Post by greybeardabbot on Jan 6, 2007 5:28:05 GMT -5
Paladin
By Rick Boshoven
Chapter I
Cruxes Duo
Jerusalem had fallen. Victor had only managed to escape slavery and death and buy his freedom with all that he had left in the world. His swords armor were forfeited in the general disarmament, his horse had perished on the horns of Hatin’. All he possessed now in the whole world were a pair of worn leather short boots, britches and a dirty linen shirt. And three gold rings. These he had removed and hid from his captors by tying them into his long hair near the nape of his neck. The two heavy rings were barely enough to secure his freedom, but they were hard to part with. The larger was his own ring, which he wore upon the middle finger of his right hand; a great knuckle buster with a wide flat face, which was a weapon in itself. It had his monogram, and it signified his wealth on position. It was a ring fitting a young and brash Lord. It was the first blow to his identity to loose it in war against the Saracens. The other was his father’s ring, the signet of the house of Elroy to which he was heir. This was the second and most fatal blow to his sense of self worth. To hand over this ring was to hand over his name. These two rings bought his freedom at the cost of his soul. The third ring bought his life.
This ring was also made of gold, but it was not so large as the other two, but in it’s own way it was worth more to him than either of the other two… well, perhaps not more than his father’s ring, for that ring was symbolic of his heritage, but this ring was a symbol of paternal love and affection. Not from his own father, since his own father had not been very demonstrative towards him. It had been a gift from his tutor, his teacher, who had raised him, instructed him, trained him and had been his personal bodyguard until he was 16. His father had called this man his uncle, although if this man had been his actual blood relation victor was never certain. His relationship to the household had always held a little mystery. The man’s name as he recalled, was Christian DeGies but his father only ever called him uncle. As for Victor, he was allowed for some reason long forgotten to simply call him Greybeard. The ring he was given by his friend and mentor was a simple ring and engraved with two Maltese crosses, enameled --one black and the other white. To part with this ring was to part with who he was completely for this ring was the symbol of his catechesis.
The week after Victor’s 16th birthday, Greybeard packed his trunk and took the cross, which means he went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He said simply… “You a man now, Victor, and a fine one at that. A bit too proud I think, but that’s your mother in you. I could never buff that out. Never the less, I’m done with you, my work here is finished. And so I’m setting out for the Holy Land once more. Now, now… none of that…it’s time that’s all. We all have our time, and reunions are more than common in heaven. Well… then I guess its meet right and salutary to grieve… tears are more eloquent than words. Now then… I give you this as parting since my tears are not so quick… the ring cruses duo… my mark. One cross is the Symbol of our Lord… it tells us who He is and what He has done for you. Three crosses is Golgotha, if you what to remember what he did for the world or we call it Calvary, if you what to know that God is three persons in one God… a sacramental mystery to be sure. But the two crosses tell you who we are. Since Christ was crucified with two sinners. But one repented and when to paradise, while the other cursed and went bellow. We have both natures in us lad; One the saint, the other the sinner. Don’t forget which you are, or when to be which!”
Victor thought of this as he traded the ring for food and water enough to make the journey to Dorylaium. “Which am I now? Saint or sinner?” But it did not escape him that this ring would by him life, for without food or water he could not hope to cross the wilderness. It seemed an appropriate trade. A fair one anyway. You might think that such a loss to his identity and blow to his dignity might make him bitter toward God. But as Greybeard told him more than once, “When one is faced with adversity, one can either run from God or run to God. Now given the choice, which will you choose? Which makes the most sense? To Quote St Job… ‘Yeah though He would slay me, still I will trust in Him.’”
Victor was not disappointed when he put his trust in the Lord and began to cross the wilderness with the mass of other refugees. But sickness and age and ability soon separated the masses. The group in which he found himself was making foolish decisions and it was not long before Victor was on his own. He trusted to what he had learned of survival and discovered a bit of an oasis. From there he was able to rest and discover north by the stars. The next day, in answer to a silent and unspoken prayer, Victor’s fortunes improved. He discovered an ass without an owner, docile and willing to take a rider. Humble transportation, but what pride that was in him had long been buffed away. He was grateful and he was able to make it to the hospital in Samaria. He learned to labor for his income and worked his way slowly back toward the port at Malta, from where he hoped to sail for home, or whatever might be left of it.
