His Father's Command - Sneak Peek!
Some of my readers have begged to get a taste of my up-coming historical fiction novel,
His Father's Command: A Tale in the Times of Wycliffe and Tamerlane. In reward of your patience, here is the first chapter to the book! More chapters are coming soon! Enjoy!
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Chapter I
Crash!
Amid splintering timber, a
heavily-clad knight was launched from his steed at the end of a wooden pole. He
landed on the green turf with a thud! He let out a groan. He felt
like someone bent his shoulders a way they were not intended to move.
As he lay on the turf, his
shoulder throbbing and several sharp rocks poking miserably into his side, the
rumbling sounds of cheers and applause struck his ears.
He opened his eyelids, and beheld
a young man dressed in a green tunic atop gray chain-mail armor. He was tall
and broad-shouldered. His clear Eastern and European expressions were
firm and resolute yet somewhat handsome. Immense muscles stood out beneath his
mail.
“Art thou seriously injured, uncle?”
he asked.
“Nay, Sir Arthur, except for a
few bruises on my back. My shoulders feel as if I fell off a horse and landed
on the ground. Tarry a moment, I suppose I did,” the knight joked as he
dusted off his red cloak and was helped to his feet. “Anyhow, it was
admirably done, young sir. Thou art very promising.”
“I agree with thy statement
there, Sir Giles,” said a gray-bearded nobleman with a kind face, walking
toward them.
“Well, my good brother, I trust
thou thinkest that the outcome was in favor of thy son?”
“Why thinkest thou thus?” angrily
questioned the young man.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! I suffered thee to
win the joust,” Sir Giles answered. He jutted his chin, defying the proud
youth.
“Did what?” asked Sir Arthur, his
voice incredulous.
Sir Giles crossed his arms, but
instantly uncrossed them, for the pain shooting up the biceps. I hate
jousts, he thought. But if I must, I must.
“I knew, nephew, that if I won,
everyone would hate me. But, methought, if I let Sir Arthur Gifford here win,
everyone might not love me, but at least they wouldn’t despise me. And
that is what I did.” The words were barely out of his mouth when the young
knight's fist struck his own thigh.
“I know the laws of chivalry,” he
cried, “and by suffering me to win the joust, thou hast broken all of them!”
Sir Giles glared back.
“Hold!” cried Sir Arthur's
father. “My son and dear uncle, let not this combat of lances break our
friendship one with another.” He lowered his eyebrows, and Sir Giles saw
Sir Arthur lower his head.
The gray-bearded lord spoke
quietly to his son. “Methought I had trained thee better, Art.”
Sir Arthur did not speak.
“Be each man swift to hear, but
slow to speak, and slow to wrath.” To Sir Giles it sounded as if his
brother Sir Lionel was quoting some sort of wise poet, one which Sir Giles in
all his learning had never read.
“I declare,” continued Sir
Lionel, speaking again in his usual tone. “In a month’s time, ye twain
shall both meet in a combat of swords. Art has beaten me several times, which,
I declare in all humility, a feat accomplished but by few. Sir Giles, I
hear that thou art one of the best swordsmen in Europe. I have spoken. I
anticipate this duel.”
At his words, the two antagonists
stared at each other. To the surprise of Sir Giles, his nephew grasped
his hand and, with a broad smile, shook it vigorously.
Sir Arthur placed his arm around
Sir Giles’ shoulder, and left Sir Lionel. The knight was carried by his nephew
over a wooden bridge, and across a gray moat, toward an impressive iron gate.
The sides of it surrounded the interior in a great circle and extended in tall
stone walls.
They halted a few paces away from
the gate, for they beheld a tall, slim girl, richly dressed and accompanied by
her maids.
The girl clearly looked the
sister to the man in green, yet was much younger. Perhaps seventeen. I keep
forgetting to ask, Sir Giles thought. She was fair, yet modest in her looks
and apparel.
She approached the three warriors
cheerfully.
“Arty,” she exclaimed, using her
moniker for her brother, “what is the outcome? I was restless and regretful
while I tended mother. Who is the victor?”
“I would be, my dear Esther,
except your father's brother had no desire to win, so he let me.” He
glanced at Sir Giles.
