Chapter Eight
Henslowe Hall
February 23, 1136—night The baron's daughter-in-law gave Sister Helena a speculative once-over once they'd reached the privacy of Helena's guest chamber. "Are you truly the bishop's concubine, or are you the younger priest's?" she asked.
The magistra stared at Lady Elsebet, mortified. "Am I
what?!"
The lady's eyes met Helena's stricken gaze somewhat defiantly. "I beg pardon if I've misconstrued," she said, not sounding all that apologetic, "but Bertram believes it to be the case." She shrugged. "Then again, my lord husband can be a bit...harsh...when it comes to his thoughts regarding the gentler sex." She gave Helena a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I know the priests call you 'Sister Helena,' but you're obviously not cloistered. And the bishop
is rather handsome and seems a charming sort. And it's hardly conventional for two priests to bring a woman along when they travel abroad. If I might ask, why
are you here?"
A number of indignant responses flitted through Helena's mind, but she settled for the unembellished truth. "I'm a magistra and a scholar at the Schola of Saint Camber. Baron Henslowe extended his invitation to the Schola magistri to examine the Deryni collection his workmen found while they were expanding his library. I have certain talents that our rector—that is, Bishop Duncan—and our librarian Father John thought might be useful in that regard."
And those talents certainly don't extend to the point of acting as a bishop's bedwarmer, no matter how I might happen to feel about him...Jesú, the effrontery of the woman! "I am called 'Sister Helena' because I am a Servant of Saint Camber, and it is our custom to address each other as 'Sister' or 'Brother' as the case may be."
Lady Elsebet tilted her head curiously at the lay sister. "But yours isn't a conventional religious order, is it? You Servants aren't sworn to celibacy, or so I've heard."
"Most are not, that is true," Helena affirmed. "Married Servants
are permitted, but we're still expected to be chaste nonetheless, married or not. Though obviously priests are expected to be both celibate and chaste. Being affiliated with the Schola has no bearing on
that."
The baron's daughter-in-law shrugged again. "Yes, yes, of course, but men are men, regardless of such niceties as vows." She gave Helena a wry smile. "Mine vowed to love, honor, and cherish me, after all, not to mention all that crap about faithfulness." She snorted in derision. "Who believes in any of it, really, except for innocent maidens and fools?" The woman's dark eyes studied Helena. "You don't seem to be a fool. Are you an innocent?"
Helena gave her a wry smile. "Hardly that. I was wed for a dozen years before I was widowed. And my marriage was far from the idyllic sort that would allow idealistic notions to thrive."
"Ah. A widow, are you? Lucky you."
"As it happens, yes. But I'd not write off the entire male sex for the sins of a few."
Lady Elsebet gave a mirthless chuckle. "
You've not been married to a Henslowe." She started to turn towards the door, but paused just inside, one hand on the latch. "What is it that the bishop is hoping to find on the castle grounds? Surely he doesn't think to find any signs of Baroness Ardith still around after all these years?"
Helena shrugged. "Granted, that would be doubtful. But as Bishop Duncan said, it
is a lovely castle."
The lady studied her intently for a moment, then her expression softened. "I'm pleased he's so taken with it, then. I've done my best to keep it well maintained. The Baron took pride in the property back in his day and continues to make improvements as he can, but now that he's unable to get around easily, most of the task has been left to me. Bertram would let it fall into ruin if it were left up to him; he's keener on his damned horses and hounds than on maintaining his patrimony. But
I intend to see my son has a decently kept hall to inherit along with the Henslowe lands."
"I'm certain the Baron must be quite grateful to have such an asset in his son's wife."
Lady Elsebet snorted. "That might be stretching the point. He'd think me more an asset, I'm sure, if I'd bred more sons for Bertram. But there are limits to what I'm willing to do for the sake of Henslowe Hall." She gave Helena a wry smile. "I'll see what I can do to arrange a tour of the grounds for your bishop. Try not to dig up any old family scandals, will you? The old Baron might be keen on solving ancient family mysteries, but Bertram is more minded just to let sleeping dogs lie. Or bitches, as the case may be." She rolled her eyes, shook her head in resignation, and let herself out.
#
Henslowe Hall
February 24, 1136 The following morning, the houseguests were greeted by the baron's grandson, the surly looking young fellow who had been seated by his mother's side at table the previous evening. To his credit, this morning he appeared somewhat more cheerful as he greeted his grandfather's visitors with a respectful bow. "Father says you've asked for a tour of the castle grounds," he told them. "Unfortunately he's tied up this morning hearing a dispute between two of our villeins, but if you're still interested in a tour, I can take you." He shrugged. "I was born here; I reckon I know most there is to know about the old heap." Despite the deprecating words, his eyes gleamed with pride as he glanced up at the castle walls.
