"Vale of Tears" - A Medieval Erotic Tale - Chapter Nine: Dissolution
For previous chapters, please see posts below.
Vale of Tears
Chapter Nine - Dissolution
‘Twas the sheep that forewarned us. A great wall of baa-ing went up in the west and soon was joined by the sinister refrain of marching feet. Our little band was in the refectory, making the best of our meagre portions of bread and beer. But yea, all feasting ceased as there came four resounding blows ‘pon the west front door. Four - not three. There were no trinities here.
Abbot Francis put down his crust and rose to his feet. He radiated sadness and temperance. Not one of us could take our eyes from him - a man at the pinnacle of his spiritual life about to be stripped of it all. With a movement of his hand, he bade us all rise and follow.
“Pray tell, who strikes our door at dawn? Be thou friend or foe?” he called.
“We are the men of Thomas Cromwell and the King. We demand entrance to this accursèd place. What say thee?”
“Say I -” began our leader as he unlocked the huge oaken door and swung it back to reveal the expected ragtag band of local militia fronted by a single official man of the king “- thou shalt find no curses hither.”
The king’s small man stepped into our church. He wore no soldier’s garb - he was not a fighting man but his ruthlessness spake loud from his sour face. He took us all in with a sweep of his eye and ‘twas enow. He wanted no more of us. Fixing his gaze ‘pon the artifacts of our Catholic faith instead, he swept up the aisle and grasped the gold cross. A billman hurried to his side with a cloth sack already open and the king’s man dropped the spoils inside without ceremony. Forsooth, without ceremony!
Cistercian brothers lowered their heads as the soldiers swarmed through the door and into ev’ry privy chamber our abbey possessed. Abbot Francis raised his head and spake once, “There be two of our brethren in th’infirmary. They are old-stagers and can bring no harm to any soul. I prithee, do them no harm thyselves.”
A passing soldier, arms full of holy silk, turned and sneered in his face. “What care we for them? Let them rot in their heathen sty. ‘Tis gold we are set ‘pon - golden idols for melting down and making money.”
The abbot nodded, and he sate himself down on the flagstones and he spake no more.
We wandered. In the distance, we harked the king’s men in their destructive rage that seemed fix’d ‘pon the church and abbot’s lodgings above all. Stained glass smashed. I did hark Brother Rufus mutter under his breath, “Wherefore? What good can wanton destruction bring? The smashing of a pretty window. The tearing up of books.” We sate in the cloister. My heart laughed bitterly to see ‘twas a most splendid dawn. The atrium entire was blazing with light. A sheep grazing on the green square recognised me - came over and pushed its good body into my hands. I fondled it, my mind in another place.
‘Cross the corridor, Brother Rufus’ mind was at work, his brown eyes flicking back and forth as he calculated impossible possibilities. Was he pondering o’er what would come of our love, as was I? Though I knew I should be mourning the death of our true faith, all I could think on was how we might no longer find a safe place to be together. Shame on me for my selfishness.
A soldier burst unannounced into the corridor, grasped the sheep I held by one horn and dragged her away. My hands clamped o’er the top of my head and I fell to my knees. She would die! She would die! My sudden tears were a flood.
There came a scream without. Not the scream of a beast this time but of a beauty. Matilde! ‘Twas her day for collecting washing. I looked ‘cross at Brother Rufus and saw a light in his eyes I had ne’er afore seen. His fists clenched at his sides and he rose with a purpose. “Nay,” I warned him. “Do not endanger thyself. ‘Tis a sin to fight and ‘tis a fight thou canst not win!”
He harked me not as he tore through the cloister, a comet with a fiery head and blazing white tail. I stumbled after.
She had tried to escape into the fishpond. There she stood in the weedy water, th’evidence of her attempted disgrace like a brand ‘pon her - her torn clothes and dishevelled hair, eyes swollen by the tears that still wracked her. “What have I done?” cried Matilde. The soldiers laughed and threw heavy stones that knocked her off her feet when they did strike. One soldier was disrobing himself and entering the shallows as we appeared.
“Call’st thyselves men?” roared Brother Rufus. The soldiers turned and discovered my belovèd stood ‘pon a ridge at the head of the pond and glowering down ‘pon them. “Thou namest us eunuchs yet what true men take a woman when she be mired like a fowl with a broken wing? So many of thee. I call thee cowards, one and all!”
For a moment, there was silence. Methought it the silence that precedes an eruption of violence but instead, there came more of the soldiers’ laughter. They turned from him as if they had harked naught but wind in the eaves. Another was shedding his jack and breeches as he prepared to enter the water.
