"Vale of Tears" - A Medieval Erotic Tale - Chapter Ten: The Art
This is the final chapter of my labour of love. For previous chapters, please read the posts below.
Vale of Tears
Chapter Ten - The Art
I know not what became of his body. Nor do I know what became of the remnant of my brethren. ‘Twas Matilde who rescued me, creeping back in the dusk when the soldiers were long gone. I recall strong little arms in mine armpits, wavy light brown hair that smelled of duckweed dangling in my face. She laid me on a stone somewhere and tended to me during my days of stupor. O, how I have o’erlooked the kindness of women! And how misled I have been as to the true nature of men. I did think, perchance, my life up to that moment had been naught but a dream that died with the coming of a red dawn.
The old faith did not die so easily. Many powerful Catholic families remained and they still required spiritual succour. One such was the Powell family, the richest landowners in the area. The old man, Sir Roger Powell, had recently passed away and the title had fallen to his son, Anthony. Anthony’s sister, Beth, found me one day wand’ring the local market towns, petitioning recognition from the sellers, all of whom turned their backs to me, unwilling to be seen fraternising with one of mine ilk, however much they sympathised with my situation. I was cold. I was hungrier than I e’er had been. Beth fed me an apple and when night came, did wrap a shawl about my head and shoulders, and set me on a cart. Thus disguised as an old woman, I was brought to the Powell’s ancestral seat of Plas Hydref.
I told them I was no priest. They seemed not to mind, told me my very presence was gratification enow and it bestowed a blessing ‘pon their house. I was to have mine own cell where I might pray and observe th’Offices much as I would have done in the abbey. I would deliver quotidian readings from the Bible and assist any Catholic priest they succeeded in smuggling into the grounds. In my spare time, I might indulge any leisure activity I saw fit, whatsoe’er it might be. This last was spake by young Sir Anthony himself, the words embellished with a piercing blue stare and a conspiratorial nod of the head. He was another Abbot Francis, seeing deep into the natures of men such as Brother Aidan and me, though I suspected his motives had less to do with the understanding of Man as his exploitation.
I cared not. There was one feat only I desired t’accomplish and after ‘twas done, they might do with me as they wished. I would be their puppet, spewing daily devotions I hardly believed in.
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‘Tis nigh done, Dear Reader. Sir Anthony has furnished me with the tools I need and has even picked out a place where the finished work might live in their secret chapel in the cellar. In return, I am required to visit his bedchamber once or twice a week or he visits me in my cell. I prefer to go to him. When he comes to me, the acts I am asked to perform seem blasphemous in that holy location in a way they ne’er did ‘twixt Brother Rufus and me, as they were done in love.
There is no love ‘twixt Sir Anthony and me, though he is exceeding polite and kind and fair in all aspects of life ‘cepting this. His smiles and good manners continue as he welcomes me to his bedchamber but once he removes his clothes or touches me, all is changed. He doth not love pain, the way Prior Stephen once did but he cannot allow affection in his heart for a male bedmate. He must have me a slave or toy, a thing worthy only of degredation. E’en if he kisses me, he must block my mouth with his tongue, allowing no “give and take” of pleasure. I think, in his heart, he is ashamed of his needs and these encounters serve as exorcisms for him. It has ne’er been that way for me.
His body is lean and rather beautiful. If ‘twere not for the fact I hate the way he doth what he doth to me, I could have learnt to much appreciate it. He is older than me but not old - thirty-three or four, I would guess. His hair is long and doth seem sometime light brown, sometime dark blond, though his short beard and moustache have a reddish tinge. So doth the abundant hair that spreads ‘cross his chest like dragonfly wings, the line of the dragonfly’s tail descending past his navel to the thatch of his nether regions. Fleecier hair lives ‘pon his thighs. ‘Tis a sight I am privy to most oft as his favourite game is to straddle my chest as I lay on bed or wooden floor. Staring down ‘pon me with dead eyes, he agitates his privy member no more than a hand’s span from my face till it shoots its seed ‘pon my mouth and neck. If not this act, then ‘tis to have me kneel and to pull my hair from behind as he squats and mounts me like a dog. He doth pant like a dog also, ne’er slackening his pace, rapidly jerking his lithe member within me till it doth reach its conclusion. Anon, he is all good grace again, offering me a flask of water or a rag with which to wipe my face or arse whilst he chatters about the minutiae of estate management. He either sees not or ignores my tears. I must always call him Sir Anthony and ‘tis only now I recognise how a title distances one person from another, and I curse myself for ne’er calling my belovèd simply Rufus. Brother Rufus, Brother Rufus - had I kept that barrier ‘twixt us till the very end? I’faith, I had.
So now I title this piece “Rufus” only. I bend the soldering lead as my belovèd shewed me and trace those lovely contours with iron oxide pigment. The Powell family fix it in a frame in the west transept of the subterranean chapel where a light well above may strike it. My gentle, merry brother is immortal at last. See this stained glass monk bent over his lectern and book as blue light pours ‘twixt the fiery white columns behind him. But his eye be not fixed ‘pon his book but ‘pon the viewer. His brown eye with its sunrise tint beams out - the corner of his mouth tilts - his dimple is there. Rufus Vaughan invites us - Catholic, Protestant, heathen, all - to join with him eternally in his laughter.
