The Road To God Is Paved With Sins [Updated: 31/11/2014]

[McScottish]

The Road To God Is Paved With Sins - Introduction

Templars, it's always about the bloody Templars. While they may well have been the first Military Order to become 'Knights of Christ', they were nonetheless not the first Order on the scene, in spite of all that has been written of them, how often they are used in films, and the vast amount of documentaries in which they are included/feature.

Before them came an Order that was neither based on the same creed, nor were their beginnings those of ferocious warriors, zealous killers of Christs enemies and the eastern heathens. It is that Order that this tale concerns, one I hope shall delve into a number of issues that are as relevant today as they ever were in the past.

So, without further ado, let's get this rolling.

Please feel free to leave comments and ask questions as it goes along.

[Scottish King]

When are ye getting this rolling lad?! I want more.

[LillyanaKabal]

I was intrigued by the name, but now...nothing. Or though, he could be like me, and get distracted for two weeks before actually sitting down to write something.

[McScottish]

Pretty much exactly like that. Quite rude to talk about people when they're not around, don't you know?

Anyway, I'll get this rolling within the next couple of days, and an update for my Oriental story as well.

Have no fear citizens, for I am always here.

[McScottish]

Prologue

I was young once, young and youthful and full of piss and vinegar, but that was truly a long time ago, in an age that my mind has almost forgot as it decays slowly within my skull. Now my eyes are milky and dim, the light from them has faded that spark of my soul that once gave pause to my enemies has fled...yes, the cold chill of my bare hall of drafty stone is a far cry from the places I have seen in my lifetime, let me tell you that! Even now I can feel the heat of the noonday sun searing my flesh, heating the exposed rings of my mail, the sweat soaking into the cap beneath my helmet. I can see that flaming orbs as it raised itself high, higher, into the sky that was clear of clouds and as blue as the oceans over which I had travelled to arrive there. Ach. Now my hands are like gnarled and unyielding stumps, yes they are now, but once they could hold a blade and a shield as well as any other in Christendom and the lands of my birth.

That in itself is an interesting tale, so I am told. For I was both there and not there, a babe in the arms of my desperate mother as she approached the strong oaken doors of a large stone building, the snow whisked all about her by ferocious winds and the bitter, biting, chill of winters grasping claws. I knew nothing then, just a mute observer to the act of my own abandonment, but when I sleep...ah, when I sleep I can still remember a hazy face, a half-remembered outline of a narrow face and long chin. The smell of flowers, yes, the smell of flowers about her that could not be driven away by the winds and the cold, a smell that seeped into my swaddling cloth and that I have never forgotten.

It is the small things that come back to you in old age, the insignificant things; the colour of your mothers hair- golden it was -or the comfort of a woman in the night, the ache and fatigue of battle, or what it was like to be able to ride a stallion at a full gallop without fear of falling and breaking your own back.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

On this winters day my mother abandoned me, each step taking her closer and closer to the Chapter House of the Hospitallers of Saint John. What must she have been thinking? Did she consider what my life would be among those that would later become my brethren? When she looked into my blue eyes, a baby barely able to cry yet already aware of the world, did she ever think to turn away and perhaps abandon not me but the path which she now tread with unsteady footfalls?

In my mind I can see the door opening, an elderly but kindly man dressed in robes of grey stepping forward to comfort my mother, and behind him the heat and illuminating light of an open hearh, something about his words or the tone voice causing the trembling in my mothers hands to cease.

"Is this the child?" He spoke to her, his own eyes of green glancing down at me.

"Yes," she answered, almost choking on her tears as she held be forward, "this is he."

Although I can not be sure, I believe the elderly man looked at me then, inspected me, opening my swaddling clothes and looking over me with an experienced gaze. Clearly I had not been the first child to have passed through the broad doors of stained wood and rusting metal.

"He has a name?"

That voice again, like dry parchment or whistling reeds, those skeletal hands clasping me now and drawing me further into the Chapter House and further away from the woman that had bought me into this world. Some would say that it was a cruelty to have given me away, yet I have seen true cruelty and think nothing of it now. What she did I do not, can not, doubt that she did for love of her child.

