There was snow in her hair. Tiny little accumulations of ice
which sparkled like carefully arranged pearls, as elegant as if she were gracing
a London soirée. In the relative warmth of the tumbledown cottage the notion slowly
melted away, darkening the already dark hair and dripping to collect in a
puddle about her feet. She had been where she always went, and I had long since
given up trying to persuade her otherwise.
I lay quietly in our makeshift bed as she stripped with calm
efficiency. She didn’t turn toward me but nor did she shy away. My presence was
of little consequence to her modesty. Her borrowed boots thudded to the ground
as she peeled off layers of damp socks. The red and chapped hands which fumbled
with fastenings were a raw distinction against the pearly hue of the remainder
of her skin. As she gave a slight shrug and pulled her brassiere through her
sleeve I was struck once more by the oddity of my shirt contorting to sculpt
unprecedented female curves. The thought of the cotton which had lain against
my own skin and now whispered over hers was intensely personal.
“Budge up.” She said all bony elbows as she clambered in beside
me. She burrowed into my warmth, her head on my chest, our legs entwined. I
shuddered at the feel of her cold, smooth body against mine. I could feel myself
cooling as she stole any heat I had garnered from the blankets. Yet I did not
move away. Instead I brushed the hair from her brow, inhaling her damp, earthy
smell.
“He won’t come tonight.” She spoke in her queer way which
always left me unsure whether I was to be a participant in the conversation.
“The road’s blocked up now. And it’s still coming down out there.” There was
always some excuse, some reason she would find for his tardiness. I desperately
wanted to shake her and insist that he wasn’t ever going to come. I knew,
however, that she would continue to wait, deafly ignoring anything she didn’t
want to understand. I knew too that I would continue to wait with her, to hold
her, even though she would never really be mine to hold.
Sunday 27 January 2013
Sunday 20 January 2013
Ambush!...
January, 1067
“I hate this bloody country.” Henri muttered petulantly as he flexed his numb fingers. The bitter cold had leached all sensation from them, making his hands thick and clumsy. He stopped, briefly removing his helmet as he bent down to rip strips from his surcoat to bind about his fists. Guillaume waited with his friend, watching the progress of the other knights who continued to march into the forest. As Henri straightened he bumped against a tree, which revengefully deposited its heavy burden of snow upon his head.
“That’s it. I really hate this country.” Tiny clumps of ice tumbled uncomfortably down his neck. “Here we are with no horses and forced to trek, for only God knows how far, through this forest. We’re knights, not common brigands.” Guillaume’s lips curled with amusement at the antics of his friend. There was no chance that Henri’s sharp aristocratic features could be conceived as remotely common. Their situation was indeed bad fortune, but they were less than two days march from the closest of the new wooden fortress thrown up by their fellow countrymen. Guillaume remarked as much, provoking a sigh of weary resignation from Henri. As the pair set off towards the other knights, he winked cheerfully at his friend.
“It may be the common brigand who women invite to their beds, but when morning comes I dare say they want them to pay like a knight.” Henri’s bark of laughter was cut off sharply and his eyes glazed in confused shock. Guillaume covered the space between them in a heartbeat. His arms gripped the shoulders of his friend as his knees buckled sending them both to the ground. The arrow stuck out of his neck at a grotesque angle, piercing the soft skin of his momentarily unprotected neck. Blood bubbled from the wound coating Guillaume’s hands. The end was mercifully quick, Henri’s features shuddering and turning waxen as the final vestiges of life ebbed from the wound. Guillaume allowed himself only a second of grief, before shoving the body from his lap and rising to his feet. Drawing his blade from its sheath he ran towards the rest of the knights.
“Saxons!” He yelled at the figures in the distance. “Saxons! Ambush!” At any moment he expected to feel an arrow pierce his back, penetrating the mail with deadly force. The shot never came, however, and he traversed the snow covered earth unimpeded. As he reached the band of knights he was admitted into their line, sympathetic eyes flickering to the blood which streaked his face like tribal war paint. There was little opportunity to plan or make speeches as the Saxons began to charge in from all sides, taking advantage of their knowledge of local topography. The Normans formed a circle, each face implacable under the rim of their helmet.
