Prima Nocta 1

Authors note: This story is a little different from my usual offering. It is romance but has no erotic content to speak of. It would not be appropriate within the setting of the story. If you wish to read explicit erotica please go elsewhere. The story also includes some distressing events.

I have included endnotes to provide historical background for those who would like it. If you don't want this don't read, it but please don't (as has happened with one of my stories) comment about how gratuitous you find this to be. They are intended to put events in context.

This is a story. Names, places, and events are a product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Any mistakes in editing are mine and mine alone.

Please provide feedback and comment. This is the fuel authors need to continue writing.

Prima Nocta

Chapter 1

For as long as I can remember there has been a void in my life; a gap, something missing. I am told that I am thirty years old yet sometimes I feel as if I have spent thirty lifetimes looking for something or maybe someone I have never known.

My name is John Smith, which is appropriate since that is what I am. I started to learn to be a blacksmith when I was sixteen when I left school. I was drawn to it, and I remember being told I had a natural aptitude for it. I was a quick learner and I now own my forge. It is the one place I can be happy, far away from the hustle and bustle of modern life.

To be honest I am a bit of a Luddite. I have never learned to drive, and I don't own a car. I don't have a television, smartphone, or computer. Even my forge is traditional. I use charcoal for fuel, a hand bellow, and no power tools. What I make feels naturally handmade and somehow purer. And when I am alone and working with a piece of hot metal, for a short while, I am distracted from this strange and faraway emptiness that sits inside of me.

I never knew my parents and I do not know where I was born. My foster parents did not tell me of my early life; I now suspect they also knew very little. My earliest memories are of school. I sometimes imagine I was born when I was already half a score of years old.

I didn't have a happy childhood. I was an only child and was a loner even back then. Older than my years, I had few friends at school because I felt different from the other kids, and I think they felt it too. My "strangeness" has never left me. I have no close friends and I live alone. I sell my work at local markets and through several local outlets.

I wasn't a good student at school. I tried hard enough and unlike many of my schoolfriends, I did understand how privileged I was to be given the chance to learn. My problem was that I'm just not academically very clever and much of what they wanted to teach me I had no interest in learning. I couldn't see the point in arithmetic, physics, or chemistry and I found them too difficult, but I enjoyed history and geography.

I would often sit alone with my history and geography books and read about things that happened a long time ago in places far away and sometimes I would be able to imagine I was living what I was reading.

***

When I was about eighteen years old I started to have a dream and this dream has recurred episodically throughout my life. In it, I see a pale blond girl with her hair in plaits and wearing a white dress holding her arms wide and calling out to me, before fading away, and I have woken sweating and agitated.

I am attracted to members of the opposite sex but have never lain with a woman. I know that I need a woman to make my life complete, but not just any woman. And because I have never found her, I remain a virgin to this day.

My solitude is almost complete, and it is difficult to believe that any woman would wish to share my life even if, by some remote chance, I was to meet her socially.

***

My only interest outside work is reading history and visiting historical places, and I have visited many castles around the country. I enjoy their simple functionality, thick walls, and battlements and I like to dream of the people who once lived in and around them. But there is more, and I am drawn to them as is a moth to a flame. Castles are my obsession. Windsor, Edinburgh, Caernarfon, Conwyn, Harlech, Bodiam, Stirling, and Kilchurn are some of the castles I have visited on my travels. Strangely when I read of the faraway medieval castles of Europe and the Holy Lands such as Krac de Chevaliers in Syria, Chateau du Haut-Koenigsberg in France, or the myriad of medieval castles throughout Europe I feel I somehow already know them.

***

A few days ago I visited Odiham or King John's Castle. It is not more than a few miles from where I live and is close to the village of North Wanborough in Hampshire. It was good Friday and I cycled along the towpath beside the Basingstoke Canal until shortly I found it. Just where the waterway widens, not 40 yards away, and in a clearing were the ruins of a small keep.

