Copyright © 2008 Ric Wasley
All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.
Winter 1196.
Wind lashes the gray walls of a stone and wooden fortress that clings to the top of an outcropping of a low range of rolling hills. Parts of the fortress castle look raw and new as if pulled from the earth and forest yesterday, and parts of it have been.
But deep within the fortress walls is a keep which dates back to Roman times.
This is not unusual. In the one hundred and thirty years since Duke William, now remembered as "The Conqueror", began the building of a chain of Norman forts to hold his spoils, his war lords have made liberal use of legacies of other conquerors from earlier ages. Thus the castle's keep in the heart of Yorkshire, England, is no different than a dozen others, except in one respect--its lord.
A cold, bone-chilling rain drips from the keep's narrow windows.
A lone figure sits in the great hall before a fire that has burned down to glowing red embers. The figure sits brooding in a large carved walnut chair. He slumps forward, each gnarled hand resting on the arms of the chair.
An ember flares up for a moment and illuminates his face. He stares at his reflection in a silver goblet that rests on a small table next to the chair.
The face that stares back at him is that of an old man--but he is only thirty-five.
White scars crisscross his face. One long, vicious looking scar stands out from the rest. It runs from his hairline down to his jaw, crossing his left eye. Or what remains of where his left eye used to be. It is now a vacant socket, the legacy of a slashing backhanded cut left by a curved blade of Damascus steel. Though almost three years old, the deep scar still pains him. Especially on cold damp nights--like tonight.
As the pain becomes unbearable, he reaches for the goblet next to him. But his fingers are crippled and clumsy. They will not close around the cup, and it slips from his fingers. A strangled oath of frustration escapes his lips.