| Chapter 1 |
Fete’s Eve
Chapter One
Although the path is known as the Selanguine Gate, no one really knows why. Nothing and no one ever used the path, save for one. The fear of what lay in residence at its end chills any man through to the bone. Only the feeder travelled that route. Once every month the ox cart would rumble noisily along the uneven road, over the precarious bridge across the Limes River and on to Parricidium. What it carried, everyone knew but no one cared, at least not enough to speak of it.
With a chuckle the blind man sat on the river's bank seemingly watching with gleeful anticipation. The birds sang and the insects chirped as the sun rose in a cloudless blue sky. With a smile he fidgeted uneasily on the grassy bank for now he could hear the rumble of the ox cart as it approached on one more grisly mission.
On time the wagon appeared from the wooded path and moved along the dirt road atop the riverbank. As it turned to cross the rickety old bridge of the Selanguine Gate, one of its heavy solid wooden wheels slipped sideways toward the river. In a trice the cart overturned and the driver leapt from the falling vehicle. The naked body of a woman appeared as if from nowhere and catapulted into the reeds.
With its almighty weight the two-wheeled cart turned upside-down shattering the shaft and dragline. Both oxen ambled on as though nothing had happened. The driver's leap had taken him into deep water and with his sword, heavy mail, and metal buckled boots quickly sank into the murky depths. The cart made its last turn and settled in the mud and reeds at the tidal river's edge. Blind Eavan leapt to his feet with excitement gripping his body. “May yee bastards rot in the arms of the river demon,” he yelled at the top of his voice.
All returned to a tranquil summer's quietness, as the oxen ambled their way continuing the monthly walk to Pericardium, which is the new name for St Johns Cove. How could humanity sink to such depths of depravity? Had God abandoned his children? Mayhap the Devil had conquered the world and driven the people to such an all-time low, where brother murders brother and neighbours devour the daughters of the unprotected.
Only a year had passed since that terrible event. Eavan sat back on the bank to contemplate the crooked path of human folly. “Oh God why hast thou forsaken us?” he said, tears trickling from his sightless eyes.
His thoughts drifted to that fateful summer's day when he walked the beach of St John's Cove with eyes that could see. Above him that day, stood the cliffs of the Cove town, and the castle of Sir Rufus DeGrange. Suddenly his eyes fell on what at first looked like an animal skulking near the rocks at the base of the cliff. Nonchalantly he walked toward it but soon became pained and shocked. The fur was the hair of a damsel. She lay naked and quite dead.
By the damage it seemed evident she had fallen from the top of the cliff and had been dashed to death on the rocks. The tide had not yet claimed the body and hidden it from sight. Close inspection revealed that teeth inflicted some of the wounds. Eavan stood astonished by what he saw. Teeth and human teeth at that had made these marks. What manor of beast could have inflicted such damage lay beyond his comprehension.
Suddenly he felt cast betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea. If he were to carry the dead damsel to the village, who is to say that he was not the one who inflicted the wounds? Yet if he were to leave her it would be a moral indignity. No matter who she was or what she had done, she deserved absolution and a Christian burial.
For many moments he stood looking at the wretched being trying to weigh up in his mind which course of action should be followed. Eavan decided to pretend he had not found her but in his heart he knew this to be a bad judgment. Yet he lacked the moral courage to do what he knew to be right. “Eavan the gutless,” he said under his breath as he walked to where the cliff descended to the ocean.
The village of St John's Cove at that time was a prosperous one with many corpulent and rotund villains. He stopped at the base of the ascending path, turned and looked out to sea. The sandbar though mostly invisible could often be seen at low tide. It appeared dark against the shining water. King William the first gave all the land hereabouts to Eavan’s great grandfather for service to the King. It had been mentioned in the doomsday book.
He looked back but the hapless body lay beyond sight at this point. Eavan felt sure he knew all the villagers, but did not recognize the dead girl. Tomorrow was to be the annual fete. There would be hundreds of strangers in town. Perhaps the body will wash back upon the beach tomorrow. With a shrug he marched off in the direction of DeGrange Castle, his ancestral home.
