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Fiction Historical Fiction

1567

Edinburgh



“I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug!”


His father followed through on his promise, landing a slap on Brod’s ear so hard it made the inside of the young boy’s head ring like a great bell.


Brod began keening, tears running down his soot-smudged cheeks.


“Haud yer wheesht, and stop yer greetin'.” Donald Munro gave his son a squint-eyed glare under bushy eyebrows above a great, big, bulbous, broken-veined drunkard’s nose. “Dae ye want the whole hoose tae wake up and catch us in th’act o' thievin'?”


Donald Munro gave his son a hard shove. Brod fell down onto the cellar floor, curled up, still crying, but without a sound.


“Ye wee bairn, feart o' yer ain shaddie. Whitfor canna ye be braw and stark like Angus?”


Brod saw his father’s heavy work boot next to his head, joined by his twin brother Angus’s smaller boot. Presently his father’s boot was gone, but his brother’s remained.


Then that little boot came down on Brod’s throat, and Angus put his whole nine-year-old weight behind it.


“Brod, ye clot-heid, yer na guid,” Angus whispered as he ground the boot into his brother’s thin neck. “Ah weish ye wis deid.”

Brod wrestled free, scrambled up, and ran out of the cellar into the cold night air.



***


1604

London



The Bow bells had rung the curfew more than three hours ago. It was near midnight and he could see his breath in the cold air. His left foot was freezing.


The thief found the window cracked open, as the scullery maid had promised.


Once inside the nobleman’s townhouse, the thief lit his covered lanthorn and held it up in his good right hand.


He limped down the hallway, then entered the Great Hall.


“Stand still, sir.”


Feeling the prick of the rapier at his throat, the thief took one quick in-breath, then froze in place.


“You are a sight, sir.” A cultured voice. “Not so bad when approached from the dexter, but from the sinister ….”


The thief felt the rapier blade caress his neck and up the mass of scarring on the left side of his face, the point coming to rest momentarily at his missing left eye.


Then the owner of the cultured voice came into view, moving in a half circle, while the flat of the blade lightly touched the bridge of the thief’s nose, the point coming to rest again, under his one good right eye.


The man facing the thief looked to be in his forties, long ginger hair pulled back and tied in a queue, long face made longer by a pointed beard.


“Who … are ye?”


“You do not know your host?”


“The Viscount?”


“In the flesh. And you are … no, do not say, let me practice my prestigiation. Your father was … Donald. Your last name is … Munro.”


The thief automatically made the sign of the cross with his damaged left hand, the one with just a thumb and little finger remaining after the gunpowder blast all those years ago.


The Viscount chuckled. “No, no, I am not the Devil, not even a minor demon.” Then in a broad Scottish brogue: “Och, Angus, dinnae ye ken yer ain brother? It’s me, Brod.”



 

***


1567

Edinburgh



Brod ran through the bitter February night, away from the cellar, towards the nearby stable.


Neir agin, he thought. I’m na gaun back.


Once inside the stable, he caught his frosty breath.


Abruptly his feet left the stable floor. A strong man had snatched him up by the collar.


“What’s this? A rat?” The man wore a black silk mask covering his whole face.


“Leave him be, Bothwell, he’s just a small boy.” The speaker, also masked, was a woman, but dressed in men’s clothing. She was as tall as a man.


“Small boys have big voices.”


“He won’t tell.” She moved closer, stroked Brod’s cheek with a silk-gloved hand. “Will you?”


Brod shook his head.


“Put him down.”


“Your Majesty’s wish is my command.”


The man set Brod down carefully.


On the floor were two bodies, dead men, partially undressed.




***


1604

London



“Bothwell?” Angus took another sip of the very fine claret and stretched out his legs, moving his cold feet closer to the fire. “And he saiz ‘yer Majesty’? Are ye sain it wis her, the Queen Mary, her ain sel, murther’d her ain husband?”


“Or at least she was there to supervise the murder,” the Viscount said in his cultured voice. Angus couldn’t quite bring himself to think of this nobleman seated by the fire next to him as ‘Brod’, his brother.


“But how d’ye ken? They wis wearin' thon masks.”


“After that night, she took me in as a servant in her court at Holyrood Palace. That is how she would keep me from revealing her wicked deed, by pulling me close, keeping me charmed.” The Viscount smiled, sipped the claret. “Or so she thought.”


“But ye did?” An ugly smile, two front teeth missing, cracked Angus’s scarred face. “Ye telt on her?”


