The Beekeeper

Introduction

Nottinghamshire, England

April, 1174

His head was aching – violent throb after violent throb, born of a blow struck with unchecked force. Flashes of memory burst in his mind as his senses fought to realign themselves – his awareness slowly regaining familiarity with everything around him. His cheek was especially painful, still pressed to the floorboards the way it was.

He had failed.

The thought struck his eleven-year-old mind sharply - the first of a quickly unfurling stream of memories. He heard that singular voice - those thick tones of Northern Yorkshire.

Well, look at this cheeky wee bloke! Thinks he's a proper man, does he?

There had been three brutes in all – their leader easily distinguished by his height and his burly swagger. He had towered over the other two lesser men – thin and bony, the both of them. Guy recalled how they had gripped his mother's arms as she struggled against them. Such a threat to all that was dear - his family, his home – had quickened his fury. His pride driving his courage, he had swept forward with his blade drawn.

Yellow-bellied cowards!

He'd brought back his weapon, attempting a slash across his enemy's belly – prepared to open the villain's guts if need be. But the devil had been no mere incompetent bungler - oh, no, he had not! He had countered the move easily, sidestepping it, following it with a response of mild annoyance. No fear was hinted in his colorful language.

Toss off, maggot!

Guy attacked again, his weapon and his opponent's clashing - until the butt of a sword struck his skull from behind, rendering him senseless.

Now, he lay there on the cold floor. How long had he been lying there, unconscious? He did not know. But the reminder of the blow was impossible to ignore. In a slow but steady stream, the entirety of his memory came back as he lifted his head - his blue eyes darting around the room. The blaze in the hearth crackled – the only sound to be heard. The flames of the fire danced eerily in flickering shades of orange and black, displaying shadows over the evidence of the robbery - overturned furniture, broken pottery, and the like. And nearby, stretched out before the hearth, was the body of Elizabeth Gisborne.

She lay with her head turned to one side – her eyes wide open in a macabre and evident display of death. The blood from her head-wound was pooled beneath her pale face. Her long auburn hair had always been so shiny, sleek, and meticulously maintained – but now it lay splayed about in disarray, strands of it sticky with her blood and clinging together. Wincing in pain, Guy dragged himself forward on his hands and knees as a soldier on the battlefield would do, desperate to reach her - his wounds being nothing to him at that moment. At her side he knelt, grasping her shoulders and shaking her – willing her to move in some way, to show some sign of life. A moan, or the lifting of a finger – anything.

His words were a distraught whisper. Tears spilled from his eyes.

"Mother," he cried. "Mother!"

The memory of this living nightmare haunted him. He had been awakened by the sound of voices in the night, followed by the rustling of objects being moved about. The servants were away, gone to their families for the start of Triduum – so he had sensed that this bustling was not of the benign sort. His mother had heard the sounds as well – and soon, they had both found themselves caught up in the middle of a botched robbery. He had instinctively fought to protect his home, giving his all.

And he had failed.

Mother, he wept, the words falling from his lips in barely a whisper. The lump in his throat made it difficult to speak. Mother...