St John’s Cove had almost always been a prosperous habitat with work for all. The very poorest would dig lead from the hill in Griffin's cave. After smelting, it could be sold for a grand profit in any of the larger towns. Often times a ship would get stuck on the sandbar after encountered unfavourable tides and wind. The ship would yield much value to those daring enough to row out to the wreck.
But what made the village one of the richest was Eavan’s father. Rufus DeGrange was as cunning as he was old. It was always thought that he had a secret gold mine, or that perhaps there was a secret vein of gold in the Griffin's cave. He never missed a tax payment, and paid his workers exceptionally well.
The castle looked impressive as it sat up above the village on the side of Old Glen, the rugged mountain. A small stream trickled from the hills and made a pool just east of the castle, then in a small river wound its way to the west of the castle and over the cliff into the sea. Eavan stood and looked about him. It was a good village with happy people; there was no slavery here.
Happy villagers had built a magnificent church in Norman style with solid rock hewn from Old Glen. The church of Saint John spanned east west, with its splendid tower to the west overlooking the cliff. In the centre of the village in a cleared square of ground stood St Bedric's Cross. No one knew why it was called St Bedric's Cross, nor even who put it there.
Legend has it that a griffin lived here thousands of years ago. It built its nest in the cave where the people now mine lead. It I said that one day the beast would rise and devour the people. Nobody worried, few actually believed, but all knew the story. The local inn was named 'The Griffin,' but not in mocking, more in respect. Beyond the stream the ground sloped steeply uphill to the castle earthwork defences. Never in living history had there actually been a fight in the secluded valley on the edge of the sea.
The thought of the dead girl burned deep into Eavan's mind, but he feared the pointing fingers if he should report it. At length he stopped at the castle gate, turned and looked back at his village. He was only twenty and father had already showed signs of decline. Being the elder brother of two, it would fall upon him to become master of the fife.
He turned and entered the cold stone edifice. Almost all the floors and ceilings were of wood and mounted on sturdy oak beams. The main corridor to the right was stone and father's room was stone. His mother Edyth of Leeds always sat in the parlour sewing. She was a good and kindly woman with deep religious beliefs. She brought her children up in the strictest Roman faith. Sir Rufus DeGrange was also a kindly soul but many years senior to his wife.
Eavan’s younger brother by two years; Edgith, was wild and unruly. He would often play practical jokes on the unwary. His temper was wild and violent. Once he actually struck his mother in one of his rages and was severely reprimanded by Rufus.
“Never strike a woman,” yelled the old man. “For such perverse behaviour I shall have thy hands cut off. A man never need strike any person weaker than himself.”
Those words echoed around the castle and Eavan could still hear them. A man, with the emphasis on ‘man’, would never strike any person weaker than himself. Though trained in swordplay, Eavan had never actually swung at any man other than his teacher, the master at arms. Once while hunting, the sight of the blood on the bestricken deer made him sick to his stomach but Edgith loved and wallowed in the experience.
Eavan knew in his heart that he could use the sword but only to honour the Lord God. To take a life was a sin beyond his reason. He could not get the thought of the dead girl on the beach out of his mind. Mother sat in the parlour working on her endless tapestry. The parlour was on the south side of the building and enjoyed the greatest sunlight.
“You look worried my son,” she said looking up at Eavan as he entered. “Come, sit, and tell me thy woes.”
Eavan sat opposite the elegant woman. “Mama,” he began. “I would pose thee a question.”
“Yes?”
He sucked his bottom lip for a few seconds attempting to organize the thoughts in his head. “I propose a dilemma,” he said.
She smiled. “This is someone else's' problem?”
“No, just a surmise.”
“Very well, my son.”
“If a man of position were to find a dead maiden,” he said pensively. “What should be the course of action?”
She placed her work on her knee and stared him in the eyes. “What killed this maiden?”
“I do not know, let us suppose, something or some one evil.”
“Then,” she said. “I see no problem. Any gentleman would report the affair to the sheriff and leave it in his competent hands.”
“But, mayhap, he would be blamed, having no proof it was not he who harmed the damsel.”
She exhaled loudly. “Son, my bold and oldest son, what is it that ails thee so?”
“Nothing. I just surmised.”
“So where did you find this dead maiden?”
