I jerk awake to the sound of raised voices echoing through the cramped hovel. Blinking gritty eyes, I peer across the dirt floor of our sleeping quarters. Father looms in the doorway, broad shoulders rigid with tension beneath his filthy tunic.
"Twelve coppers same as always! Now ye come back demandin' twenty? Has the king's greed grown so vast, he'd starve honest men to fill his coffers?"
"Mind that treasonous tongue, peasant," a nasal voice replies coldly. "His Majesty's recent campaign against the Norsemen has left the royal treasury much depleted. All loyal subjects must contribute funds to rebuild."
I creep closer on bare feet, peeking around Father's mud-caked boots. Three men stand in our main room by the crude wooden table. The tallest wears a velvet doublet embroidered with the a crest - clearly one of Lord Eamonn's stewards. His companions look like rough soldiers with leather tunics and sheathed blades.
The steward's lip curls derisively as he surveys our squalid surroundings. "Surely even a hovel rat like you can spare eight extra coppers yearly so our brave soldiers might continue defending the realm."
Father spits at the steward's feet. "I've naught left to give, lackwit! That tithe already takes near half our harvest. Any more and we'll starve come winter."
The steward's face darkens. He backhands Father hard across the mouth. "Mind your betters, cur! Now fetch those eight coppers or we'll take additional payment in other ways." His flinty eyes drift toward Mother cringing in the corner, traveling down to linger on her slender figure with evident intent.
Father stiffens, wiping the blood from his split lip.
The steward smiles coldly. "Come now, peasant, let us be reasonable men. Surely this scrawny sow breeding your get is worth eight paltry coppers."
He reaches out to grasp Mother's chin almost gently, ignoring her whimper. "Why, I wager Lord Eamonn himself might fancy bedding this one. Fresh quim always sweetens his temper."
The soldiers leer and laugh while Father's face purples with rage. He looks ready to lunge at the smirking steward, consequences be damned. Heart pounding, I dart forward and cling to his mud-caked breeches, widening my eyes pleadingly.
"Papa, I'm scared! Please, make the bad men go 'way!"
Father glances down, features softening slightly at my frightened tears. With visible effort he unclenches his meaty fists and shoves me behind him.
"Enough!" he growls at the steward. "Ye'll not be takin' what's mine by rights."
He crosses the room in three long strides and rummages inside a sack hidden beneath the pile of turnips in the corner. Coins clink dully as he counts out several coppers into his calloused palm.
Face mottled with rage, Father throws the coins at the steward's feet. "There! Twenty damned coppers, though next year's seed stock will suffer for it." He spits again. "Now get yer poxy arses gone from my home!"
The steward smiles, unruffled, as he collects the coins. "See, that wasn't so difficult. The kingdom thanks loyal subjects like you for keeping our soldiers fed and armed."
He makes an elaborate bow, the gesture mocking. "Do enjoy the rest of your day, peasant. And don't forget the Church tithe this Sun's Day!"
Their raucous laughter echoes across the small yard long after they disappear down the lane. Father stands motionless, chest heaving, fists clenched helplessly at his sides.
"Curse the black heart o' that wretched priest!" he roars, spittle flying from his mouth. "How dare he raise the blessed tithe when we've naught left to give?"
He slams a meaty fist onto the rickety table, making the worn wood creak ominously. Mother flinches from her place tending the smoldering hearth, but keeps silent with eyes downcast.
Father paces the narrow confines like a caged beast, his fury a palpable force. "Two coppers more he demands for 'the glory of God' or so he claims! As if that poxy degenerate cares a whit about showin' Christian charity."
He spits contemptuously onto the dirt floor. "The black-robed bastard knows we cannot refuse or he'll accuse us of heresy. Then we'd be fodder for the witch hunters, aye?"
At this he rounds on Mother where she stands frozen by the sputtering fire, her gaunt features drained of color. "This is yer fault, woman! If ye'd birthed even one wretched boy-child I could send to the monastery for schooling, mayhap we'd have been granted lower tithes! But nay, ye poxy sow dropped useless girls barely half alive."
