Tales of a wandering knight

Part I ~ England 1351.

The village sat, as it always had, near the city of Lancaster. Small villages like this one, as a general rule, didn't fluctuate greatly in size over the years, surviving on skills passed down from generation to generation. Even as Sir Albion approached along the muddy path it was apparent that something was wrong.

A crowd had gathered around the home of an old lady as armed men raided her belongings. Albion observed from the crowd and listened to the gossips, from what he could gather it seemed the old woman had fallen behind on her taxes. After turning her house over twice they had found hidden a golden medallion, a memento of her late husband.

'Please,' she pleaded with tears glistening in her age weary eyes, 'Take what you will but leave my husbands medallion in peace.'

'You have nothing else of value. If you have a complaint take it up with the king.' said one sneering soldier who was in charge of this thuggery. 'The same applies to the rest of you, pay up or you will have to answer to our swords, unless you think that's unfair?'

'I do,' said Albion from amongst the crowd. 'A medallion like that one would pay taxes elsewhere for an entire year and more, I'm certain she can't be that far behind on her taxes or you would already have sentenced her to the gallows.'

'I thought there was a new smell around here, who are you?' asked the sneering soldier.

'That was a fine jest, but I have no intention of telling my name to somebody as unimportant as you, just call me Sir from here on. Give me back that medallion and leave this village in peace, unless you think that's unfair?'

'A man like you could never be a knight,' said the sneering soldier eyeing up Albion's dirty cloak, travel worn and frayed at the edges.

'Let me take care of this, its been awhile since I killed somebody.' said one the soldiers.

'If that's truly what you wish for, I was hoping to resolve this without the need to fight, but I see now that my idealism is not shared. This quarterstaff of mine is a weapon that protects others and that is why I will prevail here.'

Lowering his hood at last Sir Albion revealed himself as a handsome man of twenty-six years, even though his face was unshaven and dirty from travel his obviously noble features still showed prominently his kindness and honesty.

Making his way through the crowd along the path that had opened before him the battle began. Much like in nature when one animal uses its appearance to intimidate another, Albion gave the first thug such a look as to make him hesitate in his attack and an instant later his quarterstaff struck the thug across the chest.

A second immediately took his place and like an amateur lunged forward with his sword. A swift dodge by Sir Albion left him behind his foe and free to choose his next target. He decided to attack across the back of the man's knees, and after forcing him down where he could get a clean hit on his shoulder disabled the second thug from the fight.

The third adversary was the sneering swordsman and like the rest showed no signs of any skill, which led Albion to the conclusion these swords had been stolen along with the uniforms. Albion had already decided that this man should never be allowed to disgrace a sword with his grip again before he even landed his first and only attack. When the opportunity presented itself the quarterstaff found its mark with precision, breaking the sneering swordsman's right hand thumb beyond repair.

The remaining criminals fled after seeing their leader defeated. He was rolling around in the mud like swine clutching his thumb in agony when Sir Albion retrieved the old ladies medallion and returned it to its rightful owner.

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Welcome to the ORG, Meldarion, and thanks for such a nice and entertaining beginning of a promising story. :bow:

If you don't mind my nitpicking, let me point out a couple of places where an article, a preposition or sorts would fit:

A second one immediately took his place...

...where he could get a clean hit on his shoulder, which disabled the second thug from the fight.

He was rolling around in the mud like a swine...

Thanks and welcome again. :bow:
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Thank you Mouzaf, both for the reply and for the welcome. Hoping to start part II soon and add a little more depth.

Welcome!

It's a good story. More, please! :thumbsup:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Meldarion

Thank you Mouzaf, both for the reply and for the welcome. Hoping to start part II soon and add a little more depth.

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You're most welcome. :bow: Waiting impatiently for the follow-up. :jumping:
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The Melancholy of Wylfred the Young.

Morning dew drops glistened beneath the rising sun, and as always in spring, the birds taught each other how to sing atop the youthful trees. A refreshed Albion the wanderer, had left the village behind him and started his journey again, but this time with a destination in mind...

Nearby was the manor of a retired knight, who had occupied his time by training the new generation. He acted as a judge, and with the help of his squires, was usually able to police the area. All that changed for the worse when the false army seized control of his manor, killing him in the ensuing struggle.

Albion wasn't sure how much use he would be, and his time to avert bloodshed was short. A garrison from Lancaster castle was already on its way. Too many people would die if he couldn't do something.

Despite the impending hardship he had taken upon himself, the burden seemed lesser on such a morning. There was nothing but the sound of his own footsteps and deep breaths, which he purposefully took to savour the fresh spring air. He was able to walk until midday without encountering a single soul.

When the sun had reached its zenith, beneath a lonely ash tree, Albion came across a boy of no older than fifteen. He was concentrating so hard on practising his sword swings he didn't notice Albion approaching. As he drew near it would have been foolish for him to overlook the lonely grave marked only with a makeshift wooden cross.

'If you continue attacking the tree that swords edge will become dull,' said Albion, it was an idle comment that worked like a charm for getting the boys attention. Before he had even finished the sentence the boy turned on his heel and directed the sword at him. Albion had never seen such an angelically beautiful face, even in such an idyllic setting as this with the early spring flowers in bloom, nature itself seemed envious of him.

'Who're you?' Enquired the boy.

'Albion, and who might you be young knight?'

'Wylfred, I'm not quite a knight and I never will be now,' he said in disdain, 'May I ask Sir, why you don't carry a sword? Its apparent you are a knight, I can tell by your stance and the way you move, call it a swordsman's aura if you will.' finished the boy lowering his sword.

'Like you Wylfred, I'm not quite a knight any more, I'm a wanderer now. You might say I'm somewhat of a fallen knight. After all I witnessed the beginning of the end for the chivalric code. I broke my oaths whilst I was still a knight, and I was never punished for it like I should have been. So I exiled myself; made new oaths before God and now live by another code.'

'But you could still teach me how to use a sword, so I can become stronger, please tell me you will.'

'First answer me this, why do you wish to become stronger?'

'For revenge, I need to avenge my dead master, and Hadrian too, he was like a big brother to me and he protected me to the very end, and I failed them both. I was too weak, but if you teach me I will work hard every day to become stronger.'

'I can't train you as you are now.' said Albion grimly, he had already turned to leave when he felt the boy tugging at his sleeve.

'Please, you must I beg of you,' pleaded Wylfred releasing Albion's sleeve.

'You could never be as strong as Hadrian, I never knew him, but I do know he was the most noble kind of knight. This is his grave isn't it?' said Albion, as he plucked from the ground a flower that was both resilient and gentle and without waiting for a reply placed it at the base of the cross.

'I do know this about him,' continued Albion, 'He wasn't motivated by hatred or vengeance, you were there; you admire him because he was strong and I have no doubt he cut his way out of that manor for one reason only, to protect you. That is how a true knight's sword should be held.'

