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    Through a Distant Mirror Darkly
    Through a Distant Mirror Darkly
    Through a Distant Mirror Darkly
    Ebook121 pages1 hour

    Through a Distant Mirror Darkly

    By Mark Lord

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    About this ebook

    Not all is as it seems in this collection of dark tales from the Middle Ages.

    Mark Lord, the author of By the Sword’s Edge and Hell has its Demons, weaves five Medieval short stories to excite, scare and enthral you. From the vicious struggle of the Hundred Years War, to legends of werewolves and rumours of necromancers and ghosts, to the bitter conflict of a castle under siege, the action and adventure never stop. These five fast-paced short stories will keep you on the edge of your seat and turning every page until you reach the end.

    In “Stand and Fight” Richard Hope must overcome treachery to defend the castle of Montmal from the French. Jake, an English archer in “Chivalry” must choose between his comrades and the path of honour. In “Bird Talk” a young priest discovers the woman he loves may also be a necromancer. Frederick II, the “Stupor Mundi”, the wonder of the world, is haunted by the ghost of his dead chancellor. And in “Bisclavret” a French noblewoman discovers there is more under the skin of her English husband than she could imagine.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAlt Hist Press
    Release dateNov 28, 2013
    ISBN9781311467133
    Through a Distant Mirror Darkly
    Author

    Mark Lord

    Mark Lord studied Medieval Studies at the University of Birmingham and wrote his M. Phil. Thesis on Medieval Alliterative Poetry. Since then he has worked in publishing and writes historical fiction, fantasy and science fiction in his spare time.Mark is the author of the novels Hell has its Demons, The Return of the Free and numerous short stories. He is also editor of the popular Alt Hist magazine - one of the few literary magazines to focus exclusively on historical fiction and alternate history.He lives in Hertfordshire with his family.

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      Book preview

      Through a Distant Mirror Darkly - Mark Lord

      Through a Distant Mirror Darkly

      Five fantastic tales of the Middle Ages

      By Mark Lord

      Copyright © 2013 Mark Lord

      All rights reserved.

      Published by Alt Hist Press

      http://www.althistpress.co.uk

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      * * * * *

      PUBLISHED BY:

      Mark Lord on Smashwords

      Copyright © 2013 by Mark Lord

      http://marklord.info

      All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

      Contents

      Stand and Fight

      Chivalry

      Bird Talk

      Stupor Mundi

      Bisclavret (The Werewolf)

      About the Author

      Stand and Fight

      Montmal was a beautiful castle. Strong, thick walls and well sited on a rocky outcrop above the upper reaches of the Dordogne. Richard would have been a very proud man if he had been its castellan. For a besieging army it was only possible to attack on two sides. The other two were protected by high cliffs that swept down to the riverbank. A brave man, or a goat, could clamber up the cliff in parts but there was no possibility of bringing siege engines up against those walls. The one weakness, Richard reflected, was that damn drain. He had insisted that Bertrand block it up and divert the garrison’s effluent elsewhere, but Bertrand was more interested in the comfort of himself and his men than serious defence.

      If it wasn’t for Richard, the French might have managed to surprise the garrison that morning with its pants down. Richard was on his morning patrol of the walls. He nodded to the guard who stood in the West tower looking down at the river below. The man raised his chin in acknowledgement, but that was all. That surly bugger was half of the watch accounted for. And this man’s main duty was to watch for boats and merchants passing along the river or the riverbank road below. Easy prey for Bertrand’s routiers. The other sentry should have been watching from the gatehouse looking out for anyone approaching up the hill to the castle, or any sign of groups of men moving in the hills to the North and East. Richard couldn’t see anyone on the battlements of the barbican as he approached along the wall-walk. And when he pushed open the door into the barbican from the wall-walk, his nose told him why. The stink of stale wine, piss and vomit assaulted his nostrils. Bodies slumped and slumbered around the inside of the round tower room. One of these vagabonds should have been on sentry duty.

      Richard opened his mouth, but rather than speak he bit his lip instead. He had learnt already that his word had no weight here. He would speak to Bertrand later about the laxity, but he knew what the answer would be: a grin and wink, and Don’t be so pious mon ami. Bertrand had a winning charm when you first met him, but Richard’s feelings for the Gascon captain had soured weeks ago.

