A Shard of Glass

By Denise Cory Blake

The passing of time can be as meaningful, or as meaning less as a glimmer of water, or as painful as a SHARD OF GLASS. No matter what period it illuminates, and briefly washes over, in its haste to tell yet another story, as timeless as history itself, it casts its magic. Such is the story of Zac Guthrie, an Anglo- American youngster, afflicted by both phenomena. Is it a gift or a curse he possesses, which sends him off into the realms of the past? It goes where it wills, with him enchained. Go with him. Don’t try to understand the logic, for there is none. It is as it is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665580328

Denise Cory Blake

I have been writing historical novels for the last four or five years now. This is my latest offering, born of an inquisitive, inquiring mind, which despite my advancing years refuses to lay dormant. I keep coming up with new storylines. Long may I do so!

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© 2020 Denise Cory Blake. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  09/16/2020

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8033-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8034-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8032-8 (e)

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expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

CIRCA 1405

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

CIRCA 1890

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

MUGLI, UGLY, MUGLI!

Boy, and man, I am Mugli

The toad faced ugly!

Though, I be a fool

I be nonetheless, a man,

I dream, I drool,

Deformed as I am,

I have not lost my wits!

Ah! The swell of a woman’s breast,

Haunt me!

As for the rest….?

Why that is between me and my nits!

That torments as much as my unfulfilled desires!

The fires which consume me from within,

As much as from without.

For I am full of sin,

A poor cur!

All skin and bones,

I live alone

Amongst the tall towers

In which I cower,

Nought, I am told, but vermin,

Yet, I dream, still, of ermine!

CIRCA 1405

ONE

I am Mugli. I have been Mugli for twenty-odd years or more. To have lived so long in an age of pestilence, famine, and war, was itself a miraculous event. One, for which I have no answer, other than that of fortune. I, was not deserving of such a long life, nor did I want it. As neither scribe, nor priest, wrote, or prayed for my continued existence, why then, was it so? My mother, such as she was, had not named me such. To her, I was Dickon. Those I lived amongst, re-named me cruelly, for my toad like features.

Tis hard to know precisely my true age, for I have no awareness of my birth. It being of no consequence, to anyone at the time, leastways my mother, or since, come to that. I, was nought, but a by-blow, between a greasy cook, and a randy, drunken steward, in a rich medieval household. A runt, an inconvenience to the woman, as it interrupted her duties, and the household in general. For Maeve, my mother, besides being a comely wench, in a rough, countrified way, caught many a man’s eye, and was besides, a very good cook.

Her place, in the household, was therefore secure, but that of her runt, was not. Mugli, therefore learnt at an early age, to make himself scarce, almost invisible, to those around him, else his reward was a kick in his butt, or a swipe around the head.

As he grew to manhood, it became harder to remain invisible, so, to avoid what knocks he could, he learnt, very quickly, to make those around him, laugh. To cavort, dance, to twist himself, into all manner of shapes, which included his unimposing, ugly face. He could easily become, a yapping, slobbering dog, a spitting, wild, feral, cat, a monkey, a gargoyle! That was easy, for was he not already, the living embodiment of one, in any case?

Though, it hurts his already deformed body, to make such contortions, it was better, he inflicted the pain on himself, then had others inflict it on him in their callous, spiteful manner. So, as he grew, he became, the house jester. The man, one either kicked, or laughed at, in equal measure.

The Lord of the manor, at least in his father’s absence, one, Roland de Bois, of noble, Norman origin, son of a baron, took a fancy to Mugli, as a youngster. Only he, as the fool, could amuse, and keep the boy’s attention. He was a lad, who lost interest easily, his attention minimal. His only true joy, was that of hawking, as both man and boy. He had two of them, one a huge bird, with a large wing span, called Brutus, the other, a smaller bird, with the sharpest of eyes, he called Eagle eye, and was his favourite, when it came to hunting. Many, an hour he spent astride his pony, casting the birds skywards, as they sought their prey. Mugli hated both of them, but particularly the hawk, he called Eagle eye for being the smaller bird, it was harder for him to hide away from. It was a vicious bird, and he had the scars from its talons, to prove it. Roland, took particular delight in tormenting Mugli, with the birds. He attached pieces of raw flesh to parts of Mugli’s clothing, as tattered as it was, and sent him racing across the fields, in mortal terror, the hawks sent skyward to follow him. Roland laughed until the tears rolled down his red splotched cheeks, whilst Mugli cowered beneath whatever shelter he could, trying to protect himself from the beast’s sharp talons. If, it was not the hawks he used, then it was his riding whip. It mattered little, what he used, for all caused Mugli pain. He, was the butt of the boy’s cruelty. Was that not his place in the household?

Why do ye chastise me so, my young Lordling? Mugli was Bolden to inquire, after such an occurrence. Do I displease ye, so much?

Sometimes, mayhap, ye do, but mostly I find your antics amusing. If, you didn’t then you would not remain within my household.

Your household, my young Lord? Mugli pulled a face, mimicking a monkey, with stupid arm movements, as he cavorted around him.. Why, I thought it, the Lord Robert’s manor, his house, his courtyard, his stables, his very moat! All your noble father’s dwelling.?

Swiftly, he ducked away from Roland’s whip, seeing his eyes darken dangerously with anger. Watch your tongue oaf! Roland swung down from the fence on which he perched. Tell me fool, when was the last time, you saw my father’s presence here? Some three years or more, is it not? He neglects his manor, the Lady Rosamunde, his ward, and worse still, his Lady wife, Mathilda. How, my poor mother, stands the loneliness, I do not know. There was such a look of betrayal on the boy’s face, that the fool, almost, but not quite, felt pity for him. Loving, no one else, he at least, loved his mother.

Does he not do the King’s bidding? Mugli capered around him, careful to stay at arm’s length. Your father would be a fool indeed, if he disobeyed the King’s summons to court. He grinned grotesquely. Does he not owe thousands, in back taxes, to the king?

Sometimes, I think ye, not a fool at all. Yes, of course, he must do the King’s bidding, if, he wants to keep the King’s favour, keep his lands. Those he has left to him, that haven’t already been forfeit to the crown. But does he have no say, at all in the matter?

Methinks, he is wiser, to remain silent. Many, have lost their heads for criticising the king. He is a man of uncertain temper, so I hear. His fool countered amicably, thinking of Henry IV, a man beleaguered by stomach ailments, and other contrivances of health, that mostly left the running of the realm in the hands of his son,