If we take stock of Victor’s situation, we would be pleased to discover his future was not so bleak as it might have been. Certainly the mighty had fallen, and with the losses he no longer knew himself, or much wanted to. But even so, he was not bad off. He was dressed humbly. He was able to eat and drink. He had an ass to ride and a few coins in his pocket to now. He knew where he was going; or at least had a goal in his mind, even if he didn’t have the faintest clue what he would do or be able to do once he arrived there.
But those he had lost much in terms of titles and possessions there came the freedom of being a stateless person without responsibilities in exchange. And while this situation was not to his liking, he discovered it was not entirely to his disliking either. It had certain compensation, which, if he did not let his thoughts dwell long on his old life, was a pleasant thing in it’s own right. And it happened that on a particular sunny morning late in June of 1101 Victor found himself on a gentle road on the outskirts of Dorylaium. And upon the road was a way station, and there was in it an Inn under the sign of the “Cruses Duo.” There in wood, were the same two crosses, one black, and one white as well knew from his ring of faith. It was a curiosity to victor, who would likely have stopped even if the name had been less familiar. Although, the sign of the two crosses seemed like it would be a common, ordinary enough name for a hospice. Perhaps it’s where old Greybeard got the idea.
Victor rapped at the door and entered carefully, and was welcomed hardily by a youngish woman with dark hair and olive skin. There were two or three others in the room, seeking relief from the sun, which was gaining strength, and a bit of a noon meal. There was an older woman, who might have been the maiden’s mother. And there were two men, both older with white in their beards. One was clearly older and sat in a large chair by the hearth. The other, perhaps in his mid forties, was behind the long table, which was not quite a bar, for this was not a tavern but a lodge… he was in the shadow with the window bright behind him, cleaning pots and dishes.
“Might I buy a bit of bread, and drink?” asked victor with a smile in his voice.
“Aye!” she answered, “And a bit of cheese too for a pica.”
“You’re an answer to a prayer. May I?” indicating a chair.
“Sit, if you please, and welcome my lord.”
She meant it with innocence, to call him “lord” who was obviously a common peasant. But to hear the old title given use in honesty, as if she knew who he was and meant it… it awoke a longing in him took his strength away.
“You… you know me?”
“Nay, sire.” She answered casually, “Should I?”
“You called me lord.”
“Forgive me, sire, it’s a figure of speech. Are you a lord, good sir? Returned from Jerusalem? Forgive me. But we are taught to treat all our patrons as if they were Christ Himself on visit and we then at His Service. How might I be of service?”
“This can’t be coincidence. My old teacher used to teach the same attitude, he gave me a ring once with those same two crosses that you have on your sign. Who is the mater of this house?”
The maid became quiet and bashful, and looked down as she answered, “He is behind the table sir.”
Victor stood up and walked over to the old man seated by the fire, and looked him hard in the face. The old man in turn looked back with aged curiosity. The old man’s features were winkled, his ears and nose large with age. How old had Greybeard been when he left? 50? 60? How old was this man? 75? 80? It had been 15 years. What did Greybeard look like? Could this old man be him?
“No, my lord.” Said the girl, awkwardly… this is my master.”
He was a big man, with a white beard but a face that could not have been older than 45 if his eye told the truth. His voice was instantly familiar, like the sound of a familiar song that you haven’t heard in a very long time, but your heart melts to hear it.
“So my friend who might you be?”
Victor turned in recognition but was caught up short when he saw the man’s face.
“No… It can’t be…. Greybeard? Is that you Greybeard?” What had taken Victor by sudden surprise was the fact that Greybeard, his teacher, has exactly the same man he remembered… it was if he hadn’t aged a day.
“Aye, that’s my name, to be sure. And what might they call you?”
“Victor! Victor son of Elroy.”
But the man just pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nay, I don’t recall any Victor, Elroy’s son.” Then he turned and walked back into the kitchen.
