Mark lay in the bed of straw in the stables. No one thought he needed to be watched in his condition: they figured he wasn’t going anywhere. It was completely dark, and Mark’s side and back hurt so much that he could not even roll over off his stomach, so his face would no longer be smashed into the molded straw, the stench of which was making him sick. He had been unconscious for he knew not how long. He could not even remember all of what had happened to him. Ah, Delia, he thought to himself and moaned quietly. Something was running off his back, something warm. Why was it he was here?
Slowly the thought of Father Simon returned to him and the severe whipping that he had incurred from the man in front of most of the brothers. When he was being beaten, he had cried out for Father Philip, the only man he thought who would disallow such brutal treatment, but Simon had told him to never say that holy name again: Brother Philip had died that afternoon. The memory having now come upon him again, he began to cry piteously and clench his teeth and fists.
Brother Simon had demanded that Mark be beaten and asked to do it himself; seeing that a number of the brothers felt great anger about Philip’s death, the Abbot had allowed it. He watched from far back in the crowd, repelled and slightly frightened by the whole scene. Brother Simon was so adamant, because he was determined to show the other brothers that insubordination and communion with the Devil were not to be allowed. Mark had been accused of demonic worship, and he knew not why. He only knew that he had been treated with the utmost of malice and without proper trial. Hate rose so hot in Mark’s throat that he gagged on it and was vaguely aware that he coughed up some of his own blood.
Morning came, and Mark’s eyes opened to a bright day. Everything ached so badly that he didn’t think that he was at all capable of movement. The door to the stable was open, and a small black figure outlined in white light approached carrying a bucket. The figure slowly crouched down, and as it came to block the direct sunlight, Mark was able to see that it was Brother Thomas, who was short, slightly plump, and of a quiet nature.
Mark turned away, not knowing what to expect. "I’m not to come to you, no one is, but I had to know if you were alive, Mark, my child," Brother Thomas said, using the diminutive address, which Mark had not been used to hearing in at least five years. "I’m alive," Mark said, afraid of the sound that his voice had taken on. "Let me wash your back," he said, dipping a rag into the bucket he carried. Mark realized for the first time that he was naked, but he could make no objection. He stifled his screams when Brother Thomas applied the wet cloth to his back, gently squeezing the water: it felt as if his whole back was on fire and he shook with convulsions. "Where are my clothes?" Mark inquired when Thomas finished. "It wouldn’t be wise to put on the habit until your wounds have healed, otherwise it will be more painful."
Thomas walked to the door and returned quickly, having left his bucket at the stable door. "My child, you must leave as soon as possible. Leave as soon as you can stand. Leave tonight upon the falling of darkness. It isn’t safe for you here anymore." Mark slowly squeezed his eyes closed and moaned again, feeling like his back was again being lacerated. "Why Father Thomas, why?" "Brother Simon has taken over as deacon, and no one else is to be consulted, since Brother Philip, God rest his soul," he said crossing himself "has died. The Abbot has given over much of the control. I think that he fears Brother Simon as much as I do, but our Abbot is not a strong man, God forgive him. Brother Simon calls for your death, since you have broken the Rule and consorted with the Devil."
Brother Thomas looked away as Mark began to cry softly. "Weep not, my child. The angels in heaven weep for thee. Never in all my years have I seen such a sight as yesterday. I would almost say that Brother Simon be possessed by spirits, but then I would be falling prey to the same illness as he has." "I can’t move, Father Thomas," Mark said, trying to lift himself and feeling the pain too great. "You must, you must my child. Rest this day and tonight ask for God’s assistance. Make it as far into the woods as you can, and then you might be safe. Don’t let them bring you back here. I have this for you." Brother Thomas pulled from under his tunic a soft white silk tunic. A visitor left it not so many months ago. It should not rub as much as ours would, and when you are on the road, you shall not be mistaken for a monk. "I’m not to be a monk then, Father Thomas? I’m to give up the life I was raised for?" Mark thought it unbelievable. "Yes, my son…it was not the life you were meant for. God has other plans for you." He brushed aside some of the straw and hid the tunic underneath. "I’ll try to bring you some food for the journey, but I’m afraid to come to the horses again today, as it might arise suspicion, which is not in your best interest at the moment."
