Bastions
Chapter Forty Six: Loss and Inheritance
Part 5
Prelude:
Life for the peasants of any nation was hard during the XIV Century. The wealth of the merchants and nobles rarely trickled much farther than the Mayors and Bishops who kept the Serfs in line. The degree of feudalism did not seem to play a role; the life of a serf in the Caliphate was about the same as the life of a serf in the Prussian Empire. The lay were a very conservative force, highly resistant to change, but only to the extent that their lives were affected. During the civil wars under King Vishly, the lay rarely picked sides. For them as long as there was a noble above them it didn't really make a difference who it was in charge of them. However increasing taxes or tithes was a good way to be faced with a revolt. Changing the religion of their ruler was another. Language only played a role when it hindered worship or the paying of taxes. For example, the lay in Prussia gradually started to speak Middle Prussian because worship was not given in Old Prussian. However; the Greeks of the Roman Empire did not give up Greek because the Saxon rulers never made it a priority to change anything. In the end, the nobility and to a lesser extent the merchants sat above the peasants and serfs; removed from the day-to-day grind of tilling fields and reaping crops. It made them harsh and uncaring. But for the time being the status quo held strong.
August 29th, 1381
"Mathas, Ian!" called a voice. "Kristjan! Where are you three? It is time for chores!" At the bottom of a small gulley in the woods around Wilnish three boys looked around and at each other. It seemed that today's adventure to find frogs and bugs had come to a premature end. Father Werna's voice carried pretty far and sounded rather worried. So the three quickly tried to brush off and bolted toward where his voice was emanating. When the priest saw his three charges he was noticeably relieved; panting to catch his breath but smiling ear to ear.
"Why do we have to do chores, Father? Can we not look for frogs?" Ian asked.
"No, Ian. You have chores to do. Your chores will help bring you closer to God! Doesn't that sound like it would be good?"
"I guess," Ian answered, kicking the dirt with his foot. A boy of only eight he was lost in his own world, dying for something more creative than washing dishes and tilling the Monastery's gardens.
"You guess?" Werna asked, a slight chuckle in his voice, "Trust me, it'll help in the long run." With a comforting hand he prodded the boys back toward the looming building. He sighed as he looked up at his home for the last five years. He had wanted so much more from life, now his only job was to entrap these boys in the same hell he lived every day. Thinking quickly he said, "If you get your chores done early I'll read you guys some of the books in the library. And I promise no boring stuff."
"Then we should get started!" shouted Kristjan, already in a sprint. The other two were quickly after him leaving Werna to try to keep up. When they had gotten back inside, the Father ducked into the library to find something to entertain the boys that evening. There he found one of the older Father's sitting and copying a collection of government records by the light of a single candle. Werna grabbed two candles and lit them both and carried one over to the Father's desk to help him see.
"Werna, what are you doing here? You don't have copy duties tonight."
"I need a book to read to the boys in my charge. I feel that they are growing restless, Father Edwin."
"Brother Edwin... you are a man of the cloth too, now." Edwin smiled, but his smiled faded quickly. "You don't see yourself as a man of the cloth, do you?"
"No, Father. I guess I don't."
"I am not surprised. Your father didn't give you much of a choice did he?"
"No, no he didn't."
Edwin blew on the last bit of ink he had scribbled down and then closed his book, leaving a marker poking out through the top. "We have a collection of folk stories and other such things that might keep them entertained." He pushed a ladder against one of the bookshelves and began to shakily climb up the rungs. Werna took a hold of the bottom, worried to see his only friend injured. "Thank you," Edwin said as he came back down holding a smallish book with a rather plain cover. He handed Werna the book with a smile and went to sit back down.
Werna stopped him with a hand to his shoulder, "I want you to know I don't blame you... or my father."
Edwin smiled and sat down, returning to his work, "I never thought you did. But no father wants to see his son go into life of an artist."
It felt like a back-handed remark, but Werna took it all in stride. It is not like he had any self confidence any more. "There is a story in there that might help you too, Brother Werna. Enjoy."
