Alpha Moon

• Title Page
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  

Alpha Moon

Rebecca A. Rogers

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2012 Rebecca A. Rogers

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Smashwords Edition

First Edition: October 21, 2012

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Dear Reader,

When I first began writing
Alpha Moon
, I wanted to maintain the authentic 1500’s feel. This originally included language commonly used in the 1500’s, words such as hither/thither/whither, dost/doest/doth, hast/hath, etc. Not only was Early Modern English slowing me down, I was afraid it would be too time-consuming for the reader, as well. Therefore, I continued using words such as “ye,” “thou,” “thee,” “mayhap,” “aye,” “nay,” etc. Hopefully, this won’t protract anybody’s reading, yet still be sufficient for any historical enthusiasts who happen upon this book.

Happy reading!

Rebecca

“Anyone who has ever heard it, when the land was covered with a blanket of snow and elusively lighted by shimmering moonlight, will never forget the strange, trembling wolf cry.”

- Unknown

Chapter One

Colchester, England

November, 1569

A
rebellion stirred in the north. The fight for the crown was ruthlessly elevated as Catholic nobles vied to overthrow Elizabeth I’s sovereignty and, in her place, position Mary, Queen of Scots, as their new ruler. Rumors and gossip abounded off the tips of every stanch Catholic tongue—Queen Elizabeth I was not the rightful queen. Nay, Henry VIII detached himself and his country from the Church’s power, allowing him absolute control. The majority of England believed Henry and Anne Boleyn’s daughter, Elizabeth, was not a suitable and legitimate heir.

Word spread quickly throughout England and into the lives of every commoner of the coming battle for the throne. Rebel forces sought to obtain aid from those who were willing, including farmers and land owners. The time to act was upon them.

“Father, we have received a letter!” Ulric shouted as he burst through the entrance of their homely cottage. The ceiling continuously dripped from melting snow, and wooden buckets were strategically placed across several rooms, catching each drop. Ulric and his brother, Alaric, had promised their father—who was too old to climb atop a thatched roof—they would patch up any remaining holes and absent straw. Conversely, summertime brought backbreaking labor in the fields by harvesting enough crops to sell for levy and storing the remainder for the upcoming winter months. “A messenger just arrived.”

“Stand not like a blubbering fool! Hand it over,” said Frederic, as a gob of spittle flew from his mouth. The fire was not supplying him with the warmth he would have preferred, and the bitter gust of wind from Ulric’s unexpected entry tampered with his disposition.

“Pray tell me, what does it say?” Ulric pressed, with widened eyes and strenuous breaths.

Frederic watched him over the rim of his spectacles. “If ye would shut thy jaws for two blasted moments, I may very well be able to read!”

Ulric immediately cowered. He knew his father had a temper; he always did, for as far back as Ulric could remember. Careful to avoid his father’s angry side, Ulric thought it best to do as he instructed.

Absentmindedly, his eyes perused the fields dusted with light snow through the lone window. Where was Alaric? He had been slipping out more and more lately, and his absence worried Ulric. What was his brother up to? There were a couple of girls in town who had their eyes set on Alaric, but surely he would keep his wits about him and focus on the farmstead.

Frederic grunted, still slogging over the contents of the letter. He said naught, though, which only made Ulric become restless.

“Father, if ye do not mind me saying so . . .” Ulric bit back his words just as Frederic glowered at him. His tongue was laden, his throat clogged; he felt as if he were choking. He just
had
to learn what information was in that letter. ’Twas not every day they received news.

Frederic twisted the paper into a ball and threw it into the hearth.

“Nay!” Ulric shrieked, pitching forward. He reached his hand toward the letter, but the blaze was too hot for his touch, and the fire had consumed nearly all of the parchment. “Why would ye do such a thing? At least tell me what it said.”

“Naught in that letter pertains to ye. Best keep thy head fastened on and worry about the fields. ’Tis the only future ye have.” Frederic stood from his stilted chair, the sudden weight change causing his seat to groan and creak in delight. “And where is thy brother? Seems he cares nary for this house, his name, or the honor my family have brought to this town for so many years.”

Ulric bit his tongue. Once upon a time, his father had not been so ornery and insufferable, though he was always quick-tempered. After his wife passed away two years prior, Frederic had lost the will to live. He only cared that he was fed every morning and night, leaving Alaric and Ulric to carry the burden of nursing the land. But with Alaric disappearing left and right, Ulric was the last man standing. Everything depended on him.

“I-I know not his whereabouts, father. I wish I did.”

Already wobbling down the hallway, Frederic waved off Ulric’s comment over his shoulder. His door slammed shut, and Ulric flinched. One of the few paintings remaining on their walls swayed at the impulsive jolt caused by Frederic’s exit. Ulric knew he must locate his brother. Mayhap he would know what tidings the letter held. He pulled his coat tighter against his chest, as he headed back out into the frigid weather.

In town, chickens clucked across the slushy lane, Mrs. Bartholomew tutted her children for their mud-covered faces and hands, and somewhere in the tiny cluster of houses and shops, bread was fresh and warm, no doubt cooling on a rack after baking in Mr. Dawson’s oven. Ulric’s stomach grumbled.