'I understand,' acknowledged Wylfred staring at the grass, 'I was never any good I see that now, thank you sir knight, you have stopped me before I shamed myself and his memory. This sword was his and it should lay to rest with him.' sword in hand Wylfred stabbed it deep into the earth next to the cross.

'That's much better now you're showing true potential,' smiled Albion, 'I can see you becoming a great man. We aren't all born to be master swordsmen but before you decide what to do with your life hear this story. When I was still a squire I had a good friend with whom I used to train every day. One afternoon after practice he said to me “Albion I have decided to break training and leave this place.” I was shocked into silence to say the least, but when I finally recovered I asked him question after question and tried to convince him to stay. It seemed although of a noble family he was keen to become a blacksmith, as I was then I just couldn't understand why anybody would want to be anything other than a knight. On that very same day he left without saying so much as farewell, and I found in my room a note that went as follows ...

You can't stab a man to death with a mace any more than you can bludgeon him with a sword, but their is no such thing as a bad weapon, each is good in its own way.

And so you see he wasn't made to be a knight, but he was excellent at what he was made for, and that was too be a blacksmith. Well now that my boring reminisce is over, make of it what you will, I have to go to your master's manor, farewell,' said Albion.

'Wait! I'm coming with you, I've already decided I want to become a wanderer like you,' said the boy in a naive fashion. He was suddenly filled with new energy and optimism, that Albion was completely taken aback as though talking to a different person altogether.

'But you have no idea why I'm wandering?'

'Of course I do, its simply to protect people, not the high lords and ladies, not for honour and glory but for the ordinary people who suffer so much, am I right?'

'Well, its a lot more complex than that, but-'

'Then its settled from now on I will be Wylfred the wanderer, apprentice of Albion.' said Wylfred interrupting Albion mid-speech.

And so that's how the lone wanderer met his first companion.

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Quote:

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the birds taught each other how to sing

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:2thumbsup:
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"Albion had never seen such an angelically beautiful face, even in such an idyllic setting as this with the early spring flowers in bloom, nature itself seemed envious of him."
Hmmm. I don't mean to imply anything ambiguous about your duo. I've probably seen young boys who match this description, I just never thought of them in these exact words. Ever. Perhaps "angelically perfect face" might be less... Love the story otherwise.

lol, I can assure you miles nothing ambiguous will happen between them, and in case the implication was directed towards me I'm no Humbert Humbert. Anyways currently working on the 3rd installment of part 1, I have it half finished and should be done by the end of next week.

Wow, pretty good! :2thumbsup:

Great! I'll let Ace and Gary know.

The Asterisks refer to references given at the bottom of the post.

In the Shadow of the Ash.

As the sun set behind the manor a sinister red sky promised blood and our two wanderers appeared as silhouettes on the horizon. Albion was surprised to see the garrison from Lancaster castle had already arrived and surrounded the bandits.

'How is this possible?' He asked a pair of soldiers sent to greet him.

'This way M'lud, Lord Bellamy is expecting you,' replied the soldier, ignoring his question for the time being.

Albion's first thought was one of treachery, could this be the false armies trickery? No these men knew how tow to handle their weapons and what other choice did he have but to follow.

Lord Bellamy was sitting on a blanket beneath an ash tree, much like the one where he had met Wylfred. At that present moment in time he was lost in gluttony with a variety of meat dishes laid on for him which he would swill down with some wine, but by the evidence on his glistening beard even that managed to miss his mouth.

'Hmph, this is the fellow we've been waiting for, he doesn't look like much,' he said to nobody in particular. He didn't have to avert his eyes for Albion to know he was talking to the figure that lurked in the shadow of the ash. Albion had already sensed the presence, being more attuned to such ominous forces than say, Wylfred who had no idea the man was there.

'Its been awhile main d'un dieu*, I had always pondered where you vanished too after Bordeaux. To think that you would come wandering here of all places, and at a time like this almost seems like fate.' came the voice.

'I thought spring was a little colder this year coeur de glace*, but if you're here it must be more than mere bandits. Know this, it was not fate that made our paths cross once more and I won't fight for you again, but just what is going on here?' asked Albion.

'Rebellion so it would appear at first glance, clearly meant to discredit the King and bring about bloody revolution. Too many coincidences for me, as the Royal Master of Espionage, to ignore; such as collecting unjust taxes and murdering innocents under the Kings banner. I fear its all a plot by the French and those men, or rather fools, are being used as tools. Lord Bellamy here is in charge of this army and he too has concerns that need to be addressed.'

'Indeed I do,' said Bellamy and before he continued cleared his throat. 'My problem is this, Lancaster needs to fill a quota because the King needs more men for his war. These rebels along with the loss of man power incurred in this battle will leave us well below what is required. In ordinary circumstances I would have no qualms with slaughtering a few peasants, but the spy here has offered an interesting solution. He tells me you're a natural negotiator and so my proposal is this; all those that agree to join my army will be granted a full pardon and will prove that their treason is a lie by fighting for his majesty in France. All of this depends on your willingness to act as a negotiator.'

'I'll start right now then, if you'll excuse me,' said Albion, unimpressed with Bellamy's polished and elongated speech when there was so little time.

Albion knew this would be his one and only chance at a peaceful resolution, and in his heart another more selfish motive surfaced, every life he saved here would help him repent towards past sins.

He was not to undertake this task alone, despite his protestations Wylfred insisted on coming along and Albion feared what he might do, an unpredictable element in his negotiations was the last thing he needed. In the end he agreed to allow Wyl to accompany him. Come what may, they approached the manors entrance, a lancet shaped arch that led up to a pair of stout wooden doors. With a tap of his quarterstaff there came a murmur from within, a debate whether opening the door was wise.

'We wish to speak of peaceful solutions, nobody need die today.' said Albion.

After further deliberation half the door was opened revealing all inside illuminated at this dark hour by the torches that lined the walls. Any attack on this manor would cost many lives, and upon seeing the torches Albion was reminded of the consequences should he fail. Bellamy seemed like the kind of man who would burn down a manor to kill a single rat, never mind a group of bandits, both of which he held in the same regard.

'There's the trouble maker,' remarked Wyl, gesturing towards a tall man known by all here only as leader.

'Come to beg terms?' asked the leader.

'Right now your advantages seem few. Even if you're willing to die I question whether your men are as committed as you are,' replied Albion.

'Every man is here by his own choice for the sake of a better future.'

'Listen up all you men!' said Albion. 'If you don't then that future will be very short lived. All is not as it seems, this leader of yours is a spy for the French. Things may appear bleak as they are, the black death has killed our loved ones, the King has increased taxed and marched our sons off to war, but camaraderie amongst Englishmen has never been stronger. Do you hate the King more than our sworn enemy the French? There is only one way to prove that now after aiding this villain. I promise any man here who will join the King in France can prove his innocence and will receive a full pardon for the crime of treason!'