"His name is Wymond," she all but croaked, "my little Wymond."

Assured that I was now in safe hands, and taking one last look at the face of the man that would help to raise me, she turned and fled back into the now heavy snow. At that moment I neither knew what was happening, nor if I would ever see her again. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, yet only God can see all ends, and he has never shared them with the likes of me.

Warmth came to me next, warmth that filled my tiny body from the inside out, from bones to the tips of my toes. This warmth was only magnified as I was handed away once more, handed into the arms of a woman that would become closer to me than my mother ever was, a woman that I would only truly get to know and thank as I grew older. In many ways she was my saviour, at least as much as Father Gilbert, and in many ways even more so. She provided me with the milk I needed to grow, the affection that all children need, and a never-ceasing tale of her homeland across the sea. I find it ironic that after slaughtering so many of her countrymen, killing then in the name of Almighty God, that I should still retain the feelings that I do for here.

She was a Saracen woman, her name was Rayhana, and this is simply the very beginning of my story.

[golded]

Great start! Looking forward to more!

[McScottish]

Chapter Une, Part Une

Why?

Why does this wine taste like the urine of horses, and this food taste like ash on my tongue? Have I lived such a sinful life that now in my old age God, the creator and the Alpha and Omega, should punish me in my last few years of life?

So, I had just been abandoned by my mother, and taken into the care of both Father Gilbert and Rayhana, who I was to discover was both a Saracen but also a devout Christian woman. It was she who would nurse me, feed me, and place me into my small trough at the rear of the priory- which I have mistakenly called a Chapter House -into the care of which I had been gifted; I remember that Rayhana was small, even for a woman, with eyes of deepest brown and hair as black as any ravens feather, as she played with me she would often smile and reveal several missing teeth. She would often sing to me in her own tongue, although I never understood it, as well as in the English tongue which I had been raised with and was my mother-tongue...though not, I believe, the tongue of my mother. My real mother.

For seven years she took care of me, my strength growing under her kindly gaze and touch, my curiosity also expanding in the manner of wood or sacks of grain swollen by too much rain. My eyes at this time were everywhere- I a small boy of nine years in the centre of a Benadictine priory, not a religious brother, just an abandoned child who would listen to the chants and prayers in Latin and find them beautiful -everything interested me and I eventually caught the attention of Father Gilbet, the most senior brother in the priory.

"Wymond," he would say to me, his accent showing a foreign origin which I guessed to be French or Breton, "I may be old, but I am not blind. You like what you see here, you enjoy it, non?"

With those kindly eyes peering at me, squinting in spite of my closeness to him, I could not help but smile and agree.

"Father Gilbert, I-I feel something. When the brothers are at prayer, or their voices rise like wind through the reeds in the garden. It makes me feel..." I was unsure of the word, for though I was being taught to read since I was in my fifth year, I still could not pluck the words from my mind, "...I feel."

"Ah," he would murmuer in an expulsion of air, looking wistfully to the ceiling and then back at me, "what you feel is the essence of our Divine Lord within you."

"He is in..me?" I remember gasping, astonished that God would ever choose to inhabit one such as I.

"He is in all of us, young Wymond. And every thing. We are all his children, and when we face him in judgement it must be with a clear heart and free of sin."

At the time I understood little of what this meant, how could I? I was just a young man being taugh to read, to learn from what I was told, but I had neither the understanding nor the experience of the world to truly know of what Father Gilbert spoke. In time, however, I would.

It would be another whole year of education, contemplation, and helping around the priory before I even met another boy my own age. When I did, you are probably imagining, it was like finally having a brother or at least another to share my worries with. Is this what you are thinking? If you are, then you can not have been more wrong.

His name was Frideric De Gloucester, the bastard child of a nobleman, and as shallow and opposite to myself as I like to believe that another person may get. From the very first moment that he entered the priory doors, an effeminate and long-haired young boy who had had everything done for him and given to him- I assumed that his father must have grown tired of him and sent him away, the very first spiteful thought I would have, but not the last- dressed in the finest clothes that covered his changing body in cloth and colours I had never seen before.

The very first time we met he simply looked at me, as if looking right through me, his blue eyes burrowing into me and his full lips spreading wickedly across his face. I did not know if it was just natural growth, but his long front teeth looked much more like fangs to me.