“Well,” said Sir Giles. “If I
would have persisted, I would have beaten thine brother, which would have
caused thee to detest me.”
Sir Arthur grunted softly.
Esther laughed. She saved Sir Giles further trouble by asking if
the defeated was badly injured.
“Nay, not much.” Sir Giles answered.
Sir Lionel led them through the
gate, across a green lush courtyard. The large multitude of spectators behind
followed them. The Duke stepped up and opened a door. They passed
and entered a hall of considerable length, leaving the mass outside. Esther
led the way to a small yet tidy sleeping-chamber. Sir Giles was laid on
his bed of rushes by Sir Arthur and he, with his sister and her attendants,
departed, leaving Sir Giles to his dreams
An hour later, Sir Giles was
awaken, despite his aches, and seated at a long table in the hall. At the
head of the table sat the lord of the castle, Sir Lionel Gifford, Duke of
Giffordshire. He was dressed in his finest, his short gray hair
topped by a small golden crown.
Seated to his right was his
eldest son and heir, Sir Arthur Gifford, a knight of twenty-five summers, his
straggling raven black hair growing in all directions.
At Sir Arthur's right was his
brother and squire, Rufus, a lad of fourteen. Next to him sat another of
Sir Arthur's brothers, twenty-year-old scholarly Jerome. The rest of that
side of the table was filled with a few of Sir Lionel's knights.
On Sir Lionel's left sat his
wife's brother, Prince Bayezid, an esteemed visitor from Turkey. He was, in
fact, the Sultan of Turkey himself. Beside him, several emirs, or
princes, ate and talked. On the end Esther sat, also dressed in her
finest and lightly veiled.
The table was suited on a dais,
or raised platform. Below it and behind the veiled girl was placed a
larger table filled with retainers, servants, Bayezid's slaves, and such like.
At the hour set, a waiter came
forth bearing an enormous fish. After they had finished that, the
servants came with an assortment of meats, such as lamb, gazelle, many
specimens of birds, and most of all, a great roast camel.
There was scarce any
conversation, expect when Sir Giles commented about how savory the food tasted
every time he tried a new dish.
After the flesh was eaten, drinks
were served all around, a rich red wine for the inhabitants of the dais, and
brown ale for those below it. Esther and her father, who both hated
intoxicating liquids, partook of fresh clear water cooled with snow, a rare
treat. With the beverages came talk, beginning with Bayezid asking Esther in
the Arabic tongue, “Where is the princess my sister and your mother? Surely she
is not ill?”
“Yea,” replied the maiden. “She
is always sick. What! You did not hear! Well after the trip
to England several months ago, the climate there affected her, and she has
never recovered. So now she is confined to her bed and I am the woman of the
castle, as well as head-nurse.” She sounded tired.
“My utmost sympathies,” the
sultan said pitifully, “for both you and my good brother Prince Great Lion
here.” He laid his hand on Sir Lionel's shoulder. “I do hope she
recovers. I must see her soon. But,” turning to Sir Giles,
“putting that aside, has your visit from the land of the Christians, dear
Frank, to your brother's lands been satisfying?”
After Bayezid's question had been
translated by his brother, Sir Giles answered, “Admirable, except for the joust
this day. However, I intend to leave after the sword-duel in a month’s
time.”
“To whence?” asked Rufus.
“I am thinking of journeying
eastward and touring the great lord Timur's lands.”
“Timur!” shouted Rufus. “If that
fiend finds that thou, a Gifford, hast put thy foot in his lands, he will skin
thee alive!”
“Why?” Sir Giles demanded of his
brother. “What hast thou done to shame the name of thy fathers?”
Before the Duke could answer, a servant
approached the table and informed his lord that two Persians wished to see him.
“Send them away,” Sir Lionel told
the servant.
“But they say it’s important.”
The porter leaned closer and whispered something which Sir Giles could
not hear.
Sir Lionel glanced at the
servant. “Well, hurry! Send them in,” he commanded.
The door-keeper left the hall,
and returned with two turbaned, fierce looking warriors, armed with huge
talwars hangings on sashes across their waists. These were unmistakably
the messengers of Timur.
They strode up to Sir Lionel.
One of the two, a man quite tall and with a gruff voice, spoke.
