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Powerful stuff. Hope that dream don't turn out to be prophetic. In regards to the updates, use whatver works. Once a week if you want lotsa detail in one big update, or three or so if you want to deliever updates in bitesized pieces.
 
that was one bad dream ... also frequent relatively short updates can be a good posting pattern

I've been thinking about that, and I might try it out eventually - or at least trying to mix shorter and longer chapters so it gets a bit easier to work with. As of now my goal is 10 000 characters/chapter, a rather descent length I've felt before, but the more I write, the more I end up near 20 000 instead, so trying to lower my goal, and more importantly - planning for shorter chapters - might be good.

Powerful stuff. Hope that dream don't turn out to be prophetic. In regards to the updates, use whatver works. Once a week if you want lotsa detail in one big update, or three or so if you want to deliever updates in bitesized pieces.

We'll just have to see, on both accounts.

---

As I wrote this I decided to try a new thing - next chapter will be split into three updates to try and ease the workload. After that's been done I'll get back to how I'm going to continue in the future. First part will be posted the day after tomorrow (got a bit of stuff to do tonight and tomorrow, sadly).
 
So yeah... the whole updating on a regular basis is obviously not working at the moment. At the moment I'm a bit swamped with school, doing both my third term in social studies (there isn't, to my knowledge, an equivalent subject in most countries but if anyone was wondering it's a blend of economics, civics and sociology) and taking my bachelor in history, meaning that I'm doing a 200% workload at the moment. The whole ordeal is an after effect of my illness last winter/spring and something that needs to get done if I don't want to be hounded beyond the edge of the world by the student-loan people who have been so kind as to give me money even though I'm not really qualified for it this semester (due to the illness once again).

Anyway, done with the ranting about the whys. I'm gonna try to put up a chapter now and again, but there will be a few weeks at the least between every new post. Things should calm down after I've successfully defended my essay in the middle of January.
 
Chapter Nine - Snow

Chapter Nine
Snow

14 November, 1066
Somewhere in the Cordelera Cantábrica, Reinu de Lleón


His face throbbed with pain. The wound had festered, even though he had tried to clean it with boiled water. The stench from it made him want to gag. Neither stench nor pain was the worst of it though, for with the infection had come fever. As long as his stolen horse had been alive, the fever hadn't kept him from moving and despite everything he had made decent progress those days, even if he had been forced to hide for large stretches of time as Alfonso's men sniffed after him. Now the horse was dead a day past, and he hadn't even been coherent enough to cut a little meat of it's fallen body. How far had he been able to walk since then? A mile? Maybe two? It might not be too far to turn back and try and get a meal off the horse's carcass. The thought of meat, even raw and tough, made his mouth wet. It had been much too long since he ate anything but a few berries that had lingered from fall's end.

The man threw a glance at the wilt trail behind him. The sudden motion struck smouldering needles through the back of his eyes and made his head spin. I need to sit down... just for a minute... His eyes searched for a place to rest. Last night he had dreamed of the thick, soft bed of his lady's chamber, but today he would settle for a patch of thick grass or some leaves. If you sit down, you won't get up again. The voice was surprisingly clear, cutting through the fever's veil. Yes I will. It'll only be for a little while, not even an hour. The man's own voice sounded almost like that of a stubborn child's. Or was the first one his and this someone else's? He didn't know, nor did he care. He was far beyond caring about anything now. No, the first voice said again, I still want his head. That made the man laugh, a weak cackling sound, hardly more than a whisper. He couldn't kill a suckling babe as he was now.

The man sank down to his knees, his stiff back straining through the motion. He felt a hundred years old. Am I an old man now? That made him gaggle again, but the laughter soon turned to coughing. The cough was deep and painful. Was the wound making him ill? He caressed a patch of moss growing on one of the trees. It was wet and cold, but soft beyond belief. I can rest my head here-. NO! The second voice, the voice of his old self was back. If you rest you will die. He shook his head and smiled thinly. I will die anyway. Can't I at least die in my sleep?

Suddenly he was sent back through the years, standing before his father as a mere child. His father was a fierce-looking man, with his thick greying beard closely cropped, a broken hawk's beak jolting out above hard lips. The boy that stood before the father was bruised and crying quietly. My father never could stand the sound of tears, and yet I spilled so many of them across his lap. His father had seen the weakness in him early and tried to purge it with the rod. The boy opened his mouth to tell his father that he had succeeded, but before he had time to speak the middle-aged man gripped his son's face in his strong hands. “Look at me boy!” A drop of saliva his the child his eye, causing him to draw back – that earned him a slap across the face. The boy's ears rang. “I said look-at-me! Listen closely now child...”. His father's voice sank to a whisper. “If I ever catch you running from the other children again I will kill you. If I ever see you whimpering like that before the servants I will kill you!”

“But they were hitting me!”

“So hit them back then.”

“But... but they are all bigger...”

“So? Then you will get hit, and be stronger for it. Remember child, a man dies on his feet!”

