A Tale of Two Houses

Crumbling Castles, Chapter 14

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Gilbert drummed his fingers on the stone in front of him. “Where ought I to begin the story? For it stretches into the distant past, and I would not like to bore you.”

Tiffany laughed, a lighter, merrier laugh than he had heard from her before. “Bore us? In this place? A story would be a reprieve, and besides, we have naught else to do until your letter is sent and the response brought back.”

Gilbert watched Ralph’s eye wander to a far corner as the archer said, “I could think of something.” He looked back at Gilbert “But it was my idea to tell this tale, was it not?”

“It was . . . but it is lengthy.”

Just then, Ansel came running back, the letter and a vessel of sealing wax in his hand. “Mighty hard to find anything in that bag of yours, m’lord. You’ve got about half a million little trinkets and papers in there.”

Gilbert frowned to fight the smile that he was tempted to let slip. “Ansel, you begin to speak like Shaft.” He glanced up, not wanting to offend, but there was a twinkle in Ralph’s eye and a smile on his lips. “Mind your speech, lest I set aside all else to correct it.” His frown deepened in real displeasure, but he forced his tone to remain mild. “I would have you keep out of that bag. I will fetch what we need from there henceforth.”

Surprise flitted across the boy's face, but he nodded. “Shall I seal the letter, then?”

Gilbert smiled wryly. “Yes, before I am tempted again to add to it or rip it to shreds.”

“We can't have that!” Ralph put in quickly. “Seal it, lad, and make haste.”

Ralph turned his eyes back on Gilbert and he felt his face heat under the scrutiny even before Ralph said in a lower tone, “And then you will put this back yourself, I assume?”

“I will.”

It would seem a strange command to them, but then, it was one. At any other time, his page, or squire as Ansel now was, would have nearly free access to his things in order to better serve him. But these were not ordinary times.

“Very well,” Ralph said, his deep voice at nearly a whisper. “Another time will do.”

Gilbert dropped his eyes to his hands for an instant, feeling the others’ eyes on him. Ralph’s probing and shrewd, Tiff’s bright with curiosity and her usual distrust, and Walt’s unusually pensive gaze. Why did they have to be so aware? But then, a small space with few people made secrets hard to keep.

He forced a light chuckle. “I thought you wanted a story.”

“Very well,” Ralph answered. “Begin with the ancient history you spoke of. I daresay it will rain again by tonight and we will be thankful for a long tale.”

The gleam in Ralph’s blue eyes warned him that the other subject would come up again, but he would take any reprieve.

“Ancient history,” he murmured, watching the candlelight flicker before him. “For that we must begin nigh four-hundred years ago, when my kin first came to these shores.

“They were Normans, proud and swift to turn to the sword to bend others to their will. They warred with the Saxons that remained here and reduced them to villeins They ruled with an iron fist over their people and increased their lands constantly. Many Normans, it is true, intermarried with the Saxons and over time brought about a level of integration in society, but not my kin. They saw their bloodline as sacred and their sons spurned Saxon daughters as brides. Until a peasant lass caught the eye of Roger the Sacrilegious.”

Here Tiffany interrupted with a laugh, “What kind of a name is that?”

Her question brought a sudden smile to his face. “I am told he was a merry fellow and not the most pious. Besides, he was the fifth Roger among the cousins of his day and they had need to distinguish them somehow. The moniker never faded. Even when brought to his knees before the Almighty at last, he could not be satisfactorily tamed by the Church.”

“And why was that?” Ralph asked, though needlessly. If he had not guessed exactly, he was close enough. The roguish twinkle in his eye indicated he could sympathize with the reprobate Christian, Roger Irving.

