My first story on this forum... constructive criticism welcome!
Chapter One: Introduction I have told the tale so many times that it seems as though, by now, it should be no hardship to do so again - and yet, as I finally set quill to paper, I scarce know what to write. Perhaps 'tis fitting that it is so - that I, who was ever ready with the right words, whether for friend or foe, should now find myself wordless when confronted with naught but an empty parchment. Nevertheless, I must once again find the shape of the so-familiar tale, must cast my memory back across years and worlds one last time... And so we begin.
Imagine, if you will, a castle on a fine October day, with the sky a crisp blue and just a hint of the coming winter on the brisk north wind. This fortress hunkers atop an outcropping of jagged rocks; its thick walls are of a dull grey stone and its low, round towers are topped with crenellated battlements. It is built not for comfort, but for war. Surrounding this edifice is an army; the bright autumn sun flashes from the helms and spears of the host below. Gaily caparisoned knights sit astride their chargers at the head of tight ranks of infantry and cavalry; the lesser commanders marshal their poorly-armed followers in loosely organised mobs. Banners stream proudly from the lances of the host; they are echoed by those on the towers and battlements of the castle, which bear the green falcon of the most noble and most ancient family of de Saumier, guardians of the north of France since they were first ennobled by Charlemagne. This device is echoed on the surcoat of a tall man ahorse in the centre of the castle's courtyard - a man still strong and proud, although his iron-grey hair and lined face betray his age, some fifty years. This man is the great Philippe de Saumier, by the grace of God Count of Maine, lord of Calais, Marshal of France, and Commander of the Armies of the North. Before him stands a part of those armies - two thousand horse and foot he plans to lead to the relief of the city of Strasbourg - and beside him a young man, clearly not yet even twenty years of age, fidgets on his destrier, tense with the excitement of the moment. Let us examine this young nobleman - for a nobleman he clearly is, clad in fine new armour with his arms worked upon his surcoat and his shield. With a quick motion, he pushes his longish brown hair out of his eyes, eyes which merit perhaps a closer look. In those changeable orbs, now emerald green, now the grey-green of a stormy sea, one can see excitement and awe, to be sure, but also, buried deep within, a gleam of ambition. Mark it well - it could be that this untried young man in his shining, unmarred armour will rise to heights greater than he has ever dreamed or could ever have imagined. Now Count Philippe stirs. Drawing his sword, a scarred piece of plain steel that he has borne since he was a young knight riding at his father's side, he lifts it high in a salute before bringing it suddenly forward and booming in a clear, carrying shout, "Allons! We march to Strasbourg!"
Thus in the Year of Our Lord 1367 did Count Philippe de Saumier of Maine leave the castle of Boulogne at the head of an army and with Lord Guy de Cherbray, Count of Montgarde, his nephew and ward, at his side.
Cast of Characters (may contain spoilers)
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Philippe de Saumier - Count of Maine and Commander of the Armies of the North, he is in command of the Strasbourg expedition. Guy's uncle and guardian, he is brave and skilled, a father to his men and a scourge to his enemies. He cares little for danger and often ignores the feelings and prejudices of the nobles under his command, a fact which can lead to conflict. Guy de Cherbray - The protagonist and narrator, Guy is a young nobleman of France who is eager to go to war. A firm believer in chivalry and honour, Guy feels a strong sense of loyalty to his friends and family. He is brave, but sometimes unsure of himself. Despite his chivalry, Guy has an ambitious side as well, one which may soon exert itself... Charles d'Ancy - Guy's best friend, another young French nobleman. Charles is a good fighter, but a bit of a dandy. Fiercely proud, he does not take insults lightly. Felix Pichon - A Breton crossbowman who saves Guy's life. While a commoner, Felix becomes something of a mentor and friend to both Guy and Charles. An experienced soldier, Felix has an irreverent, joking nature which sometimes lands him in trouble. Robert de Carville - A hotheaded young noble from Tournai, de Carville has a very definite sense of his own importance and does not respond well to criticism or opposition. He is the most vocal opponent of de Saumier among the nobles. Hugues de Bercy - De Bercy is a well-known commander with an impressive military record, but he is rumoured to have lost his nerve after leading a disastrous retreat. He also opposes de Saumier, but does it more carefully and cunningly than de Carville. Hugo le Grançard - Grançard is the commander of de Saumier's bodyguard. A giant of a man, he rarely speaks unless it is urgent.
