3
It all felt wrong when I
pulled aside the covers. It should have drained away my burden. All of it
should have gone. It should have drained deep within me. But instead all of that
blackness stood still; motionless on my shoulders only to slide back into my head.
Charlotte stood before me and saw what I never was to show her. She saw the
blackness entwined within me – she saw what only God’s enemies should see and
what only God can relieve on my day of reckoning. What have I done?
Bohemond crossed the three steps
between Charlotte and himself and knelt beside her raking body curled upon the
heavy fur rugs of the tent floor. He reached out tentatively, wanting
nothing more than to hold close the woman whom he loved, but he was acutely
aware of the battle accumulated mess that clung to his body. Charlotte felt his
careful closeness and the hesitation in his actions. She pulled herself away
from the empty embrace of the ground and looked at her husband through tear
streaming eyes.
“Charlotte…” he began.
Charlotte squeezed the tears from
her eyes with a long blink and watched him forming soundless words of apology.
Her reply was to reach out to his still outstretched arms and pull them tight
around her until Bohemond understood her need and wrapped her in the warmth of
his body. Together they sat each holding the other, only moving to breathe.
The sun was reaching the lip of
the hills around the camp when Charlotte and Bohemond stirred from the cocoon
that had enveloped them. The reality of their closeness prodded Charlotte into
full consciousness. “We need to clean you up.”
Bohemond’s eyes opened and
focused on his filth crusted arms that he held around her. He stood up and
looked down at his condition in open disgust. “Yes, we do. You should never
have had to see me like this. And you equally should never have to help clean
this,” he said gesturing with revulsion at his current state.
“Don’t be foolish Bohemond; I
knew what to expect when I convinced you to bring me with you.”
He looked up at her with
incredulity.
“Well fine, when I forced you to
bring me with you. And despite me expecting you like this afterwards… I wasn’t
prepared for it.”
She looked at his downcast face
at her admission and added with a grin, “Though I certainly wasn’t prepared for
the foul-smelling drivel you and your soldiers call a meal. I can smell that
stuff brewing on the camp fire from here!”
Bohemond attempted to stifle his
laugh and failed dismally much to the pleasure of Charlotte. “Will you ever allow me the sad
comforts of my bad moods or will you forever bring me cheer?”
Charlotte grinned as she narrowed
her eyes and replied, “I will do what I wish to suit me as you are a miserable
bore in your bad moods and overly… amorous at your most cheerful. Keeping the
balance between the two is an endless source of work for me, you know?”
“Miserable bore? Overly amorous?
Endless work?” Bohemond stood in only partial mock surprise.
“Don’t look so shocked and take
off you armour while I fetch some water.”
Bohemond stared in outright
adoration at his wife as she let the entrance cover drop back into place,
leaving him alone in the tent and missing her presence already.
Charlotte returned with two pails
of water, one Bohemond could clearly see had been filled from a heated vat. She
saw him observing the steaming wooden bucket as he pulled his heavy mail armour
over his head and let it drop to the ground. “You would not believe how long it
took me to convince Robert to let me put some water on to heat. He didn’t seem
to be able to understand that I wanted it so you could bathe when you returned.
He kept wanting to make a broth with it. Look there is still some cabbage left
in there from his first attempts!”
“Thank you. And I can believe how
difficult it was to convince Robert to do anything that would allow what he would
call ‘unnecessary comforts’,” Bohemond said smiling. He chose not to add that
probably all the men outside his Baronial field tent had never bathed with
heated water in their lives. Firewood was a labour-intensive commodity and to
waste it on heating bathing water when food needed cooking was a prospect for
only the wealthy.
Bohemond finished stripping off
and Charlotte began to wash his body clean as he sat on a small stool. The
water collected the physical remains of the day’s battle and dropped them to
the ground. With each droplet of sullied water that fell so too did Bohemond's
thoughts. All of it washed away by the warmth of the water and the care with
which it was administered. He dozed listlessly.
It was with slight regret that he
realised that Charlotte had finished bathing him and was now standing by the
entrance with a lit taper. The night had grown dark and only a faint glow from
the camp torches outside shone through to light the tent. Bohemond watched her
move progressively around the enclosed space; lighting the lanterns hanging
from the tent frame. He traced the lines of her body with his eyes as she lit
each lantern in turn and remarked to himself how beautiful she was. Her dark-brown
chest-length curls highlighted by the naked yellow flames of the lanterns. Her
close fitted tunic, tights and riding boots that caused such scandal in his
father’s court. Her ease of movement as she navigated the crude furniture of
the tent. Her deep brown eyes and heavy lashes giving a returning stare with a
mixture of love and worry.
“What troubles you?” she asked as
she blew out the taper.
