From Here To 1137 AD; Episode 59, Back To Here

This is episode fifty-nine of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD. If you would like to purchase, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback. 

Back To Here

The earl declared the royal court adjourned. The nobles were dismayed, and the peasants quietly gleeful.

Servants and guards immediately began to move tables and benches from the castle’s storage rooms into the great hall. They prepared for the nobles to enjoy a feast. It was customary after each monthly court session. 

The nobility, who remained for the feast, hoped that this might be the feast that the earl overindulged to the point of death. With Bouchard out of the way, perhaps one of their families might inherit the king’s favor and be granted the earldom. In previous feasts, nobles gazed at the earl’s every bite, hoping it might be the one that was the limit of his gluttony. Thus, this feast might hold special significance.

The peasants trickled down from the balcony with hidden smiles and made their way out of the castle. They slowly streamed back to their hamlets and peasant lives. They took with them a satisfactory memory of the dastardly Drake Bouchard’s public humiliation. 

None was more pleased than Lattice and Thomas. As they made their way back to their hamlet and home, friends and neighbors bid them good tidings. Their stain, which all knew did not exist, was now a matter of public acknowledgment. It can now be affirmed that Lattice was and always is an honorable woman. 

Without a word to anyone, Tom hurried back to the waiting room. The constable sat on the bench waiting for him. 

“I want you to sit there,” Tom ordered the constable. “I am going to step out of the room, and I will be back before you can count to one hundred.”

Tom stepped outside the room. He summoned Brain for the healing device. It was immediately instaported to Tom. 

Tom stepped back into the room with the device.

“I only counted to thirty-two,” the constable said.

“I had no idea I could do it so fast,” Tom said.

“What is that?” The constable asked, nodding toward the device in Tom’s hands.

“It will repair your wrist,” Tom said. “Lay your hand and wrist flat on the bench.”

The constable laid his hand and wrist flat on the bench. Tom removed the bandage and wood splints. Tom started to place the device on the constable's wrist. The constable jerked his hand away.

“Ahhh!” The constable howled in pain. “What are you going to do?”

“Trust me,” Tom said. 

The constable laid his hand and wrist back on the bench. Tom placed the device on top of the constable’s wrist. The constable kept a suspicious eye on Tom and the device.

“You will feel a sting, not nearly as bad as a bee, and a tingling that might even tickle,” Tom said, “but don’t move. It will be over before you can count to thirty-two.”

The constable continued to appear nervous and uncomfortable. 

“Let me count for you,” Tom said. He counted to thirty, and three beeps came from the device. “I need to improve.”

Tom removed the device. “There you go.”

The constable rubbed his wrist and moved it around. “It is healed. How did you do that?”

“It is called advanced medicine,” Tom said.

“I don’t know what that means,” the constable said. “Are you a sorcerer?”

“No, I am a friend,” Tom assured. “Now, can you show me a back way out of here so nobody will notice?”

“Follow me,” the constable said. 

And he led Tom to an underground passage leading to a small door at the rear of the castle.

“I will be on my way,” Tom grinned. “Take care of yourself, and as a favor for healing your arm, see that no harm comes to Thomas’s or Lattice’s way.”

“Be assured,” the constable said and asked, “You are leaving without some sort of celebration?”

“Yes, I should leave without notice,” Tom said, and gripped his wrist in a gesture of friendship.

“Not so tight?” The constable quipped.

Tom hurried away. At times, he jogged. He came upon a small gorge and carefully made his way down its slope to the bottom. He turned completely around and scanned the surrounding landscape. He saw no one.

“Brain, Instaport me back to the pod,” Tom said and commanded, “Ready.”

Tom experienced a slight quiver followed by an instant of darkness, and he was safely standing in the secure surroundings of the pod’s Instaport station.

“Brain,” Tom said,  “Coffee, black, Panama, Geisha, thick white diner’s cup.”

He walked to the food replicator and retrieved the coffee he ordered. He walked forward and sat in the captain’s chair. He exhaled and relaxed.

“Brain, it is so good to be back. But I know from time to time, Lattice and Tom will cross my thoughts. I never thought I’d ever become attached to them.”

He took a slow sip of coffee and smiled. “I’m not returning to England until the mid-seventeenth century—that’s when coffee was introduced. I will never crave twelfth-century mead and ale.”

Brain said, “If you are ever nostalgic…”

“No!” Tom interrupted and sipped. “Let’s go back to my galaxy and my Earth.” 

“Processing and ready,” Brain said.

“At anytime,” Tom responded.