“It seems,” Gilbert said dryly, “That the priests cannot appreciate a different strain of faith than their own, for they branded him a traitor to Christ and cast him out of the Church for his refusal to bow the knee to the Saints and his laughter at certain rituals they hold sacred. He argued that it was not men we were called to serve, but Christ—yet they would not hear him. But I am ahead of myself. He was deemed merely a careless youth before he saw the lass, impious but no threat. She was his downfall.”

~~~

The way Gilbert’s face flushed with excitement when he talked of his faith intrigued Tiffany. It was different than Ralph’s quiet, unshakeable faith. Gilbert’s was alive and seemed to run freely to mingle with whatever he spoke of.

He was a natural storyteller, and she found herself caught up in the drama he was unfolding. He told of how Roger had stolen his bride and been hunted by her brother, an escaped villein, until at last they faced off first against each other and then calling on the Captain of Salvation to sustain, turned together against a darker power and mutual enemy. How the Saxon had won his freedom but nearly lost his life, and became a brother and captain of men-at-arms to the Norman knight. They and their sons fought side by side through the Third Crusade, and the Saxon line was at last raised wholly from the dust and granted lands as Lords of Éochythe but returned from battle to find their places filled by greedy men who crushed those under them and pandered to the brother of the king . . . a man detested by all who loved what was right.

Gilbert’s voice grew hushed as he told of the deaths of Roger and his Saxon brother, then rose again as he followed their sons through their fight for their lands, their freedom, and the people entrusted to their care. They had a time of peace after the king, Richard Coeur-de-Lion, returned, but when his brother ascended the throne following his death they rose again with the nobles in defense of their people, risking outlawry and death to bring justice to their corner of England’s soil.

Then his tale grew dark. Feuds rose between their descendants and the houses turned against each other. Few kept to their faith, turning after gold and the pleasures of the world instead, and those that did were persecuted and silenced by their brothers. From time to time, lords would rise of the two houses that were inclined to be neighborly and seek one another’s good, but at last it became a blood feud that only one man stood between.

Gilbert sighed heavily when he reached this point in his story. “My father was no saint,” he said slowly. “He was the youngest of three and despised his brother and the lords of Éochythe. My eldest uncle, another Roger, was a brute and encouraged my father to make his own way in the world unless he wished to live under my uncle’s thumb—for the Irving holdings were his birthright and my father knew from childhood that he would never share in them as an equal. He picked up the feud with the neighboring castle and made it his own, until at last, when its lord was away, he took it for his own. My other uncle, Sir Ranulf, was fighting in France at the time, else he would have endeavored to stop it, for he was ever a faithful and quiet man and had tried to mend the rift between the two houses. We were kin, if distant, and had no need to fight, he would argue. But when he returned, he found ruin there instead of friends.

“My father never stopped his quarrelsome ways, and when he was mortally wounded in battle when I was a young lad, my uncle stepped in as a father to me. He taught me the Scriptures and our history, and showed by example that leadership is the highest form of sacrifice, for a lord—or any leader of men—has a responsibility to look after those under his care as the Lord tends those in His. Sir Ranulf would be the first to pay the debt to the fallen house of Éochythe were it possible, but they were all killed.” Gilbert’s voice shook. “At my father’s behest.”

Sudden tears stung her eyes, and she turned quickly and walked away. If Gilbert had more to say, her action had cut him off. She knew they were watching, but it mattered not. Let them think what they would; she had no need to explain her actions to them. She swept into the narrow passage that led to the next level and shuddered at the dark. A swift glance back showed Gilbert’s perplexed, thoughtful face, then it vanished as she continued on her way.

They were always watching her. Always waiting for her secrets. Secrets like what? Not like theirs. Ralph’s story had made her sick; Gilbert’s made her homesick.

In the cave above, she pressed her back to the cool stone and looked out at the grey and green of the marsh shrouded in the clouds heavy with more spring rains waiting to fall and shift the treacherous paths of the marsh. The solid ground would disappear as the waters swelled and they would have to navigate by news paths.

Every path in her life had flooded too. How she envied those with firm footing!

A Note from the Author

I am inexcusably late in getting this chapter done, and all my waiting subscribers have my most profound apologies. I can only say that I should make a point of putting life in the stocks when it gets too crazy so I can keep up with my writing, but it’s hard to keep in one place long enough to do so.

Anyway, chapter fourteen is finally here. I hope you like it! As always, like, share, and subscribe if you enjoyed this chapter! Comment what you think of it! I love to hear from my readers.

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Until next time,

Blessings!

~Lexi