Vale of Tears
Chapter Ten - The Art
I know not what became of his body. Nor do I know what became of the remnant of my brethren. ‘Twas Matilde who rescued me, creeping back in the dusk when the soldiers were long gone. I recall strong little arms in mine armpits, wavy light brown hair that smelled of duckweed dangling in my face. She laid me on a stone somewhere and tended to me during my days of stupor. O, how I have o’erlooked the kindness of women! And how misled I have been as to the true nature of men. I did think, perchance, my life up to that moment had been naught but a dream that died with the coming of a red dawn.
The old faith did not die so easily. Many powerful Catholic families remained and they still required spiritual succour. One such was the Powell family, the richest landowners in the area. The old man, Sir Roger Powell, had recently passed away and the title had fallen to his son, Anthony. Anthony’s sister, Beth, found me one day wand’ring the local market towns, petitioning recognition from the sellers, all of whom turned their backs to me, unwilling to be seen fraternising with one of mine ilk, however much they sympathised with my situation. I was cold. I was hungrier than I e’er had been. Beth fed me an apple and when night came, did wrap a shawl about my head and shoulders, and set me on a cart. Thus disguised as an old woman, I was brought to the Powell’s ancestral seat of Plas Hydref.
I told them I was no priest. They seemed not to mind, told me my very presence was gratification enow and it bestowed a blessing ‘pon their house. I was to have mine own cell where I might pray and observe th’Offices much as I would have done in the abbey. I would deliver quotidian readings from the Bible and assist any Catholic priest they succeeded in smuggling into the grounds. In my spare time, I might indulge any leisure activity I saw fit, whatsoe’er it might be. This last was spake by young Sir Anthony himself, the words embellished with a piercing blue stare and a conspiratorial nod of the head. He was another Abbot Francis, seeing deep into the natures of men such as Brother Aidan and me, though I suspected his motives had less to do with the understanding of Man as his exploitation.
I cared not. There was one feat only I desired t’accomplish and after ‘twas done, they might do with me as they wished. I would be their puppet, spewing daily devotions I hardly believed in.
_______________________________________________________________________
‘Tis nigh done, Dear Reader. Sir Anthony has furnished me with the tools I need and has even picked out a place where the finished work might live in their secret chapel in the cellar. In return, I am required to visit his bedchamber once or twice a week or he visits me in my cell. I prefer to go to him. When he comes to me, the acts I am asked to perform seem blasphemous in that holy location in a way they ne’er did ‘twixt Brother Rufus and me, as they were done in love.
There is no love ‘twixt Sir Anthony and me, though he is exceeding polite and kind and fair in all aspects of life ‘cepting this. His smiles and good manners continue as he welcomes me to his bedchamber but once he removes his clothes or touches me, all is changed. He doth not love pain, the way Prior Stephen once did but he cannot allow affection in his heart for a male bedmate. He must have me a slave or toy, a thing worthy only of degredation. E’en if he kisses me, he must block my mouth with his tongue, allowing no “give and take” of pleasure. I think, in his heart, he is ashamed of his needs and these encounters serve as exorcisms for him. It has ne’er been that way for me.
His body is lean and rather beautiful. If ‘twere not for the fact I hate the way he doth what he doth to me, I could have learnt to much appreciate it. He is older than me but not old - thirty-three or four, I would guess. His hair is long and doth seem sometime light brown, sometime dark blond, though his short beard and moustache have a reddish tinge. So doth the abundant hair that spreads ‘cross his chest like dragonfly wings, the line of the dragonfly’s tail descending past his navel to the thatch of his nether regions. Fleecier hair lives ‘pon his thighs. ‘Tis a sight I am privy to most oft as his favourite game is to straddle my chest as I lay on bed or wooden floor. Staring down ‘pon me with dead eyes, he agitates his privy member no more than a hand’s span from my face till it shoots its seed ‘pon my mouth and neck. If not this act, then ‘tis to have me kneel and to pull my hair from behind as he squats and mounts me like a dog. He doth pant like a dog also, ne’er slackening his pace, rapidly jerking his lithe member within me till it doth reach its conclusion. Anon, he is all good grace again, offering me a flask of water or a rag with which to wipe my face or arse whilst he chatters about the minutiae of estate management. He either sees not or ignores my tears. I must always call him Sir Anthony and ‘tis only now I recognise how a title distances one person from another, and I curse myself for ne’er calling my belovèd simply Rufus. Brother Rufus, Brother Rufus - had I kept that barrier ‘twixt us till the very end? I’faith, I had.
So now I title this piece “Rufus” only. I bend the soldering lead as my belovèd shewed me and trace those lovely contours with iron oxide pigment. The Powell family fix it in a frame in the west transept of the subterranean chapel where a light well above may strike it. My gentle, merry brother is immortal at last. See this stained glass monk bent over his lectern and book as blue light pours ‘twixt the fiery white columns behind him. But his eye be not fixed ‘pon his book but ‘pon the viewer. His brown eye with its sunrise tint beams out - the corner of his mouth tilts - his dimple is there. Rufus Vaughan invites us - Catholic, Protestant, heathen, all - to join with him eternally in his laughter.