Bite Size Stories

Here be the Devil's Work

Written for the STORY CUBES WRITING CHALLENGE - JULY 9th 2018

ROLL - 1. Sloth 2. Hanged Man 3. Cauldron

TURNED ABOUT

'Wales?'

'Aye milord.'

'You're certain?'

'That I am yer worship.'

Count Peregrine turned to face his friend, an apologetic look upon his boyish features. 'Well, that confirms it. We're lost.'

Campion sighed. 'In truth we're not lost good sir, as we know exactly where we are. My question is this...'

Peregrine waited as his friend paused for effect. After a minute, he prompted the tall knight. 'Your question sirrah?'

'Is one I shall prefix with a statement. Your uncle's castle is in Cornwall.'

'It is.'

'So while we are not actually lost, the fact remains that somehow you've led us in entirely the wrong direction.'

The Count put up a delicate hand. 'This might be so, if indeed this good serf has the right of it. In my experience serfs don't often have a good sense of direction. What say you my good man ... er what was your name by the way.'

'Jones milord, Daffyd Jones.'

'And you're absolutely positive this is Wales?'

'That I am milord,' replied the Welshman, trying to keep his voice pleasant. 'Will you gentlemen be wanting a room for the night? My pub, The Sloth and Leek is just over yonder. My brother LLewellyn can take care of your horses and my wife Myfanwy can do you up a good meal.'

'Ah that's very generous good Sir. But alas we are somewhat embarrassed for funds at present. Would you accept a silken doublet in payment?'

The Welshman's face frosted over. 'English borders that way,' he pointed south.

ANON

Some hours later, Sir Campion and Count Peregrine stopped for the night, once again hopelessly lost.

'Shall we camp here then?'

Peregrine shook his head. 'That Welsh fellow mentioned a castle hereabouts, where a gentleman might avail himself ... themselves, of hospitality. Let's press on a bit more and see if we can ...'

Sir Campion reined in his horse and stared.

They had come to a clearing and it was full of people.

'This ... does not bode well.'

Campion agreed. First there was the hanged man. Never a good sign. The mob of baying peasantry with their pitchforks and crude implements wasn't either. And if that wasn't enough, the dozen witches prancing and cackling around several lit cauldrons as they cast their spells, was the clincher.

So far the crowd, led by a monk, was being kept at bay, though some were shouting. 'Burn them!!!'

A peasant at the edge of the clearing saw the two knights and reached up a hand in appeal. 'Tis the devil's work ye see here tonight yer graces.'

'We didn't ask,' Campion retorted quickly.

'It all started wi the crops failin' so it did,' continued the peasant and pointed at the hanged man. 'A wizard e were ... an these ere is the devil's own brides.'

Peregrine peered. 'One would think that old Nick would have better taste.'

'Will ye be our champions? Will ee ride wi the blessin' o the lord an overcome these witches so we may burn em!?' asked the peasant.

Campion grabbed the reins of his friend's horse. 'None of our business, eh Perry.'

'Indeed.'

The monk had noticed the two knights on their horses. 'Praise the lord! For he has sent noble crusaders to ... Sirs?? Your lordships?? Where are you goi...'

But by then Sir Campion and Count Peregrine of Hampton were galloping south through the trees and they didn't stop until they finally saw the local castle they'd been told about.

'Well!' exclaimed Peregrine as they rode across a stone bridge. 'That was a close one.'

Sir Campion nodded. 'Best not to be drawn into these things. Not on an empty stomach and certainly not without sufficient advance notice so one may make an informed choice and negotiate a suitable remittance.'

'And maybe not even then,' mused Peregrine as grooms came to take their horses.

Campion dismounted. 'Agreed. I usually draw a line where witches and priests are involved!'

End.