To be continued…
By Rick Boshoven
Chapter I
Cruxes Duo
Jerusalem had fallen. Victor had only managed to escape slavery and death and buy his freedom with all that he had left in the world. His swords armor were forfeited in the general disarmament, his horse had perished on the horns of Hatin’. All he possessed now in the whole world were a pair of worn leather short boots, britches and a dirty linen shirt. And three gold rings. These he had removed and hid from his captors by tying them into his long hair near the nape of his neck. The two heavy rings were barely enough to secure his freedom, but they were hard to part with. The larger was his own ring, which he wore upon the middle finger of his right hand; a great knuckle buster with a wide flat face, which was a weapon in itself. It had his monogram, and it signified his wealth on position. It was a ring fitting a young and brash Lord. It was the first blow to his identity to loose it in war against the Saracens. The other was his father’s ring, the signet of the house of Elroy to which he was heir. This was the second and most fatal blow to his sense of self worth. To hand over this ring was to hand over his name. These two rings bought his freedom at the cost of his soul. The third ring bought his life.
This ring was also made of gold, but it was not so large as the other two, but in it’s own way it was worth more to him than either of the other two… well, perhaps not more than his father’s ring, for that ring was symbolic of his heritage, but this ring was a symbol of paternal love and affection. Not from his own father, since his own father had not been very demonstrative towards him. It had been a gift from his tutor, his teacher, who had raised him, instructed him, trained him and had been his personal bodyguard until he was 16. His father had called this man his uncle, although if this man had been his actual blood relation victor was never certain. His relationship to the household had always held a little mystery. The man’s name as he recalled, was Christian DeGies but his father only ever called him uncle. As for Victor, he was allowed for some reason long forgotten to simply call him Greybeard. The ring he was given by his friend and mentor was a simple ring and engraved with two Maltese crosses, enameled --one black and the other white. To part with this ring was to part with who he was completely for this ring was the symbol of his catechesis.
The week after Victor’s 16th birthday, Greybeard packed his trunk and took the cross, which means he went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He said simply… “You a man now, Victor, and a fine one at that. A bit too proud I think, but that’s your mother in you. I could never buff that out. Never the less, I’m done with you, my work here is finished. And so I’m setting out for the Holy Land once more. Now, now… none of that…it’s time that’s all. We all have our time, and reunions are more than common in heaven. Well… then I guess its meet right and salutary to grieve… tears are more eloquent than words. Now then… I give you this as parting since my tears are not so quick… the ring cruses duo… my mark. One cross is the Symbol of our Lord… it tells us who He is and what He has done for you. Three crosses is Golgotha, if you what to remember what he did for the world or we call it Calvary, if you what to know that God is three persons in one God… a sacramental mystery to be sure. But the two crosses tell you who we are. Since Christ was crucified with two sinners. But one repented and when to paradise, while the other cursed and went bellow. We have both natures in us lad; One the saint, the other the sinner. Don’t forget which you are, or when to be which!”
Victor thought of this as he traded the ring for food and water enough to make the journey to Dorylaium. “Which am I now? Saint or sinner?” But it did not escape him that this ring would by him life, for without food or water he could not hope to cross the wilderness. It seemed an appropriate trade. A fair one anyway. You might think that such a loss to his identity and blow to his dignity might make him bitter toward God. But as Greybeard told him more than once, “When one is faced with adversity, one can either run from God or run to God. Now given the choice, which will you choose? Which makes the most sense? To Quote St Job… ‘Yeah though He would slay me, still I will trust in Him.’”
Victor was not disappointed when he put his trust in the Lord and began to cross the wilderness with the mass of other refugees. But sickness and age and ability soon separated the masses. The group in which he found himself was making foolish decisions and it was not long before Victor was on his own. He trusted to what he had learned of survival and discovered a bit of an oasis. From there he was able to rest and discover north by the stars. The next day, in answer to a silent and unspoken prayer, Victor’s fortunes improved. He discovered an ass without an owner, docile and willing to take a rider. Humble transportation, but what pride that was in him had long been buffed away. He was grateful and he was able to make it to the hospital in Samaria. He learned to labor for his income and worked his way slowly back toward the port at Malta, from where he hoped to sail for home, or whatever might be left of it.