Bohemond stood without a reply,
suddenly wanting to escape this person looking at the deep recesses of his
soul, the place where he held his shadow. “I have to see to the men and the
camp – make sure all is in order.”
She smiled at him as she started
collecting his strewn armour. “Bo, you may want some clothes before you join
the men, we aren’t Greeks you know. Besides, Robert has already been to say
that the men are fed and the night watch set. He said all will be ready for the
march in the morning.”
Bohemond looked incensed. “When
did he come?” he demanded, suddenly on edge and confused.
“Just as I put out the pails and
lit the taper from the torches outside,” she replied; her eyes wide at his
sudden uncharacteristic anger.
Silence fell upon them, both
statuesque as they faced each other from across the tent. Then Bohemond
crumpled. Tears formed and fell with rapid succession and a heaving sob brought
him to his knees. What he thought had been buried deep within escaped and
wrought havoc. All of the pain, violence, hate, anger and fear that was only
meant to visit his dreams thundered through his waking body. Charlotte raced to
him as Bohemond’s soul and mind spewed forth the pent up misery of a man
contorted by actions in utter opposition to his being. He wept in her arms
until exhaustion brought on sleep.
Bohemond was dragged into the
sun lathered courtyard by many hands. There it lay in the hard packed gravely
sand. No he cried. Again he cried no. He thrashed against his human shackles as
they pulled him towards it with awkward ease. And again he cried no. He could
see the dry cloudless sky as he was rolled onto his back; still suspended above
the ground, and now, above it. No he cried once more. His clothes were ripped
from his body until only his skin remained. Then he felt it. It was pressed
hard against his back as he was thrust down by the faceless blur of pinning
arms. Yet again he cried no. His arms were stretched and pulled out as his
torso was weighed down without sympathy. It was still there, pressed hard
against him, and more noticeable with each passing second. His legs were the
only part unbarred and he pushed against it with all his terror-filled fury.
Wood splinters bit and burrowed with all his exertion against it as he cried
no. His legs were captured and his resistance faltered…
The clouds swept him up and
encircled him, pulling him up, but out and through. The greyness of the clouds
fell apart below him into their substantial nothingness. He was stood upon them
by another, exalted in light. All before him was about to begin and all behind
him already forgotten. He was new. Before him was the figure of light. He bowed
his head and dropped his knee. He was neither worthy to behold the figure’s
visage nor stand its equal in stature. You are my Warrior it told him. You will
cut down those who are my enemies it told him. You are born my Warrior, it told
him…
Bohemond’s eyes opened wide and
bloodshot. His pupils contracted against the faint light in the tent. The
ingrained familiarity of his field tent instantly dispelled his awakening
disorientation in place and time. Lying still he realised that Charlotte had
directed him to the sleeping pallet at some point and he was grateful for the
soft furs between himself and the ground. Her slow, deep breathing rose and
fell beside him and he carefully rolled away. Bohemond stood silently and
mentally chastised himself as he looked at the neglect strewn around the tent. The chain mail slumped in a mass of steel
links on the ground beside discarded and dirty bracers, greaves, boots, and
padded leather gambeson. Hose pants and surcoat, soiled and stained, lay
stinking alongside the armour. Only the sword revealed a cursory attempt at
care; clean and leaning up against the table. Bohemond’s conscience had not
been clouded by feeling foolish and irresponsible in years. The memories of his
father’s strict tutelage, scathing judgement, and harsh punishment for failure
sparked and flared. He attempted to extract order from within his chaos.
Ten minutes later Bohemond
stepped out from his tent in hastily oiled and polished armour and boots –
wearing new, unblemished surcoat and hose – and buckled on his sword belt. He
inhaled the sweet dawn air greedily and looked to the horizon where a tiny
sliver of the sun crested the hills; lightly coating the grey-blue sky with a
golden and rose film. He cast his eyes around the camp, pleased to see the
assigned sentries awake and alert, and grinned inwardly at realising he had
still arisen before Robert despite his rushed efforts at equipment maintenance.
Bohemond again cursed himself for not completing the duties he expected of
himself the night before. The night before. He instantly jumped and
skipped his thoughts away from those memories; not forgotten, but avoided with
every effort possible. Acknowledging what happened last night meant exposing
those deep, unclean creases in his soul. And Bohemond could not do that.
He scowled and pushed all the fog
and rubbish in his head back and begun turning the mental checklist of tasks
that needed completing before his men could march. As he stepped away with his
business ahead, Charlotte lay awake on the pallet. Her thoughts churned as she
attempted to understand how a man could fall asleep in her arms, weeping for an
unknown sadness; only to awake in the morning, oil his armour and leave her
without even trying to share his pain.
