The priest washes Sorm’s hands in perfumed water and instructs the helper to do the same with the bare feet. Then he hangs a long gold-colored shirt over Sorm’s body. Next he hangs a royal blue mantle around Sorm’s shoulders and fastens it with a shiny new leather girdle with a golden buckle. Finally he puts a chain and cross of gold around Sorm’s neck.
The priest frowns when he sees the worn-out leather band with the green stone around Sorm’s neck. He reaches out to pluck it off, but Sorm firmly takes his hand and moves it away.
“No. That is my father.”
Krijger hands the short sword and sheath to Sorm to the further chagrin of the priest.
“Under NO circumstances may he be armed!” The priest quivers with irritation.
“I carry my sword and take my own decisions, Padre. Continue or risk delaying the ceremony,” says Sorm with finality in his voice.
The priest shrugs his shoulders and instructs the helper to put fancy leather boots with gold inlays on Sorm’s feet. Then he steps back, surveys the result of their work, clicks his tongue and turns around towards the door.
Sorm lets the two pike-men walk in front of him. His back is covered by Krijger and four of his best soldiers. They all wear swords and light armor. Each carries a shield on his back, decorated with the bright colors of the various warrior families: Green, blue and ruby red.
They exit through the larger door into the main corridor of the ancient castle. The stone floor has been worn out over the years so that the surface is slightly rounded, rising at the edges. They walk down the corridor until they reach a huge wooden door which has been strengthened with iron bars.
A smaller door next to the large one leads to another, smaller corridor. The priest turns that way, but Sorm says:
“I want to walk outside and over the wooden bridge.”
Krijger and the priest both protest that this is a bad idea, but Sorm opens the big door and walks to the courtyard outside. The rest of the procession hurries to join him there.
The courtyard has been partitioned to close off this part from the public, and the ceremonial guard, all pike-men, are waiting outside. They are all dressed like the two who are with Sorm. He walks to them and greets each of them in turn by the hand. The priest whines about this waste of time, but Sorm wants to look each guard in the eye to see what they think. He knows most of the older men from playing in the courtyard as a small child, and he has tried to get to know the younger ones since coming back to the castle.
Then Sorm briskly climbs up a rickety spiraling staircase to the wooden bridge that connects the roof of the sleeping hall to another building in the middle of the castle. He must face the malevolence that he knows is about to meet him, head on.
Having reached the top he can now see the townsfolk standing in the courtyard on the other side of the partitioning. Some of them applaud him while others grumble. He goes to stand by the worn balustrade on the bridge to look more closely at them while he waits for the panting priest to finish climbing. Many of the people look so tired and worn-out, and some don’t even have warm clothes or blankets for the cold. Some of them look up animatedly at him and he waves. He tries to look closely at as many of the faces as possible.
Somehow he knows what has to happen next. Someone shouts out something to him, and he turns towards the sound so that the armor on his chest protects him. He senses something rushing towards him, piercing the cold air. He quickly lifts both arms with the armor on the forearms turned to the front and then chops downwards with them. His left arm hits the arrow downwards and it ricochets harmlessly against his chain-mail. Sorm looks down at the arrow that lies broken on the bridge at his feet. It is a scarce and modern weapon with a point furnished of the strongest metal. It shines in the bleak sunlight.
Krijger is EXTREMELY upset! He has drawn his sword and wants to take it out on someone. Sorm pacifies him with a hand on his shoulder, and asks him to pick up the arrow for later scrutiny.
Sorm gestures to the over-excited crowd to calm down. He waves towards them one last time and then climbs down the stairs at the end of the bridge into a small walled garden that leads to a large gilded door. There is a well under an old tree in the middle of the garden, the strategic water source of the castle. He makes a mental note to make sure that a guard is placed there at all times. He caresses the trunk of the tree where his name has been carved out long ago. They have reached the end of their journey. It is much shorter this way as opposed to the long roundabout way inside the corridors of the back part of the castle.
The hall, in front of which they now stand, is one of the newer and more beautiful buildings of the castle. Sorm has always thought it would serve well as a church. It unfortunately still has a wooden roof, which makes it less useful as a military building. It will take fire too easily.
Krijger and the priest are at odds again. The priest is refusing to allow the junior officers and soldiers to enter the hall. Sorm simply pushes open the door, gestures for the priest to lead the way, and says:
“Except if you want my bodyguard to precede your eminence.”
The priest hastily leads them inside. All of them come to a standstill once inside the hall.
The scene inside is reminiscent of a dream of Sorm’s. Banners of the castle and of the surrounding counties flourish magnificently beneath the ceiling. A kaleidoscope of light shines through lead-glass windows, illuminating a colorful congregation. Those who are held in sufficient esteem by the Bishop and his officials, all male, stand around in groups. They wear better and grander clothes than those waiting outside. They are richly garmented, wearing gaily feathered hats. Their starchy white cravats are embroidered with gold and even more glitter is produced by their glistening jewelry.