Last edited by William the Marshal; November 07, 2013 at 11:48 AM.
Reason: Stuff
Thanks! The next part will hopefully be up today or tomorrow, if the Wi-Fi gods are kind. This will probably end up being pretty long, yes... as for the Hundred Years' War, well, we'll see about that...
I can finally update now after a large number of attempts were foiled due to a dodgy Internet connection... luckily, that meant I was able to get two chapters done!
Chapter Two: The Gate As I rode with my uncle on that long-ago day, my spirits were soaring. I could conceive of no finer thing than to ride to war with the Count of Maine, veteran of a hundred battles and victor of all. What more could an eighteen-year-old want than to be on the march to glorious bloodshed and feats of heroism? After all, anything was better than moral lectures from Father Thierry, the castle's priest - and this was the first opportunity I had ever been given to achieve glory. As my discerning readers have doubtless already realised, I was, like most eighteen-year-olds, an addle-brained fool. I knew nothing of the world and still less of the horrors of war... and I still believed in things like "honour" and "chivalry", illusions that made it hurt all the more when I discovered the true nature of life. But enough of that.
I quickly found out that, for an army on the march, life was neither exciting nor glorious, but was merely a matter of monotonous routine and a great deal of riding. As I'm sure those reading this are uninterested in the minuscule details of these days, I will gloss over them and continue my narrative. We take up the tale, then, six days into the march, somewhere along the uneasy Flemish frontier. I was riding at the head of the column, arguing with my uncle, who had just ordered a group of soldiers to "requisition" supplies from the nearest village. Shocked at this betrayal of my idealistic principles, I was volubly attempting to explain my position to my uncle as we followed the gradually disappearing road into a dense forest. Just as my patience was about to disappear entirely, I stopped in the midst of a sentence. A freezing wind was sweeping through the trees, moaning, seeming to steal the breath from my lungs and cut the very life from my body. As the wind died away amid the rattling of near-bare limbs, I suddenly saw it in the distance... the gate.
It lay at the edge of a thicket of oak trees, massive, gnarled things that seemed so old they might have seen Caesar's legions on the march. The gate was nothing much to look at - merely a few old stone columns, some toppled, carved with eerie, swirling designs and strange animals, and with a stone lintel lying broken in twain upon the forest floor. It seemed like nothing more than an old ruin - and yet there was a sense of something there beyond anything we could see, a sense of unfathomable and ancient power that was so strong it could almost be heard, like a humming on the now-motionless air. The entire column, myself included, stopped abruptly, repelled by the feeling of danger coming from this ancient place - all but my uncle. He did no more than hesitate an instant before riding on, ignoring the compulsion to stop. With a derisive laugh, he wheeled his horse, turning to face the rest of the column.
"What," he shouted, "are you afraid of a few old rocks? What can these ruins do to you? I might have expected this sort of superstitious idiocy from freshly-raised peasant levies - or maybe from a regiment of nuns - but I thought I knew my men better than that! Now come on! We're going to Strasbourg, and by God if I don't get there it'll be because I ended up in Hell first!"
And so, like good soldiers, we followed Lord Philippe de Saumier through the gate.
Chapter Three: Shadows at the Edge of the World
Passing the first of the stone pillars, I felt the wind beginning to stir once again. The almost-humming that had been hovering on the edge of hearing suddenly intensified and seemed to become a tangible thing. The wind burst upon me in full as the branches of the monolithic oaks closed in overhead. The weak autumn sun seemed to fade from view, and darkness began to fall all around. I would have panicked, but a dull lethargy seemed to overtake me and I could only continue to ride forward. The dim light that marked the way out seemed to recede; I no longer heard the thud of hooves on the soft ground or the jingle of reins and armour. I tried to turn my horse, to ride out and tell the others to keep away, but it was as though I was trying to move through honey. I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but all that came out was a hoarse, wordless shout of pain as the otherworldly wind lifted me from my horse and threw me to the dark, hard ground. I lay there, motionless, as the last spark of light winked out and the wind rose to a raw, wild shriek.
