Desdichado ... initial chapter concept

a work I am considering working into a modern translation

Ivanhoe has long been one of my favourite stories. With that in mind I‘m considering doing a rewrite in modern language and style. I worked out these first couple chapters a few years ago and stumbled back upon it. Whaddayathink? -Basil

Thus communed these; while to their lowly dome,

The full-fed swine return’d with evening home;

Compell’d, reluctant, to the several sties,

With din obstreperous, and ungrateful cries.

-Pope’s Odyssey

Gurth reached up and scratched at the back of his neck, where the sweat pooled beneath the silver ringlet that named him for all to see.

“Gurth, the son of Beowulf, thrall to Cedric of Rotherwood”.

Gurth, born slave of Cedric.

The chain had been on his neck since the earliest of his memories. Such was his life, to be owned by another man. Morosely watching the pigs under his charge, dozens of swine that fed on whatever they found in the field, he stretched up from the bench he shared with his one true friend in the world. Wamba. The Jester. The Fool. The bench on which they sat, a large stone fallen from some ancient druidic monument that had likely meant something important before the days of the Romans, now covered in lichen and moss amongst its ancient peers, all little more than a part of some neatly arranged stones on a hill by the forest of Sherwood.

The pair of men could not have looked more different. Gurth, son of the soil, wore a knee length tunic made of once fur covered leather, the animal of its origin no longer identifiable, cinched tight about his waist by a wide brown leather belt. Feet shod by woven sandals, leggings of cured skins wound up from ankle to knee. Wamba in contrast wore a bright purple jacket covered by a tunic of red and yellow motley, bright woolen clothes that shone like the sun in comparison to Gurth’s earth tones. Atop Wamba’s head a felt cap sprouted in several droopy points that flopped about his skull. Bells affixed to the points jangled with his every move. He looked like the court fool he was.

Their one common denominator was the silver ringlet about their necks. The fool’s read “Wamba, the son of Witless, thrall of Cedric of Rotherwood.”

The outward appearance of these two men formed scarce a stronger contrast than their demeanour. Gurth, sad and sullen; gazed at the ground in dejection, almost apathetic, almost. Within his red eyes sparkled a fire that glowed with resistance to the oppression in which his life lay mired. Wamba, on the other hand, as usual with his class, expressed a sort of vacant curiosity, and fidgety impatience, together with the utmost self-satisfaction respecting his own situation and appearance.

Gurth let out a blast on his horn to draw the herd of swine in for the return home.

“The curse of St Withold upon these infernal porkers!” said the swine-herd in his native Saxon tongue. His pigs answered the trumpet blast with equally musical notes but made no haste to leave the luxurious banquet of beech-mast and acorns on which they fattened themselves. Several of them plunged deeper in mud at the banks of the river, stretched at their ease, ignoring the voice of their keeper.

“The curse of St Withold upon them and upon me!” said Gurth. “If the two-legged wolf doesn’t snap up some of them before nightfall, I am no true man.”

He rose to his feet and called out, “Here, Fangs! Fangs!”

A ragged wolfish-looking dog, half mastiff, half greyhound, ran limping about as if seconding his master in collecting the rebellious swine but only scattering them further, increasing the chaos he was supposed to remedy.

“The devil yank that mutt’s teeth,” said Gurth, “and the mother of mischief confound the Ranger that cuts the foreclaws off our dogs, and makes them unfit for their trade! Wamba, up and help me. Take a turn round the back o’ the hill to gain the wind on these damn pigs, and drive them back to me like a bunch of little lambs.”

“Um,” said Wamba the in the same Saxon tongue. He glanced down at his legs, “I have consulted my legs upon this matter, and they are of the distinct opinion, that to carry my gay garments through that muck below, would be an act of unfriendship to my sovereign person and royal wardrobe. That said, Gurth, I advise you to call off Fangs, and leave the herd to their destiny, which, whether they meet with bands of travelling soldiers, or outlaws, or wandering pilgrims, can be little else than to be converted into Normans which will be good for you.”

“The swine turned to Normans would be to my comfort!” said Gurth. “Uh, you might need to explain that to me, Wamba. Apparently my brain is too dull to read the riddles of a fool.”

“Okay, what do you call those grunting brutes running about on their four legs?” demanded Wamba.

“Swine, fool, swine,” said the herd, “every fool knows that.”

“And swine is good Saxon,” said the Jester; “but how call you the sow when she is flayed, and drawn, and quartered, and hung up by the heels like a traitor?”

“Pork,” answered the swine-herd.