“Diex Aie!” Guillaume roared powerfully, his breath clouding before him as he raised his sword, counting the beats as the Saxons approached. The knights returned the call, their shouts mixing with the Saxons own guttural cries. Guillaume calculated that they were outnumbered, the Saxons having at least three men to each knight. Whilst the knights were better trained and armed, the Saxons had the element of surprise and the deep-rooted passion to win. In battle he knew these could well tip the balance between victory and defeat.
There was no time for further reflection as Guillaume was abruptly forced to parry a blow wildly aimed at decapitating him. The Saxon grunted as Guillaume hefted his shield forward, knocking the air from his opponent’s lungs. He took advantage of the stumbling Saxon and stabbed his sword forward. Withdrawing the blade he hacked at the man who immediately took the Saxon’s place. The moment stretched out in a seemingly endless pattern of hack, parry and retreat. Guillaume’s arms grew fatigued from the effort of wielding his weapon, whilst his chest burned from the frigid air that entered his body with every gasping breath. He could not tell who was winning. The fallen created a dense carpet of groaning and twitching. Above the sounds of battle which clashed with the pounding of his heart, the dreadful cacophony of the dead and dying drowned out all his other senses.
Caught unawares Guillaume fell to the ground under the hard impact which struck across his helmet. He stared disorientated at the Saxon’s boots covered in white dust and red gore. He heard the whirring of the air about him as the weapon descended again. Instinct taught him to roll, kicking out at his enemy’s feet, dislodging his balance. Guillaume searched blindly, blood and sweat trailing across his eyes and making it impossible to find his weapon in the snow. The Saxon launched towards him without warning, pinning him to the ground and squeezing at his windpipe. Guillaume clawed at the earth, kicking his feet in a useless attempt to dislodge the heavyset Saxon. With the last reserves of his strength he prised a rock from beneath the snow and scraped it across the Saxon’s face. The man shrieked, impulse causing his hands to reach up and protect his eyes. Guillaume pulled the short blade from the Saxon’s waist and thrust it upwards. The Saxon gave a huge bellow, pulling desperately at the weapon in an attempt to dislodge its fatal path.
When it was finally over Guillaume sagged against the frozen ground breathing heavily and gathering his wits. Trembling with relief and revulsion he pushed the Saxon’s body from his own before crawling to his knees. As the haze gradually cleared from his vision he could see that the innocence of the fresh snow around him had been tainted by the accusing crimson paint of battle.
“I hate this bloody country.” Henri muttered petulantly as he flexed his numb fingers. The bitter cold had leached all sensation from them, making his hands thick and clumsy. He stopped, briefly removing his helmet as he bent down to rip strips from his surcoat to bind about his fists. Guillaume waited with his friend, watching the progress of the other knights who continued to march into the forest. As Henri straightened he bumped against a tree, which revengefully deposited its heavy burden of snow upon his head.
“That’s it. I really hate this country.” Tiny clumps of ice tumbled uncomfortably down his neck. “Here we are with no horses and forced to trek, for only God knows how far, through this forest. We’re knights, not common brigands.” Guillaume’s lips curled with amusement at the antics of his friend. There was no chance that Henri’s sharp aristocratic features could be conceived as remotely common. Their situation was indeed bad fortune, but they were less than two days march from the closest of the new wooden fortress thrown up by their fellow countrymen. Guillaume remarked as much, provoking a sigh of weary resignation from Henri. As the pair set off towards the other knights, he winked cheerfully at his friend.
“It may be the common brigand who women invite to their beds, but when morning comes I dare say they want them to pay like a knight.” Henri’s bark of laughter was cut off sharply and his eyes glazed in confused shock. Guillaume covered the space between them in a heartbeat. His arms gripped the shoulders of his friend as his knees buckled sending them both to the ground. The arrow stuck out of his neck at a grotesque angle, piercing the soft skin of his momentarily unprotected neck. Blood bubbled from the wound coating Guillaume’s hands. The end was mercifully quick, Henri’s features shuddering and turning waxen as the final vestiges of life ebbed from the wound. Guillaume allowed himself only a second of grief, before shoving the body from his lap and rising to his feet. Drawing his blade from its sheath he ran towards the rest of the knights.
“Saxons!” He yelled at the figures in the distance. “Saxons! Ambush!” At any moment he expected to feel an arrow pierce his back, penetrating the mail with deadly force. The shot never came, however, and he traversed the snow covered earth unimpeded. As he reached the band of knights he was admitted into their line, sympathetic eyes flickering to the blood which streaked his face like tribal war paint. There was little opportunity to plan or make speeches as the Saxons began to charge in from all sides, taking advantage of their knowledge of local topography. The Normans formed a circle, each face implacable under the rim of their helmet.
