Story [Harry Potter] Godric's Squire (Godric Gryffindor Multi-Chapter Fic for Mod Challenge)

Title: Godric’s Squire

Fandom: Harry Potter. Set over a thousand years before the events of the main books and movies.

Author: devilinthedetails

Genre: Horror; Action; Adventure; Friendship; Flashes of Humor.

Characters: Godric Gryffindor; OCs.

Summary: Sir Godric Gryffindor and his erstwhile squire set out to slay an undead child around All Hallow’s Eve.

Author’s Note: Written for the “Something Borrowed Something New” Mod Challenge. My challenge prompts were the following: the trope of the Undead Child; the line of dialogue: “And you won’t have to think about the rotting;” the words “legitimate,” “obelisk,” and “megafauna;” the random story element of trying on skintight leather pants; and a picture of a rocky coastline with yellowed grass.

To write this story, I used a combination of Harry Potter lore and legend from our own world. I have taken some liberties with the history of our own world, but the Harry Potter series themselves contain anachronisms so the reader would do best picturing this story as transpiring in a vaguely medieval milieu (post the Norman conquest) rather than a more Dark Ages setting though that would technically be more accurate to the lives and times of the Hogwarts Founders.

A Potter in the Hollow

I write this chronicle of one of the most celebrated heroic adventures of Sir Godric Gryffindor by flickering orange candlelight as my eyes grow dim after a long life. Sir Godric–may God and all the saints grant his soul rest in peace–has been dead for many decades, but he is very much alive in my memory. Far more animated in my mind and heart than he is in the great stone obelisks that have been erected in his honor throughout our fair green isle. Starting in the Hollow and spreading like seeds in a peasant’s field during spring planting to the tips of the wild, far north of our island.

I have not the skill to decorate the margins of this manuscript with illuminations as the learned monks recording and preserving the words and wisdom of the ancients in the scriptoriums of their abbeys do. The task I have set myself is a humbler one, but still I am the only one who can do it. The only one now living who remembers the true Godric Gryffindor in all his flaming-haired glory and impulsivity.

Therefore, it is my solemn duty to compose this humble chronicle of him so his essence will not be lost but will endure on these pages long after I have departed to meet my Maker. To face His judgment of my life.

Sir Godric was a brave man. Radiant in the gleaming sun-gold of his armor, he was the boldest man in all of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. It is my honor to do what I can to ensure that he is remembered as such. Revered as the most valiant knight ever to grace our lands but not transformed and elevated to the emptiness of mere legend alone. It was to me to provide an account not only of his chivalry and courage but also of his hot temper and lionish pride.

I myself was born in the Hollow. The third son of a village craftsman who wrought drinking and storage vessels from clay. My father was the descendent of many generations of such potters who had been trained in the occupation by his own father. Due to the many generations in which our family of artisans had plied this trade, my father had inherited the surname of Potter from his ancestors. Thus, I was baptized by the village priest as Henry Potter.

Neither of my parents were magical. Nor were any of my brothers and sisters. It was Sir Godric, lord of the manor, who first suspected that the strange feats of which I was capable–a source of bafflement to my parents and the Hollow’s priest–was magic. It was he who plucked me from my father’s cottage at the age of nine and named me his squire though the story I am about to relate transpired when I was thirteen. An unlucky number according to priests and diviners alike.

Once I was in Sir Godric’s service, it did not take me long to discover that he was not only a knight of some repute throughout the realm, but also a wizard of some renown among the families up and down the island who had magic flowing like blood in their veins. The progeny of such wizarding families often regarded me with suspicion. Perceiving my magic not as a legitimate power granted me by God at the moment of my conception but as something that should never have been my birthright. Something stolen from them. Something vile that explained why some of their own offspring were Squibs.

Sir Godric, however, was embraced and esteemed by all. Wizards and Muggles alike called on him at the castle. Appealing to him to rid their manors and villages of the monstrous megafauna that tormented large swaths of our island in those dark days. The giants and trolls in the northern mountains. The ghouls that lurked in the shadowed corners of castles and monasteries. The kelpies that haunted the lakes and lochs. The Red Caps who died their hats crimson with the blood of their unfortunate, bludgeoned-to-death victims.

We had just returned from slaying such a Welsh Green dragon that was plaguing a village in Devon when a messenger rode in from Cornwall with a request to aid a coastal community in dealing with the unquiet spirit of a dead child who refused to remain dead.

Sir Godric was proud of his dragon kill. He ordered the Hollow’s tanner to make him pants from the green leather of its skin. Thus, he stood before the mirror in the solar. Admiring the dashing figure he cut in the leather breeches that were so tight they left little to the imagination. Proud as a prancing thoroughbred stallion carrying a victorious knight before an applauding crowd at a tournament.

“What do you think, Henry?” he asked me. Planting his strong hands on his broad hips to better accentuate his impressive musculature. “Do my new pants flatter me?”

“They are rather green. ” I couldn’t contain a snigger at the risk of having my ears boxed by a Sir Godric who was never particularly patient when his fashion sense was slighted by an impertinent underling. “Green is not your color, sir. It clashes with the copper of your hair and beard.”

“Hmm.” Sir Godric’s swagger seemed dented as he contemplated the undeniable truth of my blunt statement. “That is so, but, vain creature that I am, I do love to wear the trinkets of my bravery.”

“You could have the pants dyed, sir,” I suggested with the cheeky adroitness of one well-schooled in both pleasing and teasing my master. “A bright crimson. Then people might think you had slain a Fireball from the Far East.”

“No. That is more than enough impudent nonsense from you.” Sir Godric cast a reproachful glare in my direction. “I cannot make a false claim to valor by wearing the skin of a dragon I did not slay. That would be vulgar as bearing a shield with a coat of arms I did not earn.”

I was spared the indignity of attempting to appease an eminently unamused Sir Godric by the appearance in the doorway of the manor’s steward. A sour-faced man called Robert.

“I beg pardon for the intrusion, sir.” Robert offered an obsequious bow. “A messenger has just rode in from Cornwall. Bearing an urgent petition for aid from Lord Trevik.”

“The stableboys have seen to his mount?” Sir Godric inquired into the routine courtesy that had been extended to Lord Trevik’s courier.

“Of course, sir.” Robert bristled subtly at the implication that his management of the household servants was anything less than perfect. “His horse is being tended to now.”

“Excellent.” Sir Godric waved a dismissive palm. “Please have the man shown to the solar. I will speak with him here. A maid may carry up a pitcher of ale and a plate of food for him to replenish himself after his long journey.”

“All will be done as you command.” Robert retreated from the room with another deep bow, and I experienced a surge of satisfaction seeing this pompous man reduced to such scrapings.

In that instant, in the clouding folly of my youthful arrogance, I did not know it would be the last moment of happiness I would enjoy for quite some time. Until our unholy–and at that time unknown to us–foe was vanquished with an iron stake to the chest.

 

@pronker As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting on my non Star Wars stories!

"House proud" is definitely a perfect way to describe Robert. I very much picture Robert as a man who is proud of the house that he manages and of the overall job that he does.

I'm so glad that you think this story is off to a good start, and I hope that you will enjoy the next installment just as much where the plot will start to thicken a bit. The relationship between Henry and Godric has been a fun one for me to write so far, and I think I will continue to take pleasure in exploring it as the tale progresses. Henry does indeed seem to have a knack for knowing where to draw the line with his sass as you say. A sense of how far would be too far and get him into real trouble. That youthful mischief and spirit of Henry is a treat to try to capture in the narration for sure!

