[Dark Ages] The Devil's Blood
Feb. 6th, 2011 04:47 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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writing_shadows I never speak of the first time I drank blood, for I swear it was The Devil’s, and even my peers would shun me.
I was fifteen at the time, an imperious youth that galloped daily for miles around my family’s seat of Tunbridge. The de Montfort rebellion had not yet occurred and the country of the Weald was at relative peace, though we all knew the Red Earl viewed our lands with greed-filled eyes.
I rode hard out of the castle, south across the bridge itself, sending serfs sprawling under my charger with youthful glee, laughing with my companions as we watched mud splash on the walls of the abbey. I still remember stern Abbot Bernard narrowing his eyes at us as we started up the Hangman’s hill.
From there we coursed along the valleys to the south, riding up through the chalky fields until we hit the spine of the rise. It channeled us first through Southborough, and then fast, through scratchy woods and past charcoal burners’ huts, to the ancient cross at the spot locals call Calverly.
There the terrain descended once more, the trees growing tight and dark on the sharp decline, and my companions chose to dismount. Trusting in imagined horsemanship, I declined to climb off my steed, instead working my way down the steep bank at a steady trot.
I soon realised my folly as my horse struggled for grip, but, refusing to acknowledge the worried voice of my ostringer, pushed ahead regardless, vanishing in the labyrinth of woody bark and sunken moss. Somehow I felt that if I could drive down into that valley, I had accomplished something on par with my bastard brother’s martial prowess. He had grown to a man in Kent and had fought to protect the bar roads from banditry, while I had been raised by my mother’s family in soft Aquitaine. Even then, I had pressing need to forge my own legend.
I had almost traversed the entire slope successfully when my charger’s hooves slipped on a knotted root, and sent me flying down hard into the earth. My shoulder sang with the impact, but when I dusted myself off I had little more than a few scratches and bruises. It was then, checking my arm’s rotation, that I noticed the stream.
It was little more than a brook, in truth: a steady, bubbling flow of water bursting from the ground and trickling out along the clay of the low valley floor. Parched, and with my followers catch up behind me, I inclined to drink. It would, I realised, disguise my failure to remain on my steed as a dismount brought on by a simple need to quench my thirst.
But the moment I brought it to my lips I discovered the stream to be an evil flow, not from heaven but from the dark, red-tainted pit of Satan’s realm. Though the stream ran clear it held the sharp, metallic tang of blood, a revolting sting that cursed my mouth with its foulness, polluting even my nostrils with its hate. I swallowed it quickly, and staggered back in revulsion of its taste.
Then I heard the ostringer from behind. “My Lord!” he said, voice filled with superstitious caution. “Do not drink from the brook! 'Tis the Devil’s blood that flows from that wound!”
I lied, insisting his cry had interrupted me before I’d managed to refresh myself, and told him to explain his outburst. His meaning soon became clear. Centuries before, St Dunstan had been tending the Southborough forge to build a crucifix for the church there. The Devil, keen to delay God’s servant, transformed himself into a beautiful girl and set about the saint’s seduction. But Dunstan was not deceived; he spotted the cloven hooves of the Devil under his fine dress, and gripped the fiend by the nose with tongs from the fire. The Devil screamed as Dunstan cast him out, hurling him three miles until the lord of lies vanished into the ground. Ever since, the small brook had been infused with taint of the Devil’s blood.
I never told my companions I had supped from the stream, or felt the Devil trickle down my neck and into my humours. Nor did I tell my family, when I set forth for the Holy Land to purge my soul on crusade.
I always thought it would be a secret I would take to my grave. Now, it is a secret I shall have to carry beyond it.
I was fifteen at the time, an imperious youth that galloped daily for miles around my family’s seat of Tunbridge. The de Montfort rebellion had not yet occurred and the country of the Weald was at relative peace, though we all knew the Red Earl viewed our lands with greed-filled eyes.
I rode hard out of the castle, south across the bridge itself, sending serfs sprawling under my charger with youthful glee, laughing with my companions as we watched mud splash on the walls of the abbey. I still remember stern Abbot Bernard narrowing his eyes at us as we started up the Hangman’s hill.
From there we coursed along the valleys to the south, riding up through the chalky fields until we hit the spine of the rise. It channeled us first through Southborough, and then fast, through scratchy woods and past charcoal burners’ huts, to the ancient cross at the spot locals call Calverly.
There the terrain descended once more, the trees growing tight and dark on the sharp decline, and my companions chose to dismount. Trusting in imagined horsemanship, I declined to climb off my steed, instead working my way down the steep bank at a steady trot.
I soon realised my folly as my horse struggled for grip, but, refusing to acknowledge the worried voice of my ostringer, pushed ahead regardless, vanishing in the labyrinth of woody bark and sunken moss. Somehow I felt that if I could drive down into that valley, I had accomplished something on par with my bastard brother’s martial prowess. He had grown to a man in Kent and had fought to protect the bar roads from banditry, while I had been raised by my mother’s family in soft Aquitaine. Even then, I had pressing need to forge my own legend.
I had almost traversed the entire slope successfully when my charger’s hooves slipped on a knotted root, and sent me flying down hard into the earth. My shoulder sang with the impact, but when I dusted myself off I had little more than a few scratches and bruises. It was then, checking my arm’s rotation, that I noticed the stream.
It was little more than a brook, in truth: a steady, bubbling flow of water bursting from the ground and trickling out along the clay of the low valley floor. Parched, and with my followers catch up behind me, I inclined to drink. It would, I realised, disguise my failure to remain on my steed as a dismount brought on by a simple need to quench my thirst.
But the moment I brought it to my lips I discovered the stream to be an evil flow, not from heaven but from the dark, red-tainted pit of Satan’s realm. Though the stream ran clear it held the sharp, metallic tang of blood, a revolting sting that cursed my mouth with its foulness, polluting even my nostrils with its hate. I swallowed it quickly, and staggered back in revulsion of its taste.
Then I heard the ostringer from behind. “My Lord!” he said, voice filled with superstitious caution. “Do not drink from the brook! 'Tis the Devil’s blood that flows from that wound!”
I lied, insisting his cry had interrupted me before I’d managed to refresh myself, and told him to explain his outburst. His meaning soon became clear. Centuries before, St Dunstan had been tending the Southborough forge to build a crucifix for the church there. The Devil, keen to delay God’s servant, transformed himself into a beautiful girl and set about the saint’s seduction. But Dunstan was not deceived; he spotted the cloven hooves of the Devil under his fine dress, and gripped the fiend by the nose with tongs from the fire. The Devil screamed as Dunstan cast him out, hurling him three miles until the lord of lies vanished into the ground. Ever since, the small brook had been infused with taint of the Devil’s blood.
I never told my companions I had supped from the stream, or felt the Devil trickle down my neck and into my humours. Nor did I tell my family, when I set forth for the Holy Land to purge my soul on crusade.
I always thought it would be a secret I would take to my grave. Now, it is a secret I shall have to carry beyond it.
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Date: 2011-02-07 10:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 10:58 am (UTC)The next plan is to write DA fic inspired by the Canterbury Tales, because that's the right mix of pretentiousness and cool.