"Vale of Tears" - A Medieval Erotic Tale - Chapter Five: A Battle 'Twixt Truth and Lies
For previous chapters, please see posts below.
Vale of Tears
Chapter Five: A Battle 'Twixt Truth and Lies
One would have thought I should have struggled to apply myself to my work with my belovèd only feet away but the abbey’s accounts proved so knotty, I could not work at all unless entirely absorbed by the figures.
We were back in the cloister, this time bending to our usual tasks. ‘Twas raining on the lawn, the soft hiss blending with the murmur of my fellow monks as they read aloud. ‘Twas a cool day and we were permitted to wear our sandals if we so wished. I had watched Brother Rufus slide his feet into the leather, wriggling his toes to make them fit and then I had been distracted, thinking on the vow we had made to be the ones to wash each other’s feet come Maundy. I would wash them so languorously, expose as much of his calves as I could yet remain decent in th’eyes around us. I would pour water down them. The hair ‘pon his legs would darken and lie flat ‘gainst his skin, looking thicker and more potent than afore. ‘Twould, that is, if he had much hair ‘pon his legs. I knew not. I had fallen to contemplating what his naked form might be like. I hoped for some hair on the body, ‘though not much - enow to accentuate the features of his chest and belly. He would have good muscles. Brother Rufus was a few inches shorter than I but was, forsooth, more huskily built. I smiled, thinking, O that familiar brawny Welsh stock! Then I cursed myself for applying such bestial terms to one so elevated. When Prior Stephen had slammed th’accounts onto my lectern with the species of anger toward inanimate objects one reserves for when one is at the height of one’s frustration, I was grateful. Begrudgingly, he had shewn me what he had failed t’understand and what work he required of me. Abbot Francis had been gone barely two days yet e’en now, Prior Stephen’s face looked haggard. He was a swart fellow and i’faith required to shave more oft than other monks but that day he looked near a week ahead of us, a grizzled shadow obscuring the lower half of his face.
With a gentle nod, I took the scrolls from him and set to my work. Numbers, columns, dates danced a jig in my mind. My finger described geometric shapes on the page as I sought to keep track of the flow of information. Ev’ry fibre of my being was bent to the task.
Someone laughed.
‘Twas an annoyance. I ignored it and continued to pore over the abbey’s finances.
“Psst.”
I looked up and was surprised to see Brother Rufus, who was seated two lecterns ahead, had turn’d on his bench and he grinned at me openly. Much as my heart pounded whene’er his face looked ‘pon mine, I frowned at him now. ‘Twas no feast day and we were not permitted to communicate, ‘cepting the use of sign language and that only when necessary. ‘Twas not as if he were new to our ways - his novitiate had lasted one year and ample time had been had t’absorb our rules. I dropped my head back to my page, flicking mine eyes to indicate he should do the same.
“Thou art engaged with th’accounts, Brother Gregory, art thou not?” he hissed.
I nodded.
“Hehehehehe!”
I ventured a look of opprobrium though it appeared the arrows from mine eyes of grey only goaded him to further naughtiness. He twisted his face into the most extraordinary grimace.
Brother Aidan, seated directly behind him, yelped at the face he made and turned to look at me, the intended benefactor. Surprise, amusement and bewilderment blended in his innocent features.
“Thou makest such a face when thou hast numbers to wrangle!” Brother Rufus imitated me again, squinting one eye and sticking out his tongue. I laughed like the snort of kine and harked a ripple of soft laughter move through the monks that sate along the western aspect of the cloister. Still, I would not raise my head again for fear I would generate more devilry on his part. Did he care so little for our rules? I must confess, one half of me wished to snatch him up and go whirling into the wild woods while th’other envisioned that coxcomb visage smacked into contrition.