"Spwendid, a new wittle wiend for me to pway with!" He would say in his lilting voice, clapping his slender hands together in glee, "we will have so much fun, will we not, Wymond?"

If the priory had first been my Heaven, then I had no qualms about now seeing it, and calling, my own personal Hell.

[Scottish King]

Great start! Knights of St. John's eh? I imagine this will be quite a story!

[Lugotorix]

I really like the way the exposition is told through an older man recounting his memories and how they would ultimately bring him to mourn in the present.

[McScottish]

My thanks to you all; I shall have another part up tomorrow for your delectation.

[McScottish]

Chapter Une, Part Deux

I should thank De Gloucester for two things that have remained with me throughout my life- my devoution to the Archangel Michael, the warriors patron, and my inherent mistrust of all those around me. How did this happen? Why would I mistrust those around me because of one youth from my childhood upbringing? Hah, now there is a story, and not a pleasant one at that...but to understand me fully I must tell it nonetheless.

The cold of winter had not yet left the priory when I discovered just how debauched and black-in-the-soul Frideric truly was, how sinful and full of evil one person could be, and just how easy it was to force others to look away when the glint of gold shone in their eyes.

Frideric had ingraciated himself with the Brothers of the priory, although how he had managed to do so in such a short time always bothered me. After all, I had lived and studied there for years before his arrival, yet they treated him in a way that I never had been or that I ever would be during what was left of my time there. It was almost as if he had cast a spell over them, and I swear to Almighty God that I chanced to see more than one of them gaze lustfully in his direction as he passed.

What was to shake my very soul, and to become the first of many crucibles into which I would plunge myself, happened one frostbitten evening when all the Brothers abed and I crept as I commonly did down into the pantry to see if I could find a crumb to eat; I had never stolen anything of value, but I hungered greatly and the porridge and vegetables which the monks ate were never to my liking. So, driven by the growling in my stomach, I made midnight visitations to the pantry where Rayahana worked and would pluck for myself that which I desired. In my own eyes it was a minor sin, and one which I regularly confessed to.

This evening would be different, it would be the evening that changed my life.

"Welcome, dear Wymond," spoke a familiar voice as I opened the door to the store-room, coming upon a scene which would haunt me for the rest of my days; there was Frideric, standing tall and proud next to the table where the food was prepared, with his breeches around his ankles and a dagger as long as my forearm in one hand. Where he had gotten it I still do not know, for it was clearly forged by an experienced smith and not of a common type found in all kitchens.

"God be good, Frideric! What are you doing?!"

My mind whirred as I noticed a crimson sheen to the daggers edge, my eyes moving quickly to the arm poking out from behind the table, then to the flaccid member of the grinning maniac and back to the dagger.

"W-what have you done...what..."

"She was dewightful," he cawed, holding his breeches up with one hand and advancing in my direction, his dagger in the other, "never knew that Sawithan could feel so splendid. I am sorry that I had to kill her, but she would not open her legs willingly."

I was frozen to the spot, my legs refusing to move and feeling like blocks of stone, and all the while he moved toward me and left a dripping trail of blood behind him.

"Please, Frideric, I won't tell Father Gilbert. Just, just don't do anything-"

It was too late, he had already made up his mind, he had finished with Rayhana and now he was going to take his remaininganger and lust out on me. As such, I will not be ashamed to say I was sodomised that night. Frideric had a dagger, I had nothing, and as he plunged himself into me he whistled tunelessly to block out the sounds of my cries from his ears, and he left me at the bottom of the pantry steps with a bloodied knife in my hand and worse.

To tell such things now, after so many years, it feels like a release. When one is dying every last confession feels more and more like a release, and admitting to sodomy is no easy thing.

Perhaps the worst part was that Father Gilbert already knew what a monster he had beneath his rooftop, his old eyes discovering me and the body of Rayhana both. When he told me that Frideric's father was a benefactor to the priory, and that there was nothing he could do unless he wished to see the place fall into ruins, my heart shattered into fragments that would not be healed until many years later.

"My son," he snuffled from an aging mouth, "it is time that you left us, time that you went back out into the world."

