Floating Head of Karma

Rain soaked the dry land for days. Everything was gray and brown—gray sky, mud under-foot that quickly covered all it touched. Peasants danced in the streets, mindless of their drenched rags, for life had come in gentle sheets at the last possible moment, thwarting a disastrous season.

In the small castle, glasses tinked together in celebration of the good harvest, now safely stored inside the thick stone walls. The dining hall was warmed against the early chill of autumn, and the low, happy murmur of voices was accented occasionally by a genuine laugh.

"Oh, Simon," the young girl summoned, "tell us a new one—and make it good." The thin man stood at the far end of the table and nervously cleared his throat. His hair was graying and receding, his face carried deep etches of worry and responsibility, and his clothes were on their last leg, much like their owner. He was a brilliant mathematician, keen in politics and gentle in spirit, but he was no entertainer.

"As my princess wishes," he gave a small bow that also encompassed her doting father, who was by now drunk enough to be slouched in his high-backed chair. "In a year's time from now, the kingdom will be in shock—"

"What?" Celily snorted in childish derision. "Simon... A year from now?" The favored guests softly laughed with their lord's daughter, though there was an uneasy element. One would laugh at a jester—that's his place—but the mild, old seneschal?

"Please, my princess," Simon pleaded as he glanced at his liege, seeking an escape. But the wine-mellowed noble only gazed proudly at his only child, twelve-year-old daughter and eventual heir to this patch of Northern England. "It will all become clear with patience. You see—I just now received a message from Toulouse of a most astounding nature."

"You mean beyond Paris?" The girl had a fascination with geography, and Simon always fueled the understanding of places beyond this gloomy land.

"Very good," Simon praised, "even beyond the ancient Orleans and Bourges and Aquitaine—fully a month's hard ride to the south of Paris. I received an announcement that a secret son of King Richard the Lionheart still lives." Simon warmed to the story, seeing he had caught young Celily's attention. "Not only does he live, but they are calling him Richard the Second, saying he continued his father's work in the holy lands to return victorious—"

"Everyone knows the fighting stopped with a treaty," Emma interrupted with a slightly slurred speech, "and then we never got further than the Greeks." Emma was the lady's instructor, who had been recently hired for the next stage of Celily's feminine tutelage.

"I beg your pardons, gentlemen and ladies, but what is 'known' is not always so certain, especially," Simon emphasized this last while staring at the drunk woman, much in the way a tutor would view an unruly pupil, "when this is my story. Now, may I continue?

"Richard the Second was not a party to the Byzantine madness, but instead, commanded a secret force that pushed directly to Jerusalem. When Saladin beheld Richard's righteous fervor, he decided it was time to make peace once and for all, and the victorious Lionheart Junior made plans to return." The alcohol set heavily upon many of the guests, even the Lord was beginning to nod, but Celily had her chin cradled in her hands, staring at her childhood mentor. And what the "princess" desired, she got, even the false pretense that she was a princess, supported by her father's edict.

"They wanted him to stay and marry for reasons you will soon see, yet Richard knew that England was his true home. He was nearly to Orleans when he heard about the new fighting between France and us, and had to backtrack to Aquitaine. He was not interested in alliances with France, as his father had been, but on returning home for the first time in his life."

"Did he make it?" the entranced girl asked.

"Not yet. Having left his loyal knights behind to safeguard the new treaty, he traveled alone, thinking to be welcomed in France. As we know, this is not the case. Treacherous Phillip found out and sent a group of armed knights to capture him." Celily gasped, waking her father from a shallow doze. Simon was inspired by the girl's full attention, putting more energy and feeling into his voice.

"But...brave Richard the Second slew three of the knights and told the rest to leave with their lives. Fortunately for them, they listened. This is what allowed our lone crusader to slip out of France safely. Phillip was furious, and sent an entire army after him."

"What happened to those other knights?" she asked.

"Why, Phillip had them killed, of course, beheaded." Celily gasped again, and Lord Crowe nodded absently, as if he were sure it would happen that way. "But by this time, Richard was safely in Aquitaine, now facing the challenge of making his way around the newly occupied territory and back to England.