He gestures crudely at me where I huddle near the hearth stones. "Now we've extra mouths to feed come winter and naught to show for it but this scrawny lice bait."
Mother's weathered hands tremble around her rosary beads. "Husband, we must trust God has reasons for denying us healthy sons..." she whispers. But under his baleful glare her timid protest withers.
"The Lord helps those what help themselves!" Father thunders. "And I aim to do just that, even if it means sellin' our seed stock and last scraps of food."
He spits again, fury etched on his bearded face. "We've five coppers left from the king's wretched tithe collectors. I'll take it all to market on the morrow and get what I can for the last bags of grain."
Mother's shoulders slump in resignation but she keeps silent. Father continues pacing, features mottled.
"Pray it's enough to satisfy that bastard priest. If he dares accuse us of holdin' back donations, we'll be at the mercy of whatever horrors the Church decides we deserve."
He slams his fist down again, making us both jump. "Failin' to pay their damned indulgences means they can leave us bound and naked in the forest for the monsters to find. Vampires, banshees, changelings, werewolves...all manner of fell beasts roam the woods after dark."
Father sits motionless upon the rough plank bench, forearms braced against the scarred wooden table. His broad shoulders slump beneath his sweat-stained tunic, dark hair falling lankly to obscure his bearded face. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest proves he still draws breath.
Unease skitters through me at this unfamiliar silence from the typically volatile man. I glance uncertainly at Mother where she stands stirring the bubbling porridge pot over the smoldering hearth. Tendrils of steam rise to blacken the underside of the large iron cauldron suspended from a spit.
"Mama, what ails Papa so?" I whisper. "Why's he starin' empty-eyed as a corpse at his own wakin'?"
Mother shakes her head slightly, worry creasing her brow. "Hush now, lamb. Yer father suffers occasional spells of black humor since returnin' from the wars."
She nods toward his hulking form. "Best leave him be when the soldier's specters haunt his eyes. There's no tellin' what horrors Father witnessed fightin' them heathen Norsemen and worse beasts besides."
I creep closer on bare feet, morbid curiosity overcoming caution. Floorboards groan under my slight weight. Father doesn't react, just continues staring blankly at the scarred tabletop. His rough hands clench and unclench rhythmically, knuckles white.
"Them godless raiders weren't the worst by far, no."
I flinch in surprise as Father's deep voice rasps into the heavy silence. He raises his head slowly, bloodshot eyes focusing on some distant point beyond the warped wooden walls.
"We lost many good men on patrol when the moon swelled full and red. Their screams as the beasts tore into 'em...the howls chasin' our retreat..." He shudders violently, fingers digging into the table edge. "Pray ye never witness the carnage those hellhounds inflict, girl."
My pulse races wildly even as I force nonchalance into my tone. "Hellhounds, Papa? What're those?"
Father's haunted gaze swings to me, a grim smile twisting his bearded lips. "Why, werewolves to peasant folk. Men who change to slaverin' wolves by the moon's dark enchantment. With claws like steel and teeth what tear through armor and bone like wet parchment..."
He spits on the dirt floor, narrowly missing my bare toes. "We'd find only bloody fragments left o' the poor bastards on mornin' patrol. Reduced to gobbets o' meat and shattered bone by those fell beasts."
I swallow convulsively against the bile rising in my throat. Sweet merciful god...
"Aye, and worse still were the blood-drinkin' fiends what stalk the night." Father makes the sign against evil, face mottled. "Them soulless monsters what shun the sun and holy ground. Seducin' innocent maids with their devil's charm afore drainin' 'em dry."
"V-vampires?" I whisper through numb lips.
"The same." Father spits again. "Can't be killed by mortal means, them demons. Cut their heads off and still they keep comin'!"
He pounds the scarred tabletop with one meaty fist, making the weathered wood jump. "Once one latches onto yer throat wi' them jagged fangs, yer done for. They'll drain every last drop, leaving naught behind but a pale husk."
I sway on my feet, bile scorching my throat. Sweet Jesus, how can such abominations lurk right outside our walls?