During the next minute, a few slight jolts occurred that hardly brought a ripple to the surface of the coffee in his cup.

“I don’t suppose we have a good tailwind on the way back?” Tom quipped.

“We will arrive on the fifth day,” Brain advised.

“I should have stayed for the feast at the great hall,” Tom said. “Roast peacock, breast of swan, poached capon, pickled pig's ear, and my personal favorite, roasted hedgehog with lamprey cooked in its own blood.”

“I detect a hint of humor,” Brain replied. “If you really relish them, those items can be replicated.”

“Yeah, Brain,” Tom said, “a little levity to ease my tension. However, a pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, and onions would hit the spot.”

“Any time you wish,” Brain said.

“Give me a couple of hours to wind down,” Tom said. “In the meantime, remove the MAS and get me some comfortable clothes. Lenin boxers don’t cut it.”

From Here To 1137 AD; Episode 58, Trial By Combat

This is episode fifty-eight of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD. If you would like to purchase, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback. 

Trial By Combat

The pattered echo of the squire’s steps grew louder until reaching the colonnade of the great hall. The squire entered the great hall holding a long wooden case.

“Marshal Constable,” the earl said to one of the men near the throne, “take charge of the battle by combat.”

A man in a black robe trimmed in fur walked to the center of the great hall. He motioned for Tom and Bouchard to approach and stand before him. 

As they slowly walked to the center of the great hall, Brian spoke telepathically to Tom. “The one challenged has the choice of swords. They are not equal. Bouchard knows which one is the better. One is well-made, sharp, light, and balanced. The other is shoddily made, dull, heavy, and not balanced.”

“Squire,” the marshal said, “bring the swords.” 

The marshal handed a white glove to Tom. Tom accepted it and dropped the glove at Bouchard’s feet. Bouchard picked it up and stuffed it into his belt.

“With the challenge offered and accepted, the rules will be given,” the marshal said. “This is battle by combat. You will fight until one of you concedes or is mortally wounded. If there is a concession with no mortal wound, the court will pass sentence. The winner may recommend what sentence will be passed. It will not be binding. Do you both understand and agree?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

The squire handed the wooden case to the marshal.

“Place your right hands on this case,” the marshal said.

Tom and Bouchard placed their hands on the case.

“Do you swear that you are not using any sort of trickery, witchcraft, or sorcery?”

“I do.”

“I do.”

The squire removed the lid from the case. Two identical ornate swords were inside.

“The one challenged may choose his sword,” the marshal said.

Grinning and with confidence, Bouchard laid his hand on the handle of the bottom sword and stepped back.

Tom stood motionless. The subjects in the galleries began to murmur. 

“You must take a sword,” the marshal said sternly. 

Tom removed the lid of the case from the squire. He placed it on top of the case.

“You must take a sword!” The marshals said.

“I know,” Tom said. He pointed at Bouchard’s sword. “I want that one.”

The marshal pulled out the sword. He extended it to Tom. Tom stared at Bouchard as if the sword was not there. The marshal, knowing that he held the sword in vain, dropped it at Tom’s feet.

Two long-stemmed pedestals holding one bowl each of fruit stood on each side of the throne. Tom walked to the one nearest him and removed an apple. He tossed it to Bouchard. 

And Bouchard, with a whisk of his sword, cleanly sliced the apple in half. He smirked. “Your throat will be next, peasant Bales.”

Tom removed another apple. He walked back to where his sword lay. He picked it up. He held the apple in his left hand and the sword in his right. He placed the blade of the sword against the apple. He pressed and sliced back and forth. The sword was not sharp enough to break through the skin of the apple. He rolled the apple across the floor and watched it come to a stop.

“Squire!” Tom called out. “Fetch me a hawking glove.”

The squire stood motionless.

“I beg Your Lordship this one small indulgence,” Tom said politely.

The earl flipped his hand, and the squire ran off, followed by his echo.

Bouchard strutted by the gallery of nobles who stood in the colonnade. They cheered and shouted encouragement to him as he passed. He held his head back and his chin high as if to guzzle in full the adulation of all. Everyone desired to curry his favor, for all knew he might be next in line to fill the role of the next earl. After all, the passing of the present obese, flabby, and aging count appeared near.

He moved away from the admiring nobles and continued to walk back and forth. As he did, he practiced slicing and thrusting moves with the sword. He added small hops and modified carole dance movements to entertain the crowd while mocking Tom. 

“Any time you are ready,” Bouchard said.

“I would like to wait for the hawking glove,” Tom said, smiling at his performance. “I assume we have disregarded the rules on trickery.” Tom stuck the handle of the sword on the stone floor, and it fell off. He then held the sword in both hands and snapped it in two. “Go ahead and amuse yourself, swine.”

