Mercerian Tales: The Making of a Man

ONE

Birth

Spring 907 MC*

(*Mercerian Calendar)

The rain came down in sheets, turning the ground to mud as it drenched the Mercerian riders who waited in anticipation. In amongst them, Lord Douglas Fitzwilliam, Baron of Bodden, clutched his sword in preparation while his horse fidgeted, eager to be amongst their prey.

Just ahead trotted the Norland warriors, their horses weighed down by soaked clothes and clinging mud, their eyes glued to the ground before them, unaware of the danger that lurked nearby.

Finally, Lord Douglas swept his sword down, and his riders surged forward, releasing all the pent-up frustration from their day of chasing these raiders. The Norlander's mounts, swifter than their Mercerian counterparts, had managed to keep their distance until the rain changed the odds. Now in sight at last, the Mercerians of Bodden finally rode forth to bring death to the enemy.

The Baron of Bodden struck out with his sword, cleaving into the neck of a Norland warrior, the blade catching on the collar bone. As he twisted the weapon free, a spurt of blood followed, quickly lost in the mud and rain. Beside him, the Bodden Knights charged in, their swords seeking vengeance, their warhorses kicking out as they advanced, sending great clods of mud flying.

Lord Douglas stabbed out again, driving the tip of his blade into another raider's face. His opponent screamed out in agony, then his anguished cry suddenly stopped as his body went limp. The baron pulled his sword back just as a spear tip scraped across his chainmail shirt, glancing along his ribs, but the angle of attack had been wrong, and the thrust deflected without leaving so much as a bruise.

He twisted in his saddle, lashing out violently, feeling his weapon's edge cut deeply into the raider’s unarmoured forearm. Withdrawing his sword, he absently noted the crimson blood that dripped off its edge, quickly washed away by the pouring rain.

Lightning cracked, illuminating the area, revealing a scene from the Underworld, with men dying or dealing out death everywhere. Moments later, thunder rolled across the sky, deafening the warriors caught in the life or death struggle.

Water poured into the baron's face, and he blinked to try to clear his vision. A rider loomed to his right, threatening his flank, so Lord Douglas twisted again, striking out with short, efficient stabs of his Mercerian longsword. A Norland blade met his, sending a vibration up his arm. Locking his legs in tightly to his mount, he commanded it to rear upward, and as it did so, it kicked out with its hooves, creating a dull thud when they impacted the soaked Norlander's armour. The rider tumbled back, falling to the ground, and Lord Douglas urged his mount closer, crushing the man's skull with its hooves.

Another flash of lightning lit the sky, then the roar of thunder echoed through the glade, the sound strangely muted by the rain, yet carrying clearly across the distance. Lord Douglas pulled his sword back one more time, ready to strike another foe, but none remained. Looking around, he cursed, for his hair was plastered to his face under his conical helmet. His arm came up, futilely trying to wipe the rain from his eyes, but his chainmail covered arms were useless for this task.

They are finished, my lord! came a triumphant shout.

Lord Douglas spotted Sir Nathan riding towards him, his soaked surcoat crimson with the stain of their enemy's blood.

Round up the survivors! the baron commanded, sheathing his sword. As he rode amongst the remaining riders, he took a head-count of his own men. Satisfied that none had died, he turned his attention back to the enemy soldiers. Having been forced from their horses and disarmed, they now stood, huddled together against the fierce onslaught of rain. More lightning flashed, striking a nearby tree to send sparks flying, immediately followed by the heavy bass of thunder, reverberating off the distant hills.

Have we got them all? yelled out Lord Fitzwilliam, struggling to be heard over the storm.

Yes, my lord, called back Sir Nathan. Your orders?

Lord Douglas took one look at the pathetic Norlanders, a sneer coming involuntarily to his face. Kill them all, he commanded, and take their horses. I daresay they’ll fetch a nice price in Wincaster.

The baron watched as his knights dismounted and moved forward clumsily in the mud. Their swords rose and fell in a bloody mess as they butchered the unarmed prisoners.

Satisfied that all was as it should be, he watched his men as they searched the dead for anything of value. When another flash of lightning lit the sky, he looked to the clouds, but the storm showed no signs of easing up.

Mount up! he called. It’s time to get back to Bodden.

They left the glade in a single file, leaving behind nothing but the dead and pools of blood that were quickly washed away in the rain.

The storm still raged as Lord Douglas spied Bodden in the distance. It had been a successful day, and for once he was happy; he had been able to finally bring the raiders to battle, helped, in no small part, by the vicious weather that tormented the land.