Little of the structure remained standing. The walls were no more than a couple of stories high standing in a circle about ten yards across. In the centre, a round metal plaque had been placed. It commemorated the signing of the Magna Carta in 1215 when King John met the Barons at Runnymede twenty-five miles to the east. I knew that he had stayed at Odiham Castle the night before the signing. As I stood alone in the spring sunshine I had a strange feeling of déjà vu as if this was not the first time I had been in this beautiful and secluded place. I was able to picture myself as a young man watching John, in all his finery and surrounded by his retainers, riding away from this place and into history. I am not sure how long I stood in contemplation until my reverie was broken and a voice inside me told me It was time to leave.

I did not return straight home but found myself cycling south towards the small village of Greywell eventually stopping at a small Norman church by the side of the River Whitewater. I dismounted from my bicycle and, although the door was locked and I could not enter. I walked in the graveyard where at once I felt both calmness and familiarity as I stood looking over the old gravestones tottering on their bases like so many old soldiers.

The following morning I spent my time working in the forge but as I worked I was distracted and my thoughts were constantly of the castle that I had visited the day before, and then slowly I started to feel drawn back to it. By late afternoon my compulsion to return was overwhelming and I mounted my bicycle and returned along the canal side to the ruins.

I left my bike and stood looking up towards the ruined keep. The foliage behind the clearing in which it stood was thick with brambles, but I was encouraged by the same voice in my head that I had heard the afternoon before. It told me to find a path through the undergrowth and I pushed myself forward leaving the ruins behind me. I did not know where I was going but no longer seemed to have control of my feet which took me onward. The brambles tore at my clothes and scratched my skin, but I was oblivious to any discomfort. After perhaps sixty yards the thick greenery cleared, and I found myself standing on the side of a river. This was the River Whitewater.

I stood looking out over the narrow ribbon of water. It was a deep grey in the fading light. For long moments, I stood transfixed looking across the slowly flowing river. Then as I watched there was a movement in the water in front of me and not five yards away a ghostly figure emerged slowly from the depths and took form. She was a young, slender, and beautiful woman of maybe eighteen years old and was pale and blond with plaits. I had seen her countless times in my dreams. She appeared to float over the water as she walked towards me holding her arms wide with a look of purest radiant joy, and I heard her mellow voice.

"John Smith. My love, I have waited as I promised I would."

At that moment I remembered everything, and all became clear for the first time in as long as I could remember. And I remembered what had happened here so many centuries ago and my heart leaped for joy.

"Oh, Judith. Judith my love, I have been looking for you. The road has been long. Eight hundred years. But it has been travelled and we will never part again."

As I watched she unfastened her dress which fell to the ground and stood naked in front of me. Her skin was as white as milk. She was slim with long legs a, narrow waist, and small round perfectly formed breasts. And as I peered into her ice-blue eyes she raised her cherry-red lips to mine and kissed me.

As we kissed, the early spring chill, which was in the air disappeared, and all around was warm as the sun seemed to suddenly rise in the sky and the river behind the castle turned a deep blue.

She drew me down naked beside her and had me remove my clothes. We held and embraced tightly, and her touch was like fire against my skin. There, on the soft ground, we finally consummated our love, as I entered inside her and moved against her.

Finally, we lay sated and quiet, and I held her in my arms until wordlessly she rose and holding my hand bade me do the same, and then hand in hand we walked back into the now grey river until the water closed over our heads.

***

Chapter2

In the Winter of the year 1226, the Lord of the Manor in Wanborough and Odiham was riding across his lands when he noticed a slim, tall, pretty blond girl with blue eyes carrying firewood back to the village. The ground was hard and frozen as she trudged determinedly carrying the heavy load on her back. He enquired of one of his squires who she was and was told she was Judith the eldest daughter of Watt the Miller. Then he nodded and moved on. He would wait.

In the Spring, he was petitioned by Tom the Smith, who as was the custom, needed his permission to marry. The Lord listened to the petition and smiling he gave his assent to the union of Tom and Judith.

