Part 1
A full moon hung bright in the sky the night that the noble youth Geoffrey DeBeauville rode his pale white steed through the treacherous forest at a mellow trot, best to not draw too much attention to himself. Geoffrey was a comely youth of eighteen summers that spring of the Year of Christ 948, and in just a few weeks, should all go well, he would complete his training as a knight-errant and receive full title to the new warrior class. For it was quite a new concept at this time, to train noble youths of prowess as knights and swear them to a life of service to lord, priest and peasant. Still, the idea excited athletic young Geoffrey as nothing else had his less-than-score of years he had in this rural county seat somewhere in the wilds of east Frankland.
But the lad had been nervous all through his period of training, fearful that he had not the body nor spirit to make his lord proud of his service, which had led him on this arcane and sacrilegious questÉ.
Geoffrey, like many of his fellow youths during this low ebb of civilization, was slight of build and stood only a little over five-and-a-half-feet, still considered tall among his typically malnourished brethren. Yet he was toned and lithe, with hard, svelte muscles that allowed him to move his sword and bow lightning quick in expectation of conflict with the enemies of the realm. He had the milky, pale skin of a better-fed country aristocrat, and delicate features in a face far prettier than those of most maidens, with wide, blue eyes under dark brows and long, dark lashes, a pert nose over rosy, full lips and a blond mane hanging in his eyes, hair that normally fell almost to his shoulders when undone but kept tied on top his head during his training. Still, he was aware he was more boy than man for his age, and he feared he never could compare to his illustrious ancestors, the warriors who had fought for the pagan chieftains only a few hundred years earlier, but who were the subject of only dim, half-remembered sagas from that chaotic age shortly after the fall of the Roman Empire, when this land had been part of the province of Gaul.
The boy knight-to-be was dimly aware that the society in which he lived was slowly changing even within his own lifetime. The call to the new order of knighthood was proof of that. Although he could not know it, he lived at the end of an age that would someday be known as the Dark Ages. But change was afoot: Order was slowly being restored to the chaotic wilderness that had succeeded the golden days of the Empire. Although Baron Osric, to whom Geoffrey would swear fealty, still lived in the same wooden fortress, surrounded by muddy pig sties, all his ancestors had called home, other lords in other counties and kingdoms already had started building more modern, massive stone castles that would endure longer sieges and strengthen the rule of law and Christian dominance. Yes, some pagan tribes still lived on the fringes of the continent, but, God willing, with the help of his Catholic knights, the Lord would see an end to the worship of Satan within Geoffrey's own lifetime.
Which brought Geoffrey's thoughts back to this very shameful act to which he had committed himself. Tonight he would attempt a ritual of pagan magic, Satanic magic as the village priest correctly termed it, but it was the only way, the lad believed, he could learn the ancient art of the warrior, infuse himself with ancestral spirit, and pass the final physical challenges barring him from complete knighthood.
Yes, he often heard the tales of the elders around the hearth, of their terrible ancestors who knew not Christ, but who had the spirit of the vicious animal and lowly savage in them, making them feared by all surrounding tribes. The names had long ago vanished from memory, but Geoffrey had learned from them of the ancient burial ground in the woods, where the long barrows of the warriors still could be seen poking out of the overgrowth. A cackling hag of a witch, who kept the secrets of pagan magic safe from church interference, had taught the rebellious youth the spells he should use at the midnight hour, when the moon was full, and so tonight, heart beating swiftly, the pretty teen donned his tight pantaloons, hide boots and shirt, covered by a cloak of Eastern silk, and rode out to the barrows to commit his sinful act.
And now he had arrived at the place, deep within the woods where Christian people hoped it would be erased from memory, but here lay Geoffrey's own ancestors, the proud savages who had founded the House of Beauville four-hundred years earlier, the last ones to worship the older gods. He found the barrow he sought, right in the center, flanked by wooden roaring dragons that had the marks of fire on them; sometime in the dim past, Geoffrey knew, the Christian missionaries had tried to destroy the pagan idols, but somehow they had survived and merely lay covered in underbrush. The dragons marked the tomb of the most legendary warrior, who, the sagas held, had died very young, barely past the age of Geoffrey himself, yet he had been powerful enough to call himself chieftain and vanquish many surrounding tribes, killing his rivals most brutally. The name unknown, of course, but the youth knew this was his burial place. Sighing in resignation, the trembling boy lay down his short sword before the tomb and stuttered out the spell, in a language dead for centuries, nothing like Latin or their native dialect, he knew.
After the spell left his lips, and the boy made the proper passes through the air, the woods lay silent. Even the crickets had stopped chirping and the owls stopped hooting. Geoffrey felt a crackle of electricity in the air. He held his breathÉ
Now he felt a presence, heard the inhalation of a deep breath, and he saw crossing the silhouette of the barrow a shadow, much taller than himself. The sound of soft feet flowing across the long grass, and then the shadowy figure crossed into the path of the moonlight, and the youth gasped, nearly pissing himself.