'A spy of the French,' protested the leader, 'What a folly, even more lies from our King and look who he sends to parley with us, can you trust any promise this man makes? He means to trick us into surrender so the men outside can bring about our demise. Do not be fooled, this is just the beginning of our revolution, after we win this battle more brothers shall join our cause. This man is rotten to the core do not let your hearts be filled with doubt, send him to an early grave I command it!'

All in the room were torn by conflict, should they kill Albion the wanderer or was he their only salvation from certain death. Rogues they may all be, but Englishmen as well, and none would willingly aid the French.

'Its like that is it, very well. As your leader I will set an example and prove I am right before God in the only way I know, with weapons.'

The deceived soldiers all gathered around and Albion was given no choice but to fight.

Already he had lost his two greatest advantages, in such small confines his speed and the space needed to wield his quarterstaff effectively. The old Albion, the one known as God hand would already have won this fight, and the leaders blood would now be glistening on his swords edge.

As he is now Albion was finding it difficult to defeat this moderate opponent. He tried to stay on the offensive as much as possible and prayed his quarterstaff would hold every time he had to parry a blow. He waited for that instant where he could shatter the leaders thumb so he could spare him, but when that time came, having already heard of this move from one of those that fled the village it was the leader who gained the advantage. Albion himself was the one to take a minor wound on the back of his hand.

From that moment on the fight was over. Although it seemed the leader had the upper hand and was certain to win, when fighting someone of Albion's calibre basic sword technique's alone aren't enough to succeed. It was a common pitfall of many average swordsman to go through moves routinely as they had in training, unable to think and adjust to their opponent.

Albion could predict from then on every move he would make in the very instant which the leader chose to make it. Feigning caution after his injury he kept his distance and waited for that instance when the leader took up the stance for a vertical slash coming from high above the head. Up until that point he had been holding the quarterstaff near the centre, but as soon as that sword went above the leaders head it glided through his hands to its full extent and he grasped only one end, the other lunged forward and thrust straight into the leaders throat. If you had blinked you would have missed it much to the surprise of the amazed audience.

The figure of the leader fell to the ground his sword clashing on the cold stone floor. Another life for Albion the wanderer to atone for, or so he thought. He was still long enough for Albion to search him for documents, before the shock wore off and his eyes sprang open as he gasped for air clutching his throat with both hands.

Albion was even more shocked than the leader when he saw the seal on the document retrieved from him.

'The Hand of Hildegard!' he exclaimed as he opened it and seeing it was written in French displayed it to the rest of the crowd. 'Here, this is proof of his treachery,' the dumbfounded peasants couldn't read French, or at all for that matter, but they did know it wasn't English. Distracted for the moment reading the letters contents the angry peasants made their move and descended on the stunned Frenchman like carrion birds, plunging their daggers into him one after another. It wasn't until he heard the familiar voice of Wyl urging them to stop he came to his senses, but by then it was far too late.

Maybe Coeur de Glace had been right after all, this really was fate ...

References.
Main d'un dieu ~ God hand, Albion's name from his time spent in France.
Coeur de Glace ~ Ice heart, the name given to the mysterious Master of Espionage.

Please post any comments, suggestions or questions you may have before I begin Part II.

Maître des histoires ~ Master of Stories:yes:

Again asterisks refer too references at the bottom of the post.

{Part II ~ A Vagrant's Story}

Darkness had settled over England draping her starless veil across the land. Our travel weary ramblers were settling down around a fire that warded off the bitter spring chill which had descended upon them. It had been awhile since either of them had a good meal and they each looked gloomy and frail as they nibbled the last of their cheese supply.

'You could have warned me the life of a wanderer was so tough,' complained Wyl.

'I didn't ask you to come along. Besides be grateful for the small things, if it was winter things would be much worse,' said Albion.

'Do you think its because that Royal Master of Espionage is nearby?' asked Wyl.

'It could be,' laughed Albion. 'Coeur de Glace's heart is colder than any winter, but he has to be like that in order to survive. He's carried a heavy burden since he was about your age, when he became a master spy at only fifteen. He still wore his birth name back then, Melfice, but even that still has ice in it.'

'I have been meaning to ask, what is Hildegard order?'

'Why do you want to know are you going to take revenge on them?' joked Albion.

'No!' snapped Wyl. 'It's not like that at all I'm just curious about you. We have been travelling together and I want to know, because I just have this feeling its an important part of your past. Something that made you who you are. If they are enemies of England I want to fight them too its my duty.'

'Duty! I despise that word. Part of the reason I became a wanderer was to be rid of it. But you do have a right to know. They may attack us again at any moment, in fact just being here sitting around this fire I can't guarantee your safety.
The Hand of Hildegard was founded over five-hundred years ago during the reign of chivalrous Charlemagne by his wife who the order is named after. She hand picked ten of the best knights and ordered them to pair off and fight to the death until only five remained hence the hand. They were to be the leaders of a network of spies and assassins that would be feared throughout the Holy Land and Europe. An order so secretive few who live know the name, even if they have been responsible for the most influential assassinations over the years from clergy men to Kings,' explained Albion patiently.

'That's amazing an order that has shaped Europe and written history from the shadows,' said Wyl fascinated by it all.

'The leadership of Hildegard has passed from father to son for generations. When King Edward first arrived in France they made an attempt on his life. That night I was unable to sleep and happened by the Kings tent at the right moment. I was able to save his life. However after the attack His Majesty was never the same. He appointed Melfice to root out and destroy the hand. Coeur de Glace's idea was to form his own elite group known as Red Shield. I was one of them. A new war began fought by nameless heroes in the shadows from the dark streets of Paris to Marseille. We killed fathers and sons, some of them far too young. I thought we had destroyed them all and I wish we had, but at least one must have survived our purge,' finished Albion.

The glow of the fire reflected in Albion's eyes and for the moment silence ruled their little camp. Fighting Hildegard was not his duty any longer but this recent turn of events still concerned him. Would they target him? If so he was putting Wyl in danger, and it would be best off if he could leave him behind somewhere. Before he was able to plan anything more a shrill scream sounded nearby.

'It came from the road,' said Wyl. Taking up their arms they abandoned the camp and hurried towards the source. The road Wyl had referred to was little more than a dirt track but his keen hearing was dead on. In a panic stricken state a woman was fleeing but Albion couldn't see what from. He intercepted her and she passed out at once in his arms. He laid her on the grass and ordered Wyl to watch over her.

With senses on full alert a flash of steel glistened by what little light the moon had blessed upon the earth. A dagger pierced through the night towards Albion deflecting off his staff in uncontrolled flight it landed harmlessly point first in the ground.

'Who's there!' called out Albion.

'My name is Solomon and my code is attero malum* heed it well heathen for heretics like you and her will both at last find peace on the edge of my most sacred blade.' came the reply.

'I too live by a code to protect the weak, I won't let you harm this woman,' said Albion.

