Greslet

By James R Cole

The insane are people too...

Carolyn lunged for a brass lamp on the nightstand when a hand with wiry fingers the color of ash came up and clenched her wrist.She winced as decaying fingernails dug into her skin.

She yanked her hand back and the brittle arm snapped in two in a puff of gray dust.Someone - or something - was pulling itself out from under the bed, tugging at the sheets with its remaining hand.

Hands crawled across the ripples of sheets from all corners of the bed like crabs on an ocean floor.She closed her eyes tightly. It's not real. Not real. Not real.Scroll up and grab a copy today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James R Cole
• Release date: May 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781092506342

Book preview

GRESLET

By

James R. Cole

© 2016 by James R. Cole

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781092506342

Imprint: Independently published

Contents

PART ONE: HARES AND BUTTERFLIES

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PART TWO: SWORDS AND GALLANTRIES

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

PART THREE: FIRE AND MAYHEM

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

PART FOUR: ASYLUM

CHAPTER THIRY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

GRESLET

PART ONE: HARES AND BUTTERFLIES

CHAPTER ONE

The stone and mortar walls no longer spun. His head hurt and his right cheek felt swollen and bruised.

Through a small hole in the wall, Nicholas Smith could see the night sky. The temperature was falling steadily and he had only his cloak and a frayed blanket to ward off the cold. Looking up from the floor, he noticed something scurried in a cobweb, among its patterns that weaved right to left, up and down. As he followed the path of the creature, he saw a second one – much smaller than the first – that lay motionless, defeated. There was no point struggling any more, its fate was secured. It could do nothing but wait as its executioner approached, pausing every few moments to savor the capture.

This was Nicholas’ second visit to the gaol, and its labyrinth of dark corridors could snuff out even the hardiest of souls. The guards appeared to have succumbed to its gloom as well, and seemed void of emotion, undoubtedly preoccupied with thoughts of anywhere but here. Every so often, he could hear the click and clack of their boots as they wandered past his cell. Silence meant either the prisoner was asleep, or it was one less mouth to feed. He pulled his knees tight to his chest and tried to find sleep.

He was jolted awake. Couldn’t have been asleep for long, he thought. There was a commotion outside his cell. More than one pair of boots. Someone coming, or going? The movements were from right to left. Coming. What is that scent? He thought he recognized it. Clove? He rose from the floor and placed his ear to the door. The door to the adjacent cell screeched open, closed, and then a single pair of boots retreated down the corridor. He stood quietly, his ear still pinned to the door. Not a sound. He was thinking of introducing himself, but decided to remain—

Is there anyone over there? a voice asked.

The voice was proper, yet firm. The voice was that of… A girl? My name is Nicholas Smith, he answered.

Is it always this cold in here? she asked.

Yes, I’m afraid so. Then looking back through the small hole in the wall: With a clear sky tonight, we’ll have frost by morning.

Little good this blanket’s going to do, she groused. Might as well have nothing.

He realized the comment was directed at no one in particular. What’s your name?

Carolyn.

He heard the ruffling of a blanket. Then, a sigh.

I’m…so very tired.

Her voice waned. A short time later the corridors were again silent. Nicholas could still pick up the scent of clove. It was a delightful contrast to the vile aromas that rolled through the gaol’s corridors like a macabre fog. He rubbed his stiffening hands together to warm them, then wrapped himself in the blanket once again.

The door to his cell opened and the guard with a rust-colored beard and thin-rimmed spectacles that enlarged his eyes to the size of egg yolks, stood in the entrance. Nicholas had heard one of the prisoners call him Rusty.

Time’s up, Rusty said. You may go now.

May I keep the blanket as a keepsake? Nicholas asked.

Rusty was not amused. "May I keep the blanket as a keepsake, sir," he corrected.

"May I keep the—

No! Now move along before I change my mind.

Rusty escorted him down several dimly lit corridors to a room where he opened a door and pushed him out into blinding light. It was dawn and he could see the fog of his breath in the crisp morning air. Rusty walked back inside without so much as a glance. Nicholas clenched his cloak tightly about his neck and headed toward home. He hoped his brother Andrew would be asleep and not inquire as to his whereabouts last night.