I was able to share the challenge link with you in a PM, and I am absolutely thrilled that you signed up to join in the fun!

---

Haunts of the Undead

Robert showed the messenger–whose name proved to be Cadan–into the solar. Promptly upon his entrance, Cadan bowed to Sir Godric and presented him with Lord Trevik’s seal as a token of his authenticity. Of the veracity of the appeal for aid he was about to make in Lord Trevik’s name.

Sir Godric accepted the seal from the bowing Cadan. Examined it for a moment with a furrowed brow. Then, apparently convinced of its legitimacy in a corrupt world where even priests peddled false relics of saint bones to the over-credulous in desperate need of a divine remedy, returned the seal to Cadan.

Bidding the messenger welcome to his keep and gesturing for him to be seated at a table by the crackling fire that had the ambitious assignment of attempting to banish the chill of the autumn winds bellowing and blowing across the moor.

The messenger–joined by Sir Godric and myself, Robert having silently and unobtrusively taken his leave after guiding Cadan into the solar–had barely slipped his bottom into his appointed chair before a maid materialized bearing the pitcher of ale Sir Godric had ordered along with a tankard and a platter of hard cheese and a heel of bread.

The maid, I saw, was a kitchen girl named Anne. She had cheeks that always seemed to carry spring rosebuds inside them and sparkling eyes green as grass. Green as the pants I had mocked Sir Godric for wearing only moments before. She was from the Hollow just as I was and had entered Sir Godric’s service just as I had though she possessed no magic of her own.

I was at an age when I felt a keen, burgeoning interest in all maids. When I strove to impress them by the feats of my strong arms. By the unbreaking iron of my courage and valor in daring battle against monsters and those less schooled in chivalry than myself. By the courteous flattery of my honeyed compliments. Sadly, the maids seemed to be at an age laughed at or otherwise dismissed my attention.

Though the reader should not pity me too much. I did, after all, eventually manage to woo a woman. To convince a witch of the moors to be my bride. We married in the Hollow’s church. Where my parents had wed. Where I had been baptized as Henry by a village priest now buried in that graveyard. Where my own children would later have that holy water poured over them.

Anne herself found a good husband as well. One of the guards defending Sir Godric’s castle. I remember attending her wedding in the village church and the baptisms for her children. Recall the merry revelry that followed in the churchyard after all such occasions. The ale that flowed out of barrels to be guzzled down throats raw with laughter and gesturing.

There can be happy endings to stories. It is important for me to remember that as my life fades. As death, that grimest of reapers nears to claim my soul with a sweep of his sharp scythe. To remind myself that not all stories end with death and grief. Moreover that death is not always the saddest ending. That sometimes being undead is far more horrifying. That death itself can become a mercy bestowed on the suffering.

Dark thoughts–black as the Grim Reaper’s cowled robes–that I only began to understand that day back in the solar. Anne placed the pitcher of ale, its accompanying tankard, and the plate of cheese and bread before Cadan who seemed to interest him far more than I did. He had the distinction of being a stranger. Unknown and mysterious in these parts. Women were always attracted to mysteries. Or so I sulked to myself as I watched Anne smile warmly at Cadan before departing with a curtsy to Sir Godric.

Cadan’s gaze trailed Anne’s swaying skirts out of the solar before Sir Godric reclaimed his attention. Gruffly demanding a report of what had brought Cadan to the Hollow bearing an urgent petition from Lord Trevik.

Messengers were often chosen for their alacrity and flair with words. For the deft way in which they wielded phrases to captivate and manipulate their audiences. Cadan demonstrated that as soon as he spoke after wetting his mouth with a swill of ale.

“It started about two months ago now.” Cadan began to relate a story that first left me breathless. Then turned the hot blood to ice in my veins. “A widow by the name of Morwenna whose husband was a fisherman was lost to the ocean five years ago noticed strange markings dotting her son’s neck. Him we called Branok in honor of his father who was named the same.”

“What manner of markings?” Sir Godric interrupted. Impatient with the pace at which the drama and import of these events was being relayed to us. At the extraneous details to which we were being subjected.

“Not bobos as if he had been stricken by a plague.” Cadan gnawed at a cheese wedge, and I marveled that he could partake of food at such a time when my stomach was churning and knotting as if I were aboard ship on a turbulent sea. “Not bruises either as if some drunkard had tried to strangle him in a tavern brawl. More like bite marks. As if some fanged monster had pierced his neck. Seeking blood.”

I exchanged a look laden with meaning with Sir Godric. Cadan’s description of the bites to which young Branok’s neck had been subjected were consistent with the feeding patterns of vampires. The fashion in which they sucked sustenance and life from their victims. And it was known among wizards in those days that the caves beneath the coastal cliffs were frequent haunts and hiding places of vampires.

“Did this Morwenna summon an apothecary to tend to her son?” Sir Godric asked, and I was unable to contain a derisive snort that drew me a quelling glare from Sir Godric. I had a low opinion of the curative abilities and techniques of Muggle apothecaries.

Bless their well-intentioned but befuddled souls, Muggle apothecaries were always prescribing disgusting potions that were at best useless and at worst toxic in their own right. Or else were drawing blood from patients who were knocking on death’s door or studying the urine of their charges as if all the answers of the universe could be divined from the yellow contents of those clear flasks.

They were, in my estimation, a bigger bunch of quacks than the convocation of ducks that could be found clustered and gossiping around any village pond. The ducks at least seemed aware of their own folly, while the apothecaries invariably believed themselves to be wise men well-tutored in the art of medicine.

“She did.” Cadan was now devouring his heel of bread. “But the boy was so pale by that point that the apothecary didn’t dare to bleed or leech him. The apothecary said there was nothing he could do to save the poor lad. Advised his weeping mother to summon the village priest to shrive his soul before he died. Which the mother did, of course, but neither the sacred host nor the anointing oils seemed to bring the boy any peace before he expired. He died in an almost feverish torment. His last, addled words were all mad ravings about fanged monsters coming to claim him. To eat him. His mother washed his body, and he was laid to rest in a shroud in the village graveyard.”

“That is a sad story, but–” Sir Godric’s tone was level. He never showed fear even in the face of horrors that would have daunted any other man. I remember that even now, decades later as my own death comes for me. “If the boy is dead, what does Lord Trevik wish us to do?”

“The boy is dead, but now whatever claimed him is seeking to steal others too.” Cadan had finished his bread and was back to sipping at his flagon of ale. “His mother and some of his friends–the lads that used to play with him after their chores were done–have got strange markings on their necks just like he did before he passed away, and they have gone as sickly pale as he did when he was lying on his death bed.”

“I see.” Sir Godric’s fingers drummed the table. “We might not arrive in time to save the boy’s mother and his friends, but we will try. We’ll leave tomorrow at first light.”

I groaned at this reference to a daybreak departure. Aware that this required rising, dressing, and preparing my own mount and Sir Godric’s before the dawn. An altogether unholy hour at which to be awake in my view.

A view Sir Godric did not share if the repressive, owlish glance which he fixed upon me was any indication.

I subsided into silence as Sir Godric addressed Cadan once again. “In the meantime, I suggest that you get what rest you can. We’ll need you to show the way to the village.”

