"Vale of Tears" - A Medieval Erotic Tale - Chapter Two: Stained
'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 Two - Stained
‘Twas days like these that reminded me wherefore I became a monk. I stepped into the cloister and my heart swelled as I found it filled with glorious morning light. The central lawn benefited from the contrast with the white stone of the arcade and was the greenest, greenest thing I e’er had seen. The columns of the cloister were like ivory gilded with sunlight. All along the south-facing corridor, monks sate at lecterns, absorbed in their work. But not dutifully - not today. Today was the Feast of St Joseph and we could indulge in whatsoe’er constructive pastime took our fancy. We might e’en be permitted to talk a little, pair off with a particular friend and walk by the fishpond, e’en venture into the hills and woods although a visit to the taverns of Llangollen would, perchance, not be looked on so kindly! Where monks habitually sate to copy or read from manuscripts, I saw them now painting and carving for art’s sake alone. One had fetched in a daffodil from the garden and was rendering it in ink with his scratchy quill. Young Brother Aidan was being taught to make felt by Brother Thomas. At mine approach, he looked up and smiled. He made as if to rise and accost me - a commonplace action on his part. I smiled and nodded, and moved hastily on.
Brother Aidan always filled me with concern. He was a fourteen year old boy, small and slender with white blond hair and carefree eyes the colour of a fair sky. He had, perchance, the most beautiful face I e’er had seen. He was, howe’er, an oblate. The practice of donating a younger son to a monastery had not been common for centuries and was, in this year of 1537, formally prohibited by the Cistercian order. Howe’er, allowances were sometimes made, especially when money or land was offered in return for the oblation. Brother Aidan was, according to our records, sixteen and as he was no troublemaker (as unwilling oblates had sometimes been) and had a fine soprano voice, we turned a blind eye. But whene’er I saw him, sweet-faced and oblivious to the wrong his parents had done him, I felt guilty in their place. ‘Twould not be till he reached twenty years or so that bitterness would set in, as well I knew. His bunk lay next to mine in the dormitory and from time to time, I had glimpsed his face on those sinful nights of ours, his terrified eyes staring into the darkness. He was too young to understand. No - Brother Aidan could be no dear friend of mine. I felt shame enow.
I found myself a spare lectern and set the love of my life ‘pon it where a sunbeam arrowed directly down like the finger of God Almighty and illuminated its blessèd pages. My great love was to read and to write. The book I had been given to study this year was Gregory Tours’ “The Lives of the Fathers” and ‘twas ne’er duty, only joy for me to read from its pages. ‘Twas mine element - the written word. Nigh on ev’ry day, I sate there reading aloud from or copying this wondrous book. I would lose myself in the lives of others for although I was not permitted to share my feelings and ideas with my fellow monks, the saints of history moved me through the medium of this book.
My position within the monastery was not that of illuminator - I had no great flair for art. Neither was it that of rubricator, adding colour and design to title pages or initial letters. I was a scribe. I could read, speak and write Latin, and there was many a moment I thought it must be fate I had ended up here as I do not hail from a wealthy family as do most of my brethren. ‘Twas my mother, of all people, who had instructed me, though how she had acquired literacy I am not certain. I remember tales as I was growing up on our farm in Nottinghamshire that her first sweetheart had joined the ministry so perchance that is the explanation. ‘Twas in order to immerse myself in the written word and to escape a life of drudgery on the farm that I walked into Wales and offered myself as a novice at Valle Crucis Abbey at the age of eighteen. If I had not been able to read, I would not have been permitted to become a choir monk but would have become a lay brother instead. I would not have worn the habit and my days would have been taken up with physical labour alone, though I would have lived at the abbey still, kept apart from the lives of the true monks.
I am glad of my decision, and as the years have passed and my abominable persuasion has become clear to me, I realise I could not have led a happy life in the secular world.
I bowed to my work. E’en the creaking of the cloister door as it opened did not distract me. ‘Twas only when the rare sound of monks’ voices reached mine ears that I looked up to see our infirmarian, Brother Jocelyn, leading a recovered Brother Rufus into the cloister.
Brother Rufus was popular. His merry face demanded a smile in return and only those with ill-will festering in their hearts, like Prior Stephen, could resist him. Mine own heart lurched when I beheld him, so relieved was I his malady had not been serious. It had taken much of the ruddy colour from his cheeks, howe’er, and left him like a thing of alabaster, so striking in a man of brown hair and brown eyes.
“Good morrow, Brother Rufus!” croaked many an unused voice as he was guided to a seat and lectern directly afore mine. He seemed happy to be there and promptly set out his tools the way he did prefer.
I knew I must not stare and wrested my gaze from the contemplation of the back of his strong neck to the lines afore me. ‘Twas some time afore I realised I was not reading them. Mine eyes were unfocused and I was engaged in a quest to smell him. O Saints preserve me! thought I.
