19 December 1123

　　Tremendous gusts of wind buffeted Godfrey`s carriage as it trundled along heavily guttered rural lanes, throwing the Bishop around uncomfortably. His attempts to accelerate the remainder of his parish tour had been riddled with fallen trees and swampy roads. Still travelling well after dark, the infernal tour showed no sign of ending.

　　Godfrey longed to be back in a proper town like Bath or Wells. He missed the comforts of his palace and the intrigues of court. He loathed the commoners petty concerns and longed to be free from his cramped carriage forever.

　　The only thing that annoyed Godfrey more than the never-ending tour was the memory of the red-haired heretic. It had been weeks since their encounter yet he still rankled at the thought that a peasant woman would dare to challenge a bishop.

　　Such insolence!

　　Godfrey never discovered exactly how his two brutes had disposed of the Heretic but their roughness behind the shack reassured him that justice would be served.

　　The altercation was another reminder that Godfrey now lived in a savage land full of uncouth people. Things were more civilised back home on the European mainland. Godfrey hailed from the border regions of the Holy Roman Empire, the last bastion of the epic civilisation created by the Romans before the time of Christ. True, the Romans had murdered the Lord. But the durability of their empire, and aqueducts, was to be admired.

　　The Normans hadn`t progressed much from the pagan tribes vanquished by the Romans yet even they had enhanced civility among the English after The Conqueror won his battle at Hastings. As far as Godfrey was concerned, the English were little better than the Nordic barbarians that raped and pillaged along the coasts of the North Sea. After his run in with the Redhead, Godfrey had promised to treat the English as the savages they were and meted out harsh punishments wherever possible to reinforce the costs of being uncivilised.

　　The Heretic`s Book was an unexpected boon from the encounter. In his rage, Godfrey had left the ruined house still clutching the rear half and only realised when his temper cooled halfway back to the castle. The Bishop had considered discarding the heretical tome but worried that it might be picked up by a commoner. He laughed at himself for his foolishness.

　　As if an English commoner would know how to read.

　　It was during the journey to the next town that Godfrey first inspected the Book more thoroughly. Despite its blasphemy, the Book was a treasure. He first noticed the shocking realism of the Book`s many illustrations, so stunningly lifelike that they appeared to be windows into another world. Godfrey held the Book at odd angles to try seeing more but the window`s aperture was fixed. He was next intrigued by the Book`s text, so perfectly uniform that the letters themselves were a work of art.

　　Godfrey was even further intrigued when he finally looked beyond the physical book and inspected its content. He discovered that the text was written in English rather than Latin. He could intuit some general topics or the occasional familiar name but this only further fuelled his interest. No words were needed to appreciate the pictures and Godfrey developed a morbid fascination with the Book`s obscenely detailed anatomy sketches.

　　The Bishop was baffled that such an intriguing book could be written in English. The commoners` tongue. He knew of no English authors, let alone ones versed in such a broad range of topics. For weeks, Godfrey wondered how he would ever find a civilised translator to help decipher the text.

　　The Book quickly became Godfrey`s favourite escape from the tedium of his parish tour. The more he daydreamed about it during services, the more he was convinced that it was a priceless treasure worthy of being stored in the Papal library. It might`ve been Godfrey`s key to climbing further up the church hierarchy. If it was complete. He regretted tearing the Book in two, though he blamed the Heretic`s stubborn silence for goading him into the needless act of vandalism.

　　And so his journey through the parishes continued. The same routine mass for the same greedy nobles with nothing to offer. Godfrey swore he would scream if he was offered one more fourth-born son to join his retinue as a trainee priest. And the commoners` requests were always the same. Heal my mother. Pray for a bountiful harvest. Deliver justice against the landlords. Godfrey did everything in his power to minimise contact with them.

　　Knowing exactly what he had to look forward to, Godfrey was in a foul mood when the carriage finally came to a stop. Wind nearly tore the door from its hinges as Peter leapt inside to give his regular prearrival brief.

　　"We`ve arrived at Babcary, Your Excellency. Another tiny village, though this one is set by a river." He called out louder, trying to be heard above the wind. "The local lord is Sir Simon and his wife is&"

　　Godfrey missed the next few words as the wind ripped the carriage door open again. Peter continued to talk as he heaved the door closed and fastened the latch.