"A tour would be greatly appreciated," Bishop Duncan told him. "Thank you. I hope our timing isn't inconvenient; I didn't realize your father would be holding court this morning." He paused briefly, wondering if there was any significance in the heir being chosen to hear the case instead of the baron. Had the baron, knowing he was aging and growing increasingly unwell, already delegated most of his official duties to his heir? That wouldn't be unheard of in a man his age. "And how does Baron Henslowe fare today?" Duncan asked.
The lad snorted, looking amused. "Well enough, I suppose, my lord. Probably just sleeping in. From the sounds of things, I think he kept going at Adela half the night.
I should have so much energy!"
That was definitely more than the bishop had any desire to know, though it explained why the young woman had not been in attendance at breakfast earlier that morning, and why she was not presiding over her husband's court in his stead. He stole a glance at John, who was studiously looking elsewhere, turning a vivid shade of rose.
"So," said Duncan brightly, "let's see those gardens, shall we, while the weather still holds?"
#
The baron's grandson, young Lord Elbert, began with a tour of the outer bailey. He proved to be quite knowledgeable of the castle's history and under Duncan's deft questioning pointed out a number of changes to the castle's structure that had been added on in the last century, and when each wall, outbuilding, or turret had been built in comparison to all the others. While he didn't know the precise years of each stage of the additions, he knew enough of the order of them for Duncan to get a fair picture of the differences between the Henslowe Hall of Baroness Ardith's time and the structure as it currently stood. The lad seemed quite willing to share the information; whether he was of the same mind as his grandfather and eager to give the castle's visitors any aid he could in their quest, or if he just didn't suspect the bishop had any reason to ask besides simple curiosity, Duncan did not know. Lord Elbert didn't seem a particularly clever sort, but neither did he strike Duncan as a dullard.
After several minutes in the young man's company, however, the bishop began to notice how often the young lord's eyes strayed in Sister Helena's direction, lingering on her in barely banked curiosity. He rarely addressed her directly, although he responded to her questions courteously enough when she ventured to raise one.
They left the outer bailey with its stables and other outbuildings, entering through a small portcullis into the inner bailey, which contained the castle gardens and a small stretch of well-tended green. As they entered this smaller courtyard, the young lord picked a sprig of ivy and handed it to the magistra. "If you'd come in June, there'd be roses in the arbor," he told her, a slight smile playing across his lips, "but as it's just February, this shall have to do, I'm afraid, my lady."
Helena looked startled by the sudden show of gallantry, but she gave the lad a smiling curtsey nonetheless, pausing to affix the sprig to the bodice of her robes with a spare veil pin, offering him a quiet word of thanks. Lord Eldred looked quite pleased with himself as he moved on, ushering them down a garden path towards the dovecote and apiary. Duncan stole a glance back at the magistra's bemused expression and chuckled. She'd evidently gained an admirer.
Stolen a heart, have you? he teased her mentally.
Jesú, I certainly hope not! she replied in kind, her eyes laughing back at him beneath the edge of her veil.
He's young enough to be my son! The baroness is young enough to be the baron's granddaughter. You'd fit right into the family. Father Duncan, don't make me hurt you. The bishop stifled a laugh.
#
Helena stopped being amused when the young prat cornered her behind the dovecote. Bishop Duncan and Father John had moved ahead to give one of the original towers of the castle a closer inspection, but she had lingered behind, drawn to the honeycomb pattern of the brickwork, and had moved to a secluded corner between the dovecote and the keep's wall when she felt a questing hand stroke her hip. She whirled on the young lord, eyes flashing with indignation.
"And what do you think you're doing?" she sputtered.
His dark eyes gleamed down at her, the faint smile playing around his mouth again. "Do you like younger men, my lady? I could arrange for a more private tour of the castle later in the evening."
She gaped up at him, backing away until her back encountered the rough brick surface of the dovecote wall. "I most certainly do
not!"
"Are you sure?" He grinned down at her. "Don't be coy, my lady. The bishop needn't know. And surely I can manage to show you a better time than some rusty old priest."
Rusty old.... "Bloody hell, child, what do you think I teach at the Schola?!" Helena roared at him, not bothering to keep her voice down, offended both for her own sake and, oddly enough, also for Duncan's. "If you think you're going to learn the
ars amatoria from
me, cub, you're sadly mistaken!"
