"Vale of Tears" - A Medieval Erotic Tale - Chapter One: The Night Stair
'I turned back to the abbey and saw an incubus approach. I lived amongst monks, was one myself, yet this brother in his unearthly white habit seemed foreign and frightening to me. Relentlessly he came, marching more like a soldier than processing as a monk ought. Once within ten yards, he threw back his cowl and I saw ‘twas, as I had known it must be, Brother Rufus. His mouth was trenchant, his eyes huge and swallowing. There was to be no denying him. Yet still I harked myself softly cry as he grabbed mine arms and forced me back into the bracken, “O my brother, ‘ware, ‘ware!”'
Brother Gregory thinks he can escape his "abominable persuasion" by giving up his body and life to the service of the monks of Valle Crucis Abbey. Then his merry kindred-spirit, Brother Rufus, joins the Order and all is changed. A visiting bard sings of love without judgement. The monks' punishments take on an erotic tone. And King Henry has set his sights on the destruction of the monks' way of life altogether.
Please note: The only time I regretted writing in the first person was when I realised I would have to keep up the "olde Englishe" throughout the narrative! I'm no great linguist so if you spot inconsistencies in my "thee"s and "thou"s, feel free to put me right. Writing this has been a labour of love, and the fruit of my obsession with ruined abbeys and the ancient monastic life of Britain. I do hope you enjoy it - comments are always welcome.
Vale of Tears
Chapter One - The Night Stair
A flame trembled on the night stair. My candle - ‘twas nigh worn to a stub and at first I did believe ‘twas this fact that made it tremble. Then I saw my hand was shaking. I was about to break my vow of silence and speak with a fellow monk - a vow we Cistercians of Valle Crucis Abbey took wondrous serious, priding ourselves on our austerity. Yea, ‘twas the prospect of the shattering of this vow that made my hand tremble. Understand - ‘tis what I told myself at the time.
‘Twas not amongst my duties to ensure all monks returned to the dormitory after the night office of Nocturns but it seemed only I had witnessed Brother Rufus shaking in the choir, his jaws fore’er grinding on a peppercorn, the sharp taste of which would keep him from fainting during mass. He was sickening for something. He should be in th’infirmary, thought I, where a fire staved off the eventide chill of spring. Howe’er, I had come to know Brother Rufus well since he completed his novitiate some weeks ago and this happy-go-lucky young fellow would always be the last to complain.
The soft padding of bare feet on the night stair. I tensed, unsure ‘twas he. Then a muffled cough revealed the oncomer’s nature. A moment later, Brother Rufus’ freshly-tonsured head hove into view ‘neath me. The shaving had done naught to temper the wild shagginess of his remaining chestnut hair. His broad face tilted upward and he blinked, startled by the candlelight. Knowing neither of us should speak, we stared all the more. I found myself marvelling at the way the red tinge in his hair was echoed in his brown eyes, lending them a rare warmth. This night, howe’er, there was red in the rims of his eyes also and his skin looked unearthly pale. He smiled ruefully, aware I had noted his malady. He placed a hand on the stone wall and made to haul his failing frame up the stairs. I dashed down to hook an arm ‘neath his.
“Brother Gregory,” he whispered in his soft Welsh voice, “thou shouldst not trouble thyself.”
“’Tis no matter. I serve those who are in the service of God. Thou canst do little in that vein if the flesh is weak.” I spoke with concerned authority. Although Brother Rufus was my elder by several years, I had been monk for longer and therefore was considered his senior. “Thou shouldst take thyself to th’infirmary tomorrow.”
“Where Brother Jocelyn will bleed me.” He rolled his eyes. He held the opinion that seyney did more harm than good and ‘twas not his only controversial opinion.
“Mayhap they will allow thee a little meat,” I tried.
Brother Rufus chuckled. Whatever ‘twas that ailed him, it had not chained his spirit. “And then I shall be shaven to purify me of that sin and how will I keep the Llantysilio cold from slapping my cheeks?” He had the beginnings of a fine red beard.