　　"&and their youngest son is called John."

　　Godfrey impatiently waved his assistant along. "Peter, I don`t care. Men are my son` and women are my daughter`. It`s really not that difficult being a bishop. How long until we reach my estate?"

　　"Only a matter of days now. We`ll rush through the service tomorrow and be off to the next village after lunch. Then just three more villages after that."

　　Peter opened the door and Godfrey followed him from the carriage, forgetting all decorum and running for the cover of the castle`s tiny keep with his hand clasped tightly to his cap. The castle was fittingly small for such an insignificant village, its walls made of timber and the castle mound barely more than a molehill. The keep wasn`t even made of stone and instead resembled an old English longhouse. Godfrey foresaw another dreary night.

　　An attendant closed the keep`s heavy oak door behind them and the Bishop looked around the tiny castle`s main hall. Although small, it was surprisingly homely and great care had been taken in creating the tapestries that decorated each wall. The wind continued to howl outside but a large fire roared in the hearth, its warm glow casting flickering shadows around the room.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

　　The castle`s lord stood to attention beside his wife, three sons and two daughters. Unlike the self-important lords of the larger landholdings, the minor nobility tended to know their rightful place and Godfrey approved of this acknowledgement of his superiority. Perhaps the evening would not be as dreary as he`d thought.

　　"Bishop Godfrey! Welcome. Our village is blessed to be graced with your presence. Please."

　　The lord ushered Godfrey toward a long dining table, giving him the seat at the head of the table closest to the fireplace. The Bishop`s aching bones appreciated the gesture which partially compensated for the embarrassingly thin spread of food on offer. It was late but the family appeared to have waited to join the Bishop for his meal.

　　"Your Excellency, it is a pleasure to meet you," the lord interrupted as Godfrey chewed on a scrawny chicken leg. "I am Sir Simon, lord of these lands. This is my wife Ida and these are our children."

　　The family insisted on small talk and introduced themselves onebyone. The eldest son was a knight and the second son training to become one.

　　"I`ve almost completed my first tapestry," the youngest daughter chimed. "Mother is helping finish the final stitches."

　　"And I`m John," finished the youngest son, average in every way. "Do you know of Plato?"

　　Godfrey bristled at being directly questioned and Sir Simon berated his over-inquisitive son. The lord correctly sensed that Godfrey`s patience was wearing thin and asked the family to eat the rest of their meal in silence.

　　Simon offered to personally show Godfrey to his quarters as the table was cleared.

　　"I must confess, it`s John`s room. Our youngest son. It`s small but it has the sturdiest bed. We prayed that you would understand."

　　Their prayers hadn`t worked. Godfrey was offended, but he was too tired to rise to the slight. He set his jaw and entered.

　　The room was little more than a closet. It lacked the main hall`s warm hearth and wind whistled through gaps in the wooden walls. Fresh flowers released a pleasant scent but it was like putting a dress on a donkey. The room was far beneath Godfrey`s station.

　　The Bishop grunted goodnight to his hosts and was about to collapse into the small bed when he noticed a small desk in the corner of the room, covered with loose paper. Godfrey had seen some of the richer nobles learn their letters but never the third son of a poor minor lord.

　　Probably an over-zealous local priest, Godfrey thought, looking to secure another victim to work for the church.

　　The penmanship was scrappy. Among scattered Latin prayers and hymns were several pages of drawings and text that Godfrey couldn`t read. They used the familiar Latin alphabet but the words made no sense.

　　Too tired to bother deciphering any more, Godfrey gave up and collapsed on the bed. Sleep took him instantly.

　　+++

　　Godfrey woke the next morning to the sound of Peter rapping at his door. He had once again overslept and was late for Mass. The weather remained miserable.

　　The village`s tiny wooden chapel was already crammed shoulder to shoulder when Godfrey finally arrived. The building`s sole chair had been reserved for the Bishop and he slouched in it, barely able to keep his eyes open. Godfrey`s mind wandered as Peter led the congregation through a grating refrain of his favourite hymn. He found himself thinking about the writing from the boy`s room and he tried to recall the names he had read.

