Khula, son of the Earl of Sean, is the only other nobleman in the room. As a child he was hidden away in an old castle for a few years because he is dark-skinned. Rumors spread quickly about the Earl, his sickly blonde wife and the dark-skinned baby. He lived as a loner until he got to know Sorm. Ever since he has slowly but surely been accepted by the group that has gathered around Sorm. Khula has been taught well by a soldier and a monk appointed bus his father for that purpose.
“Khula,” says Sorm, “here is an example of the letters that must be handed to representatives of the various noblemen and other dignitaries after the ceremony today. I have decided to also give an invite to Radcliff, the Red Prince, therefore we have prepared too few letters. I have also changed the invitations to the revival of the committee of Uther, my great-great grandfather. I do not want to make it seem like I think I am the chairman or anything. The invitations to my Castle Committee are worded more firmly. Please help getting the letters and paperwork in order so that only the royal seal can be added later on.”
“Yes, my Lord,” says Khula with obvious satisfaction. He only calls Sorm “Lord” when they have company.
They work until three helpers begin to carry out bowls of food for breakfast. As requested, it is a simple meal. There is no wine, just amphorae of fresh water and some left-over beer from the previous day. There are two bowls of salted meat, some of which has been fried again over the hearth this morning. In addition there are a few bowls with apples and a few bowls of small freshly baked bread.
Sorm washes his hands in a bowl of water and then takes an apple and a piece of warm bread. He takes care to select this randomly from the bowls. Krijger and he have worked out a system for eating and drinking to eliminate the risk of poison. If Sorm cannot take random pieces of food, then Krijger would taste it first before Sorm eats.
Sorm makes the sign of the cross and then breaks open the piece of bread. He closes his eyes and inhales the wonderful aroma and the steam that comes out. He would like to hold on to the satisfying and earthy smell of the fresh bread throughout this testing day. The men around him talk quietly while they eat, everyone having grabbed the closest chair – Sorm requires no protocol in this gathering of people.
Sorm pushes aside the letters and papers to make place for a helper who hasn’t found a chair yet, to sit beside him. It is a young boy, and he hesitantly joins them. Once seated, however, he eats hungrily, having worked since early morning. Once finished with his bread and water, Sorm takes the apple and eats it in his customary manner: Slicing it bit by bit, careful to not spill even one precious pip. The boy watches this process in astonishment until Krijger starts taunting him.
“Eat some meat, boy, so that one day you would at least be able to lift a sword,” he says smilingly.
The boy blushes and takes a piece of salted meat. He would spend the rest of the day behind the kitchen telling his mates how he sat next to the imposing warrior and how Sorm sliced the apple methodically.
A commotion at the door follows immediately after this short meal. A short and muscular monk with graying hair enters. He greets and shares jokes with various soldiers as he makes his way towards Sorm’s table. Sorm greets him by getting up and grabbing his arms with excitement.
“Krog! Am I glad to see you!” says Sorm.
“I have come to show to you that some of the common people are also here on this auspicious day!” replies the ageing but once powerful monk, his teacher during his stay in Edburg.
“I hear you’ve been appointed Cardinal of the monasteries of Edburg and the North West,” replies Sorm.
“I am much too short for such a title,” parries the monk with a smile.
“Rather a case of the title being too long for you,” says Sorm and laughs. They used to play with words like this for hours at the monastery.
“The Red Prince has sent an unknown businessman as observer, the Earl of Duncan is represented by an army sergeant, every town has at least sent some token of interest,” relates Krog and then he continues: “Every Earl is represented in some or other fashion today.”
“My father would’ve come if at all within his means, but at least I am here,” interjects Khula.
Krog winks at Khula and then delivers the coup de grace: “The Bishop of Chalcedonum has brought with him the seal ring of the Pope.”
“That must’ve cost a major tussle within the church,” thinks Sorm and smiles gratefully at the new Cardinal.
“The architect of Edburg…,” says Sorm inquisitively.
“Also here,” replies Krog.
“And ordinary citizens….townsfolk,” asks Sorm.
“Many of them are not that much aware, nor interested, my Lord,” replies Khula with a sign, “and the mayor of Castle Town and the Secretary of State have ordered the castle gate closed to prevent too many of them from entering.”
Sorm nods and says: “Khula, here is the list of our preparations and decisions for the day. Please read them to us so that we can finally consider whether everything is ready. The time for thinking ahead and preparing is almost over.”