“Diex Aie!” Guillaume roared powerfully, his breath clouding before him as he raised his sword, counting the beats as the Saxons approached. The knights returned the call, their shouts mixing with the Saxons own guttural cries. Guillaume calculated that they were outnumbered, the Saxons having at least three men to each knight. Whilst the knights were better trained and armed, the Saxons had the element of surprise and the deep-rooted passion to win. In battle he knew these could well tip the balance between victory and defeat.
There was no time for further reflection as Guillaume was abruptly forced to parry a blow wildly aimed at decapitating him. The Saxon grunted as Guillaume hefted his shield forward, knocking the air from his opponent’s lungs. He took advantage of the stumbling Saxon and stabbed his sword forward. Withdrawing the blade he hacked at the man who immediately took the Saxon’s place. The moment stretched out in a seemingly endless pattern of hack, parry and retreat. Guillaume’s arms grew fatigued from the effort of wielding his weapon, whilst his chest burned from the frigid air that entered his body with every gasping breath. He could not tell who was winning. The fallen created a dense carpet of groaning and twitching. Above the sounds of battle which clashed with the pounding of his heart, the dreadful cacophony of the dead and dying drowned out all his other senses.
Caught unawares Guillaume fell to the ground under the hard impact which struck across his helmet. He stared disorientated at the Saxon’s boots covered in white dust and red gore. He heard the whirring of the air about him as the weapon descended again. Instinct taught him to roll, kicking out at his enemy’s feet, dislodging his balance. Guillaume searched blindly, blood and sweat trailing across his eyes and making it impossible to find his weapon in the snow. The Saxon launched towards him without warning, pinning him to the ground and squeezing at his windpipe. Guillaume clawed at the earth, kicking his feet in a useless attempt to dislodge the heavyset Saxon. With the last reserves of his strength he prised a rock from beneath the snow and scraped it across the Saxon’s face. The man shrieked, impulse causing his hands to reach up and protect his eyes. Guillaume pulled the short blade from the Saxon’s waist and thrust it upwards. The Saxon gave a huge bellow, pulling desperately at the weapon in an attempt to dislodge its fatal path.
When it was finally over Guillaume sagged against the frozen ground breathing heavily and gathering his wits. Trembling with relief and revulsion he pushed the Saxon’s body from his own before crawling to his knees. As the haze gradually cleared from his vision he could see that the innocence of the fresh snow around him had been tainted by the accusing crimson paint of battle.
Sunday 13 January 2013
Ruins...
Yorkshire, 1165
Horse and rider crested the hill, casting a stark silhouette against the pale haze of sky. The morning mist curled undecidedly in the valley below them. The lightest touch of breeze would scatter the damp wisps, but the dawn offered only chill stillness. Shrouded in this half-light the ruin would have remained hidden from a casual observer, but the rider’s appearance was far from mere chance. Every column and every corbel of that place was indelibly carved upon his memory.
The horse tossed its head with an abrupt whinny, stamping its feet restlessly as the rider’s agitation communicated itself to the beast. With great deliberation John Archer unfurled the fists which had tightened about the reins. Even now the ghosts of this place had the wherewithal to insidiously reach beneath the surface of his composure. Impatiently he dashed the cool clamminess from his forehead with a soiled sleeve, refusing to show the wraiths of his past any further weakness.
He paused, admiring the once familiar landscape distrustfully and noting the changes wrought by the passing of seasons. He knew himself to be equally altered. Any youthful softness had been tempered and hardened like iron in the two decades since he had fled this land. He had travelled to the edges of the civilised world only to discover that it was not so easy to elude the questions which remained unanswered. It was for this reason that he had returned. He would seek the truth, no matter the cost, in order to finally extinguish the demons of that night.
A flutter of wind stirred against his cheek allowing him finally to perceive the catalyst for his pilgrimage with the clarity of fresh observance, rather than that of childish remembrances. The ruin had left its sprawling footprint embedded upon the land. The ground was uneven where nature had begun to consume the foundations of a once great architectural achievement. Here and there walls stretched upwards in past glory, only to be terminated by crumbling decay. Everything of value had been stripped by the monks for their new house, leaving the pathetic empty shell to the mercy of local scavengers.