_____________________________________________________________________
I shall write something now that is very wrong indeed. ‘Tis a sin of pride e’en though it be absolute truth. Our Chapter House is the finest in all the land. There - ‘tis done. In no place in Wales or England wouldst thou find a prettier place for brothers to meet day ‘pon day to speak of monastery matters. This chamber of creamy white stone tells of purity without strain whilst the columns remind this monk of fine, straight beeches in a sainted glade rising to a vaulted canopy that shields us from the common world. Light streams in through our south-facing windows and oft I have sate in the path of a buttery sunbeam as Abbot Francis listens patiently to our daily cares and parleys with us on how best to run our beloved Valle Crucis. ‘Tis mundane. ‘Tis delightful. And there ‘tis - the purpose of the life of a monk. The discovery of the delightful and the good in the very ordinary - ev’ry day, in ev’ry moment.
‘Tis also the place in which we are expected to confess our sins.
“From this day forth, thou shalt lie at the door of the choir at the ringing of the bell and suffer thy brethren to step o’er thee as they enter the choir to perform th’Offices. This shall continue till Abbot Francis returns and determines if thy punishment be complete.” Prior Stephen was adamant.
A murmur rose from my brothers and I was relieved t’observe I was not the only monk with shock writ large on his face.
Brother Thomas spake. “Good Prior Stephen, i’faith, Brother Aidan here has confessed to his sin most readily and for such a petty misdemeanour, it doth seem a grave punishment, one ne’er meted out afore by Abbot Francis in my memory.” His memory was a goodly one and long - he was one of the oldest of our group. A giant of a man in his time, he now resembled a thorn tree on a hillside thrashed by so many winds it nigh kisses the ground. He had entered the cloister under the administration of the previous abbot, and numberless priors had he seen come and go.
“Dost thou question mine authority? In the absence of Abbot Francis, I am Christ’s very representative at Valle Crucis.”
“Nay,” said Brother Thomas, who was a deeply pious man. “Only thy judgement.”
The air was filled with the silent sound of brothers cringing and Prior Stephen trembling in his wrath. ‘Twas several hellish moments afore he retorted. “Our Brother Aidan has himself confessed, with no wheedling from me nor any of his brethren, that he succumbed to carnal temptation when he asked for and procured more than his daily portion of salt to flavour his food. Be this not evidence enow?”
Shaking his jowly head and speaking as if to a child, Brother Thomas said, “’Tis not evidence nor truth I speak of but a punishment that is too severe for the crime.”
And then, to my horror, mine adored one spake with a farmboy smirk on his smooth features. “I’faith, the fish was undersalted that day. Brother Aidan merely brought the seasoning up to a level with which we are all more familiar. He cannot have been th’only one who desired it thus altered!” He ended on a laugh, of all things, spreading his hands and addressing our entire group. Once more, we dropped our eyes so the prior could not look into our souls and see this truth.
Prior Stephen’s eyes popped. He began to stalk up and down our line, gesticulating like a mummer. “Sins of the flesh are sins of the flesh, one leads to another, how canst thou be so blind thou sees it not? All of thee were tempted that day and resisted - canst thou not see that this was good? But Brother Aidan succumbed and for that, he must be punished!” He ended his promenade afore the self-same brother. The blond boy was shaking and could not meet his gaze. Prior Stephen glared from ‘neath a sweating brow. Aye, e’en his hair was drenched in this anger-sweat and hung in coils at the nape of his neck. Ganymede met the Gorgon.
“Brothers, forgive me my sin!” whispered Brother Aidan. “I embrace my punishment. ‘Tis a verdict from God himself and I submit to it gladly.”
I knew the prior was right yet I could not but hate the way his presence sullied the felicity of this room, his black smoke presence in this honeyed air.
He straightened, seemed contented by Brother Aidan’s display of obedience. Almost. He turned his back to us and laced his fingers behind him. “Brother Rufus - step forward and confess thy sin.”
My young monk looked blank. “I have no sin to confess, Prior. I did not o'ersalt the fish.”
“Brother Rufus - step forward and confess thy sin,” he repeated, e’en more quietly this time.
“I know not what thou desireth me to say.”
