Stories Thread

[TinCow]

1070 AD

The squirrel’s hind legs twitched slightly as the body slowly accepted the reality of death. Christophe lifted the large stone which had crushed the animal’s upper body and set it down next to the trunk of the tree. He licked the few streaks of warm blood off his fingers, then picked up the squirrel and brushed off the crushed acorns which had attracted it into the trap in the first place. In the crook of a tree above him, several more killing rocks were stored and waiting. It took patience to lie still in the tree above, but with the seasons turning the squirrels were out in force and a meal was almost guaranteed if he simply waited long enough.

Food was a strong motivator and Christophe desperately wanted to avoid the hunger he had endured for the first several weeks in the forest. He had regained part of the weight he had lost since then, but not all of it. With winter approaching, the prospects of starvation weighed heavily on his mind. Christophe had run away from Arnoul in mid-spring when the air was warm and the plants were bearing fruit. He had barely survived then, and the prospect of winter in the woods truly frightened him.

He looped some twine around one of the squirrel’s feet, tethering it along with the other victim he had caught earlier in the morning. Christophe tossed the animals over his shoulder and began walking back to his shelter. It was a pleasantly warm day and the tranquility of the forest put him at ease. As he walked, his mind returned inevitably to the impending difficulties of winter.

Thus far he had avoided theft from the local farms whenever he could. His first attempt, made in during the depths of his spring hunger, had almost been his last. The farmer who had caught him had beaten him badly and likely would have killed him, had the man’s wife not forced him to stop. Since then, he had managed to steal a small pig and two chickens, but he knew his luck would run out soon enough. The next farmer who caught him would not likely have such a forgiving wife. Yet, when winter came, what choice would he have?

Winter also posted another serious threat: cold. Thus far his clothing had been sufficient to keep him warm during the day, and fire had served him at night. When the temperature dropped, it would not be enough. The depths of night were already starting to achieve a biting level of cold that made sleep difficult. Another month and he would begin having serious problems, and warmth was not something that could be stolen. To survive, he would have to find a building to live in, and that almost certainly meant people. Where there were people, there were questions, and that would inevitably lead him back to Arnoul.

Through the air came the sound of voices. Christophe froze in his tracks, tilting his head to locate where the intrusion had come from. Ahead of him. Directly ahead of him. The blood drained from Christophe’s face as the realization of what that meant sank in; they were at his camp.

He knew he should flee, but with the exception of the old dagger he had stolen from Arnoul, all of his possessions were there. Meager though they were, they were all that stood between survival and death; he could not simply abandon them. Slowly, he sank into a crouch and began moving forward, one step at a time, towards the camp. He dropped the dead squirrels at the base of the first tree he passed, freeing his right arm for use. After a few minutes of slow movement, he began to see glimpses of the site through the trees.

It was even worse than he had feared. There weren’t just a few men, there were dozens of them; sitting by his fire circle, leaning against nearby trees, and more he could sense but not see. One even appeared to be lying under the lean-to Christophe had erected to provide shelter at night. The few possessions he had left at the camp had either been kicked about, or were missing altogether.

In his growing panic, Christophe became careless. Straining to see better, he leaned forward on a dead branch, and it collapsed under his weight with a loud snap. Every head swiveled to look directly at him. He jumped to his feet and turned to run, only to find a giant bearded man towering over him. Christophe drew his worn dagger and swung it wildly at the man, but his opponent simply stepped out of the way, laughing heartily. With a single hand, he first knocked Christophe over, then picked him up by the neck. The other hand grabbed the dagger and slipped it through a rope belt at his waist.

Christophe clawed feebly at the man’s hand, desperately trying to get free. This only amused him more, and he strode into the middle of the camp, with a huge grin on his face. He tossed the boy onto the ground in the middle of the group. Christophe immediately sprang back to his feet and ran directly at the bearded man, desperately trying to get his dagger back. Each time he was swatted away with a heavy palm. By this point, the entire camp was rolling with laughter. The man lying under the lean-to arose and walked forward.

“What have you caught for us today, Gobert?”

“I think it is some kind of skinny, hairless dog,” the bearded man replied. “Shall we eat it?”

The other man grinned and drew a long blade. “Mostly skin and bone, but perhaps there’s some meat on there somewhere, ”

The words only made Christophe intensify his attack. With a quick jab, he punched the bearded man in the testicles, ending the man’s latest bout of laughter with a muted, “Oop…” Gobert stumbled back a few steps, wincing in pain. Christophe swiped the dagger from his belt and swung around, waving it wildly at the men around him. With the exception of Gobert, they were all laughing even harder now.

