Incorporating dramatic scenes from both volumes of the Thurstan Wildblood Chronicle - THE DEVIL’S KNIGHT and THE DARK ARMY - as illustrated by the seamstresses of 12th century England ...
I’m hoping the fact that any scraping done here has only come at the expense of unnamed artists and artisans who are now long, long dead.
I trust folks will already know and understand that NO AI has been used to create the text snippets. These are all direct excerpts from my two novels.
‘At last, God has shown his hand,’ Bertrand said.
Thurstan was hesitant to cast doubt on that because happy soldiers were effective soldiers, and their own struggle was far from over yet. But it was difficult.
In all previous wars, his ears had rung with prayers, blessings and offerings to the Lord. Every force he’d marched with had done so supposedly because God willed it. And yet, horrors had always followed. In Ireland, his master, Hugh de Lacy had brutalised the populace of two towns in particular, Killeigh and Fore, wreaking even more violence than the Viking, Turgeis, who had marauded there centuries earlier. Thurstan had never understood, even then, as an impressionable lad, how the God his gentle mother had spoken of could even allow it, let alone permit it in His own name. Why hadn’t He smitten those responsible? They’d even burned the abbey there, and yet Hugh de Lacy became Lord of Meath. No heavenly power struck him, or cursed his loved ones, as it had in response to Thurstan’s own barbarities...
They reached the edge of the roof and saw that the only way to the next one was by jumping the gap between them. It was five feet or so. A healthy adult could do it easily, but De Verneuil – half his body slicked with blood, his face gleaming with sweat – shook his head.
From all directions now, they were coming. Black-clad figures advancing over the adjacent rooftops. And then Thurstan heard the clangour of steel on steel, and looked ahead to see Bertrand and Pandulf engaged with the enemy, blades flashing with moonlight as two more Assassins danced around them. Even as he watched, a third elite warrior vaulted up from a hatch about thirty yards to their left.
‘Leave me,’ De Verneuil croaked. ‘I’m not finished yet, but you have to go...’
Thurstan ambled back into their camp. It occurred to him that he might have company there. It was too easy to picture Bishop Belphagor, that huge, humped, brutish beast, draped in blood-red robes, his crimson mitre tilted atop a face more hoglike than human, sitting across the flames from him.
Perhaps those flames would blaze bright blue as they did in the ancient stories.
Perhaps the demon would grin, amused that his thrall thought he might be saved.
‘You’ll aways be mine, Wildblood,’ the bestial voice would intone …
‘On what grounds do you hold me?’ Richard demanded.
‘Several, Lord King,’ Bishop Otto replied casually. ‘The charge sheet is long.’
‘You overreach yourself, your grace. As a lawfully anointed king, I’m answerable only to God.’
‘Our gracious lord Henry, the Emperor of the Romans, is concerned that it is God you’ve offended against most.’
Several steps behind the prosecutor, positioned high above everyone else in the imperial audience chamber at Speyer, reclining on the most ostentatious throne Richard had ever seen – an enormous chair covered with cushions and a rich cloth depicting leopards, lions, castellated towers and other heraldic symbols of House Hohenstaufen – was the yawning figure of Emperor Henry, the sixth of that name.
In what capacity Henry was truly an emperor, Richard had never known. Most of his conquests appeared to have been made within the borders of his own lands. Of course, they didn’t just call him ‘Emperor’, but ‘Emperor of the Romans’. He was certainly King of Germany, though the grander-sounding title had originally been coined to ensure the great Frankish king, Charlemagne, took seriously his role as protector of all western Christians, and it was handed down afterwards. It had sat comfortably on Henry’s father, the great Frederick Barbarossa, who even now towered above everyone on a magnificent stained-glass window, a flame-haired knight wielding a mighty sword ...
‘Whatever happens, follow my lead,’ Thurstan whispered. ‘I draw steel, you do too.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ the lad replied.
But five yards further on, they halted, close enough now to see the sentries better: their misshapen forms, the broken sticks poking from their mail coat sleeves, the matted straw where their faces should be.
‘Mannequins?’ the younger knight breathed.
Thurstan felt better. If these people had erected stuffed effigies as guards, it indicated they weren’t well endowed with fighting men. He looked past the sentries, sighting canvas structures another fifty or so yards on. But there was no movement and no sound.
‘Hello?’ Thurstan called.
‘What’re you doing?’ Pandulf hissed.
‘Being friendly,’ Thurstan replied. ‘We’ve come as far in as strangers are allowed to without permission.’ He raised his voice again. ‘We’re armed but we come in peace. May we enter?’
There was still no response, his voice echoing in the high, spacious forest ...