“I am very glad every fool knows that too,” said Wamba, “and pork, I think, is good Norman-French; and so when the brute lives, and is in the charge of a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name; but becomes a Norman, and is called pork, when she is carried to the Castle-hall to feast among the nobles; what dost thou think of this, friend Gurth, ha?”

“I guess you’ve got a point,” Gurth said to his friend, “however it got into that thick skull.”

“Oh, but I can tell you more,” said Wamba, in the same tone. “Old Alderman Ox continues to hold his Saxon epithet, while he is under the charge of serfs and bondsmen such as you. But he becomes Beef, a fiery French gallant, when he arrives before the worshipful jaws that are destined to consume him. Sir Calf, too, becomes Monsieur de Veau in the like manner, when he requires tending he is a Saxon, and takes a Norman name when he becomes matter of enjoyment.”

“By St Dunstan,” Gurth rose, stamping his feet hard upon the damp soil to get the blood flowing again, “that is but the sad truth. Little is left to us but the air we breathe, and they only give us enough of that to make sure we can endure the tasks they lay on our shoulders. The finest and the fattest meat they take; the loveliest women are for their bed; the best and bravest men supply their foreign masters with bones to whiten distant lands until there are too few here who have either will or the power to protect the unfortunate Saxon.”

Gurth turned again to look out across the pasture. “God’s blessing on our master Cedric, he has stood within the gap to make a place for us.” Gurth gazed out, his voice a rumbling curse, “Where is that damned dog?” Then as if reminding himself of the other conversation, “Speaking of dogs, I have heard that Reginald Front-de-Boeuf is coming down to this country in person, and we shall soon see how little Cedric’s trouble will help us.” His eyes jolted back toward the pigs, “Here, here,” he shouted, “So ho! Well done, Fangs! You’ve got the piggy bastards. Bring them on, lad.”

“Gurth,” said the Jester, “I know you consider me a fool, or you would not be so rash in putting your head into my mouth. One word to Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, or Philip de Malvoisin, that thou hast spoken treason against the Norman, and you would be swinging from one of these trees as a rather nasty message to anyone who would speak against these beneficent dignities.”

“Wamba, you dog, you would not betray me,” said Gurth, “you’re the one who pulled it out of me!”

“Me? Betray you?” Wamba laughed. “Hardly. I am but a fool that…now, what’s this?”

Wamba turned toward the sound of trampling horses in the near distance.

“Never mind them,” answered Gurth, his herd before him. With the aid of Fangs he drove them toward the path leading home.

“You go ahead, I need to see the riders,” answered Wamba. “Who knows, maybe they’re coming from Fairy-land with a message from King Oberon.”

“Look you moron,” Gurth pointed to the sky, “There’s a serious thunder storm coming our way,” lightening punctuated his statement. “Are you going to worry about who some simple traveler is when lightning may well send you to the next life?”

A sudden downpour burst from the clouds sending bucket fulls of rain that slapped the tree branches with a mad rhythm.

“You can do what you want,” the swineherd grunted, “I am getting my children out of this bloody tempest.”

A loud crash of thunder sent a jolt through Wamba’s body and he suddenly decided that maybe it was best to follow Gurth home rather than resolve his curiosity as to the horsemen.

CHAPTER II

A Monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie,

An outrider that loved venerie;

A manly man, to be an Abbot able,

Full many a daintie horse had he in stable:

And whan he rode, men might his bridle hear

Gingeling in a whistling wind as clear,

And eke as loud, as doth the chapell bell,

There as this lord was keeper of the cell.

--Chaucer

“Hey! Keep moving!” Gurth shouted, struggling to keep Wamba’s attention as they moved up the road. Regardless, the fool seemed to move only toward whatever momentarily struck his interest. He reached up and snatched a handful of half-ripe hazel nuts from their branches. An instant later turned his head to leer after a cottage maiden who crossed their path. Ten steps on he plucked a flower from an old woman’s garden and ran back to give it to the maiden. She giggled and he whispered something that got him paid back with a swift slap to the face. He slowly trotted back to his friend, hand on his reddened cheek. Gurth glared at him angrily as the horsemen overtook them.

Ten men on horse trotted up to them. The lead two seemed to consider themselves of some importance. Of that pair, one was dressed as a Cistercian Monk, although his robes were composed of materials much finer than those which the rule of that order admitted. His mantle and hood, of the best Flanders cloth, fell in ample folds around a handsome, though somewhat corpulent person. His countenance bore as little the marks of self-denial, as his habit indicated contempt of worldly splendor, his features might have been called good. Might have, were it not for the avaricious glint of greed that lurked within his eye.