'You don't have a choice, a vagrant like you is just scum in the eyes of a true instrument of God.' With those words the outline of a man emerged from the darkness. Dressed as a priest, he was handsome and tall with long wavy hair down to his shoulders. His cloak merged with the night around him and from it he withdrew a short sword and then another.

'You should see yourself you are even less than scum in that ridiculous costume. A murderer masquerading as a priest you look like some sad sideshow freak from a fair. Don't you have any shame?' Chided Albion.

'In the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost, amen,' said Solomon charging towards Albion at full speed. The pace at which this battle took place was so swift Wyl could hardly keep up, they circled each other and dashed here and there so fast it was making him dizzy as he watched on in amazement. It wasn't like back at the Manor, here Albion was using his staff to its full advantage and already he had landed a blow. He showed such agility he could even switch direction in a split second.

The Priest too although wrong footed on numerous occasions recovered rapidly even countering Albion's thumb smash at the cost of one his swords which he sacrificed to save his hand. Shortly after he made a feint with his remaining sword and brought around his fist as though for a punch, when another dagger appeared in his hand that had been concealed up his sleeve. Albion took a leap back scarcely avoiding the daggers edge. Before he had recovered fully Solomon came at him again tossing the dagger ahead of himself, from this range there was no time for Albion to avoid it instead he reacted just in time to parry it with his staff, but was left defenceless against the sword by doing so.

Wyl in his inexperienced mind closed his eyes and envisaged his friend being stabbed, but when he opened them again that wasn't the case. Albion had abandoned the quarterstaff and grabbed hold of Solomon's remaining sword arm as they wrestled over a the single short blade. Albion was well known for his blinding speed but in a test of strength he was losing and was tossed aside into the grass.

'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and now you die, Vagrant!' declared Solomon in victory. Little did he know Albion had already grasped hold of one of the discarded daggers and was able to block the attack. By this time the nearby villagers were coming up the dirt track with torches searching for the mad priest and the duel was brought to an abrupt ending. Recovering his other short sword the attacker fled into the night, shouting curses and verses as he went. All Albion could make out was 'This isn't over vagrant.'

References
Attero Malum ~ Destroy Evil. (Latin)

Please leave a comment if you're enjoying the story so far.

I am. Please go on.

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Hear hear! ~:)
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My apologies about the delay I've been quite busy recently. I'm just reporting in on my progress. So far I have finished the next part, unfortunately I'm not altogether happy with the way its turned out, due to the lack of time it seems a little rushed. Nothing a bit of editing won't fix though should be done for Halloween, hopefully sooner.

{Part II ~ Last Rites}

The girls name was Anne, a nun from the local convent, or so the villagers had said before they took her away. But Albion was feeling uneasy about the entire episode and the so called mad priest. As he had explained to Wyl after the fight you can learn more about a man by crossing swords with him, than you can talking to him for an entire year. In battle its essential to observe your opponents emotions in order to understand their heart, do they openly display anger or fear like new recruits, or do they hide their intentions like seasoned veterans. Being able to read your opponents heart can mean the difference between death and defeat or victory. In this scenario Albion suspected the priest had no doubts about what he was doing and mistook Anne as evil wholeheartedly believing what he tried to do was right.

Either way it landed Wyl and He a warm meal and a roof at the inn for a night. They were even treated to wine only to discover Wyl had no head for it. Albion himself was feeling unusually inebriated, when was the last time he allowed himself to enjoy a simple pleasure such as this? No, never like this before, it took him awhile to reach that conclusion because his mind had been slowed and his body poisoned. Before he could reach for his quarterstaff he passed out at the tavern table.

When Albion regained consciousness it was in a dark damp cell beneath a convent of all places. Wyl was nowhere to be seen by what meagre light was offered from the solitary window. All was silent for a time except for Albion scuffling about in the semi-darkness like some demon spawned monster as he scoured every inch of his cell desperately for anything that might help him escape. Then there was movement and the scraping of bolts and in came the Abbess illuminated by the light that flooded in from the corridor behind her.

'Why?' asked Albion simply, noticing her crucifix had been replaced by a circular pendant that depicted a bizarre scene of a wolf suckling a woman's bosom.

'It was not always so,' she started, 'I was once a devout servant of the Lord. But Pendle is a place with a history of dark rituals and unholy ceremony. When the black death struck none were spared. It was such a silent fall for us, our faith was tested and we found ourselves in doubt, after all how could a God so benevolent as He, allow so much indiscriminate death. So I searched the records dating back to when this convent first began and I learned the truth of the terrible power the pagan gods commanded. Ever since that day no one here has died of plague and our village has prospered.'

'I have heard rumours of the Pendle witches, I never imagined there would be an entire community, convent an all. But this has nothing to do with me and the boy, set us free and we will trouble you no longer.'

'I don't think so,' smiled the Abbess, 'I have a use for you yet. That meddlesome priest will return and I want you to end him for us. Only then will the boy be released, provided you do as I say, if you don't then I shall end him.'

'No, I'll never agree to such terms.' said Albion.

'We shall see if you do not changed your mind once you are half starved and at deaths door, but until then I can't guarantee young Wylfred's safety.' With those words she departed and left a miserable and grieving Albion alone in his cell. Ever after he never could recollect how much time passed but what little light there was soon faded as night reigned outside. Albion was beginning to lose hope when a loud clatter echoed its way down to his cell followed by a commotion and the swift footsteps of two people approached.

In came Solomon with bloodstained short swords one of his arms was wrapped around a cultist with the edge of the sword pressed against her pale neck.

'Open the door if you want to live,' he ordered. She obeyed shakily inserting the keys into the lock until it clicked open, as soon as it did he slid his swords edge across her bared throat and left her to drown in her own blood, gurgling away the last precious moments of her life.

'Come Vagrant there is little time we must make it to the top of Pendle Hill before midnight or your boy and that nun will become sacrifices to satisfy the devils blood lust.'

'First you want to kill her and now you want to rescue her,' said a puzzled Albion.

Solomon was a merciless killer behind the code attero mallum all he came across where slaughtered as evil doer's, but how many times had he gotten it wrong in the past as he did with Anne? Albion trailed behind him in disgust, it was too the Abbesses office they went so that he could retrieve his cloak and quarterstaff that had been propped up in one corner of the room, the cloak hanging off the quarterstaff like some ghastly effigy.

Albion the wanderer was back in the fight and with his unlikely rescuer they escaped the cultists convent to find a village abandoned. All had gathered on Pendle hill to participate in the last rites of Wylfred and Anne.

Pendle hill was only a short distance away, so close that at the right time of day it cast a shadow on the village, but in the dark the going was tough. The two unlikely companions stumbled on numerous occasions whilst trying to sneak up on the cultists. Terrible would be the fates of Wyl and Anne without the interference of God. They were to be bound hand and foot, then cast into a dreadful bonfire, to make sure the village was protected from the black death.