Sorm smiles bitterly and contemplates the probability that quite a few of these gentlemen were irritated by his father while he stubbornly refused to succumb to wounds and poisons. He waited until his eldest son reached 16 years of age and thereby became eligible according to the Laws of Uther. A regent was not appointed beforehand, so civil war might have ensued, had a minor inherited the throne.
The priests and church officials in the hall mostly wear long black or purple gowns adorned with gold and jewels. The Bishop himself is clothed most extravagantly. He is a purple apparition and glitters of gold. His bodyguard, mainly soldiers drafted from the castle, are clothed like the two pike-men who accompany Sorm. Some of the men in the hall are also armed
The priest leads Sorm to his place in front of the ominous stone altar in the middle, and then scurries to his position behind the Bishop. A muttering arises when Sorm’s own bodyguard take position in a half-circle around him amongst the gentry.
Sorm must stand or kneel for the whole ceremony. Suddenly he does not feel up to this. Then he notices that two women were, after all, allowed in amongst the men. They are hidden away in a corner by the back door, where the church officials do not have to look at them. His dear mother is in a carry-chair with helpers supporting her. Next to her stand his little brother and sister. Of course he must go through with this. He also notices Krog standing behind the Bishop. Krog nods encouragingly at him
The Bishop begins the Mass, with his thin voice assisted by a choir of priests. There is a slight disturbance as the Bishop reaches out to put the bread on Sorm’s tongue. Dear old Krijger wants to test it first, but Sorm gestures for him to desist. The dry little piece of holy bread cannot contain a fatal poison. The Bishop himself takes the first sip of the bitter cup of herb wine, so that must be safe too.
“The first of many bitter cups,” thinks Sorm as he takes his turn. Then a priest ushers him to the purple pillow in front of the altar and the eternal Flame of Uther, where he must finally kneel down...
The Bishop and a priest carrying a small casket approach him. Another priest waves a smoking incense burner. The overly sweet smell of it is nauseating. The Bishop produces a small glass bottle containing holy oil, from his attire. He drips a drop of it on the heavy gold signet of the Pope. He presses this cold, wet jewel against Sorm’s forehead, makes the sign of the cross and begins his incantation:
“In nomine Patre...”
Sorm closes his eyes for a moment to steel himself. He suppresses the thought that this is all too big and weird for such a young and simple boy as himself. He opens his eyes when the Bishop falters, as if he is waiting for something to happen.
© J.M. Conradie
The priest frowns when he sees the worn-out leather band with the green stone around Sorm’s neck. He reaches out to pluck it off, but Sorm firmly takes his hand and moves it away.
“No. That is my father.”
Krijger hands the short sword and sheath to Sorm to the further chagrin of the priest.
“Under NO circumstances may he be armed!” The priest quivers with irritation.
“I carry my sword and take my own decisions, Padre. Continue or risk delaying the ceremony,” says Sorm with finality in his voice.
The priest shrugs his shoulders and instructs the helper to put fancy leather boots with gold inlays on Sorm’s feet. Then he steps back, surveys the result of their work, clicks his tongue and turns around towards the door.
Sorm lets the two pike-men walk in front of him. His back is covered by Krijger and four of his best soldiers. They all wear swords and light armor. Each carries a shield on his back, decorated with the bright colors of the various warrior families: Green, blue and ruby red.
They exit through the larger door into the main corridor of the ancient castle. The stone floor has been worn out over the years so that the surface is slightly rounded, rising at the edges. They walk down the corridor until they reach a huge wooden door which has been strengthened with iron bars.
A smaller door next to the large one leads to another, smaller corridor. The priest turns that way, but Sorm says:
“I want to walk outside and over the wooden bridge.”
Krijger and the priest both protest that this is a bad idea, but Sorm opens the big door and walks to the courtyard outside. The rest of the procession hurries to join him there.
The courtyard has been partitioned to close off this part from the public, and the ceremonial guard, all pike-men, are waiting outside. They are all dressed like the two who are with Sorm. He walks to them and greets each of them in turn by the hand. The priest whines about this waste of time, but Sorm wants to look each guard in the eye to see what they think. He knows most of the older men from playing in the courtyard as a small child, and he has tried to get to know the younger ones since coming back to the castle.
Then Sorm briskly climbs up a rickety spiraling staircase to the wooden bridge that connects the roof of the sleeping hall to another building in the middle of the castle. He must face the malevolence that he knows is about to meet him, head on.
Having reached the top he can now see the townsfolk standing in the courtyard on the other side of the partitioning. Some of them applaud him while others grumble. He goes to stand by the worn balustrade on the bridge to look more closely at them while he waits for the panting priest to finish climbing. Many of the people look so tired and worn-out, and some don’t even have warm clothes or blankets for the cold. Some of them look up animatedly at him and he waves. He tries to look closely at as many of the faces as possible.