Werna returned to his room with the book safely tucked in his robes. He sat on the end of his bed and opened the book to a random page. But Edwin had left a ribbon on a certain page and the book opened to that spot. Neatly drawn was the title to an old folk tale: The Story of Ælle Eadbertson. Could this have been the story Edwin had talked about?
At about that time there was a gentle knock on the door, then Ian poked his head in, "Mathas and I have finished our work and Kristjan is cleaning himself up after cleaning the pig sty. Can we hear a story now?"
"Sure, I have one picked out right here!" Werna answered.
"This isn't one of those boring Bible stories is it? With a moral and everything?" Mathas asked.
"Haha, no, Mathas. I think you guys will enjoy it, but let us wait for Kristjan." And almost on cue Kristjan entered and sat down next to Ian.
"Did I miss anything?" he asked.
"No," Werna said, "I was about to get started. This is the story of King Ælle, he was a glorious a brave knight..."
***
March 2nd, 1136
Ælle's sobs resonated throughout the room. In a darkened corner in the castle of Copenhagen, Ælle and his family were allowed to find respite. But there was none. The rejection of his father; an affection once so strong, now gone. It was almost too much for the Prince. So he shunned his wife and children and took refuge in the bottom of a bottle of mead. There he planned to make his kingdom. There was a knock at the door, and when Ælle did not respond, it was his wife who stood up and opened the door.
Standing in the door frame was Sir Olaf Erikson; he leaned against the frame and just silently observed Ælle for a short time. "So this is the master of chivalry, the great Prussian fortress-wrecker and heir-killer? The man who almost single-handedly defeated Sweden and left a Kingdom in ruins... crying into a bottom of pagan liquor."
"Shut up!" Ælle slurred, he picked the bottom up as if he was going to fling it at Olaf, but his arm just weakly folded under the weight.
"What is wrong with you?" Olaf asked. "I am starting to suspect that you are not really Ælle Eadbertson."
"Don't say that name!" Ælle hissed. He staggered up and dragged himself to Olaf, bottle still in his hand. "That man is dead to me, okay?" he said, pointing a finger at Olaf. "A lot of things are dead to me."
"Including your sense of dignity? Your sense of chivalry?" Olaf asked. Ælle slunk away from the question, both emotionally and physically. He staggered back to the bed and his gaze shifted between his family and the bottle. "Rock bottom is a state of mind, Ælle... not an actual place. And you can always climb out."
"What do you want, Olaf?"
"The King sent me," Olaf stated plainly. "We are leaving in a few days to free Burgos from the Berbers. He wishes that you take up the cross and lead us. But it might mean putting down the bottle and taking Catholic communion."
"So I should give up my father's religion, embrace a foreign one, and lead your armies against someone who is not my enemy?"
"See, you still have some chivalry in you, Ælle," Olaf said.
"That is not the point."
"Then yes. The Pope has been getting pushy about only letting Catholic men lead armies in the Crusades."
Ælle was silent for a few minutes while Olaf just stood there and his family remained silent. "Fine then. I will do it."
"Good, I will tell the King. He will be pleased. But I strongly suggest you dunk your head in some cold water and sober up before you come to tell him yourself."
Olaf disappeared through the door and left Ælle there to try to rebuild his dignity one scrap at a time.
"What about us, Ælle? What about your family? Are you going to leave us behind to rebuild your honor? Are you just going to forget about us?"
"I was hoping that you could just forget about me, actually."
"Really? So that is what it has come to? Three sons and I mean nothing to you? They mean nothing to you."
"Not at all... not at all..."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't want you to worry about me anymore. I am going to sail off into the unknown and I am probably never coming back."
"And who will take care of us?"
"I don't know."
Ælle's wife glared at the man she thought she loved. "There is more to this life than honor and glory and the love of your damned father. But you'll forsake that last few things you have to march off to war... like old times. You'll leave me, your wife, and these boys, your sons, to chase shadows."
"I don't know what to say. What would you have me do? I am no commoner... the only trade I know is war. I cannot bring you on the campaign trail. This is what I know, and it is what I am going to do."
"And if I won't wait for you?"
"I wouldn't expect anyone to."
"And if I do?"
"I will write. There is little more I can do."
"And if things go well and Iberia is saved?"
"I will send for you."