Parsley, Sage, Rosemary And Thyme

Scarborough Castle's twelfth-century keep.

 

Flowers growing wild on the defensive walls of Scarborough Castle.

 

View of the North Sands from Scarborough Castle.

The Chronicle of Eboracum VI...

Part Six – The Author’s Note

The genesis of The Chronicle of Eboracum was extraordinarily simple. Having realised that my writing was becoming increasingly disjointed I decided that something drastic had to be done. I needed to write a story that had an ending. A simple feat you might think, aside from the debilitating panic that consumes me whenever I consider creating any form of conclusion. After many long walks to work, several delayed train journeys, and writing primarily on the back of till receipts, I had finally a severely disjointed but almost complete story.

Though primarily a work of utter fantasy this story is also akin to Frankenstein’s monster. It includes a patchwork of half-remembrances, obscure facts and more than a little desperation. Eboracum was the name of the Roman settlement which developed into the city we know today as York. Wallachia was the name of the kingdom that Vlad the Impaler ruled during the Middle Ages. Medieval bestiaries described the pard as a creature that could kill with a single leap. Meanwhile Costica was my exhausted brain latching onto the discarded coffee cup of a fellow traveller. There is also an actual plant called the Peruvian Sheep Eater (puya chilensis), which has recently bloomed at the RHS garden Wisley in Surrey, and acts in exactly the manner I described.

Am I pleased with my monstrous creation? There are so many things that ought to be better, so many ways it is inferior, and so many parts that are incomplete. Yet for the half-crazed scribbling of an author who seemingly cannot write the words THE END it is not an entirely bad effort. Whilst it may not be perfect my one hope is that it will help make the next story that much less painful to see to its proper conclusion.

The Chronicle of Eboracum V...

Part Five – The New Age
 
The battle may have been won but there was still much that needed to be achieved before a quarter-century of Wallachian control could be entirely put to an end. Regents were installed and temporary governments elected as the western kingdoms sought to regain their independence. With the old ruling families annihilated by Aefon’s murderous ambitions it was not possible to return to the old way of things. Instead the liberated kingdoms celebrated and looked forward to the beginning of a new age.
 
There were also intense negotiations between Wallachia and the Lords. After the general’s demise on the Field of Firrs it was the mother of the boy-king who ruled in his stead. Fierce and proud she nevertheless understood that her husband’s armies had crumbled and the allied forces had chosen not to destroy Wallachia. The western kingdoms had no interest in domination. There were many voices of reason who insisted that no revenge would be enacted. The people of Wallachia were, in the main, innocent of the atrocities committed by Aefon and his generals. Negotiations remained ongoing for the settlement of suitable reparations and there was cautious discussion of a universal peace treaty.
 
For Benedik, however, the end of the battle signalled more simply the return home. He spent many hours on the rocky cliffs of his childhood watching the waves below crash and recede. He should not have been surprised, he supposed, to find that nature had not changed in his absence. When he had begun this journey he had decided to leave as soon as the fight was won. The people of Eboracum may have needed his martial prowess but they would be better off without him as king. Yet as the days passed he reacquainted himself with old friends, drank toasts to the prosperity of the kingdom and visited the unmarked burial place of his family. It seemed that he had constructed a life for himself here and the endless wandering within his soul felt finally at peace.
 
The Guardian had spoken the truth when she told him that he had needed to return. He smiled wryly to himself as he flicked his wrist and sent one of the stones in his hand tumbling down into the white spray of water.
 
“You will stay then?” It was as if he had summoned her with his thoughts. For a moment he continued to study the small rock in the palm of his hand, smoothing its rough surface with the pad of his thumb. He gave a great deal of thought to the equally small word before he gave it voice.
 
“Yes.” He turned to her, his eyes blinking furiously to adjust to the supernatural brightness that surrounded the Guardian. “I don’t know who I shall be or what I shall do, but whatever it is I belong here to this land.” His hand flattened to the ground as if he could feel the very heartbeat of the earth beneath him. “Thank you.” They were foolish words perhaps when spoken to a deity but they were honest ones. “You saved my life all those years ago and you came back for me. I see now that somehow I could never have stopped waiting or hoping.”
 
“You exceeded all our expectations. Your father always believed you would become greater than merely your name. In these past weeks you have proven yourself your own man. Greatness cannot be inherited nor is it a title. Everything that you are comes from within.”She laid a cool and gentle hand on his shoulder, the comfort easing through his bones like water. Her gown brushed across his arm as she turned and left, leaving an air of serenity in her wake.
 
Evening had arrived in Eboracum whilst Benedik had been meditating the future on the shoreline. There was a festival in full swing when he returned to the city. The people were dressed in their finery, no matter how shabby or outdated it had become in the intervening years. Food and wine rationing had been suspended for the night and everyone enjoyed the plentiful feast to its fullest.
 