“This one,” mumbled Gurth, “has learned to look like a man of God, but his heart is as far from the gospels as a man can be.”

This heartless churchman’s mule whose saddle was fancier than any Gurth had seen on a steed of any local Knight, pulled the beast’s bridle, ornamented with silver bells, to a full stop. The churchman’s mule, while decorated in the fashion of the day for noblemen, was nonetheless more than a little ostentatious for a monk. He rode as one displaying the easy and habitual grace of a well-trained horseman. As Gurth watched, he quickly realized that this relatively humble mule, however well dressed and broken to a pleasant and accommodating amble, was little more than a showpiece for the gallant monk as he travelled on the road. A lay brother, one of those who followed in the train, had, for his use on other occasions, one of the most handsome Spanish Andalusians Gurth had ever seen. It was the kind of horse merchants would give their entire treasure to collect and sell at great profit to men of wealth and distinction. The saddle and housings of this superb palfrey were covered by a long foot-cloth, which reached nearly to the ground, and on which were richly embroidered, mitres, crosses, and other ecclesiastical emblems. Another lay brother led a sumpter mule, loaded probably with his superior’s baggage; and two monks of his own order, of inferior station, rode together in the rear, laughing and conversing with each other, without taking much notice of the other members of the cavalcade.

The churchman’s companion was well past forty, thin, strong, tall, and muscular; an athletic figure. Long fatigue and constant exercise had melted all of the softer parts of human form from his body. His was a type of brawn composed only of muscle, bone, and sinew. Survivor of a thousand toils, and ready for a thousand more, there was no mistaking him for anything but a warrior. His head was covered with a scarlet cap of that kind which the French call “mortier”, from its resemblance to the shape of an inverted mortar. His posture and his expression were deliberate in their attempt to force a degree of awe, if not of fear, upon strangers. Thick black moustaches upon his lip quivered with the slightest emotion, a violent temper barely restrained. Dark eyes roiled beneath a scarred brow piercing all he saw with an unbridled aggression. Danger burned near at hand in his gaze, underscored by a hatred of all beneath him.

Unlike his companion he rode a strong hackney, his gallant war horse near behind, dressed as if the Knight expected to find himself in battle at any moment. A squire followed just behind with a lance and shield ready to hand up to his master at moments notice. The man himself wore a suit that seemed to combine the sentiments of the church man with those of the warrior. A monk’s habit of sorts, white with a red cross emblazoned over his chest, draped over fine mail armour and steel plate. A heavy sword hung at his side.

This cavalcade attracted the curiosity of Wamba and the less excitable Gurth. The monk he instantly knew to be Prior Aymer of Jorvaulx Abbey, well known for many miles around as a lover of the chase, of the banquet, and, if the rumours were true, of other worldly pleasures still more inconsistent with his monastic vows. Aymer was well loved among both noble and common men. His love of sport and the hunt, regardless of the strictness of his order, inured him to the youth. His liberality with absolutions made him a favourite with those who judged church law loosely. Add to that his skill with providing a good homily at mass, in spite of his less than scholarly approach to the text, and few would oppose him throughout the counties.

Even the common people, the severest critics of the conduct of their betters, had commiseration with the follies of Prior Aymer. He was generous; and charity, as it is well known, covereth a multitude of sins, in another sense than that in which it is said to do so in Scripture. Different from his brethren of the order, who carried the same vices but none of the redeeming qualities, his love of the feast, and of the fairer sex, were over looked readily by all.

“My sons,” said the Prior, raising his voice in the lingua Franca, or mixed language, in which the Norman and Saxon races conversed with each other, “be there in this neighbourhood any good man, who, for the love of God, and devotion to Mother Church, will give two of her humblest servants, with their train, a night’s hospitality and refreshment?”

“Two of the humblest servants of Mother Church,” Wamba muttered under his breath. “I’d love to be a cook or even a pot scrubber in that supposedly humble court!” He raised his eyes and spoke aloud, “If the reverend fathers loved good cheer and soft lodging, a few miles of riding would carry them to the Priory of Brinxworth, where their quality could not but secure them the most honourable reception; or if they preferred spending a night in humble penitence, they might turn down yonder wild glade, which would bring them to the hermitage of Copmanhurst, where a pious anchorite hermit would make them sharers for the night of the shelter of his roof and the benefit of his prayers.”

The Prior shook his head at both proposals.