"This is what is taking him so long, but when he gets back...he will first meet with his uncle, as a lone, young warrior of valor and honor." Celily made a small, excited noise. "Since he will not threaten the King, he will be given vast lands to the north." Simon fixed Celily with a sly grin. "Much near here, as it turns out, the entirety of North Umberland."

That got the noble's attention, and he began watching Simon intently, wondering where this was headed.

"Your gracious father," Simon continued with a small bow directed at Lord Crowe, "will go to meet and sup with his new neighbor, to see that your safety is assured. And what he will find is a handsome, articulate and gentle young man."

"What does he look like?" Celily asked, now truly hooked.

"Are you sure you must know?" Simon asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes!" The girl nearly bounced in her chair.

"Very well. First understand this young man is tall—level with my eyes are his enormous chest muscles. Wavy golden hair to his broad shoulders, his arms are nearly the size of my legs, yet you can just tell by looking how gentle he can be. His face is youthful and hairless—probably from his grandmother's side—"

"As handsome as father?" That made Lord Crowe beam.

"Yes, when he was the same age that your mother fell in love with him," Simon answered with a smile before continuing, knowing the flattery never hurt, even though the reminder of his long-dead wife was a gamble. "His sky blue eyes are kind but sad, and then they see you..."

"He sees me?" Celily squeaked.

"Well, your father will be so impressed that he will bring you to his court, and besides...after hearing about you, Richard the Second will ask to be allowed to meet you."

"I believe we've had enough for tonight," Lord Crowe interrupted with a slight frown.

"But, Father, Simon hasn't finished. Why is he sad, Simon?"

"Well, my princess, as you have guessed, he has seen the horrors of war, but your beauty distracts him."

"I could help him forget," Celily agreed with an excited nod as her romantic fancy ran away with her.

"And he'd offer us all his land for her hand?" Lord Crowe asked with a facetious grumble. "Okay, little princess, to bed with you."

"That wasn't a bad story," Celily thanked Simon in her own way before leaving the room, and Simon could tell that Lord Crowe was full of thought as he drained his mug.

Year of our Lord Twelve Hundred and Seven, harvest season.

King John "Lackland" Plantagenet's rule is almost over. I just know it. Even still, we feel the bite of yet another "holy" war, which has bereft us of many a strong knight. King John at least focuses domestically, though the result has been no better. He cannot hold his birth lands, so how can he hold us together? Uneasy peace with the King of Scotland has me worried—they are ever impulsive and warmongering. William the Lion loves Phillip II, it would seem, and he celebrates our defeat in Normandie. My Lord Crowe, though he nearly borders Roxburgh, has ever been a staunch supporter of the Crown. It would not go easy on us, if this unrest were to become something greater.

The crisp morning breeze brought the sounds of horses and challenges. A neighboring baron and his twelve knights waited outside the gates a respectful distance while messages of greeting were relayed back and forth. Lord Crowe, while not dictating his replies, was being helped into his armor. Squires ran back and forth, and it wasn't until the sun was straight up in the sky that the noble, along with Simon and a matching number of men-at-arms rode to meet the neighbors.

At twenty paces, charging distance, each lord separated from their men to meet in the middle.

"Hail, Lord Crowe," Baron of Penrith acknowledged, "I am somewhat surprised that we talk here and not in the comfort of your study."

"My dear Hamund de Burgh, I'd not welcome this many armed men into my walls without stronger ties than a close border and a shared King. I trust you would do the same, if only to show prudence worthy of a ruler." The baron nodded. "We've not met since the summer council, and you were evasive about your reasons for the visit..."

"As best to not trust these things to mere messengers. Reports say you have plenty of grain from the harvest."

"We were blessed," Lord Crowe responded with false piety.

"Well, I'm blessed with far more money than grain, trade has been good to us—you asked why I brought so many men, you shall have your answer. Hugh," the baron called back to his banner man, "bring up the chest." Lord Crowe summoned Simon to his side as a cart was wheeled beside the baron and a chest was exposed from beneath the coarse skins.

"Bet you've not seen that much coin before," de Burgh commented as he leaned over and raised the lid. There had to be thousands of marks.

"Don't be ridiculous," Crowe countered, but he continued to stare before nodding. "We can deal." Simon looked at his liege, leaned in to speak, but Lord Crowe waved him off.

