%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
The festival at Blackstone Castle |
The Book Chapter 5 A generous breeze rose up from the North Sea on Saturday morning and swept the stain of coal smoke and threatening clouds from the skies. The change in the weather breathed life into the multi-colored banners and flags that hung above the turrets of Blackstone Castle. Animated by the brisk current's attention, they fluttered in grand style against the uncommon, blue background. With diligence not seen since the death and elaborate funeral of Lord Henry's father, six months prior, the entire staff pursued their assigned tasks. Throughout the three levels of the fortress they climbed and descended stone steps and scurried through the hallways that led to the wine-cellars, bake houses, fruiteries, salt-stores, linen-rooms, and laundry. Tents popped up like mushrooms across the field in front and on either side of Blackstone Castle. Some were simple and small. Others were elaborate and large enough to allow a dozen shoppers to mill about inside. Ryland Fletcher hurried from tent to tent, collecting sales permit fees from the merchants who hailed from villages throughout the region. Ornamental furniture, much of it newly arrived from France and Italy, flourished in the great hall and in the guest rooms. All of the rooms that might be occupied by guests were hung with gold cloth, bordered with vermilion velvet and embroidered with roses. In spite of the scarcity of battle-tested knights due to the crusades in the far east, as many as a dozen noblemen were expected to particpate in the weekend tournament As the sun climbed further into the unblemished heavens, The Earl of Winchester, sixty-year-old Hugh Le Despenser, lay on his back, snoring with sufficient volume to penetrate the thick boards of the door separating his room from his son's. Snorting and snuffling like a hibernating bear, he produced enough racket to awaken the younger Despenser, but not enough to arouse the drunken harlots who shared the old man's canopied bed. The Elder's son, The Earl of Gloucester, slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb his wife. He opened the door to the adjoining room and peered in to see three nude women draped across and around his father. Widowed sixteen years earlier, The Elder Despenser made no secret of the fact that he fancied himself a lady's man and still partook of a woman's charms whenever afforded the opportunity. The young Despenser snorted with evident amusement. "I wonder, Father," he whispered, "whether you are still able to rise to the occassion?" He shook his head and shut the door. "Allow the old fool his folly," he muttered and returned to Lady Eleanor's side. ~ ~ ~ In the quarters of the castle's master, after finishing the last bite of breakfast, Henry Blackstone licked his sticky fingers and allowed his chambermaid to take his tray."Guess what I did last night, Lizzy?" His Lordship spoke while leaning against a half-dozen pillows propped against his bed's headboard. On her way to the door with the breakfast tray, Lizzy turned round and asked, "Does it have anything to do with the prostitutes that arrived last night?" "No," Blackstone frowned. "I couldn't greet them with a towel wrapped around my head, now could I? Other than sending my best wishes through Fletcher, I didn't even get to greet The Earl of Winchester or his son when they arrived." "Then what did you do, Your Lordship?" She retraced a few steps, still holding the tray. "I prayed last night." Blackstone sounded proud of himself. He pressed his hands together, as if in reverent supplication. "I actually prayed for the first time since, well, I can't remember the last time." Appearing curious, Lizzy cocked her head to the left. "When your father became ill this past spring, didn't you pray he would recover?" "Why would I have done that?" Lord Henry shot Lizzy a reproachful glance, as though she had taken leave of her senses. "He was an o-o-old man, almost as old as Fletcher. More important, were he still alive, I wouldn't be Lord of the Castle. Taxes wouldn't have been raised, no doubt, and our woeful financial condition would be even worse." Blackstone threw back the covers and turned to sit on the edge of his bed. "Then, what did you pray for My Lord? By the way, you might want to put your slippers on. The floor's chilly this mornin'." Without having a hand free to point, Lizzy nodded at the floor where Blackstone's slippers lay next to his feet. "What would you have prayed for if you were me?" Blackstone stood beside his bed and stretched, reaching out as far as he could with both arms and arching his back. "Perhaps an end to the rain," Lizzy suggested. "The harvested wheat needs to dry, and the —" "A worthy sentiment, to be sure, but that isn't what I prayed for." Wearing only his nightshirt, Blackstone strolled barefoot to the window and squinted toward the east. Golden sunshine cast a cheerful glow across the fall landscape. The vibrant oranges and reds presented a glorious change from the gloomy scene that normally greeted King Edward's subjects in Northern England. "I