“Of course, sir.” Detecting the note of dismissal in Sir Godric’s tone, Cadan stood, bowed, and then took his leave. No doubt searching for an empty blanket in the hall where most of the servants slept as Sir Godric had advised.

After Cadan had disappeared, shutting the solar door behind him, Sir Godric issued the command that left my tongue dry as the distant deserts said to surround Jersaulem, “When you polish my sword tonight, make sure you polish my iron stake as well, Henry.”

His iron stake. The weapon reserved for slaying vampires. Not that I had ever seen him do so in all my years as his squire. Not that I had any desire to see him do so now. Not that he had asked my opinion on the matter. Though that latter did not prevent me, in my sauciness, from venturing one uninvited. I had to venture uninvited opinions when I was young or I scarce would’ve had an opportunity to use my voice, or so I believed at that time. That conviction might have only been another folly of my youth after all.

 

Just caught up with this and am really enjoying it so far! You’ve done an A1 job with the characterization of both Sir Godric and his squire Henry Potter (I see what you did there! ); Sir Godric is a heroic, benevolent lord who is well-loved by his vassals but also known for his temper, and Henry’s a faithful and hard-working squire with a sense of humor and snark reminiscent of his much later descendant; I enjoyed his little additions and asides about his own life (and I’m glad to know that whatever this adventure will hold, he survives to live a long and happy life). Even Robert’s got a clear-cut, distinctive character, and I wonder if his dour demeanor portends anything about his later role in the story. Both knight and squire seem to have quite a dire task ahead of them with the adventure they’re setting out on; the way this vampire (or whatever it is) is targeting children and basically making zombies of them is super scary and very concerning, and I get the feeling this isn’t necessarily a regular old, brand-X vampire. Color me very intrigued!

I’m also very much enjoying your use of the prompts so far—the “trying on skintight leather pants” scene reveals so much about the personalities of both Henry and Sir Godric, I like the way you worked in the three words, and the premise of the “undead child” is making for a very exciting and edge-of-seat tale. Really looking forward to seeing what you end up doing with the “rotting” quote, and how the coastal setting will play in!

Your stories are always such a delight to read, with a great sense of adventure, and it was a real joy and privilege to be part of this challenge along with you. Can’t wait to see where you’ll go next with this delightful and adventurous tale!

 

@pronker Yes, our poor Henry is at that adolescent age where the giggles or scornful glance of girls can truly cut. But on the plus side he is also at the age where he can start to have some fun flirting and admiring the beauty of the young maids he encounters, which he does like to indulge in

The idea that death is not always the saddest ending seemed fitting for a story about the undead (especially undead children as was my challenge element) and like a theme that would be consistent with the theme of the original Harry Potter books, which teach us that death is not something to be feared.

Thank you for your thoughtful words and I hope that you will enjoy this next chapter even though it is a few months late!

@Findswoman As always, thank you so much for your kind and detailed comment!

I'm so glad that you are enjoying this so far and that you are enjoying the characterizations of both Godric and his faithful squire Henry Potter. I couldn't resist giving Harry Potter an ancestor with the name Henry (that can easily become the nickname Harry) especially since Henry is an appropriately medieval name. It just gave me a nice chuckle to do that.

I definitely picture Sir Godric as a very valiant and benevolent lord who is well-loved by his vassals but who can also have a bit of a short temper and can be quite prideful. His personality is a very "loud" one that has been a true treat for me to write. Henry Potter has likewise been a delight because he is hard-working and loyal as you say but also has that cheekiness about him that gets passed onto his famous descendent.

His little additions and asides have been some of my absolute favorite parts to write, and I am so thrilled that they are resonating with you. I am enjoying the process of fleshing out a life for him, and I can promise that Henry Potter will indeed go onto live a long and happy life despite any horrors that await him and others in this story. So it won't all be doom and gloom and I hope to be able to mix in a good deal of Henry Potter humor into the narrative to make it fun and inject a pinch of levity to offset some of the more gruesome horror elements.

Knight and squire do indeed have a dire task ahead of them. There will be some nods to the traditional vampire mythos but also some of my own twists especially to better fit the undead child prompt.

The "trying on skintight leather pants" scene had me laughing as I wrote it but I also wanted to use it to reveal key aspects of Henry and Godric's personalities, and I'm so glad that shone through for you.

I enjoyed the challenge of working in my three words, and I look forward to continuing to use the undead child prompt as a central part of the story. The coastal setting and "rotting" quote should also eventually make their appearances now that I am finally writing this story again after months on hiatus

I am so flattered that you find my stories a delight to read, and I hope you will enjoy the adventure in store for this one! Thank you again for all the kind words that make my day whenever I read them

---

A Matter of Prudent Preparation

“Do you think it’s a vampire, sir?” I asked Sir Godric as soon as we were alone in his solar. “Or vampires, I should say?”

“Why–” Sir Godric arched a leonine eyebrow at me– “would you ask such a thing, Henry?”

“Because you ordered me to polish your iron stake as well as your sword tonight.” I made an effort to hide my fear–because if there were any creatures Sir Godric held in contempt more than vampires and other fell monsters of the dark, it was cringing cowards–which resulted in my sounding impertinent. A saucy, too clever underling in need of chastisement. “What enemy except a vampire would you wield an iron stake against, sir?”

“That is a matter of prudent preparation.” Sir Godric’s second eyebrow lifted to join the first. Proof that my insolence had not gone unnoticed. “A warrior should always be ready to fight any foe he might encounter, and a knight should not be craven, but he should make all prudent preparations before battle. I have explained this to you before but your ears must have been closed or your head floating in the wispy clouds of ignorance.”

“My head was no more floating in the wispy clouds of ignorance than usual.” I echoed Sir Godric’s phrasing. My brazenness drawing a deep-chested chuckle of appreciation from him. I was young then. I could dare to spit in the dragon’s eye if that dragon was as fundamentally good-natured and benevolently disposed toward me as Sir Godric.

I went on, spitting directly into the dragon’s eye, “Is it a matter of prudent preparation as well, sir, that we are going to hunt what could be vampires on All Hallow’s Eve? When the dead rise from their graves and when the lost spirits who can’t find heaven or purgatory roam the earth in their torment? Is that not impeccable timing on our part?”

I suppressed a shudder. Thinking of all those cursed souls wandering and moaning their miserable paths across the world on All Hallow’s Eve. Participating in the bleakest of pilgrimages. Oh, how I did not want to become one of their sad company.

“That is foolish Muggle superstition.” Sir Godric scowled at me. He could be sharp with anyone he deemed as inventing fears with no basis in reality. Anybody he could accuse of looking for reasons to run and hide from danger instead of confronting it boldly. Without flinching as he did. Holding everyone to the same high standard of valor as he did himself. “You have trained with me long enough to know there is no truth behind that nonsense Muggle belief.”

“I didn’t ask to train with you.” I jutted my chin out mulishly. Likely presenting as grotesque an image as a gargoyle leering out from a cathedral wall. Aware that Sir Godric preferred my stubbornness to my sulkiness. Inclined to please him in what manner I could even while arguing with him and baiting him as a dog might a bear in the pits of London.

London. A grand city–the largest in England– I had only seen because Sir Godric had taken me on as a student of martial and magical arts. Not that I permitted even a hint of gratitude to color my petulant tone as I continued, “Either as a squire or an apprentice wizard.”

“I am your liege lord.” Sir Godric’s glower intensified. So there was thunder in his voice and forked lightning flashing in his eyes. “You are to render unto me any service I require from you without complaint.”

