Those Years Without
Published by James Welsh at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 James Welsh
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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But O, oblige me by taking away that knife.
I can’t look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history.
-James Joyce
Prologue
“Every rebellion implies some kind of unity.” (Albert Camus)
Deep in Scotland
June, 1271 AD
Years later, taverns would whisper the name Rose Forbes – they were afraid, not because of the suspicious sideglances, but of anything louder than a mumble breaking her legacy like fine chinaglass.
Most of the writings have been lost since, crumbled and dusted by the attics of time, but scholars have pieced together the rainyday jigsaw (which still missed a piece here and there – that’s why it’s still a puzzle and not a picture).
Our Rose, the darling of the Amazons
Had lost her life to win us hope.
She bled like the ev’ning sun on that June day
For the mem’ry of a past that cannot die.
Rose would give the rhythm for all those songs and poems and chants and the like on that June day. It wasn’t evening – although that’s what all the poems sang – but morning. She fell in morning at the feet of the meadow. She could hear the cries of the dead just beyond the trees. Rose buried herself in the pillow-soft grasses. She breathed heavy, exorcising the pain out of her body like a thorn, but it didn’t work. She moaned and twisted, her fingers clawing at the scarlet pain that was melting her side. The arrow was quilling out of her thick cloak; she wrapped her hand about it and heaved. It didn’t come out but snapped, whittling away in her hands – the arrowhead was still buried between the ribs to stay.
Jesus Christ, she grimaced. There were no birdcries around her – the battle had scared off everything. All she could hear now was the sound of her men dying. She began crying, not from the pain, but from the end. The end to all those long years. The blonde in her hair mixed with the blue in her tears and the red in her wound until she was lying in a brightwhite puddle. But she was not innocent enough to deserve that.
Grass was crunching. She didn’t look up but could feel a presence. Her soul seemed to quiver.
“Ahhh, so what do we ‘ave here? It’s Boudica, back from the dead. And just ‘bout to leave again.”
She could hear a breathy laugh above her.
“Now, there’s a reward for your capture, you know. Can I live with a year’s worth of fortune if I bring your head in or two years’ if I bring you in alive?”
“You won’t get the chance,” Rose grunted, grating the words on her sharp tongue.
She could feel a swordblade dance on her neck. It felt cold but blazing at the same time.
“You know, I lost a lot of men today.”
Rose spat, “I have been losing more before this day.”
“A merry band of crooks and thieves? I weep. Really, I do. The day ev’ry madman is dead and buried, I’ll be out on the streets, begging with the lot of you.”
“I doubt the King will do that to one of his best rats…”
Rose cried softly. The sword quickly burrowed into her stomach for a moment, but it was long enough. The bright pain was withering away into a dull grey though.
The conversation was gone out of the man’s voice. He snapped, “Don’t tempt me to end you as a disgrace. I am no rat. I am Richard Norton. I have bested you in battle and I am your god.”
“You’re no god of mine.”
“I hold your life in my hands. I’m as good a god as any.”
“The day will come when I will get my revenge. I will live in the eye of your killer.”
“You will live in the eye of time itself? Nothing short of old age will claim me.”
“I doubt you will have that joy. I will come sooner than you think. I will lift the darkness of the land and settle it in your eyes. I will destroy you.”
Rose laughed raspy. The arrow stabbed at each halting laugh, but it was worth it.
“You don’t understand,” she said, “but I cannot die. Every hero survives his death as song. I will live in the eye of those who sing my song.”
“Enough of your womanly talk. After today, this kingdom will no longer shake at your name.”
To think, a kingdom afraid of a woman. Rose smiled at the thought.
There was a thin whistle in the air and all went dark.
Chapter 1
“Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.” (Lord Byron)
Lincolnshire, England
At That Same Moment
He could taste February’s ice on his lips although it was summer.
Before he even opened his eyes, he could feel the ice pressing in on him, crumbling the room up like parchment. His fingers crackled like fire as he moved the sheets and stumbled out of his bed. The ice had even froze the noise, silencing the entire world – even when his feet landed on the floor beneath the bed, he could not hear the reassuring sound.
Baron Albert de Vere rubbed the night’s sleep out of his eyes and looked around. Even though he had not lit a candle yet, the whole room glinted in pale blues. The walls absorbed the ice until they could stomach no more – thick sheets of the slippery stuff draped the walls. It seemed to swirl and dance in the light that came from somewhere. Each coating of ice felt like a brushstroke from some genius painter.
He suddenly remembered. He turned, but there was no one in the bed. There wasn’t even a dent in the side where his wife slept.
Where is she? Albert wondered. And why is there frost everywhere?
As Albert made his way across the floor, he was constantly on the verge of slipping. The floor was a pond iced over. He had not walked on one since he was a child. Once there was a time where he could run across such surfaces. Now he slipped and had to press his hand to the wall for support, afraid of a tumble. It was a lifetime before he reached the oak door that guarded the bedroom. He grunted as he heaved the door open – it took a few tries because ice had seeped into the hinges, rusting them shut.
The door finally gave way. The long hall before him was just as quiet as the room behind him. The glow seemed brighter out here though. Wondering where his love was at, he tried calling out Margaret but he was struck mute.
As he walked down the hall, looking for his love, he tried each door along the way. However, all of them were jammed frozen. Albert’s bones were too brittle for breaking open doors. He never remembered the hallway being this long before. It seemed to stretch elastic before his steps. He had been walking this long road when he should have been walking a hall no longer than an eavesdrop.
Just up ahead, he could see the last door. It was shut like the others, but this one had a flickering light seeping beneath it. Albert pressed on the door and it gave easy.