"I have no father, and I have no mother," I retorted sharply, "so tell me, Father, what am I to do?"

His milky white eyes were close to tears, I could see as much, but I would not let that stop me from my feeling righteous anger toward him and the wrongs he was allowing a murderer and a rapist to commit beneath his roof. All for gold and silver.

"There is a place not far from here, a house of healing and a house of devotion to God. It is no church or priory, but they shall accept you without question."

Though he did not tell me anything further about this place, or the people within it, at that moment anywhere would have been better.

"Take me there," I spat at him, "take me there."

Little did I know how revenge can fester in ones breast, or how even being forged into something you never thought you would become can never entirely extinguish that flame.

That however is yet another story.

[McScottish]

Chapter Une, Part Trois

Wine-sodden I must have been, to tell of my...unholy involvement with another. Though I was forced, taken against my will, I know that others would have taken their own lives. Instead I allowed myself to be abused, thinking all the while of ways to make Frideric pay for his sinful lusts; it did not escape my attention that things such as coin could sway so-called 'men of God', and I even began to summon thoughts to my mind of the effeminate but noble bastard stealing his way into the monks chambers by night, allowing them to use him in the same way that he had used me. In the end I was not surprised that it was I, and not he, who was taken out into night by Father Gilbert and put into the back of a cart with a silent Brother to be taken away.

Along the rough trails and tracks of the Devonshire countryside we went, up and down and always swaying from side-to-side, my only belongings in the world a ragged pair of breeches and a shirt of rough-spun wool.

As I have said and written, the Brother who now took me did not speak a single word, whether by oath or simply because he wished not to. More than once I considered fleeing, running hither and thither over the rolling hills and through green fields, but, in the end, I decided that such an 'escape' would be in vain- I was just one boy of eleven years, clothed but barely, and had been raised in a priory far away from anywhere else.

************

Eventually, as the sun and dawn peaked over the hills about us, I rubbed my eyes- for I had fallen into slumber somewhere along the journey, and was even more lost because of it -and peering into the distance, past the hooded head of my deliverer, could make out the shape of a building; it seemed like a simple construction, half-manor and half-chapel but built as one, a steeple rising from what looked to be a central shrine while other stone-built structures neslted about it, as chicks to their mother hen.

From my vantage point atop the open cart, the monk taking us down a well-used track and into the valley where the buildings sat, getting bigger and bigger as we neared them, I could see figures quickly coming and then disappearing by the time we reached the main gate.

Now I could see more clearly that a stone wall surrounded the entire collection of buildings, ornate in architecture and design, high enough that it would likely take a small army to besiege and take this place- though why anyone would want to attack it was beyond my youthful mind.

"What is this place?" I gasped, my child-like eyes widening the closer came to a huge gate ahead, "why did you bring me here?!" A tone of urgency, even fear, entered my voice and for the first time in my life I truly felt like weeping- even the death of Rayhana had not yet taken hold, no tears falling from my eyes for her soul. Yet.

Someone must have been listening, or had come to meet us, for slowly but surely the two halves of the gate- oak and iron made, wide enough for two carts side-by-side, and high enough for three grown men standing on shoulders -were drawn back in a moment that I shall remember always; to me it was like the gates of Heaven opening, like the second arrival of Our Lord, and from what I had come from it could only mean salvation.

Then he appeared...

To my eyes he seemed like an avenging angel, one of the celestial host come to earth, and even to this day that is how my memory conjures him during the few times I think of him.

"This must be young Wymond," rumbled what I believed was a greeting, the hooded head bobbing a little in acknowledgement and the silent Brother turning to gesture me from the rear of the cart.

Silently, mute as the dead, I half-tripped down from the cart, and uneasily came to stand to the left of the horses that now seemed pleased to be dragging their burden no more.

"You are Wymond?"

He was tall, taller than any man I had yet seen, his voice like a thunder clap after the lightning and his shoulders blocking my view to what lay behind him. Two blue eyes pinned me to the spot, though they were not unkind, seemingly judging me and every movement I made and was going to make. Altoghether his face and body was fierce enough in my opinion, but the permanent sneer on his face, likely caused by a scimitar I now believe, where his mouth had been opened up could not fail but make me take a step back.