John felt a stab of unexpected pity for the fate of the once proud building. He could remember his own awe at the first glimpse of his new home as an oblate of barely seven years old. He had been given to the Benedictines so that they could fashion him into an educated clerk, in order to be of future use to his wealthy half-brothers. The monks had been well recompensed for their schooling of a bastard child by the lands his father had granted them. When circumstances forced him to flee from the monastery he had not even considered returning to his family. United in blood he had always felt they shared few other bonds. Instead the bow slung with careless ease over one shoulder and the name by which he had chosen to identify himself were indications of the alternative life he had forged.
It was, however, time to leave this place. He sent one last lingering glance towards the ruins, recognising the sadness and emptiness which echoed in the deserted valley. He had needed to confront the monster that his memories had created from the ashes of that night, but he knew now that he would not find the answers he sought here. Wheeling his horse around he spurred them southwards, in pursuit of the one man who knew the truth.
Horse and rider crested the hill, casting a stark silhouette against the pale haze of sky. The morning mist curled undecidedly in the valley below them. The lightest touch of breeze would scatter the damp wisps, but the dawn offered only chill stillness. Shrouded in this half-light the ruin would have remained hidden from a casual observer, but the rider’s appearance was far from mere chance. Every column and every corbel of that place was indelibly carved upon his memory.
The horse tossed its head with an abrupt whinny, stamping its feet restlessly as the rider’s agitation communicated itself to the beast. With great deliberation John Archer unfurled the fists which had tightened about the reins. Even now the ghosts of this place had the wherewithal to insidiously reach beneath the surface of his composure. Impatiently he dashed the cool clamminess from his forehead with a soiled sleeve, refusing to show the wraiths of his past any further weakness.
He paused, admiring the once familiar landscape distrustfully and noting the changes wrought by the passing of seasons. He knew himself to be equally altered. Any youthful softness had been tempered and hardened like iron in the two decades since he had fled this land. He had travelled to the edges of the civilised world only to discover that it was not so easy to elude the questions which remained unanswered. It was for this reason that he had returned. He would seek the truth, no matter the cost, in order to finally extinguish the demons of that night.
A flutter of wind stirred against his cheek allowing him finally to perceive the catalyst for his pilgrimage with the clarity of fresh observance, rather than that of childish remembrances. The ruin had left its sprawling footprint embedded upon the land. The ground was uneven where nature had begun to consume the foundations of a once great architectural achievement. Here and there walls stretched upwards in past glory, only to be terminated by crumbling decay. Everything of value had been stripped by the monks for their new house, leaving the pathetic empty shell to the mercy of local scavengers.
John felt a stab of unexpected pity for the fate of the once proud building. He could remember his own awe at the first glimpse of his new home as an oblate of barely seven years old. He had been given to the Benedictines so that they could fashion him into an educated clerk, in order to be of future use to his wealthy half-brothers. The monks had been well recompensed for their schooling of a bastard child by the lands his father had granted them. When circumstances forced him to flee from the monastery he had not even considered returning to his family. United in blood he had always felt they shared few other bonds. Instead the bow slung with careless ease over one shoulder and the name by which he had chosen to identify himself were indications of the alternative life he had forged.
It was, however, time to leave this place. He sent one last lingering glance towards the ruins, recognising the sadness and emptiness which echoed in the deserted valley. He had needed to confront the monster that his memories had created from the ashes of that night, but he knew now that he would not find the answers he sought here. Wheeling his horse around he spurred them southwards, in pursuit of the one man who knew the truth.
Sunday 6 January 2013
My Favourites
Try as we might we all apply some form of favouritism to our
lives. For me this can be a particular fondness for a character, or a sentence
that somehow miraculously says what I wanted it to say. Having now reached the somewhat
unexpected milestone of one hundred posts I feel the sentimental need to
reminisce about some of these past favourites.
A Medieval Tile Picture Gallery – because you must be mad if
you don’t like tiles!
The Raindrop – with an alarming tendency to overwrite this
was a lesson that simplicity is often more effective.
The Heretic’s Curse – the one short story I’ve managed to successfully
complete so far.
Roaring Twenties – an idea with which I got a little carried
away.
Fifty Shades of Darkness – a title calculatingly designed to
increase traffic, but a character that I wouldn’t hesitate to use again.
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