Albion and Solomon where by now nearing the hills summit concealing themselves behind a jagged rock. They spied the cultists dressed as nuns and the villagers who indulged in this devil worship, and began to plan their attack. Charging openly would result in the prisoners being tossed into the fire, and although out numbered the two warriors had the element of surprise to their advantage. Albion was still presumed imprisoned and so Solomon had volunteered to act as a distraction, coming around from the opposite direction that Albion would approach in order to save the prisoners. It was bold and Albion would have to cover some open ground but there was no other way and time was short. Before he started for his position Solomon gave to Albion a dagger to cut free the captives.

'How many daggers do you have about your person?' asked Albion out of curiosity.

'Six is standard for me, sometimes a couple more. You can never have too many daggers vagrant, you would do well to remember that.' He replied and off he went.

Whilst waiting for his distraction Albion prayed again and again, mostly out of boredom. Then it came suddenly and without warning. Even though their opponents are only peasants with pitchforks they where still dangerous. All took the bait their eyes averted to Solomon who began to slash his way through them making himself impossible to ignore. It was kill or be killed time and with Albion's adrenaline as high as it was he struggled to refrain from letting loose a war cry.

His legendary speed once more served him well the villagers didn't know what hit them. Before the bonfire was a makeshift altar of stone where an animal had been slaughtered and the blood poured over the would be sacrifices. Throwing his usual restraint away just for one night he used the altar as a platform and leapt on high, bringing his battle scarred quarterstaff down onto a man's skull, with a sickening crunch. Before he knew it he was at Wyl's side but still had the burden of protecting him.

Any who dared approach got bludgeoned, perhaps fatally so, but Albion couldn't bring himself to hit the nuns. Solomon had no such reservations, he killed as many as tried to kill him until he stood side by side with Albion. Gripping Wyl and Anne by the scruff of the neck he dragged them away from the battle and cut them free, giving Albion the freedom he wanted to attack. That wonderful but nauseating feeling like a fiery serpent slithering through his insides returned to him, his own personal demon. At Bordeaux it had ruled him, sent into a bloodthirsty frenzy. Even now he found it difficult to keep under control. In the ancient world men with this in born ability were known as berserker.

He cast eyes on the Abbess urging the villagers on, if he could slay that witch it would all be over. By this time Solomon had returned to the fight whilst Wyl and Anne had hidden themselves away. The villagers advanced on them in fearless zeal, almost as if they were forced on by some dark power. Humble peasants would usually run when faced with certain death, even the bravest would have ran if they had seen the look in Albion's eyes, but not these people. He thrust Solomon's dagger upwards through a man's chin and closed on the Abbess.

She withdrew an ornate dagger of her own and surprised Albion with her fierceness, she was not like the others at all, it was almost as though she was possessed. Drunk on some witch brew she set about him like a wild beast, much to his frustration other villagers kept interfering with the battle. The Abbess hissed at him and attacked again from behind her untamed hair, he hadn't noticed it before but her wrinkles seemed deeper. Her death that night was a certainty it was now a matter of when and how many times her followers would recklessly throw themselves in the way.

Eventually he was able to land a blow on her head knocking her to the ground unconscious or dead near the bonfire. As Albion gazed upon her peaceful serene face he felt such sympathy and believed he had done the right thing, maybe he was not so different from Solomon after all. She was not going to die so easily however, her eyes flashed open and she slashed him across the shin pouncing upon him in an instant wrestling the dagger closer to him but unable to over power him she savagely bit into his neck. It was Solomon who came to his rescue once more, he gripped the witch by the hair and lifted her off the floor tossing her into the bonfire with these words.

'No fire can erase your foul deeds on this earth, but it will serve to purify or consume you utterly.'

She let out a piercing scream so terrible it froze Albion's blood. Her clothes ignited and her flesh turned to black but even as a human inferno she was not content to die she climbed out of the fire and charged Solomon. From his position on the floor Albion tossed him the quarterstaff so he could keep his distance and landing two more blows on her she fell back into the fire dead. The morale of those who remained shattered on the death of their leader and chaos ensued. They fled in all directions the fight was over.

'Do you believe in evil Albion?' asked Solomon.

'I believe in God and by doing so I acknowledge the existence of evil. This is not the first time I have faced enemies of this nature. What I do believe in is a second chance to repent for past sins.'

'You guilt yourself needlessly. Note that there are no children amongst the dead here, nor at the village. I found their charred remains in a nearby forest. What second chance did they have? None Albion, so rest assured what we did here was right and all present deserved their fate.'

'Then you should slay me also. The idea that whoever wins is righteous is a world in which only the strong survive. Even you make mistakes Solomon, how many others like Anne have their been.?' asked Albion.

'Zero, Anne lives because that is what God decided. He seen my error and sent you to intervene. Speaking of which here she comes, no pun intended,' laughed Solomon. It was Albion's first good look at her since the villagers hurried her off after the rescue. She was rather plain to put it politely, everything about her was average. She was a brunette with blue eyes, of average height, build and features. Boring was the word Wylfred used. Her knowledge as a herbalist however, was exceptional. Whilst hiding she had sought out a plant which she now used on Albion's slashed shin.

'What's to become of me?' She asked when finished applying the herb to his wound.

'You will come with me. I can have the Archbishop arrange for you to be escorted to another convent.' replied Solomon.

'I don't think so,' she protested ' I haven't forgotten that whilst picking herbs you tried to kill me, I'll take my chances with Albion.'

'An honest mistake on my part, after all who picks herbs in the middle of the night? But if you wish to go with him so be it. I leave her in your hands vagrant.' Said Solomon as he turned to leave and without so much as a farewell he started his journey back to Canterbury.

'Where to now then? Anywhere I can wash off this animal blood would be good with me,' said Wyl optimistically, whilst helping Albion to his feet.

'Wherever the wind blows...' replied Albion.

Author's notes ~ For those interested.

Sadly my plans to edit the story didn't come off, and a quick proof read has probably over looked many mistakes. Originally I planned this story to be two parts but I didn't want to break up the action in full flow. Pendle does have a reputation for witchcraft but came much later on than thirteen fifty-one. An Abbess, may or may not, have been used in the correct context, I confess as to knowing very little about convents and nuns.

The next story (Part III) will see the introduction of yet again another new character and will be taking place at Chester, a city of much history dating back to Roman times.

Please don't hesitate to criticise, its always interesting to hear different view points, otherwise just leave a comment to let me know people are still interested.

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Will hopefully have time to read later today. Thanks for the update. :bow:
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Just realized I have had a promotion to member, will hopefully find the time to edit out some earlier mistakes.

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Congrats for the promotion! :medievalcheers:
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{Part III ~ Introduction of the Five}

In 55 BC Gaius Julius Caesar first set a sandled foot on the shores of a dark island located at the edge of the known world. That island was called Britain, and residing in its under developed landscape were fierce warriors, both hardy and brave. They had aided the Gauls against Caesar, or so he claimed. They were demons painted blue with lime in their hair, determined to turn back any invasion.