Once through the open portcullis, Lord Douglas, heedless of his soaked and muddy clothes, entered the Keep, moving into the great hall. There, he observed his steward, a rather unimaginative man that went by the name of Nicholson, waiting nervously, his hands wringing the cap he held.

Well? demanded Lord Douglas. Out with it, man!

The lady Clara, my lord, Nicholson stammered out.

The great lord's face betrayed his fear, What of her, man?

She is in labour, my lord.

The baron stared back in surprise, Surely you’re mistaken, she's not due to give birth for another month!

I’m afraid she went into labour just after you rode out, my lord. We sent a rider to locate you, but the storm came up and… the steward's voice trailed off.

Take me to her, the lord commanded.

Nicholson led the way, threading through the great hall, then passing by corridors until finally leading the lord upstairs, to Lady Clara’s door. Here, Nicholson bowed deeply, standing to the side.

Baron Fitzwilliam looked at the door for a moment, listening carefully, but naught could be heard from beyond. Pushing it wide open revealed a gruesome scene; Lady Clara Fitzwilliam lay in bed, blood-stained sheets beneath her. Three servants were fussing about, one mopped her ladyship's brow while another held a small bundle. The third was on her knees, praying to Saxnor for strength.

Lord Douglas rushed forward to kneel beside his wife's bed, clasping her hand only to feel the coldness of it. Looking at her, he watched as her eyes fluttered open, framed by her face, the colour drained out of it.

Clara, my love, he muttered, tears forming in his eyes.

You have another son, she responded, her voice weak.

Don’t leave me, I beg of you.

Promise me you’ll look after him, Douglas, she whispered.

He tried to answer, but before he could get the words out, her eyes closed a final time, and she passed into the Afterlife. A low growl escaped from his lips, building into a cry of anguish that shook the very walls. Outside, as if in answer to his call, thunder echoed across the land. Lady Clara Fitzwilliam, Baroness of Bodden, was dead.

Lord Douglas remained where he was, clutching his dead wife’s hand in an iron grip. He stared at her, remembering her tenderness and good nature. Here lay a woman that had softened his soul, and brought light to the darkness, but now she was gone.

My lord, interrupted one of the women, you have a son. What shall we do with him?

Lord Douglas tore his gaze away from the body of his wife to glare at the woman. Releasing Clara's hand, he moved towards the servant, staring down at the swaddled newborn. The tiny infant stared back, serving only to remind him of what he had just lost.

You, he declared, are Lord Richard Fitzwilliam, and are responsible for killing your own mother, the only person I ever loved. I shall never let you forget this!

He’s but a wee babe, the woman defended.

He has cursed this house! yelled Lord Douglas. Take him away!

TWO

Child

Summer 911 MC

Baron Douglas Fitzwilliam rode through the gate, followed by his knights. It had been a long patrol, and they were covered in dust and dirt, evidence of the task they had undertaken.

On the wall, young Richard Fitzwilliam looked on with all the interest his four-year-old mind could muster.

Papa! he called out.

His father, ignoring the cry, dismounted, passing off his reins to the stable hand. The lord removed his gloves, using them to rather ineffectually beat the dust from his armour, then started moving towards the Keep.

Richard, having reached the bottom of the steps, called out again in glee.

Papa!

This time the baron turned, his face a mask of annoyance.

Richard, seeing the look, halted his advance, standing awkwardly in the middle of the courtyard.

Have you nothing better to do, boy? his father called out. Begone, I’ve more important things to do than to coddle you.

Richard cast his eyes downward, hurt by the scolding. He idolized his father, as any young boy would, and yet never had he been the recipient of any affection from the man, not like his older brother, Edward. All this flickered through his young mind, and then, with the distraction of youth, his thoughts turned to other matters. His father had said he had more important things to do. This might prove interesting!

The boy waited until his father entered the Keep, then rushed forward, intending to tag along. By the time he was in the great hall, he could hear the distant echoing footsteps of knights as they made their way to the map room, his father's sanctum. Richard had never seen the mystical place but knew it was at the very top of the Keep. He moved forward, hoping to see more.

As he climbed the stairs, voices drifted down. It appeared his father and the knights were already deep in discussion over some topic, and the boy wondered, with childlike interest, what matters could be of such import.