Infinitely gently, Prior Stephen said, “I might remind thee ‘tis considered less of a crime to confess to a serious misdemeanour than ‘tis to hold back on a petty one.” Infinitely sinister.
No, do not do this, I bade Brother Rufus in my mind, do not open thy mouth and tell all!
He turned his head and glanced along the line at me, panic gleaming in his fathomless eyes.
How had Prior Stephen lain bare our secret? A thousand nightghasts passed afore my mind’s eye - a brother with a grudge lurking without the abbot’s lodgings, listening; Matilde crying out in disgust as she washed our linen, flinging the stained articles from her; marry, e’en Abbot Francis’ doves themselves offended by our corruption, flying to Prior Stephen’s shoulder and whispering in his ear -
“Dost thou love merry-making and tomfoolery more than thou lovest the Lord?” Prior Stephen turned back to face us. A feline look had stolen ‘cross his face. “Be the sole purpose of thy claustral life to play the jackanapes and have all thy brethren sunk in carnal laughter with thy gargoyle faces?”
I watched as the burning rose fell from Brother Rufus’ cheeks as he realised Prior Stephen was upbraiding him for his clowning and not his sins ‘gainst nature. Yet fear and uncertainty still lay ‘pon him. His lips pressed one ‘gainst th’other; he gasped like a landed fish. “Nay,” said he, “the truth be that I do love merry-making nigh as much as I do love the Lord.”
Aye, a fool he was. Caught ‘twixt truth and lies, he had reasoned ‘twere better to confess this sin and have done with it. Yet what a sin, to love animal life as much as the Lord!
More than one of our brethren gasped, recoiling from such blasphemy. Prior Stephen raised his arm as if to strike the miscreant then stalled, letting the venom out in hissing tones instead. “Come forth, take off thy habit and lay thyself down afore the cross.” As Brother Rufus stepped into the centre of the room, the Prior went to the book cupboard and removed from it an instrument that most certainly was no book. ‘Twas a bundle of fine rods of hazel or willow, and its purpose was to mortify the flesh.
O Brother Rufus! thought I. Wherefore art thou so much akin to the glass thou lovest? I see through thee, to thy thoughts, the very secrets of thy soul and if perchance I see not, thou tellest me and the whole world! Yet his transparency did not diminish his mystery. Like light on stained glass, it lent him only brilliance.
Brother Rufus pulled off his habit o’er his head and rolled down his tunic to the rope about his waist. His body was as I had imagined it - thick-set and white, gleaming in the pale morning sunlight. His hair was mussed by the removal of his habit and it obscured his tonsure. I yearned to reach out and trace the line on the back of his neck where tousled lock met ivory skin. As he knelt and began to lower himself into a crucifixion pose ‘pon the floor, it occurred to me that I would not have the fortune to see his naked form from the fore and confirm whether hair graced the contours of his chest or no. Regret twinged in my breast.
Devil that I was! Did I wish to see him beaten ‘pon the belly?
Brother Rufus was shaking. There seemed not an inch of his flesh that could remain still. He was like some fronded creature from the submarine world pulled out of its element and quivering in the sand as the foot of alien Man descends to stamp out its life utterly.
Prior Stephen stood directly above him, looking down with contempt.
Tales leapt up at my mind like hungry dogs - told me I should play the knight, snatch up this maiden in peril and bear her to safety. Yet what maiden was there here? Called I this brother monk “maiden”? Called I myself “knight”? I was a fool, a fool!
Agonisingly slowly, the Prior raised his arm for the first strike and when the arc reached its apex, he addressed us all, saying, “Cast down thy eyes and put up thy hoods - this be not for thee to see and wonder on.” We obeyed. Cutting then through th‘o’erwhelming silence came the hiss of the rods through the air, the crack! as they met the skin of Brother Rufus’ poor back and his first involuntary cry of pain. My whole body jerked as if I had been struck myself. Strike number one.
Strike number two (there were to be seven in all, one for each of the deadly sins). Brother Rufus did not cry out this time though what pleasure it gave him to withhold his pain I knew not. We still harked the whimpers deep in his chest as he fought with the language of his betraying flesh.