“Honest friend,” he said, “perhaps the jingling bells about your head have confused you. We of the church follow the motto, “Clericus clericum non decimat”; that is to say, we churchmen do not exhaust each other’s hospitality, but rather require that of the laity, that way giving them an opportunity to serve God by providing for his appointed servants.”

“It is true,” replied Wamba, “that I, being but an ass, am, nevertheless, honoured to hear the bells as well as your reverence’s mule; that said, I thought that the charity of Mother Church and her servants might best to begin at home.”

“Look here,” said the armed rider, breaking in on his prattle with a high and stern voice, “tell us, whether or not this road leads to…what is your Franklin’s name, Prior Aymer?”

“Cedric,” answered the Prior; “Cedric the Saxon.” Then to Wamba, “Tell me, good fellow, are we near his castle, and can you show us the road?”

“The road will not be easy to find,” answered Gurth, who broke silence for the first time, “and the family of Cedric goes to bed early.”

The military rider let out a bestial grunt, “They will get out of bed easily enough to supply the wants of travelers such as us. We will not stoop to beg the hospitality which we have a right to command.”

Gurth growled back, “I don’t know if I should show the way to my master’s house, to those who demand as a right, the shelter which few are willing to ask as a favour.”

“Do you dispute with me, slave!” said the soldier. Snapping spurs to his horse’s flanks he shot across the path, his riding crop raised to slash down on the insolent slave.

Gurth twisted his face in a savage, vengeful scowl, and grasped the long knife at his hip. Prior Aymer pushed his mule between his companion and the swineherd, forcing both into brief retreat from the violent confrontation.

“By St Mary, brother Brian, you are not in Palestine, where you can bully heathen Turks and infidel Saracens; we British islanders do not love violent discipline, save those chastening’s of holy Mother Church, who chastens whom she loves.”

Turning quickly to Wamba he continued, “Now, tell me, good fellow,” he held out a silver coin to the jester, “what is the way to Cedric the Saxon’s; I know you know it, and it is your duty to direct the wanderer even when his character is less sanctified than ours.”

“In truth, venerable father,” answered the Jester, “the Saracen-like violence of your right reverend companion has frightened my mind right out of the way home—I’m not even sure I shall get there to-night myself.”

“Tush,” said the Abbot, “please just tell us the way to Cedric’s castle. And fear not my companion. He has been all his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights Templars, whom you may have heard of. Half monk, half soldier. A Holy Warrior.”

“If he is but half a monk,” said the Jester, “he should not be wholly unreasonable with those whom he meets upon the road, even if they should be in no hurry to answer questions that no way concern them.”

“I will forgive your sense of humor,” replied the Abbot, niceties vanishing from his features. “Please, just show us the way to Cedric’s mansion.”

“Well, then,” answered Wamba, “your reverences must hold on this path till you come to a sunken cross. It’s really small, barely sticking above the ground these days, so pay close attention. Once you find it, take the path to the left, for there are four which meet at Sunken Cross, and I trust your reverences will obtain shelter before the storm comes on.”

“Thank you,” Aymer said. He motioned to his companions and they spurred their horses, galloping away to beat the growing storm.

As the sound of hooves died away, Gurth turned to Wamba with an expression of complicity.

“If they follow your directions, the reverend fathers will most definitely not reach Rotherwood tonight.”

“No,” said the Jester, grinning, “but they may reach Sheffield if they have good luck, and that is as fit a place for them. I am not so bad a woodsman as to show the dog where the deer lies, if I have no mind he should chase him.”

“Good point,” said Gurth; “It’s best Aymer never sees the Lady Rowena. It’d be even worse if Cedric were to quarrel, as he most likely he would, with this military monk.”

“Right you are friend Gurth.”

“Just let’s pretend we know nothing if we see them again.”

***

“You should have let me beat some respect into those two fools,” the Templar said. His horse snorted and flapped his lips as if in agreement.

“Brother Brian,” replied the Abbott, “the fool was just being who he is. The swineherd on the other hand, to have touched him could have brought much more difficulty than you or I would want to endure this cold wet night.”

“I know his kind,” said Brian, patting his horse on the neck to calm it. “I’ve dealt with many just like him. Turks as fierce as Odin himself. But within two months in my household, under the management of my master of the slaves, their pride was broken and they were humble, submissive, and fully serviceable.”