With sword pointed, Bouchard slowly moved toward Tom. He quickly thrust forward. Tom moved quickly to avoid the tip of the sword.

“That was my slowest thrust,” Bouchard said.

“If I told you that was my quickest avoidance, I would be lying. However, correct me if I’m wrong, we did suspend the rules. And does that not include things beyond trickery?”

“Indeed,” Bouchard said. And next, he tried a draw cut maneuver, but Tom backed away, past the sharp edge of the sword. 

“I know what you are thinking,” Tom said, “How does he do that? The answer is, I know what you are thinking. Thus, I can anticipate your next move.” And Tom smirked.

Bouchard turned his back to Tom. He started to take a step away, but quickly whirled around and made a thrust and a draw cut move that sounded like a harsh wind passing through a barren tree. Tom avoided each maneuver easily. 

“Where is that hawking glove?” Tom feigned impatience, digging his fists into his sides. 

Bouchard moved around like a stalking beast, taking deep breaths. 

“Remember the days of your youth,” Tom said. “When you were so much more agile and quicker. And now it seems to have escaped you.”

“I am as quick and agile as I have ever been,” Bouchard said.

“Then why am I not bleeding?” Tom said.

“You cannot avoid the cold steel of my sword indefinitely,” Bouchard said. “You will tire, and I shall prevail. I will lick your blood from my sword.”

“What’s that I hear?” Tom said. “You best be about it, because I hear the squire’s return.”

Bouchard’s head jerked at hearing the echo of the squire’s feet patter against the stone floor.

The squire entered the great hall with the hawking glove.

“Quick, lad,” Tom said, “toss it.”

The squire tossed the hawking glove, and Tom caught it. He slipped it on his left hand as Bouchard advanced.

Next, Bouchard thrusted and attempted as many as two dozen draw cuts, hoping to slice Tom’s flesh. With the assistance of MAS, Tom was able to avoid some and others he parried with the hawking glove.

Indeed, there was entertainment, but not what was expected. The gallery of nobles applauded Bouchard’s attempts. The gallery of peasants restrained their approval, although it became noticeably troubling for the nobility. 

Bouchard backed away. He walked to the far end of the great hall. He stared up at the light piercing through the cathedral openings above the balcony of the peasants. Faces mocked and sneered at him, yet they remained silent in fear of the earl and the other nobility. 

He let out a primal growl. No one had ever heard a sound like that before. The great hall fell silent. Only the breeze beyond the cathedral openings was heard. 

Bouchard heard an eerie, rapid thumping. His eyes darted, searching the great hall for that ghostly sound. His eyes settled when he realized it was his own heartbeat that he was hearing.

With heavy breathing, he addressed Tom. “I will prevail. And when I do, I will slice you open, and every nostril in this room will be filled with the foul odor of your bowels. I promise that.”

Tom stepped forward. He glared into Bouchard’s sunken eyes and spoke firmly and clearly. “The only odor from a bowel in this hall will be that of your own duty in your braies.”

Bouchard charged like a madman, wildly swinging his sword. 

A sadness and disappointment fell over the spirits of the nobility. For they knew that even if Bouchard had managed to defeat and execute Tom, he would have lost favor. His manhood would become greatly diminished.

A ferocious downward draw cut came from the tightened grip and gnashing teeth of Bouchard. Tom sidestepped it. The sword struck against the stone floor. Tom grabbed the blade with his hand, wearing the hawking glove. Bouchard tried to withdraw the sword, but Tom held fast to it. Bouchard pulled and was not able to dislodge the sword from Tom’s grip. He panicked and grabbed with both hands, but still could not dislodge the sword. It was as if the sword had been grafted into the stone floor. 

Tom stiffened his right hand. He quickly drew back and came forward with a slap across Bouchard’s face. Bouchard released his grip of the sword and stumbled backwards to the floor.

Tom quickly advanced and stood over Bouchard.

Defeated, Bouchard rested on one hand.

“This is the sword I want,” Tom said, holding its point to Bouchard’s forehead.

“On your knees, Bouchard,” Tom commanded.

Bouchard rose to his knees. “Have mercy, please, Master.”

Tom looked with disgusting pity at Bouchard’s face. “A brave, mighty, and good man would at least say, ‘make it quickly.’”

“Make it quickly, please,” Bouchard begged.

“For god’s sake, Bales!” The earl called out, “Make it quickly, make it slowly, but make it. I can’t bear this cur’s cowardly drivel.” 

