CHAPTER 3

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[Friar]

Littlebrook was a small village, though calling it a village might have been generous. Friar thought that a village had to have some sort community buildings like a pub, an inn or maybe a church. But no. Littlebrook didn’t have either. To his horror, Friar realised that he would have to hep set up the church. Not what he was expecting.

Damn it, master! He thought to himself as he wiped the sweat from his brow, breathing heavily.

“What?” He questioned, unable to hear what the man had said. The blood rushing through his ears, preventing him hearing clearly.

“I said, I need the sack over there.” The man repeated, pointing to the other side of the yard. “Not here.”

“Yes, sir” Friar replied, holding his tongue. He wanted to scream and shout at the man, tell him he should be doing it, the filthy scum. But that wouldn’t go down well, and then the master would be unhappy. No matter what Friar wanted, keeping the master happy was always his first priority.

He bent down, wincing as his fingers scraped on the rough gravel, drawing blood, as he looped them underneath the sack. With a short sharp grunt, he jerked the bag up into his arms, and made for the short waddle over to the other side.

About half-way he felt his vision narrowing, black clouds filtering in. He stumbled; eyes only focused on the pile of similar sacks just a few metres away.

Friar felt pain growing in his chest, he couldn’t breathe! He tried harder, short sharp breaths; but it didn’t seem to help. He just couldn’t get enough air. The pain was building and as he stumbled again, he let go, dropping the sack and watching it split open, spilling the contents all over the gravel.

As if in slow motion, he watched the sweat droplets fly, kicking up small spurts of dust as they landed on the ground. His vision narrowed further, until all was obscured by the black cloud of unconsciousness.

“What a fat pig, useless. You’d a thought they’d have sent someone capable of the labour at least?” someone said. In his daze, what the man said hadn’t quite sunk in.

“Hahahaha” the other responded. “imagine if he knew we had a cart to help pull this shit”

“What, we do?” the first man questioned before bursting into laughter.

As Friar lay there, regaining his senses what the men had been saying sunk in, and he felt anger stir his heart.

Oh, you’ll get yours! He thought, malice colouring the words. Revenge would be sweet, someday soon I’ll end that life of yours.

When the two men, wandered off, Friar got up. Slinking away to plot their downfall.

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He’d been set up with a temporary tent, whilst the church got built, and it was there that he conducted his business. The first order of business was replying to all the correspondences.

He’d had to pull lots of strings to get sent here. Friars were traditionally roving priests that went around towns, trying to educate the masses to the word of the gods. They weren’t tied to a place. So, he had to satisfy the benefactors to his move, updating the senior members of the clergy to the progress he was making.

Although the dungeon was still supposed to be secret, word always spread throughout the main organisations, and the church was no exception.

Once he was done writing the letters, he dropped a globule of wax on the back, pressing down with his signet ring to imprint his name. The stinging pain on his bloodied fingers brought tears to his eyes. Hot wax in a cut was not pleasant. Still, pain was only temporary, and he persisted.

Once all the letters were sealed, and the wax dry. Friar gathered them up in a bundle, tying them together with a small strand of string.

Gathering his money, the letters, and his coat he wandered out of the tent, and down through the dungeon camp. It had no official name as yet, but the mountain side of the stream that ran through the village was where the guilds were all building. Making it down to the stream, he crossed over one of the short wooden bridges and entered the village proper. The only service building the village seemed to have was a post office.

Situated close to the path, at the edge of the village it was a little out of the way, and with the hot sun burning down from above and the distance, the Friar began to sweat again.

Friar was fat, a sedentary life as an almoner had seen him start to put on the weight. When the master contacted him, it had only gotten worse, all the stress of dealing with him had seen Friar eat to relax, and life as a Friar had only gotten worse. Master payed him well and getting transported by coach all around the lands had given Friar a figure that was not conducive to exercise.

Still, friar didn’t complain, and it was that attitude that made him very likeable. That was, as long as he didn’t spew the vitriol and true thoughts out of his mouth. But Friar didn’t do that, and so he waved and smiled and exchanged pleasantries with the villagers who greeted him, as he made his way to the post office.

It was a small building, wooden, and frail looking. Friar doubted if it would stand up to a strong breeze.

Behind the counter, a young girl sat, her head barely visible. She glared down, though Friar couldn’t see at what. Shuffling closer, he noticed tat the girl was practicing embroidery, though the stitching wasn’t going too well.

“Hello.” He called out, putting on the fake friendly cheer that never failed to win him a smile.

“Ah, hello” the young girl replied, jerking back in surprise. She must be wondering how such a tub of lard could sneak up on her. Friar schooled his thoughts, saying kindly. “Are you having some trouble there.”

“Yeah, mother wants the pattern done by dinner, but I can’t do it. She asks and asks and gets annoyed at me, but she doesn’t tell me how to do it!”

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair to me.”

“I know.” She said, smiling back at him. “I’m glad you agree. I’m a kid, so I must be wrong, mothers always right after all.”

“Well, usually, but between you and me, kids are far far smarter. What wrong with it, I’ve done a bit of embroidery before, maybe I can help?”

“Well, ok then. Come on round.”

Smiling, Friar did as she bade, shuffling around the edge of the counter.

Half an hour later, he’d taught her how to do it and knew he’d made a friend in the young girl, someone that was sure to feed him the bits of knowledge he might require.

“Oh, before I forget, I’ve got to mail out these letters.”

“Of course.” She replied holding out a hand.

She took the bundle over to the scales, working out their weight and size, before looking over at the chart. “That’ll be, three copper please.”

“Here you go.” Friar replied, turning to go.

“Thank you, friar.” She called after him.

“No problem my child.” He dipped his head and started the long trek back to his tent.