Book of Souls

At the instant he plucked up the courage to strike, the boar decided to break for it by running headlong through the dogs. A hound reared up in panic just as Edgar was about to thrust his spear, forcing him to hold back. The boar engaged the greyhound in a furious skirmish that lasted only seconds before the dog’s belly was torn asunder. Then, with the other dogs snapping at the boar’s hind legs, the enraged creature leapt forward into the air, its tusks aimed squarely at Edgar’s groin.

Edgar instinctively took a step in retreat but his boot stayed buried in the snow. He immediately lost his balance and started to fall backward, and when he did, the butt of the spear wedged into the ground. Providentially, the snarling, leaping boar literally impaled its own thorax upon the blade of the tokke less than a foot away from where it would have turned young Edgar into a eunuch. With an horrific shriek and a gush of blood, the boar died right between the boy’s supine legs.

Edgar was still shivering from cold and mental trauma when the hunting party reassembled by the blazing fire in the Great Hall. The men were talking loudly and laughing themselves silly as they consumed large wedges of cake washed down by jugs of wine. Young William was merrily partaking in the banter, elated at his brother’s travails. Only Edgar and his father were quiet. The baron sat in his large fireside chair, moodily drinking, Edgar off in a corner pouring sweet wine down his throat.

“Are we going to eat that boar?” one of Edgar’s cousins asked.

“Why should we not?” another wanted to know.

“Because I have never before eaten a beast who took its own life!”

The men laughed so hard they cried, which only made the baron more taciturn. His oldest son was a source of worry and vexation. He seemed to excel at nothing of importance. He was an unenthusiastic scholar whom his tutors tolerated rather than praised, his piety and attention to prayer were suspect, and his ability at the hunt was debatable. Today had confirmed his father’s doubts. It was a miracle the boy had not been killed. As the baron was painfully aware, the only skills Edgar had firmly mastered were wenching and drinking.

During the Twelve Days of Christmas, the baron had prayed in the family chapel, searched his soul, and reached a decision about the boy’s fate. Now he was more certain than ever of its wisdom.

Edgar emptied his goblet and called the manservant for a refill. He caught the sour expression on his father’s face and started shivering again.

In the evening, Edgar awoke from a nap in his cold, dark room on the upper floor of Cantwell Hall. He used the only active candle to light some others and tossed a few small logs onto the embers of his shallow fireplace. He pulled a heavy cloak over his nightshirt and poked his head out from the door. At the far end of the hall, Molly, the chambermaid, was sitting on a bench at her station outside Lady Cantwell’s room, waiting at her beck and call. She was a small, buxom girl, a year or so younger than Edgar, her black hair stuffed into a linen bonnet. She had been watching out for him, and she shyly smiled.

He beckoned her with a finger and she cautiously rose and crept in his direction. Without exchanging a word, she followed him inside his room in a well-practiced routine. Just as the door was about to close behind her, William Cantwell emerged from his room and spied Molly slipping into his brother’s chamber. He gleefully scuttled off down the stairs, ready to do his own brand of mischief.

Edgar flopped onto his bed and grinned at the chambermaid. “Hello, Molly!”

“Hello, my lord.”

“Did you miss me?”

“I saw you yesterday?” she said sweetly.

“That was such a long time ago,” he sulked. Then he pounded the bed with the flat of his palms. “Will you come see me again?”

“We need to hurry.” She giggled. “My lady might call at any time.”

“It will take precisely as long as it takes. One cannot interfere with the immutable laws of nature.”

When she climbed onto the foot of the bed, he grabbed her and pulled her on top. They proceeded to roll from one side of the bed to the other, groping and tickling each other until she let out a loud, “Ow!” She was frowning and rubbing the top of her head. “What do you have under your pillow?” she asked.

She pulled the cushion away and underneath it was a large, heavy book marked on its spine: 1527.

“Leave that be!” he said.

“What is it?”

“It is just a book, and it is of no concern to you, Missy.”

“Then why is it hidden?”

Her curiosity, so keenly aroused, was going to have to be addressed before he could get on with the business at hand. “My father does not know I took it from his library. He is protective of his books.”

“Why does it interest you?” she asked.