Nicholas cursed the door’s squeaky hinges as he entered the small, timber-framed

dwelling with a thatched roof and wattle and daub walls. Andrew sat in the middle of the floor, tending to a cauldron of water over the hearth. Drat! Did his brother ever sleep?

Where have you been all night? Andrew asked.

I’d rather you didn’t ask.

Andrew caught a glimpse of his younger brother’s black eye and knew he had been in a fight. The morning sun shone through the open door, warming his back. It was time to go if he was to arrive early to work. I need to get to Rainecort’s. There’s corncakes on the table if you’re hungry.

Nicholas walked to the table and opened the bundle. Had smoke from the hearth and a fresh scattering of hay on the floor not overwhelmed his senses, he might have been able to smell them.

As Nicholas gnawed on corncakes, Andrew threw on his beige-colored cloak, headed out the door, and blended into the sea of hoods and bonnets as they threaded through the creak and moan of passing wagons.

***

The door to her small confines opened. Only by the flickering light of a lantern that hung outside her cell could Carolyn make out the silhouette of a man wearing a hood. Light caught the man’s face briefly and she thought he resembled a human skull she had seen in a drawing.

Now, I don’t want no trouble missy, the man hissed. Don’t want no screamin’ nor hollerin’ neither.

She reached out to strike at the man as he approached, when she saw a second figure enter the room. Swell, she thought. The only thing worse than a man up to no good, was two men up to no good.

There was the swoosh of wool followed by the smack of flesh hitting stone.

What cha doin’ their mate? Rusty asked. Like messin’ with young ladies do ya? How ‘bout you and I go somewhere else and get better acquainted, shall we? After you…I insist!

Carolyn heard what might have been a joint popping from its socket. The door shut behind them as Rusty pulled the man out. Alone again, she balled up on a corner of the slab that was her bed.

When she awoke, the temperature inside the gaol had warmed slightly and she knew dawn had broken. She rose rubbing the sleep from her eyes, let the blanket fall to the floor, and squatted to pee in a small bucket. Is this what my life’s come to? It wasn’t the first time she had posed that question to herself, and it wouldn’t be the last. Her companions in the gaol were also waking, their moans, pleas, and farts reverberating through the corridors. Quiet! someone shouted, but it fell on deaf ears.

The bolt to the door slid back. Out of pure instinct – or fear the man with the hood had returned – she darted to a corner of her cell. The figure did not advance.

Time to go, Rusty said.

Stepping out into the morning sun, she brushed the oily hair from her face in a half-hearted attempt to restore some dignity. Glancing at the grime under her fingernails, she wondered if that were possible.

The town of Greslet had risen early today. Streams of black smoke wafted upward from shop chimneys. The clink and clank of hammers shaping metal competed with one another up and down the street. Swarms of leather bearing blacksmiths and their apprentices darted from shop to shop. She could walk through the gauntlet without being given a second thought. A young boy spilled a satchel of small metal objects and knelt to pick them up. She could not make out what he was grumbling, but was certain it warranted a mouthful of soap. It had been mid-day yesterday since her last meal – a handful of blueberries and a loaf of brown bread – and hunger pains knocked at her stomach.

CHAPTER TWO

Andrew loved watching the glowing pieces of iron as they took shape. The fire that kindled within him began with his father assigning him menial jobs around the shop, such as sweeping floors and stocking coal. Over time, he learned the tools and techniques of the trade and the different properties of iron, silver, and other metals. He was his father’s apprentice, and soon he would be a blacksmith just like his father, and have an apprentice of his own to sculpt and mold.

Then, their father died.

He was now in the employ of Adam Rainecort and meandered about his shop with the giddiness of a child. Strewn about were hundreds of objects: horseshoes, ornaments, chains, hinges, locks, and keys of every shape and size. But what drew his attention most were the weapons and armor. Shields, axes, roundels, and enough armor to complete a knight’s suit rekindled memories of playing knights as a little boy. The only difference was: these were real. These wouldn’t come apart when poorly tied knots came undone or break when you accidently stepped on them. They severed limbs and shattered bones, vanquished life or spared it. And yet, these devices of death were magnificent; once formless pieces of iron that had been hammered, chiseled, and filed into works of art that only a skilled blacksmith could appreciate.

