S1E1 The Traveling Healer: Bees at the Monastery

St. Albans 26, the sign read the arrow pointing to the southwest. Carac and his father were on the road. Carac’s father told him he could ride the horse from Stevenage to St. Albans. Time was of the essence, and they had to find Rowan when they arrived.

Carac stopped asking his father why they went anywhere long ago. They were always on the move, and there was little warning when it was time to leave a location. When Carac was younger, he would complain. Sometimes, they were in a place long enough for him to make a friend. “Gather your things. We leave this afternoon,” his father would say, and more than once, that meant Carac would have to leave without saying goodbye. 

The faces of the friends he made never left Carac. He was gifted with faces. He could see what people were feeling. Their pain and their emotions were as easy to read as the words on the page. His father was sure to teach Carac how to read while nature took care of the reading of faces.  

Carac's father was a healer. They were always moving to the place where they could do the most good. When they came to town, they met with any and all who needed care. Sometimes, they would get to a place where a sickness had taken hold of entire families. The villagers always called it a plague, but the urgency of Carac’s father never reached a level to suggest it was the Black Death. 

Carac’s mother died before he had a chance to know her. He wasn’t old enough at the time to know what his father was like before she died. He was a loving man in his own way. Carac never went hungry and never went without a life lesson, a book to read, or the freedom to explore the towns and villages they visited. But his father always carried a weight, like he needed to keep moving or that weight would drag him down. That weight would only disappear when he comforted the dying or consoled their family. His father had been around the sick and dying for so long that he knew when they had turned a corner, whether the turn was toward life or death, he knew.

Carac would read his father’s face, just like everyone else, and could never put words to what he was thinking. He asked once. There was a hunting party returning to the town where they were staying. It was over in seconds, a bandit group on horses cut them down, stole their kills, and left them for dead. While the townsfolk ran for their homes, some for weapons, some to hide, Carac’s father ran to the hunting party. Some of the wounds were dressable, and a few of the men would recover. Most of the men in the party would not. One man had propped himself up against the fence lining the road. He had clearly taken a hit from a blunt object directly to the spine. Two more deep hoof impacts and an arrow in his leg made it so the man couldn’t get up, but he was alert and talking to his wife, who’d come out of hiding to be by his side. Carac’s father joined them to look over his wounds.

Carac watched the three of them talking, the wounded man telling his wife he would be ok. Carac’s father looked at the bruises, and the wife was relieved to be talking with her husband. Carac saw the deep exhale from the wounded man, he saw his father’s shoulders sink. The husband and wife shared a laugh, they hugged one another. The wounded man couldn’t feel it, but the horse that ran him over had caused internal bleeding. The husband and wife had 20 more minutes together, and Carac’s father stayed with them the whole time. He said little in that time, and he said even less as the wife wailed from her own pain of watching the life of her husband leave his body.

Once another family member was there, Carac’s father left to tend to another man. Carac waited for a week to pass before he asked the question. What his father thought about for those minutes, he knew, and they didn’t. How did he carry that?

“Son, I think about the pain they won’t suffer anymore. I think about the pain that is yet to come, and I think about the soul which is about to be freed.”

Carac started another question but was cut off before he could finish the first word

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions about what we do. A lot of the answers you will need to learn in time. None of the moments we share with people are the same. Their lives are all different. What got them to where they are and brought us to their final moments? Sometimes, we save them. Were they meant to be saved? What if we go left at the next fork in the road? Who do we save in one town and not in another? Questions are good, questions are important, but we need to be in the moment, and the moment will tell you what it needs if you are willing to listen.”

Carac, 15 years old at the time, had no idea what his father was talking about. He did know that his father meant what he was saying. He did know what it meant to listen, and he did that for the rest of the wagon ride that day. He listened to the birds and the sounds of the wagon. The wind sounded crisper. The fire they lit that night popped louder, with magical wisps that carried Carac to his dreams. That would be the first night he dreamt about the Grey Lady in the black flowing dress. “Mom, is that you?”

His father heard Carac talking in his sleep. He was at ease that his son was looking for his mother. Even if it was a dream, he was searching, and he didn’t want his son to forget.

***

The road into St. Albans was busy with townsfolk. 

“You don’t want to be here, stranger,” one of them grumbled to the traveler’s wagon.

The small crowd moving away from St. Albans murmured, “The soldiers are here. Why are there soldiers here?”

Carac and his father crossed the final hill when they came into town. Rowan could be seen in front of some stables, waving at them. Their cart was recognizable, and Rowan was flagging them down.