"Standard half-man barrels for storage?" A grunted confirmation. "I have two wagons like this," the baron of Penrith continued, making an offer, "eighteen marks per barrel for what those wagons can haul. How many spare barrels have you?"

"My lord," Simon whispered into Lord Crowe's ear when he was motioned to answer, "we have nowhere near that many to spare."

"Just tell me how many we have after the castle needs are met."

"About thirteen, my lord, but those were promised to the farmers—you know they store their winter grain with us."

"Do not vex me, Simon; just tell me the best price I can expect to get," Crowe snapped, and Simon bowed in submission.

"Eighteen is almost theft for that much grain—if the markets elevated from the summer drought, I'd say our barrels can fetch closer to twenty-eight in Newcastle."

Crowe nodded before turning his attention back to the waiting baron and commenting: "A lot of work and good fortune went into this yield. We may have enough barrels to satisfy you, if the price is reasonable."

"Coin is so much more flexible than grain, Lord Crowe," came the immediate response.

"You cannot make bread with coin."

"And grain does not buy you protection. News is, King John's choice of archbishop was rejected by His Holiness, and the row has become ugly. The rumors speak of a holy ban on us."

"That never bothered us much up here," Lord Crowe countered with a hearty laugh.

"But we also hear that the King is planning a tour to secure his holdings, and we know by now that trouble follows him where he goes—it seems not all areas pay what they owe him as we do. Twenty-two a barrel for what you can spare—'tis more than it's worth, but I've done well." Simon shook his head slightly when consulted.

"Make that twenty-eight a barrel and you can have eighteen barrels."

"My lord..." Simon began as de Burgh let out a loud guffaw.

"You have me at a disadvantage," the baron explained, "as I have come all this way, relying on your reasonableness. We have been quiet, good neighbors, have we not? You will hurt me if you make me look the fool—twenty-four is as high as I can go without losing face." Simon's discipline kept him from sighing as he nodded; he knew he'd have to be the one to tell the villagers.

Year of our Lord Twelve Hundred and Seven, winter solstice.

The news was accurate. King John has indeed had a schism with the Holy See. Tales of religious looting abound, and many of the more pious nobility gather their men, no doubt wanting a King who is in favor with God. They will not stand a chance, even with Him on their side, as most earls and many bishops are siding with the King.

With disbelief in their eyes—and betrayal, God help me—our villagers did not take the news well. The luxury they nurtured for over three months is gone. I bought more fish for them from Egremunt, even some meat salts, but our people's staple is bread, and this they will sorely miss.

The coin makes my lord's eyes glow with an unhealthy light—unhealthy for our relations, that I know. He shared his visionary plan with me one night, wanting my approval. I cannot say it is without merit, that Celily be trained and adorned with the best to make her a fitting match for an earl or duke. It would indeed lend us clout to attract a market and a church, positioned as we are we could very well grow into a prosperous town, but I could not bring myself to say how risky this plan is. It takes no great mathematician to work the numbers—greed always costs those under the heel, as does vision.

At my lord's table, I eat tender pastries and still-steaming bread, trying not to choke on the broken promises.

Simon breathed through a clean cloth as he entered the lord's chamber. Propped up on his bed, Lord Crowe completed a fit of coughing and stared at Simon as if it were his fault. Simon noted the empty wine jug and the damp sheets, and as he neared, his liege took a clumsy swipe at the attached cloth.

"Remove that ridiculous thing so I can see your mouth."

"Humor me, my lord, while I am in here with you—this separates our breath. You feel the rattle in your chest, the fluid?"

"Eh, I've gotten over worse."

"I remember—I've known you since you were a small boy—but at my age, I would not, so please, humor me."

"It's just this damn winter," Lord Crowe grumbled. "I need sun and warmth."

"Your damp sheets say otherwise," Simon gently admonished, much as he had when Crowe was a student. A touch to his liege's forehead confirmed what he knew. "Your body is warm—you have a fever."

"Heh, that's—" Lord Crowe had a coughing fit. "That's Emma's fault."