“No one would believe the tall tales of a servant boy. She was counting on that. But she kept these letters, you see, in a golden casket.” The Viscount took another sip of wine. “Though, I was sad to do it. I heard her called a monster, but she was not. In spite of being a murderess, she was a good woman, a fine lady, was Queen Mary, and kind to me.”


“Why’d ye dui it, then?”


“It was the right move at the right time. Father taught me to always look after my own skin.”


“Aye, faither wis thatwey.”


“And that is what I have done all these years, and see where it got me.” The Viscount leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide. Then he leaned forward, face close to Angus, and spoke in a low voice. “Queen Mary should have let Bothwell kill me that night.”


“S’pose it’s na eith tae murther a wee nine-year-old lad.”


“I suppose not. But if she had, perhaps you would have been spared — you and our father. Maybe in another life. You see, it was me who set off that gunpowder blast.”


Angus’s eyes widened.


“I did not light the fuse.” The Viscount stood up, looking down on Angus. “But it was me who told them the Old Provost’s House was empty, though I knew you and father were there, thieving. And so they set off the gunpowder blast, as they had planned, to create a commotion and cover their tracks. Father died and you … just look at you.” He switched back to his Scottish brogue. “Yer a right oogly scunner!”


Angus charged like a bull.


The Viscount stepped back and, with an easy, practiced movement, swept the legs from under Angus.


Then Brod’s boot was on Angus’s throat, the rapier pointed at Angus’s one good eye.


“Angus, ye clot-heid, yer na guid,” Brod whispered as he ground the boot into his brother’s scarred neck. “Ah weish ye wis deid.”


Then he stepped back.


“Do you remember? That was the last thing you said to me.”


Angus was quiet, his one good eye glaring.


“Get up, Angus, I have more to say. By your leave, I shall keep this at the ready.” Brod flourished his rapier.


Angus got up off the floor and sat down in the chair by the fire, still glaring.


“You wished me dead, brother. Well, I wished you dead too,” Brod said. “But I am sorry, now, to see you in this state. It was not your fault, the way you acted towards me. It was him, our father. We learned from him, both you and I. He was a monster. He made us in his image, his monsters. Maybe in another life, with another father, we would not have become monsters, you and I.”


“Ah’m nae monster.”


“Well, you were a monster to me back then. And you look the monster now. But I assure you, I am a monster too, and I freely admit it. I have lied, cheated, stolen, killed, harmed, maimed, betrayed every loyalty, set friend against friend, lover against lover, all to get where I am, to look after my own skin, just as father taught me.”


Angus softened some. “Yer sairry for this?” He held up his mangled hand to his scarred face. “In truith?”


“As sorry as this monster can be.”


Angus stretched out his legs, moving his feet closer to the fire. His left foot had the toes blown clean off in that gunpowder blast thirty-seven years ago, but he could still feel all five ghost-toes, and they were always cold.


He took another sip of the very fine claret and imagined his brother’s fire warming the long-lost toes.


April 30, 2023 22:58

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20 comments

Ken Cartisano
05:33 May 29, 2023

Nice little piece of story here. This is like the beginning of Chapter One. Creating characters with a realistic accent, (to weigh in on other comments) is definitely a hindrance to the reader, but if it's done phonetically and consistently, I learn. Sure, it can be overdone, but consider the opposite: Can you really portray a 17th century English (or Scottish) thug without a bit of some brogue? No one complains when the villain speaks 'the Kings English.' Plus, the difference in accents plays a key, and realistic role in this story's plo...

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Geir Westrul
14:47 May 29, 2023

Thanks, Ken! I do want to continue this story at some point, and I do want to keep working in Scots Brogue, What I've learned through the feedback is to pull it back some, allow the reader to come along, not forcing the reader to work too hard.

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Russell Mickler
14:38 May 08, 2023

Hi Geir! For starters, a good take on an old story, and I applaud your use of terms/vocab: rapier (uncommonly used), dexter/sinister, loved that, Viscount ... I liked the balance of dialogue and description in the work. As for the use of the brogue and phonetics in general, although I applaud your research, I think its use slows down the reader and makes the work incomprehensible in places - and in my opinion (and I think I'm echoing others here) the last thing you want to do as an author. In modern use, its use is also associated with r...

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Geir Westrul
21:48 May 08, 2023

Russell, yes, it's a tricky thing, the use of dialect and slang. I think one way to solve it would be to have less of it, and maybe fewer tricky words. To zoom in on just one bit, when Angus says: “But how d’ye ken? They wis wearin' thon masks.” The word "thon" (which means "those") is probably the one that would slow the reader down the most, and it's not really needed ... “But how d’ye ken? They wis wearin' masks.” That would be easier to read. And maybe even simpler and better: “But ... they wis wearin' masks.” Still brogue, but ea...