Surrendering, I slipped into blissful oblivion as the wind howled all around us. I drifted off into the darkness of unconsciousness and knew not whether I would return.
Last edited by William the Marshal; June 17, 2013 at 11:58 PM.
Reason: Pitiful attempts to improve format
Apologies for the delay in updates. If anyone cares to know, you can blame it on a sudden increase in my workload as various exams loom. Anyway, here it is:
Chapter Four: War Council
When I awoke, the air was once again still, but the freezing chill I had felt on the wind remained. As I opened my eyes, I realised that I was slumped on my horse, limp, barely keeping my seat. I hastily snatched the reins and moved on the saddle until I was securely seated. I turned my head, surveying the scene. Men stood and lay everywhere, groaning on the ground or building small fires to keep off the chill, which I gradually came to realise was far colder than it ought to have been at that time of year. While I gazed at our shaken army, a man bearing my uncle's colours approached me. He caught my attention with a wave, then explained, "Lord Philippe wants to see you in the command tent," jerking his head to indicate the direction. "He's convening a council of war."
I gently urged my horse to my uncle's command tent. While other nobles often had tents of gaudy silks and cloth-of-gold, his was made of simple undyed canvas. He had once told me, "Expensive tents are a waste of money. I only waste money on horses and wine; everything else I spend on improving my lands." The thought of his words made me smile as I dismounted and entered the tent. The hubbub of voiced inside quieted briefly as I entered before rising again after everyone had seen who I was. My uncle, seated at the head of the large table, nodded to me and gestured that I should stand next to him. As I made my way toward him, he stood up and shouted "Stop talking and sit down! We need to come to a decision, not run around panicking like headless chickens!" Gradually, the noise dropped and the various lords and commanders found their seats. Once the talking had stopped, Lord Philippe sat down.
"Thank you, my lords," he said quietly. "I have called you here to discuss our options and come to a decision as to the best course of action, after the events of a few hours ago. Clearly, we-" He was interrupted by Sir Robert de Carville, the young commander of an infantry company from Tournai.
"What do you mean, course of action?" he demanded belligerently. "Surely we will keep marching to Strasbourg, will we not?" This question met with impatient snorts from some, but my uncle merely gave the brash young knight a penetrating look.
"I think we could all profit from a stroll outside," he remarked offhandedly before rising and exiting the tent. The rest of us filed out behind him, stopping as he turned to face us. Lifting his arms as if presenting something to us, he commanded, "Look around you, Sir Robert. I could be incorrect, but I believe it may just be possible that we are no longer where we were." - and as I lifted my eyes, I saw that he was right.
The trees that surrounded us were no longer the oak and beech through which we had been marching. Instead, one could see towering pines, firs and larches, ancient evergreens whose branches buried us in a deep, wintry gloom. And furthermore, I realised as I looked, it was winter, or at least a far colder autumn than ever I had seen. The air was now positively frigid, and the upper branches of the trees were dusted with snow, which been mostly prevented from reaching the ground by the thick cover of the forest. As my mind raced to the inevitable conclusion, the darkness under the trees seemed to ooze toward me, exuding a foreboding that froze my spirit.
We were not where we had been.
The mysterious gate under the trees had transported us, God knew how, to another place entirely - and where that was, how to return, not a man among us knew.
We trooped back into the tent in silence. Those like myself, who had only just discovered what had occurred, were pale and frightened, whereas those who had already known were grim and resigned. We took our seats and simply stared at each other without speaking until Lord Philippe took charge.