Simon shook his head with a tight smile. "I can promise my lord that dallying with a woman did not cause your fever. Now, I will make recommendations to the staff that will speed your recovery. Let them change your covers daily, new pillows and fresh clothes." Simon continued past his lord's grumbling and coughing. "Try to sleep on your stomach at night—fluid in your head may drain to your chest while you sleep on your back. And for your daughter's protection, wash your hands before seeing her and do not cough near her—that is, if you must see her at all before you are well. It would not do to have her sick, too."

"So, tell me," Lord Crowe grasped the new subject, "what do you think of my daughter's new handmaid and tutor?"

"From the times we've talked, I can see she is well schooled, worth her hire. As for the maid, I do not see her do anything but giggle, yet your princess is indeed looking the part."

"I have no doubt she will catch us the nobility we need, but stop filling her head with that junk about lost, handsome princes. She needs to be firmly rooted in reality when the time comes—I trust her tutor will work that angle."

"I will see that she understands," Simon promised.

Another coughing fit before: "And my people?"

"They look forward to spring, same as you, my lord," the seneschal answered blandly. "Sources tell me more have gone out-law, even though your men make sport of those they catch. Should we not be lenient?" Simon hurried to finish as Lord Crowe scowled. "We could charge them a tithe for that lenience, in fresh game, even."

"And rob my men of their fun, encouraging more of that behavior? 'Tis a good thing you aren't the ruler—you'd have anarchy."

"That is why you are, my lord," Simon conceded with a bow, "yet I have been trained before you were a boy to be an advisor."

"Oh, don't pull that age bunk on me, Simon."

"Our food supplies do poorly, and I thought it an idea to bring us fresh game by using those who are good at hunting and have the time."

"That is your job, Seneschal; I needn't remind you."

"As you say, my lord."

"But, I will make it easier on you—the Duke of York is paying fifteen marks each for healthy boys of squiring age."

"My lord..." Simon began to caution Crowe, but the liege held up his hand.

"I know, I know. You think me foolish enough to get embroiled in the religious madness? Our good neighbor of Penrith, however, is not so timid." Lord Crowe continued after fighting through another hacking cough. "See that our young boys know they will be Penrith squires for the greater glory, and we will get nine marks each from the baron. Use some of that coin to buy more food, if you must."

"While cold, the idea is most clever," Simon acknowledged with a stiff bow. He could think of no other response that wouldn't be clearly out of line.

"Now get out of here and find Emma—I need another diversion from this chill."

"As you say," Simon bowed again and withdrew.

Year of our Lord Twelve Hundred and Seven, year's turning.

With the King confident in his "war of faith" with Rome, as some are calling it, he turns his sights on Wales. Perhaps in compensation for losing his vast lands to France, our King has promised to unite all of England—a call that has the southern lords in a state of agitation. My lord stays neutral, of course, but claims that after Wales, King John will head our way, toward Scotland. This should happen just about the time Celily, our princess, is flowering. My Lord Crowe does not lack for vision, but I fear his sights are rather erratic these days. I find myself more oft the unheard voice of caution.

Our villagers are hardier than I feared, and much to my relief, seem to be calming down after losing so many of their sons to the consignment. Now that my lord coughs more than he talks, I have used what little spare time is left to talk with the villagers. A constant presence hopefully eases them through the winter—at least their anger is better than despair, and I listen to them without judgment or threat of punishment. They must know I care, or they'd not bother with me, and I hope they believe me when I say I am doing all I can to help. I pray that's enough.

"Agnes, what are you—" the plump head cook turned from her accounting with Simon to catch her kitchen maid with a bundle. The young assistant gave a start as she rushed across the kitchen floor, dropping the burlap sack. Pastries and fruit spilled from the open mouth, and Agnes bolted through the door.

Before Simon could react, the cook waddled to the door.

"Hold on—" Simon tried to stop her.

"Guards! Thief! Stop that girl!" Simon left his commodities ledger and hurriedly followed her. Agnes was squirming in a mailed grip when they caught up to her. "You...you thieving wench!" The cook was livid, and Simon stepped between them.

"Calm down," he motioned. "There is probably a good explanation." But the cook was shaking her head, vehemently.

"I have seen small bits of food go missing for almost a week," she countered.

Simon blinked in surprise, blurting, "Why didn't I know of this?"

"I had to be sure," came the defiant answer. Simon turned to the crying maid, who had stopped struggling once she realized she only bruised herself more.