From Here to 1137 AD; Episode 46, A Chat With the Inkeeper.

This is episode forty-six of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD. If you would like to purchase From  Here To 1137 AD, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback. 

A Chat With The Inkeeper

After two more days, Tom stood at the River Tyne. The road ended there. It appeared to him that the river’s width was more than three furlongs. 

“Brain,” Tom said, “other than using the Instaport, the darter, or swimming, is there another way to cross this river?”

“Yes,” Brain said. “To your left is a rope extending across the river. Do you see it?”

Tom turned to his left. He saw a large rope tied to a tree. It dipped into the river. 

“Next to the tree is a raft,” Brain said. “Attach it to two metal loops on the raft and use it to guide yourself across the river.”

Tom did as directed by Brain. He pulled the raft across the river, hand over hand, until reaching the other side.

“A man is approaching,” Brain said. “He will expect two farthings.”

Tom paid the man and continued to follow the road. 

That night, he stopped at an inn and stayed there. He was the only customer. The innkeeper told him that in a month, the number of people traveling would increase.  

The innkeeper and his wife told him that a man on a horse had passed by a day and a half earlier. The description of the horse and the man matched Hadley.

Tom stayed the night, and the next morning, the innkeeper ate breakfast at a table in the main room. They drank ale and had a bowl of boiled wheat with herbs and honey. They ate until they talked. 

“I must warn you,” the innkeeper said. “To do otherwise might bring blood upon my head.”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked.

“If it is Morpeth you are going to, it is dangerous,” the innkeeper said. “I know you are not from these parts, but Morpeth has an evil reputation. It is the place of many murders. Sometimes by outlaws and footpads who have no morals and take advantage of men traveling alone or in small numbers by foot.”

“I am aware of the dangers, sir,” Tom said. “Your candor is much appreciated. I have been keeping myself alert.”

“Sometimes travelers will wait at the inn until a large number of them gather,” the innkeeper said. “You could stay until more travelers appear.”

“You are too kind and considerate,” Tom said. “But I must get to Morpeth as soon as possible.”

“That is your affair,” the innkeeper said.

“Do you know about Whitford Castle?”

“I have heard of it, but never been there,” the innkeeper said. “Is that where you are going?”

“Not directly,” Tom said. “Do you know anyone in that area?”

“Some I know,” the innkeeper said. “They may pass this way, and I am able to have the pleasure of knowing them.”

“I suppose you want to know if I am familiar with any family who bear your name?” The innkeeper said. “I am. And I knew Geoffrey Bales. I also heard about his death.”

“At the sword of Drake Bouchard?” Tom asked.

“Some say it was dual; one swordsman against another swordsman, like gentlemen or nobles. Bouchard is a trained swordsman,” the innkeeper stated. “Bales was a farmer. I was not there, but those who were said it was only a sport for Bouchard. Any person with the sense of the justice of a goose would rightly call it murder.”

“Why did Geoffrey engage in a sword fight with Bouchard?” Tom asked. 

“Bales legally purchased a small tract of land,” the innkeeper sipped his ale. “It was land Bouchard wished to purchase, but he was away when the land came up for sale. The two men bickered for nearly a month. Bouchard is known for violating women. He violated Bales’ wife. Bales demanded satisfaction. It is reported that Bales fought valiantly. Bouchard let him bleed to death rather than end him quickly. In Bouchard’s mind, that was the ultimate humiliation to Bales. The nobles were in favor. They never want to see a peasant, free or not, best a nobleman. That would be their humiliation.”

Tom lifted a spoonful of the frumenty to his mouth. Deep in his thoughts, he chewed.

“It is rumored that you are here to exact vengeance, is that so?” The innkeeper said cautiously.

Tom swallowed. He nodded. “You may speak openly about this matter, for it is not a rumor; it is true.”

“It is said, there is not his equal with the sword in all of Britannia,” the innkeeper warned.

“So it is rumored,” Tom said. 

“He has the quickness of a cat and the cunning of a fox,” the innkeeper said.

“And, my friend,” Tom grinned, “I have the quickness of a fly and the hardness of a turtle’s shell.”

Tom finished eating before the innkeeper. He stood and placed a shilling next to the innkeeper’s bowl.

“That is more than generous, my friend.” 

“You have provided me with many times the value of that coin,” Tom said.

“God be with you,” the innkeeper said.

“And you, as well.”

Tom grabbed his wooden mug. He lifted it to his mouth and downed its last two swallows. He set it down and walked out of the inn and toward his destination.

From Here to 1137 AD; Episode 45, The Knight

This is episode forty-five of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD. If you would like to purchase From  Here To 1137 AD, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback. 

The Knight

The monks provided mats to sleep on. They placed a small brazier in the middle of the nave. Tom and Randolph slept close to it. 