He wove amongst the excited revellers and dancers, acknowledging their greetings with a friendly if somewhat distracted smile. He was close to the entrance of the royal citadel when he was stopped by an old friend. Viridian had been the son of a wealthy merchant and together they had got up to all sorts of pranks and mischief as boys. They had already slipped easily back into their old routine.
 
“Benedik! – Come my friend, have a drink.”
 
“Not yet. I have something I need to do first.” Viridian frowned, his handsome face flushed from too much of the fine wine.
 
“No!” He exclaimed petulantly, slinging a heavy arm across his friend’s shoulders. “Tonight there’s nothing more important to do than decide which girl you want to go home with.” He said winking meaningfully. “I reckon you’ve got a good chance, what with being the hero of Eboracum.”
 
“Later. I promise. But I want to make an announcement first.” Benedik distracted his friend with a fresh and over-filled goblet before making his escape. Once he had reached the throne room, however, he began to wish he’d had that drink.
 
Up until now he had managed to avoid entering the room. The last time he had stood there his family’s blood had stained the stone-flagged floor. He could still remember his mother’s lifeless body spread heavily across his younger siblings as she had fruitlessly attempted to protect them. Yet as he confronted the darkness it was clear that the room was not the monster he had created in his memories. It was an echoing shell, gutted by the Wallachian principals who had governed in Aefon’s place. Little was recognisable of the chamber in which he had also learnt at his father’s feet about duty, honour and courage. Time had wrought its changes on this room as visibly as it had on him. Benedik breathed deeply, settling the jangling of his nerves and trembling of his fingers. It was time to look forward to the future instead of constantly looking back.
 
Stepping out onto the royal balcony he quietly watched the revellers below him for several minutes. As a few faces started to turn and look up curiously at him, Benedik began to address the crowd.
 
“Citizens of Eboracum!” His voice carried in the stillness of the night air. A few of the more vocal members of the gathering gave a cheer at his appearance. He suspected that Viridian was amongst them. They were hushed impatiently by the others. “I want to thank you. Without each and every one of you we would not be here to celebrate tonight. A new age is dawning throughout the western kingdoms and we are a part of that change. My father was a great king, but I am not my father. I will not rule as his successor simply because I carry his name. Eboracum will be free to choose its king on merit.” He trailed off, realising that he had been gripping the balustrade fiercely with white knuckles. Pushing away from the railings he had half turned when there was a loud cry from amongst the crowd.
 
“King Benedik!” The single voice was joined by three and then ten others as the cry spread until finally it deafened him. He was to be the king that the people had chosen. There would of course still be many intricacies to cope with come the morning, but for now Benedik allowed the tears to flow unchecked. This was not the end of his journey, which he had begun so many weeks before as the Nomad, but merely the beginning of a new chronicle for himself and for Eboracum.

The Chronicle Of Eboracum IV...

Part Four – The Field of Firrs.

Men had continued arriving throughout the night to add their strength to the allied forces. Now, as Benedik surveyed the field he had chosen as their place to stand and fight, he felt a surge of pride. The rising sun burnished the soldiers below him in heroic streaks of gold and bronze. The dazzling light bounced off their polished armour, fracturing into thousands of tiny new suns.

The Council had ultimately accepted his audacious plan of attack. The western kingdoms simply did not have the luxury of time. He had been granted the captaincy of the army, yet he was fully aware of the weight of assessment that remained in the gazes of the Lords. At least now he looked more like the western prince he claimed to be. Cleanly shaven, hair cropped short and clothed in an opulent robe, the only lingering evidence of the Nomad’s previous existence was the giant’s sword strapped to his back.

The Lords were arranged across the peak of the cliff. From there they had an unbroken view of the battlefield before them. Each Lord was mounted and adjacent to a bannerman who carried their kingdom’s sigil. These beckoned in the light breeze to the forces below, a clear visual reminder of what the men fought for and what they stood to lose. Benedik tugged uncomfortably at the gold-braided neck of his robe. He understood the necessity of the spectacle but he did not feel like he belonged within it. With firm, impatient fingers he unfastened the laces of his robe. Shrugging the heavy purple cloth from his shoulders it carelessly folded itself on the ground.

“Right. Give me that.” He ordered tersely to his startled bannerman. He lifted his father’s sigil easily, controlling the restlessness of his horse with a single capable hand on the reins. As they turned about he caught the shrewd glance of Lord Tobin. There was both consent and respect in the old man’s swift nod. Benedik would never be content to be a mere symbol. Men were going to spill their blood today because he had ordered that it ought to be so. The least he could do was go down there and spill his own beside them.