Strike number three - no cry but now I had an image of him in my mind, the scarlet welts rising in bands ‘cross his back, his perfect skin suffering so honourably, so beautifully.
Strike number four - his scream was brief yet sharp as a knife. There was a pause, a shuffling of feet as Prior Stephen altered his position so his blows would fall diff’rently and not ‘pon, perchance, already broken skin.
Strike number five - the vision now floated afore me and could not be banished. I saw Brother Rufus’ face, his mouth stretched in silent pain, no colour in his eyes but the silver of tears, a sheen of sweat ‘cross his entire body. ‘Neath his buttocks and quivering thighs, his member was filling with blood, pushing ‘gainst the cold flagstones. In sympathy, mine rose, too.
Strike number six - as he suffered in his extremity, I lay on top of him, his passion passing into me through his body heat. We were both naked. My pizzle throbbed as it pushed ‘twixt his thighs. My hands caressed his bloody sides. My tongue swept up the sweat from his shoulders and neck.
Strike number seven - Brother Rufus whimpered as the rods came down; groaned in the aftermath. His cries were nigh drowned by several of his brethren who had broken down alongside him. “Arise, Brother Rufus,” said the Prior in a voice thick with emotion. “Cover thy sinful flesh. Thou shalt join Brother Aidan in his punishment. Now take thyself to th’infirmary.”
Brother Aidan fell to his knees and had to be helped from the room. I briefly saw Brother Rufus’ tortured back, blood and sweat running together, as he drew his tunic and habit o’er it, wincing as he did. Prior Stephen stood panting and staring blankly at the spot where my sweet one had lain. And then I saw mine had not been the only rod to rise - his made a grotesque lump in the front of his habit. I shuddered and stumbled from the room.
‘Twas ‘pon that day I came to understand there is something bestial in men. That I could witness the thrashing of my belovèd, see him at his most vulnerable and desperate, and feel the violent joy of life spring up within me… I must be a low thing indeed.
Vale of Tears
Chapter Five: A Battle 'Twixt Truth and Lies
One would have thought I should have struggled to apply myself to my work with my belovèd only feet away but the abbey’s accounts proved so knotty, I could not work at all unless entirely absorbed by the figures.
We were back in the cloister, this time bending to our usual tasks. ‘Twas raining on the lawn, the soft hiss blending with the murmur of my fellow monks as they read aloud. ‘Twas a cool day and we were permitted to wear our sandals if we so wished. I had watched Brother Rufus slide his feet into the leather, wriggling his toes to make them fit and then I had been distracted, thinking on the vow we had made to be the ones to wash each other’s feet come Maundy. I would wash them so languorously, expose as much of his calves as I could yet remain decent in th’eyes around us. I would pour water down them. The hair ‘pon his legs would darken and lie flat ‘gainst his skin, looking thicker and more potent than afore. ‘Twould, that is, if he had much hair ‘pon his legs. I knew not. I had fallen to contemplating what his naked form might be like. I hoped for some hair on the body, ‘though not much - enow to accentuate the features of his chest and belly. He would have good muscles. Brother Rufus was a few inches shorter than I but was, forsooth, more huskily built. I smiled, thinking, O that familiar brawny Welsh stock! Then I cursed myself for applying such bestial terms to one so elevated. When Prior Stephen had slammed th’accounts onto my lectern with the species of anger toward inanimate objects one reserves for when one is at the height of one’s frustration, I was grateful. Begrudgingly, he had shewn me what he had failed t’understand and what work he required of me. Abbot Francis had been gone barely two days yet e’en now, Prior Stephen’s face looked haggard. He was a swart fellow and i’faith required to shave more oft than other monks but that day he looked near a week ahead of us, a grizzled shadow obscuring the lower half of his face.