By the sounds of it, more than one pack of hounds had been set loose. None seemed to be perilously close, but the barking and yowling came at them from numerous directions. The Siegfrieders were clearly sweeping eastward. There were also footmen in the woods to the north; the fugitives could hear them shouting to one another, a crashing and crackling as clubs and quarterstaffs smashed through frozen undergrowth. When hooves thundered to the east again, they dropped to a crouch. Twenty or so horsemen, dark cloaks billowing, careered past them. The only solution was to head south again. But running blind, and now being whipped by branches, was disheartening beyond belief. Especially when they heard voices in front of them again, and saw yet more flickering torches. They swung away… to be confronted by a great edifice standing black and silent in the woods.
‘The Malleus,’ Melinda said, breathless and sweaty.
The Malleus Daemoniorum, Thurstan thought. The ‘Hammer of Demons’. A fancy and provocative name, given that the enemy it will mostly be turned against are the English.
Though perhaps today it would house those enemies instead.
More voices sounded, this time from closer. ‘Follow me,’ Thurstan whispered...
Thurstan was still in his peasant rags, but at least equipped with a shield and, of course, Vigamar. The Siegfrieders poured up the steps and through the shredded remnants of those already fallen, longswords twirling. Thurstan didn’t know how many sell-swords he killed in those next few moments. One after another loomed into his vision and died screaming, throat slashed to the gullet or helmet cloven in twain. Thurstan must have made a promising target himself, unmailed in the midst of mayhem, but the red rage was on him. He slew and slew like a man possessed ...
THE DEVIL'S KNIGHT
BELPHAGOR'S FEAST
The knight glanced along the table, where, by an oily, greenish light cast from a succession of ornate candelabra, he saw that similar delectable treats were being fallen on with gusto by innumerable other guests. Thurstan peered at those closest, but they were indistinct, too shaggy with unkempt hair, too dirty and slobbery, too buried snouts-first in their succulent repast.
‘Eat! Drink!’ Bishop Belphagor said in friendly but domineering fashion. ‘Be one with us!’
‘Your grace, I’m —’
‘It is my responsibility,’ the bishop said, ‘to warn you that this most glorious endeavour is doomed to fail.’ He’d adopted an ominous tone, yet his hefty, hoglike features remained indifferent. ‘Your masters have assembled the finest fighting force that ever left Christian lands. The pick of the knights of Europe and the Levant are gathered here. Even your common men are unmatched in their zeal and discipline. And yet this mighty force, this army of God is already fragmenting...’
‘Your grace, I’m —’
‘It is my responsibility,’ the bishop said, ‘to warn you that this most glorious endeavour is doomed to fail.’ He’d adopted an ominous tone, yet his hefty, hoglike features remained indifferent. ‘Your masters have assembled the finest fighting force that ever left Christian lands. The pick of the knights of Europe and the Levant are gathered here. Even your common men are unmatched in their zeal and discipline. And yet this mighty force, this army of God is already fragmenting...’
BATTLE OF ARSUF
He felled the first two with a
single stroke of his longsword. A third and fourth drove at him, but he severed
both spear shafts with a backhand, slamming the boss of his shield into the
teeth of one, the full length of his blade into another. More advanced from left and
right, from front and behind. He spun in a blur, fending, parrying. Where his
shield failed, his mail proved adequate, swords and axes failing to hew, and
always in response, he launched steel into mouths or gullets, smashed faces,
hacked crania open to the brains. They fell like sticks, the air misted red,
riven by screams of horror. More and more of them lunged in, but Thurstan slew
and slew, clearing gore-soaked paths on all sides ...
GOD STOOD BY
Thurstan was hesitant to cast doubt on that because happy soldiers were effective soldiers, and their own struggle was far from over yet. But it was difficult.
In all previous wars, his ears had rung with prayers, blessings and offerings to the Lord. Every force he’d marched with had done so supposedly because God willed it. And yet, horrors had always followed. In Ireland, his master, Hugh de Lacy had brutalised the populace of two towns in particular, Killeigh and Fore, wreaking even more violence than the Viking, Turgeis, who had marauded there centuries earlier. Thurstan had never understood, even then, as an impressionable lad, how the God his gentle mother had spoken of could even allow it, let alone permit it in His own name. Why hadn’t He smitten those responsible? They’d even burned the abbey there, and yet Hugh de Lacy became Lord of Meath. No heavenly power struck him, or cursed his loved ones, as it had in response to Thurstan’s own barbarities...
ASSASSINS
They reached the edge of the roof and saw that the only way to the next one was by jumping the gap between them. It was five feet or so. A healthy adult could do it easily, but De Verneuil – half his body slicked with blood, his face gleaming with sweat – shook his head.
From all directions now, they were coming. Black-clad figures advancing over the adjacent rooftops. And then Thurstan heard the clangour of steel on steel, and looked ahead to see Bertrand and Pandulf engaged with the enemy, blades flashing with moonlight as two more Assassins danced around them. Even as he watched, a third elite warrior vaulted up from a hatch about thirty yards to their left.
‘Leave me,’ De Verneuil croaked. ‘I’m not finished yet, but you have to go...’