prayed that Fletcher's revolting stickyweed solution would prove effective on my scalp." He turned away from the window and pointed to the towel, wrapped about his hair. "After all, I have to wear my royal blue silk outfit tomorrow for the crowning of the tournament champion." Blackstone stared at the floor, yawned grandly, and wiggled his toes. "Be a good girl and fetch my slippers. This floor is colder than I expected." Lizzy set the tray on the bed, and took the slippers to Blackstone. Dropping to her knees, she bent forward and held the slippers firm against the floor while he inserted each foot, wiggling it around until it felt secure and comfortable. As he gazed down, his attention strayed to Lizzy's bosom. "Hmmm, I seem to have an appetite for something further, this morning." Staring at His Lordship's slippered feet, Lizzy's face darkened. "I could run downstairs for more bread and jam." Before glancing up, she wiped away the disgust, replacing it with an eager, dimpled smile. "Maybe a boiled egg?" "Just the jam, I should think." Lord Henry leered. "Ain't got much time this mornin'. Got a lot to do, My Lord. We need to get that towel off your head and make you presentable." "Then you'd better hurry," Blackstone insisted and smacked Lizzy's bottom as she rose to retrieve the tray from his bed. "Yes, My Lord." "Don't forget to empty my piss pot," Blackstone called out over his shoulder as he returned to the window. ~ ~ ~ At a small, out-of-the-way table in a corner of the kitchen, Albert tossed the last bite of bacon back onto his plate and rose from his chair when Lizzy rushed in. "What's got you in such a hurry this morning?" "You don't want to know." Without glancing in his direction, Lizzy used a big wooden spoon to scoop a large dollup of jam from a bowl and plopped it onto a pewter plate. Albert leaned over and whispered, "I got the poison." Lizzy's expression became hopeful. "Ya did? Who'd ya get it from?" "One of the apothecaries, in Newcastle. I got it when Uncle Rylan sent me to secure the services of the prostitutes." The interest on Lizzy's face faded, supplanted by suspicion. "Why couldn't your uncle go pick 'em? How'd you go about it, Albert?" she accused, more than asked. "Did ya try 'em out?" "What?" Planting one hand on her hip, Lizzy jabbed Albert in the chest with the index finger of her other hand. "Do a little proddin' and pokin', did ya, to be sure of the quality?" Insulted and flustered, Albert's face turned red. He stepped back and stared. "Why would ya think such a thing?" "To be sure the fruit is ripe, you got to squeeze it, don't ya?" Lizzy mimed the salacious behavior she imagined. "I'll bet your hands were full that day, Albert - full of bubbies, that is. "I did no such thing!" Albert protested, attracting the attention of one of the cooks. A woman of considerable girth came over to show support for Lizzy. Wearing a white bonnet, she brandished a spoon, large enough to qualify as a club. "What's he done, now?" She asked. "Muckin' about in Newcastle." Lizzy charged. "Auditionin' the talent, if you know what I mean." Albert saw anger flash in the cook's eyes. "Is that so?" she demanded. She drew back with the hand that held the spoon and waited to hear Albert's reply. "No." Albert objected. "I swear!" He turned to Lizzy. "I'da kept me mouth shut if I had something to hide." "Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn't," the cook opined. "Nobody ever accused you of bein' smart, like your Uncle Fletcher." "Let me handle this," Lizzy insisted. She waited while the cook cast a final, threatening glance at Albert and returned to the other side of the kitchen. When she felt certain they could speak without being overheard, Lizzy asked about the poison. "How can you be sure it'll kill him?" "We could try it out on that angry old hen," Albert pointed at the cook, who's broad back faced them. "Be serious, Albert." "Uncle Rylan recommended the man I bought it from. He's a reputable spice-merchant - been in business for ten years." "What's it look like?" Lizzy inquired. "How do we do it?" "It's a pellet," Albert replied. "The merchant claimed they're tasteless. He claimed one is strong enough to kill a horse. I got two. We slip 'em into a wine goblet. What could be easier?" "You don't have to crush 'em up into a powder?" Lizzy asked. "He didn't say nothin' 'bout havin' to crush 'em up." "It'd probably be best if we did," Lizzy decided. "Do ya have 'em with you?" "They're in me room. I could go —" "No, I've got to hurry. Too bad. I'da done it right now. I can't stand bein' with him no more, Albert." "Aye, and the thought of you havin' to go back up there is killin' me." No longer obsessing over Albert's selection of the prostitutes, Lizzy kissed him on the cheek. "Pray this is the last time." The two stared into each other's eyes, testing their resolve. Turning around, Lizzy took a deep breath, blew it out, picked up the pewter plate with the jelly, and headed back to Lord Blackstone's lair. ~ ~ ~ Sitting next to Brother Stephen in the back of the wagon, on the way to Blackstone Castle, Brother Michael asked, "By what time must we