened by an arrow wound in the back. The tip was clearly poisoned and that is the main danger to him. I have removed the arrow head, cleaned and cauterized the wound and poulticed it, but I fear that a fever is rising.”
“Will he live?”
“He is strong, but it is hard to tell, Father. I will do my best for him.”
“As you do for all your charges, my son. Well, your skills notwithstanding, it is in the hands of God, whether he is to be called, but I will have prayers said for him.”
He looked around almost furtively, to confirm that we were alone,
“In the current political climate, with a new King on the throne, it would not be a good thing for us to have a man of importance die here, particularly one who, from his complexion has recently been fighting the Holy Wars. If it is God’s will that he should die, perhaps it is as well that we do not know his name.”
Osmund turned on his heel and left me with my nameless knight. He was a competent and ambitious man, the former cellarer of Fountains Abbey and under his guiding hand, our house had thrived and grown strong. Most of the stone buildings here had been constructed during the fifteen years of his Abbacy and I knew well that he had our best interests at heart. His first thoughts would be always for our house and our Cistercian Order, but it pained me to think that the man in my care might have survived years of privations and battle in far off lands, only to end as nothing but an inconvenient body, quickly buried and best forgotten.
Looking down on that face, which I was sure would be resolute and uncompromising when wakened and healed, I swore a silent oath that he should not die and lie, nameless and unmourned, in our small cemetery beneath the yew trees – not if I could help it.
Bernard returned and had brought me a little bread and fruit, but I was not hungry and asked him to put it aside for later. He offered to tend the patient for me, but I told him I would continue and sent him to gather firewood and draw more water from the well. This man was in my care and I would see it through myself. Thankfully we had none of the brothers in the infirmary at present, so I would be able to give him all my attention.
The fever continued to rise thought the afternoon and the following night, when I sat up with him. We constantly bathed him with cool water and with Bernard’s help, I wrapped him in sheets soaked in cold water. At times he muttered and cried out harshly of fire and blood, seemingly in the thrall of hellish dreams. For three days I refused to leave him, even to sleep and only ate, because Bernard threatened to tell Father Abbot if I did not.
“Brother, your skills are needed here and you are going to be of no use to us if you yourself fall sick.”
On the eve of the fourth day, when I was almost delirious myself and in danger of having visions, the fever broke and his slumber became deep and peaceful. I could have wept with relief and finally relinquished his care to Bernard, rolling onto my own straw pallet and falling into a dreamless sleep of exhaustion.
I woke at first light and sent Bernard off to breakfast, stripping and washing myself and picking up a clean, white habit from the simple clothes chest. As I straightened up, garment in hand, I became aware that I was being watched. I quickly dropped the habit over my head and belted it before I turned and saw that my patient was indeed awake and struggling to sit up.
Smiling with pleasure, I swiftly approached the bed and stood in the pool of light cast by the young sun through the infirmary window. A deep and husky voice greeted me,
“I think you must be an angel, though I never thought to see one. Am I dead, then?”
The Black Knight
My world is now populated by people and lands that look familiar, but I still cannot place. I do not know who I am, but I seem to be a warrior, because I am fighting almost all the time, and I am wearing a knight’s rich clothes, which are smeared with blood. There are so many dead people around me and I try to run and escape, longing for my home, even though I do not know where that is.
Sometimes I am aware of being very ill, fighting a strong fever and I feel cool hands on my heated skin. I try to push those hands away, because I am so tired and in pain and I really want to die. Once or twice I manage to open my eyes and always see the same face, obviously belonging to the man with the cool, soothing hands. He is always there, caring for me, cleaning me up and making me drink horrible things that somehow seem to ease my pain a little. Once I tried to speak, but then I fell back into that bleak world again, filled with dead men, women and even children.
