Vindicta - Judy Colella (best ereader for pdf and epub TXT) 📗

Heaven. The priests promised it, even if conditions for entrance were difficult to accomplish. But surely if a person had already experienced Hell, she would be allowed in, yes? But one of those conditions was absolution before death, forgiveness of sins, anointing…and had it not been her own sinful stubbornness that had caused this plunge into Hell in the first place? Stay home. That’s what her brother had said. Don’t even consider traveling alone – her father had told her that. You’re only a girl and should behave like one, her mother had insisted. She’d ignored them all, had in fact left in the middle of the night, believing she could make it all the way to the monastery unscathed. And now…

She opened one eye, the one that wasn’t too swollen to use, and stared blearily at dirt. She was sprawled face- down on what she assumed was the road, even though the attack had taken place in the woods where they’d dragged her. She closed her eye again as new waves of horrible pain engulfed every part of her body, and forced away the memory of how it had been inflicted. The robbers – they’d done things to her that made her wish only for death, had in fact screamed her desire that they kill her right then. They had laughed and continued to hurt her while apparently finding it greatly pleasurable. After hours of this torture, mortification, of being beaten every time she shrieked with agony, she’d finally succumbed to the darkness. The blissful darkness where numbness ruled and kept her alive.

But now – now she was conscious again, the icy breeze scraping across her bare skin. Death. Why wouldn’t it come? Why was she still breathing? How was she still breathing? She was too hurt, too wounded, to get up and find shelter, find something with which to cover herself. But what did that matter now, anyway? Someone would probably find her, perhaps hurt her again, maybe even unwittingly grant her desire to die. She wanted to weep, but could not. Who she had been less than twenty-four hours ago had been torn away, ripped into unrecognizable pieces and tossed into the cold wind. All recollections of herself still lingering in the twilight between awareness and her newly-acquired loathing of life itself began now to slip away entirely, and soon would be lost to the void growing in the center of her being. Soon, nothing would matter, not even the fact that she’d survived the unimagin- able brutality.

Memories of light held tightly to their perch on the edge of a cold, unfeeling mind for another moment or two, finally giving up, letting go, and falling downward into the dark of a meaningless forever.

Virtue is its own reward, we are told. For those who have found a way to justify acts of vengeance, so is anger.

Bayard was angry, and was resolved to stay that way. Anger itself was a reaction; staying angry was a choice. He knew this, but had made that choice almost immediately and with determination. As a monk, he also knew - and was ignoring - the scripture verse that said, "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord," had in fact been copying it carefully onto a creamy vellum page the day before the occurrence that had caused this implacable ire. Other words surrounded this admonition, words like, "returning evil for evil to no one," and "not avenging yourselves," but he'd chosen to ignore all of those as well.

Everyone knew the dangers of highway robbery, that to venture onto the road with no other protection than a single sword carried by the driver of one's wagon or carriage was pure suicide - or worse. Still, if set upon by a large enough contingent of outlaws, none of whom understood honor or goodness, even the most well-armed traveler would be overcome. For this reason, Bayard had advised his sister to refrain from visiting him at the monastery. He would be heading to the family estate once the harvest was over anyway, so travel on her part was un- necessary. All outlaws - except for the extremely stupid ones - knew that the monks of St. Gervaise were without worldly possessions. To try and rob one would yield at best the poor monk's robe and perhaps a wooden rosary.

Bayard's sister, however, was a headstrong young lady. Different from others of her gender and class, she refused to accept the limitations set upon all women in their society. To that end, she had managed to learn the sword, could read fluently in several languages, and had no qualms about entering into conversations with various male family members about court politics. All of these accomplish- ments had, over time, given her the confidence to believe she could ride unharmed from their home in Exeter to the Monastery of St. Gervaise twenty or so miles to the east.

She was wrong. A farmer had found her lying naked in the middle of the road, bruises covering her body, blood seeping from places that indicated she'd been raped and sodomized violently and by many men. Neither her horse, her sword, nor her clothing were found anywhere, and from the look of things, she was close to death.

The bruises were a testament to the fact that she'd fought off her attackers furiously, but this had most likely only brought about worse treatment from them than they may have originally intended. Her sword had been useless.

After wrapping her in his cloak, the farmer had carried her to his cottage where the girl had regained consciousness long enough to ask for her brother at the Monastery. Since the attack had taken place only about five miles from there, the farmer had been able to send word, and the next day several monks had arrived with a cart padded carefully with cloth-covered straw. They brought her to the Monastery where she was currently being nursed back to health by their physician and two holy sisters who had been summoned from the closest Abbey.

It had taken no more than a few seconds of observing the girl's condition for the anger to rise in Bayard's heart. He'd turned away, practically choking on it, asked the physician to keep him informed as to her progress, and gone straight to the main chapel. By the time he'd stomped up to the chancel, he'd already made his choice, and suddenly unsure why he was even there, had glared up at the sculpted body on the cross over the altar. He had raised both fists, shaking them at the silent, impassive icon, and hissed, "Why?! She was a virgin, a believer in the Holy Church! How could You let this happen?!"

Back in his sparse cell, he’d sat on the side of his cot and wracked his brain for a plausible way to track down his sister’s despoilers. He was determined to find them and make them pay in the most painful way possible. At one point, he wept, not for those replaceable things they’d stolen, but for what they’d taken that could never be restored. He also despaired of a future for her. After all, what decent man would want her after she’d been used so? Worse, if one did, would she be able to tolerate his touch? Then there was the question of her recovery – if she succumbed to her wounds, everything else would be moot. Except, naturally, for his duty to find the perpetrators and destroy them. As he sat contemplating these problems, the day brightening his small window became a night nowhere near as dark as his thoughts.

A sudden knock on his door jolted him back to awareness of his surroundings – he’d plainly been without light of any kind for quite some time. The small table by his cot contained on its surface a thick candle and flints; with no difficulty he located the small stones and struck them over the candle’s wick. “Who is there?” he demanded, the sparks beginning to catch.

“Brother Bayard, it is I, Brother Renford. The meal has long since been served, and I thought perhaps you would care for something.”

The candle flared to life. “One moment.” He put the flints down and went to the door.

Renford was a small man, slight of stature as well as height, but he was one of the kindest people Bayard had ever met. At the moment, he was holding out a bowl of savory-smelling stew, a hopeful look on his face.

“You’re very kind, Brother Renford, but I have no appetite at the moment. Perhaps you could say a few prayers for my sister, and for me, too. I – I’m sure I’ll need them before this business is over.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Of course! I’m sure your dear sister will be made well again. Please don’t let your heart be heavy.”

“Let my…have you any idea what happened to her?” Bayard couldn’t help himself. A distant part of his mind understood the other monk’s genuine good intentions, but the part that was spiraling into a state of unstoppable rage had no qualms about pointing out the obvious, regardless of whether or not his words were unfairly hurtful. “You know what beasts we men can be, Renford, and beasts they were who deflowered my sister, nearly killing her in the process! How can she face anyone now? How can she contemplate marrying and bearing children after what they did? My God, man, she’ll be fortunate indeed if she even lives! Or maybe death would be the greater mercy! Pray for me, Renford, for I plan to find those evil bastards and do worse to them they could ever imagine!” He stepped back and shut the door as firmly as he could without slamming it in Renford’s face – at least that much control remained.

That much, but not much more.

Silence pressed heavy on both occupants of the large, stone-walled chamber. The Abbot of St. Gervaise paced