3480 08-01 Praise the Lord! We got 500!
3456 08-01 Ophiuchā (Demonsign) on the Cross
CAUTION: Contains themes of war oppression child and domestic abuse and bigotry some readers may find disturbing.
Explicit version of image 3483 08-01 We killed 8 Irish savages! containing graphic horror themes at 08-01 Identicide in Ireland: Annihilating Childhood at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman
“I miss him,” Emma admitted wistfully. “And worry about him.” She had moved to an arrowslit on the South wall, which served as one of the chapel’s windows, and was peering down at the Bray Road below trying to see the horsemen they had all heard clattering past. The arrow slits, being cruciform, were in a way quite appropriate for the chapel, which was being used as a makeshift classroom for the petty school students aged 4-7.
Emma and her friend Char, the youngest child of Baron Wrathdown, were embroidering their Lord’s banner together, working on a magnificent bolt of blue silk from China. Char was using fine golden thread to embroider a castle, one of nine on Wrathdown’s coat of arms, while Emma was using fine silver thread to embroider the raised sword beneath the three castles in the center column. As they did so, their mothers were gossiping and brushing their long hair. The other ladies of the half-sergeanty sat around them with their daughters, working on projects while the children’s tutor, Father Hugh, an Augustinian friar, wrang his hands and tried to decide how quickly he could excuse himself to chase down the rest of his students—the women’s sons, the girls’ brothers—who had bolted excitedly from their lessons to see what all the racket was about. The clergyman couldn’t quite mind their absence for a bit; they bleated and fidgeted like excited goats. Girls might not have the intellect for learning, but they certainly had the superior manner.
“I want my father to come back,” Emma frowned.
Char responded matter-of-factly, “I don’t,” provoking a dutiful tutting sound of disapproval from Lord Wrathdown’s sister-in-law, Lady Kynborow, and a satisfied smirk from his mother-in-law, Lady Parnell.
“Your fathers’ work is important!” Father Hugh reminded both of them, presumably intending to comfort or reconcile them in some way. “All Ireland is divided into three parts: Gaelic, Norman, and English. The wild Irish savages have overrun most of the North and West, and unfortunately, the wilderness just to the South of us. Most of the ancient Norman lords, themselves bastardized by their time in this godforsaken land—”
“Sir!” Lady Kynborow laughed, scandalized, pausing in her hair-brushing to put her hands over Char’s ears. Her ladies laughed with her; and their daughters, according to their age and disposition, either smiled uncertainly or looked nervous. “We are the source of civilization here. We must set an example!”
“Quite right, Lady Wrathdown!” Father Hugh agreed, as if Lady Kynborow had been confirming his point rather than criticizing his language. “The Norman Earls beyond the Pale—they’ve become more Irish than the Irish, lacking all appropriate devotion to Ireland’s proper Lord, our blessed King Henry, designated to rule here by the Pope himself! They aren’t reivan’ and raidin’ us like the Irish sinners, but they aren’t loyal, either! Only we, the good Kings’ men of the Pale, the land behind the wall, the Lordship of Ireland, are the lone outpost of true English culture here! Your fathers’ work defending the Church and law and order is the work of King and Christ, children!”
“Yes, sir,” the children dutifully responded, exchanging meaningful looks expressing their fervent hope his speech would not inspire another lengthy prayer begging God to strengthen their fathers’ hands against the murderous clans to the South.
But Father Hugh was going in another direction, shaking his head, lost in thought: “Beyond the Pale it’s all chaos and cannibals—”
Emma gasped excitedly. “Cannibals!”
“Thank you, sir,” Lady Kynborow gave their priest a significant look. “I think that’s enough on that topic.”
Father Hugh tried without success to look convincingly distressed. “Yes of course, Lady Kynborow. I just meant, they’re barbaric! They don’t even wear shoes!”
The girls giggled, while Lady Kynborow’s mother, Lady Parnell, muttered: “No need to mind your language on our account, Father. There’s not a child in Shanganagh Castle left with tender ears,” provoking more giggling from the older girls. Wrathdown was shaped and practically defined by its role defending Dublin against perennial Irish raids from the Wicklow Mountain country. It had a rough-and-ready martial character that preceded, but certainly could not eclipse, its present Lord, who practically personified the Norman warrior ethos of old. The force of his personality had imprinted itself on every male in the castle and the countryside alike, and even attracted a number of rugged young adventurers from England and elsewhere to try their hand against the Irish. It helped that there were more manors than knights here on the border, available to anyone with the wit and strength to secure a hold for themselves in the name of the Pope and the King. Even in a man’s world, the Irish frontier was man’s country in 1517, with women living on the margins of daily life.