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Chris Miller
22:05 May 05, 2023

Another good one, Geir. The dialect is well written, but also well used, to show a change in class/status. Really good response to the prompt. Plus, any story featuring a rapier gets an automatic bonus point.

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Geir Westrul
22:32 May 05, 2023

Chris, thank you. I didn't know about the Reedsy-Rapier-Reward feature.

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Mary Bendickson
18:17 May 01, 2023

Good historical fiction here.

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Geir Westrul
18:46 May 05, 2023

Mary, thank you! I had fun researching it and especially writing the Scottish brogue. I also used the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) online, which has a feature where you can see the year that a certain word first appeared in the English languages. Part of the game was to use only words that would have been used in the late 1500s, early 1600s.

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Annie Persson
20:39 Oct 21, 2023

Loved the bit about the toes at the end... I thought this was a nice story about two brothers finding some sort of reconciliation.

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Michelle Oliver
12:07 May 07, 2023

You have created such a believable historical tale through masterful use of language. Your Scottish brogue was nearly incomprehensible! Yet I totally understood it. That is no mean feat and very impressive. I like the nature vs nurture elements here. We are what we are because of our circumstances and our upbringing or are we a product of our birth? Can we rise above our station? And if we do, is there an element of the “monster” in us, a remnant of where we came from? In the end, which brother is truly the monster, the one who stayed tr...

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Geir Westrul
14:04 May 07, 2023

Michelle, thank you! The Scots brogue was fun to write, and I did need to trust the reader to pick it up from the context (even from the first line). I think both of the brothers are monsters, just one of them externally visible, the other doesn't look the monster, but he is (as he admits). I'm intrigued about writing more on the Munro brothers, exploring 16th century Britain from the underworld (Angus) and the court of Queen Mary and James IV/I (Brod).

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Molly Kelash
21:39 May 05, 2023

A big story in a small space. I'm very impressed by the brogue and use of vernacular. You must have had some understanding of old Scottish slang to begin with because a dictionary alone wouldn't help make it feel so natural.

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Geir Westrul
22:38 May 05, 2023

Molly, thank you! My only understanding of Scottish would be somehow genetic, as there is some Scots on my father's side. Perhaps a real Scot (from the 15th/16th century) would gie me a skelpit lug for butchering their tongue.

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Geir Westrul
22:41 May 05, 2023

In an odd coincidence I'm reading Neil Stephenson's "Baroque Cycle" series, and just came across a section where the running gag is that a Scot (a nobleman in captivity at the Tower of London) is completely incomprehensible to his English guards. ... but I read that chapter AFTER I wrote "The Monsters". Strange synchronicity.

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Marty B
20:23 May 05, 2023

I liked the descriptions of the brothers, the first scene with them together was fantastic. Two boys, both corrupt, but with different resources. One was able to rise up to become a Viscount, his monstrous soul hidden, though his brother wears his on his face. A tale of nature vs. nurture-

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Geir Westrul
22:42 May 05, 2023

Yes, that's exactly what I was going for, Marty!

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Geir Westrul
23:10 Apr 30, 2023

If you want to know more about how I developed this story (including how it may eventually be the seed of a longer work or series of stories about the Munro brothers), here is a link to a blog post that describes the writing process. https://www.storybuzz.com/blog/writing-process-the-monsters

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Geir Westrul
23:48 Apr 30, 2023

What happened before this story? And after? It would be fun to explore the parallel lives of the Munro brothers: one at the court of Queen Mary and King James, the other in the criminal underworld of 16th Century Scotland and England.

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R W Mack
15:47 May 07, 2023

While I respect the dedication to the brogue and accuracy, there's a point where the lay-reader needs to be able to understand what's being conveyed, otherwise the dialogue doesn't mean as much. I pieced together enough of the vernacular to get the gist, but it was off-putting to spend that much time deciphering Scottish dialect. Points for accuracy, since I barely understand Scots much anyways, but some localization would've been nice. It hurt pacing a ton when I had to get through the guttural brambles of the brogue. I wrestled with that...

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Geir Westrul
16:11 May 07, 2023

Thank you, R.W., I was concerned that the Scots brogue was too much and would be difficult to follow. Perhaps adding even more "localization" as you say, where subtly the brogue is "translated" in the narration around the spoken lines? Thank you for the helpful critique!

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