It was the main hall, silent of the shuffle of feet where his people would eat during the day. Now, it was empty, save for a fire that snapped and popped in the middle of the cavernous room. Its pulsing light scattered against the frozen-ocean floor. It was a strong storm of fire – even from this distance, Albert could feel the warmth pinching his cheeks. He was amazed that such a powerful fire did not melt the ice in the room. The flames leapt up like dancers, seeming to lick the high ceiling.
Albert rubbed his eyes – the bright fire irritated his sight for the moment. As his eyes adjusted, he could feel a blurry shadow between him and the fire.
The blur sharpened into a wiry man. The shadow from the fire behind him obscured the man’s face.
Albert demanded warily, “Who are you? Are you one of my people or an intruder?”
This time he could hear his voice. It echoed off the walls until he could hear several shades of himself asking the same question.
The man said nothing at all. Instead, he quietly picked up a clay mug – sloshing with some crystal liquid that ran over the sides. He reached behind him and pulled an arrow out of some unseen quiver. With a quick dip of the arrowhead in the mug, the man let the cup drop to the floor. It shattered like a splash in the gulf. The drops of broken mug immediately wisped away into smoke.
The shadow pulled a bow out of the cold thin air and trained the arrow in Albert’s direction. Albert tried to move. He was rooted fast to the ground though, like a proud sycamore waiting for the lightning topple.
The shadow echoed, I am no man. I am the ending for your play.
The bowstring gave. The arrow lunged. Albert didn’t even have a chance to scream. A shout is the worst last words to have.
The very second the poisoned arrow buried into his chest, Albert snapped awake. His weak heart pounding, he looked around sharply. He was back in his room. The morning was glaring through the open window near his bed. No ice.
Albert felt something heavy against his chest. He looked down, expecting to see an arrow dipped in his heart. He was relieved to find, though, that it was just his hand pressed firm against his breast, the fingers clutching at his old man’s heart beneath its grave of ribs.
Drenched in sweat from the nightmare – yet glad that it was nothing more – Albert collapsed back into the folds of his straw-stuffed mattress, soaking in the warmth of the June morning. Although his eyes were closed, Albert knew there was suddenly someone standing over the bed. He was not afraid though – he knew who it was. He knew that soft-tempered perfume.
With opening his eyes, Albert smiled, “Good morning, love.”
Lady Margaret de Vere leaned over him and kissed him full on the lips. She glided down next to him on the bed and said softly, “But I thought your love was the hunt?”
“That’s just to keep the rest of the peerage off my back, Margaret. I can’t have people rumor about my being a romantic. They’ll think I’m French.”
Margaret laughed, “But you are French.”
“My family may have a French name, but England has separated me from my past well enough. Besides, when I get older, my hounds won’t be able to take care of me. If anything, they’d probably eat me.”
“You say that as if you aren’t already getting up into the years.”
Albert scowled good-naturedly and said, “True, I admit…I am a frail man behind the baron. Each year has soften my strength and given me knowledge. Now I’m nothing more than a wise fool with soup for bones and lean meat for muscle.”
“No talk of food this early in the morning. It makes me hungry and the cooks are not finished with the meal yet.”
“Fair enough. Why are you up this early in the morning, anyway?”
The smile on Margaret’s face washed away. She abruptly got out of the bed and sauntered towards the window. She looked out and sighed, “Dreams plagued my sleeping mind all night. I saw our poor son sitting on the shore of somewhere, washing his bloodied hands in Neptune’s waters. Just think of him, so lost in the Holy Land and killing each day…I can barely stand it. Our Lord said that we shouldn’t kill and here we are, killing in his name and in his very home upon this earth. Such a guilt has broken stronger men’s shoulders…”
Her voice trailed off and she put her face in her hands. Albert strode across the room and held her firmly in his arms. As he embraced her, he said, “There is no need to worry about our son. No need at all. Peter is a strong, smart man. He will not die in the Crusade, and especially not as a sinner.”
Margaret, her head in Albert’s shoulder, said chokingly, “I guess you’re right, love. I’ll try not to worry about it.”
As Albert hugged her, he put his hand in her hair, the flowing hair, the floating raven hair. He could remember a time when it was a brilliant midnight black. It still melted with black now, but there was a silver lining to it.
They were getting old. Too old. And Albert didn’t like it.
He was going to tell Margaret about his dream, but after hearing hers, Albert did not want to startle her even more. Having dreams about your son and death are bad enough – it’s even worse to hear your husband’s dreaming about the end as well.
While Margaret was freed from her nightmare, Albert was just beginning to immerse himself in his own. The paranoia settled on his face like ash, greying him by the footstep. He knew dreams by nature are absurd, but he still started whenever he heard a door slam somewhere in the castle.
He strode through the gallery in his deep purple tunic that reached his knees. Over the tunic he wore a coat that was just as long and sported just as rich of a purple. From there his woolen socks wrapped around his legs on down to his toes. His feet were covered with poulaines. Albert – in a moment of jest – had ordered this particular pair of long-toed shoes to be so long that the extensions had to be chained to his tunic (otherwise he would literally be tripping over his own feet). It was a vulgarity his fellow nobles frowned upon. It was the raging fashion though, and Albert – despite his advanced age – was all about the newest fad.
As he walked through his domain, he nodded good morning to several people who passed him. There was Joseph ben Samuel, the engineer who made sure the castle would still be a castle tomorrow. Trailing behind Joseph – like always – were several of his masons. In private, Joseph would joke to Albert that they followed him around like a line of swans. Albert also ran into several of his guards who were heading out on their morning patrol of the grounds. There were the laundresses and seamstresses, the tailor and the tanner. Not to mention the families of each of the workers – everywhere Albert looked there were children running about and giggling. He didn’t mind the commotion and the hungry mouths behind the noise. His investments and inheritance were more than enough to feed the dozens of people living in the castle for decades to come.
