Masters, Minds, Dreams And Drink: A Serverus Claudius Chapter II The year was 1164 in what was now an Anglo-French fortress. The Might of England had subsided during the last century and war had blighted its landscape. A conflict that saw the race for the thrown brought to new heights of absurdity. Inn the end a man won out. King Stephen of the European nations. However, having fought his cousin, Matilda, for the succession for many years this determined ruler had named Henry, Duke Of Normandy, his heir. The First of the Plantagenet’s. A great wave of social and political development and change swept the country and a new dawn was foretold. Many did not take kindly to this idea though. In large part the Saxons still held resentment towards their new Norman Masters. The Kings Mother, Roman Empress Matilda, had tired of the fight and retired to Rouen in France. The Priory Of Notre Dame du Pré became her refuge in her later years. Maintaining her lands and overseeing the development of her son as King Of England. However in the early years of her life ambitions had led her to marry The Holy Roman Emperor and upon her husbands death she had been exiled from the home of her spouse, in Germany. On return home she married William The Conqueror and brought with her and ancient relic. The Hand Of St. John. Naturally the new Emperor wanted it back as it was a symbol of Ecclesiastical power and dominance. Little did anyone know its true Majesty. Many men sought such a prize. Few knew what it meant to wield it. This is the tale of one who did. A cold chill gusted from under the door, casting up dust and dirt from the hard stubbly ground beneath it. Made from solid hard oak the entrance to the Tavern creaked with the horrible potency of foreboding as it faltered and swayed against the wind outside. The floor was of dry earth and patches of spilled mead that was only relieved by the copious tables and stools scattered around. Virtually empty the bar boasted almost a dozen patrons. As a consequence noise that echoed around its walls could be discerned with clarity throughout. This was unfortunate as the conversation between the lady serving at one of the tables in the center of the room could be heard by all around. Intently listening, whilst making an effort to appear not to be doing so many of those at the adjoining tables were of local origin. Norman farm workers and squires intently went about their conversations. Chatting to their peers about harvests and the re shoeing of livestock whilst keeping one ear open to the dispute aside them. “I don’t see problem.” The stocky hooded man was saying. “All I ask is drink for myself and my master.” He nodded to the well dressed gentleman opposite him. “The problem is sir,” The serving girl spat with distaste, “you’re kind aren’t welcome here.” She held a jug of mead in her hands which seemed to be disproportionate to her slightly built stature. “Now we graced you with a room for the night, we ain’t obliged to givya anyfink else.” She turned to refresh the casks of other patrons in the room. The burly man looked at her with an air of confusion as to the issue. He was a large gentleman with a haggard cloak and cowl underwhich was nestled a bronze breast plate and chain mail. He looked slightly incongruous in the establishment which held little in the way of sophistication of a similar nature. Indeed the wooded area around Rouen was considerably lacking in any such advanced technology of that kind. The Burly man, who had an air of a warrior, stroked his ginger beard leaning forward towards the richly dressed one. “I cannot see why such treatment is given to us.” “Take not offence Siegfried, they’re a strange people in this part of the country by report.” Was the reply in the broken English they both shared. “Master, why do we stop here anyway? Surely it should have been a much better idea to have continued towards the Priory?” Wealthy and in robes of maroon silk, the gentleman moved closer forward across the table letting his fine cuff drape into some spilled liquid. “I have told you Siegfried. Do not refer to me as your master here. It is too dangerous. I am Handergast Haipstein, and we are traders on the way to the Priory.” The ginger man nodded in recognition and sat back in his rickety chair. “Haipstein. Ok.” “You two still ere?” The wench stopped as she shundered by towards the back of the boarding house. “Where should we be madam?” “I thought I told you that you weren’t wanted here.” “Yes you did.” Haipstein replied matter of factly. “It ain’t right. And you gotta go first thing as well.” “We did not agree to dat.” Siegfried distinctly showed his Germanic outrage. “Its alright.” Haipstein put a calming hand on Siegfried’s shoulder as he got up. “I think this woman can be reasonable.” Coughing at the dank atmosphere moved towards the serving woman who was also the landlady of the place. “Now we would be grateful if we could negotiate lady.” “There’s nothing to talk over.” “This stuff is good.” Siegfried looked up fro his Pargeta and Bread that sat before him in an ornate but worn bowl. “Looks like youve thrown up onto your meal to me.” “No, really,” he insisted, “it’s quite nice.” “Good evening to you gentlemen.” This last came from another coweled figure who seeped from the darkness behind them into the forum. His cloak and hood as evidently not of such good quality as that of Siegfried but slightly lighter brown. It also was evident that it had been used for more lengthy a period as it was worn and stringy at the shoulders and cuffs where the stitching had joined. He edged his way to the seat next to Haipstein. “I have been searching from end to end of this bawdy place and have found naught…” “Ere…” The proprietress found his comment harsh and flung a damp cloth in his direction. “However I am grateful to have spied you from over yonder.” He continued unabated, brushing the cloth aside and wiping the away the stains of mead from his garments. “I see you have ample refreshments. Good.” “These men with you then?” The woman thrust her hands in her apron pockets in aggressive inquiry. “They are indeed lady.” The new addition to the party gently pulled down his cowl to reveal a shining head of blonde hair encircled at the top by a bald patch of Tonsure design. On observing this the landlady was taken aback, making a palatable job of concealing her surprise. “That is of fair understandin sir.” She gulped, “I shall take my leave of you gents. If you need anything though I’ll be on hand.” With a nod she departed. “Who in