Unfortunately, as was their tribal nature they fought each other as well, some going as far as to ally with the Romans which eventually led to them being enthralled. So it was that the Romans conquered Britain and in AD 79 they founded a fortress Deva, after the Goddess of the River Dee near which it was located, the fortress grew until it became a city, Chester, and in the spring of 1351 Albion the wanderer approached the city walls with a troubled mind.

It was a grim night indeed, heavy rain and a strong wind fought against him and his two companions. Communication was done rarely over the whistling gale and Albion cursed the irony of his situation, distinctly recollecting saying to Wyl he would go wherever the wind blows, this was not exactly what he had in mind. He grabbed hold of a staggering Anne's sleeve to prevent her from falling over and all but dragged her along the final stretch of road until they arrived at the city gates.

As was usual at this time the main gates were closed, but the small door that led to the guardhouse was swinging lose slamming in the wind.

'Here we go again,' thought Albion to himself. Further investigation revealed several corpses sprawled in the unnatural way only the dead can accomplish, and yet Albion envied the peaceful expression that was on every man's face, it was not like when one merely went to sleep at all, it was ever lasting.

'Why does this always happen to me?' Said a sighing Albion, studying the nature of the wounds. They had been administered with the accuracy and knowledge of an assassin and directed towards those parts of the body that are instantly fatal, using a skilfully wielded sword or dagger. This particular rogue did not work alone either, his partner in crime was less precise and left gashes upon his victims with some kind of spear.

'Why indeed,' came the all too familiar voice of Coeur de Glace from the shady corner where he had concealed himself so artfully. 'Witches and villains, outlaws and rogues, beware, the demon lord Albion approaches to stir within your beating chest all the malice, you are possessed. 'Tis true such incidents do only happen around you chaos bringer. Even if you were locked in a lonely tower on your own tragic happenings would occur. Maybe God is trying to tell you something, let us assume he wants you to pick up the sword to smite evil once more, what would be your reply?'

'No,' said Albion, 'but I presume you know who did this?'

'O' hath no fear I do, a band of brothers numbering five, remnants of the Hand of Hildegard, something I wish to discuss with you, alone if at all possible. I have reserved us all rooms at the Falcon Inn, I urge thee to follow me right away. The changing of the guard shift happens very shortly, it would be wise on our part to be absent when that happens.'

The paved streets of Chester were not yet absent of life, skulking drunkards and suspicious characters, as well as those on late business, walked in between the two story houses and galleries. Such a charming and beautiful city, had the Roman empire not collapsed it may have became the countries Capital, but still their influence could be felt everywhere from the stout inner walls to the bath houses. Werburgh Abbey's spire rose above even that of the tallest building and as Coeur de Glace led them through the streets the bells chimed their mighty melody.

The Falcon Inn was no mere back street tavern either, it was located on the corner at the end of a whole row of other upper class dwellings, in a fashionable part of the city. It even had windows, a rare luxury not afforded by most, and through them shone the glow of a warm hearth. Their entering such a place caused many to stare. They quickly whisked themselves off to their own rooms to freshen up.

It was a long time since Albion had stayed in such luxury and even longer since he had examined himself in a mirror. His appearance startled him at first, he was not quite as he remembered himself to be. That handsome son of a nobleman once set to become a Knight.

'Wherever did you go wrong?' He thought to himself, with a laugh. He asked that a razor be brought up to his room and began to shave whilst lost in thought. Things were beginning to get serious. Hildegard was bold, even more so than ever, always they relied upon discretion, but to just murder a room full of guards for access to a city was reckless.

Wyl and Anne would have to be left behind before they got caught up in a fight not their own. A terrible shame really, Wyl had improved so vastly in skill and potential he deserved much better training than Albion could give. His thoughts came to an abrupt end when he caught himself with the razor slightly, and after uttering profanities at his own foolery he carried on. Wyl should have better training, with swords Albion was exceptional, maybe even unrivalled, but other weapons including pole arms, were never his strong point, as a Knight he was not very well rounded, but that was not the reason he deemed himself unworthy. It was the mental aspect that haunted him.

His own master was always so sure of himself, he never regretted the part he played in slaughtering men. This was different for Albion he felt as though he where the villain, and yet at the same time he had only killed men as bad as himself. The whole concept of slaying an evil doer as righteous conduct gave him no peace of mind at all, in fact it had the opposite affect he felt disgusted with himself. A sinner such as he had no right to slay others behind the excuse of protecting the weak. Meeting Solomon had a deep impact on his very soul. He was just as much a hypocrite as that bloodthirsty priest, and as all humans doubts began to fill Albion's heart.

So why then, did he fight at all? Why did he ever fight? The answer to that question was something only he knew, buried deep beneath a mound of the slain, who no longer have to worry about guilt or morals. Finished with shaving he washed his face and looked at himself once more, he seemed younger than before but those weary lines of care still remained.

He hastened downstairs eager for companionship to forget himself, his depression and his woes, there was no room in this world for those feeling sorry for themselves, it was something he must figure out alone. He met up with the others in a private room, such was the quality of this establishment they even had a place for such important business matters, privacy was assured. The young features of Coeur de Glace were like never before, and as was previously thought an impossibility Albion could have sworn he was smiling as he talked to Anne about something.

'Took your time,' said Melfice, 'Wyl has gone out for awhile, this is his birth city after all. I'm sure he has relatives to visit.'

Coeur de Glace was not himself that night, rather than dismissing Anne to discuss Hildegard, the three of them ate the best supper together and drank in some of the success of Chester's wine trade, until she voluntarily decided to leave for bed. When she was gone noticing Albion's suspicion he immediately went on the defensive and commented in his usual cold manner.

'Intolerable woman that one. Why couldn't she just let us alone she knows we have important matters to converse about. So without further delay I tell thee of the five, in order of birth. Vincent is the eldest, a hulk of a man but agile and intelligent also, if this motley crew had a leader it would be he. Yves the even handed was next to be born, supposedly the wisest brother and a fair mediator between the others. Yes, I'll wager if he could be slain there would be dissension amongst them. Next came Claude the mediocre, and rather boring middle born, there is absolutely nothing special about this one.'

'But I bet to ignore and underestimate him would be an even greater mistake.' Said Albion.