“Greetings from the great and
terrible khan Timur Ling, Commander of the Faithful, Prince of the Blood, and
Chief of Khans, sends tidings to the noble and brave Prince Great Lion, Lord of
El-Hajjam.”
“Say on.” Sir Lionel gestured
with his hand, but continued finishing his trencher.
“Timur Beg speaks and informs
Prince Great Lion through his servants Akbar and Farhad. Timur Beg is
great and has conquered much land and has gained much gold. However, for
all his land, he could not for many months find proper soil to build his palace
for his new queen. But he has been informed that my Beg's servant has lands
which interest my Beg. A beautiful palace already constructed, surrounded
by an expansive desert and sparkling sea.” Akbar paused. Sir
Lionel looked up.
The messenger continued.
“Therefore he most solemnly beseeches the noble Prince Great Lion to sell his
land to the dread lord Timur for one million golden shahis.”
“One million shahis!” shouted
Rufus, as he leaped to his feet.
“Sit down, Rufus,”
Sir Giles whispered. Rufus sat down immediately and mumbled apologies.
Sir Lionel was about to speak, but Sultan Bayezid held up his hand and
spoke to the messenger Akbar.
“Tell Timur that since Prince
Great Lion is under protection of myself, he will have to request my
permission. Let me tell you his story.”
Sir Giles sat back in his
straight-backed bench.
“This great Frank called Great
Lion in his own country came to me many years ago,” Bayezid continued, “and by
his brilliance and bravery, rescued my country from defeat. I rewarded
him the greatest I could by bestowing on him this land and my sister, the
princess Fatima, in marriage. At first he refused the princess because of
her religion, but after many private talks with her, soon converted her to
Christianity and married her.”
“As lord and prince of El-Hajjam,
he made many changes. He made many things Western. His palace, the
garrison and army, and the religion of the people were the most notable.
He won the admiration and love of his people, who willingly made
the changes he requested.
“He has ever since been an
extraordinary and beneficial servant of mine. Tell your master that
instead of giving up his land for such a puny price, I will reinforce his
garrison with my own men.”
“Oh, my dear cousin and lord, you
do not need to do this, I have enough men to protect myself,” Sir Lionel said.
“Yea, I know, but I still wish
it. Therefore, I will leave Emir Ozturk here with you.” He pointed to a
turbaned man with piercing eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a truncated brow, which to
Sir Giles gave a sort of suspicious look.
The man stood up, bowed, sat back
down, and continued eating and drinking.
“I will leave this man, who
despite his grim looks, is very faithful and an excellent battle commander.
I will also send five thousand of my best handpicked troops to assist in
defense against Timur, should he ever try to attack thee, which I pray Allah would
never happen.”
“Praise Christ, not Allah,” said
Sir Lionel, “However, I thank you.”
Akbar the messenger spoke up. “Am
I to understand that you refuse the great and terrible Timur's wish?”
“Yea,” replied Sir Lionel.
“I believe you heard correctly.”
Straightening to his full height,
Akbar boomed, “Then disobedient rebel, I warn you that Timur, the swift and
terrible, will cause––”
Sir Lionel interrupted him and
pointed at the door. “My pardon, but I'm afraid that this is where
you must leave. Porter, do show these brave men the door.”
Sir Giles laughed. The messengers
scowled at the Duke and the Sultan. The Tatars turned about, and the
addressed servant led them to the door, stepped through, and shut it.
Not a word sounded throughout the
hall. Discomfort ran like a chill wind through every heart, plunging the room
into awkwardness. At last, Sir Giles broke the silence.
“Brother Lionel, excuse me for my
impertinence, but may I have a private talk with you outside after the feast?”
“Why, of course. Anytime.
Now said, speaking up. “The feast ladies and lords,” the Duke has
ended and let us retire to our chambers.”
So after seeing Sir Lionel
dismiss the low-born, along with his family, Sir Giles strode outdoors with his
brother.
A few hourglass turns later, he
ran up the stairs in the castle and rushed into Sir Arthur's room. He
shook Sir Arthur's shoulder. Sir Arthur turned and looked at him.
“Hurry!” Sir Giles found
his voice agitated. “I think your father has been murdered!”