The man staring down at him from his imposing height seemed impossibly beautiful, clearly a savage yet somehow had a bearing of great dignity Ð unsurprising, actually, thought Geoffrey, as this must be a founder of their noble house. He stood well over six feet in height, a true giant to denizens of Geoffrey's impoverished, malnourished age. He was also much bigger than any man the lad had seen, with a thick, muscular chest tapering down ever so gently to a narrow waist, powerfully thick arms and long, sculpted legs leading down to very large feet. The boy drew in a sharp breath, realizing that the muscular feet were bare, and somehow he knew that the warrior lived from day to day barefoot; he realized the warriors of that time were even more savage than he could have imagined, used to staying unshod as well as nearly naked throughout their youth. For the warrior wore only the barest of fur loincloths kilted around that narrow waist, accented only by a silver belt adorned with some tribal designs of gods and fairy spirits. Also a fur cloak draped casually across his shoulders and fastened with a silver brooch at the collar below his long, thick neck and above the curved, powerful pectorals. Below that the entire torso was bare, adorned only by intricate, geometric patterns of tribal tattoos all across his chest, down the sculpted sides along his deeply ridged abdominals, and continuing below the brief loincloth down the long legs even with a few snaking tendril patterns tattooed along the sides and top of his broad feet.
Geoffrey again gazed upward, now taking in the long sword in a scabbard upon his hip, his large hands with long, spidery fingers adorned with rings and bracelets, the silver armband encircling each tattooed bicep, briefly hypnotized by the pectorals rising and falling with each calm, deep breath, before he could focus on the warrior's face, and he gasped at the contrast, for although the body seemed menacing and powerful, the young chieftain's face seemed not very different from Geoffrey's own pretty visage. Of course, this savage was his own ancestor, so there would be some similarity, but Geoffrey now could see just how degraded their line had fallen since the time of the pagans, how much noble ferocity had been lost. This warrior carried his beauty nonchalantly, the high cheekbones framing cat-like green eyes that glowed with virile determination. He had the same pert nose and full, red lips, but a couple of rings pierced through the side of each nostril, and another jeweled ring glistened across one blonde brow. Numerous earrings glittered across each earlobe. His hair was thick and a very pale, white-blonde that had been braided along one side, a few feathers and even some animal bones tied into it, cascading along the sculpted torso and resting just below the loincloth. Still, a few very long locks had escaped to fall across his narrow face and shade those animalistic, glittering verdant eyes.
Geoffrey trembled visibly, seeking to tear himself away from the evil stare, his eyes sweeping across the necklace of animal teeth draped across the silver brooch, the last mark of true savagery the lad witnessed; as he took it all in, Geoffrey knew he had made the biggest mistake of his life; never could he believe this man of his own house, who had lived only four-hundred years earlier, could actually have been so debased, so incredibly primitive, and yet so alluring, the lad's manhood felt painfully hard in his pantaloons, another sure sign this was a demon before him, when he at last heard the giant speak in slow, subtle tones:
"What is your name, young comrade?" the warrior asked in a surprisingly gentle tone, and in a voice that was still rather high and casual, still the voice of a teenager; Geoffrey recognized the language as Latin, and he answered in kind: "I am Geoffrey DeBeauville; I believe I am of your seedÉ"
The shockingly pretty face of the warrior scrunched up a bit in confusion, his lip curling, revealing a set of very even, white teeth yet with prominent canines. "Geoff-rey?" he mimicked in distaste. "What sort of name is that?"
"Why, it is my Christian name, sire," the youth replied, still trembling in awe. The warrior had taken a step forward, his bare feet padding softly along the grass, the long toes bending as if still unused to their reunion with the earth.
"Christian?" the warrior parroted, his voice sounding even a little more uncertain and boyish. The green eyes looked thoughtful, taking in the ruins of the ancient gravesite. "Yes, I knew Christians, the missionaries who would come to our tribe to preach. They said many fine things about love and kindness; I liked them, but they were afraid of me. You are a Christian?"
Geoffrey nodded. He blurted out, before the fear overtook him again, "And what is your name?"
The warrior smiled, showing off his sharp canines, and he pounded his thick pectorals, causing the bracelets to jingle. "I hight Cuthlain, warrior of the Cimbrii, protector of the forest. Why do I stand here among the houses of the dead, Geoff-rey? I can't remember; I was smashing the skulls of the Teutonic warriors, who sought to take our territory, when I was surrounded by mistÉ" The green eyes grew hazy as the beautiful face, pretty despite the savage piercings and tattoos, sought to piece together lost time.
The young knight-to-be took the opportunity of confusion to approach the intimidating giant and take his larger hand in his smaller, paler and more delicate palm. Geoffrey trembled less knowing now that his ancestor was good-natured, despite his appearance, and just perhaps what the bigoted priests had said about these long-ago pagans had been misguided. "Cuthlain, I know this doesn't make much sense to you, but I can explain if you will come with me away from the place of the dead. We can make camp not far from here and stay by a warm fire."
The confused green eyes looked down upon him. They were outlined in a black pattern that must have been some sort of war paint among his people. They no longer appeared menacing but instead seemed very gentle and open. Cuthlain brushed some pale blonde locks off his face as he said, "You look small as a boy of our tribe, but I feel I can trust you. You say you are of my seed? Then tribal law dictates I must trust you. Let us go to this camp."
Geoffrey smiled up at him, his manhood lurching forward, still incredibly hard as he smelled the animal musk coming off the mostly unclothed, muscular body of his teenage ancestor. They walked toward the waiting steed as the boy wondered how this pagan magic had affected his own sensibilities, creating this evil feeling of longing for the savage. He would have to pray his unholy dealings would have some sort of positive outcome.