Mark lost consciousness again after Thomas had left. He dreamt of Delia finding him in a field, empty of anything but miles of wheat, and she came to him running. There was no pain.
X
When Mark awoke the pain was no longer as sharp in his back, but it felt as if his skin had tightened, making movement painful in a new way. He forced himself to sit up, however, and scratched through the straw, feeling a crazed urgency. He found the tunic and a hardened piece of bread. Quickly he devoured the bread; he was so fearful someone would be along at any moment. He did not even consider that he should save the bread for later, when he would not be certain of any food with nothing to trade and no money. The pain shot along his back and his right shoulder as he pulled the silk tunic over his head. The edges were made with blue stripes and sewn with gold stripes, the likes of which Mark had never seen. Some very rich visitor had left this item, and now, Mark, a runaway brother would wear it to wherever he was headed. The thought seemed very ironic to Mark. It took him fully five minutes to stand up and begin to walk forward with any command, but the pain did not lessen with each step, instead it increased. Mark figured that eventually he would become numb to it. It would not matter if he passed out, just so long as he did so far enough into the woods so as to be safe.
He leaned against the entrance of the stable, staring into the night’s air. He could just see his breath in the cold of the night, and the grass shown in the moonlight reflecting droplets of dew. Scanning the area, Mark searched for signs of any brothers. None were visible, and he staggered out of the stable, quickly forcing himself into a slow run directed towards the outer wall. He would have rather gone through the main gate, but to do that might have meant physical harm to Brother Alfred, who would be on guard, so he chose the painful task of climbing the outer wall at its lowest point. Luck would have it that the side where it was the least built up faced towards the direction of the fields, and he could head that way until he reached the woods. He put one hand in a hole, where the rock stuck out and pulled himself up, fighting a scream of pain. Slowly he made his way to the top, and instead of fighting the pain all the way down again, he dropped to the ground, almost passing out as he hit the compact earth. Mark realized he was nearly free of Christianium and his spirit rose. He had now only to escape its surroundings as well, and he would be liberated. Mark stood back up and began his slow painful run towards the fields and woods beyond.
By the time Mark had reached the woods, the sky was becoming a dark red and blue, as dawn approached. When he awoke, he had assumed that he had awoken as night had fallen; instead, it was no clear that he had not regained consciousness until night had made its presence felt for several hours. He had less time than he had imagined. Fear drove Mark on, but he knew not where to go once he had reached the woods. Mark did not wish to leave entirely. He simply could not. There was Delia tying him to the place. And yet how was he to find her, and how was he to convince her to come with him to God knows where with no money and no skills? How could he even seek to make her do such a foolish thing?
Mark fell on his knees in the damp of the forest floor. "Mark!" Delia screamed, seeing him in the enveloping darkness. She ran forward and dropped to her knees tenderly touching his face. She began to cry profusely. She kissed his dry lips, her tears dropping from her lids to his face and lips. She touched his shoulders, and Mark flinched. Delia touched her hand to her mouth fearfully, "what have they done to you, Mark? Mark, speak to me!" Mark slowly stood up, pulling her with him. "We must keep moving farther in," he managed slowly. Delia followed at his side, keeping up with his now slowed pace.
At day break, Mark collapsed and lay face down on the ground, not being able to suffer the pain of anything touching his back. "We can rest Mark, it’s all right. Rest." Delia sat beside him, tears still pouring down her face. They had walked for approximately two hours before Mark had collapsed, and Delia hoped that whomever it was they were fleeing from would not come upon them anytime soon. When she perceived that Mark was deeply asleep, she slowly lifted the tunic from his torso. She gasped at the sight of his lacerated back, the whip marks very evident on his skin; they extended from his shoulders to beyond the small of his back, where Delia dared not look. Never had Delia seen anyone whipped so badly, if not meant for death. The only blessing was that the sores where not as deep as they were numerous. Whoever had made them was not blessed with any great strength. She thought she should do something to ease the pain of these wounds, but was afraid to leave him alone, so she merely waited for him to wake again, when they could find a stream in which to wash the wounds.