He stepped out of the inner ward and into the blazing June sun. He walked through the courtyard and filled his lungs like bellows on the fresh air. The castle that towered around him was nicknamed Raven’s Crest by the locals. The name came about due to the large number of crows that always seem to be circling the castle. Some of the townspeople of nearby Lincoln say it’s because of all the meat that’s carted into the castle to feed the workers there. Others speak of the familiar omen attached to the birds like stones – how the ravens hunger for battlefields, how the very sight of them conjures the thought of one’s own death. Albert generally laughed off those superstitions, but the dream was still on his mind. He could see several crows strutting about the courtyard as he walked through. Albert couldn’t help but think he was going to die.
Moving on to lighter talking points, the castle was an interesting work of art. The keep – or the building sitting in the bull’s-eye of the castle’s sprawling layout – was a motley collection of stone from various quarries in the area. This resulted in the keep having an unusual variety of colors ranging from a chalky white to a deep wine red. Despite the flow of colors, the keep and its surrounding walls were a towering menace in the English forest. Having adopted the traditional rectangular shape common amongst English castles, the curtain – or outside wall – seemed to box in the keep and give an air of order and organization to the castle. Massive towers stood guard at each corner of the curtain wall. The guards joked that you could see the whole way to London from one of those towers.
Albert took in all of this wonderful architecture as he walked towards the kitchen. The kitchen itself was housed in a building separate from the keep’s inner ward. The castle’s original architect felt the occupants didn’t want to breathe in the nauseating scent of animals entrails as cooks butchered the poor creatures. Albert had to agree with the architect.
As Albert swung the kitchen door open and walked in, he was greeted not by the cooks but by a billowing smoke. He waved the smoke from his eyes and walked up to the hearth. It was a bloodred brick hearth with a cauldron on top, bubbling with a beef-and-parsley stew. Albert took a wooden spoon, dipped it in the stew, and sucked down the taste. It warmed him up better than June ever could.
Next to the hearth a boy was turning a spit filled with chunks of meat. Albert asked, “Say there, lad, what kind of meat is that?”
The spit boy looked up and – seeing it was the baron himself – blanched and said timidly, “Why, I think it’s pig, milord.”
“Pig? Is that so?”
The boy nodded weakly.
Albert grinned and boomed, “Ah, I love a good pig every now and then! Do you mind if I have a chunk of the meat?”
“I’m afraid it’s not fully-cooked yet, milord.”
“Nonsense. It looks fine enough to me. Besides, I will be going on a hunt this morning and I need to eat before heading out.”
A voice from behind Albert said slyly, “Is it because you’re afraid you won’t catch anything to eat?”
Albert turned and laughed, “Hugh, how are you today?”
“Doing just fine, milord.”
Hugh was descended directly from the Norman invaders. He claimed to be descended from William himself. A rather round person himself, Hugh certainly had William’s look. However, Hugh carried his weight well, working too hard to have time to be sloth. He was an excellent cook, perhaps the best for miles. Hugh was so expert at his job that Albert didn’t mind him sneaking the occasional sweets for himself (Hugh claimed he didn’t, but Albert knew better).
Albert gingerly took some of the hot pork off the spit and asked, “Do you have some bread I can eat this with?”
Albert walked through the courtyard, chewing on the pork and bread. The spit boy was right: the pork wasn’t done yet. The food felt rubbery in his mouth, but he shrugged it off. It was too early in the morning for him to taste food anyway. He just needed some weight in his stomach.
The horses in the courtyard were already prepared for the hunt. They were fresh imports from Friesland across the water. Pricey, but worth the gold. They were beautiful, black horses, their muscles rippling beneath their skin like waves.
His fellow hunters were perched on several of the horses. Lord Johannes Chandler, Baron Thomas Kent, and Lord Simon Kelsey were chattering amongst themselves. Albert was still a bit of a distance away, but he could catch some of their talk.
“I remember that one time you missed that deer that was right next to you…”
“Well, at least I tried. I doubt you could hit a fox even if you paid some archer to do it…”
A roar of laughter sprouted from the crowd, bothering the horses a bit. The only person not joining in the laughter was – ironically – Albert’s jester, Phillip Killigrew. Killigrew was off to the side on his horse, looking sullen. He was an unlikely jester though. He survived several military expansions deep into the heart of Ireland; it seems unlikely that a man could fit murder and laughter into his life. There simply isn’t enough room to keep both. His earthy eyes were constantly on the alert, darting about as if demons were lurking in the shadows.
Noticing Albert approaching, Killigrew guided his horse towards the elderly noble and asked, “I hope you don’t mind, milord, but early this morning I tied daggers to the heads of the rabbits we’ll be hunting.”
Albert laughed, “Excellent! Today’s hunt might actually be interesting now.”
They all pulled their horses together into a tight circle as they discussed their plans. After a few minutes of discussion, they galloped out of the castle and along the drawbridge, the horse hooves clunking dull on the wood. They galloped oceandeep into the woods until they came upon a nearby meadow. The horses wanted to stop and nibble on the long grass, but the riders had game larger than grass in mind.
At the end of the meadow was a small pond. There was a bevy of geese trying to rest. This proved to be difficult since several of Albert’s servants were holding onto a number of hunting hounds, who startled the swans at each bark. The dogs were demonic, snarling and nearly strangling themselves with the ropes leashed onto them. The servant did not seem to mind though, thinking it was better the dogs were focused on the swans and not on them.
When Albert reached the dogs, he pursed his lips together and hissed a whining whistle – it sounded to the other nobles like wind on a winter night. To the snarling dogs, though, the whistle sapped them of their savagery and they turned as one to Albert, their ears perked at attention.