Sorm sighs, because the time for having any life of his own with his friends and family has also almost run out. He involuntarily thinks of fair Elisabeth, the girl who caught his attention back in Edburg. She was tall with long black hair, and she moved gracefully as a deer. He remembers how she blushed when she caught him staring at her. But there will be no time for dreams of a life with her. He also remembers another lesson taught by Krog:
“Focus on present challenges, rather than looking for challenges in fantasies and games.”
The discussion around their tables continues in quiet voices for a while, echoing the slight murmur of voices from the tables around them. Krog leaves after a short while to go finalize preparations of his own.
“TAN-TARAA!” A trumpet blows the ceremonial salute. The men scurry around to tidy up and to ready themselves for what is to come.
A loud knocking is heard on the main door of their quarters, almost like the handle of a spear thudding against the solid wood. Then a priest, a helper and two ceremonial pike-men enter the room. The priest is dressed flamboyantly, in all manners of purple and gilded furls, with various expensive gold crosses hanging around his neck. He also wears a heavy purple headpiece that miraculously manages to stay on top of his head despite being top-heavy.
The ceremonial pike-men are clothed exactly as Sorm had imagined: Even the finely embroidered cuffs on their royal blue coats are as he had known it would be. They carry two extraordinary weapons: Their long pikes are like lances with combined battle ax and spear points. They are made of the modern shiny and strengthened iron. Sorm wished that the weapons and armor of the all the soldiers could be made of that material. The equipment of the army and marine soldiers are outdated and leave much to be desired. The helper carries a neatly folded stack of clothes.
Sorm slowly stands up, kicks off his shoes and lets his girdle and buckle fall to the ground.
“The time has come,” he thinks, “and from now on my life and my time are not mine. I must hold my head high no matter what.”
He also remembers another of Krog’s teachings: “You can be what you believe, and you can believe what you truly hope. Therefore hope always for the best and always aim higher.”
The priest stands right in front of Sorm, looks at him critically and thinks: “How am I supposed to make him look important with such short hair, no beard and no beer-belly?”
Sorm also lets his mantle fall to the ground. Now he stands before them in only his underclothes of white wool beneath a basic armor of linked iron mail around his chest. He wears similar armor over his forearms. He has a very flat tummy and his torso is slightly more powerful than one would suspect having seen him walk around in loose unrefined linen and skins. His short blonde hair shines above his clean-shaven and tanned face, and his nose wrinkles at the irritating smell of the priest’s perfume.
“Khula,” says Sorm, “here is an example of the letters that must be handed to representatives of the various noblemen and other dignitaries after the ceremony today. I have decided to also give an invite to Radcliff, the Red Prince, therefore we have prepared too few letters. I have also changed the invitations to the revival of the committee of Uther, my great-great grandfather. I do not want to make it seem like I think I am the chairman or anything. The invitations to my Castle Committee are worded more firmly. Please help getting the letters and paperwork in order so that only the royal seal can be added later on.”
“Yes, my Lord,” says Khula with obvious satisfaction. He only calls Sorm “Lord” when they have company.
They work until three helpers begin to carry out bowls of food for breakfast. As requested, it is a simple meal. There is no wine, just amphorae of fresh water and some left-over beer from the previous day. There are two bowls of salted meat, some of which has been fried again over the hearth this morning. In addition there are a few bowls with apples and a few bowls of small freshly baked bread.
Sorm washes his hands in a bowl of water and then takes an apple and a piece of warm bread. He takes care to select this randomly from the bowls. Krijger and he have worked out a system for eating and drinking to eliminate the risk of poison. If Sorm cannot take random pieces of food, then Krijger would taste it first before Sorm eats.
Sorm makes the sign of the cross and then breaks open the piece of bread. He closes his eyes and inhales the wonderful aroma and the steam that comes out. He would like to hold on to the satisfying and earthy smell of the fresh bread throughout this testing day. The men around him talk quietly while they eat, everyone having grabbed the closest chair – Sorm requires no protocol in this gathering of people.
Sorm pushes aside the letters and papers to make place for a helper who hasn’t found a chair yet, to sit beside him. It is a young boy, and he hesitantly joins them. Once seated, however, he eats hungrily, having worked since early morning. Once finished with his bread and water, Sorm takes the apple and eats it in his customary manner: Slicing it bit by bit, careful to not spill even one precious pip. The boy watches this process in astonishment until Krijger starts taunting him.
“Eat some meat, boy, so that one day you would at least be able to lift a sword,” he says smilingly.
