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Rebecca's funeral |
The Book Chapter 4 "I can't do it, Norman." The rock upon which the Gardyner family rested, threatened to crumble. Tormented by guilt and grief, Anicia clutched the front of her husband's Saxon tunic with both hands and begged for a way out. "Don't make me go." Norman wrapped his arms around her. "I've arranged for a wagon. You won't have to walk." "That's not what I mean," Anicia maintained. She stared at her husband, whose eyes were nearly as puffy and swollen as hers. Seeking absolution, while trying to make him understand, she said, "We did this, Norman. We killed our daughter." "We didn't kill her, love," Norman said. "We did everything we could to save her." "You had to go and buy that hog. If you hadn't . . ." Anicia's shoulders slumped. She bowed her head, knowing better than to finish the incriminating sentence. She never complained about buying the hog until after Blackstone raised his accursed tax. By then, the hog had belonged to them, and their money, the money they might have used to pay Lord Blackstone, belonged to the breeder. "That's not fair," Norman protested. "We've no need to repent. Lord Blackstone killed our little girl. Not me. Not you." Anicia peered into her husband's eyes again, pleading silently, but Norman would have none of it. "I know it hurts, Anicia, but nothing will bring Rebecca back. Father Benedict's doin' us a favor, allowin' us to use a wagon, instead of walkin'. He's outside, now, waitin' with our friends. Barnard and Guy are in the other room with Rebecca and the two monks. C'mon," he reached out and took her by the arm. "Wipe your eyes and let's be done with this before it rains again." Left with no recourse, Anicia took a deep breath and allowed herself to be led into the next room. "We're ready, boys," Norman announced. "Get in the wagon." Before removing Rebecca's remains from the house, Father Benedict sprinkled her body with holy water. When he and the monks recited the psalm, De Profundis with the antiphon, Si Iniquitates, Anicia felt the room start to spin. "Norman?" She reached out uncertainly for her husband with her left hand while she pressed her other hand against her forehead and closed her eyes. Feeling Norman's strong hand close around hers, she shook her head and fought off the swooning sensation. As they left the house, Father Benedict led the procession, carrying a cross. "Rest eternal grant unto them, Oh Lord. And let light perpetual shine upon them . . ." Brothers Michael and Stephen followed the priest, chanting, "Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, Oh Lord." They each pulled the funeral bier with one hand while carrying a lighted candle with the other. Behind them came Norman, Anicia, Barnard, and Guy Gardyner in the wagon, followed on foot by twenty friends. ~ ~ ~ After reaching the church, the two monks removed Rebecca's shrouded body from the funeral bier and placed her in the church's coffin, her feet toward the altar. Once the Gardyner family and their friends left for the evening, an all-night vigil would be held by the clergy. The next day, when the mourners returned, Matins and Lauds would be celebrated together for the deceased. Entering his quarters that night, the weary priest made the sign of the cross and spoke to The Book. "You said that you would deal with Lord Blackstone on Sunday. . . How? What will you do?" Father Benedict squinted in the heavy silence, his muscles taut, fists clenched. ~ ~ ~ On her way to the sanctuary, as she passed by the cleric's room, a nun stopped and looked in, perplexed. She believed she had heard Father Benedict speaking to someone in his room. Through the open door she saw him, standing alone, saying and doing nothing. Seconds ticked by, yet he moved no more than the statues of Mary and St. John in the chapel. Too anxious to remain silent, she called out, "Father Benedict?" Startled, the priest jerked. When he turned to face the nun, remnants of surprise and annoyance clung to his face like crumbs from a feast. Unsure, now that she faced him, whether bothering the priest had been the right thing to do, the nun asked, "Are you all right?" "Yes," he insisted. "I'm fine, Sister. Just meditating. Did you need anything?" She rubbed her hands together as if washing them and tilted her head to the left. "Are you going to lead evening Vespers?" "Yes." The priest's expression and demeanor returned to normal. "I need to put on a fresh robe." Closing the door, he added, "I'll be there, soon." For a moment, the nun stood outside the door, pondering what she saw. The image of the priest, standing stone-still, remained fresh in her mind as he conducted evening Vespers a short while later. What caused him to seem so ill at ease? she wondered. ~ ~ ~ At Blackstone Castle, Lord Henry's steward, Rylan Fletcher, stepped inside his master's quarters. "My Lord, The Earl of Winchester has arrived." "Hugh Le Despenser, The Elder? I didn't expect him until tomorrow. Tell me, Rylan, how many in his party?" "He is accompanied by his son, The Earl of Gloucester, his son's wife, and their entourage. Altogether, a dozen." Blackstone fidgeted, his head wrapped in a wet towel as Fletcher's suggested treatment of boiled stickyweed soaked into his dry, flakey scalp. Appearing nervous, he took two tentative steps toward the door, stopped, and wrung his hands. "I can't go to greet him, Rylan," his eyes rolled up toward the towel on his head. "Not like this." "I can bring The Elder Despenser to your quarters, if you prefer, My Lord." Blackstone's eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare!" "Not unless you so choose, Your Lordship." Properly subservient, Fletcher leaned forward and nodded. "You think it amusing, do you?" Fletcher's eyebrows arched. "Amusing, My Lord?" "Me, stuck here, unable to properly welcome the chief advisor to King Edward. Tell me, did Lady Eleanor bring her brood? As I recall, she and the younger Despenser have eight children." "The children did not accompany them, sire." "Hmmm...pity. I had planned to have you look after them." "Yes, My Lord. What a shame. I'm rather good at children's games." Blackstone detected sarcasm in Fletcher's voice and glared at his steward. "I'm aware of the way you perceive me, Rylan. You've looked