“I shall keep thee warm,” I harked myself say. Then I embraced him and laid my cheek ‘gainst his.
Poor, suffering man that he was, he had not the strength to push me away and he submitted to my caress. He burned like a hot coal in my arms.
‘Twas cold and one of us was sick but perchance they were not the only reasons wherefore these twin flames trembled on the night stair.
_______________________________________________________________________
Wherefore on this night of all nights did our collective sin choose to manifest?
I had just led my brother to his bunk at th’other end of the dormitory to mine. The roundsman made a judicious appearance, holding up a lantern so Brother Rufus could see to climb back into his bunk. I pointed to my sick brother and made the sign for infirmary to the roundsman monk, who nodded his understanding. I slipped into mine own bunk, glad the roundsman had not been so thorough in his nightly inspection that he had chanced ‘pon two monks in illicit communication. His lantern creaked as it swung, its source of light moving like a willow-the-wisp as he walked along the aisle and suddenly, there was darkness. Brother William, least vigilant of all roundsmen, had wandered from the arena of his duty yet again.
Though ‘twas yet late in the month of March, I found I was quite warm in my habit ‘neath my woollen blanket. And mayhap ‘twas this unusual warmth that encouraged such languorousness and the activities that followed.
One by one, my brothers slid their hands ‘neath their habits to touch themselves. As always, it began with the sound of breathing growing heavier and heavier. Then the ear became attuned to the fainter sound of the repeated rasping of cloth. Perfidious coughs and yawns disguised the luxurious whimpers of monks engaged in the wicked act of onanism. There was a full moon and though it did not intrude through the dormitory window, it made the nightclouds brilliant. By their illumination, I made out the silhouette of more than one fist rising and falling ‘neath the blankets.
We ne’er spake of these nights. They were ne’er brought up at daily Chapter when we were expected to confess our sins and we were ne’er punished for them. That made it all the worse for me. Rather than feeling we had escaped judgement, I felt sin mounting ‘pon sin, and each occasion was a further descent into damnation. As mine own fingers crept onto my rod, I felt it at once glow like a brand, a sure sign ‘twas an instrument of the Devil. Ne’ertheless, I grasped it and began to move my hand. I could not be so bold as some of my brethren, howe’er, and I turned to my side, pulling my blanket o’er the lower half of my face so the most gross of movements were hidden. Still, I delighted in the sensation in my nether regions as I pulled and pulled, floating on stifled sounds of ecstasy, feeling that wicked broth gather. Some reached their terrible conclusion quickly, beds creaking as spasms shook them. At times, it made me feel I was not alone in being wracked by temptation and that brought forth a strangely pure joy that ran alongside the wilful sinfulness. A feeling of an e’en deeper kinship. Perchance ‘twas not sin after all! Then I saw through the eyes of th’ other monks and I knew the images that processed through their minds were of buxom wenches, trembling maids - perchance they imagined Matilde, the young washerwoman, in flagrante delicto. And I was sure I was the only one who imagined my fellow monks naked and writhing ‘gainst mine own thin frame. The only one who dreamed our blankets and habits were invisible, and each could see the swollen rod and pumping hips of th’others. ‘Twas still mine only cross to bear.
Flushed with shame, I rolled over, gritted my teeth and wrenched my habit up to my chest so as not to pollute it with the liquid sin that poured out of me and dripped onto my belly. I know not how my brothers disposed of their evidence but I did as I always had done, scooping up the tepid seed and licking my fingers - a final horrid act that gave me no pleasure at all.
A few monks still busied themselves with their members. Make haste, thought I as I rolled back onto my side. Mine ears had had four years to attune themselves to the faint sound of naked feet slapping on stone. The roundsman was returning and catching e’en a glimpse of bare flesh and reporting it was a part of his duty.
I had hoped that ridding myself of this serpent of need would exorcise all thought of Brother Rufus and allow me the peace to sleep but it did not. For another hour yet, I lay awake, dreaming the brown-haired monk had climbed into my bunk and our naked bodies were entwined.