"I-I am Wy-Wymond," I managed to croak, "who are you?"

Seemingly amused by my petulent challenge, taking a knee before me, he looked me straight in the face; only then did I notice the mail coif resting on his neck, the byrnie beneath the finest piece of clothing I had ever seen- a holy warriors garment, a black cappae bearing the white cross. It was the first time I saw such a thing, but God knows it would not be my last.

"My name is Brother Johnathan," he announced proudly, "Brother-Knight of the Hospitallers of Saint John of Jerusalem, and it is going to be my sole purpose in life to teach you all I know, for as long as you remain within these walls. Now, follow me."

So entranced had I been with this knight, this visage of Gods wrath, that I had not even noticed the cart turn about and being winding its way back up the hill and into the light of a crisp but sunlit day.

There was only one thing left to do, one thing that I wanted to do- I picked up my heels, began to follow Brother Johnathan, and never once more looked back.

[Scottish King]

That was quite a development in the story. I knew Frideric would be an antagonist for our story teller but never did I think he would go that far. It you were looking to shock your readers you sure shocked me (in a good way ) Now that Wymond is entering a new stage of his life I can't wait to see if he one day gets his revenge.

[The Wandering Storyteller]

Finally an crusader story! The thing that struck me most about the story was your ability to provide an excellent narration. Not many get it right in the first go, but with an medieval twist, I think you got it right, because its not an easy thing to do. Another thing being that your dialogue is simply the best, it provides the richness and immersion for the reader to delve into the world of the Crusaders. Extensively waiting up for this, and an good start!

[McScottish]

Thank you both for your praise, not sure I deserve it but I shall sure as eggs-is-eggs take it!

Just researching and concoting at the moment, so I should have another part posted up by tomorrow evening at the latest. God willing.

[Tigellinus]

I just read the prologue.

Very interesting, my friend! I shall be following this.

+rep for being young once

Thanks

Tigellinus

[The Wandering Storyteller]

@Mc Scottish

Np, when you create good stories, heck you need it. Good luck on your research, I know how hard that is...

Still, no pressure and rep!

[McScottish]

Chapter Une, Part Quatre

Ah, more wine, damn you! If I am to meet the Lord soon, then I do not wish to do so without a belly full of wine and the grease of a cooked animal around my wrinkled lips. People may say what they like about God, and believe me when I tell you that enough people have since I grew from a lad into a full man, but I like to think that even he- a deity of such vengeance, power, and yet filled with benevolence -is possessed of a sense of humour. Even if it is likely to not be as human as we would like to think.

What can I tell you about my life in the confines of the high stone walls that will not bore you to tears, that might raise some form of excitement within you, some flame of passion? Should I tell you that I was immediatley set to work on a wooden post, hacking at it with a sword like the Romans of old? If I should, then I feel it would make a much more exciting tale...but it would be a sinful lie, and their are enough of those within this tale to fill a tome of there very own. So instead I shall tell you the truth and the truth, mind you, is not glorious nor chivalrous but slow, dreary and mind-numbing. Nonetheless, my life would not be what it is today without it.

"To truly become a servant of Christ, loyal and true," Brother Johnathan explained to me in his sonorous voice, "his path must be followed in act and in deed. Should you deviate from this then you will no doubt be damned to an eternity of hellfire."

We were walking through the gardens around the Hospitaller chapter house, a little path winding its way from there to the barracks and the chapel- the orante but unassuming building from which we had just come after morning devotionals. I had been there for a number of weeks and was just about getting used to the routine, being given a lot less freedom than I had been at the priory with Father Gilbert, though I was a lot safer than I had ever been with Frideric living beneath the same roof as myself; all around us were the smells of flowers, religious and laymen brethren tending to them, only those that had been ordained being allowed to wear the black habit and the white cross.

"We are called 'Hospitallers', why?"

"Because of the Hospital in Jerusalem, m'lord."

"I am not your lord, boy. There is only one lord, and that is God. You may address me as Brother or sir, for I am both ordained and of knightly birth and rank. You understand?"