Andrew? Rainecort inquired from somewhere within the shop.

Yes, sir? Andrew answered.

Be right with you.

A knight’s helm shined atop one of the shelves, each ornate design glistening with the brilliance of a trickling stream. He reached up, about to pull it down, then thought better of it. As he pulled back his hands, he noticed a dent in the visor in approximation to where the cheek bone would be. The depression was three inches in width and equally high. He wondered what could have caused…

Andrew envisioned two silvery knights engaged in a fight to the death; armor gleaming, chains clinking, swords clashing. Flashes of light reflect off their metallic shields against a fiery night sky. The horses rear upward, spewing debris through the air in their own desperate struggle. Then, a roar of thunder as the hooves fall back to earth to find footing. The black horse stumbles and the knight atop it fights to regain balance. But it is too late. He does not see the sword as it—

Ah, now she’s a fine piece of work, Rainecort said over the boy’s shoulder, wiping soot from his hands with a cloth. Every boys’ dream. Had it once myself.

Rainecort was a stocky man with a scar on his right cheek that – when not blackened with soot – was barely visible through a well-groomed, snow-white beard. What fascinated Andrew was his hands. Years of hammering and twisting hot metal had swollen them to where they were now disproportionate to his size.

I’ve never seen anything like it, Andrew remarked of the helm. Did you make this? It is remarkable.

No, just fixin’ her, Rainecort answered. Pretty bad shape when she came in. Looks like she did her job though. Little poundin’ and she’ll be good as new. After closer inspection, he added: Well…almost.

Did he live?

Don’t know. But after a wallop like that, I’d bet a day’s wages the poor lad couldn’t remember his own name for a while. Rainecort tossed the dirty cloth on a table, removed the apron that protected him from sparks and flying fragments of hot metal, and walked into the back room where coals burned white-hot in a forge. Andrew followed. So, you wish to be my apprentice and become a blacksmith like your father, eh?

Andrew didn’t hesitate. It is my greatest desire, sir.

Tough way to make a living. Think you can handle it boy?

Andrew wasn’t sure if Rainecort was doubting his ability, or simply asking a question. So, he spoke his mind. Yes, sir. I had no better mentor.

The room went silent except for a quiet drum roll Rainecort tapped out on the table. Then, a smirk began to form at the corner of his mouth. He was a fine man, your father.

Thank you, sir.

There’s a barrel by the back door and a hand cart. Deliver it to Master Johnson, if you would.

Yes, sir.

Andrew went to the rear of the store where the barrel sat, loaded it onto the cart, and over dew-slick cobblestones, headed toward Master Johnson.

***

The brown terrier that had become a permanent fixture in front of Johnson’s shop was again undisturbed by this latest visitor as Andrew set the cart down and wiped the sweat from his brow. He knew very little about Johnson, and from what he’d heard about the man, didn’t care to. The man was infamous for his temper and worked alone in his shop on the west side of Greslet. He’d passed Johnson many times on the street, and wondered if his bitterness didn’t stem from being so alone.

Take the cart ‘round back! a husky voice shouted. Unload it by the back door.

The voice came from somewhere inside the shop. If it was Johnson’s, it did nothing to dispel his reputation.

Andrew wheeled the cart around the gray-stoned structure to the back door where he let the cart fall freely from his hands. Before him was an assemblage of sacks he presumed were filled with either grains or legumes, and three oak barrels. Affixed to each barrel was a piece of parchment that read: BY ORDER OF THE QUEEN.

Johnson emerged through the back door and looked at him with eyes that could slice bread. It wasn’t necessary for him to speak, it was clear by his expression: unload the barrel and move about your business.

"What are all the pro—

Now, before you start asking questions, Johnson scowled through thin, violet lips, I’d say you have better things to occupy your mind with. Johnson’s eyes remained fixed on the young man, his stare intensifying. Have a good day, he nodded. Thank Mr. Rainecort for me.

"But—

"Good day to you