Brother Rufus advanced ‘pon the nearest soldier, and went and stood as close by him as he had stood by me in our most intimate encounters. The soldier was half a head taller than he and stared down with a mocking expression, his helm casting a shadow ‘cross Brother Rufus’ features. Still, I could see my brother’s eyes flat with rage. He seemed to see not the soldier’s halberd glinting wickedly yet another length above the head of this tall soldier.
E’en then, I durst not believe he would do’t. Then I saw, as if in some horrid nightghast, a bursting upward of arms as Brother Rufus struck the soldier in the chest and sent him tumbling into the fishpond. The soldier who already waded there struggled out, his wet clothes making him clumsy, his visage like that of a gargoyle. “Fie! Fie! Thou art traitor to thine own creed!” he snarled. “Mongrel! Whoreson! Hypocrite!” And th’opponents ran toward one another, collided and tumbled to the ground, cursing and striking out both.
“O Brothers, come hither now!” I cried yet I knew they could do naught to help. Within moments, I had Abbot Francis, and Brothers Jocelyn and Thomas beside me, and I felt hands grasp my shoulders and urge me to kneel alongside them and pray. Pray I did but I could not remain where I was. Thus as my brothers prayed, I crawled, mewling and helpless, toward my stricken lover.
Many more had now entered the fray. They hoisted Brother Rufus from the ground and dragged him toward the trees at the northern end of the fishpond. “Worst of monks,” crowed the little king’s man strolling over with his bag of stolen gold. “What thou sufferest now shall not be because thou art a Catholic but because thou art a monk who fought back.”
“Let us see if it be true and thou art all eunuchs as they say.” A soldier in green and white livery tore away Brother Rufus’ clothes so his beautiful white body was exposed to their taunts. My love was apoplectic, striking out with fists and feet, till they grasped him by bole and cod, and set a noose about his neck. “O no,” said one in sing-song disappointment. “He be just as any other man.”
“’Tis easily remedied.” A halberd was heft and swung with precision, and I harked not his screams as mine own were all about me. I planted my face in the turf, tearing at it with fingers turned to claws.
His body, his beautiful body! Yon words were all I could think on, as if his body were the right and only manifestation of his soul. Yet all we good monks did was pray loud as we could as they strung up our brother and throttled him slowly, all the while beating him with branches torn from our own trees. When at last I raised my head, he was long since dead, face not purple as I had feared as he had poured out all his blood from the wounds to his nether regions and his sides.
A bloodied soldier wandered past me; aimed a kick at me as he went. “Thou woman,” he spat. “Wert thou his wife?”
“Aye,” I screeched to the mountains. “Aaaye!”
Vale of Tears
Chapter Nine - Dissolution
‘Twas the sheep that forewarned us. A great wall of baa-ing went up in the west and soon was joined by the sinister refrain of marching feet. Our little band was in the refectory, making the best of our meagre portions of bread and beer. But yea, all feasting ceased as there came four resounding blows ‘pon the west front door. Four - not three. There were no trinities here.
Abbot Francis put down his crust and rose to his feet. He radiated sadness and temperance. Not one of us could take our eyes from him - a man at the pinnacle of his spiritual life about to be stripped of it all. With a movement of his hand, he bade us all rise and follow.
“Pray tell, who strikes our door at dawn? Be thou friend or foe?” he called.
“We are the men of Thomas Cromwell and the King. We demand entrance to this accursèd place. What say thee?”
“Say I -” began our leader as he unlocked the huge oaken door and swung it back to reveal the expected ragtag band of local militia fronted by a single official man of the king “- thou shalt find no curses hither.”
The king’s small man stepped into our church. He wore no soldier’s garb - he was not a fighting man but his ruthlessness spake loud from his sour face. He took us all in with a sweep of his eye and ‘twas enow. He wanted no more of us. Fixing his gaze ‘pon the artifacts of our Catholic faith instead, he swept up the aisle and grasped the gold cross. A billman hurried to his side with a cloth sack already open and the king’s man dropped the spoils inside without ceremony. Forsooth, without ceremony!
Cistercian brothers lowered their heads as the soldiers swarmed through the door and into ev’ry privy chamber our abbey possessed. Abbot Francis raised his head and spake once, “There be two of our brethren in th’infirmary. They are old-stagers and can bring no harm to any soul. I prithee, do them no harm thyselves.”
A passing soldier, arms full of holy silk, turned and sneered in his face. “What care we for them? Let them rot in their heathen sty. ‘Tis gold we are set ‘pon - golden idols for melting down and making money.”
The abbot nodded, and he sate himself down on the flagstones and he spake no more.
We wandered. In the distance, we harked the king’s men in their destructive rage that seemed fix’d ‘pon the church and abbot’s lodgings above all. Stained glass smashed. I did hark Brother Rufus mutter under his breath, “Wherefore? What good can wanton destruction bring? The smashing of a pretty window. The tearing up of books.” We sate in the cloister. My heart laughed bitterly to see ‘twas a most splendid dawn. The atrium entire was blazing with light. A sheep grazing on the green square recognised me - came over and pushed its good body into my hands. I fondled it, my mind in another place.