“Mother!” Lady Kynborow repressed a smile.
“Don’t pretend otherwise. Char’s muckspout father—”
As if to make her point, at that very moment Baron Roland, Lord of the Half-Serjeanty of Wrathdown himself, threw the door open hard enough for its hinges to rattle and the latch to chip off a bit of stone from the wall of the small castle. Very much a Marcher Lord, wielding a real and direct military power to prosecute his King’s war that most English barons lacked, the Baron maintained nine front-line castles shielding Dublin from the depredations of the Irish natives to the South, all connected by earthen barrier walls running from the Irish Sea at Wrathdown Castle to the border with Uppercross past Templeogue Castle. They imposed a significant burden on the modest revenues of the Sergeanty, even with the subsidies he received from the viceroy’s Dublin Castle administration.
So it was hardly surprising the castles were compact, efficient, and coarse, combining the functions of defense with those of daily life. The chapel, occupying the third floor of the small castle, was used for everything from mass to feasts to rare tax-exempt markets and classes like this one, especially in warmer months when the welcome light and fresh air provided by the third-story arrowslits compared most favorably with their drawbacks in winter, a time when they were usually filled with loose bricks.
The excited boys of the castle swarmed back into the room, swirling around the Baron and his companions like a Huntsman’s dogs howling and barking in excitement while dodging the hooves of angry stallions.
“God’s light! Finally! Here you all are. I practically ransacked the castle. What divine office are we celebrating mid-afternoon?! We thought the damned savages must have taken the lot of you!”
Lady Parnell directed a look at her daughter as if the obvious had been revealed, but otherwise there was little enough room for anyone else when Lord Wrathdown took the stage. Stinking of smoke, sweat, and offal, his clothing and skin were stained and spattered reddish-brown with dried blood, the clean patches of his head and chest revealing where he had removed his helmet and cuirass upon entering the castle.
“Papa!” Emma cried as her father, Sir Ambrose, entered behind his Lord, thwarted in her attempt to hurry to him by her mother, who hugged her tightly. Sir Ambrose was half-leading, half-pulling an auburn-haired, dazed-looking barefoot boy of about 5 or 6—Char’s age—in a gown behind him. Both of them were bloodstained and filthy, if less so than the Baron himself; and the boy’s air of detachment and lack of focus were only reinforced by the contrast he made with the intensely involved and overstimulated castle children. Emma’s father smiled encouragingly at her, but with a gently raised palm, urged her to wait. No adult in the room imagined it a good idea to compete with their Baron for attention. And in fairness, the man was larger than life, well over six feet tall with broad shoulders, strong arms, and an impressively-long beard demonstrating his virility. His personality was as loud and brash as his speech. Emma’s father could not have competed with that if he’d been of a mind to; and he was far too sensible to have any such thing in mind. Of his six half-brothers, children of his father’s first wife, only three had survived childhood. One, it was rumored, had gotten in the way of his ambition and died gruesomely. A second, eager to stay out of his way, had joined the church. The third, and eldest, was an Earl of the family’s main estates in England, and doubtless hoped Roland’s inheritance in the Pale would keep him busy.
The last member of their party to enter, marked in the same stains and smells as the other three, was Young Roland, the Baron’s firstborn son, unmistakably of a kind with the Duke himself, Lady Kynborow, Char, and even the silver-touched Lady Parnell: Every member of the family’s hair, on both sides, shone a blazing yellow-gold. Theirs was the hair of lions, not just yellowish, but a strong, saturated hue that made other shades of yellow look washed-out or dirty.
“Yesterday was a magnificent day! We caught half the damned O’Tooles, and the O’Byrnes too! Out looting and burning in Bray and Shankhill. I collected six Irish heads!” he roared proudly, gesturing impatiently at his son. “Show ‘em, lad!”
Char and the ladies cried out and recoiled in horror as Young Roland, grinning proudly, held up two strings of four heads each, with their hair braided and bound together with rope like obscene cloves of garlic. “I got two of my own, Aunt Kynborow!” he boasted enthusiastically, smiling so proudly she felt obliged to smile back at him with the same enthusiasm a peasant woman would greet a housecat returning with a dead mouse in its jaws.
“That’s nice, dear!” she applauded, doing her best and elbowing Char, who, jaw set and arms crossed, ignored her. “Isn’t that nice?” And when ignored by Char, pressed her husband, who had married her in swift order after her sister, his first wife, had died: “God bless you on your victory, my Lord!”