As he neared the top, he slowed, stepping as quietly as he could. This was his lucky day, for they had left the door open! Richard moved towards the doorway and then peeked in. The baron stood beside a table that was in the centre of the room. Arranged around this were the knights, looking over something the boy couldn’t see. Whatever it was, fully occupied their minds, and so Richard took the opportunity to sneak into the room.

The windows immediately caught his attention, for sunlight poured through the western facing opening, flooding the room with light. He glanced again at the men around the table, but only their backs presented themselves to him. The western window was the one lit most with sunlight, but the northernmost one was closest to the door. The young boy moved towards it, trying to peer out. The outer shutters were open, allowing a fresh breeze to blow into the room, but being as small as he was, he could see little but blue sky and the clouds in the distance. He quickly bored of the view and turned his attention to the room itself.

Nearby, he spied a chair and decided it would make an ideal platform from which to look out the window. Richard moved towards it, glancing back at the knights to make sure no one had noticed him. Grabbing the front of the chair, he tried to lift it, but at his tender age, he lacked the strength to do so. He settled on lifting the front of the seat, then looking once more to the table, he waited until the volume of voices increased.

When the young boy pulled the chair, he was rewarded by it scraping along the floor. A few more tugs dragged it even farther until it sat beneath the open window. Clambering up, the chair allowed him unrestricted access to the window. Peering out, he saw the open fields and, far to the north, the edge of the Whitewood.

Richard tried to push his face closer towards the opening, hoping to see the base of the Keep below, but the chair, useful as it was, did not quite give him the height advantage he sought. He climbed back down and studied the chair, determining that the problem was the back, for it prevented him from leaning farther out the window. After taking some time to reason things out, he decided all he had to do was turn it slightly, simply rotating it in place.

Stepping forward, he grabbed a chair leg, readying himself for the effort. So intent was the boy on this activity that he neglected to keep an eye on the discussion. As he pulled the chair, it happened to coincide with a lull in the conversation, and the sound of wood scraping across the stone floor grabbed everyone’s attention. The room went quiet, and he turned to see all eyes on him.

What was that? asked Lord Douglas, his view of the proceedings blocked by his knights.

It is the boy, Richard, announced Sir Humbolt.

Saxnor’s balls, spat out the baron, can the servants not keep him in check?

He was moving a chair, my lord, the knight continued.

Lord Douglas came around the table, looking down at the child. Richard looked up at his father, who loomed over him.

What have you to say for yourself, boy? the baron boomed.

Richard looked down in shame, feeling tiny and alone.

You shouldn’t be here, boy, said the baron. This is not the place for you. You don’t belong.

The young boy looked back up at his father, his eyes pleading, but there was no mercy in the cold stare of the baron.

Begone, Lord Douglas commanded, and don’t let me catch you up here again!

Richard turned and ran as fast as his small feet could carry him. Down the stairs he went, his heart beating rapidly, his fear driving him on. Racing past the second floor, he descended into the great hall that lay below. Finally, his energy spent, he collapsed on the floor, feeling the coldness of the stone on his face.

It was here that his brother eventually found him. Edward was only two years older than his younger brother, but to Richard, it seemed a lifetime. The elder Fitzwilliam boy held out his hand, and Richard simply stared at it.

Come on, said Edward, let’s get some food.

Richard grasped his brother's hand, allowing Edward to pull him upright. Moments later, they were threading their way towards the kitchen and entered to the sounds of cooking. Pots boiled away while servants cut meat with cleavers. Someone was pouring a golden-hued liquid into urns as another wiped down tankards with a cloth.

What have we here? called out the cook. She wandered over to the doorway to stare down at the young lords.

Come to get some food, have you? she asked.

The Fitzwilliam brothers nodded in unison.

Well then, she continued, let’s get you settled at a table, shall we? Come this way.

She led them to a small area off to the side, shooing away a couple of servants. Edward sat while Richard struggled to climb onto a chair. Finally in place, he looked across at his brother, but Edward's attention was on the preparation of food.

Two small goblets were placed before them, and Richard eagerly reached out, grabbing his with both hands. He held it, sniffing carefully, then licking his lips. He gulped it down, spilling some onto his shirt in his haste, tasting the honey cider as it soothed his throat.

Slow down, said Edward, you’re drinking too fast.

Richard halted his actions, looking at his elder brother.

You have to drink it slowly, Edward continued, like this.

He demonstrated the technique, pulling the cup to his lips and sipping it slowly.

Richard mimicked his brother's actions, letting the cider linger in his mouth before swallowing.

There, you see, said Edward, that’s much better. We’ll make a noble of you yet, little brother.