Lord de Vere smiled and reached into his tunic pocket. He pulled out a small piece of rabbit skin, which he threw at the dogs. They curiously sniffed the skin for a few moments and when they looked back up at Albert, he could see the cold hunger had seeped back into their eyes.
Albert commanded, “Let them go.”
The servants obeyed, untying the dogs free from the rope. The hounds immediately bounded off into the forest, their yelps trailing behind their leaps. The nobles waited a minute for the dogs to root out the rabbits and other creatures from their rest.
Killigrew edged up to Albert and asked, “Are you sure you’re up to the hunt for today, milord?”
“Absolutely. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’ve noticed that over the past few days, you’ve been struggling to stand and your heart seems of a weak constitution. Perhaps you should be resting in your chair back in the main hall rather than hunting rabbits out in the wild.”
Albert shook off the jester’s doubts, saying dismissively, “I have the blood of warriors in me, Phillip. The hunt is what gives me life. If I sit still for too long, I’ll die, simply die. Now, not to change the subject, but might ya have a bit of spirits in your possession?”
Killigrew pulled a flask out and said slyly, “You know, back in Scotland they almost threw me in the dungeons because I was a demon possessing spirits of good and innocent men.”
“Is that so?”
Albert laughed and took a swig from the flask. He coughed hard on the stuff and, rubbing his watery eyes, gasped, “What kind of fiery brew is this, Phillip?”
“It’s from my kin’s farmland to the west of here, milord. They say it’s so strong it brought Alexander the Great back to life from his ashes.”
Suddenly, Baron Kent asked, “Do you think it’s time for us to begin the hunt?”
“Ah yes, I suppose it is. Let’s begin then.”
They commanded their horses to thunder into the forest. The horses dodged fallen oak trees and leapt over thin streams. A drought had worked its way through the landscape, wounding everything it had touched. The riders took out their bows and arrows, prepared for their prey.
They reached a claustrophobic clearing after a few minutes of riding. They listened quietly for a moment. Just then, they heard the staccato barking of the hounds roughly a hundred meters to their right. And a hundred meters to the right was where they went.
The dogs were right like always. Several rabbits bounded through the deep green grass, their patches of white fur flickering between the greens. By instinct, de Vere aimed an arrow straight for the nearest rabbit. The arrow just barely missed the prey, landing with a pillowsoft thud in the grass just behind it.
The other hunters tried their luck. Killigrew was the only lucky one, his arrow piercing the hide of a rather large hare in mid-leap. The rabbit collapsed and twitched out its death throes. The other, luckier hares scattered into the underbrush, the hounds quick on their cottontails.
Killigrew turned to the hunters and grinned, “It seems we happened a whole family of jackrabbits. Shall we wipe their bloodline off the face of the earth?”
The nobles all laughed and Baron Kent said, “Yes, let’s rid the world of these wanton furry beasts.”
Once more, the riders commanded their horses into the foliage. The trees seemed to blur and swirl into a collage of chaos as the horses galloped through. Albert winced as an unseen force wracked pain at his left leg. As soon as the pain hit him, however, it vanished. So too did the feeling in the rest of his leg. His right leg followed suit.
I have to stop this horse and get back on ground, Albert thought with panic. Something was definitely wrong.
He tried to stop his horse, but the beast – caught up in the moment of the hunt – continued through the forest. Albert clung to the neck of his horse with all his life, his life that was seeping through his fingers like sand.
As the numbing pain coursed through his arms, Albert felt more nauseous than he ever felt in his life. He leaned over the side of the galloping gargantuan and threw up his breakfast of chicken and whisky. The vomiting cost Albert dearly. He tumbled off the horse and crunched into the ground. The fall was cushioned by his shoulder, whose feeble bones shattered from the impact. Albert’s leg snapped as one of the horse’s rear hooves came down on his knee. It was a blessing that the paralysis took the pain for Albert.
His spill caused him to tumble across the ground, upsetting a hedgehog nestled in the long grass around a nearby tree. The other riders – just a few meters ahead – heard the commotion behind them and looked back to see their host sprawled on the ground, blood seeping from his leg where one of the snapped bones had punctured the skin.
Shocked at how quick it all happened, the riders skidded their horses to a halt and roared back to where Albert laid dying. Besides his head – which was shaking like mad – the rest of his body was frozen. He was becoming a human sculpture before their very eyes. The hunters gathered quietly around Albert as he entered his final moments. His eyes were bulging as if he was trying to see the spirit exhaled from his mouth.
Albert rasped and coughed harshly. Blood rivered from the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak. Even while dying, he was strong.
“Kent?”
Kent looked nervously at the others and leaned down next to the mangled shell of his old friend, a man who was riding with pride and confidence just minutes before.
“What can I do for you, Albert?”
“Wa…wa…watch over Margaret. And make sure…”
“Yes?”
“Make…sure that Peter…”
“What about Peter?”
“Peter…”
And with that, Albert went back to his dreams.
Chapter 2
“A
king is history’s slave.” (Leo Tolstoy)
Sheen Palace, London
Two Days Later
The summer seemed to blister away the grains that grew along the Thames. The old river – which on normal days perfumed with raw sewage – repelled people, the unbearable heat mixing with the odors.
It was this monstrosity that we will contrast with the carved beauty that loomed on the shores. Sheen Palace was grand architecture, seeming to be inspired by the sight of lit candles. The palace seemed to be built around a series of thin towers, their roofs adorned with wooden sculptures crafted to resemble flames. Because wood and flames together make for a happy ending.
The wooden flames were then painted white, giving the impression of a palace always lit even during the day. Each of the towers – a giant over the Thames – was brashness against the known world, as if the crown of England was the sole bastion of hope against the dark evils.
Perhaps we should compare – instead of contrast – Sheen Palace with the Thames.