“Greetings.”
My head jerked up. Brother Rufus had twisted in his seat and his great owlish face looked into mine.
“Greetings,” I answered as if ‘twere a response in church.
“I am making stained glass. Wouldst thou care to look ‘pon what I have so far completed?”
I leant forward, attempting to peer o’er his shoulder.
He grinned and patted the bench beside him.
Monks do not care to argue when they have been granted the privilege of conversation so I rose at his command and set myself on the bench at his side. There was naught but an inch or so of febrile air ‘twixt our two bodies.
He lifted the Tudor rose up to the light. I was surprised that it wobbled in its leaded frame but ‘twas a thing of many segments after all. The five red petals sang out the strongest alongside the ultramarine of the sky beyond it. Five green sepals peeked out from ‘twixt the petals - a pretty colour but nothing as vivid as the blue and the red. Brother Rufus held it up to his face and looked at me through the golden heart at the centre of the bloom. Suddenly, he laughed. I started and I was not the only one - laughter was an uncommon sound in the abbey and its joyfulness seemed a little sacrilegious. “Thy face!” he said.
“What about my face?” Was there something odd ‘bout this visage of mine? I had not thought on nor seen mine own face for a very long time. Ordinarily, thinking on how pleasing I might look filled me with guilt o’er my vanity yet now, considering I might offend the eye of one so beautiful as Brother Rufus, it made me ashamed.
He shifted his weight from left to right. “Thou art all yellow - now thou art all red - now thou art a little yellow, red and green!” The godly light that had bathed my back now passed through this square of stained glass and fell ‘pon my skin. No doubt it lent my pale face a more thrilling hue. Ne’ertheless, his playful contemplation of me, so much like that of an innocent child, disconcerted me. I drew his attention elsewhere.
“Pray tell, how didst thou acquire this skill?”
He placed the Tudor rose back on the lectern alongside his engraving tools. “’Twas my father’s profession. He has made stained glass for many monasteries and great houses in north Wales and beyond. I have always loved the art.”
“Then wherefore didst thou not follow him into his profession? Wherefore didst thou become a monk?”
He looked at me in that frank manner of his, ne’er sideways, ne’er coy. “I loved the art, the designs, the colours but I ne’er understood the meaning till I saw them in the windows of Gloucester Cathedral, the light striking down like a rainbow become a sword, the apostles, the saints, the musician angels all wrapped in that blue, that impossible blue…” His ecstatic voice trailed away. “I knew I must spend the rest of my life celebrating such beauty.”
Reader, I was shocked. His reason for taking up the habit seemed not only impious but veritably heathen. This was not the approach of the white monks. “Then wherefore didst thou not join a Benedictine monastery where such ostentation is commonplace?”
“Yea, wherefore, Brother Rufus Vaughan?” echoed a voice behind us, making us start. Prior Stephen had crept up and was staring down at stained glass and monk, flared nostrils making his distaste evident. He was second only to Abbot Francis in seniority within the abbey but his disposition was entirely different. Sourness had withered him. The greyness at his temples and the lines in his face lent him less character than grimness, and with his wide mouth and protruberant eyes, he resembled a handsome squashed frog, if one can imagine such a thing.
Brother Rufus looked up at him unabashed. “My father wished me to remain in Wales close to my home.”
Prior Stephen cocked his head. “And what hold ought the familial world have on a monk of the Cistercian order? Naught. Thou shalt not see thy family again ‘cept it be in direst need.” He shifted his gaze to Brother Rufus’ artwork. “Yon colours are carnal,” he spat. “They have no place in a house of God.”
“’Tis not intended for a house of God,” said Brother Rufus. “The commission comes from the Royal Court.”
“I should imagine,” I interjected, “our King Harry would be flattered indeed to be presented with a rendering of a red rose.”
He looked at me sharply. I am a tall man - e’en so, I have that ability to pass unnoticed as I am modest and discreet in my manners. ‘Twas as if Prior Stephen had seen me for the very first time. Pond-green eyes wandered o’er my frame then searched my face. He looked ‘cross at Brother Rufus then back to me as if to divine what connexion had us united ‘gainst him. I shivered at his cold attention and grew afraid.
“Thy King Harry…” he said darkly but dared not finish his treasonous sentence. His mouth snapped shut, he turned crisply and he walked away.
Concerned mine impudence had drawn attention to our growing bond, I jumped to my feet and made to return to mine own lectern. Afore I left, howe’er, I reached down and tapped the Tudor rose a little awkwardly, like someone petting an unfamiliar beast. “Thy work shall be honoured someday,” I offered, “though mayhap not within these walls.”
Crestfallen doth not e’en commence description of the hurt in Brother Rufus’ visage. His eyes began to travel toward mine but stopped at my throat and dropped again. “I thought not,” he said quietly and we both returned to our work.
