The Wanderer and the Way 8
The King's Messenger
This is Chapter 8 of The Wanderer and the Way
Two weeks passed after his visit to the village. Theodemir would happily have gone to visit each day for the evening meal so as to spend time in Elswyth’s company. But he was conscious that it was within Elswyth’s right to invite him if she desired his company and to withhold the invitation if she did not desire it, and since no invitation was made, he did not feel himself at liberty to go unannounced. His uncle, he knew, would laugh at such scruples. He was heir to the lands on which the village was built and at liberty to visit it, to plunder it, to rape it, or to raze it to the ground if he chose. Witteric was entirely aware of Theodemir’s fascination with Agnes and took great delight in mocking him for it, but he did not seem to see in it any contradiction to his design of training Theodemir to be his heir and to assume, in time, his responsibilities and properties. Indeed, the way he would tease Theodemir about Agnes suggested that he saw this project as all of a piece with Theodemir’s obsession, and Theodemir could only think that his uncle foresaw him marrying Agnes and making her, or, rather, making Elswyth, the lady of his estates and the mother of his children. After all, marrying Elswyth would remove all possibility of his becoming a monk. What then would be left but to become in his turn Lord of Iria Flavia and much besides?
The fly in this ointment was, of course, the Northman. Elswyth had a husband, and though she hated him, she was determined to be loyal to the oath she had made to him and would submit herself to him if ever the Northman overcame his scruples and took her to his bed. Perhaps, since the Northman’s scruples forbade him to take her in a way that was contrary to her desire, some accommodation could be made with him. The marriage was unconsummated, and therefore it required only for the Northman to release Elswyth from her oath and she would be free to marry. But no such accommodation could be attempted until the Northman and his crew returned, and Theodemir began to look forward to his return with as much anticipation as the women of the village looked forward to the return of their husbands and with growing anxiety that the return was now delayed long beyond its expected date.
The interview with the Northman, he hoped, would make clear the nature of his vocation toward Agnes. If the Northman released Elswyth from her bond, then it would be clear that his vocation was to make Elswyth his wife. And in that case, Elswyth would be a woman made whole again and Agnes would have no reason to continue. Should the Northman refuse to release Elswyth, that would also make his vocation clear, at least partially so, for it would then clearly be his vocation to rescue her from the Northman. This must necessarily mean procuring the Northman’s death. He assumed that neither Elswyth nor Agnes would object to this since one thing that united them, besides existing within the same superlatively lovely flesh, was their hatred for the Northman. But when he contemplated this, he had always a vision of himself lying on the ground, mouth and nose bloody, dazed and dizzy, with Eric sitting on his chest, his large fists battering him into unconsciousness, and nothing on Eric’s grim visage to suggest that his battery would end with unconsciousness. No, the Northman had meant to kill him and would have done so had not Thor intervened.
There was a practical answer to this problem, of course. He could summon fifty armed men to ride with him and handily kill the Northman and his crew, who numbered a mere dozen. But it was not clear that such a bald and self-interested use of force would satisfy his vocation, or please Elswyth or Agnes. He was conscious that an element of heroic action was essential to vocation and courtship alike. It was also clear that the women of the village did not hate their husbands but missed them and needed them for the protection of themselves and their children. Neither Agnes nor God would approve such slaughter, he was certain.
He rode out regularly to the church in Iria Flavia in the hopes of hearing the conclusion of his interrupted vision. Once the old women had removed themselves from the church, leaving him in sole possession, he had stood upon the self-same spot and had heard again the voice of Agnes in prayer echoing through the stone arches. But now it was merely the action of memory, not a vision from God, and no further guidance was given to him. He gave alms. He knelt and prayed for hours, his knees aching on the flagstones, but no more visions came to him. He complained of this to the bishop, but the only comfort he received from that quarter was the bishop’s avowal that God always made his meaning perfectly clear but that some of His people were too painfully stupid and obstinately sinful to understand Him. And then Quendulf spoke of the perfect clarity of his own vision, which called Theodemir to the quest for the burial place of the bones of St. James. When Theodemir asked why God should not have delivered this message to him personally, the bishop implied that Theodemir was clearly too stupid or sinful to understand God’s private word, and so the Lord had been forced to deliver it through someone more practiced in prayer and who, additionally, was charged with Theodemir’s spiritual care as a denizen of Iria Flavia and its environs.
Finding neither comfort nor encouragement from Witteric, nor from Bishop Quendulf, nor from either Agnes or Elswyth, Theodemir found himself looking for the return of the Northman as the only event that could further him either in understanding his vocation or in executing it. But it was quite another visitation that finally broke the dam that held back the waters of his intention. A horseman had come in the morning, drawing Theodemir’s ire for the way he had leered at Agnes when she opened the gate for him. The horseman had delivered a message to Witteric and then ridden off, paying compliments to Agnes which were stonily ignored but which had Theodemir ready to mount and ride after him to give him a thrashing. But when he expressed this intent to Agnes, she had said, “He did no more than you do every day,” and this had left him feeling crushed and desperate. He abased himself to her, begging her pardon, in a tone which alternated between rankled and abashed, but she said, “Oh, get up. You don’t think you are different from other men, do you?”
