LOA_Practitione
Virgin
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2014
- Posts
- 23
Please PM interest. In your mesaage, please include a character biography and a sample first post. My character biography, my writing style and what I look for in a co-writer can be found in the link in my signature below.
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August 1098
"God's Wounds, it's hot!"
The grizzled soldier removed his leather cap and mopped his brow with a filthy rag. His younger companion at the sentry post nodded by way of reply. Below their vantage point in the gatecastle, the city sprawled, baking in the heat, although it lacked an hour to noon. Looking away to the west, where the remains of the army's siege camp could still be seen, the air shimmered and the distant images danced, as though upon a sea. The two guards moved slowly along the walls. The younger man, a Welsh man-at-arms named Sir Cadfael, paused to drink at the water butt. It could hardly be called refreshment, he mused, the blood-hot liquid carried the rank taste of the vinegar added to purify it; plague was rife and one couldn't be too careful.*
Sir Cadfael stood up, rubbed his aching back with both hands and adjusted the yew bow that was slung over one shoulder. Horseshoes clattered in the courtyard below. A knight arriving or leaving the Council. The young soldier sighed. It was the horses he pitied most. They, poor beasts, had no say in the matter and too many destriers had left their bones in the wastes to the north of Antioch. He wondered again at what had led him to this place. Oh, it had sounded fine enough back home. The priests blessed them when they left to join God's army. This rabble! The Normans hated the Franks and the Italian followers of Count Bohemond hated everyone. He, a Welshman of Gwynedd, had found himself with the English contingent under the command of Robert, Duke of Normandy. Robert was a brave warrior but a remote and ineffectual leader. He clung to dreams of glory, even in the face of the squalid reality that this great crusade had become.
What had started as a great and wondrous adventure had collapsed into bitter ashes of acrimony and mistrust. The battle cry of 'Onwards to Jerusalem' now sounded hollow even to the most dedicated ears. The army was suffering badly. Supplies were poor and infrequent. The Genoese merchantmen that brought goods from Europe to the port of St Symeon had hiked their prices fourfold. What little plunder that filtered down to humble soldiers like Sir Cadfael was soon spent. The hot, stony deserts had taken their toll on man and beast and there was always the constant fear of plague that seemed to afflict them wherever they made camp for too long. Some things never changed, though. The arrogance of the chevaliers, for instance. Any man who couldn't speak French was considered worthless, even though many of the so-called 'flower of chivalry' were now reduced to foot soldiers. Most of the knights were penniless; younger sons sent on the crusades because their fathers' estates could not support them. Yet they still comported themselves as if at Court. Sir Cadfael found all of this difficult to understand for a son of Wales.
He was short and square of build with the heavy musculature around the chest and shoulders that is witness to many hours spent pulling on the yew bow. His countenance might be best described as open; comely enough; a good Welsh face with much bone and heavy brows beneath the russet-brown hair. He was perhaps barely twenty but it was difficult to judge, his skin burnt teak-brown by the strong sun of the Holy Land.*
He was roused from his reverie by a shout; a high, panicked sound that ended abruptly. Sir Cadfael and his companion raced along the walls in the direction of the noise. There was a small gap in the parapet where stones, weakened in the recent siege, had been dislodged. The two soldiers regarded each other with wary eyes. Both had heard the commotion yet neither wished be the first to question the other. Sir Cadfael stooped and examined the dusty stone fragments by the broken inner parapet. He rose slowly and leant out to peer over the edge
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August 1098
"God's Wounds, it's hot!"
The grizzled soldier removed his leather cap and mopped his brow with a filthy rag. His younger companion at the sentry post nodded by way of reply. Below their vantage point in the gatecastle, the city sprawled, baking in the heat, although it lacked an hour to noon. Looking away to the west, where the remains of the army's siege camp could still be seen, the air shimmered and the distant images danced, as though upon a sea. The two guards moved slowly along the walls. The younger man, a Welsh man-at-arms named Sir Cadfael, paused to drink at the water butt. It could hardly be called refreshment, he mused, the blood-hot liquid carried the rank taste of the vinegar added to purify it; plague was rife and one couldn't be too careful.*
Sir Cadfael stood up, rubbed his aching back with both hands and adjusted the yew bow that was slung over one shoulder. Horseshoes clattered in the courtyard below. A knight arriving or leaving the Council. The young soldier sighed. It was the horses he pitied most. They, poor beasts, had no say in the matter and too many destriers had left their bones in the wastes to the north of Antioch. He wondered again at what had led him to this place. Oh, it had sounded fine enough back home. The priests blessed them when they left to join God's army. This rabble! The Normans hated the Franks and the Italian followers of Count Bohemond hated everyone. He, a Welshman of Gwynedd, had found himself with the English contingent under the command of Robert, Duke of Normandy. Robert was a brave warrior but a remote and ineffectual leader. He clung to dreams of glory, even in the face of the squalid reality that this great crusade had become.
What had started as a great and wondrous adventure had collapsed into bitter ashes of acrimony and mistrust. The battle cry of 'Onwards to Jerusalem' now sounded hollow even to the most dedicated ears. The army was suffering badly. Supplies were poor and infrequent. The Genoese merchantmen that brought goods from Europe to the port of St Symeon had hiked their prices fourfold. What little plunder that filtered down to humble soldiers like Sir Cadfael was soon spent. The hot, stony deserts had taken their toll on man and beast and there was always the constant fear of plague that seemed to afflict them wherever they made camp for too long. Some things never changed, though. The arrogance of the chevaliers, for instance. Any man who couldn't speak French was considered worthless, even though many of the so-called 'flower of chivalry' were now reduced to foot soldiers. Most of the knights were penniless; younger sons sent on the crusades because their fathers' estates could not support them. Yet they still comported themselves as if at Court. Sir Cadfael found all of this difficult to understand for a son of Wales.
He was short and square of build with the heavy musculature around the chest and shoulders that is witness to many hours spent pulling on the yew bow. His countenance might be best described as open; comely enough; a good Welsh face with much bone and heavy brows beneath the russet-brown hair. He was perhaps barely twenty but it was difficult to judge, his skin burnt teak-brown by the strong sun of the Holy Land.*
He was roused from his reverie by a shout; a high, panicked sound that ended abruptly. Sir Cadfael and his companion raced along the walls in the direction of the noise. There was a small gap in the parapet where stones, weakened in the recent siege, had been dislodged. The two soldiers regarded each other with wary eyes. Both had heard the commotion yet neither wished be the first to question the other. Sir Cadfael stooped and examined the dusty stone fragments by the broken inner parapet. He rose slowly and leant out to peer over the edge