Slowly the turbulent and violent images in my mind seem to ease off and then comes the morning when I open my eyes and feel the fever is gone. Still weak, but refreshed after what seems a long, fitful sleep, I look around me. I am in a sober room without any decorations, but it looks clean and fresh. There is a man in the corner, clad only in a loin cloth, his back turned towards me. His flesh is smooth and unscarred, beautiful really and I know this must be the man who has saved my life. I try to sit up so I can thank him and then he hastily throws a white habit over his head before he turns around and smiles at me. A monk!
“I think you must be an angel, though I never thought to see one. Am I dead, then?” I say, because I know no other way to express my feelings of gratitude. His smile widens until there is not much angelic left to it.
“Oh no,” he answers; “you are very much alive, thank God. I am Brother Peter, how are you feeling?”
“For the moment I think I should be thanking you, Brother Peter. I feel weak, but really well mostly. Please forgive me for not giving you my name, but I seem unable to remember who I am or what I am. I do not know what happened or how I came here.”
The thought is very unsettling and I lean back into the pillows again, wondering what is wrong with me. Brother Peter steps closer and lays a soothing hand on my arm.
“This sometimes happens when a person has been in pain of the body or the spirit. I am certain it will all come back to you in a while, once you are fully recovered. For now we will get you something to eat; you must be hungry.”
I had not realized it, but it is true: I do feel very hungry indeed and as if to prove it, my stomach rumbles. We both laugh and then he props up the pillows so I can sit up.
“After you have eaten something I will wash you and redress your wound. There was an arrow in your back when we found you and it must have been poisoned as it was infecting your flesh and made you delirious. That is what probably caused the fever too.”
“Poisoned? Who would do a thing like that?”
Brother Peter shakes his head and pats my shoulder, “I do not know, but the times are rough and there are bad people about. Perhaps in a few days you will remember what happened. We will try and talk together a lot; that might bring memories back.”
He leaves the room to get me something to eat and I sink back in the pillows, racking my brain for reference to who I am. All that surfaces are short flashes, mostly the face of a young man, and I can now remember seeing him die, just before that arrow hit me. He must have been a close friend, so I should mourn him I suppose, but that is difficult when I cannot remember who I am, let alone him. There are also some disturbing images of people being slain, crimson blood flowing over sand, but I am not certain if I really saw that happen or it is just the remains of the feverish dreams I had.
Brother Peter returns with a tray he places on a table near the bed. There is freshly baked bread which smells delicious, fresh fruit, goat’s cheese and a large goblet with spiced mead. I eat with appetite while Brother Peter sits on a chair next to the bed and watches approvingly.
When I have finished eating, two brothers bring in a bowl of warm water and a bundle of linen. I allow my monk to take off the shirt I am wearing and then take off the bandage that is wrapped around my chest and back. It still hurts, but there is no more burning and Brother Peter’s touch is soft. He washes me and then dresses my wound while I try to sit still. Afterwards I feel exhausted and he helps me to lie down again and tells me to get some more sleep.
He moves to leave the room, but then stops at the door. “I would wish to give you a name, just for the while. Would you mind?”
I smile at him. “No, not at all. What would you call me?”
“I have given it a thought and Richard seems fitting.”
“Good; so Richard it is.”
“Or Sir Richard, if you prefer.”
“Richard will serve. Thank you, Brother Peter.”
“Peter,” he says and then he steps out of the room.
“Peter,” I say to the empty room, and then I doze off again.
Brother Peter
I experienced a surge of joy, when my charge awoke and spoke to me, such as I had not felt these seven years, since I had first taken my vows. Many sick and wounded people had passed through my hands, first as assistant and then as infirmarian, after my old mentor, venerable Brother Thomas, had died five years past.
Something about this man had touched me more than any others in my charge and his smile warmed my heart.
I told him my name and he thanked me with grace, but seemed confused and dismayed that he could not remember his own. Many times, had I seen such loss of memory in those, who had suffered an injury or loss and I tried to reassure him, promising that I would talk with him often to try and help him remember. If I was honest, spending time with him would be no hardship at all and I prayed that my duties would allow it.
