Crusaders 2/7
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All things considered, Sir John of Winchester had a pretty good life.
His forefathers had been thegns and ealdormenn of the greatest Saxon kings, from Ælle to Alfred, and it was in service to the latter that the family had moved to Wintanceaster. Though the family’s fortunes plummeted under Æthelred and Canute, John’s grandfather somehow managed not only to survive the Battle of Hastings but also to keep his land, albeit as a mere baron. Both William and William Rufus had looked kindly on both Winchester and John’s family, and though William had assigned governing authority to a Norman overlord, the barony stayed with the family until at last it passed to John. And once John was of age, he joined King Henry in the Scottish wars and gained not only a friendship with the king but also a small fortune and a Pictish bride.
Mary mac Duibne was the beautiful daughter of a clan chieftain from Menstrie who nursed John back to health when he was wounded nearby in April of 1115. Her father was highly displeased that she would have aught to do with one of King Henry’s men, and a Saxon at that, but Mary paid him no heed. She was anxious to leave the Hillfoots, she told John, and Winchester and Jerusalem were all one to her for that purpose. Not only that, but the few young chieftains in the area had already been driven off by her father, and she was beginning to wonder if he would ever allow her to marry at all.
There were things about Mary that John liked greatly and things about her that drove him mad, and it seemed the feeling was mutual. But Father Seamus, the Irish chaplain who’d fallen in with John, walked in one evening while they were having a whacking great row about politics and calmly asked if they preferred to get married on the spot or wait until they could get to a kirk and put up the banns.
“Now,” they both said without thinking.
So Father Seamus called in his deacon as a witness, read the wedding rite, and discreetly left the pair of them to finish their row in a manner befitting a wedding night.
When John finally came to his senses the next day, he had no idea how he would explain the situation to Mary’s father. But he need not have worried, for Mary’s father had died of a heart attack during the night. The new chieftain, Mary’s uncle, was all too happy to take Father Seamus’ word that his high-spirited niece was duly married, and King Henry was all too happy to grant John leave to take Mary home and enjoy married life for a time.
John had a niggling sense that all this was far too easy. Mary helped him squash it.
Ten years of wedded bliss sped by. Winchester flourished, as did the whole of the kingdom, though King Henry’s son was lost at sea in 1120. The land was at peace, and tensions between Normans and Saxons ebbed. Sir John was content with his life as a gentleman farmer, and he had many friends and both spent and gave gifts with equal wisdom, thanks in no small part to Lady Mary. And Lady Mary herself was well loved by all. She was more apt than Sir John to grace the cathedral with her presence on holy days, but even he would sometimes join her for no other reason than to make her smile.
Some in the town did begin to murmur when, after five years, the union remained fruitless. Yet the next five years saw Lady Mary bear Sir John two fine sons, and she seemed content to bear him twenty more.
But everything changed on All Souls’ Day of 1125.
It had been a bad year generally for England, between the grisly conclusion of a currency forgery investigation, in which the mint-men of Winchester alone were found innocent, and horrible widespread flooding on the Feast of St. Lawrence that led to the spoilage of many crops. At about the same time, a Norman nobleman styling himself Geoffrey, Earl of Hampshire, arrived in Winchester and began to oppress the Saxons, the Church, and the Jews. Sir John was suspicious, especially when Mary took a sudden spike in cattle deaths as a sure sign that a devil was near. But every appeal to King Henry went unanswered.
The events of All Souls’ caused rampant speculation in hindsight. Most concluded that Sir John had been made to watch as Lord Geoffrey forced himself on Lady Mary and then murdered her and fired the hall in an attempt to cover his misdeeds. Only Sir John, and through him his sons, knew the whole truth.
A pair of monks had arrived for the Feast of All Saints and had accepted Sir John’s offer of hospitality for the duration of their time in Winchester, since St. Swithun’s Priory could ill afford guests at the time. The monks were especially anxious to get four-year-old Dean and six-month-old Samuel to bed early that night, but though John wondered at it, Mary was glad for the help and gave the children to the monks’ care shortly after dinner. And truth be told, John was glad to have the monks and the children leave the hall, since it meant the night’s festivities need not be restrained to that which was fit for a clerk’s eyes and ears.
But the night was still young by John’s reckoning when Lord Geoffrey suddenly appeared in the middle of the hall, and just as suddenly everyone but John and Mary fell dead, their throats slashed as if by unseen knives. John reached for his sword but found himself frozen in place by an unnatural force.
Mary, however, was not so bound, and she leapt to her feet with a cry of “You!”
Lord Geoffrey leered at her. “Now, now, Mary. I come only to collect what is mine. Where are they?”
“No.”
Lord Geoffrey advanced toward the dais, and his eyes turned yellow as brimstone. “Where are they, Mary?”
“No. No! By Our Lady, no!”