“Run him through!” Many sounded off from the peasants’ and nobles’ gallery.

Tom turned toward Thomas, who stood near the wall and next to Lattice. “Come here.”

Thomas handed his torch to Lattice. He walked forward and stood next to Tom. 

“If you wish,” Tom said, “you may put this man to death. It is simple. It takes a stroke slightly below the jaw. The move is like slitting the throat of a pig.”

“It would bring great pleasure,” Thomas said. “It is nothing I care to live with.”

“Thank you, young master,” Bouchard said with theatrical remorse.

Tom motioned for Thomas to return to his place.

“Lattice,” Tom called. “Come here.”

Lattice handed both torches to Thomas. She slowly moved toward Tom and stood beside him. He handed the sword to her. She pressed it against Bouchard’s neck with only enough force to dent the skin. 

Bouchard trembled. He closed his eyes, and tears cascaded from beneath his eyelids. 

“Confess before I slice your neck,” Lattice said resolutely and with a single tear rolling over her cheek.

Bouchard opened his eyes and looked up at Lattice. His voice quivered. “As my last breath, I did ravish you. I had wantonly coveted you from long ago, but it was Geoffrey Bales whom you loved, and he loved you.” She paused and pressed harder. “I pity you and the breath you breathe in and exhale.” She handed the sword back to Tom. “You are the one who has bested this man. You should be the one honored to bring about his death.”

Tom accepted the sword. He held it against Bouchard’s cheek and swiped. Bouchard shrieked. It sounded like a woman’s scream.

Tom turned to the earl. “My Lordship, I beg that this wretched man be spared. However, he should lead the next charge in defense of your dominion.”

“And he be recalled as a hero?” The earl questioned.

“No matter how he dies, he dies,” Tom said. “Bouchard will always be remembered for this moment. Let the foes of this land imagine they have slain a loyal nobleman—and you and those after you will laugh at your enemy for unwittingly performing a desired service.”

The earl pondered Tom’s words. He nodded. “So it shall be. Arrest Bouchard and hold him until the next battle.”

From Here To 1137 AD; Episode 57, The Hearing

This is episode fifty-seven of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD.

If you would like to purchase, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback. 

The Hearing

Tom followed the constable. They entered the great hall. Murmuring rippled through the crowd. The peasants’ gallery remained quiet, yet they rustled nervously. 

The constable pointed to a spot about ten feet in front of the dais. “Kneel, and stand at the order of the earl.”

Tom knelt with his head bowed and waited for the earl’s order. Murmuring broke out. 

“Stand,” the earl said. 

On each side of the earl, two guards dressed in red and black uniforms stood stolidly. They held lances stiff-armed to their side. The lances had metal tips. Below the tips hung the earl’s family coat of arms. 

The earl slouched on his throne. He was a stout, blubbery man. He wore a purple velvet chaperon trimmed in gold and a red robe trimmed in gold. A green and yellow silk jacket and trousers fit tightly beneath the robe. He breathed heavily from fleshy, wide-spread nostrils. His beard was well-trimmed and glistened. 

“You are the suitor, correct?” the earl said.

“Yes, my lord,” Tom said.

The earl looked to his left. He flicked his hand at the priest. “Let him swear.” 

The priest in a brown hooded robe approached Tom. He held a cross close to Tom. “Place your right hand on this holy relic and swear by it.”

Tom placed his hand on the cross. “I swear by God Almighty that the testimony I am about to give is what I believe to be true, so help me God.” He removed his hand from the cross. And the priest stepped away. 

The earl leaned forward and smirked. “State who you are, your rank, and from where you hail.”

“Your lordship, my name is Thomas Bales. I am a free man. I am not from Northumberland. I hail from a small village of no account, far south of here. I have recently served in the service of our king in Normandy as a courier. I have in my possession a passport with the king's seal to verify who I am.”

Tom reached inside his jacket and pulled out a rolled parchment. He held it out to the earl. “This is my passport for your inspection, my lordship.”

A long-faced man next to the earl stepped forward and grabbed the rolled parchment. He handed it to the earl. The earl unrolled it and read it. He handed it to the long-faced man. He examined it and returned it to Tom.

“A king’s passport,” the earl said. “Are you close to the king?”

“He knows me only by my service,” Tom said, “nothing else.”

“You may now proceed with your complaint,” the earl sneered. 

“First of all, and most importantly, I wish to express how it is beyond any honor that I could ever imagine that I am here before you today. Your wisdom and sense of justice are renowned in all the land.” 

“That pleased my ear,” the earl smiled. “Proceed.”