“You know the deal, lad. We only see the one army. We have some time, but we must hurry and get set up,” Carac’s father said

Carac’s job was to get as much hot water as he could find. He could try the Inns or the blacksmiths, but they never wanted to deal with a kid, and they didn’t want to use up their fire and metal pots to heat water. He once tried to explain what his father, a healer, used the hot water for, but he was laughed out of that Inn, and he never tried that again.

His best bet was to find the monks and nuns in town. All he had to do was say they were there to save the souls of those about to go to battle, and he could get at least some of the supplies they needed: bandages, pots, and fires for water.

“Rowan, how are you?” Carac’s father asked.

“Hallo Simon, I got here ahead of the army. I’d ask how you knew to send me here, but I know better. I’ve secured lodging for the three of us and room in this here stable,” Rowan answered.

“Well, if I told you all my ways, it would make things less interesting now, wouldn’t it?”

“Aye, so it would. Carac, If you’re looking for the nuns, they’re down that road have you been here before?”

“No,” Carac said, “but I’ll find my way. A town is a town, right?”

“I think you’ll find this place to be a bit larger than what you’re used to, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Carry on, lad. Rowan and I need to set up near the town center,” his father instructed. Carac was all too happy to be left to his own time. 

***

Carac lept off his horse. She had earned a rest and water in the stables. Carac would walk to find what he needed. The remaining townsfolk seemed relaxed for what was probably in their near future. Maybe the town was so big that some people hadn’t yet seen the army. Maybe the sight of one army wasn’t enough to get those still in town all that excited. Those on the road into town were plenty worried about what would happen. Both the town and the road offered their versions of safety, but at what price was unknown. Carac always felt like he could hide when he was in and around the buildings of a town. The roads offered space and were used only to move armies from one area to another, not as the focal point of a battle. One of his Father’s many skills was to avoid the worst trouble roads and the countryside had to offer. The stories of bandits on the roads from here to there never seemed to come true when they traveled. Even with a cart and the coins they gathered over time from the people they helped. His father never asked for anything, but those who could give something usually provided coins or provisions and their deepest gratitude.

Carac had inherited this blanket of protection. It allowed him to walk around town confident that trouble would not find him. He was too young to think it folly that he would never be in danger, but this day, he would be ok.

The church tower was his destination, and he didn’t know what Rowan was talking about; it was easy to find and just as easy to get back to the stable. The monastery was not far from the church. On the edge of town was a large field with shade trees and a stone fence. Another building with crosses on the roof was on the other side of the field. That was probably the convent. Carac liked the idea of the Nuns and Monks in town meeting on the green that separated their homes; they would discuss the almighty and play games with the children in town. He had no idea what happened on this green, but it felt calm.   

Carac always tried the convents before the monasteries. He found that his reasoning went over better with the nuns. As he approached a great oak, the buzz of bees hard at work filled the air. He knew he was short of time, but he was overwhelmed with the need to stop and watch the bees for a while. 

He climbed the fence on the side of the road and found a comfortable section he could lean against. The cloud of bees traveling from far away flowers brings life to these hives. How is it that these bees could go about their business when death came down the road? Carac wished at that moment that he could have been a bee, working away, a simple job, unaware of the looming danger. These hives would survive even if the town were burned to the ground. Carac carried pending doom between his shoulder blades when they got to a new town. Knowing some people were about to die was a lot for his body to process. Sometimes sickness, sometimes violence, it didn’t matter. Stopping in a new town usually meant something bad was going to happen. The question was how much and how bad. 

These bees lived their lives without having to worry about these kinds of thoughts. However, Carac also knew there were lives he and his father could save. The bees had their role, and he had his. As much as he wanted to escape, he never knew who he could save on a given day. A weight of sadness took him over, and he decided to take some time for himself at the base of this stone fence. He closed his eyes and let the hum of his new friends fill the air.

Simon and Rowan had taken their personal effects to their lodging, which was located on the town square. With permission from the innkeeper, they set up their cart in front of the inn. The army was set up along the main road. If there were going to be a battle, they would be in a good spot to care for as many soldiers as possible. 

“Rowan, any idea where the other army will come from?”

“No, this place is too big to take a proper survey in time.”

“Hmmm, we’ll have to wait for the soldiers to get in formations. Maybe they will set up some small ramparts?”

