The Montmajour Text
By T.C. McQueen
copyright TC McQueen
2011
Smashwords Edition
In 1996 Professor Marcus Lockhart of Miskatonic University, Arkham, discovered a sealed compartment within Montmajour Abbey, France. The compartment held a manuscript attributed to the 14th century heretic Brother Ignatious. After his execution in 1398, the Vatican ordered all the writings of this controversial figure to be destroyed. Few have survived the years, those that remain tell chilling tales of witchcraft and devilry. Some even warn of ancient horrors that walked the earth before the rise of mankind that linger still in the dark places of the earth. Professor Lockhart has kindly allowed publication of his translation of this text. The original is currently on display at the Miskatonic Museum.
In the year of our Lord 1366 a blight came upon the land the like of which had not been seen since before the time of the Apostles.
The town of Brassone was a hamlet of little note, the responsibility of Lord Baynard, a nobleman known for his compassion and his wisdom. He taxed no more than the King demanded and was a fair judge in matter of law. Those peasant folk who dwelt within his borders thought well of him.
His trusted advisor, the Abbot LeGrand came to him with troubling news. A tribe of strange folk had settled in the lands near to Tremain Woods. They spoke in an odd tongue and were rough in appearance. What unsettled the Abbot so was not their ill favoured look and their harsh speech but their altar to an ancient Pagan god. The townsfolk trusted them not and spoke at Mass in whispers of missing children and witchcraft.
Keen to curry favour with the Church, Baynard sent men to see them off and destroy the idols of these false gods. His liege men sallied forth, meaning only to see the strangers break camp and leave, coarse words led to anger and thence to bloodshed. Baynard heard only that those he had named undesirable had fled at the sight of good Christian men.
His kinsmen came to him as he slept one stormy night, with tales of lights in the sky and unnatural noises in the Tremain Woods to the south of the keep. Being no fool, he weathered the storm and rode out from his keep at dawn. As he travelled he came upon a farmer, kneeling amongst his crops, lost in prayer, tears streaming down his face. Baynard asked what troubled the man so, he told his liege of the plague upon his crops and spoke of an evil that befell his wife and child. Alighting from his horse, Baynard saw the truth of it, a gossamer skien covered the man's crop, strangling its very life from it. Baynard looked upon the blight and through the thick of the twisting fibres, saw the bodies of a woman and a young child. A white wispy cocoon enveloped them both, their forms huddled together in death. Baynard wept for the man's loss and pressed coins into his palm.
Baynard did return to his halls to ponder further on this. He found more peasants had cause to seek him out and beseech him for aid. They told of a creeping white death that arose overnight from the earth stealing away their loved ones and laying waste to crops and livestock alike. All at once the alarm called the Lord to the walls of his keep, Baynard could see the advancing menace, creeping across the farmlands from the south.
Baynard sought the counsel of the Abbot they agreed that fire and steel would save them from the scourge. He sent men with burning brands and barrels of pitch to hack and burn the white terror and drive it back from the walls of the town. Blessed by the Abbot, the retinue sallied forth once more to do their Lord's bidding to be met by a ragged band of gaunt figures, shrouded in veils of pale silky thread. Baynard's men were taken aback to find themselves faced by such fell creatures. Their nerve failed when they saw the faces of loved ones amongst the throng. The host harried the militia back to the gates, tearing at skin and gnawing at flesh as the fleeing men clamoured to reach sanctuary. Baynard did draw his sword when he saw his men hard pressed. He performed great deeds of valour and when they saw this his men took heart. Baynard hewed his enemies greatly in his wrath, choking the streets with the dead. With much casting of firebrands and great strength of arms the gates were flung shut and barred. The host without roared in their anger and beat against the gates seeking the blood of Baynard and his brave men. A watch was set, provisions laid, thus it was preparation for the siege of Brassone was made.
For thirty days and thirty nights the dark contingent crashed against the walls like the waves of a great ocean and for thirty days and nights they were repelled with fire, sword and prayer. Fearing starvation and disease Baynard prayed to the Lord for guidance. His nearest aid was a week’s ride away and no messenger would brave the creatures without.
As if in answer, a crone begged audience, claiming to know the mind of the enemy. The Abbot warned against her words as he saw her as a witch whose folk Baynard had routed from his lands. The crone spoke of the pagans god, Hostroth and it’s craving for blood. She spoke further of an ancient ceremony that would appease it and see peace restored to Brassone.
Baynard’s hope was dashed when learned of the cost of this peace, the life of his eldest son. He bade the crone leave and he returned to the walls to raise the hearts of his men and cast the enemy back from the ramparts.
For thirty more days and nights he fought and prayed and despaired. His men were weak from hunger and fear, their swords blunted by battle. They begged with their Lord to save them. In time he called the crone to him. He spoke with her and pled with her to spare his son. She dismissed his pleas and told him that the pagan god would crave nothing less than the blood of a noble born. So it came that Baynard agreed to give up his heir for the good of all, though it wrenched his heart greatly to do so.
That night the crone came to the walls and with much ungodly chanting and cavorting, peformed the ceremony that would appease the Hostroth and bid it return to the dark place from whence it had come. At the appointed time she beckoned Baynard forward and cried out in her rasping voice for his offering. He shoved forth a lowly squire, clad in noble’s garb. The crone only laughed, throwing the boy from the battlements to the howling throng below. Seeing his rouse had failed Baynard made to strike the crone down but his men held him fast. The Abbot then spoke up on behalf of the men of Brassone, he as they, had no wish to perish at the hands of this great evil. He swore to make good on the deal and give her the boy. Baynard spat and cursed, damning them all as traitors and heathens. Then he wept as he saw his son dragged forth by his fearful soldiers. The crone took the boy, slitting his throat and she called upon the ancient powers of the earth. She cast his lifeless form aside and stood as if lost in rapture arms outstretched. At this Baynard broke free, taking a sword he clove the crone in two and set a torch to her body.
His men recoiled from him, gone was the kindly lord they had known. This Baynard was a man of steel and fire and righteous anger. Out of fear they obeyed the lord they had once obeyed through love. At his word they laid hands on the Abbot, setting him in chains and casting him in the gaol.
By the morning’s light the siege was lifted and the unholy menace vanished from sight. Baynard set his men to cleansing the town of the unholy blight and to gather the dead.The grim task complete, he ordered the bodies be made into a pyre and the fields cleared of the unholy .
Baynard took the Abbot still in chains and rode straightway to the King to tell of the dire events and to warn against the great evil. The King in turn sent his fastest rider to Rome. Rome replied with a quartet of clerics, dark of robe and strong of will. They sat in secret council with the King for three days and three nights. Upon their leaving, the King ordered Baynard and the Abbot executed and the town of Brassone removed from the face of God's earth. Those that still lived were put to the sword and their remains were burned.
So ends the
tale of the town of Brassone. Take note reader, and beware.
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