Goodman (2)

A Good Father

The howling unsettled him, drawing a shiver down his spine and making his heart ache.

The gray sky overhead, the sun dimmed by an unknown force, earlier in the year, at the end of winter. The old tree loomed above them, gnarled and watchful. Its leaves fell early this year.

They stood over the boy’s open grave. Sigemar’s howling cries were deep and sorrowful, the primal sound of a father who lost his son.

Remigius spoke from memory. “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

He knows our frame; He remembers we are but dust.

As the flower of the field, so he blooms—and so he falls.

But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting.”

What remained of the boy had been wrapped in linen and laid at the bottom of the hole. Remigius had been asked to offer the family comfort, but he was a novice unable to perform rites.

The church often sent a priest like himself to the unbaptized and poorer community members. A month prior, a noble family had lost a daughter to disease. When her younger brother wept at her funeral while the senior priest read the last rites, his mother had scolded him.

Agnelia wiped her tears and held her husband’s head against her chest. Rubbing his dark hair and comforting him. Expectations of decorum did not bind them.

Remigius helped to lower the boy’s body into the hole his father had dug.

The cool, moist dirt collected at the bottom edges of his dark robes. They needed mending, but not as severely as the families. The edges of their trousers were threadbare, and Tillo’s were a patchwork of repairs, most likely tattered before his brother Clodoald passed them down to him when they were outgrown.

These are good people. Good and simple people.

He had pulled back the linen at the mother’s request and placed a stone on his tongue. Remigius, with the family’s permission, had laid an unmarked cross over the boy’s chest.

His face was serene, peaceful.

They hadn’t heard the attack, but they heard the boy screaming through the woods, and by the time they found the site where the wolves had attacked, little remained. Clodoald’s face, as a mercy, was mostly untouched, but his legs and one arm had been removed. They only found what remained of one leg. The rest was with the wolves.

The young priest sighed. “May the Virgin cradle him as I once did.

May he not wake cold.

May he not thirst.

Let no spirit twist his path.

Let no voice lie to him.”

He bowed his head respectfully as he finished with a few limited rites to offer comfort.

Tillo hugged his mother’s leg. His hands tangled in the faded gray dress. The woolen tunic appeared coarse but warm in the cool autumn air. An unseasonably cold wind blew through the trees. The forest was dark past the edges, where the field gave way to old growth. Remigius should have known to dress warmer. A shudder crawled beneath his robe. Where the shadows of the trees darkened the woods, he could feel hungry eyes, like the forest was ready to spit out another meal.

Remigius tightened his cloak, wrapped around him, and cinched the belt on his waist.

After Sigemar settled, he collected himself with an apology.

Remigius shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize for mourning your son.”

Sigemar nodded and chewed his lip nervously, reaching for the shovel.

He thought about the noble family and how that mother probably scolded that boy again behind closed doors. But it would be tenderness and love in Sigemar and Agnelia’s home.

“Why don’t you let me help you?” Remigius offered.

“Thank you.” Sigemar nodded.

“I’ll take Tillo home,” Agnelia said, her face tired, her eyes red from crying. “Thank you, Brother Remi.”

“My condolences and deepest sorrow for your loss.”

Sigemar stood over the hole for a while, staring down at what remained of his son, a cross on his chest, his body wrapped in pale linens.

Remigius took the shovel from Sigemar’s hand. “I’ve got it.”

Sigemar’s eyes watered, and he sat back against the tree.

“It’s my fault,” he sniffed, wiping his cheeks dry. His beard was tangled, his hands and face worn from long days outside, working the fields and caring for the animals. The skin hung from his face, and his hands where hunger had begun to take its toll.

Remigius started to scoop dirt into the hole. “It is normal as a parent to feel that way.”

“No, not that.” He started. “I’ve done…not just me. This is a punishment.”

He means to confess.

“I’m not qualified to accept confession.” More dirt fell onto the linen-wrapped remains. A clod knocked the cross off the boy’s chest. It lay awkwardly beside him.

Sigemar’s mouth trembled, his eyes deep pools. “I don’t know what that means.”

“I…What are you being punished for?” Remigius asked, realizing the man was unfamiliar with all the church’s institutional trappings, but he trusted his station to be a trusted counselor.