Somehow he knows what has to happen next. Someone shouts out something to him, and he turns towards the sound so that the armor on his chest protects him. He senses something rushing towards him, piercing the cold air. He quickly lifts both arms with the armor on the forearms turned to the front and then chops downwards with them. His left arm hits the arrow downwards and it ricochets harmlessly against his chain-mail. Sorm looks down at the arrow that lies broken on the bridge at his feet. It is a scarce and modern weapon with a point furnished of the strongest metal. It shines in the bleak sunlight.
Krijger is EXTREMELY upset! He has drawn his sword and wants to take it out on someone. Sorm pacifies him with a hand on his shoulder, and asks him to pick up the arrow for later scrutiny.
Sorm gestures to the over-excited crowd to calm down. He waves towards them one last time and then climbs down the stairs at the end of the bridge into a small walled garden that leads to a large gilded door. There is a well under an old tree in the middle of the garden, the strategic water source of the castle. He makes a mental note to make sure that a guard is placed there at all times. He caresses the trunk of the tree where his name has been carved out long ago. They have reached the end of their journey. It is much shorter this way as opposed to the long roundabout way inside the corridors of the back part of the castle.
The hall, in front of which they now stand, is one of the newer and more beautiful buildings of the castle. Sorm has always thought it would serve well as a church. It unfortunately still has a wooden roof, which makes it less useful as a military building. It will take fire too easily.
Krijger and the priest are at odds again. The priest is refusing to allow the junior officers and soldiers to enter the hall. Sorm simply pushes open the door, gestures for the priest to lead the way, and says:
“Except if you want my bodyguard to precede your eminence.”
The priest hastily leads them inside. All of them come to a standstill once inside the hall.
The scene inside is reminiscent of a dream of Sorm’s. Banners of the castle and of the surrounding counties flourish magnificently beneath the ceiling. A kaleidoscope of light shines through lead-glass windows, illuminating a colorful congregation. Those who are held in sufficient esteem by the Bishop and his officials, all male, stand around in groups. They wear better and grander clothes than those waiting outside. They are richly garmented, wearing gaily feathered hats. Their starchy white cravats are embroidered with gold and even more glitter is produced by their glistening jewelry.
Sorm smiles bitterly and contemplates the probability that quite a few of these gentlemen were irritated by his father while he stubbornly refused to succumb to wounds and poisons. He waited until his eldest son reached 16 years of age and thereby became eligible according to the Laws of Uther. A regent was not appointed beforehand, so civil war might have ensued, had a minor inherited the throne.
The priests and church officials in the hall mostly wear long black or purple gowns adorned with gold and jewels. The Bishop himself is clothed most extravagantly. He is a purple apparition and glitters of gold. His bodyguard, mainly soldiers drafted from the castle, are clothed like the two pike-men who accompany Sorm. Some of the men in the hall are also armed
The priest leads Sorm to his place in front of the ominous stone altar in the middle, and then scurries to his position behind the Bishop. A muttering arises when Sorm’s own bodyguard take position in a half-circle around him amongst the gentry.
Sorm must stand or kneel for the whole ceremony. Suddenly he does not feel up to this. Then he notices that two women were, after all, allowed in amongst the men. They are hidden away in a corner by the back door, where the church officials do not have to look at them. His dear mother is in a carry-chair with helpers supporting her. Next to her stand his little brother and sister. Of course he must go through with this. He also notices Krog standing behind the Bishop. Krog nods encouragingly at him
The Bishop begins the Mass, with his thin voice assisted by a choir of priests. There is a slight disturbance as the Bishop reaches out to put the bread on Sorm’s tongue. Dear old Krijger wants to test it first, but Sorm gestures for him to desist. The dry little piece of holy bread cannot contain a fatal poison. The Bishop himself takes the first sip of the bitter cup of herb wine, so that must be safe too.
“The first of many bitter cups,” thinks Sorm as he takes his turn. Then a priest ushers him to the purple pillow in front of the altar and the eternal Flame of Uther, where he must finally kneel down...
The Bishop and a priest carrying a small casket approach him. Another priest waves a smoking incense burner. The overly sweet smell of it is nauseating. The Bishop produces a small glass bottle containing holy oil, from his attire. He drips a drop of it on the heavy gold signet of the Pope. He presses this cold, wet jewel against Sorm’s forehead, makes the sign of the cross and begins his incantation:
“In nomine Patre...”
Sorm closes his eyes for a moment to steel himself. He suppresses the thought that this is all too big and weird for such a young and simple boy as himself. He opens his eyes when the Bishop falters, as if he is waiting for something to happen.
© J.M. Conradie
