Everything has gone according to plan so far: you have sneaked inside the monastery, have stolen some parchment, have written a quick, rough note:
To Brother Johannes: Sed has read your note and will forever carry you in his heart in his quest to protect knowledge. Their friend (?), Saxber.
You have looked at the note. Re-read it. Have finally decided to make a few small changes:
To Brother Johannes: Sed has read your note and will forever carry you in his heart in his quest to protect knowledge. Their friend (?), Saxber.
You have re-re-read the note, and smiled. You have folded it up. You have put it in your pocket. You have waited until nighttime in the shadows. You have risen, then, and tip-toed all the way to the altar. You have kneeled before it, prayer-like but not quite. You have rummaged through, have found the Book of Prophesies, have opened it to an appropriate tale — one of loss, perhaps, or of grief.
And now you are silently, carefully, slipping in the note. The night is pitch black, and nothing stirs but the wind. Or, well, almost nothing.
Suddenly: footsteps. Candlelight. And before you can hide, a familiar voice:
“A nighttime prayer, Saxber?”
You slam the Book of Prophesies shut, the note still inside, and shove it back into place. Shit.
“Yes, Brother Dermody,” you say sweetly. “I had… a crisis of faith at a most inconvenient hour. But I’ll be heading out now.”
“Right…” Brother Dermody says, shaking his head and approaching you. You sidestep away, and are about to sprint out of the room when he raises his voice:
“Don’t you dare, Saxber.” You are not one to be easily intimidated, but something about the tone of his voice makes you freeze in place. Brother Dermody continues to reprimand you as he approaches the altar, kneels down, and picks up the Book: “To be gone for so long… telling no one of your leaving… and then, once you return, this is what you do…?” You’re stunned. Is that… hurt in his voice? Worry?
You hear Brother Dermody take a shaky breath, then watch as he begins to flip through the Book of Prophesies, inspecting it with a keen eye.
“I didn’t… I didn’t deface it, if that’s what you’re looking for,” you say, the words barely a whisper as they slip out of your mouth.
Brother Dermody eyes you curiously, both surprise and suspicion colouring his expression. “You… didn’t?”
You shake your head, and flip to the page where you left Brother Johanne’s note. You tap it with a fingernail, and Brother Dermody picks it up. Unfolds it. Reads it. Then, he looks up at you, and blinks.
“Saxber…” He begins and, for a moment, your mind cycles through all the questions he could possibly ask you:
Who is this Brother Johannes?
Why disturb the Book of Prophesies?
How did you sneak in here?
Where in God’s green Earth have you been for the past several months?!
But instead, you watch his eyes widen as he asks: “Saxber… you made a friend?”
For a second, you are speechless. “I– I… I suppose so? Yes?”
Brother Dermody re-reads your note. Then looks at the Book. Then at you.
And then, his expression relaxing, he returns your note to where you had placed it, and closes the Book.
“C’mon, lassie,” he says, draping a friendly arm over your shoulders. “Let’s get you somewhere to sleep.”
You aren’t quite sure why you’re smiling: because of the countless rumours you’ll be able to spread after this, or because, for once, you have done a nice thing.
…Maybe it’s both.
Saxber became a strangely prolific writer after she reappeared from her sudden absence. An absence that some silently speculated was due to the supposed 'widow' being arrested or snatched for questioning due to previous 'thefts’. But most verbal gossip suggested that the abbey, and Brother Dermody in particular, simply kept her locked up and partitioned to one wing. Trying to turn her into a proper lady.
Finally.
All of these were wrong, of course. But that was fine. It did not change the fact that the common folks ate up Saxber's collection of short stories as if it were the literal last supper.
(this one especially was a hit with the city guard, who pride themselves on their expertise with sword and spear or axe and arrow)
…and so on. One for each 'Chosen', as Saxber referred to a gang of historical misfits who roamed a magical Library. It was well and truly before its time, her compilation of fantastical tales.
Too bad no one believed they were more than fiction. Though Saxber, of course, would never forget the truth…
At some point, the mysterious Saxber, already wealthier than before thanks in part to the sales from her various short stories and also a stunning amount of gold jewelry she pawned off, purchases a plot of land near the abbey.
A cottage is built from the ground up, along with a long building like that used for smithing or tanning. The townsfolk take note of the construction with a mixture of trepidation and excitement.
There sure aren't a lot of changes that happen around this place so even new buildings can elicit a stir and fill the long evenings over a pot of stew with conversation.
After the buildings are completed, a sign goes up along the dirt road:
LOST AND ALONE? NOWHERE TO GO?
Mistress Saxber can help you get back on your feet. She offers ale, water, bread, and potato stew for all who need it.
A Place for Outcasts from Society. SAXBER'S SHELTER.
From henceforth, the riff-raff from all over England, Scotland, Wales, and yes, even Ireland, make their way through Saxber's Shelter. It is not a place where people live out their whole lives, but one where they can rest and recuperate until their strength – or strength of will — returns.
And they can count on the axe-wielding 'Mistress Saxber' to protect them until then, warding off tax collectors and bored guardsmen who have nothing better to do than pester the poor and down-on-their-luck. They won't get through Saxber.
No way.
On Weapons Training in the Abbey, a conversation between Saxber and Brother Dermody:
S:“You're defenseless, painfully so. If so much as a swarm of flies attacked ye… well you would be belly up in the river before dawn!”
BD: “We are scholars, NOT warriors, Saxber! How many times do I need to tell you-”
S: “There are warrior-monks you know! Or… er… there will be…”
BD: a weary sigh “What in the world has gotten into you, Saxber… fine. If you wish to train some of the younger monks to wield a blade, I will not hinder you. As long as…”
S: “As long as…?”
BD: “You do not interrupt their scripture lessons AND you promise to teach me a bit about axe throwing. Yes?”
S: laughter “It's a promise, Brother Dermody.”