Blessed

6 years later

The morning had proved to be less than pleasant. A light rain drizzled over the hills, casting a bit of a mist over the countryside. Clouds hid the sun, so the day was just as dark and depressing as all the ones before it. Between the mist moved a caravan of twenty men, most so tired and hungover that they were nearly falling off their horses. Jacob was no better. His head throbbed with each footfall of his Destrier, who he'd amply named “Horse”. Destrier's are prime warhorses, and never cheap. Jacob however, hadn't found himself in any shortage of money lately. All of his life, money had seemed in such demand, like it was missing. Well, he'd found it. Turns out, the Holy Roman Church had it all along.

“Kissed er' down south and it smelled like Brandy, kissed her up north and it taste like candy, kissed her on the lips and it felt quite dandy, till' they kicked me out of the hog pen.” Bartholomew groaned, attempting to form his broken voice into some sort of rhythm.

“You're awfully... alive.” Jacob droned, not having the energy to add inflection to his voice.

Bartholomew sank down, laying his head against his horses neck as it plodded along the green countryside. “Barely.” The road they traveled was quite popular, a twisting dirt path that hung on the very edge of the country. To his right, Jacob could see a cliff that dropped straight into water, stretching as far as he could see. To his left, beautiful hills and a very hungover Bartholomew. It was a bad idea, getting drunk the night before they rode into land staked by the Scott's.

They received their first glimpse of danger around noon. A lone rider had emerged from a nearby treeline, dressed in the full robes of a monk. Leuwyn was in charge of the group of 20 men, and took each of their lives as a personal responsibility. He'd spotted the Monk from a mile's distance, recognizing it to be the ploy that it was. Regardless, he took Jacob and another man to meet him, about 50 feet from the rest of the party. As the man drew nearer, it became obvious that he was no monk. His hair was long and ragged, fallling well past his neck, and a longsword hung from his waist.

“Ho!” Leuwyn called as the man approached hearing distance. “Are you a brother?”

“Do I look it?” he retorted, pulling back on the reigns of his horse. “Are you with the Church?”

Leuwyn grimaced, a dissappointed look that so often found its way onto his handsome face. “Do I look it?” A favorite among his men, they would do anything he told them to. A power that few men should be trusted with. “See, we're here because you and your brethren insist upon being godless heathens. I can see you wear the robes of a brother, so return our missionairies and we'll have no qualms.”

“Take them.” The man growled, swiping the bloody feedbag that hung off his horses neck and emptying the contents on the ground. Three heads. The sight of it nearly made Jacob puke. His stomach was still recovering from the night before. Leuwyn sighed, leaning forwards so that his forearms rested against the back of his horse's neck.

“You have my word that none of our men will venture into this territory again.”

The scot spat on the pile of heads. “There are more monks where those came from.Your word isn't s**t, and neither is your god.” Kicking up dirt, he rode back into the safety of the forest.

Jacob eyed Leuwyn angrily. “We're done then? Turning around?”

Leuwyn pulled his cloak tighter around his neck, shivering visibly. “Done? First we're going to go kill that b*****d and everything he's ever loved.”

“But what about the Brothers? He'll kill them if we don't turn around?”

“Let him” Leuwyn grinned. “Those are Protestant men, not ours.”