      Richard stomped through the tower room, making sure his boots made as much clatter as possible and clambered up the ladder and pushed open the hatch onto the tower roof. Not a thing stirred in the room below him.

      But on the road that lead down the hill away from the barbican there was plenty of movement. Richard gripped the stone of the wall and stared down at the small army that marched in column up the narrow road. He could not make out exact numbers as parts of the road were obscured by rocky outcrops and trees, but he was sure there were several hundred men. Most on foot—crossbowmen most likely, but at least two hundred men were mounted. They would be the men-at-arms. The garrison of Montmal was no more than fifty, with perhaps another twenty servants who catered for the demands of Bertrand’s routier company.

      At the front of the party a group of them rode ahead of the main body. The early morning sunlight glinted off their helms and the tips of their lances. They were ready to repel any surprise sorties by the defenders. They hadn’t reckoned with the laziness of Bertrand d’Elbet. Richard looked at the device on the banner that they bore, hoping against all likelihood that perhaps this was not a French army. The wind caught the cloth of the banner as the armoured horsemen spurred their mounts faster up the road. Perhaps they had noticed that there was very little movement on the walls and were hopeful of being able to storm the castle there and then. A couple of ladders or a rope and they could be over the wall and inside. If the barbican was not well defended then it would be simple to open the gates and let their fellows flood in. Richard himself had taken several places in such a way—mostly at night though.

      Richard didn’t recognize the device on the banner, a griffon rampant gules on a field argent. But by the way the horsemen were moving he didn’t need to. He ran to the barbican’s north flanking tower and grabbed hold of the rope of the alarm bell and began pulled it back and forth.

      Bertrand was the first of the Gascons he saw. He emerged in his night-shift pulling a sword belt over his shoulder and with a helmet underneath his arm. He shouted up at Richard.

      What the hell is going on?

      A French army at the gates, several hundred strong.

      Bertrand shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it.

      Get your men on the walls, screamed Richard. Their vanguard will be here in minutes and if they don’t see any defenders they will attempt an escalade.

      Bertand broke into a run and disappeared into the inner door of the barbican. Richard glanced over the wall. Outside the gates the French horsemen had come to a stop. There were twenty of them in a line looking up at the walls. Their visors closed just in case. They were within bowshot. If only he had some good archers here, they could have knocked their horses down at least. These horsemen had sacrificed the protection of their mounts for speed, who wore no barding.

      Bertrand appeared on the wall, a few of the men who’d been sleeping below in the guard-room in tow. Some of them had crossbows, but they weren’t hurrying to fix bolts in place. Stop that ringing! he screamed and waved his sword at Richard as if he were the enemy not the French outside. Richard stopped, and beside Bertrand, his lieutenant, Jacques, chuckled.

      Richard ignored the waving sword and grabbed hold of Bertrand’s arm. He tugged him over to the battlements. The Gascon didn’t resist, but almost fell against Richard as he pulled him along. He’s still drunk, Richard realised. Bertrand’s breath smelt of stale wine and onions.

      There is your enemy, captain! Not I! said Richard. Have your men string their bows and fire. We can take some of them off their horses and let them know we mean to defend this castle.

      Behind Bertrand Richard could hear Jacques laugh again. Bertrand scabbarded his sword and looked at the ranks of horsemen below. The wind had dropped and their banner hung limply on its pole.

      Bertrand shook off Richard’s hand and turned to face the men that had joined him on the wall. Jacques, said Bertrand. Command the men to start packing their things. We’re going to march out of here. The French will be more interested in the castle than us.

      Now it was Richard’s turn to grab Bertrand’s arm. What did you say? You’re going to abandon the castle?

      Of course I am. We don’t stand a chance of defending this place, and do you really think Felton will send anyone to relieve us?

      Bertrand shook off Richard’s hand and strode towards the trap-door. The seneschal of Aquitaine, Thomas Felton, had few men to spare, and as Bertrand said, it was unlikely he would send any to lift the siege of this place. There were other, more vital, fortresses on the road to Bordeaux.

      But that wasn’t the point.

      Bertrand d’Eblet, you took a vow to defend and hold Montmal in the name of Prince Edward. Does your word mean nothing to you?

      Bertrand turned and scowled at Richard. "And you took a vow no doubt to spy on me given

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