At Chapter the next day, Abbot Francis’ brow furrowed as not the slightest transgression by a single monk was raised. Confronted by fourteen blandly smiling faces, he knew something was afoot but this kindly man only shook his head in exasperation and dismissed us.
Brother Gregory thinks he can escape his "abominable persuasion" by giving up his body and life to the service of the monks of Valle Crucis Abbey. Then his merry kindred-spirit, Brother Rufus, joins the Order and all is changed. A visiting bard sings of love without judgement. The monks' punishments take on an erotic tone. And King Henry has set his sights on the destruction of the monks' way of life altogether.
Please note: The only time I regretted writing in the first person was when I realised I would have to keep up the "olde Englishe" throughout the narrative! I'm no great linguist so if you spot inconsistencies in my "thee"s and "thou"s, feel free to put me right. Writing this has been a labour of love, and the fruit of my obsession with ruined abbeys and the ancient monastic life of Britain. I do hope you enjoy it - comments are always welcome.
Vale of Tears
Chapter One - The Night Stair
A flame trembled on the night stair. My candle - ‘twas nigh worn to a stub and at first I did believe ‘twas this fact that made it tremble. Then I saw my hand was shaking. I was about to break my vow of silence and speak with a fellow monk - a vow we Cistercians of Valle Crucis Abbey took wondrous serious, priding ourselves on our austerity. Yea, ‘twas the prospect of the shattering of this vow that made my hand tremble. Understand - ‘tis what I told myself at the time.
‘Twas not amongst my duties to ensure all monks returned to the dormitory after the night office of Nocturns but it seemed only I had witnessed Brother Rufus shaking in the choir, his jaws fore’er grinding on a peppercorn, the sharp taste of which would keep him from fainting during mass. He was sickening for something. He should be in th’infirmary, thought I, where a fire staved off the eventide chill of spring. Howe’er, I had come to know Brother Rufus well since he completed his novitiate some weeks ago and this happy-go-lucky young fellow would always be the last to complain.
The soft padding of bare feet on the night stair. I tensed, unsure ‘twas he. Then a muffled cough revealed the oncomer’s nature. A moment later, Brother Rufus’ freshly-tonsured head hove into view ‘neath me. The shaving had done naught to temper the wild shagginess of his remaining chestnut hair. His broad face tilted upward and he blinked, startled by the candlelight. Knowing neither of us should speak, we stared all the more. I found myself marvelling at the way the red tinge in his hair was echoed in his brown eyes, lending them a rare warmth. This night, howe’er, there was red in the rims of his eyes also and his skin looked unearthly pale. He smiled ruefully, aware I had noted his malady. He placed a hand on the stone wall and made to haul his failing frame up the stairs. I dashed down to hook an arm ‘neath his.
“Brother Gregory,” he whispered in his soft Welsh voice, “thou shouldst not trouble thyself.”
“’Tis no matter. I serve those who are in the service of God. Thou canst do little in that vein if the flesh is weak.” I spoke with concerned authority. Although Brother Rufus was my elder by several years, I had been monk for longer and therefore was considered his senior. “Thou shouldst take thyself to th’infirmary tomorrow.”
“Where Brother Jocelyn will bleed me.” He rolled his eyes. He held the opinion that seyney did more harm than good and ‘twas not his only controversial opinion.
“Mayhap they will allow thee a little meat,” I tried.
Brother Rufus chuckled. Whatever ‘twas that ailed him, it had not chained his spirit. “And then I shall be shaven to purify me of that sin and how will I keep the Llantysilio cold from slapping my cheeks?” He had the beginnings of a fine red beard.
“I shall keep thee warm,” I harked myself say. Then I embraced him and laid my cheek ‘gainst his.
Poor, suffering man that he was, he had not the strength to push me away and he submitted to my caress. He burned like a hot coal in my arms.