He rumbled angrily. “More of a draw. But it was a glorious, unholy bloodbath! The manor of Raheen-a-Cluig’s a goner. The men of the village were strung up and cut up into ribbons, and the women and children who weren’t raped and butchered were taken by the O’Byrnes.” Neither Lady Kynborow nor anyone else in the room thought about chiding the Baron for his language. “Lost for good up in the mountains. But it wasn’t all bad, we left the dirt soaked with their tainted Irish blood, and caught a few slaves for the lead mines. Oh! And here, give me the lad!” Roland gestured to Ambrose, who gently nudged the dazed boy toward his Lord, who seized his arm and hustled him forward. “My knight and his wife were dismembered with the rest of the manor in most grisly fashion, must have screamed for hours! But this one hid. Or, more like, the Irish just didn’t want anything to do with this odd fellow.” Roland shook him slightly for emphasis to make sure Parnell and Kynborow understood who he was referring to. “Their son and heir. He’s my ward now, and in addition to bringing me his rents, the parish priest in Bray says he’s a sage in the making. That note’s for you, Father,” Roland jabbed his finger toward a reddened scrap of paper pinned to the collar of the boy’s robe. “He’ll be a perfect tutoring companion for that worthless son of mine, who wasn’t with the rest of my wild dogs—” he gestured vaguely towards the boys tripping over themselves to follow him around. “Where is that prat Charlie?”
Something in Kynborow’s guilty expression must have alerted the Baron to the truth because his eyes widened and bulged out, his face turned a mottled purple, and he bellowed: “My son?! You’ve got my son there brushing his hair?”
Young Roland guffawed nastily, and even the unfortunate orphan blinked twice, the closest thing to an expression of any kind, facial or verbal, he seemed able to muster, as Lord Wrathdown dumped him unceremoniously onto an empty pew and barked “Shut up!” to his eldest. Nobody else in the room required such a caution; not one of them, not even the stupidest of the castle boys, dared meet the Baron’s eyes, let alone make any sound that might catch his attention. “He’s SEWING?!?! MY SON is SEWING with his Aunt instead of playing with his friends?!”
“Emma is my friend!” Char murmured, ducking his head and shrinking back into Kynborow even as he spoke. “not them!”
“Please, my Lord!” Lady Kynborow—having no way to avoid the Baron’s attention—pleaded. “He’s only lost his mother last winter—let him have some peace!”
“SEWING AND PLAYING WITH GIRLS?! The Baron Wrathdown’s SON?! I think not!” Baron Roland roared. “Clearly he’s better off with her dead! But YOU—” he jabbed his finger into Kynborow’s shoulder “won’t be following in her footsteps! I never should have listened to a word from her!”
“ROLAND!” Lady Parnell snapped. “We’re your family!” biting her lip and retreating sharply as Roland turned on her.
His attention was distracted back to his son as Char burst out crying: “I wish it was you dead!”
“What’s wrong with you?! BESIDES the coddling of these women?! That’s it! I’ve got to do something to save you, and our family honor, from your weakness!” Roland growled again, wading forward to tear the child forcibly away from his aunt, throwing him down over a pew and thrashing him with the flat of his blade—cleaner than his own flask, and doubtless the only thing beside his horse and other weapons Lord Roland had made sure were tended after the battle—while Lady Parnell held Lady Kynborow back, every woman in the chapel started shrieking, and even Father Hugh murmured nearly-audible protests, waving his hands ineffectively as he considered whether and how he dare intervene. Continuing to wallop on poor Charlie’s bottom, the Baron continued his diatribe: “We’ve got to get you away from these damned women! You’ve clearly been coddled and indulged by women long enough!”
“No, please!” Lady Kynborow wept, as the Baron’s arm rose and fell, rose and fell, over and over again, on his suffering child. “Please, Roland! That’s enough!”
“No son of Roland Wrathdown sews and brushes his hair like a woman!” It almost sounded like Lord Wrathdown was weeping with his frustration and rage, his eyes filled with the same reddish-purple fury that stained his face and every inch of visible skin. “No son of Roland Wrathdown plays with girls instead of boys! I thank the lord he gave me six good and manly boys before this one was sent from hell to disgrace us!”
Lady Parnell and several other women were trying to restrain the hysterical Lady Kynborow who was screaming and crying and trying desperately to protect her nephew, while Sir Ambrose and Father Hugh edged nearer to the Baron with their hands raised placatingly, ineffectively trying to encourage the Baron to stop. Behind them, the red-haired boy sat still and slumped where the Baron had dumped him, staring listlessly toward the altar with his unfocused, haunted sapphire eyes, showing no interest in—or even awareness of—the maelstrom around him.