“I wasn’t complaining, sir.” I bit my lip. Cheeks beginning to burn. “Not really.”

“Good.” Sir Godric didn’t sound particularly appeased by this concession. “If anybody should be complaining, it is me. For I had little choice but to take you on as my apprentice when you were casting your spells all unwitting and terrifying the whole Hollow. I seem to remember you setting fire to the fields and flying onto the roof of your father’s house when there was no wind to carry you there.”

“I set fire to the fields by accident. Because I was angry.” When I was a child, my magic had burst out of me without me realizing it when I was scared or infuriated. Not that my lack of intention would have made a difference to the extremely flammable wheat fields I risked reducing to ashes or to the very combustible thatch roofs that covered every shop and peasant’s hut in the Hollow. The conflagration in my cheeks blazed burgundy as I recalled how I had endangered my village and its livelihood as a boy. All because my older brothers often teased me for the oddity that I was. “And I didn’t mean to fly onto the roof either. I was just trying to outrun my brothers, who were chasing me. Threatening to dunk me in the millpond.”

“Yes, I recall that.” Sir Godric, that paragon of chivalry, appeared faintly amused by my discomfiture. “It was after you took that flying leap onto your father’s roof that I arranged for you to enter my service.”

Sir Godric had indeed been there to witness my father blistering my ears for what he and my brothers claimed was climbing the wattle-and-daub walls to reach the roof (as if even the strongest soldier could clamber up wattle-and-daub as swiftly as I had flown from the mud ground to the thatch roof). Had heard my father threaten to thrash me with a rod if I persisted in lying about not climbing the walls.

Had intervened to spare me. Had made gruff jokes about what a mischievous, spirited lad I was until my father’s temper defused. Had whisked me off to the castle to serve as his squire. Something my bowing and scraping father had seen as an incredible honor. Had been my irascible knight in shining armor. Straight out of the tales of glittering tournaments and noble quests.

“And I remain loyally in your service now.” Almost humble at last, I inclined my head to him. Forced myself to be brave as I vowed, “And I pledge that I will fight even vampires by your side, sir.”

“It might not come to that extremity. As you would know if you listened to me, squire.” Sir Godric clapped my shoulder. A gesture of affection. Not reprimand. “Yet, if it does come to that extremity, we may be blessed to have some holy water with us. Go to the chapel and ask Father John to fill flasks with holy water for us to carry on our journey to battle against our unknown enemy.”

Blessed to have some holy water with us. How he did love his wordplay. Even with him long in the grave, I still grin crookedly as I remember that. Write the details of his humor down for posterity to chuckle and cringe at as is their wont.

As to the holy water, some wizards suggested it was effective at warding off vampires. I thought that was more blatant nonsense than any Muggle superstition about All Hallow’s Eve.

“Should I run to the kitchens afterward and pack any garlic the cooks have in storage?” I smirked up at him. Masking my fear by alluding to another substance wizards believed could fend off vampires.

“It would not hurt and would indeed be a prudent preparation.” Sir Godric nudged me toward the door. Impatient to have me and my incessant questions out of his presence no doubt. “Do so after you have gone to the chapel. And don’t forget what I said about polishing my iron stake as well as my sword tonight.”

 

@pronker Glad you are continuing to enjoy and savor this tale! And, in time for Halloween, we have the next chapter

I am so glad that you liked the "bleakest of pilgrimages" phrasing since I must admit that I was quite proud of it myself

And, yes, unfortunately, there was a good deal of cruelty and violence toward animals (and toward other people) that abounded in the Middle Ages, and I felt that I had to be true to some of the grisly details of that medieval setting in this story. But hopefully there are some offsetting details of beauty as well. Since the Middle Ages weren't all dark!

After this, I have one more chapter planned for the evening before they depart. Then we will be onto the journey to Cornwall. So stay tuned for future installments

@Chyntuck Thank you so much for reading this story and my other tales about Henry Potter

I am having such fun writing this and my other Henry Potter story, and the medieval flavor is just such a treat for me to season these stories with. Because I do admit that I find the medieval era quite fascinating!

And I have been having a blast experimenting with the different narrative and writing style in this piece compared to most of my other works. It's just super satisfying to me whenever I can take a step out of my comfort zone

The beginning of this story was a passage that I absolutely loved writing, and it means so much to me to have you cite it as a favorite part of yoursThat image of an older Henry Potter sitting by candlelight and writing his tale on proper vellum in medieval calligraphy that simply begs to be illuminated was one that I hoped readers would have. And I did want to try to cultivate the medieval vibes throughout in a way that could also hopefully have a touch of sometimes wicked humor as well.

The references to religion felt very fitting to me both in terms of the vampire story inspiration (since crosses and holy water often make their appearances where vampires are involved) and the medieval milieu because of course the Church was such a massive part of society in that era, enjoying not only great spiritual power but also a good deal of governmental power in what many people today would see as secular matters. So religion really pervaded people's lives in a way I wanted to capture at least a little of in this piece. And, of course, there was cases of corruption and other issues in the Catholic Church of the medieval era that provided ample fodder for medieval jokes. As did the lackluster and questionable skills of Muggle apothecaries with their dubious remedies. In some ways, I think of this piece as being a bit of a tribute to works of literature like the Canterbury Tales as well. Not that I am as good a writer as Chaucer, but in the idea of being able to joke about everything--even what might be seen as the "sacred"--and in blending different classes together to tell a story. And of course a journey will be part of this story as well. So those our my main nods to Chaucer. The humor, the different classes coming together, and the idea of a journey or pilgrimage.

I've been finding it really interesting as well to explore how wizarding society operates in and alongside the broader society of knights and vassals. And I definitely am imagining that magic and wizarding society is a bit less developed than what we see in the Harry Potter books, just as Muggle society of the medieval era is not the same as the modern Muggle world. Cultures and peoples have to change even if there are some commonalities, so I like to explore the changes as well as the commonalities, and hopefully strike a believable balance of both.

There is definitely a feeling of a certain sort of "wildness" as well because of more monsters roaming the land (needing to be slain by our brave Sir Godric Gryffindor) and of a sense of superstition and prejudice prevailing in not only the Muggle world but also the Wizarding world. It is an age of superstition and prejudice basically with people having a lot of dangers to fear, and a lot of things are still very much unknown and uncharted territory. Ignorance is in abundance in short, and that can give a writer like me a lot of material to work with in crafting a story like this.

I am also so glad that you are a big fan of the personalities I've given young Henry and Sir Godric I absolutely got a chuckle out of Sir Godric modeling his new dragon hide breeches in the solar and Henry having the cheek to tell him that green isn't his color I really do love their dynamic and have such fun writing about their personalities bouncing off each other!

One of my favorite elements of the Potter universe was JK Rowling's choice to make Muggles not only oblivious to the magical world but also likely to dismiss magic that occurs before their very eyes with some sort of convoluted "rational" explanation for the phenomenon. Because it felt so believable to me that if people, as many Muggles do, start with the assumption that magic is not real, they will invent any number of alternative explanations for phenomena than magic. So in a way Muggles will hide magic from themselves with their own logic and desire to be rational!

I'm so happy that you are enjoying this transposing of the Potter verse to the medieval era and the characters that I am populating it with, and I hope you will enjoy this next installment as well

@JediMaster_Jen I'm so flattered that you are finding this to be a wonderful story so far, and that you love the relationship between Sir Godric and Henry In the chapter after this one, there will be another important conversation between Henry and Sir Godric, and we will continue to see their relationship grow and evolve throughout this story. And, yes, Henry's loyalty knows no bounds, and we will continue to see the depths of that loyalty as this tale continues to unfold!