‘Twas cold and one of us was sick but perchance they were not the only reasons wherefore these twin flames trembled on the night stair.
_______________________________________________________________________
Wherefore on this night of all nights did our collective sin choose to manifest?
I had just led my brother to his bunk at th’other end of the dormitory to mine. The roundsman made a judicious appearance, holding up a lantern so Brother Rufus could see to climb back into his bunk. I pointed to my sick brother and made the sign for infirmary to the roundsman monk, who nodded his understanding. I slipped into mine own bunk, glad the roundsman had not been so thorough in his nightly inspection that he had chanced ‘pon two monks in illicit communication. His lantern creaked as it swung, its source of light moving like a willow-the-wisp as he walked along the aisle and suddenly, there was darkness. Brother William, least vigilant of all roundsmen, had wandered from the arena of his duty yet again.
Though ‘twas yet late in the month of March, I found I was quite warm in my habit ‘neath my woollen blanket. And mayhap ‘twas this unusual warmth that encouraged such languorousness and the activities that followed.
One by one, my brothers slid their hands ‘neath their habits to touch themselves. As always, it began with the sound of breathing growing heavier and heavier. Then the ear became attuned to the fainter sound of the repeated rasping of cloth. Perfidious coughs and yawns disguised the luxurious whimpers of monks engaged in the wicked act of onanism. There was a full moon and though it did not intrude through the dormitory window, it made the nightclouds brilliant. By their illumination, I made out the silhouette of more than one fist rising and falling ‘neath the blankets.
We ne’er spake of these nights. They were ne’er brought up at daily Chapter when we were expected to confess our sins and we were ne’er punished for them. That made it all the worse for me. Rather than feeling we had escaped judgement, I felt sin mounting ‘pon sin, and each occasion was a further descent into damnation. As mine own fingers crept onto my rod, I felt it at once glow like a brand, a sure sign ‘twas an instrument of the Devil. Ne’ertheless, I grasped it and began to move my hand. I could not be so bold as some of my brethren, howe’er, and I turned to my side, pulling my blanket o’er the lower half of my face so the most gross of movements were hidden. Still, I delighted in the sensation in my nether regions as I pulled and pulled, floating on stifled sounds of ecstasy, feeling that wicked broth gather. Some reached their terrible conclusion quickly, beds creaking as spasms shook them. At times, it made me feel I was not alone in being wracked by temptation and that brought forth a strangely pure joy that ran alongside the wilful sinfulness. A feeling of an e’en deeper kinship. Perchance ‘twas not sin after all! Then I saw through the eyes of th’ other monks and I knew the images that processed through their minds were of buxom wenches, trembling maids - perchance they imagined Matilde, the young washerwoman, in flagrante delicto. And I was sure I was the only one who imagined my fellow monks naked and writhing ‘gainst mine own thin frame. The only one who dreamed our blankets and habits were invisible, and each could see the swollen rod and pumping hips of th’others. ‘Twas still mine only cross to bear.
Flushed with shame, I rolled over, gritted my teeth and wrenched my habit up to my chest so as not to pollute it with the liquid sin that poured out of me and dripped onto my belly. I know not how my brothers disposed of their evidence but I did as I always had done, scooping up the tepid seed and licking my fingers - a final horrid act that gave me no pleasure at all.
A few monks still busied themselves with their members. Make haste, thought I as I rolled back onto my side. Mine ears had had four years to attune themselves to the faint sound of naked feet slapping on stone. The roundsman was returning and catching e’en a glimpse of bare flesh and reporting it was a part of his duty.
I had hoped that ridding myself of this serpent of need would exorcise all thought of Brother Rufus and allow me the peace to sleep but it did not. For another hour yet, I lay awake, dreaming the brown-haired monk had climbed into my bunk and our naked bodies were entwined.
At Chapter the next day, Abbot Francis’ brow furrowed as not the slightest transgression by a single monk was raised. Confronted by fourteen blandly smiling faces, he knew something was afoot but this kindly man only shook his head in exasperation and dismissed us.