Shadow in the Dark
The Harwood Mysteries
Book 1
Antony Barone Kolenc
Contents
How to Read Historical FictionBefore Reading
During Reading
After Reading
Map: Xan’s World, 12th-Century England
1 Tragedy
2 Memory
3 Xan
4 Games
5 Lucy
6 Fear
7 Homecoming
8 Death
9 Godfrey
10 Identity
11 Suffering
12 Bandits
13 Purpose
14 Discovery
15 Roger
16 Shadow
17 Attack
18 Accusations
19 Investigation
20 Greed
21 Confrontation
22 Revelation
23 Battle
24 Forgiveness
Epilogue
Author’s Historical NoteKings, Manors, and Serfs
Abbeys, Monks, Novices, and Lay Brothers
Children in Medieval Times
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Samwise
always loved
How to Read Historical Fiction
Shadow in the Dark is a work of historical fiction. This type of book differs from nonfiction because the story is imagined by the author and does more than simply tell you “what happened.” Rather, this type of book helps you, the reader, understand what happened in history while drawing you in and entertaining you. The story invites you to make connections with situations and characters and to discover what stays the same for people of any period and also determine what might have changed over time.
Even though the characters and events are imagined, an author of historical fiction tries to be accurate when presenting what it might have been like for a specific group of people to live and work in a particular time and place. That’s why an author might present scenes and dialogue that differ greatly from what we experience today.
These differences are also why some of what you read might feel foreign or even shocking. As you read, remember that in some cases, the characters aren’t doing something “wrong”; they are simply doing what was considered acceptable at that time. As the reader, it’s important for you to read critically throughout. If you’re interested in learning more about the historical context of Shadow in the Dark, you’ll find more information in the back of the book, in the Author’s Historical Note.
Here are some tips for making the most of Shadow in the Dark.
Before Reading
Do some brief internet research about life in 12th-century England and in a typical abbey of that time. Watch a video, view illustrations, or read an article to gain some historical context.
During Reading
Ask yourself questions such as the following:
In what ways are children’s everyday lives the same in the Middle Ages when compared to yours? In what ways are they different?
In what ways are the actions and reactions of young characters like those of kids today? In what ways are they different?
God and religion played a significant role in the lives of people during the Middle Ages. In terms of God and religion, how are the characters’ thoughts, words, and actions like the people of today? How are they different?
How have society’s expectations for girls changed over the centuries?
After Reading
Ask yourself questions such as the following:
What ways of thinking or acting do you see as consistent for people no matter the time period? What ways of thinking or acting are different now? In each case, do you think our new way of thinking or acting is better or worse? Why?
This book often references the idea of “God’s will,” a common concept in the Middle Ages. What have you been taught about this concept? What are your thoughts?
In the feudal system of the Middle Ages, serfs and laborers were considered to be of less value than people in other stations in life. Where do we see examples of this today? How might societies be able to correct these injustices?
1
Tragedy
The boy jolted awake to a thunderous drumming. He rolled off his straw mattress. The dirt floor trembled beneath his toes, almost tickling them. Da-doom, da-doom, da-doom.
“Father? Mother?”
Vapor puffed from his mouth in the dim light. Dawn must be near.
Across the cottage, Father sprang to his feet, his thick hair jutting out in all directions. “Listen. Horses!” He pulled a brown tunic over his head as Mother stirred next to him.
The boy grabbed his own tunic, sticking his arms into its scratchy woolen holes. Then he slipped on a pair of thin leather shoes. Father might need his help.
Hoots and curses and screams rang out from the far side of the village—a chaotic mix of angry shouts and terrified cries. Hardonbury Manor must be under attack!
Mother clung to Father’s hand, her eyes wide with fear. “What do we do, Nicholas?”
“Stay here!” Father bolted out the crooked wooden door, letting in a rush of misty air.
Bitter smoke stuck to the boy’s tongue—not the pleasant smell of the hearth, where Mother heated their broth each morning. Nay, it was foul smoke, worse than the stench of the fire that had burned the crops in the West Field last year.
Mother sunk her face into her hands.
“Don’t worry.” The boy hugged her tight. “God will protect us.”
“Son!” Father’s voice called from outside.
“Coming, Father!” He squeezed Mother’s hand and burst out the flimsy door.
A surge of heat slapped his face as flames sprang up from the thatched roof of a nearby cottage. The manor house on the hill was burning, too! Dark clouds of smoke poured from windows on its high stony walls—like rows of filthy chimneys staining the red sky of dawn.
Villagers scurried about in all directions, but six burly men had gathered to defend Hardonbury with their tools: hoes, shovels, and long scythe blades for the wheat harvest.
Father stood among the defenders, taller than the rest. His shoulders were squared, and his eyes glistened in the firelight. Maybe Father wanted him to join the battle.
