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Nov. 8th, 2011
Hollow Hill
Nov. 8th, 2011 10:38 pmLady Burwhynne Mildenhalle was still a young woman when her much older husband, Lord Osfrid was carried off by ague. Cynebeah was yet a babe in arms. Lord Osfrid's younger brother, Sighard, had no problems marrying Osfrid's widow (she was proven fertile, after all) and claiming the modest estates, but he had no use for young Cynebeah.
Sighard was prone to sudden fits of rage and pique, and Cynebeah learned at a young age to keep well out of his way. She spent the bulk of her time sequestered either in her father's meagre library, in the chapel, or in the servant's quarters. Her mother even fed her in the servants' quarters, rather than risk offending her hot-blooded husband by having her take her meals with them. By the time Cynebeah was in her early teens, Burwhynne had welped ten more children: eight daughters and two boys. Of these, only two daughters had survived, leaving the irascible Sighard without a suitable heir.
When Cynebeah was fifteen years old, Burwhynne made the mistake of approaching her husband about providing a dowry so she may be married off. Sighard flew into a terrible rage. Cynebeah heard it from the chapel where she was offering her morning prayers. Screams echoed down the halls, and Cynebeah rushed to the main hall and peeked through the huge double doors. Sighard was holding her mother by the hair with one hand and backhanding her with the other.
Something made Sighard stop. Perhaps Cynebeah had sucked in air a little too loudly. Maybe she'd gasped. But whatever it was, Sighard let go of Burwhynne and looked across the room to Cynebeah.
"As long as I draw breath, you shall receive no dowry. If you wish to take a husband, the Devil take you. Or the Christos himself. It is no care of mine. Pack your things and leave, and do not darken my doorstep again."
Obedient to her step-father's wishes, Cynebeah picked out a couple of books from her father's library, wrapped them carefully in oilskin, and filled a pouch with black bread, a couple of wizened apples, and a parcel of suet from the kitchen. She pinned on a wimple and wrapped a wool blanket about herself and set off in the dead of night toward the cloisters in the coastal town of Uley.
Although she was upset, Cynebeah was no fool, and she kept to the shadows as she walked. There were worriesome tales of bandits and highwaymen. It was early spring. The ground squelched beneath her feet, but mercifully the sky was clear and the full moon cast plenty of light. Cynebeah was not sure how the man approached her without her noticing, but suddenly, there he was in front of her.
He was a short, squat man, wrapped up in blankets and tatters. His feet and hands were bundled in rags.
"Alms for the poor," he said. His voice was as wet as the muck she stood upon.
Although startled, she did not jump back. "I have no coin," she said, "but I would give you some bread if you are hungry."
He bowed his head in thanks, and Cynebeah opened her pouch, and broke off a piece of bread, smeared the lump of suet across it, and went to hand it to the man. But the man was nowhere to be seen.
Cynebeah shivered and looked around. No one was at the crossroads but her and the moon, far overhead. Cynebeah turned around slowly, but there was no sign of anyone else. A tiny bit of rag puffed past her on a gust of wind. It came from the direction of a stone marker by the intersection. Cynebeah walked to the stone and placed the bread and one apple atop it, crossed herself, then continued onward to the nunnery in Uley. She was careful not to look back.
Well before dawn, Cynebeah arrived at the cloisters and rapped upon the large wooden doors. A nun came to the door and stared at her impassively. Cynebeah explained who she was, and why she was there. The nun grunted and shook her head. "If men on earth require a dowry in order to take a bride, how do you expect the Christos to take you as a bride when you have nought to offer? You must be able to pay for your own upkeep and contribute to the glory of the Lamb."
The nun closed the door, and Cynebeah stared at the great wooden boards and the tall stone walls and felt foolish and afraid.
She murmured, "If the Christos will not have me, then mayhap I must go to the Devil."
She turned around to return to the Crossroads, and the man was right there, face hidden by blankets and swaths of rags. "Have no fear, Sister Cynebeah, for though you are awash with original sin, and though you have been tainted by she who ate of the fruit and listened to the Serpent--even you shall drink the blood of the Lamb, and even you shall know eternal life. Come with me and you shall receive your sacrament."
The man led her to a large barrow a ways off from the town, then began pushing aside some dead bushes on the ancient burial mound, revealing a little tunnel. He gestured to the hole. Cynebeah gathered up her courage and began creeping in. He came in after her, pulling the bushes after him, closing up the hole. It was terribly dark. She could smell humus and soil and a clean sort of decay. The tunnel was worn smooth and she crawled along until it the walls fell away and she was standing on a great stone floor, feeling around in vain with her hands.
