The Penitent: Suspicion

continued from The Penitent: At Vespers


 

The conversation between the crusader and the abbot gnawed at Yven so that his supper refused to settle. William inspired such trust that it was difficult to believe him guilty of an ulterior motive, yet the father was a man of God, representative of His will on earth. What was it about their exchange that bothered him so?

Night had long dethroned the sun and shadows were thick and consuming in the meager-lit hallways. Still, the brothers rose again to their devotions at Vigils, stirring Yven from his slumber. He watched them file out, not a sound made among them save the soft dance of their heavy woolen robes and the scrape of their sandaled shoon against the stone floor. Resting his head back on the buckwheat pillow with the intention of returning to sleep, he was disturbed once again as the crusader rose to follow. 

“Monsieur?” he mumbled as he attempted to swing his legs out from the bed.

William gently pushed his shoulder back. “No need to rise, Master Dubois,” he stated in assurance. “I am simply participating in the office.”

Bleary-eyed, Yven didn’t fight it and he sank into the returning nothingness. He didn’t dream, and didn’t stir again until the Prime bells rang. Brushing the sleep from his eyes, he followed William to the chapel and lost himself to the chant as he had before.

“Well, Lad, are you content to remain with the brothers, or are you keen to join me in Beaucaire?” William asked as the morning office concluded.

“I’m with you,” Yven said. He preferred not to be surrounded by strangers absorbed in silence and prayer.

“Very well, let us leave them to their doctrine.”

The trek from the monastery wasn’t long, but the road was still muddy from the recent storm and they walked at a slow pace. The signs of autumn were betrayed in the landscape as greens escaped their leafy homes in scattered progression. The road looped about like a forgotten ribbon, clinging to the grade. The sun, warm upon the travelers, thawed frozen jaws and lulled them into conversation. Yven found his voice and questions uprooted from his mind, eager for answers. “Why question the abbot about the highwaymen? Surely the brothers have no hand in the attacks.”

The answer came as measured as their steps, “Seclusion is a risky lifestyle, especially so for a man devoted to God. It often leads to paranoia, and worse, complacency. His faith will blind him to danger I fear me, and there are wolves among his flock.”

“Are you so sure then that the highwaymen were local? Could they not have been just a roving band of murderous thieves?”

The crusader stopped, flipping his satchel to the other shoulder. “Anything is possible, but consider this: they attacked at night, on foot, under the threat of severe weather.”

“But to risk a city curfew?” Yven countered, remembering the night he violated a town’s curfew accidentally. It wasn’t a pleasant night and his master made certain that the week was equally difficult. 

“And on foot when the monastery was a half-day’s ride from the ambush.”

He mumbled grimly as they proceeded forward, “Yes, but the monastery has no curfew. By divine edict, they must remain accessible to all pilgrims seeking sanctuary, no matter the hour. And I’d wager your train was the first they happened upon. I’ve witnessed stranger plans executed.”

Cold fear gripped at his heart as layers of doubt and mystery suddenly evaporated. “Surely we would’ve noticed other guests among the novices.”

“And yet we were not offered rooms as travelers, we are granted beds in the novice hall.”

Yven frowned. Why didn’t the abbot offer them lodgings in the outbuildings? “Because the guest rooms were already occupied?” he queried slowly.

“And there are a number of horses stabled there that have expensive tack,” he said as they approached the imposing gate to Beaucaire. “Hardly fitting for impoverished monks.”

Mulling it over, Yven let his eyes wander the formidable wall, no doubt expertly laid by master freemasons many years ago. Guards were posted at the gate, one with an official-looking badge of office proudly draped across his shoulders. Suddenly, Yven panicked. He never had to handle a checkpoint on his own. He fumbled for his writ of business, unsure if it was even valid anymore.  

“State your name and your business please,” the officer commanded.

William responded, “William leSaber, with my charge, young Master Yven Dubois. We seek an audience with the Triviot family. We have news from Acre.”

Yven, relieved, shoved the partially drawn documents hastily into their pouch.  He liked the sound of charge. It seemed so much more noble a title than apprentice ever did. He straightened his back and attempted to appear as imposing as his benefactor. He kept pace with him once through the gate, following the directions to the Traviot manor.

The Penitent: At Vespers

continued from The Penitent: Abandoned

William knelt in prayer at the statue of the Virgin Mary while the Benedictines were at Vespers, their chant echoing through the cavernous space.  As voices intermingled, divorced, and regrouped about him, Yven lost himself in the din, unable to discern which sound belonged to which brother. For a blissful moment, his mind wandered through the tones and away from the bleakness of reality. The rhythm gave order to his chaotic thoughts and with it a sense of purpose. When the chant faded from the memory of the archways, fear drifted into his bones once again. He missed routine and longed to hear the brutal words and the physical sting of his master’s abuse, for it would mean that he was safe from change and his future certain.