“If I thought he was man enough, I’d squire him to Lord Nethercross, he’s a hard man! But I won’t let this prating grovelsimp embarrass the family! None of my other boys have gone for the church. We can send him!”
“We would be honored,” Father Hugh assured him eagerly. “In a year or two, when he’s ready—”
“Not a year or two. NOW! Before he’s irreversibly contaminated!” Lord Wrathdown growled dangerously, turning his attention to the terrified Father Hugh. “Get away from me, you worthless fopdoodle!” The Baron snarled, flinging his bawling son away from him without even letting him catch his balance. “I can’t stand to touch you right now!” Instead of walking, Char careened several feet across the stones and fell onto the lap of the orphaned boy, who absentmindedly folded his arms over Char and began rocking him gently and patting his back, repeating “there, there” without even looking down. Char shrieked and wailed, burying his head in the boy’s lap and hugging him tightly back, kicking his own legs in a desperate gesture to discharge the intense emotions and physical pain that were overwhelming him, threatening to swallow him whole.
Lord Wrathdown looked askance at the orphan a moment more, then shook his head. “Smart or no, there’s something badly wrong with that one. But Charlie seems to like him.” Nodding and shrugging, he looked at Sir Ambrose. “And at least he is male!”
“Certainly true, Lord Roland,” Sir Ambrose agreed. “A perfect companion!”
“You’ll take them both, father!” Lord Roland barked, deciding it on the spot. “Today! Take him to that—choir school I sponsor at Christ’s Church!”
“Oh, good, they can… sing, Your Lordship?” Father Hugh asked, sounding as reasonable as a canon lawyer but cringing all the same hoping the question would not provoke Lord Roland.
But apparently Father Hugh had no such luck in store. “DOES IT MATTER?!” Lord Roland demanded loudly.
“Not really,” Father Hugh backpacked, “only Father Luke, the Choirmaster, is quite the martinet, he runs the choir as a tight ship, likes to try out and hand-pick the boys himself—” Everyone other than the Baron could see how conflicted and agitated Father Hugh was, swallowing and practically wringing his hands with anxiety as he considered his position, how to explain his actions to his superiors if he turned up with two underaged boys, trying to insert them into another friar’s choir and school when doing so would interfere with the progress of the rest of the class.
It would surprise exactly no one in Castle Shanganagh to learn Father Luke had been the newest and lowest-ranking member of his order in Ireland when he was assigned as the tutor to the nobility and gentry here.
Even as Roland began turning his head to fix his eyes on Father Hugh, Father Hugh achieved the breakthrough he urgently required, bringing his deliberations to their speedy and vitally necessary end, babbling: “Actually… not at all. Of course not. It doesn’t matter at all, Your Lordship. Everyone can sing! I mean, everyone has a voice. And of course, Father Luke will be so thrilled to have another of y—to have such a high-bred young man and his—er—” Luke had no idea what to say about the orphaned boy, knowing only that by birth, he was a member of the gentry. But after all, that was probably enough: “His gentle companion, er—ah, thank you, My Lord, thank you for—for entrusting them to us.” Perhaps, Hugh thought, this was not the time to ask how the young man would train as a knight to resume his duties (and reclaim his medieval rents) from the Baron, when he was training for the priesthood.
“That’s better,” The Baron allowed, as Lady Kynborow burst out crying. “What now?!” the Baron frowned at her as she cried, speaking no words but instead begging him with her eyes.
“I must save this boy from himself. And from you women. Your tears won’t change my mind,” The Baron shook his head and his big finger together, trying to get her to see reason. “But they do… move me,” he allowed, adjusting his belt. “After yesterday’s battle… and you’re carrying our little one. Come on, we want our child to be vigorous and healthy!” he urged her, pulling her against him, rubbing his crotch against hers, and stroking her breast without a thought to subtlety, before pulling her towards the stairs to their bedroom below. “It’s practically a duty! Come, welcome your Lord home from battle properly!”
Literature Section “08-01 Identicide in Ireland: Annihilating Childhood”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 1 of Chapter Eight, “The Wild, Wild West”—3316 words—Accompanying Images: 3456-3458, 3480-3483, 3483—Published 2025-12-11—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, stupid choices, evil, harm, danger, death, mythical creatures, idiots, and criminals. Don’t try, believe, or imitate them or any of it.