B
rother Francis was getting old. Despite his condition, he felt aches and pains beyond his age. In actual years, he was only in his thirties, but he looked and felt himself to be a very old man.
Unseen, he had watched the new marker stone put in place on Ankerita’s grave. They had deliberately not carved her face: left it blank. Had they forgotten what she looked like? Francis could not forget. The hauntingly beautiful features were still there, imprinted on his mind. As time went on, she could only become more beautiful to him. So why did they leave the stone blank? Francis wondered if it was something to do with the spell that bound her.
Being in a different reality himself, Francis tried to contact his lady, but she was either in a deep sleep, or she had passed beyond where he was balanced, somewhere between life and the next world. He had occasional glimpses of the demon still haunting the abbey, and by that, Francis knew that the lady was still within reach, somewhere. He tried to catch the spectre, but Didiubas seemed more intent on causing mayhem, and avoided talking to him. Already, the demon had caused the sheriff to uncover wrongdoings that ensured Abbot Hunt had been deposed, and the prior, Thomas Corveser, was in charge. Corveser was a stickler for routine and correctness, which pleased the demon as he watched the canons suffer under routines almost forgotten.
Under the new abbot, the abbey tithes were not being misdirected; the income was being used for improving and repairing the buildings. The abbey treasures were reinstated, and the canons spent most of the day toiling and complaining. The worst for them, although they dared not admit it, was that the village wenches were banned from entering the property. This was a return to the old days.
Francis was also concerned about the direction King Henry’s life was taking. There had been a change of heart in the Vatican against his divorce, and he could see the gathering storm for the king, and England, and subsequently the Church.
Brother Francis lay on his bed in the dormitory. Nobody, except presumably the demon, could see him, but out of either respect or aversion, the canons had left his cot unoccupied. Francis was depressed and deadly tired, and he determined to let his life slip away. Could a body, caught between the two worlds, die? He was going to give it a try.
He was still there several weeks later, between life and death. He could not live, but he realised he also could not die. To his dismay, he found that in this state, he was unable to move; he alternately cursed and prayed with frustration. This was probably the ordained time of his death, he reasoned, but he lay in a hell of suspended existence.
There was a scuffle from the cloister stairs. Francis was only slightly disturbed. It was noontide. The chimes of the sext bell still echoed around the building, so it was unusual for anyone to be around the dormitory at that time. He watched as two canons carried a third into the hall.
“He weighs a ton,” muttered one of the bearers. Francis recognised him as the new prior, John Colfox. “Drop him on Brother Francis’ bed, rather than dragging him to the other end of the dormitory.”
“But we vowed to keep the cot empty because of the association with that witch. It could be malign.”
“This is a house of God; how can it be evil?” said Colfox, ironically. “Do as I say, Brother William.”
“As you wish.”
“No, please don’t,” murmured Francis—nobody heard.
“It will be the death of me.” The stricken canon weakly crossed himself as he was dropped on top of Francis’ shade.
“A plague on you,” whispered Francis, in his ear. The canon started, and a shudder went through his body.
“He can stay there until Father Thomas sees him,” said the prior.
“What happened?” Another man appeared on the stairs.
“None of your business, Brother Richard,” said the prior. “We are awaiting the abbot, but if you must know, Brother Galfridus, here, was working in the kitchen-garden and simply keeled over. I can’t think why; he isn’t old.”
“Leave us.” Abbot Corveser pushed his way past Richard and bustled into the room. “This is where you sleep, is it?” He regarded the long dormitory, with the cots spread out at intervals. “It’s a bit opulent. I will have to look into providing more frugal lodgings. You brothers can all return to your duties. I will take it from here. Shoo!”
The canons scattered, leaving Corveser alone with the afflicted Galfridus. He knelt beside the cot. “Brother Galfridus, can you hear me?”
Francis was in the uncomfortable position of sharing space with Galfridus, and also having Corveser breathing in his ear. He tried to move out of the way, but his life-force was spent. As he lay there, though, he felt a strange increase in the energy in his body.
“Galfridus?”
“Yes, Father?” The canon tried to stir.
“What happened?”
“I was in the garden, Father, setting comfrey, and everything went black.”
“Can you move?”