After service concluded, a brother guided them to the office of the abbot, a decaying, crooked codger with bright blue eyes and a caring smile. “Now, how can my office serve you?” he asked, his wisp-like voice crackling with the strain of age.

“I am recently come from the Holy Lands with intent to return some items to the Triviot family, Father Abbot,” William stated, leaning forward in his seat. “I was instructed that they resided in Beaucaire and I wondered if you knew where I should begin my search.”

The old man tapped his chin, “Traviot, you say? Their patriarch, Dannel, took ill with fever and as of yet, isn’t recovered. May I assume then, if you are delivering personal effects, that his son Mattieu is…”

William nodded, but offered nothing further.

The color faded from the abbot’s eyes as fast as his smile. “Ah, God have mercy on his soul,” he crossed himself. “We’ll include him in the book of the dead. Brother Xavier will be deeply saddened to learn of his cousin’s death. They were quite close in their youth. The Traviot manor is up the road from the smithy once you are within the town’s defensive gate.”

The crusader didn’t allow silence to cripple their conversation, moving quickly on to other concerns. “I should inform you that we ran into some trouble with highwaymen the morrow yester. They traveled light, and as there was no indication of another camp in the area, I have to assume then that they are local. Their organization also implies that there may be more of them.”

“Quite distressing,” the abbot said, clasping his hands together. “We have been left undisturbed in our solitude. If your suspicions are correct, these fiends must respect the church. Perhaps if they are local as you claim, they do not wish to be recognized by the brothers?”

“Do you have a place to go if violence should find you here? I’m concerned for the safety of your order.” Unease was evident in William’s voice, but Yven thought there was something else driving his inquiry. He wanted to interrupt, to ask why, but he let his question go unspoken. Habit was comforting, and his suspicions remained concealed within his gut.

A tunnel through the wine cellar led to safety, or so the abbot explained hesitantly. “Since our charter, we’ve only seen the need to use it once. Few save our holy brothers remember its existence.”

The soldier nodded, seemingly satisfied, and pushed on with his next request. “We will need lodging for the night, perhaps for the morrow as well. Would it be possible to board here?”

Father Abbot frowned, his wrinkled-face a wash in seriousness, “So long as you do not mind a bed with the novices, or distract them from their office, you may stay until your mission is concluded.”

“That is most agreeable, we thank you,” William said, rising. He offered a few coins from his purse, “For your generosity and your inconvenience, both.”

“This will help a great many people, God bless you.” The old man rose with the caution of his age and shuffled to the door, “We dine simply here and will have supper within the hour. You will join us, I must insist.”

“We will indeed, thank you Father Abbot.”  The crusader replied, signaling for Yven to follow.

The Penitent: Abandoned

continued from The Penitent: Aftermath

Yven emerged hungry from the empty caravan, squinting in the sunlight. Not a trace of last night's storm remained to mar the bright morning sky. His heart gripped his throat when he caught sight of the deserted clearing. The train had left him behind at dawn, wheel ruts in the soggy ground the only evidence of their passing. Cursing, he slammed his fist into the side of the wagon. “Damn them all,” he muttered, rubbing his knuckles.  

The underbrush parted to reveal the crusader, leading his mare with purpose. “Ah, Master Dubois, good morrow. How fair you?”

Surprise at the sudden appearance rendered him mute. He struggled to respond, eventually surrendering to a series of guttural noises that even he could not recognize as viable speech.

His attempt caused William to chuckle softly. “Our conversations are likely to make the road seem longer, I fear me.”

“The road longer?” Yven repeated, confused. “I do not understand, Monsieur.”

“My apologies,” he responded, giving a slight bow with a fist at his heart. “I assumed you did not wish to travel alone. I am bound for Beaucaire; if this is agreeable, you are most welcome to join me. I understand if your plans are other.”

Yven regarded the wagon tracks, feeling uneasy. He never thought the merchants callous, and yet they were gone. “What would drive them on without us?” he asked, not entirely sure he wanted a truthful answer. He looked to the crusader hopefully, biting his lip.

His face had turned to stone. While fussing with the saddlebags on his steed, he responded, “The draper thought me a Templar Knight and was convincing in his argument to the others that they should not be associated with a wanted criminal. Why they left you behind still eludes me and I find that particular action most deplorable.”

“Are you, a wanted criminal?” he asked, holding his breath.