FORTRESS OF EVIL
When they’d brought her along the passage the first time, she’d been playing dead. With eyes firmly closed, she hadn’t seen through the bars into any of the adjoining cells. Now she did and it was an effort not to scream with horror.
In the first one, a nude corpse was suspended upside down over a brass tub. It was difficult to tell what sex it was, for so many body parts had been chopped away. Congealed gore streaked the pitiful form and filled the tub almost to the brim. In the next one, a gruesomely blackened body was strapped to a wheel. Underneath this one lay the charred relics of a fire. All along the passage, on either side, it was the same, the remnants of tortured, eviscerated humans – invariably they were young people, both male and female – fastened into painful and degrading contraptions. It was perhaps a small mercy that most, if not all, appeared to be dead...THE DARK ARMY
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MINE
Perhaps those flames would blaze bright blue as they did in the ancient stories.
Perhaps the demon would grin, amused that his thrall thought he might be saved.
‘You’ll aways be mine, Wildblood,’ the bestial voice would intone …
THE ROYAL HOSTAGE
‘On what grounds do you hold me?’ Richard demanded.
‘Several, Lord King,’ Bishop Otto replied casually. ‘The charge sheet is long.’
‘You overreach yourself, your grace. As a lawfully anointed king, I’m answerable only to God.’
‘Our gracious lord Henry, the Emperor of the Romans, is concerned that it is God you’ve offended against most.’
Several steps behind the prosecutor, positioned high above everyone else in the imperial audience chamber at Speyer, reclining on the most ostentatious throne Richard had ever seen – an enormous chair covered with cushions and a rich cloth depicting leopards, lions, castellated towers and other heraldic symbols of House Hohenstaufen – was the yawning figure of Emperor Henry, the sixth of that name.
In what capacity Henry was truly an emperor, Richard had never known. Most of his conquests appeared to have been made within the borders of his own lands. Of course, they didn’t just call him ‘Emperor’, but ‘Emperor of the Romans’. He was certainly King of Germany, though the grander-sounding title had originally been coined to ensure the great Frankish king, Charlemagne, took seriously his role as protector of all western Christians, and it was handed down afterwards. It had sat comfortably on Henry’s father, the great Frederick Barbarossa, who even now towered above everyone on a magnificent stained-glass window, a flame-haired knight wielding a mighty sword ...
MEN OF STRAW
‘Whatever happens, follow my lead,’ Thurstan whispered. ‘I draw steel, you do too.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ the lad replied.
But five yards further on, they halted, close enough now to see the sentries better: their misshapen forms, the broken sticks poking from their mail coat sleeves, the matted straw where their faces should be.
‘Mannequins?’ the younger knight breathed.
Thurstan felt better. If these people had erected stuffed effigies as guards, it indicated they weren’t well endowed with fighting men. He looked past the sentries, sighting canvas structures another fifty or so yards on. But there was no movement and no sound.
‘Hello?’ Thurstan called.
‘What’re you doing?’ Pandulf hissed.
‘Being friendly,’ Thurstan replied. ‘We’ve come as far in as strangers are allowed to without permission.’ He raised his voice again. ‘We’re armed but we come in peace. May we enter?’
There was still no response, his voice echoing in the high, spacious forest ...
THE HAMMER OF DEMONS
By the sounds of it, more than one pack of hounds had been set loose. None seemed to be perilously close, but the barking and yowling came at them from numerous directions. The Siegfrieders were clearly sweeping eastward. There were also footmen in the woods to the north; the fugitives could hear them shouting to one another, a crashing and crackling as clubs and quarterstaffs smashed through frozen undergrowth. When hooves thundered to the east again, they dropped to a crouch. Twenty or so horsemen, dark cloaks billowing, careered past them. The only solution was to head south again. But running blind, and now being whipped by branches, was disheartening beyond belief. Especially when they heard voices in front of them again, and saw yet more flickering torches. They swung away… to be confronted by a great edifice standing black and silent in the woods.
‘The Malleus,’ Melinda said, breathless and sweaty.
The Malleus Daemoniorum, Thurstan thought. The ‘Hammer of Demons’. A fancy and provocative name, given that the enemy it will mostly be turned against are the English.
Though perhaps today it would house those enemies instead.
More voices sounded, this time from closer. ‘Follow me,’ Thurstan whispered...
A MAN POSSESSED
Thurstan was still in his peasant rags, but at least equipped with a shield and, of course, Vigamar. The Siegfrieders poured up the steps and through the shredded remnants of those already fallen, longswords twirling. Thurstan didn’t know how many sell-swords he killed in those next few moments. One after another loomed into his vision and died screaming, throat slashed to the gullet or helmet cloven in twain. Thurstan must have made a promising target himself, unmailed in the midst of mayhem, but the red rage was on him. He slew and slew like a man possessed ...