She felt the brush of rags, saw the faint glow of a coal, and then a tallow candle sluggishly alit.
She couldn't tell how large the room was, but it was filled with a strange assortment of unlikely items: crucifixes, scrolls, sheela na gigs, books, daggers, goblets, and even a couple of rats which didn't even bother skittering away at the man's approach.
The man walked over to a table, his back to her. He dipped his head and began unwrapping his hands. She couldn't see what he did next. The tallow for the candle was not good, and the flame guttered badly. Cynebeah was sure she did not see a bottle or a pot or a wineskin, but the goblet he held was full. She could see the light reflecting off the liquid.
He began to intone the Holy Mass.
Cynebeah knelt before him.
"... bene dixit, deditque discipulis suis, dicens: Accipite, et bibite ex eo omnes."
With the words of consecration, he raised the chalice to the level of his eyes, looking upward. The rats sat quietly.
"Hic est enim Calix Sanguinis mei, novi et aeterni testamenti: mysterium fidei: qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in remissionem peccatorum."
He held the goblet out to Cynebeah, and she let it touch her lips.
He continued with a wet whisper. "Haec quotiescumque feceritis, in mei memoriam facietis."
She sipped from the chalice. It did not taste like any wine she had ever drunk before. It was rich and foul, but he kept the goblet tipping, and she began gulping despite herself. It wasn't foul at all. It was knowledge and power. It was eating from the tree of knowledge. It was eating from the tree of life. It was drinking the blood of the Lord. And she grasped the goblet in her hands and gulped down every last bit, reaching inside, and licking it so that not a single drop was wasted.
And the room, which she'd thought so quiet, was filled with noises. The drip of moisture, the squeaks of more rats, her own heartbeat racing harder than it had when she'd run to find her mother being beaten.
And it was brighter than she'd thought. She could see the man's face more clearly, now. He was grinning at her, and he had two long, sharp teeth sticking down across his bottom lip like darning needles. Instead of a nose, he had a gaping hole, and his eyes were sunken and glittering in the candle light.
"You shall work with me, Sister Cynebeah, and when you have proven your worth, you shall become a bride."
And so began her instruction. She was taught how to follow, listen, and report. She filled books with knowledge, and recorded the words of the man, Marcus Valerius Sabinus. Years later, after finding and following a woman with a red dress and reporting back to him, Sabinus embraced her and gave her the gift of eternal life.
Now she was a bride.
Sighard was prone to sudden fits of rage and pique, and Cynebeah learned at a young age to keep well out of his way. She spent the bulk of her time sequestered either in her father's meagre library, in the chapel, or in the servant's quarters. Her mother even fed her in the servants' quarters, rather than risk offending her hot-blooded husband by having her take her meals with them. By the time Cynebeah was in her early teens, Burwhynne had welped ten more children: eight daughters and two boys. Of these, only two daughters had survived, leaving the irascible Sighard without a suitable heir.
When Cynebeah was fifteen years old, Burwhynne made the mistake of approaching her husband about providing a dowry so she may be married off. Sighard flew into a terrible rage. Cynebeah heard it from the chapel where she was offering her morning prayers. Screams echoed down the halls, and Cynebeah rushed to the main hall and peeked through the huge double doors. Sighard was holding her mother by the hair with one hand and backhanding her with the other.
Something made Sighard stop. Perhaps Cynebeah had sucked in air a little too loudly. Maybe she'd gasped. But whatever it was, Sighard let go of Burwhynne and looked across the room to Cynebeah.
"As long as I draw breath, you shall receive no dowry. If you wish to take a husband, the Devil take you. Or the Christos himself. It is no care of mine. Pack your things and leave, and do not darken my doorstep again."
Obedient to her step-father's wishes, Cynebeah picked out a couple of books from her father's library, wrapped them carefully in oilskin, and filled a pouch with black bread, a couple of wizened apples, and a parcel of suet from the kitchen. She pinned on a wimple and wrapped a wool blanket about herself and set off in the dead of night toward the cloisters in the coastal town of Uley.
Although she was upset, Cynebeah was no fool, and she kept to the shadows as she walked. There were worriesome tales of bandits and highwaymen. It was early spring. The ground squelched beneath her feet, but mercifully the sky was clear and the full moon cast plenty of light. Cynebeah was not sure how the man approached her without her noticing, but suddenly, there he was in front of her.
He was a short, squat man, wrapped up in blankets and tatters. His feet and hands were bundled in rags.