The man sharing Francis’ space struggled. “No, Father. I’m held. I think there is something here with me.”
“Demons?” Abbot Thomas crossed himself.
“No, Father. I am not possessed. There is no evil spirit here, but there is something. We vowed to keep Brother Francis’ bed empty on account of the death of the lady...”
“You imagine it, Brother, unless there is something on your mind? Although I fear you may have tilled your last soil. The ague is upon you. I will hear your confession.”
“Bless me, Father.”
“Tell me your sins, my son, that you may be forgiven.”
“They are great, Father, and have been a burden to me.”
“Tell me all, Brother Galfridus.”
Francis listened in growing dismay as Galfridus outlined the mischief he had been involved in with the prior, and subsequently Abbot Hunt during his time at the abbey. When he got to his involvement in the demise of Ankerita, Francis snorted with disgust. The abbot heard the sound and gazed with concern at where the sick man was lying. There was a snigger from the rafters above the bed. Corveser peered upwards. “Who’s there? Come out.”
Nothing moved. Shaking his head, the abbot returned to his patient. Galfidus was breathing more painfully as a paralysis slowly wrked its way up his body.
“A brain fever,” said the abbot. “I had no idea you were such an sinful man. Lie there. I will send the canons to feed and clean you, but be warned, if you do live, you will be banished from this abbey. No one must know why.”
Galfridus grunted weakly, and the abbot left the room, muttering supplications.
“You were poisoning my lady knowingly,” said Francis, directly in the invalid’s ear.
The man jumped, hearing the voice clearly. “Mother of God: demons in my head.”
“In a way, yes,” said Francis, angrily. “Demons here to claim your soul.”
“Forgive me.” Galfridus tried to clasp his hands together. “Who are you? What manner of demon are you?”
Francis felt the man’s life-force. It was still strong, despite his current condition. “I cannot forgive you,” he said, “but I see it is not yet your time to die; you are, however, to be crippled, and cast out for your sins. Perhaps this is fitting punishment for your evil. Evil is as evil does, as evil looks.”
“Crippled and outcast,” echoed Galfridus. “I cannot live like that.”
“It will be less than you deserve,” said Francis. “And you can be assured that I will be watching you suffer.”
“No, I cannot. If I am unable to support myself, I do not want to live. Take my soul if you want to.”
A change came over Francis. He could see the life-essence of the monk, deep inside his body. He felt he could reach out and touch it, and take it. He absorbed a little amount, and found he could move. He stood up beside the cot, and stretched his arms.
“Who are you?” Galfridus was trembling as he perceived Francis take shape.
“You knew me as Brother Francis.”
“Hah,” Galfridus seemed to relax. “Not a demon. Then you are not dead. The affliction must be playing on my mind.” He struggled to sit up. “I feel better already.”
Francis felt the energy drained from him as Galfridus struggled to take it back.
“You are the renegade who was consorting with the witch,” continued the monk. “Are you going to murder me, and add that crime to your sins?”
“That is not why I am here. I heard you confess that you were responsible for poisoning Lady Ankerita.”
“Acting on the abbot’s orders, but yes, I did it willingly. The family demanded it... and she spurned my advances.”
“And for that, you ended the life of the most lovely of women?”
“She was only a woman,” said Galfridus. “What purpose did she have?”
“I worshipped that lady.” Francis’ tears welled up.
“Thou shalt have no gods but me,” Galfridus quoted from the scriptures. “You are bearing false witness.”
“You know what I mean. You were wrong.”
“And you are weak.” The canon sneered. “Who are you to tell me what is right and what is wrong?”
Francis felt more life being reclaimed from him. He sagged briefly, and then fought back. He reached right inside the body of the man on the bed. Galfridus gagged.
“Who am I to tell you?” echoed Francis, the anger building. “You dare to mock me. I am your confessor and executioner.”
He took hold of what life energy he could see inside the man, and squeezed it. Galfridus struggled, but the grip was relentless.
“You said you wanted to end it all,” said Francis calmly, “so I help you on your way.”
He took a deep breath, and ripped the remaining vitality away from the monk. In an instant, he found himself looking down on a lifeless corpse. He inspected his hands. They were no longer ancient. He was again the man from two years before. He had stolen those years of life from Galfridus. He could move again. He was free.