Chronicon Angliae, 1127

Many men both saw and heard a great number of huntsmen hunting. The huntsmen were black, huge, and hideous, and rode on black horses and on black he-goats, and their hounds were jet black, with eyes like saucers, and horrible. This was seen in the very deer park of the town of Peterborough, and in all the woods that stretch from that same town to Stamford, and in the night the monks heard them sounding and winding their horns.

Henry d'Angely, 1127

Brother Cuthbert was always the last to go to bed. His was the task of walking around after everyone had gone to bed, trying every lock and shutter, making sure the monastery was well-defended against potential invaders.

His path always led him to the main entrance gate last, the easiest to check, but the most crucial, its massive wooden door secured with two iron locks and a drawbar. The monks called the holy silence beam during great feasts and mass-heavy periods when they craved time walking about neighbouring Peterborough, outside their daily duties; at times of viking raids in the area they called it the please, God, beam.

And God knew it had been a challenging few months.

The unexpected murder of Charles the Good, the Count of Flanders, during mass by order of the much less popular Erembald family—and their subsequent execution—had shaken the pious and the godless alike; it would take a long time for the Church (and its coffers) to recover from the fear people now felt in attending a service along with their lords, and during Lent nonetheless.

Then came the loud whispers at the King’s court, and at his Holy Church, criticising his decision to betroth his daughter—his widowed daughter—to an Anjou, and her junior by ten years on top of that. Although their existence was supposed to be one detached from worldly affairs, several monks had been openly discussing the betrothal and its potential consequences on the monastery itself. The young boy’s father was a renowned bloodhound, who had already seen one crusade through. These days, people expected that, with the King’s backing, he would lead another, and, as god-pleasing and prosperous that sounded, not all the clergy agreed with the idea. The Count’s ambitions and his backing of the newly surfaced milites Christi that called themselves Holy Knights Templar would mean an extortionate loan from the monastery’s treasury that would set back their literary endeavours by months.

This prospect had particularly upset Brother Cuthbert. His work on the Chronicon Angliae was to be his legacy to the world; a detailed accounting of historic events not as a cold list of facts as was the done thing, but as a finely woven tapestry of how one occurrence birthed others. It was not an original idea per se, but Brother Cuthbert was a gifted chronicarius; he had an aptitude for teaching and understanding history and politics that surpassed that of his fellow brothers and most contemporary historians; and a great eyesight to match that, despite his years. The previous abbot, requiescat sub lucis aura divina, respected him for his sharp mind and often consulted him, as an educated man and as an elder, but, now that he had passed, things were different.

The third event in the year 1127 of our Lord that had been plaguing Brother Cuthbert’s mind as he was leisurely making his rounds, careful to balance his lantern as he walked, was the arrival of the new abbot. In his personal diary—for all intents and purposes a more personal account of current events—he had written: “Þa com se abbod Berengar to Wulfhami and he wæs swiðe unlufsum to þissum mynstre…”. Indeed, the new abbot had not been welcomed by his brethren; he came highly recommended from a noble family with ties to his own, equals in their worship of gold and power over the corpus Christi. He had proven to be impatient, sharp-tongued, and interested more in finances than in scripture. In his two months as abbot he had undone a lot of the good work his predecessor had toiled for, and Brother Cuthbert was afraid his Chronicon was next. His agony over the future of his masterwork had been costing him sleep for the past few weeks, and had made him more diligent in his other duties, lest the horrible man in charge find fault with him and punish his writing for it.

Even the lantern he was now burdened with was the abbot’s idea; he considered the use of beeswax candles a waste of coin, and resented the look of candle drip around the monastery. As if Brother Cuthbert would ever be so careless as to spill candle over the precious books! The cloister didn’t matter as much; it could be scrubbed and cleaned.

These thoughts gnawed at him constantly and also on that night, weighing down his steps, prolonging the nightly task, pushing aside all thoughts of the chapter he was working on that week.

A break to catch his breath and write down something, anything, that would calm him, yes, he thought, and set down the little device and his weary self on a well-polished bench overlooking the forest. Brother Cuthbert dusted off his robes and took a torn piece of parchment out of one pocket. The quality of the material was far inferior to what he would normally use, and the charcoal he took out from his other pocket blackened his fingers, but Lord forbid the abbot caught him with supplies from the scriptorium. Thus, soot and itchy paper it was for his night-time scribbling.

When he was satisfied with his work, and having run out of parchment, he put the charcoal back in his pocket, brushed off his hands, and got up. He’d finish his checks and get back to the scriptorium to copy the new notes before going to bed.

There was someone looking in outside the carved arches that formed the monastery’s perimeter. Brother Cuthbert could make out a dark-clad man on a horse, his tattered cloak flying around in a light breeze that made the lantern light dance in its confinement.

“Mi childe,” he called to the man, “wilt þū þearfian help?”. “Are you in need of help?,” he corrected himself, realising his love for the old tongue which he also used in his writing was as usual getting in the way of communication.

The man did not speak. He gently pulled the horse’s bridle and approached the monk leaning out the alcove from beneath the arch.

Brother Cuthbert lifted his lantern towards the man. The dim light shone for a moment before his fingers lost control. Glass and metal echoed through the cloister. And a prayer.

“Mater Misericordiae…” he said in a faint breath, for the man standing before him was not a man. His eye sockets shone red embers, empty and crazed. His lower jaw was missing, and so were chunks of his flesh, revealing a barren surface of bones on his fingers and his wrists. His horse, which had looked as all horses do a moment ago, was in a similar state from up close; one of its cheeks was hanging low, displaying a massive gap between bloodsoaked teeth, and its front knees stood naked of their skin and muscle.

A fear he had never known before overtook the old man and he clutched at the crucifix hanging around his neck with one hand, blessing himself with the other. He stepped back until he stumbled on the bench. His knees gave way and he collapsed on the cold surface. It's cold. Everything is so cold, he thought.

The horse was pawing the ground impatiently, but the demon was not commanding it forwards. He kept staring at the shivering monk as if he was studying him. Behind him, Brother Cuthbert saw more red lights coming out the forest; dark shapes sitting atop tall, unruly creatures, moving at an unnatural speed, closing in the distance between the trees and the lone rider. He thought he could hear horns sounding out, hooves digging soft soil, howls of man and of beast approaching faster than his God could.

From the depths of his heart, where his faith resided, and from the abyss of his mind, where his disbelief reigned, a single thought rose, that quelched all others. This was neither a conjured vision of a demented old man nor a temptation attempt summoned by the Devil.

This was a warning for the future; a curse that would bring forth a thousand years of darkness; an occurrence he hoped he’d survive to record in his Chronicon; an event to obscure all others.

A Wild Hunt.