Baffled and mournful, he said, “It grieves me that you are so weary of your beauty, lady.”
She looked at him sharply for a moment and then bent down and took handfuls of earth from the damp garden and smeared them across her forehead and cheeks. Then she dropped the earth on the pristine flagstones of the path and went back to her bench in the shade and recommenced twirling the spindle of the distaff she had been using when the messenger had arrived.
He ached to find any word or gesture that could draw a smile or a kind word from her, but he understood that he was as apt to charm a smile from the gatepost as from the gatekeeper. He wanted to go and kneel before her and say, “Lady, you are my vocation. I do not know what it is God wishes me to do for you, but one word from you and all will be clear.” But he knew such a gesture would be entirely in vain. The only service Agnes wished from him was to turn away his eyes and leave her be. He turned from her and went to find his uncle, kicking the dirt off the flagstones and then bending down and cleaning every last speck of it away before he went.
Witteric waited until they were together for dinner before he delivered the news that the messenger had brought, this, it seemed, so that he could commit one small act of cruelty in the telling. “The king is coming to visit,” his uncle said, “You know, of course, that they call him Alfonso the Chaste, so while he is here you will have to send your floozy to sleep in her own bed.”
Theodemir glanced at Sakina, standing at his left, and then at Fatima, standing at his uncle’s left, to see if this unjust jibe had wounded either of them, but if it had, neither showed any signs of it in their faces. Was this indifference, Theodemir wondered, or numbness born of so many slights, or was it a strange defiance, refusing to allow Witteric to see them flinch from his blow? In any case, there was no sign that Witteric felt himself defied by their immobility. Indeed, there was a smile on his lips that said he had seen them flinch inwardly though they had outwardly remained as still and silent as a fresco. Or perhaps it was that Witteric had seen the flinch on Theodemir’s own, less stoic face.
“Do we know what the king wants?” Theodemir asked.
“I expect that he has had a vision of our Agnes in a dream,” Witteric replied, “and now hurries here on blistered feet, wearing only sackcloth and covering his head with ashes, that by these penances he may make himself worthy to stand in the presence of one of such virtue.”
“He is not coming to see you then, Uncle,” Witteric replied. It was seldom that he succeeded in landing a blow in their dinner table contests, and Witteric received it with a bow of acknowledgment and a raised cup.
“Nor you either, then, boy,” Witteric responded.
“Then I shall absent myself during his visit,” Theodemir replied, “and take my meals at the bishop’s house, where I am invited to dine at any time, and a bed is always made ready for me.”
“Oh, but in the bishop’s house the beds are narrow and cold,” Witteric responded. “No, you had better be here, where the beds are broad and warm.”
“But not so warm while the king visits, as you say, Uncle.”
Again Witteric raised his cup but otherwise made no riposte to this. Indeed, Witteric now sank into silence, leaving Theodemir’s inquiry as to the purpose of the king’s visit without a serious response. They entered then into a contest of silence, in which Theodemir attempted to restrain his curiosity, knowing that Witteric had another line of abuse planned should he raise the question again, but also suspecting that his uncle would have some real demand to make of him in regard to the king’s visit.
“You must ask your lady to serve as lady of the feast for the occasion,” Witteric said after the first course had been cleared away and the second set before them.
“I have no lady, Uncle. I am a bachelor, as you know.”
“Well then it must be the Lady Elswyth,” his uncle said, fixing him with a glare. “And we shall have the rest of them in to serve. The fairest for the table and the plainer to skivvy in the kitchen.”
“And if the Northman should return before the king arrives, Uncle? Will he permit you the use of his wife in this way?”
“Do not worry yourself about the Northman,” Witteric replied. “You shall see quite a marvel when you see the Lady Elswyth sing for company.”
“I have heard the Lady Agnes sing the office of the hours, Uncle. Her voice is enchanting.”
“Oh, but when Sister Agnes sings, one has the wonder of her voice alone. She sings like a statue, unmoving and with closed eyes. But when the Lady Elswyth sings, it is quite another thing. She dances. She smiles. She laughs. She taunts and teases. Oh, Alphonso the Chaste will go uneasy to his bed that night after he has seen the Lady Elswyth sing and dance for him.”
“I do not doubt she has these gifts, Uncle. But I am certain she will be reluctant to display them before strangers.”
“Oh, well, we cannot have reluctance in this house, can we, boy? No, I say, banish reluctance and all its works. Let all be done lustily and liberally and without reserve.” Here he pulled Fatima to him, sat her on his knee, and fondled her breast while his mouth engaged roughly with hers.