heaven’s name are you sir?” Haipstein inquired in a low temper, when the landlady was out of earshot. “Brother surely, not Sir.” The man corrected, sniffing at the foul air in distemper. “Very well, Brother?” “My name is Claudius.” “And where do you hail from Brother Claudius?” Siegfried inquired with suspicious vigor, leaning forward upon the table once again. “I travel from Aquitaine in search of souls that might profit from my succor and wisdom.” The Monk said calmly, “My Priory is situated in that northern region.” “A Man of God with a high estimation about his person.” Siegfried cast a disparaging glance aside, “what a surprise.” “Take little heed of my guardsman,” Haipstein assured, “he has had little good will from the Church of late.” “So what prompts you to assist us Priest?” Siegfried posited severely. “I simply see foreign Men in need of help.” Brother Claudius sat back in his seat and moved his hood back over his head, “I am aware that such a time is not of the most safety for visitors of your nature.” “Germanic you imply?” Siegfried’s questioning tones were unabating. “Come now Siegfried,” Haipstein assured, “the Church simply assists. He means no ill will through his remark.” “And what do you want in return?” Siegfried nodded towards Claudius. “Simply to accompany you on your way as far as the Priory of Notre Dame du Pré.” He stated, taking some wine that stood before him. “I wish to pay homage to the sisters of the Abby there.” “How comes it that you are aware of our destination?” Haipstein asked, finally pushing his meal away through overeating. “I am a simple Trader who keeps his business to himself. My guardsman only accompanies me for protection and I am sure he mentioned nothing of the kind.” “I suggest we vacate this place at present and retire.” The evasive Brother rose with expectations of his companions following and not asking more of the question. “The revelers are becoming restless here. I believe you’re presence makes them uneasy.” The resonance of gossip and objectionable voices could be heard with more clarity now about the Inn as the patrons gathered in crowds. “I agree,” Siegfried pushed his chair back suddenly, resting his palm on the hilt of his sword, “it is my experience that the only other circumstance that causes more commotion from these type of natives is the presence of a Jewish faction.” “I shall accompany you to your quarters,” Claudius started, “after which the barrel rooms shall find me a rest for the night.” “We find no need for protection Brother,” Haipstein’s voice rose above that of the mêlée, “we shall find our own way.” “Meet with me in the parlor at dawn on the morrow?” Claudius asked, whilst almost announcing it as a foregone statement. “So it shall be.” It was not for the plentiful supply of fine poultry that the establishment was named The Watching Cock, nor for its notorious lascivious reputation. As such it was as the newly met trio shuffled from the dusty, dirt filmed ale house that two dark and slowly moving men followed their track. Casting long shadows upon the travelers. One of them moved in the direction of the troublesome traders and the other in that of the mysterious Monk. It was I one instant that their direction changed and settled on the Churchman as he entered the Wine Cellar in search of shelter for the night. Sinister intent made plain through shining daggers at their side. What left behind mattered less as Claudius’s relaxation brought stress. The fields of the Monk’s head bought much lace of a kind, As he traveled down the steps toward barrels, That contained all that he could bless a thought struck the blind, Of a burgeoning Franco-Italian hive mind, Striking amongst the fires of temples, He struck for support amongst standing lentils. About the place a great burly man tried to burst; Though our Brother held the feeling within whilst fighting his curse. Head in hands, feeling feet in chain, Claudius reached for the fire to be cast down by a pyre. Out as it was the ash illicit upon moss, The moss of ages, brought through bounty and time, Commodities that day for which he felt he wouldnt give a dime. It was the passion that sealed him only he knew, Mixed inside an aura of perception like a Pottage or Stew. Memories of yesteryear badgered his brain, Flooding through neurological systems beyond the learning and vain. Finding a corner of the blasted barrel room our man of God settled upon baggage, Feeling his head subsume; within light and sound, now striking abound. Pressuring the hedges of new memories, While the old ones ground down. Sleep found him some time after four of the clock; It was not even then that the unweilding pain would stop. Within Claudius’s dreams he felt the rhyme. A sound of the future; much past flowed thine. Lives well spent, events unwent, And all was possible within the gift forcibly sent. Confusion wracked unkempt landscape, And upon virtual horizon lay the seat of prognosis he has underwent. He must find the Pot. Casket of truth, A vessel to end the pain of energy, to tell him much sooth. Much energy did he already recognize in his minds eye, Energy given by a Father and Stepfather, His minds truth did cry. To continue the line, holding onto the vine, The tree must remain solid. Only then would his life become thine. Such a Energy found within a Pot, Tankard of Truth. Holding forever the divine right of Majesty, That is where he must be, the dreams pained him but told him to see, Ancestors abound created what he had not yet found. Bringing him pageant and praise, but relieving of pain and a continuing graze, Passed as it was, the Mug held within the source of Kings and Gods; Between them it traveled and beyond these lands unraveled. Stirring in the tides of slumber now the vision of dreams became less of a lumber, More of a stamp the pain torn asunder. Through it Claudius pressed forth, Brandishing swords to brazen the north; Of his mind he cleared thoughts. Identities of this bodies past swept beyond its course, Now in a peaceful slumber he knew what brought his name, Legions of his past gave it as they relinquished their reign. Now he must hour them and reclaim his Might, In Majesty Claudius knew this was right. Content in sacks of wheat now, abandoned to rest; The new born ancient must sleep, Collating thoughts that on the morrow he would rise and attest. He knew where it lay now, the prize the Might must seek; Going towards this. His Mug Of Energy And Truth.
Posted on: Tue, 13 Jan 2015 02:18:06 +0000
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