'Perhaps so, but let us not dwell on what is not important for I have yet to introduce the greatest villain of them all. The fourth born is called Leon, he's the most intelligent, a man in the wrong profession if you want my opinion. He's not much of a fighter but he can see schemes within schemes and probably even schemes were there are none too, making the brothers very hard to deceive. I save the worst for last, Eugene the libertine, youngest and most vile. This is a boy probably about the same age as your Wyl, being as today is Wyl's birthday that would make him sixteen. His crimes are of such a nature he is wanted by the Vatican with a significant reward offered. Solomon would take the greatest of pleasures in persecuting this individual. Drowning in his own vices and self indulgence, the rumours would have us believe, and its very difficult to ignore rumours in my opinion coming from a spy master such as myself there is always some truth in them, continuing on however the rumours would have us believe that he sneaked into a convent, and seized in his most perfidious grip all the youngest and fresh initiates, defiling their virtue and sacred vows. He threatened them into doing his bidding under pain of death and gleefully spent an entire month there in celebration of his coming of age. Even the most foul mouthed tavern crawling filth would blush at a crime like that,' finished Melfice in disgust.

Such a crime did make Albion's blood boil, in his anger he even forgot the comment about today being Wyl's birthday. Coeur de Glace was cunning, it was precisely that kind of outrage he wished to provoke in Albion so that he would join his cause, being a man of God who despises injustice. What Coeur de Glace did not take into his cold calculation was Albion's present state of mind, normally he would be the first to sign up to destroy such men like when he fought Hildegard the first time, but not this day and not through lack of morals either. Why should he be the one to fight them, and yet much more innocent blood would be spilled if he did not. Sensing his hesitation in this silent moment Melfice tried to tip the scales of justice his way.

'Albion,' he said, 'remember that all who swore to go on the crusades and fight the infidel were promised a place in heaven, so too I believe would apply in this instance as well. The Pope a spokesperson for God on this earth has promised not only gold for the death of Eugene, but also heaven. If you have done bad deeds in the past they will all be erased if you kill that unnatural cretin.'

'I won't join your fight Melfice. I have spoken and I will not change my mind.'

'I see, how unfortunate that so many are going to die because of that decision, because of your own weaknesses. One man can't change the world Albion, they can make it a better place but they can't do it alone. I see your guilt bearing down upon you, weighting your every step. In this fight you will have allies, friends you never knew existed, because no matter where you are in the world or what you want there is always another who shares your interests.'

'Are you referring to us as friends? That we have the same goals in mind?'

'Exactly,' said the crafty Coeur de Glace, 'What we did was righteous the hand of Hildegard is evil, that is why you chose to join the fight last time. Remember why you couldn't sleep the night you saved His Majesty, it was because you didn't agree with destroying fellow Christians because they weren't evil, but the hand of Hildegard was and you had no doubts about it in the slightest. The only thing that has changed is you. Why? Because of what happened at Bordeaux ... so come, friend, don't carry the weight of the world alone tell me the story and share your burden with me.'

Authors Notes ~ More is to follow as soon as possible. I'm looking for some constructive criticisms this time around as I have received very little previously. One has to learn where one goes wrong in order to improve so you would all be helping me out greatly.

Constructive criticism from me is unlikely, and I haven't kept up with this as much as I would have liked.
I can say however that your character Couer de Glace (who I presume must mean Heart of Ice) was mispelled during that last part. It should be Coeur de Glace.
Other than that, I'll say I love the atmosphere and the setting you chose.
And finally, I'll say that you should keep writing! :2thumbsup:

Thank you for pointing that out Warmaster, much appreciated. Just as a little update, I haven't given up on this story it is still active and I will hopefully get the next part in before Christmas. I have actually been working so much on another project elsewhere that I almost forgot about this one. :laugh4:

For the purpose of ease this story is told from a third person perspective, originally I intended for Albion to relate the tale himself but my first person writing skills are pathetic. 'I did this, I did that, I can't write like this its really getting on my nerves!' So without further delay enjoy the story and accept my apologies for the failed deadline I predicted in the previous post.

Shadows of the Past.

It had been a long and bloody year for Red Shield. Only two of Hildegard's leaders now remained, but a great many of their assassins were left leaderless and scattered on the winds. The rest had come to Paris and been caught up in the bloodiest conflict of the entire “secret war” which had begun to spiral out of control. Gone were the days of subterfuge and well thought out plans, replaced by anarchy and chaos, assassination attempts had become far more brutal and tactless, torches tossed through windows at the dead of night to force those inside to flee were they would be cut down without mercy had become commonplace.

Amongst the many nameless shades that haunted the dark streets of Paris only two had earned renown amongst those that dwell in the underworld. Sir Gallicus was the personal bodyguard of Baron Laurent, a leader of Hildegard. The other was Gail “God Hand” Albion, of him little was known by the French and all manner of tales had become attached to his name.

One of which I will relate to you here as being fact. On December 21st in the year of 1348, Red Shield members made a swift attack on Baron Laurent's town house despite the heavy security, most of which was made up of militia but amongst them were many skilled assassins. Sir Gallicus was very good at what he did and was constantly moving Laurent around but thanks to Ice Heart's spying talents they had pinpointed him to that location.

Albion knew Gallicus best of all as only a sworn enemy can know another. Too many times before had they clashed inconclusively and so they had come to have a keen insight into each others minds like two friends who play chess together frequently. However this constant battle had become wearisome for both sides and success in Paris would only come with the triumph of one of these men over the other, everything depended on it.

Albion was the ravenous hunter that cold winters night and whilst he watched the attack on the house commence, he knew Gallicus would emerge with Laurent in tow. He hated the wait before any battle but this one was unbearable, it was well below freezing and steam came forth from his mouth in huge clouds. His cloak seemed to do nothing to ward off the cold no matter how he positioned it there was always a gap somewhere, but at the very least his leather gauntlets proved effective at keeping his hands warm and nimble which was the main thing.

As the battle sounded inside the house, and it was certain to fall to Red Shield, Gallicus left with no other option but his escape plan, tossed a rope out of the window on the second floor. He was himself the last to leave and the one Albion caught sight of as though he could sense his presence. Relieved his wait was over, he set off in pursuit and knowing the streets as well as he had come to managed to get ahead of Gallicus and Laurent. It was a certainty Gallicus would have noticed Albion's absence at the house and would be expecting his attack.

Hidden around a corner Albion caught glimpse of his prey and drew his sword, it was tempting to settle his personal vendetta with Gallicus first but duty is a strict master and that meant Laurent had to die first. Two other men were present with them but they had the bearing of amateurs.

Finally when they were almost right on the corner Albion sprung his ambush, Gallicus was fortunately still acting as rear guard and the first amateur fell before he could even execute a single attack, the second moved out of his way trembling in terror. Thirdly came Laurent himself, already Gallicus had reacted and attempted to parry the attack but it struck true to its intended target, probably making Laurent's final moments on earth far more prolonged and agonising than they ought to have been. Never the less instead of his instant demise he lay face down and watched as his blood filled the crevices in between the cobble stones.

Unshaken by the death of his employer, and with experienced composure Gallicus did not have much time with which to prepare before Albion started attacking him with extreme prejudice. Gallicus himself was not untalented with a sword but he had come to dread any duel with Albion due to the nature of his fighting style. Already Gallicus had made half a dozen attacks and not a single one had been parried but instead dodged forcing him back onto the defensive. If that was not difficult enough to contend with Albion combined various unarmed combat techniques with his sword style and at least one in every three of his attacks was a feint, a single lapse in concentration against such an opponent was punishable by death.