In the morning, the monks prepared bread and a caldron. 

Tom paid the monks a shilling and struck out on the road toward Middlesborough. Randolph delayed his departure by meeting up with the knight. He reported Tom’s original story to the knight. Randolph told him that Tom had uncovered his deception. The knight said few words and hastened on horseback toward Middlesborough. 

The day warmed. Tom removed his heavy coat, rolled it tight, and strapped it onto his back. He walked freely and contentedly, thinking this is the way life should be. He looked around. He thought, ‘There are no sounds of the eternal combustion engine. The road is not lined with power or telephone lines and poles. The steam locomotive is seven hundred years in the future. The radio and television are beyond fantasy. I’m not sure I could even explain it to them so they could believe it.’  

He forgot about his reason for being there. He forgot about Debbie, the farm, Edgar, and his life on 20th-century Earth. A passing thought of those things became a fantasy. 

In the distance ahead, he saw something at the side of the road. A bay horse lazily grazing came into focus. The closer he walked, his suspicions became confirmed; the horse belonged to the knight. The knight sat on the ground, further from the side of the road than the horse.

The man had a handful of stones and passively tossed them a couple of feet away. He was waiting.

“Good day, fellow,” Tom said as he neared.

The man looked up. And returned to tossing the stones as if Tom was no more than a leaf that had blown across the road.

“That is a fine-looking horse,” Tom said. “He looks as if you have both been bound by battle and honor.”

The man stood. He stood taller than Tom. He appeared rugged. He wore a clipped beard covering a scar. His hair was black and long.

He blocked Tom’s way.

“Who are you, fellow?” the man said.

Tom smiled, trying to avert a confrontation. “My name is Thomas Bales, and you, sir?”

The man walked around Tom, inspecting him up and down. 

Brain spoke telepathically, “This man is Sir Graham Hadley. He is the knight Randolph spoke about. He has never been to Normandy. He has never ridden that horse into battle. He has served only in a minor uprising. His valor is greatly overestimated. However, he is well trained in all facets of warfare.”

“There are rumors about you,” Hadley said.

“How should I address you?” Tom asked.

“I’m Sir Graham Hadley. I know a soldier when I see one.”

“I was never a soldier,” Tom said. “I am a courier.” 

“Curriers are small,” Hadley said, “smaller than you.”

“And they are fast and can run long distances without rest,” Tom said. “I happen to be one of the fastest, and no one outdistances me.”

“Yonder,” Hadley pointed, “is a large tree. Larger than the rest. Do you notice it?”

“It is an oak,” Tom said.

“Yes,” Hadley said. “I am the fastest runner of my brigade. We run to the tree, touch it, and back to this spot.”

“What is the objective?”

“To prove you are not who you say you are,” Hadley said.

“I may be a fast liar,” Tom said.

“I will allow you to start,” Hadley said. “But no more than a stride or two, and then I will start.”

“That’s rather sporting of you,” Tom said. “That will give you time to mount your horse.”

“Why mount my horse?” Hadley said, perplexed.

“That is the only way you can best me,” Tom said.

“Unsling your gear,” Hadley said.

“For no other reason than to put it back on?” Tom grinned.

Hadley dragged his foot across the path, making a line in the dirt. “That line is where we start and where we end.”

Hadley stood on the line and leaned slightly forward. Tom waited, relaxed slightly behind the line.

“Have it your way,” Hadley said and bolted.

Tom sprinted and was soon just behind Hadley’s left shoulder.

They reached the oak, and Hadley touched it slightly before Tom. Within a few strides, Tom passed Hadley, who strained to run faster. Without the use of MAS, and having his coat and canvas strapped to his back, Tom finished four strides ahead of Hadley.

Hadley bent over, trying to catch his breath. Tom approached him, breathing heavily but feeling refreshed. 

“You may be faster at distance, Sir,” Tom said flippantly. “Let us run for a longer distance.”

“I have not trained vigorously in a while,” Hadley excused breathlessly. “Otherwise…”

Tom interrupted. “Your brags don’t impress me, nor does the horse.”

“I know you are not who you say you are,” Hadley said, breathing heavily. “I believe you to be a spy for the Scots.”

“I hear many things,” Tom said. “I remember them. I heard of a knight named Hadley. It may not be you. There may be other knights named Hadley. The one I heard of has a reputation based on bloated, spurious, and apocryphal reports. Could you be that one? I don’t know.”

Hadley dashed for his horse and drew a sword from a sheath. “You have insulted me, you swine. You will pay with your blood. And I shall be rewarded for it.”

“Careful, my friend,” Tom held out his hand to sue for peace. “Couriers often possess the favor of Kings and commanders. My death by your sword will bring about your death. The king will hear of it and be sure justice is carried out in the most gruesome and hideous way.”