"Now that we are all fully aware of the situation," he began, casting a glance at Sir Robert, "perhaps we can make our plans." Each of us looked around, unwilling to be the first to say anything. Finally, my uncle spoke again. "As I see it, we have only two choices. We can try to go back through the gate, or we can continue marching until we find out where we are." There were murmurs of agreement from the others, and then Lord Hugues de Bercy stood to speak - a man who had once been a bold knight, but who (it was rumoured) had lost his nerve during a disastrous retreat.
"My lord," he whined, "would it not be better to wait here? Surely men will be sent to find us, and should we leave this place, it will be harder for them to do so." My uncle laughed contemptuously.
"Don't be an idiot, de Bercy. Even if men are sent to find us, there's no guarantee they will - and besides, we have only enough supplies for two weeks. We cannot stay here." There were grunts and nodded heads from the others as Lord Hugues sat back down, defeated. Then arose Lord Richard de Lanthier, commander of the cavalry.
"We must turn around and go back through the gate," he declared. "We have no way of knowing where we are, and we must try to get back and fulfill our mission rather than marching off into this forest blind. We need to return home, not stumble about here asking directions. I say we march back through the gate and get back home." Voices rose in agreement with him and fists pounded the table in support. Lord Philippe waited for the tide of agreement to cease, but as it died down, I rose from my chair to speak.
"My lords," I cried, "nothing could be more foolish than to try and return through the gate. Look behind: will you see a gate there? You will not. We cannot go back the same way we came; the journey can only be made one way. In all likelihood, nothing would be accomplished by attempting to go through the gate again; even if it did work, we have no way of knowing where it would take us. Something that powerful, if it still exists here, surely leads to more than one place. Merely marching through that hellish gate again and again would achieve nothing; we would be constantly crossing worlds in an attempt to find our home. Whether the gate remains where it was or no, our purpose cannot be served by attempting to return through it. My lords, the only course we can take is forward: we must leave this forest and discover where we have been taken. There is no other choice." As I spoke, I saw the scowls on many faces turn to looks of grudging agreement. One of the remaining scowlers, Lord Richard, stood to speak again.
"My lord de Saumier," he growled, "surely you will not listen to the words of this untested boy! He has no place in this council, and would be more useful were he cleaning your armour or caring for your horse, as befits a boy like himself." At that, Lord Philippe rose, glowering.
"This young man is my nephew and my aide, and has as much right to sit on our war councils as any of you, particularly when he is right! Our only choice is indeed to continue forward and attempt to discover where we are. My lords, go and prepare your men for the march. We move out in two hours. Council is dismissed." And with that, he rose and strode from the tent, leaving us to follow him out.
Last edited by William the Marshal; June 18, 2013 at 12:01 AM.
Reason: Pitiful attempts to improve format
I enjoy your story, and the time period. I can see that it appeals to you quite a bit! It is a time period that interests me, however I have very little knowledge of the era, compared to you, it seems!
A few recommendations, if I may:
- Unless there is a personal reason for double-spacing paragraphs, I would recommend single space it.
- When using dialogue, for the most part, you do a great job at dividing a speaker's dialogue, when able to. However, one issue I noticed is that your paragraphs are too long, and entail too much dialogue. For example, the last paragraph, of the most recent entry, features three separate speakers.
It would probably be easier on your readers, and perhaps even yourself, when editing, to split up the speakers into their own separate dialogues. Every dialogue, realistically, should have it's own paragraphs. Even if one word is said, it's easier to read, and understand, and recall specific conversations, when it's easily read, and divided up.
Though you do a good job at specifying which characters are speaking, it may at times become difficult to understand such, in a twenty-line paragraph. From my experience, a lot of authors on forums, such as this, will tend not to divide dialogues appropriately, with their own paragraphs. This makes it an easier read, whereas if in line seven, for example, one character speaks, then another character responds in line eleven, after a long, detailed description, it may be hard to recollect exactly what was said, and the reader may become confused as everything is all bunched up.
For myself, I often like to divide paragraphs when possible, despite the lengthiness of the post, so to make it as clear a read as possible.
I do believe you are most certainly on the right track for grammar, and comprehension, however I believe the issue lies with paragraph structuring. This is an easy fix though, as you seem to have a good grasp on the more complex issues in writing, such as grammar!