By the time he had descended from the rocky outcrop to reach the Field of Firrs, the battle had begun in earnest. He found himself trapped in the midst of intense fighting. Drawing his sword he hacked at the infantry that swarmed around him. From the benefit of his higher angle he could cut down at their exposed necks, but equally they could strike out at his more vulnerable mount. Spurring his horse forward he used the momentum to knock aside the remaining men and force a path toward the front line.

When he finally reached the vanguard of the allied army he punched his father’s sigil into the soil and dismounted to stand beside it. He handed the reins to the first injured man who crossed his path, his focus never shifting from the attacking Wallachians. He could feel the stares of men from both sides upon him. Taking advantage of their awareness he made a rousing call.

“For my father! For Eboracum!” It was as much an introduction as it was a battle-cry. Benedik was satisfied that he had made his point through the conspicuous placement of banner and choice of words. In proclaiming his identity he had bolstered the morale of his army, whilst encouraging a confrontation from the enemy. He had seen how evenly matched the two sides were and recognised that a more personal combat was required if the battle was to be ended efficiently.

Benedik quickly lost track of time as he was forced to parry and thrust. He felt almost disconnected, both from the inhumanity of the casual slaughter, and from the soldiers who fought around him. Each man was engaged in their own private war, exerting and driving themselves to extraordinary feats for their own individual ends. The sky had gradually darkened during the course of the fighting. Thunder fractured like pieces of broken pottery, whilst the gods shrouded the battlefield in dense, heavy clouds which wept with their tears.

Blinking fiercely at the rain that ran across his face and burned his eyes, Benedik sensed the change before he saw it. A knight entirely protected by black armour walked directly through the clashing pairs of soldiers towards him. Instinctively he knew that this was the pivotal confrontation for which he had hoped. The chest plate was etched with the Wallachian royal arms and there were obscenely large jewels encrusted in the pommel of the knight’s sword. This was the leader of the enemy army and the single hope for decisively ending the battle.

The black knight circled Benedik, his sword sounding like a snarl as it came free from its sheath. There was little time for evaluation as his first blow came fast and was powerfully crushing. Benedik was surprised by the formidable strength of the knight. Their blades sparked dangerously as they clashed, Benedik raising his in order to relieve the pressure on his armour. He was clad only in the lightest of mail, preferring its easy suppleness of movement. However against the brute strength of the knight’s plate armour, it was as useless as gossamer silk.

As they sparred Benedik found himself losing ground against the unrelenting force of the black knight. His sword-arm had been nicked by the knight’s blade as it buried beneath the iron rivets of his armour. Though only a superficial wound it weakened the power with which he was able to swing the giant’s sword. His swipes became ever more desperate and off-centre as he tried to regain the upper hand. It was perhaps arrogance or overconfidence that eventually led the black knight to pause for an instant before taking his final killing blow.

An instant was all that Benedik needed.

As the sword came slashing across he threw his weight forward, sliding in the rain-dampened earth, and taking advantage of the inflexibility of the black knight’s heavy armour. On his knees he withdrew the knife concealed in his boot and stabbed it through the knight’s foot. Momentarily disabled, it gave Benedik enough time to come up behind the knight and slide his sword through the gap in the black armour. It was a small blemish in an otherwise faultless piece of artistry. He had only seen it as the rain gathered and collected to drip and slide down the polished plates. Keening in pain the black knight attempted to wrench the sword from his shoulder. Benedik exerted enough steady pressure, however, to force the knight to his knees. Yanking at the crested helm he unveiled his opponent.

“End this.” The older man’s voice was slurred and almost unintelligible. Blood bubbled from his lips, choking his words. Benedik struck quickly, slicing through nerves so as to render a fast and painless death. He gazed down at the knight who had been the general of the Wallachian army and had won countless battles alongside Aefon. The boy-child might have been Aefon’s heir, but it was the general who the army had really followed. The black knight had been right – it was time to end this.

Striding forward Benedik plunged his sword into the ground beside his father’s banner and raised the severed head of the black knight up high.

“Listen to me!” He called over the clamour of battle. The men nearest him stopped, confused and startled by the intrusion into their blood lust. The sudden cease in the fighting spread like ripples in a lake until all was quiet apart from the distant clanging and yells in the background. “Wallachian’s your leader is dead.” His hand and arm were stained red from the blood that seeped from his gruesome prize. “Your general fought with great courage, but the boy who sits on your throne is incapable of taking his place. You cannot win this battle and you will not win this war.” Benedik remained unarmed and open to attack, yet nobody moved to intercept him. “I’m offering you your lives today. Choose peace now and you can return to your homes. If you continue to fight, however, I promise you no mercy.” His face was implacable and his hand steady, only his heart beat wildly as he awaited their decision. He could at first sense only suspicion and distrust, yet as the sky began to clear above them he could feel the delicate and tentative growth of new hope.

The battle had been won. It was finally over.