Garald confesses
8th November 1102
Garald chewed nervously at his nail as he walked. He always picked at his nails when he was worried or upset. It proved a good distraction from whatever it was he did not want to think about.
The wick had come away at the side and he nipped clumsily at it trying to cut it off at the base. He only succeeded in pushing it in the wrong direction, causing a stab of pain that made him want to give up.
It had been snowing lightly all afternoon, so that the ground was covered with a fine misting of white. But now fat raindrops were plummeting from the sky, tiny wet missiles melting holes in the snow where they hit. It was just the kind of weather that Garald hated, when the rain and the snow mixed and froze forming one dark ice slick that covered the ground. It was so difficult to walk when it was like that and Garald lived in fear of falling over on the ice when someone was watching and embarrassing himself.
There was noone watching him now as he walked towards the sturdy, wooden church. Nobody but God himself. He shuddered, chewing all the more fervently, determined to nip away the irritating piece of nail. His lip brushed against the chill metal of his wedding band. He gazed down stupefied at the glinting object, the nausea rising again in his stomach.
He shook his hands as though to clean them of some unseen dirt that had gathered there.
Now you’ve gone and done it lad, haven’t you.
He could imagine his mother’s disapproval as though she stood beside him, watching all the while as he had picked at his fingers like a dirty boy and not the man he now was.
He glanced down at his slender fingers in dismay. With these very hands he had done unspeakable things.
She won’t forgive you for this you know.
He fought back a sob that was rising unbidden in his throat and staggered up the stairs, his feet skittering on the slippery surface. He gripped the railing, leaning heavily on it as though it were an offer of a consoling shoulder.
Dirty, filthy boy. Rotten to the core.
Why had he done it? He was the worst husband imaginable. Dirty, filthy, lust writhing at his festering core like a ball of worms, their slimy bodies entwined like lovers. Fat, fleshy and pink rolling over, around and through one another, knotting into unnatural shapes.
He took a deep breath and pulled open the heavy door. Inside the air was no warmer than out. The room was dark, only a few guttering candles and the weak, dilute afternoon light filtering through.
He took another deep shuddering breath, the musky scent of incense tickling his throat and giving him the desperate urge to cough. He swallowed with difficulty and shut the door behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkened room, he saw the Father, deep in thought, his lips moving silently as he read to himself from the large bible propped open on its stand.
He coughed softly and Father Harndall’s head jerked up.
“I’m sorry Father, I did not mean to startle you”, Garald said softly as he walked towards the front of the church.
“It is no bother”, Harndall replied, with a tired smile, “I was only preparing myself for Sunday”.
“Ah of course”, Garald nodded sagely.
“Now, what may I do for you on this miserable day”, the priest asked softly, “or were you wanting to spend some quiet time alone with the Lord. If so I will not bother you”.
“Actually I was hoping to confess”, Garald admitted haltingly.
“I see”, Harndall acknowledged kindly, “then perhaps we should sit”.
They both carefully slid into the pew.
“Please, do begin”.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned”, Garald mumbled, feeling the familiar flush of shame staining his cheeks, his face growing unbearably hot.
“I have committed a grave sin against my wife”.
“Go on”.
“Last night, I was so overcome with lust for her body that I took her without her permission”, the guilt slid over him again like a slobbering tongue and he felt as though he might be ill.
He glanced up at the priest’s face, imagining what the other man must think of him now.
But Harndall’s face did not betray his thoughts if they were scornful. Perhaps he did not understand.
Can’t even say the words and own up. Always a lying, rotten child brimming with sin.
“I… that is to say, I raped her”, the foul word slithered from his mouth as though he had coughed a festering lump from deep inside his lungs and now held it forth in his trembling hands for the priest to inspect.
“I see”, Harndall replied calmly, his eyes wide and compassionate.
“I don’t know how I can face her again”, Garald whispered, “I think I really hurt her”.