With a gentle nod, I took the scrolls from him and set to my work. Numbers, columns, dates danced a jig in my mind. My finger described geometric shapes on the page as I sought to keep track of the flow of information. Ev’ry fibre of my being was bent to the task.
Someone laughed.
‘Twas an annoyance. I ignored it and continued to pore over the abbey’s finances.
“Psst.”
I looked up and was surprised to see Brother Rufus, who was seated two lecterns ahead, had turn’d on his bench and he grinned at me openly. Much as my heart pounded whene’er his face looked ‘pon mine, I frowned at him now. ‘Twas no feast day and we were not permitted to communicate, ‘cepting the use of sign language and that only when necessary. ‘Twas not as if he were new to our ways - his novitiate had lasted one year and ample time had been had t’absorb our rules. I dropped my head back to my page, flicking mine eyes to indicate he should do the same.
“Thou art engaged with th’accounts, Brother Gregory, art thou not?” he hissed.
I nodded.
“Hehehehehe!”
I ventured a look of opprobrium though it appeared the arrows from mine eyes of grey only goaded him to further naughtiness. He twisted his face into the most extraordinary grimace.
Brother Aidan, seated directly behind him, yelped at the face he made and turned to look at me, the intended benefactor. Surprise, amusement and bewilderment blended in his innocent features.
“Thou makest such a face when thou hast numbers to wrangle!” Brother Rufus imitated me again, squinting one eye and sticking out his tongue. I laughed like the snort of kine and harked a ripple of soft laughter move through the monks that sate along the western aspect of the cloister. Still, I would not raise my head again for fear I would generate more devilry on his part. Did he care so little for our rules? I must confess, one half of me wished to snatch him up and go whirling into the wild woods while th’other envisioned that coxcomb visage smacked into contrition.
_____________________________________________________________________
I shall write something now that is very wrong indeed. ‘Tis a sin of pride e’en though it be absolute truth. Our Chapter House is the finest in all the land. There - ‘tis done. In no place in Wales or England wouldst thou find a prettier place for brothers to meet day ‘pon day to speak of monastery matters. This chamber of creamy white stone tells of purity without strain whilst the columns remind this monk of fine, straight beeches in a sainted glade rising to a vaulted canopy that shields us from the common world. Light streams in through our south-facing windows and oft I have sate in the path of a buttery sunbeam as Abbot Francis listens patiently to our daily cares and parleys with us on how best to run our beloved Valle Crucis. ‘Tis mundane. ‘Tis delightful. And there ‘tis - the purpose of the life of a monk. The discovery of the delightful and the good in the very ordinary - ev’ry day, in ev’ry moment.
‘Tis also the place in which we are expected to confess our sins.
“From this day forth, thou shalt lie at the door of the choir at the ringing of the bell and suffer thy brethren to step o’er thee as they enter the choir to perform th’Offices. This shall continue till Abbot Francis returns and determines if thy punishment be complete.” Prior Stephen was adamant.
A murmur rose from my brothers and I was relieved t’observe I was not the only monk with shock writ large on his face.
Brother Thomas spake. “Good Prior Stephen, i’faith, Brother Aidan here has confessed to his sin most readily and for such a petty misdemeanour, it doth seem a grave punishment, one ne’er meted out afore by Abbot Francis in my memory.” His memory was a goodly one and long - he was one of the oldest of our group. A giant of a man in his time, he now resembled a thorn tree on a hillside thrashed by so many winds it nigh kisses the ground. He had entered the cloister under the administration of the previous abbot, and numberless priors had he seen come and go.
“Dost thou question mine authority? In the absence of Abbot Francis, I am Christ’s very representative at Valle Crucis.”
“Nay,” said Brother Thomas, who was a deeply pious man. “Only thy judgement.”
The air was filled with the silent sound of brothers cringing and Prior Stephen trembling in his wrath. ‘Twas several hellish moments afore he retorted. “Our Brother Aidan has himself confessed, with no wheedling from me nor any of his brethren, that he succumbed to carnal temptation when he asked for and procured more than his daily portion of salt to flavour his food. Be this not evidence enow?”