“If I am it is not because of my participation in the Holy War. I was not part of the Templar ranks,” his answer was wooden, suppressing any opportunity for Yven to inquire about his past.

 “They didn’t even wake me. You didn’t wake me,” he said, bitterness at the edge of his voice.

His accusation rousted an unexpected laugh from the man, “My dear lad, I tried. I have seen dead less at peace than you. In truth, I sought to ensure your heart still beat, so sound was your slumber.”

Yven rubbed sleepily at his neck while he considered the crusader’s words, and especially the attractive offer. Beaucaire was yet a half-day’s ride hauling the caravan; it was entirely feasible to sell off the hides at the marketplace, perhaps even the caravan to someone in town. But what to do after?

William interrupted his thoughts, “You are troubled. Have I spoke out of turn?”

“No,” he answered, sullenly, feeling defeated. “Monsieur, I have no family to go to, no trade, and no master. What do I do?”

His piercing gaze softened, “Can you not continue the tanner’s business?”

“The business, no. I know the labor, but not the numbers. He didn’t teach me the books.” Yven fidgeted as he spoke of his ineptitude. “He told me I was too simple to ever understand.”

Something sinister flashed in the man’s dark eyes. “He told you thus? How old are you, Lad?” His tone was stern, even angry.

Why did that bother him? My master wasn't wrong, he thought, recalling his first attempt at wrangling numbers. He had struggled ages with sums only to be told that the numbers themselves were backwards. “I was four and ten last Eastertide.”

William raised his gaze to the sky and held it there so long, Yven was certain he was searching for Heaven's Gate beyond the sunshine. When at length he spoke, his manner was more relaxed, “You asked me what you should do? Accept my offer. I shall help you make any needed arrangements in Beaucaire.”

“I will go then, thank you, Mas, er, Monsieur.” Relief washed through him like a gentle wave. Little gave him more cause for fear but self-reliance. As panic receded, his stomach complained, reminding him of the hours that had passed since his last meal. Yven smiled nervously, “J’ai faim. Have we time to eat?”

The crusader took measure of the sun’s position and nodded, “Does your late master have any staples?”

“A few apples, some rashers, boiled eggs,” he rambled through the list of items he remembered packing. “Some bread.”

“Excellent, if you would be so kind to gather the fare while I locate my sakret? He should be nearby.”

“Bon d’accord, Monsieur.” Ignoring his desire to ask what a sakret was, Yven did as instructed out of comfortable habit. He was not prepared to make his own decisions quite yet. 

The Penitent: Aftermath

continued from Write On Edge: Pick A Number Challenge entitled The Penitent:Ambush

Rain carved countless mini-rivers in the rising mud. Yven stared at the tanner’s caravan, unable to feel sorrow over the man’s death. Nine years he lived under the tanner's roof, yet he could only conjure relief that his apprenticeship was ended. Guilt gnawed at his freedom.

Lightning perforated the clouds in blinding whites and crackling purples, drowning the wood with staccato luminescence. He turned to where the improvised graves were dug in haste. William knelt near them in prayer, despite the downpour, despite the intent of the highwaymen. There had been six of them, all cut down like diseased trees. The train had only lost two that night, his master the tanner, and the fuller’s apprentice. Some of the others sustained a few bruises. The outcome would’ve been quite different was it not for the timely intervention of the crusader.

The others had long left them to the deluge, securing themselves in their own caravans. With the mire sucking his boots, Yven approached his savior. “Why did we bury them? Why do you pray for them?” he asked, an iceberg of anger drifting in his tone. “They would have murdered us all, and for what? A handful of trinkets?”

William finished his silent words and signed a cross across his chest before tucking his rosary into a pouch. “It is not my place to condemn the soul,” he replied, his tone even. “I cannot grant them absolution, but that should not mean they cannot receive a decent Christian burial.”

“You don’t feel your effort is wasted on them?”

He rose, wiping rain from his forehead. “No prayer is wasted when it's for the sake of another. How we treat the least of us will be recorded in the book of Heaven.” He motioned towards the tanner’s caravan, “Why are you not retired and dry, Lad?”

Yven shivered, stating stubbornly, “I own nothing. It is my master’s trade and I have no claim to his belongings.”

“Yes, well, you can hardly repay me for saving your life if you foolishly insist on catching your death. I, for one, am weary of the drench.” He pushed through the mud and opened the hinged door to the back of the wagon. “Are you coming presently?”

His shiver spread into his teeth, “How is it you happened upon us, out here in the wood? Are you someone I should be suspicious of?”