“I’m here, Father.”
“Nay! Take Mother and run, son,” Father yelled. “’Tis bandits!”
Just then, the village blacksmith sprinted down the lane toward them, his huge hands balled into fists, pumping back and forth. A bandit dressed in black pursued him on a sweaty horse. Dust swirled into the smoky air with the strike of each hoof.
The horseman held a long wooden mace crowned with metal studs. He bore a jagged scar on his cheek, and his thick, crooked nose looked as though it had been broken and never healed. He kicked the blacksmith to the dirt, then swung the mace and hit the poor man’s head with a bone-cracking blow.
“Get ready, men!” Father said. He waved his son off: “Not you.”
The boy shook his head hard. He would never run and leave Father to fight alone. He might be only eleven years old, but he’d worked the fields with Father each day and cleaned the tools with Father each night. He was old enough to fight bandits with Father, too.
Five men on horseback rode up in a cloud of dust, joining the scarred bandit. They circled the defenders, penning the boy out. A few of them carried crossbows fitted with sharp quarrels. He couldn’t get to Father without fighting through them. More bandits were heading this way, too, judging by the sound of it.
“What’a we do with this bunch, Rummy?” a pig-eyed bandit asked the man with the scar.
Rummy lifted th
e bloody mace in his fist and peered down at Father and the others. “Drop your weapons now or we kill you all.”
The boy reached to the ground and picked up a stone. A short, thin bandit sat upon a brown horse nearby. If he could hit that bandit with a stone, it might create an opening, and he could run to help Father inside the circle, where an extra shovel lay on the dirt.
As the boy took aim, a child cried out in terror from the cottage across the path—the voice of little Alden, only six years old. The child’s cottage was on fire!
Alden’s father was standing with the other men, and his mother and sister had died last year in the plague. That meant Alden was all alone as the flames on the roof rose higher.
There was no one else close enough to help the child.
The boy dropped his stone on the path. “I’ll be right back, Father!”
He ran to the burning cottage. Alden was pulling desperately on the jammed door.
“Stand back, Alden!”
He kicked the door hard with his heel, splintering its frame. Shards of wood hung limply as the door fell to the dirt. The child raced out, his face streaked with mud and tears.
“Alden, run to the East Field!” he said. “Someone will get you soon.”
The child nodded and ran toward the East Field.
The boy headed back to Father and the others, who were holding their tools high toward the bandits, ready for battle.
“We will never give in to you,” Father told Rummy. The others shouted in agreement.
“As you wish,” Rummy said. He gestured to his men. “Kill them.”
The boy picked up the stone again. He needed to be at Father’s side for this battle, but his delay in helping Alden had stolen his only chance.
“Halt!” a tall bandit commanded, entering the circle from the lane on horseback. This one seemed to be their leader. He wore a chain-mail shirt, and his face was lined with deep, curved creases that faded into a silver beard on a pointed chin. A pendant hung around his neck on a thin rope—a carved wooden star and, at its center, a dragon with jewel-green eyes.
“Carlo.” Rummy drew his horse aside. “We were just taking care of these troublemakers.”
Carlo groaned. “I weary of your needless killing,” he said. His voice almost sounded sad.
“Ach, you are getting too old for this.” Rummy spit on the dirt. “Leave the killing to me.”
The boy shifted his arm and took aim at Rummy, who would be the greatest threat to Father.
Carlo sat up straight in his saddle and grabbed the hilt of his broad, iron sword. He thrust it toward Rummy’s throat. The boy might not need to hit Rummy after all.
Carlo held the sword higher and pointed it toward the manor house, still burning on the hill. “Our mission is done. Why are you wasting time on these peasants?”
Rummy laughed. “The men are excited. They want a little fun.”
Carlo scowled at him under his wrinkled brow. “You set fire to the whole village!”
“What does it matter?” Rummy said.
“Can you not follow simple orders?” Carlo pulled the reins on his horse and rode slowly from the circle. “Now, gather the men and follow me.”
The village might be saved after all. There would be fires to put out and injuries to heal, but the bandits’ attack would soon be over.
But as soon as Carlo had left the circle, Rummy stared down at Father, who still held tightly to a shovel, his eyes defiant.
“I will at least teach this one a lesson.” Rummy raised his mace into the air. With it he could crush Father’s head, as he’d done to that poor blacksmith.
“Nay!” The boy threw the stone with all his might. It struck Rummy in the center of his ugly nose, sending him flying off his saddle to the dirt with a thud and a grunt.
The boy cheered, along with some of the villagers. Even a few of the bandits laughed as Rummy rolled to his feet with mud stuck to the top of his nose.
Suddenly the boy’s face grew cold. Rummy was charging at him, waving his mace with wild eyes that streamed with furious tears. “You will die for that, boy!”
“Run!” Father yelled, as the other bandits closed ranks around the defenders.