XI
Mark awoke after a little more than an hour, slowly sat up and forgot for the moment that Delia was with him. Seeing her made him sigh, and regretfully he told her, "Delia, you mustn’t come any farther with me." "Mark, wherever you’re going, I will be at your side. We mustn’t argue about that." He looked gratefully into her eyes, but thought she did not know just to what she was condemning herself. "Then we must keep moving." "Mark, what happened? Please tell me." "I’m not a monk anymore, Delia, and that is all you need to know. There is no shame in our being together now," he said taking her hand. Again they began to walk, Mark feeling somewhat better with the few hours of sleep.
The pain he felt was still with him, but his eyes did not strain with it, as they had before. "Where are we going?" Delia didn’t want to ask too many questions, fearful that Mark was ill, but he did not appear bothered by her questions: he was glad to know by the sound of her voice and touch of her hand that she was with him. "I know very little of the outside world Delia, like I once told you. I don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t know what we’ll do once we get there. Does that scare you?" "We’ll be all right." He looked at her, and saw that she bit her lip. "You’re a very brave girl." "Oh, not very…I was very scared last night." "What were you doing there?" "I was waiting for you of course. I received the message from Father Thomas, and left right away."
Mark stopped walking, stunned beyond belief. "Brother Thomas? He sent you a message?" "Yes." Mark resumed walking. "You didn’t know then?" "I didn’t know anything. But how could he have known?" "Father Philip knew, Mark…I thought you knew that." Mark was befuddled, and for a minute he felt so lightheaded that he feared that he was going to black out again. Delia wanted to put her arms around him to steady him, but she was afraid to touch him, so she stood with her hands held out uselessly. Mark’s eyes seemed to clear somewhat. "I had no idea." "He came to me after we had been meeting in the forest for a while, and he wanted to know what we intended to do. I told him nothing…I told him we had no plans." "And what did he say then?" "He gave me a blessing, and said I was a good girl and not to doubt you." Mark shook his head. How could any of the brothers understand love? How could they understand his plight and be sympathetic?
They continued walking on, until Mark felt sure that unless the brothers had taken horses they would be unable to catch up. They had walked in the deepest part of the woods, so that a horse would have had a hard time making its way through the brush, so Mark felt it safe to begin following along a stream, where progress was easier, and where they could also easily cross over, thus confusing any dogs that might be sent after them. Finally, Mark glanced over at Delia, and he realized that beads of perspiration were forming on her forehead, while she carried her cap tucked in her apron pocket.
"We should stop and rest." Delia nodded ‘yes’ and sank down on the thick moss of the creek bank. Mark was unaware that she had not slept while he did earlier this morning, and the flush that had overcome her in the warmth, unaccustomed exertion, and fatigue worried him. Finally thinking of what lay ahead of them in true rational consideration, he considered that despite the danger, rest was best. "Delia, come, drink from this little stream, it is cool," he said dipping his hands into the water that meandered by in an unhurried fashion over the rounded pebbles and flat rocks. Delia sat forward, coming to the edge of the creek, and leaned forward, but was afraid she would tip over, trying to drink. "Let me help you," Mark said, coming to her side and biding her to drink out of his cupped hands. Unaccustomed to drinking in this manner, most of the cool water was lost, but the water running down her chin and throat was almost as refreshing.
Mark watched her carefully, and she sat back against the bank once again. She closed her eyes to the rays of sunshine that poured in through a break in the foliage and tipped her head back resting on her elbows. She was wearing one of her plainer frocks, which was light blue in color, as it was somewhat faded; it was full everywhere except the sleeves and the bodice where it was fitted tightly. Across her chest, where the blue dress was cut square, approximately inch long white ruffles protruded, giving a tantalizing glimpse of her under-slip. Covering half the skirt was a lightweight apron in white, which had two pockets on either side, where she had tucked her white mop cap. Her stockings, which showed from mid-calf down, as she was sitting, were white as well and ribbed vertically. Her feet were not covered by anything more than little black slippers made of kid leather and reinforced by thick brown leather soles.