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Holy Oil and Water

I descended the winding, spiral stone staircase from the solar. The lintels above doors and windows becoming more ornate as I left the personal areas of the castle for the more public ones. Passed the entrance to the balcony from which musicians could play on feast days.

Stepped down into the dining hall the balcony overlooked. The dining hall with its long tables and fancy windows that could double as an audience chamber to greet official visitors and a chair from which Sir Godric could render judgments on days the manor court was in session.

I briskly crossed the currently deserted dining hall. My footsteps echoing loudly in the empty space. Then I descended another staircase to the castle’s entrance hall. The entrance hall–decorated with shining suits of armor on stands and shields hung from the walls to awe any new arrival with the strength and martial power of the Gryffindor family–that had its sentries posted by the door and its garrison of guards in an adjoining room. A garrison of guards always ready to confront any potential threat to the castle or its occupants.

The sentries recognized me, and I exchanged friendly banter with them as I stepped out of the castle.

“Going to meet some fair maid on a tryst?” asked one of the guards. His name was Hugh, and he knew certain as the wart on a frog that I was lamentably devoid of a fair maid with whom to have a tryst. Anne the kitchen maid presently being very resistant to my romantic charms.

“Going to the chapel,” I answered. Added with what I hoped was an impressive air of mystery, “Perhaps to pray for a fair maid with whom to have tryst.”

“Chapels are good places for trysts,” the second guard, whose name was William, commented sagely. “Dark and quiet as long as Mass or prayers aren’t being said.”

“But you have to be careful not to get caught by the priest.” Hugh picked up the thread of William’s thought. Embroidered upon it. “Priests take a dim view of trysts in their chapels for some reason. Get their noses in a twist about the trysts profaning the sacred space or some such.”

“They’re probably bitter because they’re sworn to celibacy.” I chuckled, and then continued to make my way down the stairs that led into the entrance hall. Stepping onto the castle grounds. Turning my feet toward the right. Away from the kitchens–which were in a separate building from the main castle as a protective measure against the spread of fire–and the stables. Toward the chapel.

The chapel dedicated to Saints George and Sebastian. Built almost a century ago by Sir Godric’s pious ancestors who no doubt hoped to shave some years of their stint in purgatory by funding the construction of such a chapel on their family property.

As I approached the chapel, I reflected that while it was true that those in holy orders had taken vows of celibacy, there was also evidence in abundance in England and abroad that the clergy did not always adhere to those solemn oaths. Indeed, bishops and archbishops were rather notorious in those years for siring illegitimate children. Some of whom had sparked their own nefarious stories in England and elsewhere.

When I stepped into the chapel, I dipped my finger in the font of holy water by the door. Holy water that suspicion maintained could ward off vampires. Not that I dipped my finger into the holy water in reverence to that tradition.

I did it to remind myself of my baptism, sketching the Sign of the Cross over my head, chest, and shoulders. The baptism when I had supposedly died to sin and been resurrected in Christ.

Did that make me and every baptized Christian a sort of vampire? I mused most blasphemously. Did that make our Savior Jesus Christ a vampire as well?

I should probably burn myself at the stake if not for heresy than for witchcraft, I thought. Knowing perfectly well I would not do so. I had no inclination toward self-incineration, after all. No desire to meet such an unpleasant and downright phyric end.

I had barely finished drawing the Sign of the Cross over myself when Father John noticed my appearance in the chapel. Turned from lighting a candle by a statue to Saint Sebastian complete with bloody renderings of the arrows that had pierced him on his tree.

“Young Henry.” Father John, Sir Godric’s personal chaplain and confessor, approached. “Have you come to pray or be shriven?”

As a lad, I was not what anyone would call devout, but I did make my dutiful visits to the chapel to pray my pater nosters and rosaries mainly because I understood my mother would be devastated if I imperiled my soul by neglecting them. I partook of the rather humiliating atonement that could be found in the sacrament of confession less often. Probably preserving my pride at the risk of my spirit but I was at an age where I was young enough to value my pride over my soul. That was one of the unrealized blessings and curses of my wild youth.

“Neither, Father,” I replied. “I come bearing a message from Sir Godric. He desires you to fill flasks with holy water to take on a journey with us tomorrow. We will leave at dawn.”

“A journey to slay a vampire, is it?” Father John arched an eyebrow.

He was a wizard as well–part of the reason that Sir Godric had selected him as chaplain and confessor–and so could be trusted to understand some aspects of magic. To not regard every element or use of it as a dire sin that invited eternal torment and hellfire. To not be eager as some clergy were in those days to deem every wizard a heretic in need of burning at the stake.

“Sir Godric won’t say–” I wrinkled my nose at Sir Godric’s irksome intractability in this matter– “but I have my suspicions, Father.”

At this juncture, I proceeded to relay everything I had heard from Cadan’s report of the strange happenings in Cornwall to an enthralled Father John. However, it would be tedious to even the most patient reader if I reiterated what has previously been conveyed in this account.

So I will skip like a pebble thrown over a cow pond the details of what I said to Father John until I came to the conclusion of my exclamation. As out of breath as a sweating horse driven past the point of exhaustion. Asked out of concern over the soul of Morwenna’s son, that poor boy who had found no comfort in the consecrated host or the anointing oils and had died raving about fanged monsters coming to claim him, “If a person, upon his death, doesn’t seem to find solace in the Eucharist, in the final unction of holy oils, and the peace that is supposed to stem from the last confession, does that mean his soul is damned?”

“We know that God, in His mercy, works through His holy oil and water.” Father John rested a hand on my shoulder. Squeezed it gently. “And we know that the sacraments are channels through which His grace can flow into us. But His mercy and grace need not be confined to the sacraments or the holy oil and water. We in His Church are bound by His sacraments, but God, being all-powerful and above us, is not. He can work outside of His sacraments, outside of His holy oil and water, if He so chooses, and, as His humble servant, I see no reason with my limited vision why He should not.”

I bit my lip. Considering this. For a member of the often-out-of-touch clergy, Father John was surprisingly easy to talk to. To trust and confide in. Perhaps another reason Sir Godric had chosen him as chaplain and confessor. “But his final words combined with his reaction to the holy oil and the blessed host could auger ill. Could be a sign that he was preyed upon by vampires. Claimed by them. Mayhap even became one as they sucked out his blood.”

“Mayhap.” Father John agreed. Tone heavy as lead. Not denying my theory though I had wished he would. Had almost prayed–given our current location, prayer seemed apt–that he would contradict me. Call me a young fool with rocks rolling around between my ears. “But even if he is a vampire, his soul need not be lost to God forever. It can be regained–freed from its bondage–if he is ripped from his undead state. Made properly dead.”

“Properly dead with an iron stake in his chest,” I whispered. The iron stake Sir Godric had charged me with polishing thoroughly before I retired for the night.

“Yes.” Father John nodded gravely. “And if it is indeed a nest of vampires you will be confronting in Cornwall, flasks of holy water is just what you’ll need as Sir Godric rightly says. Let me just duck into the sacristy and grab some flasks to fill.”