Father pushes himself abruptly to his feet with a guttural snarl. He sways, bracing one broad hand on the table edge.
"Enough ancient tales to sour the gut." He scrubs a palm over his beard, scowling. "Best get to the fields afore the steward takes a strap to me hide for lazin' about."
With no further words, Father lumbers toward the exit, his hulking form seeming to fill the low doorway. Cold air gusts into the cramped interior along with faint livestock stench. The warped door bangs shut behind him with an air of grim finality.
"Lile, stir yerself now, lamb!" Mother's voice cuts through the lingering unease left by Father's chilling words. I turn to see her framed in the crude doorway, features lined with fatigue yet determined.
"We've much work ahead gettin' ready for market day and can't be lollygaggin' about." She moves briskly into the cramped room, skirts swirling dust motes in the slanted light.
Taking the blackened cauldron from its hook above the struggling hearth fire, she gestures for me to sit at the rough plank table. "I'll boil some eggs for our meal whilst ye feed the chickens. Those layin' hens must produce fine today if we're to meet the church tithe."
As she cracks several speckled eggs into the pot, I ask hesitantly, "Why's the priest need all our coin and goods today, Mama? Don't he have his own fat tithes from town folk?"
Mother shakes her head, worry creasing her brow. "Why, 'tis a special collection to fund the monastery's work, child. Copies of holy texts don't scribe themselves!"
She tends the bubbling pot, bitterness etching her tone. "And the abbot's fondness for French wine and other worldly comforts means more gold must flow into the holy coffers."
I scowl down at the scarred tabletop, resentment simmering inside me. Of course these corrupt clerics bleed peasant folk dry to fund their debauched lifestyles! Not an ounce of genuine Christian charity in the miserable lot.
Mother turns from the hearth, wiping her hands down the front of her faded skirts. She fixes me with a stern look, correctly interpreting my sullen silence.
"Now Lile Ban, I'll not have ye questioning men of the cloth, no matter their earthly flaws." She softens, reaching out to stroke my tangled hair. "His Holiness sanctifies our humble lives beyond measure. Why, 'tis only through the abbot's prayers and relics that we're shielded from demons and dark spirits, never forget."
I duck my head submissively, forcing childish acquiescence into my tone. "Yes Mama. I know the church protects us from monsters and witches and such."
Inside I seethe at her willingness to debase herself for these corrupt charlatans. But now is not the time to challenge generations of religious indoctrination and superstition. There will be time enough later to unveil the true face of this patriarchy masquerading as faith.
Mother nods approvingly and gestures to the crude doorway. "Right, off ye go then to feed the chickens whilst I finish here."
I sigh but slide off the rough bench without further protest. Best tend to those wretched fowl before the day's toil begins in earnest.
I scatter the last handful of feed kernels to the flock of clucking hens, then dust off my grubby hands and make my way back inside the cramped hovel. Mother glances up from slicing hard-boiled eggs at the crude table.
"Ah, finished wi' the chickens now? Good lass." She deftly quarters several eggs, arranging the piles on wooden trenchers stained dark with use. As I slide warily onto the rough bench opposite her, Mother asks gently, "Lile, ye seem unsettled still after yer father's ravings earlier. What ails ye, lamb?"
I shift on the splintering wood, staring down at the meager meal. "Do...do monsters really prowl the woods by night, Mama? Like Papa said?" I dare a hesitant peek at her face. "Could vampires and werewolves come steal me away?"
Mother presses her lips together anxiously. After a moment she nods, taking my small hands in her work-roughened ones. "Aye, 'tis true unholy beasts do stalk these parts once the sun sinks low. Why, just last season a banshee's wail were heard by the standing stones!"
She crosses herself with a trembling hand. "Only by the grace of God and his holy men are worse fiends kept from our doors. 'Tis the abbot's blessed silver chains and saintly relics what bind the demons to their lairs."
I gape at her, pulse racing wildly. How can she speak so calmly of supernatural horrors lurking just outside?