Whilst the two had met on numerous occasions before Albion was both adaptable and unpredictable and Gallicus knew if he didn't kill him this time he was finished. It may seem as though Albion was holding all the cards but one has to factor in the mental attributes of any duel, and Gallicus mind was always like the summer sky, fresh and clear, whilst Albion's was more a storm cloud in which sometimes he was not very mindful of his surroundings, focusing solely on his target, in particular when provoked.

'I think I can guess your problem,' said Gallicus whilst parrying another attack. 'Every time you enter a duel with me its like you are fighting against a ghost, all your overbearing anger is not directed at me at all is it?' Albion continued his attacks without replying so Gallicus continued his mind games. 'You are fighting against someone whom you hate even more than me, like a father, how did you fail him Albion?' This time his ploy succeeded and for the first time Albion was forced to block one of his attacks.

'The only failure here is you, that is your employer dead on the floor not mine; so no more words!'

Gallicus responded with laughter and said 'So it is him you are always fighting against, to prove you are not a failure as a son, but then why do you strive to be the best of the worst. Surely that would only prove you are a complete failure in his eyes. A Knight would never fall so far as you assassin, my employer may be dead but at least I still have my honour. I do not skulk in shadow and darkness I'm a bodyguard I don't deal in death I prevent it.'

By now Albion was trembling with rage, he hid it well but Gallicus knew he had succeeded. All that was left now was to wait for an opening. In fact all he had achieved in doing is making the attacks worse as he struggled for his life against an unrelenting aggressor, which even if he had six arms he could not defend against forever.

Before too long Albion's fist struck him in the ribs breaking them with a sharp cracking noise. As a reflex reaction Gallicus hunched over only for his nose to be shattered by Albion's knee, the bodyguard staggered backwards a few steps before falling flat on his back defeated. Black specks slowly blotted out his vision and when they cleared again he saw the snarling face of Albion backed by a full moon.

Albion looked down upon his opponent in triumph but he was so frustrated and angry he didn't feel any pity for him at all, battered as Gallicus was with blood all over his face and covered in sweat despite the cold. Gallicus chest heaved with every slow and laborious breath but he showed no sign of fear and stared Albion straight in the eye with a smile, sword still in hand. Finally Albion held his sword point down high above his head and plunged it into Gallicus heart. In his report to Ice Heart he later remarked that he had never fought a more honourable or noble man.

That should have concluded the nights events but there was still one more surprise. The cowardly bodyguard having at last summoned up at least some courage stabbed Albion through the shoulder from behind. In pain he staggered to his feet and laughing at the irony of being wounded by an amateur set about attacking him like a starving wolf even though slowed by his injury. Gallicus words still intimidated him inside of his mind, urging on his anger and the worst part about it was that he was so right. The only person who had ever understood him and seen through the façade now lay dead by his hand.

In his fury he showed the coward no leniency. Slashing him repeatedly with relative ease until he was wounded in at least five different places, by which point the coward crawled along the floor like a worm mumbling to himself these words. 'I will not die, I cannot die, I won't leave without Victoire, I must fight ... I will fight to your death!' With one last lease of life he stood up with no fear and as Albion charged at him, he charged back until their paths crossed. Albion's sword slashed him across the face from the bottom of his cheek across the bridge of his nose and up between his eyes and a slight bit of his forehead, in return the cowards low guard had led him to slash Albion's stomach, who cursed his own carelessness for being wounded not once, but twice by an amateur who still yet lived and seemed delirious.

'Victoire ... Victoire,' he proclaimed before Albion dealt him one last fatal blow. His anger still not subsided he looked around for more opponents when suddenly somebody seized him from behind with strong arms. He was dragged over to a barrel full of freezing rain water and the mysterious attacker dunked his head into it. Albion felt like himself again and realised that the grip on the back of his neck, the one he thought was trying to drown him, was gone and pulling his head out of the water turned around and met face to chest with Arthur Black, another Red Shield member much larger than he was. Still slightly dazed and now feeling the full stress of his injuries, Arthur grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him up against the wall, where he fell into a sitting position.

'You need to get a hold of yourself God Hand, you may be a genius with a sword but your problems put us all in danger, I saw what happened. The targets are dead why did you stay around to fight with the young one, there was absolutely no reason for him to die. I won't always be around to bring you back to being yourself. Now come on lets get out of here before the town militia show up, I know they are incompetent and slow to respond but your duel here took far to long,' with the lecture over, Arthur helped him back to his feet and they evaded capture finally saying farewell to Paris.

A few days later somewhere in the French countryside only known to a few key Red Shield members, Albion and Arthur, who accompanied him due to his wounds, approached an abandoned cottage with a semi caved in roof and ivy running rampant up most of the walls. It was there they met with Ice Heart, hoping for news that he had found the last member of Hildegard. Even when expecting him as they were he still managed to sneak up on them as they made a fire to soothe Albion's cold. Before Albion told his lengthy tale Ice Heart informed them he had not yet located the last leader and commented that whoever it was must be cunning as a fox.

It was only when Albion was nearing the conclusion of his story and he told of the novice swordsman in detail, that Ice Heart recollected meeting a young noble who fit that description.

'He wasn't proclaiming victory, Victoire is also a woman's name. Yes, when I was searching for our mysterious final finger of Hildegard I attempted to spy on one Monsieur Loup, or Mister Wolf to you and I. Victoire was his daughter, it has to be him!' Announced Ice Heart excitedly, taking into account for a man of his position he was still very young.

'I overlooked him as being a mad man when he is truly a genius. When attempting to spy on him I could only ever but catch sight of him now and then by complete chance. He was so random in his daily schedule and routine that I had to eventually give up. If I am right and he's our man we're in trouble, the only way to get close enough to kill him will be if you are part of his retinue and he's a very nasty man from what I could gather. Delights in torture and the suffering of others even his own daughter, its likely he sent that young novice to Paris knowing he would never come back. As soon as you are better Albion we will formulate a plan, your French is the best and so is your sword so you are ideal for this task.'

Albion went numb at the mention of it, the thought of laying eyes on the woman whose love he had destroyed filled his heart with guilt, but that is a story for another time ...

Authors Notes ~
Hopefully this part justifies the lengthy wait. When I first started writing the tales I had no idea where they would end up or what type of man Albion would be. Even though I created him, his development continues to puzzle and surprise me and it would be interesting to hear your thoughts on him if at all possible. Lastly, I see that the Tales has surpassed the five-hundred view mark and I would like to thank those that have left comments, and still welcome any criticisms anybody might have.
In the next part Albion is off to Bordeaux in disguise as Monsieur Tomas to finish the Hand of Hildegard for good.