Stephen Wormwood

MEMORIA = SNEATH Croughwell was restless. The confessor, poised and silent, watched the gruff warrior pace back and forth in clunking greaves, scratching idly at his leonine beard. He broke his pace and snatched refreshment from the tent table – a water goblet. Croughwell drained it and set it aside. “What troubles you, my child?” Said Sneath. “Do you so fear for our comrades?” “My subordinates,” he corrected. “They are well trained and loyal to the cause. But the method

A servant boy brought his platter by – roasted pheasant breast served with slices of manchet and a stout herb sauce – better suited to a richer sort of tongue, perhaps. An ewer lay nearby, laden with water, and the serving boy poured him a cup. John Longsword thanked him and took a sup. His preference would’ve been wine or ale, of course, but he was not minded to ask the confessor for such a luxury – he was still surprised the good churchfather permitted ale in the Forward Camp. Confessor

Execution by fire and faggot. It was the good churchfather’s theorized sentence, the customary fate of both the traitor and the heretic. John Longsword’s lacklustre memories provided no recourse to stake burnings, but raw imagination sufficed. The mere thought of death by fire curdled his blood. And it was all John could think about as the good churchfather came for him that morning. Confessor Sneath brought no table nor chairs with him. No writing implements. No breakfast. Raffie was

“…Goddess forgive me…” He meant only to think it, not say it, but the words escaped his lips in a breathless haze. “…Oh, dear Goddess above, forgive me…” He could stand it no longer. Dirt-soiled fingernails slipped beneath his waistband and shunted down his breeks until they danced halfway along his thighs. His dripping manhood, stiff and erect, swung free. A wad of spit flew into sweltering hands. Strong fingers wrapped themselves around a jutting cock, closing into a fist, a fist tha

His cell was eerily quiet now. Confessor Sneath was gone. The novitiate Raffie was gone. The strongbox and pendant, the parchment and writing implements, the water ewer and platter, even the tables and chairs; all had been removed by breastplated guardsmen. Once again John Longsword was left to rot inside that dank cell with nothing but his pallet and his piss pot to keep him company. But it was worse this time. This time the threat of execution dangled overhead. John sat in the corn

It felt like they’d been at this for hours. His throat was parched from talking so long. John Longsword eyed the ewer at the table and asked Confessor Sneath for a sup of water before they continued. The pale priest assented. “Drink, my child.” Said he. “Her bounty is mankind’s blessing.” He poured a cup and quaffed it. And then another. And another. He was about to pour his forth when the churchfather warned him to drink more slowly lest he sicken himself. John put cup and ewer asi

The chamber pot hissed as John Longsword emptied himself of yellow waters. His nose wrinkled at the sour smell, or rather, at the smell that the good churchfather and scribe were forced to sit with. He shook off the last droplets then tucked his yard back into his tattered breeks. He returned to his chair. Confessor Sneath drew a flat smile. “Do not feel embarrassed, my child. We all make water.” John couldn’t meet eyes with him. “…Still, I…” “Should we resume?” “…I-I-I du

What happened to his memories? Why is he imprisoned? Why is he being interrogated by a man of the cloth? And to whom belongs the beautiful elven face haunting his broken mind?

It was the stench that woke him. The very thickness of it. What was it? The pungent stink of his shit pot brewing with the decaying musk of a boot-stomped rodent, his long dead gaolmate? Or was it himself? Unwashed for days without recourse to lake nor privy, his skin sour and crusted with old sweat? Or was all mixed to nauseate him? He could not say. But it was the stench that woke him. And when he woke, he woke into darkness, a darkness thick as pitch. Close his eyes or open them,

I think this is a great assessment of Fran. Between Gustave's abuses and his own desire for nobility and power, he lost himself. Thanks for reading and commenting, @akascrubber, I value all your comments over the months. 👌

Thank you for reading it! I really appreciate all your comments and feedback.

********** The Sea – The River – Epilogue, Part 1 – Epilogue, Part 2 ********** Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland 4th of Winter, 801 Inside the dripping darkness there materialized a warm face – an oval jaw framed by its smoky beard, its brow furrowed, its lips widened into a toothy smile to match a cantankerous wit. An old face. A wise face. A calm one. Soothing. And Edward Bardshaw smiled back. “Master…” He wished he knew what to say to him. Tha

********** A Noble Born – “And now it dies with me” – The Trial of Edward Bardshaw ********** Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland 43rd of Autumn, 801 46 DAYS AGO Fran kept his silence. “I could always communicate with the Emperor directly, I suppose.” Said the Duke. “But even if he acquiesced at the first letter, it would take half a season to muster the help I require. Edith could march on Dragonspur in days.” “Your grace?” He frowned. “

********** Three Letters – The Die is Cast – “What do you want?” – Edward Will Die – Tenth of his Name – The Whelping Bitch – A Better Realm – Bitches beget Bastards – “Who Gave the Order?” ********** The Undergaol, City of Greyford, Kingdom of Morland 53rd of Autumn, 801 It was a rancid pit. There was little better to say about it. The walls were like slagheaps – crooked and misshapen and befouled with moss. Damp’s stench infested the nostrils at every turn as mice scur

********** An Eye for a City – Wolner Returns – Confession – Edith’s Entreaty – James the Whore – Greyford’s Entreaty – The Pig's Head – Upon the Crossroads of History ********** Walmouth Village, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland 42nd of Autumn, 801 The train of Edith’s Army came upon a village some hours afore noontide that day, a village called Walmouth. They found it shuttered. They found its grain stores emptied, its doors and windows boarded, its stables and paddoc