Moon Worshippers

Aitor Echevarria

Description

I shall tell you how a young Negusi warrior made it possible for us to defeat Charlemagne, and the part he played against the Sisters of the Moon...'These are the dying words uttered by a Basque warrior, poisoned and dumped at the doorway to a Benedictine Monastery high in the Pyrenees. The frightened monks understand from these words that the warrior has deep knowledge of one of their closest secrets...The deathbed confession of the warrior continues in a series of flashbacks as he reveals more about the mountain ambush the Basque tribes set for Charlemagne, King of the Franks, as he returned from an unsuccessful invasion of Spain. The monks learn of the power of the Negusi - and of the heroism of a young Basque boy and his wolf dog, without whom the defeat of Charlemagne would have not been possible.This historical adventure story for young adults brings the 7th century vividly to life and captures both the spirit of the Basque people and the history behind the rule of the Emperor Charlemagne, one of the greatest military leaders of the Middle Ages.

Sujets

• Children's

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 avril 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781780888231
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE MOON WORSHIPPERS
Aitor Echevarria
Copyright © 2012 Aitor Echevarria
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
9 Priory Business Park
Kibworth Beauchamp
Leicester LE8 0RX, UK
Tel: [phone]
Fax: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 9781780888231
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For my son
CONTENTS
Chapter One: The Fugitives from Navarra
Chapter Two: The Gathering Storm
Chapter Three: The Visigoths
Chapter Four: The Raid
Chapter Five: The Return
Chapter Six: The Enlightenment
Chapter Seven: Zutik!
Chapter Eight: The Abbot
Chapter Nine: Navarra and Aragon
Chapter Ten: The Go-between
Chapter Eleven: The Fortress of Alijaferia
Chapter Twelve: The Cave
Chapter Thirteen: Charlemagne
Chapter Fourteen: Zaragoza
Chapter Fifteen: The Siege
Chapter Sixteen: The Battle of Roncesvalles
Chapter Seventeen: The Royal Summons
Chapter Eighteen: Itxarkundia. The Awakening
Chapter Nineteen: The Book of Zohar
Chapter Twenty: The High Priestess of the Moon
Chapter Twenty One: The Monastery of Roncesvalles
Author’s Notes
CHAPTER ONE
The Fugitives from Navarra
In the year of Our Lord 800 AD, Charlemagne, a king who had carved an empire with his sword by bloody slaughter, went to Mass in St Peter’s Basilica in Rome on Christmas Day. He entered the Basilica by the north door, with his personal bodyguard and accompanied by his nobles. He was resplendent in his fine clothing. About his shoulders he wore a long, blue, woollen cloak, trimmed with wolf fur, to keep out the cold day. Under the cloak, he had a black, long-sleeved woollen tunic embroidered with silver thread, on top of which he wore a black, soft, deerskin jerkin. Around his waist he had a black leather and silver belt which was encrusted with precious stones; and from that belt hung a sword, called Joyeus, with the most exquisite silver hilt and a large ruby for its pommel.
The redness of that ruby could only be matched by the crimson of the blood on his hands, from the many Visigoths, Saxons and other peoples that he had defeated in battle. Thousands of them had been put to death for refusing to pay homage or refusing to embrace the Christian faith. For the past thirty years he had been in the saddle, engaged in continuous warfare. In that time he had fought fifty-four great battles, all of which he had won. He ruled most of France, and his many victories had given him vast territories in Germany and in Italy. From an early age, Charlemagne had been taught to become accustomed to war and to killing. On the shield that he carried into battle was painted a black raven with outstretched wings: the ancient symbol of death. Death, it must be said, had a way of sitting easily on Charlemagne’s shoulders.
As he knelt in prayer, after Mass on the steps of the High Altar and much to his surprise, the Pope in a spontaneous gesture, took the golden crown from the head of the statue of Saint Peter. He came over to Charlemagne and placed the crown upon his head, adored him and acclaimed him as Charlemagne, “ imperator et Augustus ” by the people.
For what seemed an age, Charlemagne remained kneeling in silence.
The Pope became increasingly uneasy and his growing discomfort was plain for all to see. After what seemed like an eternity to the Pope, and as cold beads of sweat started appearing on his brow; Charlemagne suddenly looked up into the face of Pope Leo, and to the Pope’s immense relief, he smiled. Charlemagne then rose slowly to his full height of over six feet and turned to face the crowded Basilica.
As he rose, the two rows of monks who stood at each side of the High Altar started chanting. They chanted in Latin,
“Carolus, piisimo Augusto a Deo coronato, magno et pacificio Imperatori, vita et victoria .”
Time and again, the acclaim rose from them, until it reverberated around the stone walls of the Basilica and very soon the whole congregation joined in.
“To Carolus Augustus crowned by God, mighty and pacific emperor, God grant life and victory.”