Overall, I concur with Shankbot! Your writing style is unique, and you handle it very well!
It's a captivating idea for a story, and I wish you the best in your future chapter-writing!
Listen to any advice Rex, and Shank give you! They're very wise writers
Thanks for your post! I'm glad you found it worth commenting. I am aware of my formatting problems; the issue here is that I write and upload these using an iPod rather than anything that has an actual keyboard. This naturally makes it difficult to format paragraphs properly. I do intend to rectify the problem as soon as possible. Thanks again for your advice and your welcome! FORMATTING UPDATE: In preparation for resuming the writing of this story (finally), I've gone through and tried to make the previous chapters easier to read in accordance with Dance's well-worded and polite advice. Although the complexities of indentation seem to be beyond me, I've split up some of my more monolithic paragraphs and have separated them with lines of blank text. If anyone can tell me how to properly indent paragraphs on these forums, I will be in your debt.
Last edited by William the Marshal; June 18, 2013 at 12:04 AM.
Reason: Formatting stuff
Great story, fascinating atmosphere, interesting timeframe!
I'll try to follow this work William, if TWC will work in the next weeks....
William a suggestion: You are a good writer, don't care about the amount of the comments here, people reads and don't post comments, my silly and ungrammatical tale, here in Creative Writing, has more than 5000 views but few comments, there is no way: they read and they don't post comment!
.....But you, contine writing please, this is a good story.....
UPDATE: If there's anyone who cares to know, I intend to post another chapter to this story soon(ish). I can assure my loyal(?) fans(??) that I have not given up on it. I'll be very busy this summer, since I'm working, and in all likelihood will be equally busy after the school year starts. Nevertheless, I will make time to continue writing this. Worry not!
Take as much time as you need with it. For an author to produce a good work, their mind cannot be controlled by the fanbase.
This is something I wish fans of George R.R. Martin's 'A Song of Ice and Fire' would do - though I hope this comment doesn't reach the arts section and get a mob together to flay me, Bolton-style.
Here's the next chapter. I hope to have another up soon, after final edits.
Chapter Five: Into the Forest
We had marched for five days before the deaths started. At first they were unobtrusive – a man would step out of his tent at night, or one would drop out of line during the day’s march, and not come back. Since no sign was found of these men or their bodies, the officers assumed (and told my uncle) that the men were deserters. It was not until a few days of these disappearances that they realised they were wrong.
I was among the first to know of the perils the forest contained. My uncle, in an attempt to conserve our meagre supplies, had ordered the despatch of daily hunting parties to bolster our dwindling food stocks. On this particular day, I was in command of one such party, along with Sir Charles d’Ancy, a friend of mine. We were returning to the column after an unsuccessful day when Charles, who was riding in the lead, reined in his horse, staring at the ground.
“Come look at this,” he said. I rode up beside him. The snow before us was churned, as though something large had been dragged through it, and stained red. I shook my head dismissively.
“Leave it,” I told him. “It’s probably from a deer one of the other groups caught.” He shook his head, wordlessly, and pointed to a small object on the ground. I peered at it in the fading evening light. When I realised what it was, I didn’t believe myself for a moment. Dismounting and bending down, I picked the thing up and knew that I was correct. It was a human finger, seemingly torn from a hand. Charles and I stared at one another for a moment before remounting. I ordered two men to take the hounds back to the column; the rest of us rode off, following the trail of blood.
The track led us to a small clearing. As we approached, we could hear growling and tearing sounds. Charles leaned toward me and mouthed, “Wolves.” I nodded grimly, making sure my crossbow was loaded, before dismounting again, signalling the rest to do the same. We crept toward the clearing, trying not to alert the wolves. As we drew nearer, the stench, carried to us by the wind, became almost unbearable. We came to the edge of the clearing, tense with nerves, clutching our weapons. My heart beginning to race, I raised my crossbow and stepped into the clearing, flanked by the others. The first thing we saw as we entered was a soldier’s mangled corpse, torn by the teeth of the wolves. Those wolves were the second thing we saw, turning to face us with raised hackles and bared teeth. A threatening growl arose from their bloody muzzles as they loped toward the small group of hunters who were standing, paralysed with horror, at the body. I came to my senses just in time; shouting to the others, I aimed at the first wolf and loosed a bolt. With a dull thud, it buried itself inside the wolf’s skull, felling the creature instantly. The other was struck by several bolts and died moments after the first. The death of the wolves released the tension that had built up around us; we visibly relaxed, loosening our grips on the bows and grinning sheepishly at each other.