at me that way for as long as I can remember." Silently, the young lord cursed his dependence on the old steward he inherited from his father. Fletcher's brow wrinkled. "Pardon me, sire. I'm not sure I understand." "Ohhhh... Go awaaay. See to the needs of our guests." As Fletcher stepped through the door, Blackstone called out, "Did you remember to procure the whores for the celebration?" Fletcher stopped and turned. "Tomorrow, My Lord. They'll be here tomorrow." ~ ~ ~ The next morning, following breakfast, Father Benedict delivered the Requiem Mass, followed by Rebecca's sermon and eulogy. He emphasized that the bereaved should present a brave face to the world, to set a good example and ease the suffering of others. Norman nodded in agreement. Anicia glanced at her husband, then back at the priest, perhaps thinking Norman suggested this theme due to her habit of fainting in the face of adversity. The sermon included examples of Rebecca's obedience. Father Benedict emphasized how she willingly helped her mother with the daily chores of cooking and cleaning for Norman, Barnard, and Guy. He stared directly at Brother Michael, who looked away, when he mentioned how Rebecca bravely faced, without complaint, the frightening advent of serving at the castle. After the absolution, Brothers Michael and Stephen removed Rebecca's linen-wrapped, body from the coffin and solemnly carried her from the chapel to the grave, followed by Father Benedict, the Gardyner family, and their friends. As they walked, the beating of drums became evident, accompanied by the cheerful, lilting notes of a pennywhistle and the jingle jangle of shaken tambourines. Over the crest of a nearby rise, the caravan of whores from Newcastle's Gropecunt lane appeared. The path they travelled would take them directly past the chapel and the cemetery. “Let me go stop them, Father,” Brother Stephen pleaded, with Michael at his side. At the head of the grave, Father Benedict decided against Brother Stephen's petition. He shook his head and intoned the antiphon, "I am the Resurrection and the Life..." The owner of the Newcastle brothel, a burly man, short in stature, led the carnal convoy. With a booming voice, he solicited curious onlookers, shouting obscene overtures to those who followed, or gawked from the side of the road. "See ye all, this merry band? The finest whores in all the land!" Pulled by braying donkeys, in an odorous cloud of livestock and cheap perfume, came two wagons filled with hay and harlots. "You there! Sir?" The brothel owner pointed at a diminutive man among a gathering at the side of the road. "Yes, you! Are you married?" "Yes!" the man shouted back. He held up the hand of his large, pregnant wife, who stood next to him, scowling. "To her? My condolences. Don’t you wish you weren't?” From the wagons came shrill whistles and high-pitched laughter. As the laughter died down, the brothel owner pointed to several other spectators. "Any of you may enjoy a sweet piece of paradise this day for a paltry penny!" Resolute, despite the growing disturbance, Father Benedict continued to pray. "Grant this mercy, O Lord, we beseech thee...” In full view of the funeral party, the whores in the first wagon pulled down their blouses and hiked up their skirts, exposing their marketable assets. Most were unshorn, sporting a pelt of curly pubic fur. A few, though, were well-plucked, with bare skin that glistened like fat pullets waiting to be baked for Lord Blackstone’s birthday banquet. Meanwhile, Barnard and Guy Gardyner stared at the spectacle, despite the attempts of their outraged parents to shield their eyes. The stress caused by the situation evident in his voice, Father Benedict determinedly carried on, "...So may Thy mercy unite her above to the choirs of angels..." In the second wagon, two long-haired, muscle-bound men cursed as they flogged a pair of teenagers who cried out in fear and pain. Orphaned, or perhaps sold by their parents, the shy girls had to be forced to fully expose themselves. Still possessing most of their teeth, their slender physiques and small, perky breasts stood out in stark contrast to their older peers. Finally, and mercifully, the priest reached the end of the graveside ritual. "May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace." The brothel's proprietor slowed his pace, allowing the wheels of the two sin-wagons to trundle past. As the mouths of the gathered mourners in the graveyard hung open in disbelief, he bellowed a final, irreverent advertisement. "Why wait ‘til you die? Come enjoy a righteous roll in the hay with one, or perhaps two, of my angels. Experience raw, uninhibited pleasure … Sheer ecstasy, the likes of which you may never otherwise savor on this earth, and certainly not in heaven!” He gestured toward the sky before turning away and hurrying to regain his place at the front of the procession. The fallen women whistled and yelled indecent propositions to all within earshot as the prurient parade rolled away. Their bastard children, those old enough to be off the tit, danced and skipped alongside and behind the wagons, cheering and waving brightly colored silk banners of yellow and scarlet. With Rebecca's flustered parents and Brother Michael standing behind him, Brother Stephen grasped Father Benedict by the shoulders. His expression spoke louder than his words. “Why didn’t you allow me to stop them?” Father Benedict stared back into the monk's eyes. “Men involved in unlawful, unsavory enterprises usually carry weapons, Stephen. If you had tried to stop them, others would have felt compelled to join you. I didn’t want to add your name, or any of the mourners to the list of deaths Blackstone has caused. I told you before… The Lord will not allow this to continue." The priest emphasized his certainty, lightly tapping Brother Stephen's chest to punctuate each of his last three words. "Wait-and-see.”
I always appreciate hearing from readers. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see. Contact me here, on the writing.com website by emailing me at georgelasher@Writing.Com or come check me out on Facebook. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625773285&aid=36414 Kindest regards, George R. Lasher "Welcome to my imagination." |
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