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 Two - Stained
‘Twas days like these that reminded me wherefore I became a monk. I stepped into the cloister and my heart swelled as I found it filled with glorious morning light. The central lawn benefited from the contrast with the white stone of the arcade and was the greenest, greenest thing I e’er had seen. The columns of the cloister were like ivory gilded with sunlight. All along the south-facing corridor, monks sate at lecterns, absorbed in their work. But not dutifully - not today. Today was the Feast of St Joseph and we could indulge in whatsoe’er constructive pastime took our fancy. We might e’en be permitted to talk a little, pair off with a particular friend and walk by the fishpond, e’en venture into the hills and woods although a visit to the taverns of Llangollen would, perchance, not be looked on so kindly! Where monks habitually sate to copy or read from manuscripts, I saw them now painting and carving for art’s sake alone. One had fetched in a daffodil from the garden and was rendering it in ink with his scratchy quill. Young Brother Aidan was being taught to make felt by Brother Thomas. At mine approach, he looked up and smiled. He made as if to rise and accost me - a commonplace action on his part. I smiled and nodded, and moved hastily on.
Brother Aidan always filled me with concern. He was a fourteen year old boy, small and slender with white blond hair and carefree eyes the colour of a fair sky. He had, perchance, the most beautiful face I e’er had seen. He was, howe’er, an oblate. The practice of donating a younger son to a monastery had not been common for centuries and was, in this year of 1537, formally prohibited by the Cistercian order. Howe’er, allowances were sometimes made, especially when money or land was offered in return for the oblation. Brother Aidan was, according to our records, sixteen and as he was no troublemaker (as unwilling oblates had sometimes been) and had a fine soprano voice, we turned a blind eye. But whene’er I saw him, sweet-faced and oblivious to the wrong his parents had done him, I felt guilty in their place. ‘Twould not be till he reached twenty years or so that bitterness would set in, as well I knew. His bunk lay next to mine in the dormitory and from time to time, I had glimpsed his face on those sinful nights of ours, his terrified eyes staring into the darkness. He was too young to understand. No - Brother Aidan could be no dear friend of mine. I felt shame enow.
I found myself a spare lectern and set the love of my life ‘pon it where a sunbeam arrowed directly down like the finger of God Almighty and illuminated its blessèd pages. My great love was to read and to write. The book I had been given to study this year was Gregory Tours’ “The Lives of the Fathers” and ‘twas ne’er duty, only joy for me to read from its pages. ‘Twas mine element - the written word. Nigh on ev’ry day, I sate there reading aloud from or copying this wondrous book. I would lose myself in the lives of others for although I was not permitted to share my feelings and ideas with my fellow monks, the saints of history moved me through the medium of this book.
My position within the monastery was not that of illuminator - I had no great flair for art. Neither was it that of rubricator, adding colour and design to title pages or initial letters. I was a scribe. I could read, speak and write Latin, and there was many a moment I thought it must be fate I had ended up here as I do not hail from a wealthy family as do most of my brethren. ‘Twas my mother, of all people, who had instructed me, though how she had acquired literacy I am not certain. I remember tales as I was growing up on our farm in Nottinghamshire that her first sweetheart had joined the ministry so perchance that is the explanation. ‘Twas in order to immerse myself in the written word and to escape a life of drudgery on the farm that I walked into Wales and offered myself as a novice at Valle Crucis Abbey at the age of eighteen. If I had not been able to read, I would not have been permitted to become a choir monk but would have become a lay brother instead. I would not have worn the habit and my days would have been taken up with physical labour alone, though I would have lived at the abbey still, kept apart from the lives of the true monks.
I am glad of my decision, and as the years have passed and my abominable persuasion has become clear to me, I realise I could not have led a happy life in the secular world.
I bowed to my work. E’en the creaking of the cloister door as it opened did not distract me. ‘Twas only when the rare sound of monks’ voices reached mine ears that I looked up to see our infirmarian, Brother Jocelyn, leading a recovered Brother Rufus into the cloister.
Brother Rufus was popular. His merry face demanded a smile in return and only those with ill-will festering in their hearts, like Prior Stephen, could resist him. Mine own heart lurched when I beheld him, so relieved was I his malady had not been serious. It had taken much of the ruddy colour from his cheeks, howe’er, and left him like a thing of alabaster, so striking in a man of brown hair and brown eyes.
“Good morrow, Brother Rufus!” croaked many an unused voice as he was guided to a seat and lectern directly afore mine. He seemed happy to be there and promptly set out his tools the way he did prefer.
I knew I must not stare and wrested my gaze from the contemplation of the back of his strong neck to the lines afore me. ‘Twas some time afore I realised I was not reading them. Mine eyes were unfocused and I was engaged in a quest to smell him. O Saints preserve me! thought I.