“Ay, but,” answered Prior Aymer, unconsciously patting his mule on its neck as well, the animal sensing the tension in its travelling companion, “every land has its own manners and fashions. Besides that, beating this fellow would destroy any relationship you want to build with Cedric. It certainly would have caused a quarrel between you and him that would ruin our entire purpose in having travelled here in the first place. Remember what I told you.”

“Yes,” the Templar abruptly bent at the waist when a low branch seemed to materialize in the gloaming darkness. Aymer’s mule being two hands shorter allowed the prior’s head to pass beneath with only a nod.

“This wealthy franklin is proud,” continued Aymer. “He is fierce, jealous, and quite irritable. He stands up to all other leaders, even of his most noble neighbors. Reginald Front-de-Boeuf and Philip Malvoisin are certainly no babies to strive with, yet Cedric cedes them nothing. He fights for the privileges of his race, and is very proud to claim uninterrupted descent from the renowned champion Hereward, from the days before Norman rule. He even calls himself Cedric the Saxon, regardless of who is in audience.” The prior motioned with a broad sweep of his hand as if indicating such an audience standing in the nearby trees. “He...”

A heron squawked in the distance, eliciting a response from others nearer the road. Soon the forest erupted in a flurry of squawking birds, as if the entire flock were laughing at what the first had said. The strange eruption died down just as it started, a single heron giving a final bark, darkness seeming to erase the entire event.

“Cedric does this,” continued Aymer, screwing up his face at the rude interruption, “while nearly all of his peers among his own people prefer to hide their race in order to appease the Norman lords.”

Brian the Templar considered this as they rode in silence for a bit.

“Prior Aymer,” said the Templar, “you are a gallant man, learned in the study of beauty, and like a troubadour in all matters concerning the ways of love. With that in mind, let me tell you that I expect this celebrated Rowena to be thee most beautiful creature in the world. She will have to be absolutely stunning just to counterbalance the self-denial and forbearance which I must exert if I am to court the favor of such a seditious churl as you have described her father, this Cedric.”

“Oh, Cedric is not her father,” replied the Abbott, “he’s a rather remote relation actually. The fact of the mater is that she is descended from even higher blood than he pretends to. He’s third cousin to the line or something, but was close friends with her father. As her guardian, however, he most certainly took the role of father. She is as dear to him as if she were his own child. Of her beauty you shall soon be judge; and if the purity of her complexion, and the stunning clarity of her sky blue eyes,” he rolled back in his saddle as if enthralled, “does not chase from your memory the black-tressed girls of Palestine, ay, or the houris of old Mahound’s paradise, then let it be said among all that I am an infidel, and no true son of the church.”

“Should your boasted beauty,” said the Templar, a lascivious grin stretching his face, “be weighed in the balance and found wanting, you know our wager?”

“My gold collar,” answered the Abbott, “against ten butts of Chian wine, yes I recall well. And let me just say that those butts of wine, they are most certainly mine: as securely as if they were already in the convent vaults, under the key of old Dennis the cellarer.”

“I will be judge,” said the Templar, “and the entire judgment will be solely only on my own conviction that I have seen no maiden so beautiful in all my travels. If I’m not impressed Prior, your collar is in danger; I will wear that nice roll of gold over my gorget in the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouche.”

“Judge honestly,” said the Abbott, hand up in self defense, “and if I am wrong you can wear it however you like. I will trust your honest reaction to her, on your word as a knight and as a churchman.”

Aymer looked about himself and made a motion as if to wash his hands.

“But please, brother, take my advice,” he said, “and smooth your tongue to a little more courtesy than what you’re accustomed to with infidel captives and Eastern bondsmen.”

Aymer’s mule started at something, but continued its pace without force.

“Cedric the Saxon,” he continued, “if offended, and he is easily offended, is a man who, without respect to your knighthood, my high office, or the sanctity of either, would clear his house of us, and send us to lodge with the larks, no matter how the storm pours down outside. AND!” he pointed a finger in a most indelicate manner at the knight, “be careful how you look upon Rowena. The man cherishes her with the most jealous care. If he is in the least suspicious that you intend to offend her in any way, we are but lost men. The man, it is said, banished his only son from his family for daring to so much as fall in love with her!” the monk looked about himsef as if someone may be watching their conversation. “She may be worshipped, but only at a distance. She is, as it were, not to be approached with other thoughts than such as we bring to the shrine of the Blessed Virgin.”

“Fine, I will control my tongue for a night,” answered the Templar; “I’ll be as meek as a maiden and will not spoil our mission for now. But as for your fear of his expelling us by violence, there is nothing to be afraid of. Between myself and my squires, Hamet and Abdalla, you need not doubt that we shall be strong enough take care of ourselves.”