The priest took a deep breath and began, “What you have done is certainly wrong Garald“,
Garald felt the a tight clenching in his chest as though God himself had his heart cradled in one hand, trying to decide whether he should simply squeeze the life from it, so fetid and black had it grown.
“But you are not a bad man at heart and I am certain that once your wife sees how repentant you are for what you have done she will forgive you. But first you must ask for the forgiveness of the Lord. Also, in order to atone for what you have done, you must not share her bed for the period of one month”.
Garald nodded mutely. He could do this. He was strong enough to protect their souls from sin as he had the many months of her pregnancy. He would pray every day for forgiveness.
“Will you pray with me Father?”
“Of course”.
They both knelt down hands clasped, heads bowed. Outside the rain grew heavier, splattering noisily on against the wooden building, a few drips finding their way in where the walls had not been properly sealed.
“Our Father who art in heaven”
Can’t hide your sin with a few fancy words. We all see through it we do.
“hallowed be thy name”
She isn’t going to forgive you for what you’ve done.
“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven”
She’s never going to forgive you.
“Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses”
Forgive me. Forgive me Lord.
“as we forgive those who trespass against us”
Please, please forgive me. I am sinful. I am weak.
“and lead us not into temptation”
Filled with temptation and filthy lust.
“but deliver us from evil”
Evil.
Oh Nyawe please forgive me.
Oh wow, that was intense. Must have been difficult for Harndall to hear that confession, considering what happened to Valeriya (and how he himself may be the prime suspect).
Garald is really confused about everything (that is, to state the obvious). The twelfth century really was in desperate need of psychologists and sex therapists
I agree, this was really intense and wonderfully layered. Poor Garald, what a life he’s had.
I wonder what Father Harndall thinks about this. I wonder what can a celibate man who hears the confessions of everyone else think about this? But more than that, someone who loves Valeriya and must imagine what she’s been through? (If he hasn’t heard Radomir’s explicit confession.)
And if it’s your wife, are you allowed to feel lust towards her? Harndall’s duty is to say “as little as possible”. That’s why I’m worried about Garald — it’s a lot less likely anyone’s going to say “you know, it’s really OK if you do that…” because the Church says it’s not OK.
Hmmm… is Garald by any chance in the process of making friends with any of the male characters? Perhaps one of them could set him straight, depending on who it happened to be of course.
I can’t imagine how messy it must get without women’s magazines and word-of-mouth (let alone sex therapists) to sort out all the weird ideas people have. As my mother always likes to say there isn’t a single (who knows if this is true or not) sexual relationship where there isn’t some sort of problem (whether small or big… *snigger*). But seriously, if you think about that and then put it into the context of medieval times when noone was allowed to talk about it you have a whole big kettle of fish (gratuitous use of the phrase now that I know it means big salmony mess). I guess maybe it was slightly easier since who cares if the women had problems with things back then.
But it is easy to see, in this context how poor Garald has gotten so messed up. Growing up in a family where sex was never mentioned ever Garald is extremely suppressed. Most medieval guys would have at least had a few practice runs on maids or whores but not him.
One thing I really love is the massive contrast between him and Lyiss. While Garald is so suppressed and tortured I find writing Lyiss (who grew up in the same family obviously) to be something entirely different. I think she is sort of naively erotic in her view of the world and her extreme awareness of things. I am so enjoying writing these two characters.
I think Harndall handled this okay because I do believe in some way that he can empathise with Garald. He too is experiencing guilty lust and trying to suppress it. I think he was actually quite sympathetic here. I wonder how much what Garald “did” echoes Valeriya and Radomir in his mind. I haven’t really thought too much about what he is thinking here. He was just a soundboard for Garald’s thoughts, but it is definitely an interesting point.
Garald doesn’t really have many friends. He is quite reserved and shy. He has a very deep affection for Lyiss though can only show it in a stunted manner (and obviously she is going to be no help at all). I do have some plan for where this is going and I think it is going to be rather fun (though also tortured and heartachey so maybe my definition of fun is not a very nice one… my poor characters).
Poor Garald. Poor Nyawe.