Tom smiled politely, and his face slowly converted to a more serious demeanor. “I do not take lightly what I am about to utter. Because it is before God and Your Lordship, a regal and just man, that I am about to speak. I believe the Nobleman, Drake Bouchard, with malice and murderous intent, goaded my kindred fellow, Geoffrey Bales, into a sword fight in this great hall. And I believe that Drake Bouchard deceived Your Lordship in pertinent facts. Drake Bouchard, to humiliate Geoffrey Bales and his wife Lattice, ravished Lattice, the wife of Geoffrey Bales. Geoffrey sought satisfaction for Bouchard’s dastardly deed in this court. Geoffrey, being ignorant of the proceedings and with no one available to give him counsel, brought the matter to this court. Unaware that such a charge to a noble can only be settled by the sword, he unwittingly came to this court expecting to be heard fairly. Bouchard is known as an expert swordsman—a master. Even a skilled swordsman could not compete with Bouchard. Bouchard’s actions were no less than murder. Bales, a farmer and peasant wool merchant, could never have prevailed. He was a mere lamb led to slaughter. As for the violation of Bales’ wife, Bales was hoping for the outcome that would force Bouchard to confess. All Geoffrey Bales had was hope. Bouchard had experience, skill, cunning, and a procurator’s knowledge of the law and courts. I rest, Your Lordship.”

“What satisfaction do you seek if judgment is rendered to your advantage?” The earl asked.

“If Bouchard does not confess his dastardly deeds,” Tom said. “I petition the court that we will settle the matter with swords.”

“Bouchard!” The earl called. “I have been informed you wish to bring charges and refute any claims lodged.”

“I do, Your Lordship.” Bouchard stepped from the gallery of the nobles.

“Speak freely without swearing,” the earl said. “A nobleman’s word is his sacrosanct.”

Bouchard confidently strolled a few feet to the side of Tom. 

“Thank you, Your Lordship,” Bouchard said arrogantly, lifting his chin. “The man who just spoke before you, not more than two days ago, entered my property without permission. He was asked to leave and was only permitted to return if invited. At that time, he began to level a volley of insults directed at your noble servant. These vile words were before my servants and tenants. It is well established that no one in thought or voice should speak ill of nobility. It is a crime dealt with by the severest of punishments. He continued to bear false accusations against me concerning the woman, Lattice, wife of Thomas Bales.”

“Stop,” the earl held up his hand and turned to Tom. “Bales, is this all true, or do you wish to bring forth witnesses to refute what Bouchard claims?”

“Of all things Bouchard, in the past, has imagined and exaggerated, this testimony is true in every detail and word.”

“I see,” the earl said, “allow me to confer with my advisors before sentencing.”

“Your Lordship,” Bouchard interrupted.

“Yes, Bouchard,” the earl lifted his head in a gesture of attentiveness.

“This man came here for the purpose of settling this dispute by striking swords. If it pleases Your Lordship, I beg Your Lordship, he not be bothered with any further deliberation. Allow Bales and I to settle it in the fashion he has prescribed.”

The earl turned to his right and looked at his advisor. The advisor nodded almost imperceptibly.  

“Swords it will be!” The earl called out as if celebrating. “Do my subjects find agreement with such an arrangement?”

The nobility applauded and nodded to one another approvingly. “Here, here,” they all shouted. 

The peasants' gallery remained silent. 

Lattice and Thomas confidently glanced at one another, yet anxiety paralyzed them.

“One last assurance,” the earl said. “Is this agreeable to both of you?”

Tom nodded solemnly. 

Bouchard smirked at Tom and turned to the earl, smiling politely. “Your Lordship, this is most satisfactory.”

The earl chuckled. “I want more than satisfaction, I want to be entertained.”

“No man has ever insulted me as this man has,” Bouchard said. “It will stand as a warning for all the peasants from hence.”

“And when I prevail,” Tom said, “you will be known as long as your name is uttered as a villain, violenter compressit, leogere, murderer, hedge-born, churl.”

The royal spectators gasped. Tittering erupted among the peasants. 

“Enough!” The earl said, and the great hall fell silent.

“Squire Wesley!” The earl called out.

“Yes, My Lordship,” a boy’s teenage voice replied.

“Fetch the dueling swords,” the earl said. 

A squire bolted from among six younger squires standing around the throne. The patter of his steps smacked against the stone floor and echoed off the stone walls. He made his way through the nobles in the colonnade, and the echo followed him until a door opened and closed.

The noble subjects whispered and waited for the return of the squire with the dueling swords.