Read Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren for Free Online

something easily seen until one turned one’s head. It had not been a thing that could easily be lifted and transported in all its glory to another place or time.
    This wispy, momentary quality of love had permeated every relationship I dared label as love. I wondered at the words of poets and philosophers who professed of loves that transcended all earthly concerns and bound the participants with unbreakable chains of the heart. Perhaps they had only been dreaming, too.
    I slipped from his bed and padded on bare feet back to my room. I almost tripped on a small bag at his door. There was another at mine, which I hefted with surprise. Teresina had been generous in funding our travel. My bag contained a fortune in florins. I was thankful, as I had little else to call my own, save my weapons and horse. I had lived ten years through the beneficence of friends and the misfortune of adversaries. Now, I supposed, I would throw myself upon my father’s goodwill, as was my birthright.
    I began to pack. The growing loneliness did not burn so much as it froze. I grew numb. Even though it was Alonso I was deserting, it felt as it had with many of the women I had taken as lovers. It was morning and I wanted to be away with the changing of the heavenly watch. I wanted Florence behind me, since there was nothing in it to hold me anymore. I left everything except the money, my weapons, and a few changes of warm clothing.
    Many would think me mad to consider crossing Europe alone on horseback carrying a small fortune, especially while riding a fine horse.
    I may be rash, but I am not naïve. I would avoid the inns and well-traveled roads. The hardships of the journey would serve to buff the mettle of my soul. This would serve me well, as I would need to know what I was made of before entering my father’s house again.
    Less than an hour later, I sat upon Hercules and chewed the remains of my hurriedly-snatched repast. I rode to a bridge over the Arno and watched the sun rise. The angle was wrong, due to the difference in direction from the night before. The river did not glow gold as it had burned red. I rode west anyway.
    Perhaps the Gods had been trying to tell me something, after all.

Two
    II: England - November, 1666 to January, 1667
    Wherein I Return To England
    To my dismay, I was apprised in a little market in Turin that France was at war with England. I abandoned my identity as Ulysses, adopted Austrian papers and accent, and headed for Paris anyway, as I had little recourse.
    Once in that fair city, in which I had spent several years after first leaving England, I located a fine horseman I had known and made him a gift of my Moorish stallion. He was pleased to have so beautiful a horse for breeding, and I was content to know that Hercules would spend the rest of his days frolicking in green pastures and mounting mares.
    I, on the other hand, was forced to make a choice between a long barge ride down the Seine to the sea, where I would have to place myself at the mercy of smugglers or pirates to reach England – or a miserable coach ride north to Antwerp to book legitimate passage across the Channel. As I knew smugglers would have little incentive not to slit my throat, even if I gave them all of my money upon boarding, I chose the least comfortable route. I bought a pillow to give some comfort to my arse, and a bottle to make the conversation and odors of my fellow passengers somewhat palatable.
    I finally arrived on English soil at London in the last week of November, 1666, per the Julian calendar: which, now that I had returned to my native soil, I was forced to adopt once again. A storm had harried the crossing and it had been quite violent, remarked upon by even the sailors. The following ride up the Thames had been exceedingly wet and cold, as the storm had delivered copious amounts of sleet. I hoped fervently I would never have to board another vessel, but I knew that to be folly. I could not imagine staying in England for