“Well, well, well… looks like this one has some spirit in him.” The lean-to man gestured to one of the men who was sitting near the fire. The man reached forward and grabbed something from one of the rocks and tossed it on the ground next to Christophe. It was a chunk of smoking meat. Like a true dog, the boy dropped to his feet and began tearing into the food. All thought of escape vanished and for a while he knew nothing except the food. After several minutes of gorging himself, he finally looked up, to see that the men were once again relaxing around the campsite.

The man under the lean-to smiled at him. “Do you know this area, little dog?”

Christophe stared blankly at him, then nodded.

“Truly? You know the towns, the merchant roads, the militia posts?”

The boy nodded again.

“Then we shall be good friends, little dog. I am Dreux and these,” he gestured at the group of men lounging around the campsite, “are my friends. Show us what we ask for, and I promise you will never go hungry again.”

[ULC]

The Socratic approach to dueling - Paris, tournament grounds, 1081

During the final minutes of the tournament, Gaetan seized the opportunity and shouted out to Hermant. "Hermant, a final duel, between you and I, if you will do me the honor?”

Hermant quickly surveyed the tournament grounds. He was alone on the left flank; the nearby red knights all captured. Most of the victorious blue knights were moving off to engage the group of surviving red knights far to his right.

"Why not, brother knight? I could use some company."

Gaetan smiled and nodded in agreement. "Good, let us make this the fight of the tourney - at me with your best, give me no less!" With that, Gaetan's sword lashed out with incredible speed in an upward crosscut, nearly connecting with Hermant's chin, who managed to dart out of the way just in time.

Hermant countered, swinging his mace up and into Gaetan's gut while his guard is down. Gaetan swiftly blocked the blow, but he underestimated Hermant's strength, and it followed through, knocking the wind out of Gaetan and sending him tumbling to the ground. Pain shot through Gaetan's head and his vision blurred for a second.

"Get up boy!" A sudden crack echoes as a ruler was brought down upon Gaetan's desk.

Startled, Gaetan sat up straight and whipped the drool from his mouth. "Oh, um..." The instructor looked down upon Gatean with a dour look. "I will ask again - why did Socrates choose to die?"

Gaetan puzzled over the question, and finally answered after an awkward moment. "Because the State had decreed it?"

The instructor chuckled: "Ah, so you do pay attention Little Count. Yes and no, he did die because the State did decree it, but that is only half the answer."

Gaetan was about to object, but the sudden thud of a mace next to his head upon the ground caused him to reflexively kickout, causing Hermant to stumble backwards. Now on his feet, Gaetan swung again, but Hermant brushed the blow aside and nailed Gaetan upon the leg. Gaetan winced in pain as he rushed Hermant and sent him flying to the ground.

"But why did he not run then, if he could? Is it not better to run away, and fight another day? To retreat and reorganize?" Gaetan's puzzlement continued.

The Instructor, who seemed finally happy to have a student who seemed genuinely interested in his lessons, shook his head and continued. "But to do so would have been to disobey the State, and to harm the community. Socrates was faced with the ultimate test - to sacrifice his self interest, nay sacrifice himself, in order to do what he believed was right. He passed the test and in so doing, ensured that his beliefs and teaching would endure for an eternity.”

Gaetan looked down at Hermant, lying on the ground, struggling to get to his feet in the mud of the tournament floor. He looked at his own sword and smiled. He sheafed the sword and hobbled over to Hermant, offering him his hand to raise him up.

“Another round perchance?”

Hermant bowed in thanks and readied himself again for combat.

As the two knights circled and parried, their long training allowing them to fight instinctively, Gaetan’s mind started to drift off again to his childhood. The memories returned, more vivid than ever. The smell of the musty parchments, the hum of the other children whispering in the class room and the face of his instructor keenly assessing his best pupil. “I think I understand, Sir. Socrates’ death teaches us that one wins by being true to oneself and the principles one abides by, which grant true victory.”

“Precisely, my boy!” said the instructor. Gaetan smiled like a triumphant school boy as a heavy blow from Hermant’s mace sent him hurtling to the ground and consciousness escaped him.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Oops - co-op done with econ21. Sorry econ, thought this was here...

[econ21]

An Audience with the King, Paris 1081


The eight young knights entered the great hall of the King. Anxious guards approached them and demanded their swords - ever mindful of the threat of assassination by agents of England or France’s other enemies. Hermant surrendered his sword with casual disdain, eyes firmly fixed forwards.

The company came on. From all sides, courtiers and nobles watched the eight young men approaching the throne. They were too young, too bold, too many, too insignificant, too uncouth, too impertinent, too … everything. But the King had indulged them with an audience and so they came on.

As they approached the King seated on his throne, they stopped and, in unison, went down on one knee, heads bowed in deference.

The King looked down upon the knights and eyed them severely, as if trying to take their measure from their protestations.

“Arise.” he intoned and with a wave of his hand, he beckoned them to speak.