His eyes sparkled with the fire of guilt and his breath came in short gulps. Mother always could read his thoughts. “I vow I did no one harm, madam.”
“Tell me thy story, son, that I may judge for myself.”
“'Twas this very day, Madame.”
“And where didst this occur?”
“I found her on the beach at the base of the cliff under St John's yard. She lay dead on the rocks.”
“Why should this terrify thee so? Hast thou never seen a dead woman before?”
Again he sucked in his bottom lip and then exhaled loudly. “Yes Mama.”
“Then tell the unusual. What was it about this damsel that so frightened thee?”
“The girl was naked, and had unusual injuries.”
Mother was silent for a moment. “You have reasoned an explanation, and it is this that frightens thee so?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“I reasoned that she frolicked with some man and he bit her and frightened her so as to make her flee. In the darkness of the night she ran over the cliff and died there on the rocks below and the seagulls have devoured her eyes.”
“When did this occur?”
“I found her this hour, and the body be still fresh.”
“Why was she not taken by the tide?”
“I reasoned, Madame, that only now is the tide returning therefore it could be as long ago as six hours.”
She reached over the table and took his hand. “Then why dost thou think it was at night?”
“The villagers arise at sun-up. Surely someone would notice a naked woman running about. If not, then it must have been in the dark hours.”
Mother nodded in agreement. “But last night was the full moon, there would have been plenty of light to see.”
“I swear the carcass was fresh, for else the tide would have taken it.”
“So what is thy quandary? You did the woman no harm.”
“If I were to bring the body in, pointing fingers and slanderous tongues would implicate me in the dastardly deed.”
Mother took a deep breath. “I fain to think that thou should be more manly. If you did not shave every whisker from thy face, and stand more erect, people would respect thee more.”
“I do not think people will blame me because I shave.”
“Look at thy brother, he is a man that people respect. No one dare to accuse him of such a dastardly deed, lest he turn on them. Your father was master of this fife at thyn age.”
“Aye, and had more women than meals,” Eavan snarled.
“I fear that thou are the evil one. Thy tongue will surely become thy noose. Why hast thou not finished the work at Yaxley Height?”
“Oh, come on, Mamma, it is but a stinking ruin left by the Normans. Who would wish to live there?”
She picked up her work again and began sewing. “Any castle would have been acceptable to your father. I am ashamed of thee. Go tell thy woes to the priest of St John's. Mayhap he can do something with thy insolent mouth.”
Eavan slowly stood, politely bowed to his mother and left the room. He could not understand why life was so unfair. He was better educated than his brother Edgith. He was a far better swordsman and a better sportsman, yet he did not command respect, as did his brother. Edgith was always out playing, fighting, hunting, and chasing the local whores. Eavan did not partake of any of those activities.
Yaxley was an old village—the original fife. It rests a mile or so the other side of the Limes River. Eavan had been commissioned by his father to refinish the castle, which had suffered a fire half a century ago. Disheartened he walked to his room in the west tower. It was time to contemplate the prospects and future action. Already he had decided not to report the dead damsel to any other person.
For a while he stood at the arrow slit staring down at the work in progress for the fete tomorrow. A gentle tap, tap, came to his door. “Come in,” he commanded.
The door opened slowly and in walked father. He was dressed in light armour, mail and leather. “I wish to speak with thee, my son,” he said.
“Come in, Father, make thyself comfortable.” He knew the old man was not always in charge of all his faculties and so treated him gently.
The old man closed the door and walked to the canopied bed. He eased his tired bones down onto its boards. “Son,” he said. “I have a very serious matter to discuss with thee. Come and sit.”
“Sir,” Eavan said. “I have had all the sermon my mind can withstand for this day.”
“Sit yee, and pay respect.”
Eavan walked over to the bed and sat opposite his aged father. “I am tired, my father. And worry for the things I have seen this day.”
“Hmm! Listen. I have arranged thy betrothal. It is time that thou begin to produce progeny. I have to consider the future.”
“I need no wife.”
“Art thou like unto the King Coeur-De-Lion.”
“No sir. I respect Richard, but no, sire, I will follow thy wishes.”