“Divine providence. And you should always be wary of soldiers without a war. They are trained to inflict carnage and little else.” He slipped inside the caravan, leaving the door to flap in the wind.

Yven had nowhere to go. With reason overruling his pride, he made his way to shelter.

Write On Edge: Pick A Number Challenge

Red Writing Hood Prompts is revisiting an old prompt from its Red Dress Club days. The rules are as follows:

Word limit is 500.

Pick four numbers, each between 1 and 10.
Write them down so you remember.
The first number will be for your character, the second your setting, the third the time and the fourth will be the situation.
Then take the four elements and combine them into a short story.
All four you picked MUST be your main elements, but you can add in other characters, settings, times and situations.

• Character

1. A new mother
2. An actress
3. A recent high school graduate
4. A waitress
5. An alien
6. A homeless man
7. An elderly woman
8. A freshman in high school
9. A college student
10. A musician

• Setting

1. The woods
2. A wedding reception
3. A party
4. A restaurant
5. A mall
6. A park
7. A beach
8. A lake
9. A baseball game
10. A seminar

• Time

1. Winter
2. During a thunderstorm
3. The morning after prom
4. Spring
5. December
6. Midnight or around midnight
7. Summer
8. In the middle of a fire
9. In the middle of a snowstorm
10. The afternoon

• Situation

1. A death
2. Secret needs to be told
3. Someone has or will hurt someone
4. A crime has occurred or is about to
5. Someone has lost/found something
6. Someone is falling in love
7. Reminiscing on how things change
8. There has been a family emergency
9. Something embarrassing happened
10. Someone has just gone to the doctor.

I had so much fun with this and I'm extremely grateful for the 500 word limit. Here's what I chose:
6,1,2,4. (A homeless man, the woods, a thunderstorm, and a crime) I am continuing the story of The Penitent with this challenge. William leSaber is my homeless man as established from my earlier posts.


I offer the following: The Penitent: The Ambush

Dark, violent clouds collided to form a mass that threatened to consume the southern sky. The train of seven caravans moved at a sketchy pace, with draft horses pulling hard against the brutal winds. Yven fought to stave off cold and sleep as he drove the tanner’s wagon behind the fuller’s. He arched his back in a stretch and shifted his weight in his seat, attempting for the eightieth time to achieve a better level of comfort. Finally, the signal to set up camp reached him and he urged the mare to settle into position. The underbrush of the woods jostled the axles, causing him to wince. The tanner would surely retaliate for the disturbance.

On cue, his master called out from the depths of the bed, “Boy, why have we stopped?”

“The train is just seeking refuge from the storm,” he replied hastily.

Without warning, a bolt splintered the wooden frame near his head. Yven blinked, unsure what was transpiring. Shouts of panic ricocheted through the ash and pine as distinct clash of clamoring swords rivaled an explosion of thunder. “What’s…Whose,” the tanner stammered.

Still affixed to his driving bench, the apprentice replied fearfully, “I think we’re under attack.”

A strong arm reached up and tossed him from the carriage. Yven landed haphazardly on the unyielding ground, feeling a sharp sting of pain as something, a rock maybe, tore into his chin. Disoriented, he rolled to his knees. Staggering to rise, he was kicked back down. Behind him, his boisterous master stopped yelling abruptly. That’s it, he thought. I’m done for.

He felt a knee grind into his spine and a powerful hand pushed his face into the earth. His lungs burned for air as soil compacted into his nose. Finally, his body struggled, pushing back against the brute force that had him pinned.

Suddenly, the attacker was gone. Yven coughed and bolted to his feet, fight surging through his being. He spun about looking for a target in time to catch a glimpse of a stranger sinking his blade into one brigand, followed by a precise knife throw into the neck of another. When a burst of thunder resounded and subsided, the ordeal was over. Terrified merchants clustered together to assess the damage and lick their wounds.

Rain began to pelt the ransacked caravans. Yven approached the tanner’s wagon with caution to calm the screaming, panicked steed still attached to the yolk. The black beast reared twice before she relaxed, snorting her complaints with emphasis. The apprentice looked at his master then, draped unnaturally over the bench, eyes wide and lifeless.

“Are you injured, Lad?” the stranger asked. His tabard and mail were dripping with blood.

Yven dislodged some more dirt from his throat. “My master is dead,” he coughed, numbness creeping over his soul. “What happened?”

“Bandits attacked, Lad,” he replied grimly. “I was nearby and heard the commotion.”

“Yven Dubois. We are in your debt, Monsieur,” he said gratefully.

“William leSaber,” he stated in kind.