“You are not a courier,” Hadley clenched his jaw. He breathed heavily through his nostrils and pointed his sword toward Tom. 

“I truly doubt if you have ever raised a sword and faced your enemy in battle. You have never looked into a man’s eyes as he has fallen into death. I know you, far better than you know me. To state conclusively, when the news of my death reaches the King’s ear. He will exact the soul of the one responsible. The truth is, you cannot afford to be wrong.”

Hadley’s sword hung at his side. He mounted his horse. “If you are who you say you are, I will be in the audience witnessing your death at the sword of Sir Drake Bouchard.”

Hadley turned his horse and galloped away.  

From Here To 1137 AD; Episode 44, Peasants, Monks, And Merchants

This is episode forty-four of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD. If you would like to purchase From  Here To 1137 AD, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback. 

Peasants, Monks, And Merchants

The road was a little more than a footpath. The rising temperature allowed the surface soil to thaw and turn it into a thin layer of mud. 

Tom reached Scalby. It was no more than a cluster of six houses, houses that were a little more than huts. 

A shabbily dressed man split wood next to a house. He stopped and looked up at Tom.

“Is this Scalby?” Tom asked and stopped walking.

“It is,” the man said and buried his axe in a log. He wiped his brow. “On a cold day, nothing warms a man like hard work.”

“I agree,” Tom said, “and a good brisk walk.”

“Where are you going?” the man asked.

“Morpeth.”

“Never heard of it,” the man said.

“It’s a ways from here,” Tom said. “I was told if I get to Middlesbrough, someone there can direct me to Morpeth.”

The man pointed to an intersecting path. “That’s the road to Middlesbrough.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

“May I fetch you a drink of water?” the man asked.

“That would be welcome.”

The man grabbed a wooden bucket and brought it to Tom. He dipped his hand in the bucket and cupped two handfuls of water.

“Is there any news from Scarborough?” the man asked.  

“I was not there long enough to gather any information,” Tom said. “I had two mugs of wassail and listened to some tall tales about the sea and old battles.”

“Where are you from?” the man asked. 

“Suffolk,” Tom said.

“What brings you this way?” the man asked, reaching into the bucket for water and drinking from a cupped hand.

“I was a currier for King Stephen in Normandy,” Tom said. “I heard my uncle had been murdered. The war was all but over. I informed my commander of my uncle’s death and the hardship that it might expose my family. I petitioned him for my wages, discharge, and passport. He kindly obliged my request.”

“A good man, your commander,” the man said. “What will you do in Morpeth?”

Tom dislodged the axe from the stump. He set a log on end and drove the axe through the log, splitting it with one blow, and lodging it in the next log. “I shall exact vengeance on the man who murdered my uncle.”

The man stood and nearly began to tremble. “I have never seen a man as mad as you. Your anger split the log and buried it, stuck it into the stump.”

“My apologies,” Tom said. “All my grief and vengeance came at the same moment.”

Tom pulled the axe from the stump and handed it to the man.

“I should tell you that no one who goes to Middlesbrough passes through Scalby this time of day. It is early morning, they do. No inn can be reached with the amount of daylight that remains.”

“How far to the next inn?” Tom asked.

“At this time of day, it could only be reached by horse,” the man said. 

Tom gave the man a nod. “You have been most helpful. Thank you.”

Tom walked toward the crossing of the two roads. He turned to the north. He walked only a short distance until hearing someone running toward him from behind. He turned, and it was the man.

The man held out a small loaf of bread. “Here, take this.”

Tom hid his astonishment and held out a grateful hand. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“It is rye and a day old,” the man said. “But it will feed you and keep you strong.”

Tom reached into his money pouch and handed the man a farthing.

“I would not be charitable of me to accept money,” the man said.

“And it would not be Christian of me to withhold the wages due a man who labored for that bread.”

The man reluctantly allowed Tom to drop the farthing into his hand.  

“Lord be with you,” the man said.

“And the Lord be with you,” Tom said and walked away.

Overwhelmed by the humble peasant's generosity, Tom found it difficult to be mindful of his surroundings. Although he felt completely safe wearing the MAS, he wanted to carry on as if a man of the 12th century. He walked as if aware of possible danger at any time.  

The sun set. And it became darker than he ever imagined. He came upon a clearing a few yards off the beaten path. He erected the crude canvas shelter. He crawled in and quickly fell asleep.

He woke in the morning to a light layer of snow. 

“Brain,” Tom said, “are you awake?”

Brain answered telepathically. “Brain does not sleep.”

“Right,” Tom said. “I have a tin pan. I’ll hold it out, and can you have a bacon, cheese, onion, and tomato omelette instaported?”

“Hold out your tin,” Brain said.

Tom found his tin and held it out. “Ready.”