The boy blushes and takes a piece of salted meat. He would spend the rest of the day behind the kitchen telling his mates how he sat next to the imposing warrior and how Sorm sliced the apple methodically.
A commotion at the door follows immediately after this short meal. A short and muscular monk with graying hair enters. He greets and shares jokes with various soldiers as he makes his way towards Sorm’s table. Sorm greets him by getting up and grabbing his arms with excitement.
“Krog! Am I glad to see you!” says Sorm.
“I have come to show to you that some of the common people are also here on this auspicious day!” replies the ageing but once powerful monk, his teacher during his stay in Edburg.
“I hear you’ve been appointed Cardinal of the monasteries of Edburg and the North West,” replies Sorm.
“I am much too short for such a title,” parries the monk with a smile.
“Rather a case of the title being too long for you,” says Sorm and laughs. They used to play with words like this for hours at the monastery.
“The Red Prince has sent an unknown businessman as observer, the Earl of Duncan is represented by an army sergeant, every town has at least sent some token of interest,” relates Krog and then he continues: “Every Earl is represented in some or other fashion today.”
“My father would’ve come if at all within his means, but at least I am here,” interjects Khula.
Krog winks at Khula and then delivers the coup de grace: “The Bishop of Chalcedonum has brought with him the seal ring of the Pope.”
“That must’ve cost a major tussle within the church,” thinks Sorm and smiles gratefully at the new Cardinal.
“The architect of Edburg…,” says Sorm inquisitively.
“Also here,” replies Krog.
“And ordinary citizens….townsfolk,” asks Sorm.
“Many of them are not that much aware, nor interested, my Lord,” replies Khula with a sign, “and the mayor of Castle Town and the Secretary of State have ordered the castle gate closed to prevent too many of them from entering.”
Sorm nods and says: “Khula, here is the list of our preparations and decisions for the day. Please read them to us so that we can finally consider whether everything is ready. The time for thinking ahead and preparing is almost over.”
Sorm sighs, because the time for having any life of his own with his friends and family has also almost run out. He involuntarily thinks of fair Elisabeth, the girl who caught his attention back in Edburg. She was tall with long black hair, and she moved gracefully as a deer. He remembers how she blushed when she caught him staring at her. But there will be no time for dreams of a life with her. He also remembers another lesson taught by Krog:
“Focus on present challenges, rather than looking for challenges in fantasies and games.”
The discussion around their tables continues in quiet voices for a while, echoing the slight murmur of voices from the tables around them. Krog leaves after a short while to go finalize preparations of his own.
“TAN-TARAA!” A trumpet blows the ceremonial salute. The men scurry around to tidy up and to ready themselves for what is to come.
A loud knocking is heard on the main door of their quarters, almost like the handle of a spear thudding against the solid wood. Then a priest, a helper and two ceremonial pike-men enter the room. The priest is dressed flamboyantly, in all manners of purple and gilded furls, with various expensive gold crosses hanging around his neck. He also wears a heavy purple headpiece that miraculously manages to stay on top of his head despite being top-heavy.
The ceremonial pike-men are clothed exactly as Sorm had imagined: Even the finely embroidered cuffs on their royal blue coats are as he had known it would be. They carry two extraordinary weapons: Their long pikes are like lances with combined battle ax and spear points. They are made of the modern shiny and strengthened iron. Sorm wished that the weapons and armor of the all the soldiers could be made of that material. The equipment of the army and marine soldiers are outdated and leave much to be desired. The helper carries a neatly folded stack of clothes.
Sorm slowly stands up, kicks off his shoes and lets his girdle and buckle fall to the ground.
“The time has come,” he thinks, “and from now on my life and my time are not mine. I must hold my head high no matter what.”
He also remembers another of Krog’s teachings: “You can be what you believe, and you can believe what you truly hope. Therefore hope always for the best and always aim higher.”
The priest stands right in front of Sorm, looks at him critically and thinks: “How am I supposed to make him look important with such short hair, no beard and no beer-belly?”
Sorm also lets his mantle fall to the ground. Now he stands before them in only his underclothes of white wool beneath a basic armor of linked iron mail around his chest. He wears similar armor over his forearms. He has a very flat tummy and his torso is slightly more powerful than one would suspect having seen him walk around in loose unrefined linen and skins. His short blonde hair shines above his clean-shaven and tanned face, and his nose wrinkles at the irritating smell of the priest’s perfume.