"Alms for the poor," he said. His voice was as wet as the muck she stood upon.
Although startled, she did not jump back. "I have no coin," she said, "but I would give you some bread if you are hungry."
He bowed his head in thanks, and Cynebeah opened her pouch, and broke off a piece of bread, smeared the lump of suet across it, and went to hand it to the man. But the man was nowhere to be seen.
Cynebeah shivered and looked around. No one was at the crossroads but her and the moon, far overhead. Cynebeah turned around slowly, but there was no sign of anyone else. A tiny bit of rag puffed past her on a gust of wind. It came from the direction of a stone marker by the intersection. Cynebeah walked to the stone and placed the bread and one apple atop it, crossed herself, then continued onward to the nunnery in Uley. She was careful not to look back.
Well before dawn, Cynebeah arrived at the cloisters and rapped upon the large wooden doors. A nun came to the door and stared at her impassively. Cynebeah explained who she was, and why she was there. The nun grunted and shook her head. "If men on earth require a dowry in order to take a bride, how do you expect the Christos to take you as a bride when you have nought to offer? You must be able to pay for your own upkeep and contribute to the glory of the Lamb."
The nun closed the door, and Cynebeah stared at the great wooden boards and the tall stone walls and felt foolish and afraid.
She murmured, "If the Christos will not have me, then mayhap I must go to the Devil."
She turned around to return to the Crossroads, and the man was right there, face hidden by blankets and swaths of rags. "Have no fear, Sister Cynebeah, for though you are awash with original sin, and though you have been tainted by she who ate of the fruit and listened to the Serpent--even you shall drink the blood of the Lamb, and even you shall know eternal life. Come with me and you shall receive your sacrament."
The man led her to a large barrow a ways off from the town, then began pushing aside some dead bushes on the ancient burial mound, revealing a little tunnel. He gestured to the hole. Cynebeah gathered up her courage and began creeping in. He came in after her, pulling the bushes after him, closing up the hole. It was terribly dark. She could smell humus and soil and a clean sort of decay. The tunnel was worn smooth and she crawled along until it the walls fell away and she was standing on a great stone floor, feeling around in vain with her hands.
She felt the brush of rags, saw the faint glow of a coal, and then a tallow candle sluggishly alit.
She couldn't tell how large the room was, but it was filled with a strange assortment of unlikely items: crucifixes, scrolls, sheela na gigs, books, daggers, goblets, and even a couple of rats which didn't even bother skittering away at the man's approach.
The man walked over to a table, his back to her. He dipped his head and began unwrapping his hands. She couldn't see what he did next. The tallow for the candle was not good, and the flame guttered badly. Cynebeah was sure she did not see a bottle or a pot or a wineskin, but the goblet he held was full. She could see the light reflecting off the liquid.
He began to intone the Holy Mass.
Cynebeah knelt before him.
"... bene dixit, deditque discipulis suis, dicens: Accipite, et bibite ex eo omnes."
With the words of consecration, he raised the chalice to the level of his eyes, looking upward. The rats sat quietly.
"Hic est enim Calix Sanguinis mei, novi et aeterni testamenti: mysterium fidei: qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in remissionem peccatorum."
He held the goblet out to Cynebeah, and she let it touch her lips.
He continued with a wet whisper. "Haec quotiescumque feceritis, in mei memoriam facietis."
She sipped from the chalice. It did not taste like any wine she had ever drunk before. It was rich and foul, but he kept the goblet tipping, and she began gulping despite herself. It wasn't foul at all. It was knowledge and power. It was eating from the tree of knowledge. It was eating from the tree of life. It was drinking the blood of the Lord. And she grasped the goblet in her hands and gulped down every last bit, reaching inside, and licking it so that not a single drop was wasted.
And the room, which she'd thought so quiet, was filled with noises. The drip of moisture, the squeaks of more rats, her own heartbeat racing harder than it had when she'd run to find her mother being beaten.
And it was brighter than she'd thought. She could see the man's face more clearly, now. He was grinning at her, and he had two long, sharp teeth sticking down across his bottom lip like darning needles. Instead of a nose, he had a gaping hole, and his eyes were sunken and glittering in the candle light.
"You shall work with me, Sister Cynebeah, and when you have proven your worth, you shall become a bride."
And so began her instruction. She was taught how to follow, listen, and report. She filled books with knowledge, and recorded the words of the man, Marcus Valerius Sabinus. Years later, after finding and following a woman with a red dress and reporting back to him, Sabinus embraced her and gave her the gift of eternal life.
Now she was a bride.