The news that he had been struck by a poisoned arrow seemed to shock him badly, but I was encouraged by the fact that he set to and ate with a good appetite, having had nothing pass his lips for days, except the water and herbal brew I could get down him and the odd spoonful of chicken broth.
After he had eaten, I washed him and redressed his wound, clothing him in a clean linen shirt and bringing him a pot to piss. The exertion exhausted him again and I advised him to sleep, which is the best healer of all.
I needed to give him a name, since he had none and I asked if he would mind my calling him ‘Richard’. This noble name was not only the name of our absentee and lately deceased king, but also of the two founders of this house, Richard de Busli, lord of Maltby, and Richard FitzTurgis, lord of Hooten.
He seemed pleased and I left him to sleep in peace, while I attended Tierce, the mid morning prayers, after which the brothers would begin their daily labours.
All brothers under orders are required to attend the liturgy in the chapel and designated meals in the refectory, while the lay brothers are expected to attend mass and vespers only, eat in their own refectory and sleep in their own dormitory. When I have the critically sick in my care, I am excused from attending chapel and can have meals brought to me, but now I judged that my charge, Richard, could safely be left for a short time.
After prayers, Abbot Osmund approached me in the cloisters.
“It is good to see you out of your infirmary, my son. I trust that this means that your charge is out of danger, by the grace of God?”
“Indeed, Father. This morning he awoke fully and partook of a light meal. He is sleeping again now.”
“So now we know his identity?”
“Alas, we do not. He has no memory of who he is or from whence he came, nor whither he was bound. I hope that with the coming days, he will recover it. I have named him ‘Richard’ after our illustrious founders.”
“Very fitting,” he nodded in approval. “Now return to your duties and I may look in upon our guest later, when I have finished going over the accounts with the cellarer.”
Thus dismissed, I returned to the infirmary, where Bernard was mopping the floors and Richard was still sleeping. I reviewed my stock of herbs and made a list of those I needed to replenish on a scrap of old vellum, much used and erased. I raised my head when my patient awoke with a start, croaking out a name, which sounded like “Alban”, or “Albin”.
I seized a ladle of cool water form the pitcher and hurried to his side, putting my arm around his shoulders to raise him up. He greedily drank the water and subsided on the feather pillows with a sighed,”Thanks”.
“Richard, you spoke a name just then. You said ‘Alban’ or perhaps ‘Albin’. Who is that?”
He shook his head sadly,
“In truth I know not, but the name puts me in a melancholy humour. Whoever he is, I fear that he is dead.”
“Rest awhile, my friend. Can I bring you aught?”
“Nay, unless you can still my troubled mind.”
“I have a good valerian and lemon balm infusion, which will serve to calm you. Lie still and I will fetch it.”
It seemed to calm him and he slept again, until the Abbot visited after the midday meal and our voices, although low, roused him.”
Osmund moved to Richard’s side to speak with him and I stood back at a respectful distance, while he questioned him gently, gleaning no more information than I had.
Rising from the bedside, Osmund indicated that we should move away and speak,
“’Tis clear that he has no memory, but also clear that somebody hunted him and wanted to kill him. He must have had companions, for a knight would not travel without a retinue. What has become of them? I fear that there may be those seeking him, who may find their way here with ill intent. I shall order the horse to be hidden at a neighbouring farm and it would be prudent if our guest were to remain here for now, even when recovered enough to leave the infirmary.”
He took his leave and I returned to Richard, who seemed relieved and comforted to see me, gripping my hand as I sat down beside him,
“I can see that your Father Abbot is fearful. Whoever I may be, my presence here endangers you, your brothers and this house. Pray tell me the name of this place.”
“Roche Abbey.”
He started up, excited and his fingers tightened on my hand,
“I know that name, perhaps my home is not far from here,” and then his face fell,”……..but alas, ‘tis to no avail. I cannot remember.”
Summary: A knight gets wounded badly, a monk saves him from sure death.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: CommunionChapters: 6 Completed: Yes
Word count: 31114 Read: 6815
Published: 19 Aug 2009 Updated: 19 Aug 2009