Hermant stood up boldly and took one step forward. “Your majesty, my name is Hermant Mauvoisin and these are my brother knights - Simon de Montpierre, Gaspard de Neufville, Eloi de Montferrat, Gaetan de Rethel, Alexandre le Sueur, Loup de Gisors and Robert Bouchart. We are indebted to you for this audience.”

The King looked on, inscrutable.

“My Lord, have formed a brotherhood - sworn to fight for France and for you, in accordance with the standards of chivalry, and humbly petition for your patronage. My Lord, let me speak frankly - France is bleeding. The English occupy our lands and even dare to claim your throne. Rebel barons hold sway in the provinces of Burgundy, Acquitaine and Lorraine, leaving the true Dukes almost as exiles. Only the Duke of Bretagne resides in his province’s true capital and even then, he is cut off from the Kingdom, surrounded by English and the sea. Our people cry out for deliverance and trust to you to answer their call. We have come to serve you in this quest.”

Mauvoisin paused, wondering if he had presumed too much - painted too bleak a picture of France and caused the King to take offence.

The King frowned: “A touch melodramatic, young knight, but I am not one to refuse offers of service. Continue.”

"My Lord!" The voice of Simon de Montpierre hesitant at first grows louder with every sentence until an otherworldly shine can be seen in his eyes. "You are known to be a Fair Fighter and have upheld the virtues of Chivalry throughout your rule. You are a shining beacon of the ideals a French Knight should follow. Before we came here we all swore an Oath to uphold the virtues of Chivalry at all times. This Oath of Chivalry binds us together, binds us to you as our King!"

The King inclined his head gravely: “I have read the Oath, young Chevalier, and it is well said.”

Mauvoisin continued: “My Lord, I know we are young men of little distinction, but we aspire for great things for France and would be weapons in your hands as you fight to restore her to what she once was. At this moment, there are few of us and we bring only our personal retainers. But we are enough to form the vanguard of your army in battle. You have need of men-at-arms while Toulouse is still incapable of training companies of knights - let us fill that need. Under your command, or that of your Seneschal, we will strike the flanks of your enemies in battle and pursue them from the field. We will be the edge you need to cut through those who oppose you and pierce their defences.”

Gaspard de Neufville rose slowly to his feet and stood beside Mauvoisin. "Your majesty, do not be afraid to trust us. All of us would willingly die for such an honourable and faithful master as yourself. Grant us the little that we require, and you will have a body of faithful knights to maintain your kingdom"

The King nodded at Gaspard, preferring his plain expression of devotion to Hermant’s presumptuous circumlocutions. “As I said, I am not one to refuse offers of service. But what is it precisely that you require me to grant?”

Hermant responded: “My Lord, we require only your endorsement and that you consider us first when composing France’s armies in the field.”

The King replied: “I have heard of your Order and it seems an admirable venture. As for you being considered first when composing France’s armies, that is more a matter for the Seneschal but we are not so blessed with companies that you may fear being unemployed.”

“We are grateful for your endorsement, your Majesty." Hermant bowed and then paused, somewhat awkwardly: "If I may presume to go further - would you consider being one of the patrons of the Order?”

The King narrowed his eyes: “You have four patrons already - the Dukes. That is an achievement for so new an enterprise. Tell me this - what are the long term aims of your Order? You speak of France, but you are young men with hopefully long lives ahead of you. What are your ambitions for your Order? What would you see it become?”

Hermant replied quickly, as if this question was never far from his mind: “My Lord, we would not presume to foresee the future. Our aspiration is that one day, the Order be given an independent command - perhaps with some foot and archers - to serve you and your Seneschal. However, until that day, we desire only to ride into battle in your service.”

“You want the Order to become an independent army?! Ha! You have some nerve. Well, I asked for ambitions and so cannot claim to be disappointed. The day may come when a reliable standing army, devoted to France, may be useful to the Seneschal and to France. After all, the Seneschal cannot be in two places at once. But while the Kingdom remains as it is, I think the four Ducal armies and my own will be more than enough commands to cover our frontiers.”

The King stopped and then spoke with an air of finality. “Your Order has my endorsement, young knights. And yes, I agree to be its patron.” He laughed: “… all the better to keep an eye on your ambitions…”

The eight knights bowed and the King turned to other business, barely pausing to acknowledge their departure with a casual wave of his left hand. When the eight were out of earshot, the King muttered to his courtiers: “Young men dedicated to France and to chivalry, rather hard to say no to, really. I suppose, it could be worse. But I wonder where it will all lead? They say the road to hell … “

The King did not finish his sentence, but let the thought hang around the palace until all memory of the eight young knights had vanished.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

This is a co-op story with Ituralde, Ignoramus and Tristan.