The Penitent: A New Development

“Monsieur leSaber, he has left?” Matilde spoke with a whispered urgency.

The captain regarded his daughter with concern. She seemed far too eager. “He has. He plans to room at the monastery outside Beaucaire upon the close of the week.”

Her sloe black eyes reflected the darkness of a night without stars. Her slender fingers fidgeted in an unexpected display of distress. “Father, I must ask. Did he speak of me favorably?”

A knot grew in his chest and his heart threatened to burst through his ribcage. This was not the conversation he wished to have with his daughter. “Matilde, you will turn your gaze from Monsieur leSabre. His destiny does not coincide with yours.”

Crestfallen, she cast her eyes to the floor, “So you did speak with him about matrimony.”

“The topic was breached, but he quite thinks of you as a sister,” Corrick said firmly. Historically, such a comment would have been sufficient to influence a change in her desires. He underestimated her ambition.

She looked through him, a wicked determination consumed her features. “If he is so minded, I shall take up the veil and join a nunnery.”

He sighed heavily, wishing he had remained at sea another month. “You know nothing of him. This is naught but a passing fancy and I will not deem to embarrass you to him with this pretense.”

“An idle fancy it might be, if not for the bearing of his character,” she argued her case with conviction like a magister before the court. “He is noble where others are base, kind where others are cruel, and he knows the pain of a fractured soul. He has seen the world and is weary of it. A man such as he would not enter into a union lightly, nor would he abandon his marriage bed for the sake of one fleeting night.”

He would admit to none that there was wisdom in her words. William radiated a morality that inspired trust and loyalty from all those around him. If he had expressed an interest, would it have been so difficult to accept? As it was, a quandary trapped him. Corrick could see that her mind was keen and there would be no peace until she had her way. Saddened, he yielded a little ground to her argument, knowing that was all it would ever be. William was not in the market for a bride, and certainly not for one as fickle or manipulating as she. “While I would agree that even a soldier has redeeming traits, Monsieur leSaber is well on the road by now. That ship has left the harbor.”

Her lip quivered and a mist glistened in her eyes. She nodded slowly, “Then I shall make arrangements with the Mother Superior.” She turned away, poised and graceful as ever, and sailed up the narrow staircase as if it was a winter river. smoothed over with ice.

“Lord deliver me,” he prayed under his breath. He had the distinct impression that this wouldn't be the last time they would have this discussion.

The Penitent: In The Wake Of A Goodbye

Corrick bid his friend farewell at the dawn after providing directions to a common park for the sakret to hunt. He was saddened at the departure and expressed a hope that they would meet again.

“Thank you for your hospitality and your friendship, Captain,” the crusader had said as they locked wrists in a firm handshake. “I daresay I shall return indeed, for it has been an age since I have felt so at home.”

The captain smiled wanly as he wandered through his own memories of home. He left his island a mere boy, exchanging positions on ships as his experience grew. The day he drifted into Toulon and he saw his Marianne was the day he knew he found his new port-of-call. She became his northern star, his reason for crossing the tempestuous sea and for coming home again. Her gentle hand touched his cheek. “You are melancholy, Husband,” she voiced, her eyes mirrors in the firelight.

“Aye, Wife,” he replied, kissing her palm before catching her up in his arms. She squirmed against him delightfully in a feigned struggle. “I know a sure remedy.”

She never refused him, not once in the whole of their marriage. Theirs was the perfect union, spiritually, emotionally, physically. He found none pleasing but her, even more so now with grey creeping into her raven hair and lines crinkling the corners of her mouth and eyes where years of laughter had scored them. He drank her up, filling his senses and slaking his thirst for the moment. And there was the flush in her pale cheek that he would enjoy for the day remaining. Renewed, he could face the world and bend the sea to his will.

As Marianne retreated to the kitchen fire, he settled at his desk to record his voyage to his accounts ledger. He kept meticulous books out of necessity while at sea, out of habit while at home. His wife did the same in his absence so he could know precisely where the household was in the execution of the annual budget. He quilled the last of his numbers into the book just as his daughter descended the staircase, her dainty steps barely audible. Something was amiss in her pace and he looked up from his chair. She seemed to be searching for something, or rather someone. "Hell," he muttered as he realized who.

The Penitent: A Vow

The supper done, the fire was stoked. The captain sat content amidst his family. His youngest son, Jeoffre, not yet seven, was captivated by the hooded sakret and questioned William thoroughly about the care of the bird. “How do you know it is male?”

“The sakret is smaller than his female counterpart,” William answered patiently.

“I should like to work with falcons,” the lad expressed dreamily, rubbing his sandy eyes.