As Father John disappeared into his sacristy, I occupied myself by gazing around the chapel that I had looked upon a thousand times before. Attending Mass on Sunday mornings. Kneeling before a statue in supplication and prayer. Lighting a candle as a flickering visual accompaniment to my petition. Reciting my pater nosters and rosaries on clinking beads in the wooden pews that lined each side of the nave.

My eyes fell on a stained glass depiction of Saint George slaying his dragon. Its scales, emerald as the hills of England, testified to the fact that it was a common Welsh Green. Nothing more impressive than that. I didn’t see why George had been granted sainthood for slaying a single Welsh Green when Sir Godric had slain one himself and was now parading about with extreme smugness in leather breeches made from the skin of that vanquished beast. As macabre a trophy as had ever been created in all of England, I was certain.

A clearing of the throat announced Father John’s reemergence from the sacristy. He held out a pair of crystal flasks for me. Ordering, “Help me feel these with holy water from the font.”

“I’m not an altar boy,” I grumbled. Grateful that I was not an altar boy because altar boys too often were expected to train as priests, and being a priest seemed akin to being sentenced to a life of perpetual boredom. Boredom in the form of an endless litany of prayers, homilies, Masses, sacraments, and saint days. A procession of piety that would have to blur into meaninglessness.

“Nevertheless, you are an able-bodied lad capable of serving God and your fellow men.” Father John stooped over the font of holy water and began filling his flasks with it.

“Well, now that you’ve said that, it would be churlish to refuse.” I made a not exactly gracious noise of concession and joined Father John in hunching over the font of holy water. Filling my flasks with it.

“What kind of priest would I be if I couldn’t shame my flock into good behavior?” Father John smiled wryly.

“One much beloved by your flock.” I indulged in my customary cheekiness. Then went on in a more sober tone, realizing that I could be facing undead monsters that could suck the blood and soul from me in the upcoming days, “While I have you here, I might make a confession, Father. Be absolved of a terrible sin.”

“A terrible sin?” Father John frowned at me. “What sin would that be, Henry?”

“Cowardice.” I hated how the very word seemed to blacken my soul. Shadowing it like death. Or like something worse than death. Like the undead. Like a preying, blood-sucking vampire. “I am afraid to confront this vampire infestation that might be haunting a poor village in Cornwall. Afraid of what the vampires might do to my body and soul.”

“I cannot absolve you of this–” Father John put a flask down on the stone floor. Lifted a hand to quiet me when I opened my mouth to argue with this proclamation– “because it is not a sin. Being scared for our lives and for our souls is not a sin. Our lives and our souls are gifts from God. We would value them much too lowly if we did not have some fear of losing them. Some desire to preserve and protect them.”

“I doubt Sir Godric would take the same view.” I stoppered a flask full of holy water. Appreciating the excuse it gave me to avert my eyes from Father John’s keen ones. Hoping that there would be less chance of him spotting my ruby ears and crimson cheeks if my head was lowered. “I believe he sees cowardice as the cardinal sin. The worst transgression a man can commit. One that renders him no longer a man.”

“You are not a man, but a boy.” Father John’s fingers rustled through my hair. Not a benediction. Merely a sign of affection. Of support in a time of confusion. “And you must confess this to Sir Godric if it is weighing on your conscience. He alone can grant you the absolution you seek.”

“Yes, Father,” I murmured. Though I questioned whether my lips would ever have the courage to utter such a confession to Sir Godric when his good opinion mattered so much to me. To my future. To my family who expected me to make something of myself. To rise in the world with the opportunity I had been given to serve as Sir Godric’s squire. To prove myself an able member of his household and hopefully continue to climb to the next rung on the social ladder.

“You may also–” Father John extricated his fingers from my rumpled hair. Resumed filling flasks with holy water. “Tell Sir Godric that not only will you have holy water with you when you confront the vampires, you will have me by your side. Offering what strength I can.”

“I don’t think–” I struggled to find a tactful way to articulate the objection on my mind– “Sir Godric intends for you to trouble yourself by accompanying us, Father. He made no order that you should prepare to join us.”

“I am a priest,” Father John announced with a quiet dignity. “And, as a member of the clergy, I am not Sir Godric’s to command. I accompany you to fight the vampires because it is God’s will that I do so, not Sir Godric.”

“Then you can be the one to explain God’s will and how it countermands Sir Godric’s to Sir Godric.” I straightened. The flasks all filled with holy water now. “Not me.”

I didn’t want to be the one Sir Godric raged at when it was revealed to him that Father John intended to risk his priestly neck by joining our highly dangerous escapade. An escapade that imperiled all of our bodies and souls.

 

@pronker Thank you so much for reading and commenting! Glad you enjoyed the last chapter, and, yes, Father John is perfectly suited for his post. The ideal priest for Sir Godric and probably for our young Henry Potter as well! I hope you will enjoy this next entry just as much

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Kitchen Tyrant and Tryst

After I left the chapel, I crossed the castle grounds to the kitchens. The kitchens were all in a flutter of preparations for dinner. The spit boys roasting their meats over the flames, and the kitchen girls in a flurry of stirring, chopping, and spicing that my mother would have understood but I couldn’t fathom.

“And what would you be wanting now, boy?” One of the cooks glared at me through the plumes of smoke clouding the kitchen. She waved her wooden spoon as if to warn me that she would beat me with it if I made too much of a nuisance of myself. “Dinner will be served soon, so if you’ve come to beg for scraps, you’d best make yourself scarce now.”

I did have the habit of coming to the kitchen to beg and steal hunks of cheese and heels of bread from the cooks, but what growing lad didn’t? So it was with more haughty bristling than humble chagrin that I replied, “I’m on an errand for Sir Godric.”

“And what does Sir Godric require?” The cook’s tone changed in an instant to sweetest summer honey. She was always happy to accommodate Sir Godric’s requests.

“As many cloves of raw garlic as you can spare.” My eyes drifted away from the cook to land on Anne. Anne who was hunched over a mixing bowl at the present. Anne who was much more attractive than the cook and would have been much more pleasant to converse with if only she had spotted me before the cook. “As many as you have in storage, I mean.”

“Raw garlic?” The cook seemed baffled. Taken aback. “That’s a strange request! What on earth would Sir Godric be needing raw garlic for?”

I had my suspicions but didn’t deign to share them with this cook who had been so dismissive of me before learning I was on an errand for Sir Godric.

Instead I shrugged as if I weren’t the sort to ask so many questions that Sir Godric sometimes was provoked into good-natured threats about casting a permanent Tongue-Tying Charm upon me. “It’s not our place to question our betters. It’s only our place to serve them without complaint.”

The cook snorted at this. “Well, the money for the garlic comes out of Sir Godric’s coffers right enough, and he can spend it on whatever folly he wishes as the wealthy do while the rest of us scramble and skimp for our sustenance.”

The cook raised her voice then. Snapping at Anne, “Girl, go to the stores and fetch all the garlic we have there! Sir Godric is wanting it, so you’d best be swift as a jackrabbit about it!”

“Yes, Cook.” Anne quickly abandoned her mixing bowl and hurried toward the steps that led down into the cellar where the spices were stored.

“I can come with you and help,” I offered in a rush.

I wouldn’t have been so eager to volunteer my services if it were the irascible cook, but since it was the beautiful Anne, I wanted to conduct myself as chivalrously as possible toward her. No doubt Sir Godric would approve of my courtesy if he were around to bear witness to it. A sign that his lessons were having an impact on me after all.