He ran. He raced down the side lane that led to the East Field, glancing back only once. Rummy was gaining on him. He passed cottages on both sides, many of them still burning. No one was around. Maybe they’d fled, or the bandits might have killed them all.
He chanced another look. Rummy was nearly upon him, cursing and spitting as he came.
Finally he reached the East Field, where a few rows of golden wheat stalks remained standing in the midst of the harvest. A wooden bucket hung from a post: drinking water for the field laborers.
He grabbed hold of the bucket and swung it behind him. He released it.
“Ahh!”
He looked back. Rummy, drenched with water, had stumbled over the bucket. Now there’d be a chance to put some distance between them.
He crossed the field and headed toward the thick trees. That would be his only hope of escape. If he could get to the woodland trail, he could outrun the tiring bandit in the forest.
Then what? The trail would lead him to Harwood Abbey. The monks there might protect him or at least send word to King Henry that bandits were raiding the countryside. Then he could circle back home and help Mother and Father with the repairs.
“Stop!” Rummy shouted behind him.
Why wouldn’t the bandit give up the chase? That stone must have hurt more than just his nose; his reputation with the other bandits might be at risk. They’d laughed at him.
The boy kept running. He could work the fields for hours at a time without a break under the glare of the withering sun. Surely he could run a half hour to save his life. Yet after a while the green branches passed more slowly, some scratching at his arms as the trail narrowed.
Rummy’s curses followed him. “You cannot . . . run . . . forever!” The bandit must be near exhaustion by now.
The trail opened to its widest point, with a clear path to Harwood Abbey.
His woolen tunic clung to the sweat on his back despite the frosty morning air. Pain in his side—cramping muscles pleading for a break. Nay. Rummy was still pursuing.
Suddenly his foot hit something, and he plunged to the dirt with a yelp.
The tree’s thick root—stretching across the trail—shouldn’t have surprised him. He’d bounded over roots like that before, pretending they were serpents waiting to strike his heel.
“Get up, you simpkin!” he said to himself, brushing a wet flop of hair from his forehead. Blood seeped from scrapes on his knees and palms, yet he pressed his hands to the dirt.
Rummy sprang upon him from between two trees, tackling him back to the ground.
The bandit seized his ankle—he couldn’t get back on his feet now. He kicked and hollered, but Rummy’s icy grip seemed unbreakable.
“Now die, boy!”
Lord, save me!
Rummy growled and raised the mace high to strike him.
Darkness. Then, out of darkness came piercing, bright light. Just for a moment.
Dizziness. Darkness again.
Rough arms under his legs and around his back. Bobbing back and forth.
He opened his eyes, but the light punished him, jabbing behind his brow with daggers. Whoever carried him was dressed all in black.
Nausea in the pit of his stomach. Darkness again.
How much time had gone by? Someone still carried him.
He chanced another painful glance. No more; it hurt too much.
Whoever held him was wearing a black robe; carrying a long, thin pole.
Dizziness. Nausea. Everything swirling in darkness.
Black robe? Maybe this was the angel of death, coming to take him to the netherworld.
He opened his mouth to speak, but only a wrenching sound and vomit came out.
Then a long darkness.
2
Memory
; The boy’s foot was stuck in a hole, cold dirt all around it.
A slender trail stretched before and behind him. Trees with dying leaves and sharp branches jutted at him from the sides of the path, their points sticking like thorns every time he moved.
Why couldn’t he get his foot out? And how had he got it stuck to begin with?
The brush rustled on the other side of the trail. Footsteps crunched dead leaves.
“Get out of there!” he yelled at his trapped leg. Something was coming.
A black, hairy boar-like creature crept from between two trees—eyes speckled with blood, snout crooked and covered in mud, and fangs dripping with spit. It stared at him as though it starved for his flesh. It would eat him here, stuck in this hole in the middle of nowhere.
Unless he could defend himself. He looked for a stone to throw. A big round one was just within reach. He grabbed it, raised it high. The creature scurried off.
Too easy. Had he really frightened it with a stone? Nay, something else had scared it.
There—down the trail coming toward him—a giant figure in a black robe that dragged along the earth. Skeletal hands stuck out from its dark sleeves, but a draping hood shadowed its face. It held a long, thin scythe blade in its bony right hand. The ground shook as it walked.
This must be the angel of death, coming to take him down to the netherworld.
Someone once said that if the angel of death embraced you, it would take your soul. Who told him that? It didn’t matter. He was going to die now, or he might be dead already.
Still, he couldn’t get his foot out of the hole.
He shut his eyes tight. “Nay!” he shouted. “I don’t want to go with you!”
“Wake up,” a voice said. The angel of death’s voice was soft, almost gentle.
Hands grabbed his shoulders. This must be it—Death’s fatal embrace.
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