"I understand," I replied with a sharp shake of my head, "Brother Johnathan."

"You are correct though, we are given that title because of the Hospital, founded by the Blessed Gerard in Jerusalem for the care of the sick, the wounded, and those in need. What does this mean to you?"

"That we are following in the steps of our Lord Jesus?" I said nearly without thinking, the words pulled unbidden from my lips.

"Although that is true, that is not what it should mean. Of course we all have our own thoughts, but what it means is that we are carers first and only warriors second. Our devotion to and care of the sick, the pilgrim, and the wounded warrior take precidence over any act of sanctioned and just violence with a sword or a spear."

While I may have shook my head and acknowledged that I understood, I was not happy. I had seen some of the Brothers, laymen and those ordained both, training with weapons of all kinds, as well as no weapons at all. Something had stirred in my soul then, something kept deep down during my time at the priory, something not quite holy but not wholly evil. Looking back I know now that I simply wished to be like them, to have the power to slay Frideric and to forge my own destiny- maybe I was even rebelling against God, against his holy plan for us all, though there was no way I could have known in my foolish youth.

Five years passed in quick succession, part of each year spent travelling the roadways and trails of Devonshire in search of the sick and the those taken ill, and the remainder increasing the callouses on my knees that had already began forming when I was a much younger man.

The time of ten-and-fourth year came quicker than I could have expected, my limbs growing longer and stronger, my voice becoming deeper, and hair growing where there had before been only baldness and smooth skin. I also became more aggressive, and spent more time praying for forgiveness than I would have liked. On the side of the good, when I was not praying, I learnt much about common maladies and problems of the human body, which I have retained in my memory even until this very day!

Brother Johanathan could see that I was becoming more uncontrollable, that simply sending me to keep watch over the alter for hours unending would not help me or those around me; though still a laymen, I was a swift learner, and although angry and violent like many boys I was still receptive to lessons taught to me, if only by Brother Johnathan.

One day I became so violent that I struck one of the Sisters of the community- the Hospitallers, unlike other Orders of that day, not disallowing women and men to live side-by-side within their walls- Brother Johnathan gripping the wrist of the hand with which I had struck and squeezing so hard that I afeared my slender wrist may break. I was not a scrawny boy by any comparison, but he was a knight born and outside of those walls I would have been lower than nothing.

When I began to weep, my eyes openly filling with tears, I saw his scarred and stoic face change into one of sadness. I could also see the clear guilt that he felt in his eyes. I think it was at that moment that I finally realised what he had been trying to tell me five years previously. Oh yes, I learnt well and absorbed information, but I was never truly a good apprentice to him...not the apprentice he deserved is how I think of it now.

Only then, when I looked deep into his eyes and caught a glimpse, a flash, of his true soul and nature, was I without words of my own. For a moment, only a moment, I had seen the hurt and pained man within the body of the knight and made not a noise as he released his grip on me.

"I...had a son of my own, you know," he confided in me, looming over me but gazing at the cross atop the alter- for we were in the chapel -his eyes fixed on the figure of Christ as he hung nailed by his hands and feet from the cross, "he would have been your age by now, if he had survived his sickness."

"I-I'm sorry," I managed to stammer, the words coming slowly to me as my mind became dark and free of all thoughts, " I-I never k-knew. Please, Brother, I never knew."

He turned around and left without uttering another word, leaving me and silence in his wake, I a thoughtless fool and he a father who had dedicated himself to healing others when I believed it to be something only more than a game. A game which I learned and imitated, for that is the only reason I remained inside the commune, or was allowed to remain.

It was the year eleven-eighty-three of Our Lord and Saladin captured the city of Aleppo, I knew none of this at the time, too focused on how much my wrist hurt and how I should only now begin to force myself to learn and take the words of Brother Johnathan seriously.

How could I have known that within the years ahead I would look back upon these moments, as enlightening as they were, and wish that I had never even been bought to that place.

[The Wandering Storyteller]

Awesome update Mc Scottish, really loved this update. The chapters, the dialouge,the narration....well done. I loved it mate

[Merchant of Venice]

Wow great stuff, McScottish. I am kicking myself I did not notice this early. I already love this story, you've created. Cant wait for more.