Sparrows

Part 12

 Part 12

Everywhere I see plenty and untroubled order, while our village has nothing but want and fear. How can this be?

We are in a world full of wonders, a different world, the world of my childhood. But how can I trust that what I see here will not darken into deadly chaos in a moment?

Lord, why do I want to run and hide from what is good?

NO...I must have faith, I have to believe it is God's plan.

I have obligation to the Jongleurs, I must hold to that. And they are more able singers than I supposed, I must show myself worthy.

Pleasure I distantly remember, invades me, heats my blood, makes my skin prickle, and doubt leaves me.

The thrill of music is pure joy.

Perhaps Tom is right, this is Heaven?

###

Resting his back against the wide oak staves of the bath, Robert unwrapped his precious block of Aleppo soap. Bought in Antioch, it had been a gift for his faithful, loving wife Marceline. Of course she had been none of those things during his exile. But having survived the long journey home, and the two years he had spent as Bishop Henry's envoy, the precious soap was not wasted. Rob found he enjoyed the luxury of bathing with it, how it bore away the everyday stink of horse and sweat, leaving him cleaner than mere water and sand could scour, was strangely pleasing.

Taking his ease, Rob considered the skirmish at the abbey; it had been foolish. Nevertheless on occasion he let his conscience get the better of him, a failing he tried to correct. But now he must think on the vagaries of the king. Bishop Henry's advice had been to appeal to Stephen's notions of family. Though a man of strong passions, he was also a devoted husband and father. The Bishop had counselled that, to see a penitent return from the Holy Land cleansed of his sin, only to find his family lost to him, would strike the Kings heart.

Rob trusted his master's judgement, others may see the Bishop as more an arrogant intriguer than man of God, but he had seen the feats of negotiation, the subtle art of statesmanship the man employed. Henry of Blois was a good man, given less to pride and avarice than many of his ecclesiastical brethren.

Dipping his head under the water, Rob scrubbed the soap into his grimy, bedraggled hair.

No, Marceline would remain his wife, but never in his home and certainly not in his bed. He was putting her from him, the law would permit no other marriage. They were tied till one of them died, but there were more than enough nunneries for her to end her days in. The debauched Abbess and her base establishment would suit Marceline well; she would no doubt find herself very comfortable amid her fellow whores.

Which thought brought him back to the peasant woman. He had been steadfast in refusing to acknowledge she had a name, to admit it would afford her more importance than she warranted. But still her form sidled quietly into his head. Thoughts meandering, he considered how soft her skin might be, would it be improved after using his soap? Sliding the green tablet down his chest, he wondered how it would feel to guide it over her full breasts.

He didn't want to study his reason for buying the dress, letting your cock rule your head was a thing young men and old lechers did, he was not so young, nor so old as to let that happen again.

Unmindful, his right hand slipped down, coming to rest over that hardening, defiant organ between his legs. For a moment he stilled, denying himself release.

"Christ's mouldering bones!" he snatched his hand up and plunged himself beneath the water again, only resurface with equal vigour. He controlled his wants and needs, not some pathetic slattern.