Theodemir was unprepared for this display. He glanced at Sakina standing immobile on his left and saw a look of panic cross her face before the stoic mask in which she had been trained returned. He shook his head to indicate that she should have no fear of such treatment from him. Witteric released Fatima, who at once rose and resumed her place at his side. The moment he put her aside, she became like a girl in a fresco once more, her face a mask. Witteric had laid his knife down on the table when he had grabbed Fatima, and it lay there, close to Fatima’s hand. Had he been in the girl’s place, Theodemir thought, he would have taken up that knife and plunged it into Witteric’s throat. But Witteric, he supposed, had ridden any such rebellion out of Fatima long ago. Oh, Agnes, he thought, as he watched his uncle calmly resume his meal, do not say that I am no different from other men. My virtues may be small, but I am different from that man, at least.
“Do you mean to behave yourself when the king visits, boy?” Witteric asked.
“Should I model my conduct on yours, Uncle?” Theodemir replied. It was meant as a jibe, a rebuke for the behavior his uncle had just displayed, but Witteric did not take it in that spirit.
“Model your conduct according to your interest, boy,” Witteric returned, “And consider your interest most carefully. The visit of a king is a moment in which men are made, and men are broken. But not all who are made are made by the king, and not all who are broken are broken by the king. I am not being too subtle for your so-well-educated mind, I trust.”
“I have never thought you guilty of subtlety, Uncle,” Theodemir said bitterly.
“Nor I you of sense or purpose,” Witteric returned.
“Then what would you have me do before the king, Uncle?” Theodemir asked in exasperation.
“Advise him wisely.”
“Advise him, Uncle? Surely he will not seek my advice.”
“He may. That is his way. And if he does ask you, boy, what will you say to him?”
“That would depend on the subject, surely, Uncle.”
“Not at all,” Witteric said. “The subject is not important. He had no need of your council. He has grown men, men of experience, practical men of affairs to advise him.”
“Then why would he ask for my advice at all, Uncle?”
“Why do you think, boy?”
Theodemir pondered this. “To judge my wisdom?” He ventured, expecting an exasperated rebuke. “To see if I give the same answer his advisers have given?”
“No, no,” Witteric said impatiently. “He expects your advice to be bloody nonsense, as surely it will be. Try again.”
“Then I am at a loss, Uncle.”
“And what do you do when you are at a loss, boy?”
I wait in hope for the coming of the Northman, Theodemir thought to himself, and I pray that he will release Elswyth from her oath. Well, there was an answer with which to tweak his uncle’s nose. “I pray for guidance, Uncle,” he said.
He expected derision at this and said it as a kind of armor against his uncle’s disdain. But Witteric once again raised his cup to him.
“There you have it, boy. The king cares nothing for your advice and will care nothing for it until you have some service under your belt. If he asks for your advice, it is to test your character. And the character he wants to see is a man of God who puts stock in prayer. That is the sort of man he is, or wishes men to think he is. So, if he asks you for advice on what to do about al-Malik, what do you say?”
“I recommend prayer.”
“And if he asks what he should do to recover the lost treasures of Oviedo?”
“I recommend prayer.”
“Famine in the Douro?”
“Prayer, Uncle.”
“The blessing of the pope upon his kingdom?”
“Prayer, most assuredly, Uncle.”
“How to persuade the Lady Elswyth into his bed for the night?”
Thodemir felt the twitch that animated his face at this thrust. “For any man who entertains such a thought, Uncle,” he replied, “ I would recommend penance. Penance and much prayer.”
Witteric nodded. “If he did ask—and who is to say how well he deserved the name ‘Chaste’ is? Perhaps it is said in irony. He may be the biggest lecher in all Iberia for all we know. But if so, he will know well enough how to get the Lady Elswyth into his bed without your advice. And so, again, if he asks you, it is to test your character.”
“If he is the biggest lecher in Iberia, Uncle,” Theodemir said, “surely he will not want men about him who are chaste.”
“If he is the biggest lecher in Iberia,” Witteric replied, “Do you not think he will need men about him to pray for his soul?”
“He has monks for that, surely.”
“What he wants about him,” Witteric said, “are men who fear for their own souls. Much safer that way, for a king.”
“Then I wonder that he visits here, Uncle,” Theoderic replied. “For I can’t see how he will feel safe in this house.”
This time the jibe landed hard. Witteric did not smile nor raise his cup. A look of grim contempt came over his face. Then he beckoned to Sakina, who walked slowly down the length of the table until she stood beside him. He gestured to her, and she undid the pins that held her dress and stood before him unclothed. He rose, grabbed her by the shoulders, bent her over the table amid the plates and cups, and raped her while Fatima stood stone-faced by his side, ignoring the knife that lay before her on the table.
Comments welcome. If you spot a mistake, please let me know by replying to this email or by sending an email to author@gmbaker.net. Thanks!