Shaking his jowly head and speaking as if to a child, Brother Thomas said, “’Tis not evidence nor truth I speak of but a punishment that is too severe for the crime.”
And then, to my horror, mine adored one spake with a farmboy smirk on his smooth features. “I’faith, the fish was undersalted that day. Brother Aidan merely brought the seasoning up to a level with which we are all more familiar. He cannot have been th’only one who desired it thus altered!” He ended on a laugh, of all things, spreading his hands and addressing our entire group. Once more, we dropped our eyes so the prior could not look into our souls and see this truth.
Prior Stephen’s eyes popped. He began to stalk up and down our line, gesticulating like a mummer. “Sins of the flesh are sins of the flesh, one leads to another, how canst thou be so blind thou sees it not? All of thee were tempted that day and resisted - canst thou not see that this was good? But Brother Aidan succumbed and for that, he must be punished!” He ended his promenade afore the self-same brother. The blond boy was shaking and could not meet his gaze. Prior Stephen glared from ‘neath a sweating brow. Aye, e’en his hair was drenched in this anger-sweat and hung in coils at the nape of his neck. Ganymede met the Gorgon.
“Brothers, forgive me my sin!” whispered Brother Aidan. “I embrace my punishment. ‘Tis a verdict from God himself and I submit to it gladly.”
I knew the prior was right yet I could not but hate the way his presence sullied the felicity of this room, his black smoke presence in this honeyed air.
He straightened, seemed contented by Brother Aidan’s display of obedience. Almost. He turned his back to us and laced his fingers behind him. “Brother Rufus - step forward and confess thy sin.”
My young monk looked blank. “I have no sin to confess, Prior. I did not o'ersalt the fish.”
“Brother Rufus - step forward and confess thy sin,” he repeated, e’en more quietly this time.
“I know not what thou desireth me to say.”
Infinitely gently, Prior Stephen said, “I might remind thee ‘tis considered less of a crime to confess to a serious misdemeanour than ‘tis to hold back on a petty one.” Infinitely sinister.
No, do not do this, I bade Brother Rufus in my mind, do not open thy mouth and tell all!
He turned his head and glanced along the line at me, panic gleaming in his fathomless eyes.
How had Prior Stephen lain bare our secret? A thousand nightghasts passed afore my mind’s eye - a brother with a grudge lurking without the abbot’s lodgings, listening; Matilde crying out in disgust as she washed our linen, flinging the stained articles from her; marry, e’en Abbot Francis’ doves themselves offended by our corruption, flying to Prior Stephen’s shoulder and whispering in his ear -
“Dost thou love merry-making and tomfoolery more than thou lovest the Lord?” Prior Stephen turned back to face us. A feline look had stolen ‘cross his face. “Be the sole purpose of thy claustral life to play the jackanapes and have all thy brethren sunk in carnal laughter with thy gargoyle faces?”
I watched as the burning rose fell from Brother Rufus’ cheeks as he realised Prior Stephen was upbraiding him for his clowning and not his sins ‘gainst nature. Yet fear and uncertainty still lay ‘pon him. His lips pressed one ‘gainst th’other; he gasped like a landed fish. “Nay,” said he, “the truth be that I do love merry-making nigh as much as I do love the Lord.”
Aye, a fool he was. Caught ‘twixt truth and lies, he had reasoned ‘twere better to confess this sin and have done with it. Yet what a sin, to love animal life as much as the Lord!
More than one of our brethren gasped, recoiling from such blasphemy. Prior Stephen raised his arm as if to strike the miscreant then stalled, letting the venom out in hissing tones instead. “Come forth, take off thy habit and lay thyself down afore the cross.” As Brother Rufus stepped into the centre of the room, the Prior went to the book cupboard and removed from it an instrument that most certainly was no book. ‘Twas a bundle of fine rods of hazel or willow, and its purpose was to mortify the flesh.