As if sensing my unspoken doubts, Mother continues gently. "'Tis why we must pay the tithes gladly, poppet. The church's holy warriors fight monsters so peasants can sleep safe."
She offers a wavering smile. "Why, the abbot's very own brother were a famed slayer of vampires afore takin' the cowl! So ye see, we've naught to fear whilst righteous men stand vigilant against the dark."
I nod slowly, a chill sweeping through my soul that has naught to do with this morning's brisk air...
This medieval mudpile just keeps heaping fresh hells upon my head! It's not enough to choke down bowls of gruel while getting treated like a soulless animal. Now I've got to worry about getting my throat ripped out by goddamned werewolves and vampires between lice feedings? What next, zombies massaging my shoulders and demons braiding my hair?
If I'm not already certifiably batshit from the trauma of getting reborn in this bog of eternal stench, then Papa Dearest's campfire tales should finish the job nicely! Maybe I'll get lucky and some feral lycanthrope will put me out of my misery under the blood moon before I end up hitched to Grimey fucking McGee. Though with my piss poor luck, the only mythical monster interested in pounding my prepubescent body will be the priest "exorcising demons" from my nethers with his holy staff. Hallelujah and pass the crucifix!
God almighty, this has to be some bizarre coma-induced fever dream...Right? Because not even the most sadistic imagination could conjure up this level of psychological torture! Forget waterboarding, just lock prisoners in the village outhouse on gruel night after the annual turnip festival. The stench alone would have Taliban warlords spilling state secrets faster than you can say pumpkin spice!
But nope, looks like I'm well and truly damned to this neverending backwater shitshow until plague or pestilence takes me. Maybe if I pray hard enough, my fairy godmother will turn me into a dung beetle so I can live happily ever after bathing in cow patties! Gotta look on the bright side, folks! Now to scurry under a nice steamy turd and build my winter nest.
Mother sets a wooden trencher with several quartered boiled eggs before me, the yellow yolks oozing onto the rough wood. "Here ye are, lamb. Eat up now so we can start preparin' for market."
She sprinkles a few precious grains of salt over my meager meal and slides onto the bench beside me with her own eggs. I pick up a rubbery quarter between dirty fingers, sniffing suspiciously. But hunger wins out over squeamishness. I cram the egg into my mouth, the rich salty flavor bursting across my tongue as I chew messily.
Mother watches me with tired amusement as I bolt down the eggs, licking stray bits of yolk from my grubby fingers. "Slow down afore ye choke, little piglet," she chides gently. She eats her own meal in delicate bites, savoring each salty mouthful. I eye her trencher longingly even after mine sits empty, but she just shakes her head with a weary sigh.
"Would that I could give ye more, lamb, but we must save the rest for market day." She brushes a smudge of yolk from my chin with her calloused thumb before standing briskly.
"Right, up ye get now. Time and tide wait for no woman, as me own mam liked to say." She moves toward the crude shelves lining the cramped dwelling, gathering vegetables from our meager garden harvest into a fraying reed basket.
I slide reluctantly off the rough plank bench, bare feet recoiling from the slimy dirt floor. "Do I gotta come to the market too, Mama?" I whine, jutting out my lower lip. "I wanted to play with the baby chicks today!"
Mother halts her bustling to fix me with a quelling stare. "Young lady, ye'll do as yer told and not give me grief. Many hands make light work gettin' everythin' ready to sell."
Her sharp look brooks no argument. With a gusty sigh, I trail after her outside into the barnyard miasma, nose wrinkling.
Mother places the last speckled egg gently atop the motley vegetables already nestled in the fraying reed basket. "There now, that should fetch a fair price today."
She settles the handle over one slender arm and gestures impatiently for me to follow. "Come along, Lile Ban! We've a long walk to town afore the good wares are sold."
I drag my feet trudging after Mother down the muddy lane away from our tiny hovel, deciding to be an annoying child. "But do we gotta walk all that way carryin' this heavy basket?" I wheedle, peeking sideways to gauge her reaction. "Can't I stay home and play with the baby chicks, Mama? Please?"[...]