THREE

Swordplay

Spring 914 MC

Richard Fitzwilliam, now at the young age of seven, stood in Bodden Keep's meagre library, staring at the few books that occupied its shelves. A chair was here, along with a window high up that admitted light, but the room had obviously not seen use for some time. Tracing his fingers across the spines, he stopped and picked one at random. Pulling forth the volume, he carried it to the dust-covered chair where he sat, the book placed carefully on his lap.

The cover was old, its cracked leather promising untold riches within. He peeled it open, eager to peruse its contents, for though he couldn’t read, the letters fascinated him. They were often richly decorated with illuminations, usually highlighted with gold and silver. The tome before him proved no exception as the page staring back at him depicted a warrior mounted on a horse. In the illustration, the man held a spear over his head and wore chainmail armour, much like Richard's father, but whereas his father carried a round shield, the warrior drawn here had a kite shield, its long tapering bottom designed to protect a rider's leg. The young boy couldn’t read the text, but behind the warrior, he noticed another off in the distance, proudly carrying a flag. It was not the flag of Merceria, for Richard, even at seven, was more than familiar with the cloth of green that flew from the Keep. Rather, the illustrated flag was blue, causing him to wonder what distant land was represented within.

The youth turned the page to see another illustration, this time a group of foot soldiers, their spears pointed towards a similar group in the distance. To Richard, it was magical, for, unlike stories told by word of mouth, those here would never change through the ages.

As a Lord of Bodden, even a small one, he was expected to eat in the great hall whenever a feast was announced. He usually sat beside his brother, well away from his father, at the end of the table. The meal would often start with boring speeches and toasts, but Richard knew, once the drinks started flowing, the stories would begin. At first, it would be knights and warriors talking of their past exploits, but then someone would inevitably bring up stories from the rich history of Merceria, and that’s when things became really interesting.

Looking down at the illustrations, he thought back to the hall and such tales. Did this book contain similar stories? He longed to read, but as of yet, he had received no instruction.

He turned the page again, to see an archer, his bow drawn tightly to his ear. Would he ever learn to use a bow? He doubted it, nobles did not use such weapons. He had heard that crossbows were rather liked for hunting, but knew his father disliked them. To Baron Fitzwilliam, the art of war had little space for such things.

Richard heard footsteps approaching and looked up from his musings to see Edward, his elder brother, standing in the doorway, peering inside.

There you are, said Edward, I’d wondered where you’d gotten to.

I’ve been reading, said Richard proudly.

I didn’t know you could read, offered the elder Fitzwilliam son.

Well, Richard blushed, perhaps not reading, but I’ve been looking at the pictures.

Edward moved closer, staring down at the page displayed.

Soldiers, he said.

I like soldiers, offered Richard, and this one has bowmen.

They’re called archers, corrected Edward, and are very valuable troops to defend a keep.

I thought Father didn’t like them, said Richard.

He doesn’t, at least not for patrols, but you need archers if you want to guard a keep. How else are you going to fight back against a siege?

A siege? said Richard. What’s that?

That’s when an enemy wants to capture your castle, explained Edward. They surround the place and then batter it with big rocks.

Richard's eyes opened wide, Big rocks? Now I know you’re joking.

No, it’s true. Here, let me show you.

Edward moved to the shelves searching through the books. He pulled forth a volume, flipping the pages until he found what he was looking for, then placed it in his brother's lap.

Here, see? he said. This shows a catapult. It’s a machine they build out of wood to lob stones.

Richard looked on in amazement.

The book speaks of something even bigger, something called a trebuchet, but I’ve never found a picture of it.

When I get bigger, swore Richard, I’m going to build a catapult.

Don’t be silly, said Edward. Why would you build a catapult? Going to attack a castle, are you?

Richard blushed, stung by the rebuke. He looked up to his brother, but sometimes he could be cruel.

Where did all these books come from? asked Richard at last.

That was mostly Mother’s doing, said Edward. Grandfather had a few books, but it was Mother that insisted on having a special room for reading.

What was she like? asked the younger boy.

I don’t remember much, admitted Edward, I was only two when you were born. I seem to remember her smiling, but I can’t be sure.

And I killed her, said Richard, tears forming in his eyes.

It wasn’t your fault, said Edward. Mother was never very well, and the birth was just too much for her. She almost died when I was born.

How do you know all that? asked Richard.

Sir Humbolt told me, said Edward. He was here when both of us were born.

Father blames me, said Richard, "he says I’m