“Get the horses,” I ordered one man. “We’ll bring the wolves to the quartermaster to be added to the stores.” When Charles looked at me in surprise, I shrugged. “We have to eat something,” I explained. “No sense letting these wolves go to waste.” We bent down to pull the bolts from the wolves and lash their paws together. That was when the third wolf arrived.
It must have been drawn by the scent of blood. Without any of us noticing, it had loped up behind us and surveyed the carnage. As soon as we were distracted, it leapt, slavering and snarling. It landed on one man – Jean-Jacques, his name was, one of my uncle’s huntsmen – and tore his throat out before advancing on the rest of us, still snarling. “Anyone still have a loaded crossbow?” I whispered hopefully. The others all shook their heads. “Right then. Swords out, and try to get it when it jumps.” I dropped my bow and dragged my sword from its scabbard; the wolf, its eyes attracted perhaps by the bright steel, watched as I did so. Charles and the other men did the same. “Watch it carefully,” I whispered. “Try to – “ The wolf lunged at Charles, its jaw hanging open. I shouted and brought my sword down on its neck, cutting halfway through. The wolf faltered, and was cut down by a rain of sword blows from the rest. I wiped my sword clean before sheathing it and, as the other huntsman arrived with the horses, loading the wolves.
When we returned to the column, I went straight to my uncle. Before he could say anything, I told him, “There’s something you need to see.” He followed me to the quartermaster’s wagon, where the rest of the party had taken the wolves. Showing him the corpses of the animals and the huntsman, I said “Those men who have been vanishing? I don’t think they were deserters.” He nodded slowly and replied, “I think you may be correct.”
Well, here it finally is. Although the time gap between the last update and this one does rather stretch the definition of "soon", I eventually got around to finishing the blasted thing. I daresay you can expect subsequent updates to be equally sporadic. I'll stop rambling and just put in the story here:
Chapter Six: Uneasy
Despite the terror most felt when they realised the column was being stalked by wolves, the animals soon became a nuisance rather than a danger. Philippe ordered that sentries be posted when the column stopped for the night and detailed mounted patrols to ride guard during the day. Despite the desperation of the wolves, driven by starvation, these measures prevented further deaths. The wolves were no longer a problem; soon another, even more troubling problem faced Lord Philippe: mutiny.
Insubordination was spreading throughout the army. Although sporadic and apparently undirected, there were many complaints and grumbles from the ranks – but this was not the worst. Philippe had little fear of a mutiny arising from the common soldiers; the veterans loved him, while the rest were too timid to rise against him. The threat to Philippe came from a different source – the nobles, his own subordinate officers. Men like Robert de Carville – young, stupid hotheads – openly opposed him at every turn, while the more subtle (and more dangerous) lords quietly spread discontentment among the others, sowing doubts in Philippe’s leadership, questioning his right to command. The disloyal lords were a small group among the nobles, but many of them were prominent men, nobles of ancient lineage who chafed at being under the command of another, and the forces the members of this faction commanded were out of proportion to its size – nearly a third of our army. But Philippe would listen neither to my warnings nor those of Charles d’Ancy, nor even those of Sir Hugo le Grançard, the commander of his bodyguard. No matter how many times we tried to tell him of the danger, he would not believe it could happen.
“There is no danger in that group of fools and malcontents,” he would laugh. “De Carville is an idiot, de Bercy is a coward, and the rest are too caught up in matters of protocol, ancestry, and heraldry to bother about what they think of their commander. Even if one or two of them does try something, they don’t have the force to overcome me.”