"Live long and prosper," he said,

A few months later, after the bride price had been paid they were married in the local church.

It was a Saturday afternoon in the early summer, and as was the custom the villagers had worked from dawn until noontime. The weather was fine and early rain had cleared away and the sun was shining. The wedding was in the early afternoon and was held in the church by the river in Greywell. All of the villagers were present, and Judith was given away by her father Watt.

Everybody agreed she was beautiful. For the occasion, she had washed in the river and wore a simple linen dress. Her blond hair was plaited, and her ice-blue eyes peered out of her milk-white face. In her hands, she held a posy of wild white and yellow irises that she had freshly picked that morning.

Her match with Tom was inevitable. They were childhood sweethearts, and they were a good match, skilled as he was in the production of ploughshares, horseshoes, or blades. He was also a fine figure of a man, and they were deeply in love with one another.

***

It was in the early evening that their happiness was destroyed when their lord, a Norman knight appeared. He rode a large piebald horse and was dressed in all his finery. He was followed by a group of eight swordsmen who rode in a column two abreast. The lord pulled up his horse in the centre of the wedding party and spoke. His voice was loud and broached no argument.

" I have come to claim my right of prima nocte, the first night," he said.

Then he looked to where Judith was standing. "You, Judith, will spend the first night of your marriage with me!."

Judith was first disbelieving and then defiant. "I would rather die," she said.

"If you defy me both you and Tom the smith will die by the sword where you now stand," he replied. "You will return to your husband in the morning."

From his horse, he looked down at Tom who stood in front of him with his eyes flashing in anger and hate. "You are honoured Saxon, that a Norman knight should want to take your wife's maidenhead."

He rode to where Judith was standing, reached down, and hoisted her easily over the back of his horse. Then he wheeled and rode rapidly away followed by his entourage,

***

For Tom, the night passed slowly. His mood vacillated between anger, despair, and shame. He was not ashamed of Judith. She had no choice if they were both not to die uselessly. He was ashamed of himself and that he had let another man humiliate himself and his woman in this way. He cursed the Normans and his weakness.

He lay on his straw pallet willing the night to pass and for Judith to return safely to him.

Eventually, the sky started to lighten in the east, and dawn broke. He spent the next hours in an agony of waiting until he heard the sound of horsemen approaching. He was standing at the door to his forge when the lord pulled up his horse in front of him and spoke.

"I am a man of my word, Saxon. I have brought you your wife. I regret she threw herself from the castle keep and died in the fall."

He raised his hand and one of his guards who had been waiting at the end of the column rode forward. Across the back of his horse lay the bloody body of Judith, her eyes wide and unseeing.

As Tom stood in growing shock and disbelief the lord spoke again. "She died rather than give herself to me. Such a waste."

This was too much for Tom who knocked the Norman from his horse and would have struck him with his heavy smith's hammer had he not been restrained by two of the guards. He had finally found his courage now that he had nothing more to lose. The Lord slowly got to his feet and looked coldly and dispassionately at Tom. "You would dare attack your liege lord?" he said. "Bring him."

Tom looked back at him and spoke. "I would dare to attack the man who killed my wife. A curse on you and your kind. May you die screaming."

***

Tom was taken to the castle and locked in a small bare room with a heavy wooden door, where he was left for the following day and night. He was given a wooden bucket and bread and water and slept that night on the stone floor. At noon the following day, the heavy keys turned in the lock, the door was opened, and he was taken in front of the Lord of the Manor.

He was dragged into the Great Hall where the Lord sat on a raised dais. To the left of the great man sat a wizened old hag. He was dressed in a velvet cloak which contrasted with the black sack-like dress that covered her hunched frame. Her nose was beak-like, and her grey hair was matted against her scalp.

The guards forced Tom to his knees whereupon the Lord started to speak.

"You have lifted your hand against me. The sentence for this is death. Before I pass sentence do you have anything to say?"

Tom held his head high and replied," I have been wronged by you but if you choose to kill me because of my love for my wife there is nothing I can do. I will be with her in eternity very shortly."