O Brother Rufus! thought I. Wherefore art thou so much akin to the glass thou lovest? I see through thee, to thy thoughts, the very secrets of thy soul and if perchance I see not, thou tellest me and the whole world! Yet his transparency did not diminish his mystery. Like light on stained glass, it lent him only brilliance.
Brother Rufus pulled off his habit o’er his head and rolled down his tunic to the rope about his waist. His body was as I had imagined it - thick-set and white, gleaming in the pale morning sunlight. His hair was mussed by the removal of his habit and it obscured his tonsure. I yearned to reach out and trace the line on the back of his neck where tousled lock met ivory skin. As he knelt and began to lower himself into a crucifixion pose ‘pon the floor, it occurred to me that I would not have the fortune to see his naked form from the fore and confirm whether hair graced the contours of his chest or no. Regret twinged in my breast.
Devil that I was! Did I wish to see him beaten ‘pon the belly?
Brother Rufus was shaking. There seemed not an inch of his flesh that could remain still. He was like some fronded creature from the submarine world pulled out of its element and quivering in the sand as the foot of alien Man descends to stamp out its life utterly.
Prior Stephen stood directly above him, looking down with contempt.
Tales leapt up at my mind like hungry dogs - told me I should play the knight, snatch up this maiden in peril and bear her to safety. Yet what maiden was there here? Called I this brother monk “maiden”? Called I myself “knight”? I was a fool, a fool!
Agonisingly slowly, the Prior raised his arm for the first strike and when the arc reached its apex, he addressed us all, saying, “Cast down thy eyes and put up thy hoods - this be not for thee to see and wonder on.” We obeyed. Cutting then through th‘o’erwhelming silence came the hiss of the rods through the air, the crack! as they met the skin of Brother Rufus’ poor back and his first involuntary cry of pain. My whole body jerked as if I had been struck myself. Strike number one.
Strike number two (there were to be seven in all, one for each of the deadly sins). Brother Rufus did not cry out this time though what pleasure it gave him to withhold his pain I knew not. We still harked the whimpers deep in his chest as he fought with the language of his betraying flesh.
Strike number three - no cry but now I had an image of him in my mind, the scarlet welts rising in bands ‘cross his back, his perfect skin suffering so honourably, so beautifully.
Strike number four - his scream was brief yet sharp as a knife. There was a pause, a shuffling of feet as Prior Stephen altered his position so his blows would fall diff’rently and not ‘pon, perchance, already broken skin.
Strike number five - the vision now floated afore me and could not be banished. I saw Brother Rufus’ face, his mouth stretched in silent pain, no colour in his eyes but the silver of tears, a sheen of sweat ‘cross his entire body. ‘Neath his buttocks and quivering thighs, his member was filling with blood, pushing ‘gainst the cold flagstones. In sympathy, mine rose, too.
Strike number six - as he suffered in his extremity, I lay on top of him, his passion passing into me through his body heat. We were both naked. My pizzle throbbed as it pushed ‘twixt his thighs. My hands caressed his bloody sides. My tongue swept up the sweat from his shoulders and neck.
Strike number seven - Brother Rufus whimpered as the rods came down; groaned in the aftermath. His cries were nigh drowned by several of his brethren who had broken down alongside him. “Arise, Brother Rufus,” said the Prior in a voice thick with emotion. “Cover thy sinful flesh. Thou shalt join Brother Aidan in his punishment. Now take thyself to th’infirmary.”
Brother Aidan fell to his knees and had to be helped from the room. I briefly saw Brother Rufus’ tortured back, blood and sweat running together, as he drew his tunic and habit o’er it, wincing as he did. Prior Stephen stood panting and staring blankly at the spot where my sweet one had lain. And then I saw mine had not been the only rod to rise - his made a grotesque lump in the front of his habit. I shuddered and stumbled from the room.
‘Twas ‘pon that day I came to understand there is something bestial in men. That I could witness the thrashing of my belovèd, see him at his most vulnerable and desperate, and feel the violent joy of life spring up within me… I must be a low thing indeed.