“And what about guile?” I demanded. “What if they win over enough lords to mutiny? What if they stage a coup and murder you, then seize power?” But he wouldn’t listen.
“That’s what I have Grançard here for, nephew. If someone tries to stab me in the night, he’s supposed to stab them first,” he told me patronisingly. Angry, and despairing of his ever listening, I left his tent scowling. My furious gaze fixed on the ground, I walked into my friend Charles d’Ancy, who was engrossed in a consultation with his steward.
“Make sure there are at least three flagons of the Malvoisie, all of them heated. And for meat, I want venison, not wolf or dried beef. Then, go find – Oh, hello, Guy. I didn’t see you there. Listen, I will be having a few of the officers to dine in my tent tonight. I hope you’ll join us there.” I assented, not graciously, but politely. I asked him to walk with me a ways; he dismissed his steward and followed me across the camp.
“Charles, I’m worried,” I told him. “Surely you’ve seen the way de Carville and his friends are acting. They plot against my uncle.” But even as I was saying it, Charles shook his head.
“I think you’re overreacting, Guy. De Carville doesn’t like your uncle, but he won’t be willing to rebel against such a powerful noble, let alone a personal friend of the King – “ he began. Seeing an opportunity, I jumped.
“What King?” I demanded. “Wherever we are, I have no doubt the word of the King of France doesn’t have much power here. Under normal circumstances, de Carville wouldn’t act, but here? Here he can make a case that the King’s authority – and, by extension, my uncle’s – is invalid. He’s stirring up trouble, and he’s only the most obvious one. Others are behind it all – de Carville and his friends are being goaded, by someone far more intelligent and dangerous. Charles, you have to help me. My uncle refuses to heed my warnings. He sees no danger.” But it was no use. Charles admitted I could be right, but wouldn’t help me with my uncle.
“If he doesn’t believe his own nephew, I don’t see how I can help convince him,” he pointed out, unfairly reasonably I thought. I was about to try again to win him over when a clamorous noise from the centre of the camp interrupted us. We hurried to find its source.
The uproar was coming from one of the battalion of priests the various nobles had brought on campaign with them. This one, I think, was in the household of Hugues de Bercy. He was a Dominican, tall and lean, with the fiery eyes of a fanatic. The priest was shouting to a small crowd of soldiers who had been milling about the camp, carrying out necessary errands or just wandering aimlessly. He shouted hoarsely, haranguing them in the exalted tones of a zealot:
“This calamity is a judgment from God upon us! He has damned us for the sins of our leader de Saumier! We are stranded in Purgatory until we return to the path of righteousness! We must kill de Saumier and his lapdogs to redeem ourselves in the eyes of God!” Spittle flew from the priest’s mouth, and his eyes glowed madly. Most of the crowd remained silent, unmoved by his diatribe – but I noticed a few men around the edges who were beginning to mutter agreement. The priest continued. “This base cur, this bastard of Maine wishes to lead us all to perdition! He has forsaken the Lord and leagued himself with devils to bring about our ruin! I charge all of you who are good and faithful servants of the Church to aid me in destroying this idolater, this worshiper of devils, and his unholy allies! There! I see one now!” and his long, bony arm shot out to point unerringly at me. “That snivelling, whinging coward who skulks in those shadows is the nephew of the accursed de Saumier! Kill him and his friend! God wills it so! Deus lo vult!” Two men-at-arms – Hainauters from their looks, probably more of de Carville’s men – unsheathed their swords and moved towards us. Exchanging glances with Charles, I drew my own blade and walked out to meet them, while he – armed only with a dagger – took a position guarding my back. I stopped, ready to meet the Tournai men-at-arms, and called to the priest.