These arrogant flames were fueled by a wick which was lounging upon his throne in the palace’s aptly-named throne room. It was a grand room on the side of the palace facing the river – the sweeping view offered a look at the Thames without the stench.
The room sat on majestic marble floors that, despite the expense, were hidden from the public eye by even more-expensive Persian rugs. It was as if the marble was an embarrassment that needed hiding. The walls caged the extravagance with paintings of monarchs past, each of them propped stiff with a solemn pose and lifeless fish eyes.
Only two people were enjoying the throne room at that moment. King Humphrey of England lazily lifted his stubbled face from his diamonded hand. He seemed tired of sitting on his jewel-encrusted throne, looming over the room like some unnecessary mountain. His black, curled hair bristled like a rabid dog. His grave eyes stared coldly ahead. His strong chin canyoned apart by a noticeable crevice. He was made to belong amongst those portraits of hardened monarchs.
Humphrey did not care much for the room. After all, he was not the one who paid for it. It was a gift from his subjects, in appreciation for all that he had done. Yes, that it was he told everybody, that it was a gift. The more he said it, the more he believed it. Just because he forced the gift out of them by taxes did not cheapen their generosity.
Queen Eva – sitting in a throne next to him – was a wrinkled woman. It was not that her years caught up with her, but she caught up with her years. Even in her youth, she had been as callous and coldhearted as an ancient widow. Her parched face seemed to pale even more under her thinning hair. Once oaken and flowing, her hair over the years had receded and whiten into a skeleton. Her blizzard hair was symmetry to her personality; she was the winter queen if there ever was one. She was even hard enough to kill springtime if she wanted.
Eva suddenly turned and asked, “Is the Earl of Kent attending tonight’s banquet, Humphrey?”
Humphrey frowned as he shuffled for an answer. He answered, “Yes, I do believe the Earl is coming. Why do you ask?”
“Well, tonight may be as good a night as any to approach the Earl of Kent. You know, to ask him to share Canterbury Cathedral’s donations with us.”
Humphrey snapped, “What would be the point of that?”
The King was getting grumpy. He hadn’t had anything to eat all afternoon.
“It was just a suggestion on my part, Humphrey. For too long, the Church has had countless pilgrims pay their homage to St. Becket. Now, the Earl of Kent is a spineless man. He will no doubt bow to you. If he doesn’t, you can exercise your power – no, your rights – as king to make him bend. We can use the donations to build a castle in the region. Remember, Humphrey, your reign will stay stable only as long as you sink gold into it.”
“Are you saying my soul is greedy? Are you saying I’m meant for the fifth terrace of purgatory, to flounder with the rich who beg?”
“Of course not, Humphrey. I am merely saying that a powerful man such as yourself needs food to stay strong. Our…I mean your food is money. Now, how can greed be a sin if it is our destiny?”
Humphrey calmed down a bit and grumbled, “I’ll see what I can do, Eva. We must remember not to step out of bounds, though. Many of the barons in this land are still in a fury over what I have done.”
“The Magna Carta is weak, like all documents. Everything written with a pen fades over time. But it does prove something useful.”
“And that is?”
“It was originally crafted to have the barons keep the king in check. We should be mindful that balancing works both ways, Humphrey. Isn’t that why you ordered all of those castles constructed throughout the kingdom?”
“Those castles are there to ensure stability.”
“Stability for you. You are our government. These barons who oppose you…they oppose every corner of our way of life. They must be kept at arm’s length. But if they want to get to you, they’ll have to capture every castle in England first.”
“What will others say if they found I’m taking advice from my wife?”
“They’ll say my, what a wise leader England has.”
Humphrey laughed shortly.
Just then, a pounding persisted against the lumbering oak door leading into the throne room. Humphrey called out, “Enter.”
The door swung and a young man with a rich dark goatee stepped into the room. Dressed in a simple brown tunic, the man walked to where the King and Queen sat and, with the deepest of bows, announced, “Your Highness, a messenger from Lincolnshire is at the gate, claiming he bears the most urgent news from his county. He requests your audience immediately.”
“Is that so? Well then, bring him in.”
As the servant prepared to leave, Humphrey suddenly asked, “Yeoman, what is your name?”
The servant turned and, surprised, replied,” Although I don’t understand how my humble name would interest you, Highness, my name is Geoffrey.”
“Well then, Geoffrey, have you by any chance visited the shrine of St. Becket in Canterbury?”
“I actually have just come back from a pilgrimage there, Highness.”
“Did you generously give at the shrine?”
“I certainly did, Highness. They say that St. Becket’s shrine can heal ailments and my unfortunate heart has been plagued with troubles as of late. I gave generously, hoping St. Becket would return the favor some day.”
“Very well, you may go now, Geoffrey.”
“Certainly, Highness.”
As Geoffrey left, Queen Eva leaned in and whispered, “See?”
“I know,” Humphrey hissed back. In his mind, though, the King was already dreaming about this new revenue trickle.
Suddenly a man – presumably the messenger from Lincolnshire – burst into the room with two of the King’s guards in tow. The messenger seemed out of breath, his bewildered eyes darting about until they landed on the King. The guards assumed their position on either side of the main door. The messenger nervously walked the rugged floor and bowed before the royal duo.
He said, “Highness, I bring terrible news from my master’s estate in Lincolnshire. Yesterday, the great Baron Albert de Vere died during a hunting accident. It appears he fell from his horse during the hunt and was trampled by his steed. The gracious Lady de Vere and the townspeople of Lincoln have entered a state of mourning for their beloved noble.”