“Greetings.”
My head jerked up. Brother Rufus had twisted in his seat and his great owlish face looked into mine.
“Greetings,” I answered as if ‘twere a response in church.
“I am making stained glass. Wouldst thou care to look ‘pon what I have so far completed?”
I leant forward, attempting to peer o’er his shoulder.
He grinned and patted the bench beside him.
Monks do not care to argue when they have been granted the privilege of conversation so I rose at his command and set myself on the bench at his side. There was naught but an inch or so of febrile air ‘twixt our two bodies.
He lifted the Tudor rose up to the light. I was surprised that it wobbled in its leaded frame but ‘twas a thing of many segments after all. The five red petals sang out the strongest alongside the ultramarine of the sky beyond it. Five green sepals peeked out from ‘twixt the petals - a pretty colour but nothing as vivid as the blue and the red. Brother Rufus held it up to his face and looked at me through the golden heart at the centre of the bloom. Suddenly, he laughed. I started and I was not the only one - laughter was an uncommon sound in the abbey and its joyfulness seemed a little sacrilegious. “Thy face!” he said.
“What about my face?” Was there something odd ‘bout this visage of mine? I had not thought on nor seen mine own face for a very long time. Ordinarily, thinking on how pleasing I might look filled me with guilt o’er my vanity yet now, considering I might offend the eye of one so beautiful as Brother Rufus, it made me ashamed.
He shifted his weight from left to right. “Thou art all yellow - now thou art all red - now thou art a little yellow, red and green!” The godly light that had bathed my back now passed through this square of stained glass and fell ‘pon my skin. No doubt it lent my pale face a more thrilling hue. Ne’ertheless, his playful contemplation of me, so much like that of an innocent child, disconcerted me. I drew his attention elsewhere.
“Pray tell, how didst thou acquire this skill?”
He placed the Tudor rose back on the lectern alongside his engraving tools. “’Twas my father’s profession. He has made stained glass for many monasteries and great houses in north Wales and beyond. I have always loved the art.”
“Then wherefore didst thou not follow him into his profession? Wherefore didst thou become a monk?”
He looked at me in that frank manner of his, ne’er sideways, ne’er coy. “I loved the art, the designs, the colours but I ne’er understood the meaning till I saw them in the windows of Gloucester Cathedral, the light striking down like a rainbow become a sword, the apostles, the saints, the musician angels all wrapped in that blue, that impossible blue…” His ecstatic voice trailed away. “I knew I must spend the rest of my life celebrating such beauty.”
Reader, I was shocked. His reason for taking up the habit seemed not only impious but veritably heathen. This was not the approach of the white monks. “Then wherefore didst thou not join a Benedictine monastery where such ostentation is commonplace?”
“Yea, wherefore, Brother Rufus Vaughan?” echoed a voice behind us, making us start. Prior Stephen had crept up and was staring down at stained glass and monk, flared nostrils making his distaste evident. He was second only to Abbot Francis in seniority within the abbey but his disposition was entirely different. Sourness had withered him. The greyness at his temples and the lines in his face lent him less character than grimness, and with his wide mouth and protruberant eyes, he resembled a handsome squashed frog, if one can imagine such a thing.
Brother Rufus looked up at him unabashed. “My father wished me to remain in Wales close to my home.”
Prior Stephen cocked his head. “And what hold ought the familial world have on a monk of the Cistercian order? Naught. Thou shalt not see thy family again ‘cept it be in direst need.” He shifted his gaze to Brother Rufus’ artwork. “Yon colours are carnal,” he spat. “They have no place in a house of God.”
“’Tis not intended for a house of God,” said Brother Rufus. “The commission comes from the Royal Court.”
“I should imagine,” I interjected, “our King Harry would be flattered indeed to be presented with a rendering of a red rose.”
He looked at me sharply. I am a tall man - e’en so, I have that ability to pass unnoticed as I am modest and discreet in my manners. ‘Twas as if Prior Stephen had seen me for the very first time. Pond-green eyes wandered o’er my frame then searched my face. He looked ‘cross at Brother Rufus then back to me as if to divine what connexion had us united ‘gainst him. I shivered at his cold attention and grew afraid.
“Thy King Harry…” he said darkly but dared not finish his treasonous sentence. His mouth snapped shut, he turned crisply and he walked away.
Concerned mine impudence had drawn attention to our growing bond, I jumped to my feet and made to return to mine own lectern. Afore I left, howe’er, I reached down and tapped the Tudor rose a little awkwardly, like someone petting an unfamiliar beast. “Thy work shall be honoured someday,” I offered, “though mayhap not within these walls.”
Crestfallen doth not e’en commence description of the hurt in Brother Rufus’ visage. His eyes began to travel toward mine but stopped at my throat and dropped again. “I thought not,” he said quietly and we both returned to our work.