The Basilica then erupted into cheering, clapping and stamping of feet. Charlemagne stood for some time at the top of the steps of the High Altar, anointed and crowned. Arms folded, with his golden hair flowing over his shoulders, he accepted the accolade of his subjects. At that very same moment, in a remote fortified monastery in the Pyrenees, not far from the Roncesvalles pass, and many, many, days journey from Rome, a Basque warrior died. The two events were not unconnected.
At the isolated monastery in the high Pyrenees, a Benedictine monk covered the old warrior’s face with an old, dirty and tattered woollen blanket. Slowly and carefully, he left the small cell where the warrior’s body lay dead. He walked down a long, cold, stone corridor, passed his own small cell and walked towards the Abbot’s private rooms at the other end of the monastery. In his hands, he held tightly a bundle of parchments which he had taken from the scribe’s table. As he made his way, his brow began to crease with worry. His head was bent forward in deepest thought.
He felt a shiver pass through his body. Not against the icy cold, although it was a very cold winter’s day, but because of what he held in his hands. The parchments, in his bony weathered fingers, contained the revelations that the old warrior had made and they were dumbfounding. Not only because of what they revealed, but also because they had been so unexpected. His story had been related gradually whilst he was dying and completed just before his death. If true, the story would shake the very foundations of Charlemagne’s empire and the Christian world.
The revelations the old warrior had made had started simply enough, and at times he had thought they were the imaginings or the ravings of a dying man. But as the story unfolded, he realised that he had been wrong. It was much more. It could be the story of the age. Few would believe it; many would doubt its authenticity. Nonetheless, who would have believed that they would be revealed in this manner? Or that a simple, uncivilised, disrespected pagan and barbaric race could be responsible for so much? It was simply unheard of. The warrior had begun simply with:
“I am a member of the First Race. I am a Basque; a people who have a language and past, which are like no other. I have not much time left, so I must tell of our shame and our glory. For it is a duty and a tradition amongst the Basques to tell the whole truth before we die, unlike those who, in this age, only tell that which glorifies them. We don’t do that. We are different. We are Basques.”
The monk had thought it an unusual boast, but it caught his attention. It was a story about a strange and little known ancient people. Later and in truth, he realised it was an epic of a tale. They were a people about whom no one really cared, especially in those turbulent and troubled times. Until now they had remained insignificant. Strangely enough, he knew a little of the Basques. Their mountainous region was not that far from his monastery. In fact, it was very close to what could be considered one of the Basque borders. Although, the borders of countries were in a constant flux as baron, earl, count or king fought each other and in so doing, the victor would add to their lands and change borders. Even so, contact with these Basques was rare; even elusive. They kept to their mountains and did not welcome strangers. There were many rumours about them. Some said that they practiced revolting rituals with animals, and treated strangers and those they captured in the most disgusting and savage ways.
Travellers told stories that in secret caves the Basques met with demons and performed strange rituals. But then they were a simple race, mostly sheep herders and fishermen. What more could one expect from such an ignorant and barbaric people? Yet, what if the old warrior was right? If his story was true, then these people had a culture and a military knowledge which had been totally overlooked. Not only overlooked, but completely underestimated. What was more, if it was true; they had men amongst them who were skilled in the Black Arts and with immense and far-reaching powers. The parchments he held in his long thin fingers revolted him, intrigued him and frightened him.
He tried to compose himself. Then he had a thought that comforted him. If they were so few, then they could be compared to fleas. The thought brought him much welcomed relief. Until it struck him that fleas can become extremely irritating as he knew. He scratched himself involuntarily under his armpit. Still, he liked the thought of them as fleas. They were small and could be crushed between two fingers. The thought soothed his troubled mind, but suddenly his mind sobered and he was struck by thoughts that were like buckets of ice cold water poured over his head.
He rapidly re-evaluated. He inwardly shuddered. Could it be that, they, the Basques had remained dormant and unnoticed? Could it be true that they had destroyed so much, and penetrated so far with so few? It was unbelievable! Could they have done what the old warrior had said? How could they? They were nothing but fleas! Just that. What was more, the victim they had b