Humphrey hid his smile well. He had been hoping for this day for a long time now. Baron de Vere was a pain in his side for many years, raising protests from the other nobles over unwarranted tax increases and other supposed tyranny. Whereas Humphrey had his brute political power, de Vere had a certain cunning and charisma, just enough to turn the peerage in his favor. de Vere managed to raise a particular stink just a year before over a tax on grain. If it wasn’t for Humphrey begging for a Papal bull justifying it, he was sure there would have been a rebellion in the kingdom. All the Pope said was that the money was needed for excursions in the Holy Land, and that shut up the whole lot of them. Humphrey wished he had the Pope’s power.
“I am horribly saddened by the death of our beloved Baron, Humphrey announced – not feeling a pang of sadness – and continued, Please tell Lady de Vere that she has my condolences over the matter. Is there anything else I should be made aware of?”
“Well, actually, there is, Highness. The de Vere estate is in a dilemma since the death of my master. Baron de Vere’s sole son is currently fighting in the Crusades against the malicious Moors. Until he returns, no one has proper control of the castle. Lady de Vere has requested me to ask you for advice on this issue.”
Humphrey wasn’t too interested in helping the de Vere family. Especially not after what that Baron has done to him for all those years, meddling in politics that weren’t his.
“Unfortunately, there is not much I can do concerning your master’s estate. That is an issue best left to those knowledgeable about it. You may stay in our guest quarters for the night and return to your master’s estate in the morning.”
“Thank you, Highness, and good day.”
As the messenger was sent out, Eva leaned in once more and murmured, “You know, Humphrey, you have been curious about castles in that area…”
That was all it took to enlighten Humphrey.
Humphrey called out, “Guard!”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“Fetch me Captain General Benedict Marshall. He’ll be resting on the south lawn. Also bring me Lieutenant General Richard Norton from one of the guest rooms. Tell them I’ll meet them in the royal library just down the hall.”
Queen Eva could do nothing but smile.
The library was literally a labyrinth to literature. The stone cavern seemed to be propped up with columns of bookshelves. There were the books of treatises from Aristotle and Plato. There were the Homerics. The sparse poetry of Callimachus. The realism of Euripides. The incestuous Theban trilogy of Sophocles. The cycle of violence penned by Aeschylus. Virgil’s Aeneid, Ovid’s Metamorphoses. So many rare books, all owned by a King who never bothered learning how to read.
There was only one window in the library, casting its cut light through the room. The sun’s dance across the day made the shadows move and bring the books to life. Captain General Benedict Marshall was sitting inside one of these shadows. He was of a short, stocky build with messy, hazel hair. He was dressed in a black tunic that had his family’s coat of arms woven into the front. He was a proud man – quiet, but proud.
He had the Iliad open in his lap. He was still having a bit of trouble reading the Greek – even after all these years – but he still enjoyed himself. As a child he was wide-eyed about the Ithacan Odysseus, a man who could fight better with words than most men and their fists.
The thick door leading into the library burst open. The Lieutenant General Richard Norton strode into the room in his usual fashion. Benedict always shivered when he saw Norton. There was something about him that seemed possessed, as if demons were living in his every word. The English Channel itself couldn’t wipe the perpetual sneer off his lips, the slime from his slicked hair.
Norton was chewing on an apple – his mouth open at every bite – as he said in his high-pitched voice, “Say there, General, why did our Highness bring us here to this library?”
“I know as much as you do, Richard.”
“I’m just asking. His Majesty knows that I’m still recovering from my battle up north. I had to put down a rebellion for his sake. A woman actually tried to challenge the King himself. Imagine!”
“She did have an army about her, Richard. She didn’t work alone.”
“But still. To think that so many men would believe in a woman…”
“Women are more cunning than you may think.”
“I knowwww. That’s why I ordered my men to make hundreds of tiny cuts on her body. I left her for the wild beasts to feast on – the next day there wasn’t a piece of her remaining. I wanted to make her an example to the people, show what happens to clever women such as herself.”
“That’s disgusting, she was a woman.”
“She was a warrior first.”
“But still a woman. Some things aren’t necessary, even in battle. Killing a woman is not necessary.”
“It is to stop the kingdom from falling.”
“I doubt one person can fell a kingdom like a tree. It took centuries of bad emperors to splinter Rome.”
Norton snorted and – between chews of his apple – said, “Oh, you and your learning, General. I swear…”
“I’d rather learn from other people’s mistakes than my own. I don’t have the time to be a fool.”
A pause.
Norton spoke up, “Tis a shame, though. She was such a beautiful lady. She just had that rebellious streak to her. Women need to learn their place.”
Benedict glared and said, “There’s no such thing as a bad woman.”
“Well, there’s no such thing as an honorable general. So there we are.”
Benedict smiled thinly, “The people seem to believe I’m an honorable general. Perhaps that’s why they throw flowers at me and their chamber pots at you.”
Suddenly, the door swung open again. King Humphrey strolled into the room with several attendants pulled by his gravity. He shooed them away and, turning to his two top generals, said, “Thank you both for meeting me so quickly, generals. I am in an interesting situation that needs to be fixed quickly.”
Benedict bowed, “We are at your service.”
Humphrey told the generals about the situation in Lincolnshire, how his troublesome baron died in a hunting accident and how it left his castle wide open.
“Generals, now is the time, I think, to seize the de Vere castle and use it as a stronghold in Lincolnshire.”
Benedict mused on the thought for a moment before carefully saying, “That would make sense, Your Highness. After all, you may have many castles dotting your kingdom, but you don’t have any in Lincolnshire. And the people there have always been unruly towards your lordship. If we seize control of the de Vere castle now, we will be able to keep the populace in check.”
Norton asked, “But what if this young de Vere returns from the Crusades alive?”
“Well, you’re both generals. You have killed hundreds, if not thousands, of men. I’m sure you can make one man disappear?”
Benedict said, “We can worry about the baron’s son later. For now, we can fake his death. If we relay that news to his mother, it would be easier for your lordship to take over the castle, the baroness thinking she had no other option.”
