Tales of Winshaew — Chapter 2

Chapter Two

In those days, there was living in Winshaew a group of children: Trey, the twelve-year-old son of the town’s tanner; Jethro, also twelve, and an orphan who used his wiles to survive on the streets of Winshaew; ten-year-old twin brothers Koson and Kosor; and Priscilla, a precocious child of eight who was never more than a few feet from Chauncey, her pet cat. Each was born long after the darkness and cold had settled on this land high in the mountains, never having known what it was to bask in the warmth of a summer afternoon, never having felt the heat of the sun dancing on their faces.

On this day, the five children were playing in a field just outside the walls of Winshaew. With their jackets buttoned tight, and scarves trailing behind, they ran to and fro, their booted feet thundering over the long-dead grass that covered the mountainsides around the walled city. Even Chauncey, who much preferred being curled up by the fireplace, was enjoying the romp that day.

Suddenly, a dark shadow began to creep across the meadow, slowly gobbling up more and more of the land, like a snake swallowing its prey. The children called out to one another in fear, huddling together as the shadow continued to grow larger and larger until it engulfed the entire meadow, turning the cloudy day as dark as midnight.

“What shall we do?” cried Jethro, a slight boy with large, blue eyes. “Where shall we go?”

“Is it… the dragon?” asked Koson and Kosor in concert.

But even as they spoke, slowly, slowly, the shadow began to depart, leaving the children clustered together in the field as the muted daytime languidly returned.

“I’m scared, Trey,” sniffled Priscilla as she tightly clutched the small rag doll that was her only toy. Chauncey paced back and forth, his tail twitching in anger, as he rubbed his furry head against the child’s stockinged leg.

Trey turned to the east, hands on his hips, standing defiantly as he watched the shadow slowly disappear from sight. “Maybe it was the dragon, maybe it wasn’t,” he said, the others listening intently. “But someday, there will be one who will come to free us from the evil that rules this land. He will be the light that dispels the darkness … forever.  Of that I am sure.”

***

Belinda felt the weight of the chains that bound her hands and feet as she moved slowly about the tiny cell. Her wrists and ankles throbbed with incessant pain as they were rubbed raw by the iron shackles, and sickness had crept into her lungs.

She didn’t know how long she had been in the dungeon cell, deep in the bowels of Shaevor’s castle, for day blended with night ’til all sense of time was lost. She sat on the thin straw-stuffed mattress that lay on the damp floor, closed her eyes, and remembered.

She had been in the massive throne room about to serve food to Baron Shaevor and his courtiers. The Baron was very angry and dismissed the men from his presence. Belinda stood quietly in the shadows, afraid to move yet afraid to stand still. A dropped goblet ended the debate as it announced her presence to the Baron, who commanded her to step forward into the light.

Belinda stepped out of the shadows and warily approached the regent. Shaking, she bowed low before him, fearful for her life, and stayed there, not making a sound.

Arise, the Baron commanded, and she did. Ahhh, he said, slowly stroking his perfumed black beard with bony fingers stained with the passage of time. The Maker, blessed be his name, has solved my dilemma in a most amusing way. Turn, girl. Turn around so your lord may look at you. Belinda did as she was told.

The Baron grinned wickedly. The Maker has smiled on you, girl, he said. I am in need of a wife to bear me a son, to produce an heir for the throne of Winshaew. All my counselors and wise men have been unable to find me a suitable wife yet suddenly the Maker has delivered you, clumsiness and all, to me, his regent. What is your name, girl?

Belinda stood mute, her mind numb. A wife? she said to herself. His wife? Her legs began to buckle and she collapsed on the throne room floor in tears. The Baron simply laughed.

It is rich, girl, isn’t it? he asked. Look at yourself. You are dressed in the rags of a beggar yet you wear the face of an angel. You are a diamond in the rough. The Baron rose from his throne.

The Maker has spoken. We shall wed and you shall deliver me an heir.

Belinda stopped crying, allowing only intermittent sniffles to escape. No, m’lord, she said quietly. It cannot be. There is another to whom I belong. I cannot wed you.

