Tasters 34

Dead, she was a pattern of black, white and red on the sparse, short grass of a dry July.

Black for the fine wool habit, still quite new. It bore none of the darns in the front panel of the skirt that told of years spent kneeling in prayer, and the rear hem was still pristine, not yet worn by careless contact with stone steps. White for the wimple and barbette which had framed the face, although the wimple was no longer secured around the throat and chin but torn away. White, too, for the pale, pale skin. For the face, frozen into the expression of abject terror that it would wear until the flesh rotted from the skull. For the shockingly exposed legs and loins, from which habit and underskirt had been thrown back. In death, she was immodest, poor lass, lying there with her thin white legs wide apart. It was as if her corpse had been arranged deliberately so as to make a pleasing pattern, for the outflung arms matched the angle of the spread legs.

Red for the blood.

So much blood.

Her throat had been cut with the same eye for symmetry that had arranged the limbs. The slash began exactly under the right ear lobe and ended precisely under the left, and it gaped open to its widest immediately beneath the small and somewhat feeble chin.

As my father was away fighting for King Ethelred (whom men call Unready, or of evil council), it was my brother, Oslac, who took charge the next day when the foul murder was discovered. The people look to the son of their thegn for leadership and Oslac is seventeen years of age, a man in the eyes of most, though I would that my brother were of stronger character. I, his sister Ymma, am wiser in the ways of men.

'The Danes came among us in the night,' Father Ordulf announced. His voice was unsteady and I thought him close to tears. 'They killed a brother of the Abbey who arrived in our village after darkness. They killed him in the crypt while he was praying before the relic of our saint.'

'The Danes arrived, killed the unfortunate brother and then departed leaving the rest of us unharmed?' I heard myself saying in disbelief. 'Did they steal from the church?'

The priest turned towards me and regarded me with sad brown eyes. I knew Father Ordulf well. He had taught me to read and write and this I did now as well as any holy brother. 'I speak the truth, Lady Ymma. They departed without harming the village for which I thank God. But they stole from our church.'

'What did they take?' I asked. I glanced at my brother Oslac who was staring at me resentfully. But someone had to ask the questions and I knew that he was not man enough to do the task himself.

Father Ordulf shook his head, close to tears. 'They took fourteen shillings in alms and tithes and a silver chalice.' He looked at me nervously. I knew there was something else. 'And our holy relic - St Wulfgar's finger.'

[...]

'I was watching from my window last night,' I said. 'I saw the brother arrive at your house.'

'He was returning to the Abbey from Winchester and he sought shelter.'

'Our village is out of his way.'

'He and I knew each other many years ago when I too was at the Abbey. He thought to visit me.'

'Were you with him in the church when the northmen came?'

'So many questions, Ymma. Let the poor father rest after his ordeal,' my brother said in his piping voice. I turned and gave him a withering look.

'I will answer the lady's question.' Father Ordulf attempted a smile ...

Colin put down the lute and touched her face. If she sat very still, he might kiss her. What would his lips taste like? They looked like ripe cherries. She had an almost irresistible urge to nip his full lower lip with her teeth.

She closed her eyes and Colin kissed her. A shy, gentle brushing of lips at first and then more urgent, a gentle probing with his tongue, and Rose's childish resolution melted like snow in spring rain. After the kiss, he continued to hold her, burying his face in her hair, singing to her, 'Rose, my rose, to which I am bound,' and the love song sounded like a promise.

[...]

'It's late, Colin. My father may be worried. We should go.' But her hair had come unbound and was trapped underneath his shoulder. She made a move to disentangle herself.

'Just one more kiss. Please, Rose. You are so beautiul. I love you. I've wanted to tell you. But I was afraid you'd laugh at me. You're the first, you know. I'm not like my brother.'

'I would never laugh at you, Colin.' And then some new disturbing thought poked its head like a serpent into her paradise. 'Colin, do you think what we've done is wrong? Do you think we will be punished?'

'I love you better than anybody, Rose. Better than anything.' He traced the outline of her lips with his finger, reverently, just as he'd earlier traced the cross on her father's manuscript. Then he sat up, and propping himself on one elbow, looked down at her. 'How can it be a sin, Rose? You will be my lady. I will pledge my heart to you like in the song of Tristan and Isolde. I will love you for ever. I even love you better than the music.'

'Then you love me truly,' she siad, laughing.