“It requires diligence and time,” the crusader warned. “And patience.”

“Time for bed, I think me,” Corrick announced as his son yawned.

Matilde rose from her mending, “I’ll see to them, Father.”

“You as well,” he replied sternly.

She cast her sloe eyes demurely at the crusaders feet. “As you wish, Father. Good evening, Monsieur leSaber.”

“Bonsoir, ma petite fille,” William said. She locked his gaze for a moment, pouting flirtatiously, before rounding up her siblings and chasing them up the narrow staircase.

Marianne refilled their tankards with her home brew before sitting down to her embroidery. “So, Monsieur, to where are you going if not home to your family?”

“Beaucaire first,” he said somberly, swirling the rich amber liquid in his tankard absently. “Then Einsiedein and Arth. I have been charged with the task of returning some personal effects of the fallen to their respective families.”

She praised him from her stitchery, “You are performing a Christian service, Monsieur.”

“The least I could do.” Sorrow saturated his tone, exposing a brief moment of vulnerability that Corrick had not before seen. “The worst of men fight,” he stated finally. “The best of men die.”

Corrick raised his tankard, “Requiescant in pace in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

Surprise marked his countenance. “Latin?”

Genuflecting, he explained, “A meager comfort I learned to provide for those I’ve lost at sea.”

The Penitent: A Homecoming

“Marianne?” Corrick called for his wife as he ushered his guest into their small parlor.

Soon, she entered, wiping grease and flour onto her apron. He loved her best when she was harried with cookery and gardening. Even now as she scolded him for not being forewarned and complained of her disheveled appearance, she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen, and no man on earth could be more proud of his spouse than he.

“The pleasure is mine, Mistress,” William stated, kissing her fair hand after an exchange of greetings.

Corrick’s kiss was considerably less proper, chasing her blushing from the room in furious squeals. He laughed as he tended to his muddy boots. “She’ll join us again momentarily,” he said, knowing his wife’s habits well.

William smiled warmly, “I’m intruding. I can go for a stroll.”

He laughed again. “It’s true I’m a sailor just home from sea, but we are hardly newly-weds. I’ve a brood about somewhere, hopefully minding their mother.”

“I look forward to meeting them all,” he replied in earnest, settling into a roman-style chaise, his sakret perched upon a pedestal.

“Father,” Matilde whispered from the archway. His eldest daughter was fifteen winters and was as much the bane of his existence as she was his joy. She was fair of face and carried herself with poise, but she had dangerously demure eyes and a wicked desire to be married. Arrangements for bands would have to be made soon.

“Ah, Matilde, Master William leSaber,” he quickly made introductions and bit his tongue to keep from groaning as her eyes fluttered coyly.

“Enchantez, Monsieur leSaber,” she breathed.

William remained stoic, “Enchantez, Madamoiselle.”

“Help your mother,” he commanded, perhaps more harsh than was necessary, but he did not want to be accused by either his daughter or his friend that this was intended to be a match-making introduction.

“Oui, bien sur, Father,” she replied, a hesitation in her curtsy and a long look delivered before following orders.

“She’ll be the death of me, for certain,” he muttered.

“She’s comely and obedient,” William observed. “And she appears to be in the market for a husband.”

Corrick groaned, “Indeed. She’s expressed interest in everyone from the carpenter’s apprentice to my very married first mate.”

He was pensive. “And has anyone approached you for her hand?”

He froze, “You’re not suggesting-”

“Worry not, Captain, I have no such designs,” he replied, dismissing the notion with a small waive of his hand. “I see my sister in her. She was of independent mind as well.”

“Any advice?”

“Avoid opening negotiations with a soldier,” he answered, intensely serious, “no matter her intention. She will a widow be afore their babe can become a man.”

Corrick allowed a long pause before responding. “And a sailor will only give her cause to be lonely. The carpenter’s apprentice it is then.”

“A wise choice withal,” he agreed solemnly.

The Penitent: Dry Land

The first mate gave Corrick the all-clear. “Our passengers have all disembarked,” he said.

“Thank you, Master Aiden,” he replied with a measure of relief. “Let them be a problem for the local bailiff, eh?”

“Aye Sir,” he laughed. He looked just as relieved.

“Well then, Master Aiden, if you would start the repair detail and run the inventory, I’ll meet up with the underwriters to clear the profits.” He raised his hand to block the sun while he glanced at the harbor town of Toulon to catch his bearings. The coffee house was astride the docks and already packed with money in the late morning. He would have to claw his way to his meeting. Sighing heavily, he left his jun-influenced boat for the first time in weeks and staggered on his sea-legs towards the buildings. 