arrive?" "By noon, Michael," Father Benedict answered. He flicked the reins to encourage the donkey that pulled them along the busy road. "That's when Rylan Fletcher said the opening ceremonies will take place." Wrapped in purple silk cloth, held together by a white ribbon, The Book lay next to Father Benedict on the wooden bench seat. He reached over and pressed his right hand firmly on it to hold it in place as the wagon approached a noticeable dip. After the wagon rattled over the rough patch of road, Brother Michael spoke again. "I still don't understand, Father. Why are we taking a gift to Lord Blackstone?" Father Benedict shook his head, questioning his decision to bring Brother Michael along. "Rylan Fletcher informed me that Lord Blackstone is going to make a generous donation to the Church, today. I thought a small token of our appreciation would be in order." "Appreciation?" Brother Michael protested. "Why would you want to show appreciation to a murderer? "Michael," Brother Stephen defended the priest, "You know we're alone in our plight against Lord Blackstone. The Church hasn't responded to Father Benedict's petitions. Why not allow him to make decisions without having to justify them to you? Rather than questioning his actions, join me in singing a song of praise to God for giving us such a beautiful day." Disregarding Brother Stephen's suggestion, Michael persisted. "Have you stopped to consider that your gesture of appreciation might be misinterpreted by those who have suffered Lord Blackstone's cruelty? What about the families of the young girls that have died?" When Father Benedict failed to respond, Brother Michael added, "I doubt that William Dendylyoun would applaud your gift of appreciation, even if his hands hadn't been cut off for killing that buck without paying to hunt in Blackstone's forests." The priest shook his head again. "Can I help it if my actions are misinterpreted, Brother Michael? I can't control what our parishioners think." He twisted around to fix Michael with a brief stare. "I can't even control what you think." Turning to face the road again he added, "We are on the right path. Faith and patience is required if we are to follow God's plan and serve his purpose." Michael opened his mouth, but Brother Stephen started to sing before he could respond. "Praise be to God for all good things..." Crossing his arms, Michael slumped against the sideboard of the wagon. Father Benedict joined Stephen in the long, joyful hymn that expressed gratitude for the many blessings they enjoyed. Finally, Brother Michael relented and began to sing, as well. Before the third verse, Father Benedict gave a slight tug on the reins as they drew near to another small wagon ahead. In the rear of the wagon he spotted a young boy and a large pig. The boy appeared to be having a grand time, waving and shouting to pedestrians on either side of the road. Three people occupied the wagon's front bench. "Isn't that the Gardyner family?" The priest pointed. At the same time, eight-year-old Guy Gardyner recognized Father Benedict. He scrambled forward in the wagon and yanked on his father's sleeve. "What is it lad?" Norman Gardyner asked. "It's the priest, Father! Right behind us. The priest and the two monks." Norman turned to look back. So did Anicia and Barnard. Norman forced a smile as he waved at Father Benedict. "Wait 'til he sees who's drivin' the wagon in front of us." In front of the Gardyners were Aubrey and Emma Mason. The Masons were the parents of twleve-year-old Julianna, who died at the hands of Lord Blackstone only six weeks before Rebecca. Driving a similar wagon ahead of the Masons, were James and Rose Carpenter, the parents of Veronica. Barely fourteen, she became the second of Blackstone's young victims. With a far-away look, Walter Brooker sat quietly in the rear of the Mason's wagon as his long, red hair blew like streamers about his face. Beside him lay a foot-long dagger. Walter was the widowed father of Madison, the first teenaged girl to die at the castle. After Walter's wife, Maude, died giving birth to their daughter, Walter devoted the next fourteen years to providing his little girl with all the love and every possible comfort he could afford. Some claimed that Brooker lost his mind when he learned that Madison had been murdered. Those who attended her funeral heard Walter swear that one day he would personally kill Lord Blackstone. Brooker hadn't been among the protestors that Albert Bigge and Lord Blackstone's guards escorted off the castle grounds the morning after Rebecca Gardyner's death. The other parents whose children were killed, and the majority of the villagers who commiserated with them, considered Walter to be an unstable liability. But they began to listen to him when news of Rebecca Gardyner's death circulated through the village. "We're taxed beyond our ability to pay and this makes four children who have died. Four! Which of you are willin' to see their daughter become the fifth? There's only one sure way to stop the killin'," Walter advised. "Whinin' and prayin' that Lord Blackstone will mend his ways won't get it