Mitsy, a young, fair-haired girl and daughter of Colchester’s one and only bread maker, dipped out of her family’s shop, meeting Ulric’s eyes. She blushed and quickly ducked her head, treading in the same direction. Ulric caught up to her.

“’Tis a fine day,” he said.

Mitsy pursed her lips to refrain from giggling. “’Tis as fine as any cold day in autumn.”

Ulric narrowed his eyes playfully. “Ye are jesting.”

A giggle bubbled out of Mitsy’s throat, and her hand sought her mouth. “Nay, none the slightest.” Her actions betrayed her, and Ulric felt a smile of satisfaction sneak across his face.

“I thought endlessly of one lady; she ensnares my dreams every nightfall.” He turned to her then. “’Twould be a dream to spend a day with ye,” he said. “Just one.”

Amused, Mitsy responded, “And what do ye have in mind? Such weather is too chilly for company.”

Ulric’s mind lit up with possibilities, but he kept to his original plan. “We could steal thy sister’s ribbons and tie them to the horses’ hair.” Mitsy chuckled again. “Or we could set the chickens loose.”

“Seems that has already been done today.”

“Then I shall think about it and visit soon, milady.” Ulric clasped Mitsy’s hand in his and bent down to press his lips against her gloved fingers. “’Til we meet again.”

Mitsy blushed and hurried off. Ulric stared at her disappearing figure long past her departure, wondering if he would have the chance to marry her one day. He shook off the thought as two large oafs barreled out of Murdock’s Inn.

“And stay out, ye ham-fisted thieves! I’ll not have the likes of ye takin’ what’s not thine!” Mr. Murdock was obviously upset by the crooks, but more upsetting than seeing him that way was Alaric’s laughing face directly behind him.

Ulric started forward but stopped. What would he do in a tavern? He was naught but a scrawny boy, and he could not land a proper cuff if his life depended upon it. He had never been in a brawl. If he stepped foot into the pub, beasts of men would clobber him for trespassing into their lair, like trolls on a bridge when a passerby did not pay the toll.

However, if he did not separate Alaric from his wild ways, he would be the only person left to tend the fields, and he could not handle the work alone. Steadfast, Ulric had begun walking toward Murdock’s Inn. Though he barged through the entrance with as much enthusiasm as any man strutting into a tavern, he was not met with erratic punches from muscled men, nor the wary glares meant for a tenderfoot. Unpredictably, not a soul raised their eyes to look twice at him. ’Twas odd, indeed.

Few lanterns were lit, casting a dim glow across the wide-open room. Drunken men sloshed ale as they shouted over the noisy atmosphere, and most were so inebriated they either passed out at their table or slouched in a corner, unconscious. A tavern musician flitted around the pub, playing his fiddle and singing a song Ulric was not familiar with, but most other patrons were, as they hummed along or sang the tune.

In the corner of the inn, Alaric whispered in the ears of two wenches, one of which had a distinct mark on her neck, not likely from birth. As Ulric stood there, watching his brother, a tendril of irritation yanked at his gut. Alaric was not the person Ulric thought him to be; he was wasting his liveliness on women and ale. Where was the brother who diligently watched over the land, their cottage, and their father? ’Twas not the man before Ulric, for certain.

Carefully, Ulric approached his brother and cleared his throat.

“Pray tell me my eyes do not deceive! ’Tis my one and only brother. My dear, dear brother,” said Alaric.

Ulric was close enough to catch the scent of ale on Alaric’s breath, steady and strong. Judging by the smell and the amount of empty tankards on the table behind him, Alaric had been here since breaking his fast.

“I have come to take ye home,” Ulric said, his voice squeaking on the last bit.

“Take me home?” Alaric let out a boisterous laugh and slapped Ulric’s shoulder. “No need. I am exactly where I want to be.”

Ulric did not budge from his stance, and Alaric took this as a sign to wave off the maidens.

“What is it, then?” Alaric was perturbed his brother invaded his social outing and asked him to leave. He had no shame, honestly.

“A messenger arrived; he had a letter. Father opened it and proceeded to toss it into the hearth,” said Ulric. “Have ye any idea of the contents?”

Alaric paced back and forth across a five-foot span, pondering. “Aye, my ears have heard news.”

Joyous, Ulric could hardly contain himself. “Pray tell!” He chose a seat on a wooden bench near Alaric, excitedly waiting for his brother’s words.

“Men spoke of the messenger this very morning. A rebellion is brewing in the northern lands, one which has cause to dispel the queen.”

“Saints almighty! Can they not leave the crown alone? ’Tis all those bulbous poachers do when somebody new sits upon the throne.” Ulric glanced up at his brother. “Are we being asked to serve and aid their ridiculous rebellion?”

“Aye, ’twould be the most logical explanation.” Alaric pondered traveling north for a while, so he could disappear from his father and the farm. Regrettably, this would leave Ulric in a dreadful arrangement. “Do not worry, brother,” Alaric said, slapping Ulric’s shoulder yet again but leaving his hand in place, “our destinies lie here, I am afraid, with the sweat on our brows and the tender blisters on our palms.”