“Good,” the old man said with a sigh. “Edgith is a good lad but too playful. I wish thee to settle and have many children. The castle at Yaxley is far from finished. I wish that thou would become assertive. Finish the job. It is to be thy house of honour.”
Eavan felt unpleased. “But, sire, it is but a Norman cast-off. A relic. Dost thou actually expect me to reside there?”
“Yes. Rebuild, I have given thee the money. Rebuild. It is a good and solid castle. This one shall still be yours. But I have a little time left. I shall reside with your mother here. It will give thee a chance to be lord over the manor.”
“I am not pleased, my father, that you treat me so.”
“The fife will be thyn. I want thee to be a man and stop mooning. I hazard that thou hast yet to bed a wench.”
Eavan exhaled loudly. “'Tis none of thy business, old man.”
“Oh, but it is. This maiden I have chosen for thee is fifteen; the same age as thy mother when I first bedded her. She will be here in six weeks. The wedding will be the day she arrives. I will have it no other way.”
“She is but a child,” Eavan moaned.
“Argue not. She is a fair wench I have seen her. She will please thee in every way. I must have a grandson by this time next year. I do not ask it, I demand it.”
“Yes, sire.”
The old man stood up and walked back to the door, he turned and waved a finger at Eavan. “Your brother is the devil. I want your loins to sprinkle the seed of DeGrange in the proverbial soil of our future.”
Eavan nodded in compliance and watched the old man leave. His thoughts were of higher things than women. He intended to be a man of God and join a holy order. But now he felt that he was doomed to be a peasant leader. One who would replace the drudgery and monotony of his father's life. Again he returned to the arrow slit and observed the labours below.
Eavan had never seen a woman who could command his interest. They were all empty headed-giggling frolics or sullen and bitter hags like mother. “God,” he said aloud. “Where dost thou lead me now?” The thought of having to spend every night with an obedient mindless child was sickening.
He knew that he should go to St John's church and confess all to Friar David, but what was the point? Someone would find the dead damsel and all would be well, with or without his input. In days of old, men had far more exciting lives, he thought. For in the old days the griffin was abroad and gave any man with a sword a purpose in life.
He walked to his bed and lay down even though it was early in the day. His thoughts were melancholy and downhearted, as life seemed so unfair and pointless. Perhaps his mood was of uncommon discouragement because the day started badly and seemed to be getting worse. A child for a bride and a house that no one wanted to live in was nothing more than an insult to a man of high blood.
Suddenly he felt the urge to escape—perhaps he would run away and join the crusades. To fight for Jesus and Christianity, this could be the life he desired. Taken by the thought he marched from his room and to the stables. They had many horses and the yard was always manned. Mordric politely bowed. “A horse, sire?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
Quickly the groom prepared a horse and without a by-your-leave Eavan mounted and rode off. Across the yard and passed the century at the edge of the earthworks, he rode through the ford where the steam passed the castle and to the square where St Bedric's Cross stood. Selanguine Gate was rutted and well worn as it wound its way through the light forest to the Limes River.
He stopped his horse on the rickety bridge and looked seaward. The Limes was a tidal river and at low tide just a trickle but at high tide it became a wide and dangerous stretch of water. A cold and trepidous feeling began to enfold his heart. He saw much beauty and serenity in this countryside that would eventually be his. Slowly the horse ambled on along the riverbank and turned into the wooded path toward Yaxley, which lay just beyond the crossroads. It was a forlorn camp that had been sacked and burned by the Vikings, trampled on by Harold, burned by the Normans and then rebuilt by them. Now it was only a castle, the village and church had moved long ago to St John's Cove. Yaxley Castle was atop the hill, large and sprawling. The horse ambled up the hill as if it knew where he should be going. At the top Eavan dismounted and surveyed the countryside.
The horse was untethered and munched happily on the lush and ample grass. Eavan stood at the edge of his castle. There was no work performed today for this week was a week of celebration and rejoicing. Yaxley was not so bad—perhaps he could make a profitable fife here. Everything a man could desire was at hand with ample wood, good land, and the sea not too far distant.
With good men, happy families, and a little Christian luck this place could be a good village. It was his father that made St John's a happy a prosperous fife. “I shall do thee proud,” he shouted at the top of his voice. “By God I shall do thee proud.”
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