As Anne and I disappeared into the dark and dry stores, the cook called after Anne, “Keep a sharp eye on that boy! If he steals anything, I’ll take it out of your wages and hide!”

“I won’t steal anything,” I promised Anne as I shut the cellar door to block out the sound of the cook’s harping. Certainly I wouldn’t when I knew the cost would be paid from Anne’s wages and hide. If it was my own skin on the line, I would have been more reckless. Less scrupulous about pilfering a stray bit of food that stirred my appetite. Made my mouth water.

“I know you won’t. You aren’t that sort of boy.” Anne provided a more flattering assessment of my character than I would have. Then went on to emphatically disparage the cook’s. “She’s a right tyrant of the kitchens. Sees the shadow of theft lurking in every hand. That’s why her face has gone sour as spoiled milk, and no man has ever wanted to kiss her.”

The notion of kissing the cook I had the displeasure of interacting with in the kitchens was so repulsive to me that I burst out with all the ardor of a scorned lover, “I’d sooner kiss a pig than kiss her.”

I felt my cheeks flushing as I realized that I was talking about kissing with Anne, who always made my heart throb in my chest. Throb until it was on the brink of breaking.

My blush only burned the hotter when Anne’s fingers wrapped around mine in that dry, dark cellar, and she murmured, seductive as the serpent whispering to Eve in the Garden of Eden before the Fall, “Don’t kiss a pig. Kiss me instead.”

“Kiss you?” I repeated her words as if she had uttered them in a foreign language it was impossible for me to interpret. “On the lips?”

Surely, I had misunderstood her. She must have only meant for me to kiss her fingers as if she were a fine lady so she could mock me and have a laugh about my awkwardness with her friends among the kitchen maids after I left, and I, clumsy, besotted fool that I was, was falling head over heels into her trap.

“Of course on the lips.” Her fingers squeezed mine. Inciting me to the heights of madness and desire. “Where else?”

I didn’t reply. Mustered my courage to close the little distance that remained between us. Pressed my lips gently against hers. Suddenly became conscious of just how rough they were when I felt the smooth softness of hers beneath mine.

We didn’t kiss deep or long, but I was so overcome by the fact that we were kissing at all that the breath left me soon and I had to end the kiss far sooner than I would have liked to avoid the indignity of fainting.

“That was my first kiss,” I panted, though I don’t know what demon possessed me to admit such a shameful truth to her.

“Mine too.” Her fingers were no longer squeezing mine. Were trailing up my sleeves to my shoulders. My chest.

“It didn’t seem like your first kiss,” I said. So naive and unschooled in the ways of love that I was unwitting to the insult I had offered to her virtue. Her maidenly modesty.

She didn’t slap me for my unintentional impertinence. Instead, she giggled. “That’s only because it was your first kiss as well. I’m sure my inexperience would have been obvious to anyone else.”

I didn’t want to think about her kissing anyone else. Lapsed into silence.

A silence she filled by continuing, her fingers tangling on my shirt, “Is it true you and Sir Godric are riding off on another one of your adventures?”

“Another one of Sir Godric’s adventures,” I corrected. “I am just his loyal squire who must accompany him wherever he commands.”

Sir Godric had made that abundantly plain earlier. Shoving me back into my proper place. Reminding me of my duty.

“It’ll be dangerous.” She tapped my chest with an admonishing finger. “Don’t die or return in pieces.”

I had just enjoyed my first kiss. I felt more alive than ever. More determined not to die.

“I don’t want to die,” I assured her. Aching to kiss her again. More fiercely than the first time.

As if she could read my mind or sense my rising desire, she grinned at me. “If you come back alive and in one piece, I might let you kiss me as a reward. If I haven’t started kissing another lad in your absence. There is a handsome spit boy who has caught my eye.”

The mention of this spit boy sparked my jealousy. Further enflaming my passion for her. To be the only one who kissed her.

“Will you let me kiss you again before I leave?” I lifted my thumb to her lips. Brushed it inquisitively along them. Learning the feel of her mouth on my skin. Her warmth on the pad of my thumb. “For luck?”

“A quick one,” she obliged. Letting my mouth meet hers for a pounding heartbeat before she pulled away. “Before the tyrant of the kitchens invades to investigate what’s taken us so long in here and discovers us kissing each other.”

Nothing cooled my passion and dampened my desire faster than a reference to that horrid cook catching me kissing Anne. I could only imagine how she would scream, scold, and smack poor Anne and me with that wooden spoon she wielded without mercy on any who offended her.

“We had best fetch the garlic we came for,” I agreed hastily. “Before she becomes suspicious of our absence.”

I followed Anne to the corner where the garlic was kept. Allowed her to pile my arms high with heads of garlic.

Heads of garlic that weighed me down as I reversed my steps from the kitchens back up through the castle grounds and the entrance guarded by the same set of sentries that had teased me about sneaking out to a tryst with a fair maiden.

“God must have confused your prayers for a fair maid with whom to have a tryst with a request for a bushel of garlic.” Hugh jerked his chin at the garlic overflowing from my arms.

“God can grant more than one prayer.” I stuck out my tongue at him. “I just got back from kissing a fair maid in the kitchens.”

“Well, don’t be eating any of that garlic if you want to keep your breath fresh enough to have more fair maids flocking about you for kisses,” cautioned William sagely. “Maids find garlic off-putting in a man’s breath for some reason.”

“The garlic isn’t for me to eat.” I shook my head. “It’s for Sir Godric. For his next adventure.”

“I know of only one foe against whom garlic is effective.” Hugh frowned. Forehead furrowing. “And it isn’t a living one. Be careful, lad. Don’t go getting yourself killed, or worse turned into one of those restless, undead monsters.”

“I just had my first kiss.” My mind and all my overwhelmed senses were still reeling from that. “I don’t want to die. The last thing I want to do is die.”

“It’s the last thing most of us do. Dying.” William clapped me on the back in what was no doubt meant to be a bracing fashion, and the force of the blow sent some of the heads of garlic flying from my arms. As I struggled to scoop up the fallen garlic heads without dropping any more, William went on with his speech. Oblivious to my plight. “And we all do it at some point. Whether we want to or not.”

“I don’t want to die soon,” I amended through clenched teeth as I juggled my garlic heads like a particularly inept court jester.

“You might have chosen the wrong lord to serve then,” Hugh remarked. “Sir Godric being a bold knight with a true death wish.”

“I didn’t choose Sir Godric.” I felt disloyal even as the words left my mouth, but they were the truth. Weren’t they? “He chose me.”

“That’s the way it always is with lords and us common folk.” William gave a knowledgeable nod as I finally finished collecting my scattered garlic heads and rose. “But there are worse lords to be serving than Sir Godric, that’s for certain.”

“I must get about serving him.” I strode past William and Hugh. Directing my steps toward the stairs that led up to the dining hall. “I have to pack these garlic heads for our journey tomorrow.”

As I climbed up the stairs to the dining hall, I saw that servants were beginning to lay the tables for dinner. Soon, I thought, I would be cutting the meat for Sir Godric at his table as a faithful squire was expected to do, but first I had to hurry upstairs to pack the garlic heads securely in trunks for our journey to Cornwall as I had told William and Hugh I must do.

 

Confession and Absolution

I did indeed cut the meat for Sir Godric that night. It was grouse hunted fresh from the moors. Soaked in acidic verjuice and spiced with black pepper. I could smell the black pepper. Know how expensive it was and how far it had traveled before it came to rest on Sir Godric’s table and then in his belly.