Anger rushed onto Shaevor’s face, coloring it the crimson of wrath. Not again! he shouted at the quivering girl. I shall not go through this again! You dare to contradict your lord, girl? You deny me my absolute right to choose whom I shall marry, when I shall marry, and where I shall marry? He took a step toward her, his face contorted with rage.

Then begone with you, wench! Begone! If you do not want to be my wife, you will spend the rest of your miserable life like Lady Gwyneth … wallowing in my dungeon!

***

Starwood was back in Winshaew.

The warlock stared at the crystal, bitterness creeping into his heart as he remembered his treatment at the hand of Bishop Tourteaux.

“Evil doer!” the cleric had screamed to the laughter of Baron Shaevor and his courtiers. “Minion of the Dark One!” Starwood’s face turned crimson with embarrassment at the memory.

“The Maker shall smite you and all your ilk for your blasphemous deeds,” continued Tourteaux. “Your magic potions and hocus pocus will not shield you from the Maker’s wrath!”

Starwood remembered, smiling at the Bishop’s tirade that day.

“Evil doer? Minion of the Dark One?” snarled the wizard. “Does the eminent Bishop gaze into a looking glass?” Several palace guards quickly unsheathed their swords but stopped as Tourteaux waved his hand.

“A looking glass, you say,” replied the Bishop with undisguised revulsion. “What foolishness is this that you speak, warlock?”

Starwood stole a glance at the Baron, whose interest was piqued, then spoke.

“Do you think me ignorant of the ways of the Maker? I have read the scrolls during my studies. I know that you, Bishop Tourteaux, are no follower of the Maker. You are not of the Beth-El. And if you do not serve the Maker, then you serve my master, the Dark One.” Starwood smiled.

No one in the palace could remember ever seeing Bishop Tourteaux speechless. Yet the cleric just stood there, his whole body quivering, trying without success to respond. Baron Shaevor simply smiled.

Finally, Tourteaux found words.

“M’lord,” he cried, the pitch of his voice rising. “As Bishop of Winshaew I demand justice!” He feverishly crossed himself repeatedly.

Shaevor looked back and forth at the two verbal combatants.

“And what punishment could I mete out that would satisfy you, Tourteaux?” Although the Baron realized that the words of Starwood were indeed truth, the position of Bishop was crucial to the running of Winshaew. He had no choice but to side with Tourteaux.

The fat cleric cleared his throat, then continued.

“This evil wizard, this enemy of the Maker, must be banished from Winshaew … forever!”

Shaevor was shocked. He had expected Tourteaux to demand some type of public humiliation, perhaps time in the stocks or a flogging. Possibly he would ask for a sentence in the dungeon as a reminder to Starwood of his place in Winshaew’s society.

But this?

The Baron nodded toward Tourteaux.

“It will be as you say.”

Tourteaux grinned evilly, pleased that he had triumphed in this battle with Starwood. He automatically crossed himself.

“But—” All heads turned toward Baron Shaevor once again. “—I, and I alone, will determine the length of time for his banishment.” The Baron realized that Tourteaux, as Bishop, was a necessary evil for the running of Winshaew, but no matter how important he was, it was even more important that the pudgy prelate know his place.

Shaevor addressed the warlock.

“It is my command that you be exiled from Winshaew for as long as it takes the honorable Bishop of our fair land to skim one thousand ducats from the offerings at the Great Cathedral for his own use.”

The color drained from Tourteaux’s face.

“My power is greater than even you imagine, dear Bishop,” the Baron said, contempt dripping off every word. “I have eyes and ears everywhere … even in the hallowed halls of the Great Cathedral.”

And finally the day of Starwood’s return had come. Tourteaux tried to delay the warlock’s return as long as possible, but the lure of the money was just too much for him. Little by little, then more by more, the contributions brought to the Great Cathedral found their way into the Bishop’s pockets. Thus, the warlock, Starwood, found his way back home, ready to resume his dark activities … and plot his revenge.