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The Black Baron
Rooted sturdily it sat shrouded in sullen shadows gazing perilously over the blue-grey waves that licked angrily at the chalky cliffs. The old man sat on a green-painted wooden bench, a grandchild on either side.
“Tell us about this building Grandpa!” exclaimed Ashley with an impudent sense of urgency. The old man smiled and cleared his throat.
“The Castle of Souls, some folks called it. The dull blackish mound of stones known as Chillington Castle was reputedly the location where deserters and traitors of the Royal army were hung, until 1815 when the Napoleonic wars drew to a halt and it’s vigil over the English Channel was decommissioned. However in the years that followed the castle was seized by a group of angry peasants, protesting at the Corn Law that forced the lower classes of Britain into starvation. The Royal army were sent to claim back the castle but the peasants battled back, and in a moment of sheer inhumanity the army leader ordered that the Peasants be burnt out of the castle. Though the will of the peasants was strong and rather than surrender they stayed inside the blazing castle until nothing but gutted ash and charred wood was left. The event wasn’t documented by the monarchy or the Pro-Royalist Tory government, though the story lived on in the form of folk tales.”
“In the mid 1900’s the castle was restored by the council to be used as a local history museum. This lasted a further 15 years before the museum was torched by a random arsonist who was never apprehended; then in 1959 the castle was privately purchased along with a few acres of land surrounding it by a man known only by the name on the deeds to the building. Baron Schwartz. ‘The Black Baron’, as some of the locals referred to him. Some say the castle was sold off to him as the council couldn’t afford to refurbish the building again; rumours say the Black Baron knew this and burnt it to the ground so he could own the castle himself, though no evidence could ever prove this. Under the ownership of the Black Baron the building was again restored. The castle’s walls were now blackened from the numerous flames that had hungrily licked at them and the vacant window frames were filled with elegant stained glass from Italy. The castle stood like its owner; tall, dark and menacing.”
“Baron Schwartz kept much to himself and was rarely seen around town in daylight, though he was often spotted in the local public houses on a night cavorting with fair young maidens. Some said he cast a love spell on them and he lured them back to his castle to ravage them. Others said he had something of a violence fetish and butchered the beautiful young women in the dungeon of his castle which, rumour had it, still contained a working torture rack. Either way the fact remained that since the Baron bought the castle 16 girls between the ages of 15 and 23 had disappeared from the town. Without any evidence to back up their claims, the townsfolk decided to bring an end to the Black Baron’s alleged evil ways and get him out of his stronghold the way history had shown to be most effective. They aimed to burn him out.”
“They lit several torches and flung them onto the wooden roof of the castle. The roof burnt quickly and the beams began to collapse, bringing the whole castle down on top of the baron. The beautiful stained glass windows were shattered, the floorboards buckled and bent and the Baron’s expensive European furniture burnt to a crisp.”
The old man stopped to take a sip from a thermos flask. “But the baron was cunning” he smiled, “he climbed through one of the smashed stained glass windows of the castle, slicing his arm on the way, and disappeared into the night never to be seen again. There was never a warrant put out for the Baron’s arrest because all the evidence of his murderous ways was destroyed in the fire.”
“After that the castle was left untouched for 45 years, its history of savage fires and years of neglect has caused people to steer clear of it. Dust and flame was all the castle would ever be known for. The inside of the castle is now nothing more than the charred remnants of a past the town would rather forget.”
“How do you know so much Grandpa?” questioned Claire, the older of the two grandchildren.
The old man laughed heartily, “Us older folks” he said, rubbing a faded scar on his forearm, “we just have a way of knowing things.”
Rooted sturdily it sat shrouded in sullen shadows gazing perilously over the blue-grey waves that licked angrily at the chalky cliffs. The old man sat on a green-painted wooden bench, a grandchild on either side.
“Tell us about this building Grandpa!” exclaimed Ashley with an impudent sense of urgency. The old man smiled and cleared his throat.