“Thou canst not stop me, Mary. Where are thy sons?”
Mary snarled. “Exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—” But the words died in her throat as Lord Geoffrey raised a hand and she choked, though he was still some feet away from the dais.
“I will not ask again. Where. Are. Thy. Sons.”
Mary only glared at him as if her sheer hatred could kill the man.
“Very well, then. If thou wilt not reveal them to me, I shall spare no one. Their deaths are on thy head, Mary. Let us see what thy precious angels say to that.” He chuckled cruelly and lowered his hand, but Mary regained the power of speech only to scream as her stomach was rent as with a sword.
“Mary!” John cried and struggled against his unseen bonds.
Lord Geoffrey chuckled once more, and the walls and roof of the hall burst into flame, as did Mary herself, while the central fire raged forth from its hearth. John despaired of life—
—and then suddenly he was outside with the monks and his sons, watching helplessly as the devil’s fire consumed the house and all who were in it. The servants who were outside rushed to fetch water to put out the fire, but their efforts were in vain.
“Deofolweorc,” was all John could manage to say.
“Indeed so,” replied one of the monks as he gently pressed Samuel into John’s arms while the other made sure that Dean held tightly to John’s leg. “Guard your sons well, John of Winchester. Their worth is greater than you know.”
John never noticed when the monks left. He stayed more or less in a daze until someone led him and the boys to the cathedral for the night. But soon even that shelter was denied him, for after the Requiem for the slain, Lord Geoffrey, claiming to act in the king’s name, declared John an outlaw and assigned both his title and his lands to one of the earl’s own retainers. The whole of Winchester cried out against this outrage, for Lord Geoffrey made not even the slightest pretense toward just cause. But naught could be done. Lord Geoffrey left Winchester under cover of night and returned to Normandy, and as before, appeals to the king went unanswered.
There was nothing for it. John took his sons and began to wander Hampshire as a knight-errant under many false names, earning such sustenance as he could and venting his grief in combat. But slowly, under the tutelage of his friends Father Seamus and William de Harvelle, he began to turn his attentions toward monsters and devils of every sort and hunted them throughout the British Isles, always hoping that the next devil would lead him to Lord Geoffrey.
For Lord Geoffrey was a devil, of that John was sure. And one way or another, no matter what that fiend wanted with Dean and Samuel, John would have his revenge for Mary’s death.
Next | Notes
All things considered, Sir John of Winchester had a pretty good life.
His forefathers had been thegns and ealdormenn of the greatest Saxon kings, from Ælle to Alfred, and it was in service to the latter that the family had moved to Wintanceaster. Though the family’s fortunes plummeted under Æthelred and Canute, John’s grandfather somehow managed not only to survive the Battle of Hastings but also to keep his land, albeit as a mere baron. Both William and William Rufus had looked kindly on both Winchester and John’s family, and though William had assigned governing authority to a Norman overlord, the barony stayed with the family until at last it passed to John. And once John was of age, he joined King Henry in the Scottish wars and gained not only a friendship with the king but also a small fortune and a Pictish bride.
Mary mac Duibne was the beautiful daughter of a clan chieftain from Menstrie who nursed John back to health when he was wounded nearby in April of 1115. Her father was highly displeased that she would have aught to do with one of King Henry’s men, and a Saxon at that, but Mary paid him no heed. She was anxious to leave the Hillfoots, she told John, and Winchester and Jerusalem were all one to her for that purpose. Not only that, but the few young chieftains in the area had already been driven off by her father, and she was beginning to wonder if he would ever allow her to marry at all.
There were things about Mary that John liked greatly and things about her that drove him mad, and it seemed the feeling was mutual. But Father Seamus, the Irish chaplain who’d fallen in with John, walked in one evening while they were having a whacking great row about politics and calmly asked if they preferred to get married on the spot or wait until they could get to a kirk and put up the banns.
“Now,” they both said without thinking.
So Father Seamus called in his deacon as a witness, read the wedding rite, and discreetly left the pair of them to finish their row in a manner befitting a wedding night.
When John finally came to his senses the next day, he had no idea how he would explain the situation to Mary’s father. But he need not have worried, for Mary’s father had died of a heart attack during the night. The new chieftain, Mary’s uncle, was all too happy to take Father Seamus’ word that his high-spirited niece was duly married, and King Henry was all too happy to grant John leave to take Mary home and enjoy married life for a time.
John had a niggling sense that all this was far too easy. Mary helped him squash it.
Ten years of wedded bliss sped by. Winchester flourished, as did the whole of the kingdom, though King Henry’s son was lost at sea in 1120. The land was at peace, and tensions between Normans and Saxons ebbed. Sir John was content with his life as a gentleman farmer, and he had many friends and both spent and gave gifts with equal wisdom, thanks in no small part to Lady Mary. And Lady Mary herself was well loved by all. She was more apt than Sir John to grace the cathedral with her presence on holy days, but even he would sometimes join her for no other reason than to make her smile.
