CHAPTER 5

  The knight slowly opens his eyes to light. His vision blurry and weak upon waking. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and slowly the room comes into focus. It was a small room, with a small table next to the door across from the cot in which he lay. The cot upon which he lay was a simple frame with a green sack stuffed with straw. The material of the sack, however, seemed to be an old carpet that was stitched together with hemp twine; the pillow wasn't much better, though at least it was a softer cloth. A second table was next to the head of the cot, upon which were two bottles, corked with some dark liquid inside each, as well as his helm resting upon it. The empty slots of the eyes directed upon him. It was odd: looking into his own mask as the world around him sees it.

  "My helm. Who hath removed it?" he inquires to no one in particular. He begins to reach over to take it from the table when he notices his arm is bare, with no glove or mail upon it. As he reaches a sharp pain flashes in his side, forcing a grunt from him and pulling his arm back from its reach. He lifts his arm slightly, sagging his head down to look at his wound; his shoulder-length hair flopped down around his shoulders and hung over his brow. Fresh bandages with a large spat of blood were wrapped around his midsection, he also takes note of his entirely nude body, save for his trousers. "Mmm..." he grumbles, "Of course: how might I forget?"

  He forces his pain out of his mind as he again, reaches over with a shaky hand and grabs the steel barrel that was his helmet. He inspects it for a moment, admiring its craftsmanship: with a brass strip running down the center, dotted with rivets, the orle that wrapped around the brow with padded cloth alternating from black to white and holding the capelet that covered the back and ear-sides of the helmet, which would softly rest upon the shoulders when the helm was worn.

  After another moment, trying to imagine how he might look to others, and failing miserably so, he puts his helmet on. Once again, shielding his face from the world. The judgment of the church needed no face, for it were no person; it was only justice, and law. With devotion of the Lord comes the rebuking of oneself. There is no need for personal claims, personal rites. To be yourself is to be separate of His grace. At least, as such is needed with his endowment of charge. To be this vanquisher of evil, you must first deliver yourself unto the church and the Lord; so that your kin and fellow children of God might be able to exist in whatever character and bliss they can hope for.

  "That's better." He remarks, fastening the buckle under his chin. He sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the cot, slapping his feet onto the cold stone floor. His mind prattling, 'Curse. My body... It all aches... T'least someone hath aided me, though, I wish I weren't stripped.' As he continues to bemoan within his mind, a gentle rapping upon the door to the room captures his attention. He moves not, save for gliding his eyes up to the entrance, yet, the brow of his helm obscured his view from about waist-height and up.

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  The door creaks lightly as it opens, a feminine voice, gentle and timid, speaks into the room curiously: "Lo? Art thou awake?" He sees the foot of the door swing open wider as she speaks: "Oh, you're up about as well! Splendid!" he hears her feet patting against the ground as she steps closer to him, "Forgive me, for I took the liberty to bandage you... I pledge I hath not looked where I needn't..." The hem of her habit swishes at his feet when she stops close to him while he sits on the bed, still yet not looking up to her. After a moment of awkward silence, she speaks yet again: "I've also brought ye some broth... Sister Colette made it for thee."

  He reaches up to grab the bowl that she extends down to him, unwilling to meet her gaze, ashamed of his state of being. It was improper to be so bare in front of the fairer sex, he doesn't even allow other knights of his order to see him in such undress. He gently takes the bowl from her fingers, replying: "Many thanks... You are much too kind, sister??", he lets the word linger, implicit of his inquiry on how he might address her.

  "Mariette." She answers, as he pulls his head up, so that he might look upon his savior. He was met with an anthropomorphic jackal. She had fur colored like cream, or perhaps white ash. A pink nose that adorned her long snout, and eyes with orange irises. Though her legs were covered by her nun habit, one could see the jut of her digitigrade heels protruding from her backside. Her habit, though, was unusual in that it was form-fitting from her waist and up. Clinging to her hips and chest as if she were soaked by rain. The hourglass shape of her narrow waist was only emphasized by the taught fabric across her bosom, leaving little to the imagination regarding her form. It seemed as though she were never given a proper fitting habit from the convent; which, given their seclusion, is not at all surprising. The cowl of her headdress sunk beyond her cheeks and draped over her shoulders, with long, pointed ears standing tall through the holes cut out from the top. She bowed her head and spoke with her hands clasped together at her waist, "I am sister Mariette."

  He brings the bowl up in thanks, "I am indebted to you, sister," though, she waves his thanks away; "Oh! Worry not, I find calling in the aid of others."

  "Nonetheless, ye are a welcome kindness. I apologize for mine intrusion of the night."

  She giggles lightly, with her hand brought up to her shoulder, while relaxed, her fingers still gravitated to a position of the pinky and index finger standing up higher than her middle and ring finger, while her thumb crossed in and just barely graced the knuckle of her middle phalange. Her voice took a more jovial tone as she spoke, "Think nothing of it; it is our duty to offer assistance to those whom seek refuge. Now... what brings a human to our secluded convent?"

  He looks back down, staring into the bowl of broth atop his lap. Mayhap she is entitled to know, after all, he may very well be unalive to complete his duty if not for her. After a small moment of decision, he answers: "For the Inquisition. The peasantry hath sent for the inquisition about strange happenings; I, in turn, was sent to quell their concerns. I understand that it is... unusual to find a human this far beyond their kingdom."

  She nods in acknowledgment, "Very unusual, yes... But it is of little import yet. You've lost much blood. I shall return with fresh bandages soon. Please rest." She urges, turning away to leave.