“The Castle of Souls, some folks called it. The dull blackish mound of stones known as Chillington Castle was reputedly the location where deserters and traitors of the Royal army were hung, until 1815 when the Napoleonic wars drew to a halt and it’s vigil over the English Channel was decommissioned. However in the years that followed the castle was seized by a group of angry peasants, protesting at the Corn Law that forced the lower classes of Britain into starvation. The Royal army were sent to claim back the castle but the peasants battled back, and in a moment of sheer inhumanity the army leader ordered that the Peasants be burnt out of the castle. Though the will of the peasants was strong and rather than surrender they stayed inside the blazing castle until nothing but gutted ash and charred wood was left. The event wasn’t documented by the monarchy or the Pro-Royalist Tory government, though the story lived on in the form of folk tales.”
“In the mid 1900’s the castle was restored by the council to be used as a local history museum. This lasted a further 15 years before the museum was torched by a random arsonist who was never apprehended; then in 1959 the castle was privately purchased along with a few acres of land surrounding it by a man known only by the name on the deeds to the building. Baron Schwartz. ‘The Black Baron’, as some of the locals referred to him. Some say the castle was sold off to him as the council couldn’t afford to refurbish the building again; rumours say the Black Baron knew this and burnt it to the ground so he could own the castle himself, though no evidence could ever prove this. Under the ownership of the Black Baron the building was again restored. The castle’s walls were now blackened from the numerous flames that had hungrily licked at them and the vacant window frames were filled with elegant stained glass from Italy. The castle stood like its owner; tall, dark and menacing.”
“Baron Schwartz kept much to himself and was rarely seen around town in daylight, though he was often spotted in the local public houses on a night cavorting with fair young maidens. Some said he cast a love spell on them and he lured them back to his castle to ravage them. Others said he had something of a violence fetish and butchered the beautiful young women in the dungeon of his castle which, rumour had it, still contained a working torture rack. Either way the fact remained that since the Baron bought the castle 16 girls between the ages of 15 and 23 had disappeared from the town. Without any evidence to back up their claims, the townsfolk decided to bring an end to the Black Baron’s alleged evil ways and get him out of his stronghold the way history had shown to be most effective. They aimed to burn him out.”
“They lit several torches and flung them onto the wooden roof of the castle. The roof burnt quickly and the beams began to collapse, bringing the whole castle down on top of the baron. The beautiful stained glass windows were shattered, the floorboards buckled and bent and the Baron’s expensive European furniture burnt to a crisp.”
The old man stopped to take a sip from a thermos flask. “But the baron was cunning” he smiled, “he climbed through one of the smashed stained glass windows of the castle, slicing his arm on the way, and disappeared into the night never to be seen again. There was never a warrant put out for the Baron’s arrest because all the evidence of his murderous ways was destroyed in the fire.”
“After that the castle was left untouched for 45 years, its history of savage fires and years of neglect has caused people to steer clear of it. Dust and flame was all the castle would ever be known for. The inside of the castle is now nothing more than the charred remnants of a past the town would rather forget.”
“How do you know so much Grandpa?” questioned Claire, the older of the two grandchildren.
The old man laughed heartily, “Us older folks” he said, rubbing a faded scar on his forearm, “we just have a way of knowing things.”
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The Black Baron
Rooted sturdily it sat shrouded in sullen shadows gazing perilously over the blue-grey waves that licked angrily at the chalky cliffs. The old man sat on a green-painted wooden bench, a grandchild on either side.
“Tell us about this building Grandpa!” exclaimed Ashley with an impudent sense of urgency. The old man smiled and cleared his throat.
“The Castle of Souls, some folks called it. The dull blackish mound of stones known as Chillington Castle was reputedly the location where deserters and traitors of the Royal army were hung, until 1815 when the Napoleonic wars drew to a halt and it’s vigil over the English Channel was decommissioned. However in the years that followed the castle was seized by a group of angry peasants, protesting at the Corn Law that forced the lower classes of Britain into starvation. The Royal army were sent to claim back the castle but the peasants battled back, and in a moment of sheer inhumanity the army leader ordered that the Peasants be burnt out of the castle. Though the will of the peasants was strong and rather than surrender they stayed inside the blazing castle until nothing but gutted ash and charred wood was left. The event wasn’t documented by the monarchy or the Pro-Royalist Tory government, though the story lived on in the form of folk tales.”