Humphrey grinned widely, “Generals, go and win me my castle.”
Chapter 3
“Pax melior est quam iustissimum bellum.”
Tunis, Africa
At That Same Moment
You can hear death in the night air around these parts. The men crying out for salvation, but more often for their mothers or their lovers. At times, their cries were drowned down, the buzz of the mosquito swarm taking over. The mosquitoes either hacked the men to death or nested in the drinking water. It got to the point where the water the men drank was as black and deadly as oceanwater.
The Mediterranean was in sight, and it was so tempting to drink the water. But everyone knew it was the badwater, that the salt would thirst you to death even quicker. The African sun gave them no mercy, no quarter as it rained down hellfire at all hours of the day. Morning baked just as thick as afternoon did.
The men had only just landed on shore a few weeks before and they were already vanishing. They actually had to wait for reinforcements from Charles I of Sicily before proceeding. The grumbles were running riverdeep in the camp.
“I tell ya, the only man who can understand Charles’s ways is Charles hisself.”
“It’s those bloody Sicilians who talked us into coming here. It should be them dying in the heat, not us.”
Despite the angry murmur, their presence in Tunis was necessary – at least to the military brass. If they could hold Tunis, then they would have a stepping stone to Egypt. If they could get to Egypt, they can evict the Moors, driving their armies into the Mediterranean.
“But why were they in Egypt? Wasn’t it the Egyptians who enslaved the Jews? Why was Egypt worthy of the Crusaders’ help? If anything, the soldiers reasoned, they should be on another shore, freeing the Kingdom of Jerusalem from the Muslims. The leaders feared that the Muslims would do to Jerusalem what they did to Antioch. The Turks besieged that kingdom and wiped it off the map like bread crumbs. If they didn’t hurry, they would arrive to find there was nothing left to save.”
All this talk made the Christian soldiers even angrier. “Why were they dying on this Godforsaken shore? Was it to save the faith? Or was it to give their commanders good ol’ war stories to share later on? This is a good war story, dying on the illness the mosquitoes bring. How could something so small destroy men?”
So the men huddled around the dozens of campfires, hoping the smoke would repel the mosquitoes. Coughing up smoke like dragons, the men quietly swapped stories of home. There was the occasional laugh as someone cracked a dirty joke. For those moments, they forgot where they were. The comics in the group became gods for a time.
Out of all the tents, one stood out in particular – despite the fact it was the same grimy white as all the other tents. The man sitting in front of the tent, warming his hands against the fire, was the only noble in the camp. He looked too rugged for the peerage. He had cold, deep-ocean eyes, a grizzled beard, matted brown hair. Even his once moonpale skin was tanned by the Tunisian sun. No one back home would be able to recognize him, and he wanted to keep it that way. He was dressed in a flowing tunic of red and white. It was a parallel for him – an innocent man who was becoming blotched with bloodstains. A phoenix stretched its wings in the tunic’s stitching.
Peter de Vere – son to Baron Albert de Vere himself – was diligently whittling away at a piece of driftwood with his blade. The wood was becoming shapes that no one could understand, not that Peter cared. Some artists strove to make art seem real. Peter made art to make life seem less real. It helped keep him distracted.
Sudden whispers around the camp disturbed Peter’s hard work. It was quiet at first and then began to ascend into a crescendo, the sad French echoing itself as Le roi est mort.
The King is dead.
King Louis IX of France – a man already weakened by the old age – died the same death as all the commoners around here. He made the mistake of drinking the water. A mistake that all thirsty men make and never repeat again.
The French were disheartened, and so too were the English, Germans, and Italians. Louis IX was their main commander, after all. Another general would come and replace him, sure, but to lose your general before the battle is not the best of omens.
Peter shrugged off the news, though. He doubted that Charles I of Sicily would care much either. He would come with his army and force the Crusaders to march to death in Egypt. It was…the proper way to do things.
He went back to his whittling.
A man came out of the darkness and sat down next to Peter at the campfire. He watched Peter whittle away for a few minutes before asking in his gruff London accent, “Say there, what is that you’re whittling?”
Peter carved for a few more moments before holding up his finished sculpture in the light of the fire. He yawned, “It’s a sword.”
The man laughed. He was Henry Mason – the two became friends on the long voyage around Spain and to Tunis. He was a good twenty years older than Peter, but they were still decent friends. You had to have at least one friend when you’re waiting to die.
Henry chided, “That’s a piss-poor sword ya know. I feel sorry for whomever wields that in combat.”
“Tis a little pointy at the one end. It might give someone a bad scratch.”
A quiet.
“So, I guess ya heard about the King?”
Peter nodded, “Tis a shame.”
“Liar.”
Peter shrugged.
Henry continued, “I think tis a sign.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t think we should be out here. If the best of us is dying, what hope do the rest of us poor bastards have? Best to live to see another day.”
Peter smiled thinly and offered, “Well, this is a nice change of pace coming from you.”
“How so?”
“The same man who’s running from his debt collectors in London, suddenly feeling the urge to go back.”
Henry shrugged, “Am I a rich man? Yes. Am I a moral man? No. I could have ran anywhere. I could have ran north, west, east. No…instead I decide to run south, to kill and go against the Lord’s teachings for the Lord himself! I am a man of paradoxes, my friend. I’ve come here to live out my death. I make no sense. Like war. Like this war.”
“Well, this war is as stupid as they come, Henry. The men here have no idea why they’re fighting. I’m a noble, I know why. The whys change everything. I hate whys – I wish I never knew them. I would tell these men, have them share in my misery. But they’ll never believe a prophet of doom. No one ever does. They’ll just break me like some heretic.”
