Midnight at Muzillac

A wife, a mistress, a scary bird! An ancient curse! Madness! Sex! From medieval Brittany to the halls of Versailles; from America to India to Muzillac; it's everything you never thought you wanted to know about the life and loves of the Marquis de Muzillac!

Prologue: The Banner of the Hawk

Brittany: 1365

Mailhairer de Moncoutant, bastard son of the French king, Jean II, half-brother to the new king, Charles V, stood alone on a spot of wind-scoured, empty ground. He was now a knight of Brittany, and this was his reward for his part in the victory at Auray, a victory for which he had betrayed his own blood, commanding the troops of the Comte de Montfort and the English king, Edward III.  De Montfort would build a stronghold here, and Moncoutant would be its lord. It was a poor piece of ground, he thought, with a bitter laugh, but it could be worse. There was decent grazing further inland, quarries of golden stone, and the possibility of plunder from ships plying the coast, seeking refuge in the bays.

The sun had nearly set, and in the fading light he could see his encampment in the distance. Small fires were being lit and all seemed quiet. He had been informed that there had been some unpleasantness in the village. Houses burned, women raped, some killed perhaps. He thought little of it. Men did not follow a banner without the promise of spoils. Amends would be made.

He saw his own banner unfurled against the setting sun, the yellow bend sinister denoting his illegitimate birth; the black shape of a hawk, his own emblem, silhouetted against a blood red ground.

A rider approached. It was Jonvil, his captain, astride his great, black Norman charger. Seeing him, Moncoutant turned to mount his own horse and went to meet him.

"Mon seigneur," Jonvil saluted him. " I have seen to your…affairs in the village. I have distributed the gold."

" And all is well?" Moncoutant inquired.

"The local witch curses you, seigneur, of course."

"Of course," said Moncoutant, faintly amused. "Is it a very bad curse, Jonvil?"

"It is a curse of madness and ignoble death, I am afraid, sir," replied Jonvil, shaking his head. "On you and all of your blood."

"All of my blood, eh?" snorted Moncoutant," Do I take that to include my brother the king? I know what it is like to be left out of things, Jonvil. One does not wish to perpetuate the insult. Yes, I do think Charles must be included." He smiled, revealing strong white teeth in a handsome, black-bearded face. "But I am disappointed, Jonvil. Might I not have hoped for something more clever from a true Breton witch? That all my progeny might be born with tails and breath that stinks of garlic, perhaps?"

Jonvil nodded, half-smiling. "It is a very ordinary curse, mon seigneur. 'A curse on you and all of your blood, until such time as the last of your line shall spill his blood in this place'. That was the thrust of it, I think."

"This place," Moncoutant echoed him, and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Tell me again, Jonvil, what is this place?"

"The village, mon seigneur, is called Muzillac."

Go to Part 1