The great man frowned." Despite your continuing insolence, I am minded being merciful. This is against the advice of my mother who sits beside me, but my council has recommended you be banished from our lands on pain of death if you return. So be it. Another crusade is planned. Maybe you can make your penance to me by fighting to regain Jerusalem for Christendom." He paused...... "Before you go you will be branded to mark you as an exile.... Now take him from my sight. I grow tired."

Tom started to rise to his feet when the sound of a rasping, reedy voice forced him to stop. The hag had started to speak.

"Hold fast Saxon, If it were left to me I would hang you high and leave you dangling for the crows to peck out your eyes, and your flesh to rot. This is not because you struck my son but because of the curse you put upon him. And so I place a curse on you. My son is thirty years old and so thirty lifetimes you will live before you meet your wife again In eternity. You will die in The Holy Land but will be reborn to wander the earth looking for her. Each time you die, you will still be young. You will be reborn to seek her without rest. That is my promise. You may live to regret you were not hanged.

Tom was dragged to his feet by the guard.

"What of my wife? Can I say goodbye?"

"She is already buried at the crossroads. She cannot be buried in consecrated ground. She is a sinner and has fallen from God's grace. You can pass by when you leave later today."

He was taken without ceremony down a flight of steps to a small chamber where a brazier filled with red-hot coals was already waiting. On top of the coals already glowing white hot lay a branding iron. His shirt was stripped from his back, and as two guards held him fast, a third placed the brand hard against the skin of his left upper arm. As the smell of burning flesh filled the air Tom screamed, and the letters EXM were branded indelibly on his skin.

Later that day Tom was escorted to the village limits and left. In his knapsack, he carried bread and cheese and a few coins. He passed by the freshly dug grave of Judith and wept as he prayed over her body and begged her forgiveness. Then he silently made a promise.

Judith, my love, we could not be together in this life, but I will return one day, and we will be together in the next. In the meantime, I shall lie with no other woman however long I live. That is my solemn promise to you.

He turned away before he travelled south to the coast. No word was heard of him again.

***

The following night, the village headsman, Judith's father Watt, and a group of young men visited the grave. Sworn to secrecy, they removed Judith from the earth and placed her on a cart on which they took her to the small church by the River Whitewater. First, her mother and sister had washed her in the waters of the nearby river and then placed her in a shroud. Then, in the churchyard, in consecrated ground and close to the church, she was secretly reburied. The local priest was a good and honest man and was unconvinced that Judith had committed suicide. She may have been pushed, fallen accidentally, or jumped. Even if she had jumped she had done so to avoid being forcibly raped,

He conspired for Judith to be buried at the edge of the church grounds under the shadow of an old pine tree where nothing grew, and the ground was littered with pine needles. When Judith had been secretly interred the pine needles were scattered on the earth over her grave and it was impossible to see that the soil had ever been disturbed.

The men stood silently around whilst, in the dark of night the priest committed Judith to God.

***

The following spring the Lord of the Manor was hunting in the great deer park beside the River Whitewater when his horse stumbled, and he was thrown to the ground, breaking his back and impaling his thigh on the broken branch of an old tree. As he lay on the ground, he realised he could no longer move his legs. He was taken back to the castle, but almost inevitably, and within hours gangrene appeared in his leg. The doctors were powerless to help and a week later he died screaming.

***

Chapter3

On Easter Sunday 2016, the churchwarden of St Mary Church in Greywell had occasion to walk in the graveyard behind the church. The grass had not yet started to grow between the gravestones and a few wildflowers had started to appear here and there. Suddenly her eyes were drawn to a forgotten corner of the graveyard where she could see a splash of colour, but as she drew closer she realised that something truly unusual had occurred. Against the wall of the ancient cemetery, deep in the shadow of a centuries-old yew tree where nothing ever grew, there was a perfect rectangular profusion of white and yellow wild irises that had flowered early and now sat shimmering under the grey March sky. She stood transfixed and pondered what it meant.