The omelette appeared. 

“I’m not quite ready for all the rigors of the 12th  century.”

“Many in the 12th century were ill-equipped as well,” Brain said.

Tom ate the omelette and was soon on his way to Middlesbrough.

The sun melted the light coating of snow. The English countryside came alive. Birds fluttered from tree to bush. Bird songs filled the air, accompanied by tree frogs. He walked to the side of the path to avoid sloshing in the mud. 

Toward the end of the day, Tom came upon a stone building. Drawing closer, he discerned it might be a monastery. His instincts were confirmed when three men, whom he assumed to be monks, filed hurriedly from the building and greeted him with smiles and good wishes. 

“You must stay with us,” one said. 

“By all means,” said another.

“The Lord has brought you to us, along with the others inside. Come meet him.”

Tom joined them as they filed through a plank door and into a candlelit nave. It looked as if it could hold twenty people. Crude wooden benches lined the walls. 

“Please,” one monk said, “become the friend of another traveler. And he led Tom to a thin man, dressed in warm but finer clothes than Tom’s.

The man stood. “Randolph Nash,” he introduced.

“Thomas Bales,” Tom said and gripped Randolph’s forearm. Without hesitation, Tom told him where he was from, about serving under King Stephen, and his plan to avenge the murder of Geoffrey Bales.

Randolph told Tom he was a grain merchant from London, seeking new resources of grain. 

“You say you were in Normandy under King Stephen,” Randolph said, waiting for Tom to affirm.

“Indeed,” Tom said, “for one year.”

“Then undoubtedly you came across Sir Roger Cromwell,” Randolph said.

Brain said telepathically to Tom. “There is no Sir Roger Cromwell. He likely thinks you are lying and trying to trap you.”

Tom’s eyes rolled to the left and upward as if thinking.

“No,” Tom said. “I knew all the noblemen who served. And furthermore, the name sounds fictitious.”

“Calling a man a liar you are about to eat with is quite astonishing and merits an apology,” Randolph said firmly.

“It is not as bad as what you have attempted twice over. You try to trap me with a false name and cunningly claim I am the offensive one. You, sir, should render the apology, for I will not dine with such a man who will render falsehoods in the Lord’s house.”

“Roger Cromwell is one of my associates in London,” Randolph said. “Back in Scarborough, a sailor at a tavern said he could not remember you on his ship.”

The monks entered the candlelit nave from a doorway at the front. They carried copper bowls of pottage and rye bread. They handed the food to Tom and Randolph. The monks sat on the benches. One of the monks offered a prayer of thanks, and everyone ate without uttering a word.

After everyone ate, the monks collected the empty bowls and exited the nave.

“Well,” Randolph said, “that was refreshing.”

“It was,” Tom said. And he stared at Randolph.

Randolph squirmed uncomfortably.

“If you could divulge the truth, I’m sure you might feel better.”

Randolph swallowed and looked away.

Brain spoke telepathically to Tom. “He is what he says he is. The reason he is uncomfortable is that he lacks the skills to hide his true self.”

“Randolph,” Tom said, “I believe you are a grain merchant. Otherwise, you are being deceptive. Look at me, Randolph, do I appear to be anyone whom you would want to be in fear of if I knew the truth about you?”

Randolph faced Tom. “I am a merchant. I arrived here a short time before you. A man, a bachelor knight, approached me. Two miles from here. Someone reported you to him. You appeared suspicious to someone. In these times, that is enough to have a man jailed and even killed. The knight rode a horse through the wasteland to get ahead of you. He happened upon me and paid me half a shilling to find out who you were. He said he doubted you served the King in Normandy and suggested you may be a spy. Are you a spy?”

Tom smiled. “We’re not supposed to tell.”

Randolph grinned. “Well said. I should not have agreed to this. I’m a merchant, and that’s all.”

“I understand,” Tom said. “You were doing your best to serve the King. Likewise, Randolph, I’m not very good at this either. I confess to you, I have never served the King in Normandy. Deception is not my strong suit. However, I am from far away. I have no side in the King’s quarrels. I have only my own interest to pursue, and it is as I stated, to avenge a relative's death.”

“I believe you speak forthrightly,” Randolph said. “A knight waits not more than two furlongs from here. He waits for me to come to him this evening or in the morning.”

“I have an idea,” Tom said. “We have a mug or two of ale this evening. Rest well. I will leave early. You approach the knight after I leave, and tell him whatever you like. I have the feeling he will soon overtake me and take matters into his own hands.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Randolph said. 

“Let’s beckon our monks for some ale and have a pleasant chat,” Tom said. 

“Where are you from?” Randolph asked. 

“I am from far away,” Tom said. “A place you have never heard of. I have nothing further to say.”

“I perceive you are a man with sufficient reasons,” Randolph said.