Spanien-CordeleraCantbrica.jpg

Map of the Iberian Peninsula with the mountains of Cantrabrica marked in rose. The towns marked are 1) Lleón, 2) Zamora, 3) Burgos and 4) Valladolid

14 November, 1066
At the border of Castilla and Lleón


Sancha's horse neighed as she forced the mare down in the cold water of the Duero. She couldn't blame the poor beast, and she had argued with Sancho for hours before she had left that the southern route through Valladolid would have been better. At least there's a bridge in Valladolid, and a decent place to rest for a night. Valladolid might have been the cause of the strife between her two eldest son, or at least Sancha believed it might be so. The town was the largest in the Christian borderlands, the largest, richest and the most strategically important. Fernando had given the city to Alfonso. Such a slight must burn Sancho's soul, Sancha thought, trying to keep her mind of the freezing river seeping into her riding boots. Even more so, Alfonso had given the city to Pedro Ansúrez, a lowly noble whom Sancho despised since childhood. Did he do that to insult his brother yet further? Alfonso had changed. The visit at Burgos and the late nights with Sancho and his new bride had convinced her of that much. Sancha couldn't see her middle-child doing something like that ten years ago. No, he admired Sancho back then. Wanted to be his elder brother – shining in armour and at ease with the people around him. Alfonso had never been at ease around anyone but his dog. And his sisters. He loved Urraca and Elvira. As Sancha tried to remember when her son had turned away from his sisters she was interrupted by shouts from the far side of the river.

“Hail to thee Sancha, Queen-mother of the Three Realms!” Now there's a title I've never heard before. She recognized the voice though, it was that of Menendo – Alfonso's latest favourite at court. At least this one didn't send chills down her spine with a simple look. But then again, do dogs have souls? Sancha steered her horse up from the water, soothing it as the beast pranced in relief from leaving the river behind.

“Hail Menendo! How did you know my route?”

Menendo smiled and looked slightly sheepish. “Why, my Queen,” he gave graceful bow in the saddle, “it is my business to know what happens in Lleón. His Grace has named me his Steward.” Menendo looked at her expectantly. Sancha wasn't surprised to learn of the man's new station, he had been close to Alfonso for almost a year and their late evenings locked in Alfonso's study told of how much trust her son placed in the man.

“You have my congratulations then, my Lord.” Sancha gave a curt nod. “Is my son in Lleón?”

“No, our King has made his seat in Zamora until the... the...” Menendo paused and glanced at her. Searching for a diplomatic way of telling me my sons will try to kill each other, no doubt. “The conflict with García.” Menendo stuck his hand down his saddle-purse and soon pulled out a letter that he handed to her. “He sent this for you a few days ago.” Sancha tried to conceal her anguish as she ripped the seal open and read the letter. She needed to meet her son soon. Speak with him, and try to end this fool's war.

Mother,

Alfonso Ordoñez has tried and failed to capture me as I rested in his hall at Zamora. The rebel and a dozen of his men slipped our grasp and is most likely hurrying to García's side, but I cannot rule out that he might try to gather forces to free Urraca. Remain with Menendo at the Towers for now. It's for your own safety.

Alfonso


Sancha cursed her son beneath her breath and looked to Menendo. “Is he safe? I mean...” Menendo snatched the letter from her fingers and glanced at it quickly.

“Curse the man...” The words was little more than a mutter, and Sancha thought none but her in the company heard Menendo. “Aye, my Queen. Your son is safe and healthy, all thanks to an Galician noble no less. Have you ever had the pleasure of meeting the son-in-law of Nuno Vimaranes of Porto?”

She remembered a big, burly boy bowing before her and her husband. They had visited Porto for Sisnando's and Loba's wedding. “Davides? What did he do at Zamora? H-how did it happen?”

Menendo gave her a long look, full of sadness for her. He knows he shouldn't be the one to tell me this. The Steward told the tale though, and as tears came to Sancha's eyes as she heard of her son's treatment in Zamora she felt something soft and wet touch her cheek. At least the snow would hide her grief.


14 November, 1066
Somewhere in the Cordelera Cantábrica, Reinu de Lleón


His hand were dirty and raw – maybe even bleeding. The man didn't know if that was so, and his vision was much too blurry for him to be able to see in the murky dusk. He had crept, walked and in the end dragged himself forward and now he was at the outskirts of the real mountains. Had he only been able to see might be that he could find a cavern to rest in until the morning. Rest and you die. “I know”, he snapped to the voice. “But I need light to find my way.” Right then he saw it, a small lick of flame far in the distance. A torch. The man smiled in true bliss. He would live. He would live, and Alfonso Fernandéz would die.
 
Ah, its good to have this story back again! Methinks I'll re-read it all, just so I remember where we left off!

Yeah, I really should read through it all myself before i continue. I still remember some of the future twists and turns I got planned but what's been written is a bit dim nowadays. Will try to get another chapter up today or tomorrow, but as I'm out of town and didn't bring my computer with me it'll be the Alfonso chapter before the Cid's, mucking a bit with the chronology going forward a week before going back in time. But hey - gotta write while those fingers are itching.