“Let’s make sure it does not come to that,” answered the Prior. He suddenly reigned in his horse. “The clown’s sunken cross! Just as he said. But the night is so dark that we can hardly see which of the roads we are to follow. He said to take the left road I think.”

“To the right,” said Brian, “he said right.”

“To the left, certainly, the left; I remember him pointing with his wooden sword.”

“Ay, but he held his sword in his left hand, and so pointed across his body with it,” said the Templar.

“No, no,” Aymer pointed a stubby finger toward the darkened road on his left, “he clearly said this one.”

Brian put his right hand on his sword and the other up to Aymer’s face to silence him. He pointed toward the grass behind the sunken cross.

“Someone is lying there in the grass,” he said. Motioning toward one of their companions he said, “Hugo, stir him with the butt-end of your lance. See if he’s alive or not.”

Behind Brian the man called Hugo slid off his horse and strode cautiously to the figure lying on his back in the wet grass. He lifted his lance to jab the sleeping man’s gut. A voice stopped him mid-thrust, low and threatening.

“It is very rude to wake a man from his meditation and prayers.”

Hugo froze. The man sat up, his face shrouded in shadow, indistinguishable in the rainy dusk. The Abbott’s mule started in fright, causing Aymer hold on for fear of tumbling off.

“We did but wish to ask you,” said the Prior suddenly stumbling over his words, “if you could point out the road to Rotherwood, the abode of Cedric the Saxon.”

“I’m heading there myself,” replied the stranger; “and if I had a horse, I would be your guide. None of these roads lead all the way there. But I know the way very well.”

“You will have both our thanks and a fair reward, my friend,” said the Abbott, “if you could bring us to Cedric’s in safety.” He pointed to one of his own attendants, “Give him your horse so he may lead us.”

The younger man obediently slid off his mount and offered the horse to the stranger. The man easily mounted it, sitting the saddle as if one accustomed to it. Without another word he started immediately to lead them.

Within minutes they had left the solid road and turned onto a narrow trail that wound through a marsh. Solid ground was almost invisible, the horses and men forced to single file behind their unkown guide. Prior Aymer glanced back to Brian with a frightened expression. The Templar’s face betrayed his own thoughts of wariness. Less than three quarters of an hour later the stranger stopped and pointed up. Like a sentinel upon a mountain, the castle fortress stood high upon a hill to their right. A stray beam of moonlight shot through a break in the rain clouds illuminating the damp stone surface of its facing wall. Black spikes of oak jutted at the foot of the visible walls.

“That’s Rotherwood, the dwelling of Cedric the Saxon.”

A few moments later they turned onto a more obvious trail which itself soon turned into a road ascending the hill toward the castle. Brian moved up closer to the stranger, trying to look beneath his hood. A feeling of familiarity creeping into his thoughts.

“Who are you?” he said, as he strained to see the man’s face in the deepening darkness.

“A pilgrim, just returned from the Holy Land,” came the answer.

“You would have been better to have stayed there to fight for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre,” said the Templar.

“True, Reverend Sir Knight,” answered the pilgrim, “but when Templars who are under oath to recover the holy city, are found travelling at such a distance from the scene of their duties, can you wonder that a peaceful peasant like me should decline the task which such warriors have abandoned?”

Brian reached for the sword at his waist. Prior Aymer kicked and his mule suddenly bolted between the men.

“Young sir, how did you know the path to this place so well? It seemed nearly invisible to me.”

“I am native born of these parts,” answered their guide, eyes locked on Brian.

At that timee, they drew up to the end of the road and stood before the massive palace. Rotherwood was clearly large and the home of a wealthy man, but it was very different from the turreted and castellated buildings in which the Norman nobility resided, and which had become the universal style of architecture throughout England.

While different in its design, Rotherwood was most certainly a formidable fortress. The walls were high, with narrow archer’s windows and spouts for dropping stones or hot oil onto the head of attackers. A deep moat surrounded it, fed with water from a neighbouring stream. A double stockade of sharply of pointed beams defended the outer and inner bank of the trench from both horses and siege works. The only entrance from the west, via a drawbridge that spanned the outer stockade. That entrance was protected by outcroppings in the high walls from which slingers or archers could rain death onto anyone trying to cross.

Before the drawn bridge and closed gate, Brian raised his horn and blew a loud blast to alert the guard. The instant his loud and strong note rent the air, the clouds burst upon them as if his signal brought down the entire fury of the storm.