“In the mid 1900’s the castle was restored by the council to be used as a local history museum. This lasted a further 15 years before the museum was torched by a random arsonist who was never apprehended; then in 1959 the castle was privately purchased along with a few acres of land surrounding it by a man known only by the name on the deeds to the building. Baron Schwartz. ‘The Black Baron’, as some of the locals referred to him. Some say the castle was sold off to him as the council couldn’t afford to refurbish the building again; rumours say the Black Baron knew this and burnt it to the ground so he could own the castle himself, though no evidence could ever prove this. Under the ownership of the Black Baron the building was again restored. The castle’s walls were now blackened from the numerous flames that had hungrily licked at them and the vacant window frames were filled with elegant stained glass from Italy. The castle stood like its owner; tall, dark and menacing.”
“Baron Schwartz kept much to himself and was rarely seen around town in daylight, though he was often spotted in the local public houses on a night cavorting with fair young maidens. Some said he cast a love spell on them and he lured them back to his castle to ravage them. Others said he had something of a violence fetish and butchered the beautiful young women in the dungeon of his castle which, rumour had it, still contained a working torture rack. Either way the fact remained that since the Baron bought the castle 16 girls between the ages of 15 and 23 had disappeared from the town. Without any evidence to back up their claims, the townsfolk decided to bring an end to the Black Baron’s alleged evil ways and get him out of his stronghold the way history had shown to be most effective. They aimed to burn him out.”
“They lit several torches and flung them onto the wooden roof of the castle. The roof burnt quickly and the beams began to collapse, bringing the whole castle down on top of the baron. The beautiful stained glass windows were shattered, the floorboards buckled and bent and the Baron’s expensive European furniture burnt to a crisp.”
The old man stopped to take a sip from a thermos flask. “But the baron was cunning” he smiled, “he climbed through one of the smashed stained glass windows of the castle, slicing his arm on the way, and disappeared into the night never to be seen again. There was never a warrant put out for the Baron’s arrest because all the evidence of his murderous ways was destroyed in the fire.”
“After that the castle was left untouched for 45 years, its history of savage fires and years of neglect has caused people to steer clear of it. Dust and flame was all the castle would ever be known for. The inside of the castle is now nothing more than the charred remnants of a past the town would rather forget.”
“How do you know so much Grandpa?” questioned Claire, the older of the two grandchildren.
The old man laughed heartily, “Us older folks” he said, rubbing a faded scar on his forearm, “we just have a way of knowing things.”
Rooted sturdily it sat shrouded in sullen shadows gazing perilously over the blue-grey waves that licked angrily at the chalky cliffs. The old man sat on a green-painted wooden bench, a grandchild on either side.
“Tell us about this building Grandpa!” exclaimed Ashley with an impudent sense of urgency. The old man smiled and cleared his throat.
“The Castle of Souls, some folks called it. The dull blackish mound of stones known as Chillington Castle was reputedly the location where deserters and traitors of the Royal army were hung, until 1815 when the Napoleonic wars drew to a halt and it’s vigil over the English Channel was decommissioned. However in the years that followed the castle was seized by a group of angry peasants, protesting at the Corn Law that forced the lower classes of Britain into starvation. The Royal army were sent to claim back the castle but the peasants battled back, and in a moment of sheer inhumanity the army leader ordered that the Peasants be burnt out of the castle. Though the will of the peasants was strong and rather than surrender they stayed inside the blazing castle until nothing but gutted ash and charred wood was left. The event wasn’t documented by the monarchy or the Pro-Royalist Tory government, though the story lived on in the form of folk tales.”