Mark now felt a pang: he should have at least insisted that she return to her home to fetch more appropriate shoes in which to walk. She had followed him wordlessly and without explanation, even though she was no more fit to walk a mile than ten, leaving everything in the world that she knew behind. It touched him deeply that someone would do such a thing for him, and he came forward leaning over her to kiss her forehead lightly. Delia opened her eyes and turned her face upwards to smile at him, but as she did, he had looked down and clumsily Mark bumped her lightly with his lips above her own soft lips. Mark corrected himself and kissed her lips, having not planned to before the slight embarrassment. Delia did not kiss him back with the same pressure as she had when they had kissed before, and Mark drew back, even more embarrassed with his face feeling uncomfortably red.
Delia realized that in her surprise, she had given the impression that she did not appreciate his advances, but she did not know how to make things right without approaching to kiss him again, which she could not gather the courage to accomplish. She did put her hand on his thigh without a sexual meaning in an attempt to assuage his discomfort. Nevertheless, she only succeeded in embarrassing him more without her even realizing it.
Delia recalled that she had meant to wash Mark’s wounds, and being right here by fresh water, she felt immediately that time should not be wasted. "Mark, please, let me wash your back…" Until she had begun to say it, she had forgotten that he had not told her about or shown her his injuries. Her request revealed that she must have looked for herself while he was asleep. Mark wasn’t angry, but at this moment his embarrassment was so great that he could not say very much. "Please, Mark…" Delia began again warily, "please, I think it should be washed, so that it doesn’t…" Mark cut her off saying "yes, of course, but I’ll do it." Delia looked down at the ground blushing with shame and feeling very foolish. "I’ll turn my back," she said standing up and turning away from the creek.
Mark waded into the creek and attempted to splash the water on to his back, which was ineffective and caused him to gasp when the cold water hit him. Delia could not help turning around when she heard his cry of anguish. "Oh Mark!" She hurried over to the edge of the creek and put out her hand to touch his arm, as he was facing away from her. "Please," she said taking his hand, "let me help you…let me help you." Her eyes were so full of compassion that Mark forgot his embarrassment and turned to sit in front of her on the bank. Delia did not want the cold water to touch him directly and without pause she grasped at one of her underskirts and ripped a small swatch to dip into the creek. He had pulled his tunic off and all he had on was his leggings. Delia lightly ran the cloth over his sores and squeezed the water across his shoulders, trying not to break the skin open once more. "I’m not hurting you, am I?" She asked, leaning over his shoulder. "No, thank you, Delia. I’m sorry." "Oh, no, Mark, I’m sorry…please let us not quarrel." In their sweet innocence they thought that the embarrassing moment which had just passed between them was what could call a lover’s quarrel.
Delia continued to wash Mark’s back until she felt she had eased the pain some and succeeded in removing any dirt that had been rubbed into the wounds. She had noticed how firm Mark’s body was as she ran her hands over it; it was so very different from her own. Muscles seemed to be all that was there under the skin, and his skin was darker from having been exposed to the sun in the fields when no one was around to see his bare chest. His arms, which she could see from the back, were clearly thick with muscle, even though he was not terribly large.
She was taken by surprise, when these strong arms gripped her, when she announced that she was finished and he might pull on his tunic again. He turned around, and began to kiss her, having sat patiently while she cared for him, all the while wishing to redo what had not turned out well a few minutes earlier. This time Mark did not let her initial surprise cause him any embarrassment, and he was rewarded by the fact that she soon kissed him back just as enthusiastically. In turning around in his sitting position Mark had leaned slightly against the front of Delia, and she yielded easily being pushed back on the sharp incline of the creek bank. Thus laying on the soft moss, Mark put his arms around the small of her back, and not wishing to hurt him, she held her hands to his face, avoiding his sore back.
After a few minutes, Mark grew conscious of being on top of a woman and rolled over on to his side, but took her hand and squeezed it. He reached down to brush her dark hair away from her face where it had fallen on one side and she kissed his hand as it brushed past her. "Delia…we should move on again," he sighed after a moment. "Oh, Mark, who is it that is chasing us?" Mark realized that it was wrong to keep from her what had happened, and so he leaned in and in a hushed voice told her all that had gone on before she had met him in the forest, all the while squeezing her hand so as to assure her that all would be all right. When he had finished, she shed a few more tears before agreeing that they should move along again.