Some in the town did begin to murmur when, after five years, the union remained fruitless. Yet the next five years saw Lady Mary bear Sir John two fine sons, and she seemed content to bear him twenty more.
But everything changed on All Souls’ Day of 1125.
It had been a bad year generally for England, between the grisly conclusion of a currency forgery investigation, in which the mint-men of Winchester alone were found innocent, and horrible widespread flooding on the Feast of St. Lawrence that led to the spoilage of many crops. At about the same time, a Norman nobleman styling himself Geoffrey, Earl of Hampshire, arrived in Winchester and began to oppress the Saxons, the Church, and the Jews. Sir John was suspicious, especially when Mary took a sudden spike in cattle deaths as a sure sign that a devil was near. But every appeal to King Henry went unanswered.
The events of All Souls’ caused rampant speculation in hindsight. Most concluded that Sir John had been made to watch as Lord Geoffrey forced himself on Lady Mary and then murdered her and fired the hall in an attempt to cover his misdeeds. Only Sir John, and through him his sons, knew the whole truth.
A pair of monks had arrived for the Feast of All Saints and had accepted Sir John’s offer of hospitality for the duration of their time in Winchester, since St. Swithun’s Priory could ill afford guests at the time. The monks were especially anxious to get four-year-old Dean and six-month-old Samuel to bed early that night, but though John wondered at it, Mary was glad for the help and gave the children to the monks’ care shortly after dinner. And truth be told, John was glad to have the monks and the children leave the hall, since it meant the night’s festivities need not be restrained to that which was fit for a clerk’s eyes and ears.
But the night was still young by John’s reckoning when Lord Geoffrey suddenly appeared in the middle of the hall, and just as suddenly everyone but John and Mary fell dead, their throats slashed as if by unseen knives. John reached for his sword but found himself frozen in place by an unnatural force.
Mary, however, was not so bound, and she leapt to her feet with a cry of “You!”
Lord Geoffrey leered at her. “Now, now, Mary. I come only to collect what is mine. Where are they?”
“No.”
Lord Geoffrey advanced toward the dais, and his eyes turned yellow as brimstone. “Where are they, Mary?”
“No. No! By Our Lady, no!”
“Thou canst not stop me, Mary. Where are thy sons?”
Mary snarled. “Exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—” But the words died in her throat as Lord Geoffrey raised a hand and she choked, though he was still some feet away from the dais.
“I will not ask again. Where. Are. Thy. Sons.”
Mary only glared at him as if her sheer hatred could kill the man.
“Very well, then. If thou wilt not reveal them to me, I shall spare no one. Their deaths are on thy head, Mary. Let us see what thy precious angels say to that.” He chuckled cruelly and lowered his hand, but Mary regained the power of speech only to scream as her stomach was rent as with a sword.
“Mary!” John cried and struggled against his unseen bonds.
Lord Geoffrey chuckled once more, and the walls and roof of the hall burst into flame, as did Mary herself, while the central fire raged forth from its hearth. John despaired of life—
—and then suddenly he was outside with the monks and his sons, watching helplessly as the devil’s fire consumed the house and all who were in it. The servants who were outside rushed to fetch water to put out the fire, but their efforts were in vain.
“Deofolweorc,” was all John could manage to say.
“Indeed so,” replied one of the monks as he gently pressed Samuel into John’s arms while the other made sure that Dean held tightly to John’s leg. “Guard your sons well, John of Winchester. Their worth is greater than you know.”
John never noticed when the monks left. He stayed more or less in a daze until someone led him and the boys to the cathedral for the night. But soon even that shelter was denied him, for after the Requiem for the slain, Lord Geoffrey, claiming to act in the king’s name, declared John an outlaw and assigned both his title and his lands to one of the earl’s own retainers. The whole of Winchester cried out against this outrage, for Lord Geoffrey made not even the slightest pretense toward just cause. But naught could be done. Lord Geoffrey left Winchester under cover of night and returned to Normandy, and as before, appeals to the king went unanswered.
There was nothing for it. John took his sons and began to wander Hampshire as a knight-errant under many false names, earning such sustenance as he could and venting his grief in combat. But slowly, under the tutelage of his friends Father Seamus and William de Harvelle, he began to turn his attentions toward monsters and devils of every sort and hunted them throughout the British Isles, always hoping that the next devil would lead him to Lord Geoffrey.
For Lord Geoffrey was a devil, of that John was sure. And one way or another, no matter what that fiend wanted with Dean and Samuel, John would have his revenge for Mary’s death.
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no subject
Date: 2013-06-02 06:49 am (UTC)I look forward to the next part!
no subject
Date: 2013-06-03 04:00 am (UTC)Thanks! The next part will be coming shortly!