Carac had procured what he needed. The nuns had a supply of wood for the pots of water and armfuls of linen that could be cut down into bandages. The monks had pots and fire stands to feed the poor on Sundays. Carac, who had taken more time than he should have to rest by the fence, was running, one pot in hand. He wanted to come back with something in hand. He had to get the horse and return to gather the rest of the supplies. He was in too much of a hurry to hear a horse ride up behind him. “You there!” the rider exclaimed. Carac stopped in his tracks and turned around. The horse continued towards his Father, who was getting his operating table put together. 

“You there, what are you doing?” The rider said

“We are here to help, my lord,” Carac’s father said.

“I am Humphery, Duke of Buckingham. You men are not part of the King’s army. Why are you here, and what is this all about?” the Duke said, motioning to the crude medical station they had built.

Rowan jumped in to answer the question, “My lord, my name is Rowan, and I am the town healer. We are here to help the wounded. We live here in town. He is a surgeon, and I am here to ease the soldiers’ pain and provide any care we can help with after the battle.”

The Duke looked at the three men in front of him. Carac had walked up to them by this point. “How did you men know there would be a battle here?”

Carac laughed, as the Duke had clearly not been paying attention to what Rowan had said the first time. They didn’t live here; they didn’t live anywhere specifically. Lying to a Duke was usually risky, but Carac found a little joy in Rowan’s ability to lie to a Duke and let them do what they had come here to do. His father kicked him to make him stop.

“My Lord, we saw the men gathering from our shop on the east side of town, and we wanted to help. We came here to set up our station and be ready for whatever happened.” Rowan answered.

“Very well,” The Duke said, unconvinced, but those willing to provide medical aid to his men were not to be shewed away. “If you men need supplies, a medical cart is on its way. Tell them I sent you and to give you what you need.”

“Thank you, sir, very good sir,” Simon said.

The Duke rode away quickly and dismissively.

“Where are the supplies, son?”

“I brought this pot for water. There is some wood inside. I must return with the horses for linens and more wood at the convent.”

“Very well, go. Who knows when this battle gets going? The Duke was in a hurry, so it might be soon.”

“Is the other army even here?” Carac asked.

“Don’t you worry about that. Get those supplies.”

Carac went back to the stables to get the horses. He could have taken the wagon, but driving that thing was a pain. Two horses and their pack saddles would be enough. If he had to make more trips, he would. 

Carac had two horses full of supplies. The nuns told him there were more bandages if he needed them. The monks had more wood for the fires. It was nice to be in a large town that had abundant supplies. 

Things had changed by the time Carac started making his way back. The streets getting closer to the town center had cleared of the townsfolk. They were full of soldiers in various states of battle dress and concern. Some of the soldiers moved with purpose, while others stood around talking amongst themselves. None of the officers seemed concerned. Their faces said they were on alert, but they hadn’t started barking orders at their men.

“Father, where do you want these?”

“Put them in the back of the cart. Rowan is upstairs. I think the York soldiers are here. Get me an update.”

The horses were unloaded and tied to the cart; Carac went upstairs. The front of the Inn faced the town center, and the back looked over and beyond the town ditch.

“See that?” Rowan said, pointing to the distance.

The flags were blue with what looked like white circles, still too far away to make out. They were the flags of the house of York. They watched as the mass of men and horses marched towards their location. 

“Go tell your father.”

“Wait! Something is happening. Men are on horses, and white flags are at the front. They are sending emissaries.”

“What does that mean?” Carac asked

“I’m not sure yet. Tell your father I will stay up here until I see the emissaries go back. I will keep an eye on the army movements.”

***

“Very well, thank you, Carac. Do you think the horses can stay at the monastery?”

“I didn’t see a stable there, but there are posts I can tie them to, and I can ask the nuns to keep an eye on them.”

“Good, take the horses there. It looks like we might be in the middle of this, and I don’t want the horses to get scared off or stolen by either of these armies.”

The news of the new army’s arrival had reached the rest of town. The soldiers were moving towards the town center. Their faces were calm but focused, and they were confident. Carac wondered who he would see on his Father’s table when the metal started swinging and flying.

The nuns were more than happy to watch over the horses. It was amazing how far please and thank you went with the Nuns. The walk back signaled that battle was immediately on Carac’s horizon. He wasn’t yet ready to deal with the death and suffering these men would face.

The bees were still there, and their hum was more inviting than before. A flat spot under the tree called to him. His father had all the supplies he needed. The hum of the bees was peace, and it was escape. He found his spot from before. The shadows grew longer, and the temperature started to drop, as did Carac’s eyelids. 

He was startled awake, the sun gone, the sky dark. In front of him, a waxing crescent moon is hanging in the sky behind a grumpy torch-lit face.

CHR;)