Once the meal was over, I accompanied Sir Godric up to his bedchamber where his goblin wrought sword and iron stake awaited my diligent polishing. I decided that I would attend to the goblin forged sword first as it seemed the less intimidating.

The less daunting reminder of the grim task we could be confronting in Cornwall. The unholy monsters we could be facing with only an iron stake and some holy water as our defenses against blood-sucking beasts. The living had so little to protect themselves against the undead, I thought bitterly as I grabbed Sir Godric’s goblin sword down from the shelf where it lay in its sheath when it wasn’t belted about Sir Godric’s waist.

Perhaps it was the recollection of the holy water that spurred my report to Sir Godric. “Father John and I filled many vials with holy water for our journey, sir, and I fetched all the garlic I could carry from the kitchen stores. Braving the cook’s ire.”

And earning myself a nice kiss from a fair kitchen maid, but I saw no point in mentioning that amorous detail as it might incur teasing that would make me blush to the roots of my wild black hair.

“Very good.” Sir Godric nodded briefly and seemed on the cusp of burying himself in accounts of the estate’s finances before I impulsively decided to press on with a confession Father John had instructed me to make. Seeking an absolution I wasn’t certain that I deserved from one of the Wizarding World’s greatest heroes. One of England’s greatest heroes. A model of chivalry and courage beside whom I paled into insignificance as a cathedral might eclipse a single uncarved stone.

“I have a confession to make.” I tumbled out with my guilt before I could lose what scant valor I possessed under the humiliating circumstances. “Something weighing heavily on my conscience.”

“Well.” Sir Godric laid aside his sheaf of estate finances. Studied me with unwavering keenness in the firelight. “Then you’d best confess your sin to Father John. He will shrive you.”

“I tried to confess to Father John.” I swallowed hard. Ducked my head as I pretended to be absorbed in polishing the goblin wrought blade. “But he refused to grant me absolution.”

“Oh.” Sir Godric’s forehead furrowed. “Are you excommunicate then, lad? Barred from the sacraments of Mother Church?”

“No, sir.” I shook my head rapidly. Laid down the sword long enough to sketch a quick Sign of the Cross over my chest. Hoping by that display of piety to ward off such a dire fate. A more horrible one I couldn’t envision outside of being damned. Consigned to an eternity of hellfire and torment. Except perhaps being transformed into a vampire. Transfigured into an undead monster of the night forced to prey upon the blood of the living for sustenance. “Father John said I wasn’t guilty of any sin, so he couldn’t shrive me for a sin I hadn’t committed. But he suggested that I should confess my guilt to you because you alone can grant me the absolution that I seek.”

“Father John is a wise man.” Sir Godric arched an eyebrow at me. “What is your confession then?”

I was conscious of dancing on a knife’s edge then. Hovering on the brink of the last instant in which I could chicken out of confessing my cowardice.

Somehow, out of the craven depths of my soul, I found the nerve to continue to admit to what Sir Godric no doubt regarded as the vilest of crimes, especially in a squire who was meant to be as brave as he was. “I’m a coward, sir. I can’t make any bones about it or hide the truth from you any longer. I am afraid to confront those vampires that might be haunting that poor village in Cornwall. My bowels get all knotted, and my hands all shaky whenever I think about what those vampires might do to my body and soul. Even though I know my only thought should be how I can save and protect those unfortunate villagers. Cowards are always selfish, and I’m the most selfish coward of them all.”

“If it was only your body you feared for, I could chide you for that.” Sir Godric’s tone had taken on the grave, measured quality it assumed when he sat in judgment during the manor court sessions in his great hall. A cadence I had heard on more than one occasion since becoming his squire. “But it is not only your body that you fear for. It is also your soul, and no man ought to condemn another for that holy fear.”

“It doesn’t feel like a holy fear, sir.” I bit my lip. Certain that I was too mired in mischief and sin to harbor anything that might be constituted as a holy fear.

“Nevertheless, it is.” Sir Godric rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. Squeezed lightly. “I will not order you to accompany me anywhere you have a holy fear of going. That would be sacrilege. I grant you leave to remain here when I ride out to Cornwall if you wish.”

“But I am your squire.” I frowned. My eyes stinging as if vinegar and verjuice had slipped into them. “My place is by your side.”

“Your place–” Sir Godric corrected mildly– “is wherever I command it, and I do not command that you accompany me to Cornwall. The choice to join me in Cornwall or stay here is entirely yours.”

I was accustomed to obedience and faithful service. Unused to the idea of making my own decisions. Having such unprecedented freedom in a world governed by solemn oaths and strict bonds of fealty.

“I will accompany you to Cornwall, sir.” I felt braver just deciding that. Making such a bold declaration of my intent. Choosing my fate rather than being a passive victim on an uncurving road to doom. “I am your loyal squire, and I will be as brave as I can if the need arises to fight those vampires.”

“I have no doubt that you will prove most valiant in the moment of the testing.” Sir Godric’s shoulder squeeze became a pat. “You have taken the first step in overcoming your fear by confessing it to me. Your second by vowing to accompany me to Cornwall though you fear the vampires that might be lurking in the coastal caves there.”

“Thank you, sir.” I bowed my head. Humbled almost beyond the limited powers of my speech. On the verge of being utterly inarticulate due to the depths of the emotions welling within me. “I didn’t expect such mercy from you.”

“Ah.” Sir Godric’s lips quirked. “You expected the harshest of rebukes then?”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded because it was the unvarnished truth.

“Then you were even braver.” Sir Godric ruffled my hair. “Confessing what you must have felt was a mortal sin to one you were unsure would offer you grace.”

“That is how confession works.” I shrugged. Poised somewhere between modest deflection of my meager virtues and embarrassment at what I deemed this excessive praise. “And I was not so very brave.”

“If you insist.” Sir Godric smiled crookedly. Pointed at his sword. “You’d better get back to work. That sword won’t polish itself.”

“I’m well aware.” I scowled at the blade as I picked it up. Resumed polishing it. Grumbling, “With all the magic you had the goblins infuse this weapon with, you couldn’t have ordered one extra spell to make it self-cleaning?”

“Never trust a self-cleaning sword.” Sir Godric shook his head. “Rely on your own elbow grease instead. Or that of your faithful squire’s as the case may be.”

“Your faithful, long-suffering squire,” I huffed as I continued my polishing.

“Less complaining and more polishing from you, long-suffering squire.” There was a teasing glint in Sir Godric’s gaze now. “We depart at dawn, and we both need our sleep, remember.”

“Do we have to leave at daybreak?” I couldn’t resist a petulant pout. “We couldn’t stay in the warmth of our beds a little longer?”

“If you aren’t ready to ride out at the crack of dawn–” Sir Godric lifted a warning finger– “I will drag you out of this castle by your ears.”

“Have pity on my poor ears, sir.” I paused in my polishing to massage the delicate appendages of which I spoke. “I don’t want them to be yanked off, and I was only joking anyway.”

“Sloth is not a laughing matter,” Sir Godric said severely.

Undaunted as I once more tackled my polishing, I ventured a quip about the vampires that terrified me. “I do suppose it is most apt that we will embark on our quest to defeat what might be unholy creatures of the night at first light.”

I could appreciate situational irony even when I was scared after all. I had an excellent wit. A top tier sense of humor. I could have been a court jester if Sir Godric hadn’t chosen me to be his squire.