“It was the Battle of Autun. I was an infantryman—a simple soldier. We were told to sack the city. What we did…All this is for our sins.”

Remigius covered the boy, one shovelful at a time. He was accustomed to the work, often handling the graves within the church of Saint Denis. “What did you do?”

“It started with the burning. Our flames tore through grain storehouses. The heat was so intense.”

Remigius listened, continuing to toss dirt.

“But the brothers, Kings Childebert and Clothar. They wanted the Burgundians to suffer. They told us to make them suffer.” Sigemar looked up at the sky. “The nobles, young men on their horses. They understood before we did. At first, it was just looting, but then the women…”

Remigius had heard whispers, but those sins all seemed distant. Sigemar’s words chilled him. That distance was closing in. The Burgundian campaigns, in which the brothers Kings Clovis and Childebert, sons of Clovis, defeated and captured Burgundy from King Godomar, and Autun, were the final battle, which took place four years ago. So many veterans of that campaign were in the community, attending his church.

In Sigemar’s eyes, those weren’t whispers. They were ever-present memories.

“We made jokes. Never want another Burgundian man…” He sighed.

“We’d ruin them for their husbands—the ones who were alive.”

“If you carry guilt, then your heart still lives. And God listens to the living, Sigemar.” Remigius offered. His back and arms started to burn as he scooped more dirt into the hole, wiping his forehead of sweat with his sleeve.

“I couldn’t touch my wife. Not for a season after I returned home. I…”

“You don’t have to say more if you don’t want to,” Remigius said, resting the shovel against the tree and placing his hand on the man’s shoulder to comfort him.

“What we did to those women. How we brought famine to their lands for years with our fires.” Sigemar looked into Remigius’s eyes. “This is our punishment. It wasn’t just me. All of us did. The sun has weakened. Our crops fail. Animals are dying of hunger, and our children…” Sigemar wept again. Quiet convulsions with his face buried in the faded brown sleeve of his woolen cloak.

Remigius focused on the grave as the day faded, letting Sigemar weep until he was spent. He leaned back against the tree, lost in his despair and guilt. When the last of the dirt was a soft mound underneath the tree, the two laid a large flat stone over the top.

In silence, they walked back to the main road, a faded and worn remnant of the empire that once reached beyond these lands. While they spoke, Sigemar, not quite ready to part ways, a rider approached.

His horse trotted slowly and confidently. His dark red cloak was visible in the fading afternoon light even at a distance.

Sigemar stepped off the road first. Bowing his head as custom when a noble passes.

Remigius could see it was the young Arduin of Argenteuil, who had recently returned from his service to Emperor Justinian in Byzantium. He moved beside Sigemar to allow the younger noble to pass.

Arduin stopped, looking down at Sigemar and Remigius. His eyes were sharp, and the silver clasp holding his cloak over his shoulders was the antlers, his family crest, and the stag symbol.

Remigius thought he saw a flash of yellow in his eyes. Yellow, like candlelight in a predator’s eye. He blinked, and it was gone.

“Father Remigius, today has found your work grim.” The noble said, his tone solemn. “And Goodman Sigemar, my deepest condolences to your family.”

They looked upward toward the noble, each nodding.

“It is all in God’s good name, my lord,” Remigius replies respectfully.

“You are a good, pious man,” Arduin says. His eyes fixed on Sigemar. “Goodman, I can’t offer you anything in exchange for your son. But perhaps I can offer you a bit of economic comfort. The vassals on my estate have been ravenous as of late, and I require livestock. Perhaps I could purchase some of yours at fair market prices?”

Remigius looked over at Sigemar, thinking about the offer. Arduin’s right as lord was to take the animals he needed in exchange for their land use. The purchase of livestock was a kindness, especially as these animals were wasted away on withered rations.

Sigemar bowed his head in gratitude. “Yes, my lord. You are very kind.” He responded quickly, but his tone was flat. It was a mercy, but not a choice.

“Two sheep or cows do not disrupt any breeding pairs. This evening, Goodman, please.” Arduin looked away as he finished speaking, preparing to ride away.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

They waited until Arduin was out of earshot. The slow clunk of hooves on the cobbled stone faded before they spoke.

Remigius looked at Sigemar, who sighed in resignation. “A bit of coin will do. Not that there is much food to buy.”

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