‘Cross the corridor, Brother Rufus’ mind was at work, his brown eyes flicking back and forth as he calculated impossible possibilities. Was he pondering o’er what would come of our love, as was I? Though I knew I should be mourning the death of our true faith, all I could think on was how we might no longer find a safe place to be together. Shame on me for my selfishness.
A soldier burst unannounced into the corridor, grasped the sheep I held by one horn and dragged her away. My hands clamped o’er the top of my head and I fell to my knees. She would die! She would die! My sudden tears were a flood.
There came a scream without. Not the scream of a beast this time but of a beauty. Matilde! ‘Twas her day for collecting washing. I looked ‘cross at Brother Rufus and saw a light in his eyes I had ne’er afore seen. His fists clenched at his sides and he rose with a purpose. “Nay,” I warned him. “Do not endanger thyself. ‘Tis a sin to fight and ‘tis a fight thou canst not win!”
He harked me not as he tore through the cloister, a comet with a fiery head and blazing white tail. I stumbled after.
She had tried to escape into the fishpond. There she stood in the weedy water, th’evidence of her attempted disgrace like a brand ‘pon her - her torn clothes and dishevelled hair, eyes swollen by the tears that still wracked her. “What have I done?” cried Matilde. The soldiers laughed and threw heavy stones that knocked her off her feet when they did strike. One soldier was disrobing himself and entering the shallows as we appeared.
“Call’st thyselves men?” roared Brother Rufus. The soldiers turned and discovered my belovèd stood ‘pon a ridge at the head of the pond and glowering down ‘pon them. “Thou namest us eunuchs yet what true men take a woman when she be mired like a fowl with a broken wing? So many of thee. I call thee cowards, one and all!”
For a moment, there was silence. Methought it the silence that precedes an eruption of violence but instead, there came more of the soldiers’ laughter. They turned from him as if they had harked naught but wind in the eaves. Another was shedding his jack and breeches as he prepared to enter the water.
Brother Rufus advanced ‘pon the nearest soldier, and went and stood as close by him as he had stood by me in our most intimate encounters. The soldier was half a head taller than he and stared down with a mocking expression, his helm casting a shadow ‘cross Brother Rufus’ features. Still, I could see my brother’s eyes flat with rage. He seemed to see not the soldier’s halberd glinting wickedly yet another length above the head of this tall soldier.
E’en then, I durst not believe he would do’t. Then I saw, as if in some horrid nightghast, a bursting upward of arms as Brother Rufus struck the soldier in the chest and sent him tumbling into the fishpond. The soldier who already waded there struggled out, his wet clothes making him clumsy, his visage like that of a gargoyle. “Fie! Fie! Thou art traitor to thine own creed!” he snarled. “Mongrel! Whoreson! Hypocrite!” And th’opponents ran toward one another, collided and tumbled to the ground, cursing and striking out both.
“O Brothers, come hither now!” I cried yet I knew they could do naught to help. Within moments, I had Abbot Francis, and Brothers Jocelyn and Thomas beside me, and I felt hands grasp my shoulders and urge me to kneel alongside them and pray. Pray I did but I could not remain where I was. Thus as my brothers prayed, I crawled, mewling and helpless, toward my stricken lover.
Many more had now entered the fray. They hoisted Brother Rufus from the ground and dragged him toward the trees at the northern end of the fishpond. “Worst of monks,” crowed the little king’s man strolling over with his bag of stolen gold. “What thou sufferest now shall not be because thou art a Catholic but because thou art a monk who fought back.”
“Let us see if it be true and thou art all eunuchs as they say.” A soldier in green and white livery tore away Brother Rufus’ clothes so his beautiful white body was exposed to their taunts. My love was apoplectic, striking out with fists and feet, till they grasped him by bole and cod, and set a noose about his neck. “O no,” said one in sing-song disappointment. “He be just as any other man.”
“’Tis easily remedied.” A halberd was heft and swung with precision, and I harked not his screams as mine own were all about me. I planted my face in the turf, tearing at it with fingers turned to claws.
His body, his beautiful body! Yon words were all I could think on, as if his body were the right and only manifestation of his soul. Yet all we good monks did was pray loud as we could as they strung up our brother and throttled him slowly, all the while beating him with branches torn from our own trees. When at last I raised my head, he was long since dead, face not purple as I had feared as he had poured out all his blood from the wounds to his nether regions and his sides.
A bloodied soldier wandered past me; aimed a kick at me as he went. “Thou woman,” he spat. “Wert thou his wife?”
“Aye,” I screeched to the mountains. “Aaaye!”