“Captain Corrick? Have you a moment?” a voice asked as he passed by a fishmonger’s stall.

He turned. William leSaber approached him, his large raptor hooded and perched upon his gloved fist and a large canvas sack draped across his right shoulder. “Master leSaber, I expected you’d be halfway to home by now. Why are you haunting the shipyard?”

His stoic features melted into a puddle of confusion. “The truth of the matter is, I have no idea where I am or more importantly, where the harbormaster is. I want to ensure my sakret won’t be quarantined before I attempt to take him out of the city.”

“I had quite forgot you brought a tiercel-falcon with you,” the captain responded. “I’ll oversee the clearance with the harbormaster myself. Have you a place to stay? If you’re not in great haste, you are most welcome to join me on my errands and then home to the wife. I would be glad of the company,” he offered.

A rare smile grew above his chin in reply. “Thank you Captain. I am grateful for your time and as long as I am not an imposition, for your home as well.”

As the two carved a path through sailors and doxies, their attempt at conversation was abandoned. Their voices could not be exchanged with any accuracy over the raucous din of the busy harbor. Corrick decided he would explain his plans if his companion questioned them. The coffee house, although crowded, would be quiet enough to conduct business, and a small luncheon could be purchased from the housekeeper for a measure of coin.

“Messieurs Toussaint et Richard, cet homme est monsieur leSabre. Master leSabre, they are my underwriters for the voyage from Acre, masters Toussaint and Richard.” Corrick sat at the table after introductions were made and William followed suit.

Richard was a man of few words, and all of them were in the Provencal tongue. The conversation would be spearheaded by Toussaint, an extremely wealthy merchant with a penchant for dramatic apparel. Corrick had many dealings with him over the years and found him to be of strong moral character, despite the flamboyance. “I see monsieur that you are Saxon, yet you bear a name of Bretagne. This is an enigma, non?”

William displayed no change in demeanor. “Norman, by birth. Soldier by choice. Names are inconsequential.”

“Bienvenue en Provence. And your bird? This is not a native species either non?”

The crusader stroked the breast of the sakret, feeling its crop, “A gift, from a Bedouin sheik, after an uninvited stay.”

“Ah, you were imprisoned by the Saracens,” the underwriter spit. “Mes condoleances, monsieur. They are monsters deserving of eternal damnation. But the bird, I do not suppose you would be willing to part with her?”

He shook his head, his frozen features hard to read. “No, he stays with me.”

“C’est dommage ça. I am willing to pay a large sum, if you decide to change your mind.”

William made no comment, but Corrick felt the mood shift slightly, as if they were trespassing on a memory they could never possibly comprehend. As the housekeep brought small cups of coffee and some bowls of pheasant stew, the captain steered the conversation to business, providing a list of passengers and their duties paid. “The silks you were hoping for, unfortunately, were confiscated by Mongols long before they reached Jerusalem.”

“Ah, but you did not return empty. I see you managed more coffee and honey. This is acceptable with the fares collected,” Toussaint stated, scratching out sums with quill and ink onto a sheet of vellum. “We will attempt another supply of spices and silks within the month, non?”

“As it pleases you. That should be sufficient time to make repairs. I thank you,” Corrick said, receiving the checks and docket for the harbormaster. “You’ll be able to collect your goods from the arsenal on the morrow.”

“Bon d’accord,” he flashed a slippery smile and raised his coffee cup, “A votre santé!”

“Merci. Salute.”

“Maintenant, Monsieur Richard. Nous allons faire voir chez-les-putains.” The merchants rose, tipping their caps as they receded into the crowded house.

Corrick regarded his quiet friend, “You disapprove of my associates?” he queried.

“What? No Captain, you mistake my reaction,” the crusader said. He glanced about quickly, yet seemingly from habit instead of suspicion. “I am not a business man and so I seek not to pass advice regarding the nature of trade.”

“And yet there is something you do not like about Toussaint?” he probed.

“Toulon has been attacked many times by Saracens, so I understand the root cause of his distaste. His arrogance has blinded him, however, as the Saracens gave us more hospitable quarters than we ever gave them.” A dark cloud crossed his expression as if disgusted by the images in his mind. “Centuries of war, of death, of blood and sacrifice...It begs the question, who is truly the heathen to be forsaken by God?”

Corrick swallowed hard, forcing the last of his stew beyond the tightness that developed in his chest. He sought for something to say, to help his new-found friend work through what he had experienced, and discovered that he could not. How does one offer advice to chase away haunting demons unless one as seen their handiwork personally? Finally, the long moment passed as did the cloud that marred his countenance. A change of topic was long overdue. “Well, I assume you will be in haste to return home, but you may stay with us as long as you like. I own an apartment just inside the harbor walls.”