“Why do you preach against me so, good father?” I shouted. “I am a loyal Christian, as is my uncle of Maine. Our coming here was not intended by him or any other man. Are you merely mad that you cry such slanders, or is this one of de Carville’s vile schemes?” Suddenly, one of the Tournai men made a rush to get around me. I blocked his path and thrust at him. He turned aside at the last moment, cutting his arm on my blade, and hacked back at me. I sprung out of the way, feinted at his neck, then sliced at his thigh, laying it open and severing the great artery. He fell, blood pumping from his leg, and I turned, sword at the ready, to see – the second man-at-arms holding his sword to my throat. “Die, heretic,” he calmly pronounced, then drew his arm back to thrust. Suddenly, a crossbow bolt sprouted from his chest. A look of surprise crossed his face before he collapsed, dead. I swivelled to see my saviour. It was a little crossbowman, barely over five feet in height, with a face seamed by scars and a roguish grin. He bowed in a manner so deferent as to be almost insolent, and said, “Felix Pichon, crossbowman of Bretagne, at your service.”
Last edited by William the Marshal; October 09, 2013 at 06:43 PM.
Reason: Mysteriously vanishing indentations
I'll be tracking this story in the future. I like the way this is going so far, and I'm looking forward to seeing how the mystical side of things and the noble intrigues combine.
Swords of the Sea: 1066 has come and gone, the Danelaw torn down and a new kingdom built in the image of its Norman rulers. But with time, wounds heal and what is broken can be reforged. The Danes have returned with steel, and seek to reclaim what is theirs. The Great Expedition: Pax Anglia, one of Earth's great empires, sprawling across the stars. On their newly colonised planet of Nova Sydney, adventure awaits on the savage frontier - Henry Boyce steps forward to lead an expedition to pierce the Bushlands' wild heart. Winter War: Finland, 1939. The Soviet war machine has begun its indomitable advance from the east. Of all its neighbours, only Finland stands alone in defiance. Conscript Anton Bezrukov prepares for a quick victory, but the reality is far bloodier...
I'll be tracking this story in the future. I like the way this is going so far, and I'm looking forward to seeing how the mystical side of things and the noble intrigues combine.
Thanks! Just a bit of foreshadowing... things should really start getting interesting when our Frenchmen encounter the people who live here...
I'm also a fan of your Pax Anglia story. Sci-fi with a bit of a Victorian twist - I look forward to seeing how Boyce survives out on the uncultured frontier! I think that he'll subvert most of our expectations.
Expect another update, maybe even two, this week, as I'm on break for a few more days. I've been over in the AAR forums reading some great works by McScottish and SeniorBatavianHorse, and I'm humbled, awed, and maybe a little inspired to write more. If you haven't seen any of their stuff you really have to, it's incredible. Start here. Or here. Or here, or here. It's all great. Plus, if they catch wind I'm giving them free ad space I might get some quid pro quo action going. Which would be nice (wink wink nudge nudge).
Expect another update, maybe even two, this week, as I'm on break for a few more days. I've been over in the AAR forums reading some great works by McScottish and SeniorBatavianHorse, and I'm humbled, awed, and maybe a little inspired to write more. If you haven't seen any of their stuff you really have to, it's incredible. Start here. Or here. Or here, or here. It's all great. Plus, if they catch wind I'm giving them free ad space I might get some quid pro quo action going. Which would be nice (wink wink nudge nudge).
The eerie sound of the pipes carries itself in on the wind, as a kilted figure (smelling slightly of deep-fried offal) appears
If my name is mentioned, I see it.
I'm glad you find my works to your liking, but you are honestly too kind! Your own work, especially this one here, is fantastic and I am positively humbled should it inspire you in some way to post another update. Until then here's some rep, and may the Gods be with you.
The eerie sound of the pipes carries itself in on the wind, as a kilted figure (smelling slightly of deep-fried offal) appears
If my name is mentioned, I see it.
I'm glad you find my works to your liking, but you are honestly too kind! Your own work, especially this one here, is fantastic and I am positively humbled should it inspire you in some way to post another update. Until then here's some rep, and may the Gods be with you.
My insidious plan is working! Ahahahahahahahaaaah!
By the way, any chance we'll be seeing some more of your Seaxan Daegred AAR soon?
Wanderers, Far from Home
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Looking forward to more! 
Originally Posted by General Retreat