Henry laughed, “But you are kind of a heretic, lad.”
“Shhh, not so loud. You’ll make the priests cry.”
A silence.
Henry finally asked the question that Peter had been waiting for.
“So if you aren’t here for the faith, what are you here for?”
“Because my family wanted me to stay at home.”
Henry snorted, “Is that so?”
Peter nodded, “They didn’t want me to fight. To die. We argued over the matter. Next morning, I slipped out of the estate and headed for the nearest port. And now I’m here. I didn’t come here to die, but I did come here to live. All my life I’ve been following rules. I’ve always wanted to make my own mistakes, but no one has let me. I had to cut the net and swim free. I’m a fish at heart…”
“…who’s swimming into the leviathan’s mouth.”
Peter laughed. He knew it was true. He didn’t really care, though.
Henry asked, “So are you planning on leaving then? You’ll only die in vain here now.”
“Yes, I am planning on leaving. Probably tomorrow morning, just before the sun rises.”
A glint came in Henry’s eyes. He hadn’t been in the presence of such mischief since the night he ran from his debt collectors. He loved it.
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“You’ll be hunted like the dog you are. The generals don’t care if you’re a noble or not. Desertion is desertion.”
Peter shrugged, “Well then, I suppose I better start running then. Don’t want them to catch up with me too soon.”
“Well I suppose this is goodbye then.”
“Let’s not say goodbyes. I’m not very fond of them. If you’re ever in Lincolnshire, look for my family’s castle. You’ll always find a hot supper there.”
“I hope I will, Peter, I hope I will.”
“Let’s not say hope either.”
“Okay then, I won’t.”
Chapter 4
“One need not be a chamber to be haunted” (Emily Dickinson)
Lincolnshire
One Week Later
As powerful as the sun is, it cannot kill shadows during the daytime. If anything, it creates the little pockets of night that flicker here and there. The dark festers in the corners while the sun beats its chest in vanity. Between the shade of the grainstalks the night beasts lurk: the bloodred foxes, the tusked boars, the spiny hedgehogs. They hit from the light the way the farmers from night.
As the sun made its way across the landscape, it embarrassed itself by creating a shadow of its own. A massive ink blotch marched beneath the burning ball, trembling the earth into vibration.
Farmers stopped their work in the fields and looked out towards the road, shielding their eyes. As the blot crawled closer, they realized that it wasn’t the sun’s rare shadow but a small army. Columns of men weighed down in their armor. Each of them carried pain and fear that was crafted into weapons: the steely mace, the longbladed pikes, the brilliant swords. Each soldier walked with confidence, letting their weapons be frightened for them.
At the front of the pack was a knight astride his sharktooth-colored steed. The horse was terror enough, the monster seeming to burst through its armor like water from a leaky bucket. The knight was worse. His armor was a cold grey, ruined by the occasional dark stain, the scarlet red too stubborn to wash. He wore his sword on his left side; it was a massive sword, enough to trip most men. It was stout but strong – the blacksmiths made sure that nothing could crack and shatter the blade. The handle was rusted in jewelry from spoils of wars past. On the knight’s right arm, he wore an enormous shield, the loops on the back wrapped snug around his arm. His coat of arms adorned the shield’s front, the tiger emblem ready to pounce out of the shield, claws drawn and sharpened.
The knight moved like the night and was as silent as one. The men marching behind him followed his example, not breathing a single word. Perhaps it was because they were afraid, that the first word they’d say would be a complaint. After all, they had already walked twenty miles in the brute, brute sun that day.
Up ahead the dirt road began twisting and curling sinister into the shady forest. They were looking forward to the cool beneath the trees.
The knight knew the area well, like he knew the rest of his island. He knew the castle was just around the next bend in the road. They saw it well before the bend, though, the massive castle known in many circles as Raven’s Crest – home to the dying de Vere family.
The procession of soldiers stopped at the foot of the castle, waiting their next order.
A call came down from the outer wall, “Who goes there?”
The knight stepped forward and removed his helmet. It was the General Benedict Marshall himself, dressed in his finest like always.
“It is I, the Captain General of his Majesty’s armies. I am here at his demand. I am to speak with Lady de Vere and her alone.”
A pause.
“Do you have a letter bearing the King’s seal?”
“I do indeed. Unfortunately, it is a small seal and you will not be able to see it from your tower. Allow me entrance into your baroness’s castle. My men will stay out here for now if it will ease your worries.”
Part of the guard did not want to be stupid, falling prey to bandits masquerading as soldiers. The other part of the guard did not want to upset the top English general.
The other part won over. He ordered the drawbridge lowered, a demand that took several minutes to accomplish. Benedict got off his horse and walked across the drawbridge, the wood creaking beneath his armored feet. The moat smelled like sin – years of dumping waste into the water worked wonders.
Once Benedict entered the castle, a shy servant guided him through the maze of corridors. Servants hid in the shadows, eyeing him with suspicion. It was not every day the General walked through your home. He knew the curiosity would turn ugly once they found out why he was there.
They reached an enormous oak door. The shy servant-girl somehow heaved the heavy door open and called, “Milady, Captain General Benedict Marshall requests your presence.”
A surprised voice said, “Let him enter.”
As Benedict entered the room, the door was closed behind him. It was a bedroom built for two, but it wasn’t enough room for a widow and all her thoughts. Lady de Vere sat in a chair next the window, her shoulders pressed in as if claustrophobic to the touch. She looked far more wrinkled than Benedict could ever remember. Her eyes were sunken deep into her face. She stared blankly ahead as she murmured, “General.”
“Milady.”
“Forgive me, but I wasn’t expecting you. Like always, it’s a pleasure.”
“And I can say the same for you, milady. I have come to offer my condolences. Your husband was a grand man, a noble with England truly at heart.”
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