If we take stock of Victor’s situation, we would be pleased to discover his future was not so bleak as it might have been. Certainly the mighty had fallen, and with the losses he no longer knew himself, or much wanted to. But even so, he was not bad off. He was dressed humbly. He was able to eat and drink. He had an ass to ride and a few coins in his pocket to now. He knew where he was going; or at least had a goal in his mind, even if he didn’t have the faintest clue what he would do or be able to do once he arrived there.
But those he had lost much in terms of titles and possessions there came the freedom of being a stateless person without responsibilities in exchange. And while this situation was not to his liking, he discovered it was not entirely to his disliking either. It had certain compensation, which, if he did not let his thoughts dwell long on his old life, was a pleasant thing in it’s own right. And it happened that on a particular sunny morning late in June of 1101 Victor found himself on a gentle road on the outskirts of Dorylaium. And upon the road was a way station, and there was in it an Inn under the sign of the “Cruses Duo.” There in wood, were the same two crosses, one black, and one white as well knew from his ring of faith. It was a curiosity to victor, who would likely have stopped even if the name had been less familiar. Although, the sign of the two crosses seemed like it would be a common, ordinary enough name for a hospice. Perhaps it’s where old Greybeard got the idea.
Victor rapped at the door and entered carefully, and was welcomed hardily by a youngish woman with dark hair and olive skin. There were two or three others in the room, seeking relief from the sun, which was gaining strength, and a bit of a noon meal. There was an older woman, who might have been the maiden’s mother. And there were two men, both older with white in their beards. One was clearly older and sat in a large chair by the hearth. The other, perhaps in his mid forties, was behind the long table, which was not quite a bar, for this was not a tavern but a lodge… he was in the shadow with the window bright behind him, cleaning pots and dishes.
“Might I buy a bit of bread, and drink?” asked victor with a smile in his voice.
“Aye!” she answered, “And a bit of cheese too for a pica.”
“You’re an answer to a prayer. May I?” indicating a chair.
“Sit, if you please, and welcome my lord.”
She meant it with innocence, to call him “lord” who was obviously a common peasant. But to hear the old title given use in honesty, as if she knew who he was and meant it… it awoke a longing in him took his strength away.
“You… you know me?”
“Nay, sire.” She answered casually, “Should I?”
“You called me lord.”
“Forgive me, sire, it’s a figure of speech. Are you a lord, good sir? Returned from Jerusalem? Forgive me. But we are taught to treat all our patrons as if they were Christ Himself on visit and we then at His Service. How might I be of service?”
“This can’t be coincidence. My old teacher used to teach the same attitude, he gave me a ring once with those same two crosses that you have on your sign. Who is the mater of this house?”
The maid became quiet and bashful, and looked down as she answered, “He is behind the table sir.”
Victor stood up and walked over to the old man seated by the fire, and looked him hard in the face. The old man in turn looked back with aged curiosity. The old man’s features were winkled, his ears and nose large with age. How old had Greybeard been when he left? 50? 60? How old was this man? 75? 80? It had been 15 years. What did Greybeard look like? Could this old man be him?
“No, my lord.” Said the girl, awkwardly… this is my master.”
He was a big man, with a white beard but a face that could not have been older than 45 if his eye told the truth. His voice was instantly familiar, like the sound of a familiar song that you haven’t heard in a very long time, but your heart melts to hear it.
“So my friend who might you be?”
Victor turned in recognition but was caught up short when he saw the man’s face.
“No… It can’t be…. Greybeard? Is that you Greybeard?” What had taken Victor by sudden surprise was the fact that Greybeard, his teacher, has exactly the same man he remembered… it was if he hadn’t aged a day.
“Aye, that’s my name, to be sure. And what might they call you?”
“Victor! Victor son of Elroy.”
But the man just pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nay, I don’t recall any Victor, Elroy’s son.” Then he turned and walked back into the kitchen.
To be continued…