“In the mid 1900’s the castle was restored by the council to be used as a local history museum. This lasted a further 15 years before the museum was torched by a random arsonist who was never apprehended; then in 1959 the castle was privately purchased along with a few acres of land surrounding it by a man known only by the name on the deeds to the building. Baron Schwartz. ‘The Black Baron’, as some of the locals referred to him. Some say the castle was sold off to him as the council couldn’t afford to refurbish the building again; rumours say the Black Baron knew this and burnt it to the ground so he could own the castle himself, though no evidence could ever prove this. Under the ownership of the Black Baron the building was again restored. The castle’s walls were now blackened from the numerous flames that had hungrily licked at them and the vacant window frames were filled with elegant stained glass from Italy. The castle stood like its owner; tall, dark and menacing.”
“Baron Schwartz kept much to himself and was rarely seen around town in daylight, though he was often spotted in the local public houses on a night cavorting with fair young maidens. Some said he cast a love spell on them and he lured them back to his castle to ravage them. Others said he had something of a violence fetish and butchered the beautiful young women in the dungeon of his castle which, rumour had it, still contained a working torture rack. Either way the fact remained that since the Baron bought the castle 16 girls between the ages of 15 and 23 had disappeared from the town. Without any evidence to back up their claims, the townsfolk decided to bring an end to the Black Baron’s alleged evil ways and get him out of his stronghold the way history had shown to be most effective. They aimed to burn him out.”
“They lit several torches and flung them onto the wooden roof of the castle. The roof burnt quickly and the beams began to collapse, bringing the whole castle down on top of the baron. The beautiful stained glass windows were shattered, the floorboards buckled and bent and the Baron’s expensive European furniture burnt to a crisp.”
The old man stopped to take a sip from a thermos flask. “But the baron was cunning” he smiled, “he climbed through one of the smashed stained glass windows of the castle, slicing his arm on the way, and disappeared into the night never to be seen again. There was never a warrant put out for the Baron’s arrest because all the evidence of his murderous ways was destroyed in the fire.”
“After that the castle was left untouched for 45 years, its history of savage fires and years of neglect has caused people to steer clear of it. Dust and flame was all the castle would ever be known for. The inside of the castle is now nothing more than the charred remnants of a past the town would rather forget.”
“How do you know so much Grandpa?” questioned Claire, the older of the two grandchildren.
The old man laughed heartily, “Us older folks” he said, rubbing a faded scar on his forearm, “we just have a way of knowing things.”
It is short, as you said, but it is so awfully sweet too. I loved it partially due to the inclusion of my name (YeY) which also meant that I heard the words come to me through the voice of my grandfather. It was very nice for me, as he was the only grandpa I knew, and he died two-ish years ago, so it just reminded me of him, with his Devonish accent.
Needless to say, yes I liked it a lot. The ending was also very a good aspect, as I actually was so caught up in the readable but thought-provoking writing, I didn't think about how it would end.
I can't see it winning, but keep it up, Ky.
Needless to say, yes I liked it a lot. The ending was also very a good aspect, as I actually was so caught up in the readable but thought-provoking writing, I didn't think about how it would end.
I can't see it winning, but keep it up, Ky.
Very nicely tied together. A pleasure to read.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Sleepy liked something I wrote :-O
There's a new one :-)
Thanks.
There's a new one :-)
Thanks.
Ouch! I like most things you write, don't I usually tell you that? Sorry :(
:D
:D
Nope the last two things I've written, bar this, your comments have caused my heart to sink.
Very enjoable. All very nicely written, and the only niggle is the Grandpa sometimes sounds like a narrator vocie as he is sometimes overly descriptive for a folk tale. Apart from that, class.
I didn't quite like the opening few paragraphs so much, but once it started to pick up, it turned out to be an interesting and enjoyable tale. The ending was a nicely satsifying touch. Not bad :-).
I think I may have set the scene too much for such a short story Mav, thought I didnt plan on its legnth, I just wrote it as it came.
That's probably it.
In my opinion, the first line was a little yukky and the third paragraph read more like a history textbook than a grandfather talking to his young granchildren.
As I say though, it picked up from there and was, all in all, a solid effort.
In my opinion, the first line was a little yukky and the third paragraph read more like a history textbook than a grandfather talking to his young granchildren.
As I say though, it picked up from there and was, all in all, a solid effort.
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