“My home is far afield. I think I will not see her again in my lifetime,” the crusader gave a fleeting smile. “Oh cast off that worried look my friend, for I assure you I am not missed.”

“I doubt that. My crew already misses you, the lazy lot. You made their jobs easier.”

Write On Edge: Music Challenge

The Red Writing Hood challenge for this week is provided by Cameron, who gives us 400 words to inspire a character through a song. For this response, I opted to explore the past of the quiet crusader from my previous post. For the song in question, I used a favorite of mine from the Mediaeval Baebes album  The Rose, focusing on the lyrics and its English translation.

My thanks to Cameron and crew for the extra 100 words. I would have been hard pressed to reduce this scene further.


My offering: The Penitent: A Confession of Sorts

The Rose Eleanor creaked and rattled as she rocked, bullied by the weather. The storm lost its strength but the choppy waves and scattered rain still lingered. Captain Corrick left the bridge to his mate, stealing a moment for an overdue supper and a chance to satisfy his curiosity.

“Thank you, Captain.” The soft-spoken crusader slid onto the bench at the table. The quarters were cramped and he was Goliath in the small space. “This is most unexpected."

Corrick shrugged, placing the plated meal comprised of salted herring and toast before his guest. “I am curious of you,” he started cautiously. “I feel compelled to hear your tale, beginning with your name.”

Surprise softened his features. “Names are of little import; of them I have had many. The name I was given became a curse upon my family, so when I took up the cause, I took up William leSaber.”

 “How have you come to be on the Rose?”

There was hesitation as a flash of pain reflected in the man’s dark eyes. “It is hardly a tale for the table.”

“You are a man of faith. You fought in Acre. You blame yourself for her demise, is that it?”

“Mayhap. How men fought and died there isn’t what you seek I suspect. The question you wish answered is akin to my travels before the Holy War, yes?” the man countered intuitively.

Nodding, Corrick smiled, “A soldier is accustomed to directness, forgive me. How came you by Acre then?”

“Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat and answered cryptically, “There is a Castillian song about a snake in the snow. A gardener took pity on the creature, inviting it to warm at his hearth. When the snake recovered, it devoured its benefactor.”

“So a viper bit you?”

“And in my own home.” He aged as he spoke, his voice tight with corked anger. “So when the Lord commanded me, I took up my sword and marched into the land of Christ.”

 “You killed a man,” Corrick deduced from the parable without passing judgment. Half of his crew was bound for the hangman’s noose prior to their tenure. A past didn’t necessarily foreshadow a future and the essence of a man’s being was rarely immutable.

William neither confirmed nor denied the statement. A comfortable silence followed, affording the luxury for them both to collect their thoughts.

Write On Edge: Salt Water Challenge

Once again, the challenge gives us 300 words. This time, the topic is inspired by a quote from Isak Dinesen (Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke) “The cure for anything is salt water….sweat, tears or the sea.”






I offer the following response: The Penitent

The ship pitched and rolled on the dicey waters while the wind pelted the bark with an unrelenting, briny slush. The captain ordered the yard to be braced for the coming storm. Men scurried on deck to secure loose articles and up aloft to adjust the sails. The crew, long seasoned by the dangers of the sea, manned their posts with precision.

With three days remaining on the voyage, the Rose Eleanor ran light in the draft as there was scant cargo aboard. She instead was providing transport for returning Crusaders, licking their wounds after the fall of Acre. The captain had shuttled crusaders before and looked upon them with guarded suspicion. Most he had ferried were little more than mercenaries, willing to pick a fight. The choppy seas did nothing to settle mounting tensions..

One of the battle-scarred passengers stepped in quietly as a makeshift sailor, helping to hoist lines and furl sails, quickly earning the admiration of the entire crew.

“Thanks, Lad,” Captain Corrick said, “but you needn’t feel obligated. You paid your passage in full.”

The quiet man regarded his calloused hands pensively, “Demons will make work for idle hands. I have faced more than my share of them to give them cause to seek me out.”

Attempting humor, the captain said, “I think demons would think twice about making work for you.”

"Perhaps," the crusader chuckled softly as the boatswain trilled another command on his pipe. “I have had my fill of war in God’s name. Now I seek peace, but I fear I am ill-equipped.” He added somberly, "I shall fail Him as we did in Acre."

“He will note the effort,” the captain replied earnestly as he turned his gaze towards the horizon, broken with angry waves, “or we are all lost at sea.”