　　Hrothgar. Grendel. They sounded English.

　　Epiphany struck Godfrey like a bell as the hymn finished and he bolted upright in his seat.

　　The boy could write English! He was transcribing scenes from Beowulf, the English epic.

　　Godfrey decided to overlook the boy`s celebration of a clearly inferior language and was instead filled with an overwhelming sense of opportunity. He`d found someone that could write, and presumably read, English! Just the person he needed to decipher the heretical tome.

　　The Bishop contained his excitement and got through the rest of the service with enhanced vigour, taking care to mask his attempts to spot the average boy amidst the congregation. Godfrey tolerated the incessant requests from the villagers, blessing them absentmindedly as he started planning which parts of the Heretic`s Book the boy should work on first.

　　The congregation thinned and eventually only the priests and the family remained. Godfrey seized the opportunity.

　　"I thank you for your hospitality," he said sweetly as he approached Sir Simon.

　　"I`ve never seen the chapel so full! My family and I should`ve arrived earlier, we almost struggled to squeeze in."

　　"Indeed, a most enthusiastic congregation. Now perhaps the issue of space is something I could help you with?"

　　Godfrey saw the local priest`s eyes widen, no doubt hoping for a new church.

　　"Oh really?" Sir Simon asked, intrigued but wary. "How so?"

　　"Well, I realised while staying in your son`s room..."

　　"We truly do apologise for that my lord," the wife interrupted. "Simon, we should have just slept on the floor."

　　"Not at all my dear," Godfrey replied impatiently. "I have realised that your son has a unique talent. One that could be very useful in the service of the Church."

　　"He does?" the eldest brother questioned. The whole family looked surprised.

　　"He does," Godfrey echoed. "Boy, how long have you been writing?"

　　"A couple of years," the boy replied timidly.

　　"Oh, writing?" Sir Simon said. "Father Reginald here has taught all of the family how to read and write Latin. John is particularly talented."

　　"But how long have you been writing in English?" Godfrey asked John.

　　"English?" Father Reginald asked with surprise. Everyone gawked at the boy.

　　"Not long," John conceded. "A few months perhaps. I was bored and wanted to try something new with the letters."

　　"He`s not in trouble, is he?" the boy`s mother interrupted again.

　　"No he`s not, though he was lucky it was me who found out. Others may have been less&lenient."

　　The family milled around in an uncomfortable silence, not sure what to say.

　　"I propose," Godfrey continued, "that the boy returns with me to the cathedral in Bath. He can join the seminary and train to become a priest. He would be well taken care of and, if he continues to show promise, I will grant him access to my private library."

　　Sir Simon paused in thought as he considered the offer.

　　"No!" came an emphatic response, though it wasn`t Sir Simon.

　　Everyone looked back at the boy.

　　"I don`t want to go," he cried defiantly. "My home is here. My life is here."

　　His mother put her arm around his shoulder but the boy`s defiance was already deflating under the Bishop`s withering glare.

　　"Don`t test the limits of my generosity Simon. Many have asked for such a privilege on my tour, to have their sons join the clergy to serve their Bishop. Others would have the boy flogged, perhaps even his eyes taken out, for daring to waste precious paper and ink to spread the commoner`s tongue. I can ensure that his talents are put to a righteous use."

　　Simon was quiet, looking from the boy to Godfrey and back again.

　　"Ok," he surrendered.

　　The room melted into a storm of emotions. Godfrey felt triumphant. The boy cried out in despair. His brothers looked amused. The local priest looked robbed.

　　"Very good!" Godfrey clapped. "Well. Peter. John. Hurry now. We must arrive at our next destination earlier than last night."

　　"Yes Your Excellency." Peter ran off to prepare the carriage for their departure.

　　Feeling generous, Godfrey turned to his new recruit.

　　"Boy, take a moment to collect your belongings and bid farewell to your family."

　　The boy glared at Godfrey, his eyes oozing contempt for the Bishop. Godfrey mirrored the gaze but added a glimmer of triumph. John broke eye contact and accepted his fate with defeat, following his family back to the castle to collect his belongings.