Cicatrix
Part II: The Monastery, the Pilgrims, and the Sheriff
High above, in the monastery looming over the village, a friar knocks on the Abbot’s door.
“Enter,” says the Abbot.
The friar opens the door and steps inside. “Good afternoon,” he says.
“What?” asks the Abbot.
The friar hands the Abbot a sealed letter. “A missive from Pope Gregory, father.”
The Abbott opens the letter, but notices that the friar has not left. “What else?’
“A band of pilgrims are on the trail below. They will arrive tonight.”
The Abbot begins to read, but the friar still has not left. “And?”
“The sheriff is here,” says the friar. “He wishes to see you.”
* * *
The sun is high over the crags as the pilgrims teeter on their beasts of burden, hooves clopping up the steep, narrow, stony path to the village and the monastery above.
“How much further?” demands the imposing woman in the vanguard of the expedition. “Two leagues less than the last time you asked,” answers the old man leading the column. “We will get there when we get there.”
“I advise you to control your insolence,” says the big woman sternly. “Do what you are told. Answer only when you are asked.”
The old man mumbles, “Pain in the ass,”
“What did you say?!” barks the woman.
“Nothing, Lady Newell,” says the old man. “Nothing at all.”
“Pain in the ass,” whispers a young girl at the rear of the column.
“You can say that again,” whispers her friend. “She will not give that tongue of her’s a rest. Lady Newell! Lady Know-All! She has been everywhere! She has done everything!”
The girls roll their eyes.
“She has seen the swaddling clothes of Jesus!” whispers one.
“The Lance and the Sponge!” whispers the other.
“The Rod of Moses!”
“The Skull of John the Baptist!”
“I wonder if she has touched Le Saint Prepuce?” giggles one.
“I’ll wager,” giggles the other, barely able to contain herself, “that she has pissed in a pot made from clay left over from the fashioning of Adam!”
“While sitting on a thorny crown!”
Lady Newell barks out, “What is that noise I hear from back there!?”
* * *
The sun is beginning to set over the walls of the monastery. “Why would he come up here?” asks the Abbot.
“It is the only place where we have not looked,” says the sheriff. “He must be taken alive. He is the only one that knows where it is hidden.”
After a moment of deliberation, the Abbot says, “Sir, you may enjoy our hospitality, but of this man, only his soul is the concern of the Church. Perhaps you would do better in the village below.”
“Very well,” says the sheriff. He leans forward and winks at the Abbot. “Does Rachel still work at the inn?”
The Abbot recoils in his chair. “That, my dear brother, I would not know.”
* * *
A soldier walks through the tavern and taps Rachel on the shoulder. The soldier is young, tall, and has all of his teeth. “We are looking for a man,” he says.
Rachel looks up at him and smiles. “So am I,” she says.
He leans forward and whispers in her ear. “The sheriff… he wishes to… um… speak with you. He waits for you at the stable.”
Rachel walks into the kitchen, puts on her shawl and discreetly slips out the back door.
* * *
A short while later, as Rachel hastens back to the tavern she adjusts her clothes and plucks the straw from her hair. Hurrying through the courtyard, she spies a figure slinking in the darkness. “Ho there!” she calls. “You!”
The figure pauses for an instant, then scurries away. She runs and catches him by the arm.
He spins toward her, shouting, “What do you want?!” He raises a hand to strike her.
She winces, but does not retreat.
He lowers his hand. “What do you want?” he repeats.
She fidgets with her shawl. “I want to know your name.”
He stares at her with his one good eye in disbelief. “My name?”
“Yes,” she says. “The people here call you ... um ...” Her smile deflates. “Oh dear.”
“And what do they call me?”
She steps back. “Oh, it is just a silly little thing, a trifle.”
“What do they call me?” he demands, stepping forward. In the distance he hears the sounds of travelers climbing up the twisting trail.
She stammers. “Uh ... they ... um ... No, you see …”
“There are soldiers in the village! And the Sheriff! Why are they here?!”
“They are just passing through.”
He looks over his shoulder. A procession of pilgrims is cresting the rise. He disappears down the desolate path to his hovel, slipping into the darkness.
Lady Newell watches him scamper past. “I have seen that man before,” she says.
“Surely she has!” whispers a girl at the back of the procession.
* * *
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(Go to Part III) Rachel, Rabbits, and Eggs