done. We have to kill the bastard!" ~ ~ ~ In the back of the Gardyner's wagon where young Guy rode with the family's sow, two short daggers lay hidden beneath the straw, one for Norman and one for Barnard. Norman patted his eldest son on the back and said, "Barnard, since Lord Blackstone's father, the late Aldred, fought for King Edward, you'll be marked as an enemy of the realm if we kill Lord Henry. That'd be the end of your dreams about becomin' a nobleman." "Then I shall be like Robin Hood, Father - a defender of the people." Barnard raised his fist as if sporting a sword. "Perhaps we should make plans to move to Sherwood Forest." "Never mind your grandiose dreams, Barnard," Anicia counselled. "If you or your father kill Lord Henry and get caught, we may all be put to death." She turned around to be sure Guy heard her. "That includes you, young man. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Don't go braggin' to nobody 'bout nothin', and don't let nothin' happen to our hog." "I thought we were going to sell her, Mother." Guy patted the sow's flank. "Well," Anicia replied. "We don't want anything to happen to her before we have the money in our hands, now, do we?" "No," Guy agreed. Guy's father leaned back and asked, "What're you supposed to do if you learn that any of us have been captured?" The youngest Gardyner answered without hesitation. "Take the wagon to Newcastle and live with Aunt Ruth and Uncle Thomas." Norman nodded and added, "If that happens, don't come lookin' for us. Your mother's sister'll be glad to take care of ya. We'll come for ya if we can." "But that ain't gonna happen, Father." "Why do you say that?" "Cause you're gonna kill him and they ain't gonna catch you. That's why." Norman turned to Anicia and nodded. "Smart lad. He'll do fine." "I don't feel good about this," Anicia protested. "Not good at all. But then, Walter Brooker's right. We've been whinin' and prayin', and it ain't stopped Lord Blackstone. It ain't even slowed him down." ~ ~ ~ "Norman?" Father Benedict called out as he drew alongside the Gardyner's wagon. "Norman, what are you up to?" On either side of the road, pedestrians cleared the way as the two wagons took up the entire width of the lane. The priest glanced over at Norman, and ahead at the wagon occupied by Aubrey and Emma Mason. "Not up to anything, Father. Just takin' our pig to the fair to see what we can get for her." The wagon's wheels hit a deep rut that caused the hog to lose its balance. The sow squealed as Guy grabbed her to prevent her from falling over or being tossed out. After glancing back at Guy, who seemed to have the situation under control, the priest began to probe. "And it's by pure coincidence that you're following the Masons?" Norman shook his head. "No. Aubrey came over this mornin' and suggested we go together. They have some pelts to trade and Aubrey thought it'd be a good idea if he checked around with the merchants to see if anyone might be needin' a builder." Appearing skeptical, Father Benedict looked foward, into the back of the Mason's wagon. A pile of skins lay in the back. Squinting, as he peered further up the road and pointed. "Is that Walter Brooker I see in the back of the wagon ahead of the Masons? He's the only man in the village with hair redder than yours, Norman." The priest's expression changed to one of genuine concern. "Norman, I know you believe you have to do something to stop Lord Blackstone, but you must set aside your plans for revenge and place your faith in God. Justice will be served. 'Vengeance is mine,' sayeth The Lord." "When, Father?" Norman shouted over the noise of the two wagons. "When will The Lord decide to take action? He coulda done something after the death of Madison Brooker. I know that her father got down on his knees and prayed for The Lord to smite Lord Blackstone, but he didn't. He coulda took action after Veronica Carpenter's murder, but again, he didn't. Keeping pace with the Gardyner family's wagon, the priest shouted back, "It's not for us to tell God when and how he should respond to —" "We're not tellin' God anything, Father. We're just doin' what we feel we have to do, since nothin's been done." "What you've got on your mind is a sin, Norman, a sin for which you should repent. I'll expect to hear your confession, tomorrow." Rather than arguing further, Norman glared at the priest. His expression and silence said all that needed to be said. "That's not contrition I see in your eyes, Norman." Appearing frustrated, Father Benedict shook his head and flicked the reins to quicken the step of the donkey that pulled him and Brothers Michael and Steven. "Geeyup," he called out, and flicked the leather straps again. The story remains far from finished. I always appreciate hearing from readers. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see. Contact me here, on this website, by emailing me at georgelasher@Writing.Com or come check me out on Facebook. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625773285&aid=36414 Kindest regards, George R. Lasher "Welcome to my imagination." |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