The bishop rounded the corner at that moment. At her outburst, he stopped in his tracks, his expression growing dangerously still aside from the blue eyes which flitted from the speaker to the object of her ire. "Is there a problem?" he asked quietly. That quiet tone, Helena knew, was deceptive in its calmness; she could practically feel the anger radiating from him across the small expanse of grassy lawn that separated them.
"Our young guide seems to be under the impression that I'm your leman," she retorted. "Either yours or Father John's. Or perhaps both." The woman's eyes blazed with fury. "Tell me, lad, do I also serve the Archbishop after Mass on Sundays?"
Lord Elbert glanced warily between the two of them, mouth hanging ajar, seeming to have finally awakened to the hornet's nest he'd stirred up. "I...ah...may have misconstrued."
"You may well have," the bishop affirmed, his voice growing, if anything, even more deadly quiet. "You will apologize to Sister Helena, and then you and I shall have a chat." He glanced at the magistra, all vestiges of his earlier good humor gone. "I left Father John over by the keep," he told her.
#
Helena didn't hear what the bishop had to say to the impertinent lordling after the younger man had stammered out his apologies to her, for once the youth was done babbling, Duncan had tilted his head in the general direction of the keep in an unmistakable directive for her to leave and rejoin their companion while he dealt privately with the matter. Whatever he'd said or done, however, had evidently stricken terror in Lord Elbert's soul, for when Helena finally caught sight of the fleeing lad, there was a telltale spreading dampness in the lad's tunic hem and chausses that could not be ascribed to lingering morning mists. Duncan, for his part, returned to his companions with an expression as serene as if he'd simply been discussing the weather.
"Shall we go on with our tour, then?" he asked no one in particular, leading the way down one of the garden paths towards a section of the courtyard they had not seen yet. "I think we can enjoy the rest of the sights without the benefit of a guide. We'll want to hurry, I think; from the look of those clouds moving in, I think our fair weather won't hold very much longer."
Helena glanced up, taking note of the low gray clouds slowly creeping towards them from the west. "Hm. I daresay you're right." She looked up at the dark stone walls before them. "So, this is the oldest part of the castle, I presume?"
"Yes, this is the original portion of the keep. That slightly recessed area closest to the wall is where the old moat used to be, before it was filled in and the castle expanded outward."
She sent him an inquiring look. "Filled in? How long ago did that happen?"
Father John, guessing where her musings were leading her, shook his head. "Not long enough ago to account for our missing baroness, I don't think. Lord Eldred told us it was filled in sometime around the beginning of King Donal's reign. Baroness Ardith disappeared—or was killed—during the early years of King Malcolm's reign, as I recall. "
"And speaking of being filled in...." Duncan gave her a wry smile. "I think it's time we each share what we've pieced together so far about Baroness Ardith's situation. It's been a bit difficult to find a private moment to get together and do that since we arrived here. John and I spent a bit of time last night going over Baroness Ardith's collection and trying to piece together what we could from her writings and from what the Henslowes have told us, but if you could Read a few of her items for us, that might give us more to work from. I understand your reluctance to do so while the Baron was watching and in that particular chamber, but perhaps you'd find the relative privacy of the gardens here more to your liking?"
"I would, but did you bring the items with you? Or do we need to go back up to your rooms for them?"
"I didn't bring everything," John answered for Duncan, fishing in his belt pouch and pulling out a shimmering string of honey-colored beads. "I didn't want to risk the books getting water-damaged if the weather turns while we're out and we get caught in a rainstorm, but I brought a couple of items." He offered her the prayer beads. "I brought the christening gown as well."
Helena looked around at their surroundings, looking for a place to sit. Spying a bench under a nearby shade tree, she moved in that direction, gesturing for the two men to follow her. She took her seat, closing her eyes and getting into a comfortable position. When she was ready, she cupped her hands in front of her in a silent signal for John to place the first item within them.
John poured the prayer beads into Helena's waiting hands.
She gasped quietly. Someone behind her—Duncan?—lay a steadying hand of support upon her shoulder as she rocked backwards under the weight of the pain, suppressing a moan. It was not a physical pain, but a heavy burden of emotional anguish that welled up within her as the shiral beads coiled within her cupped palms. These beads had been used frequently, Helena sensed, by the woman they sought, the late baroness's fervent prayers sent up to anyone—God or saint—who might be listening. Prayers for strength, prayers for safety, prayers for deliverance.
She allowed her mind to follow those feelings, drift deeper into the trance. And then she saw her.
The baroness had been young, not much older than the present-day holder of her title. Certainly no more than twenty. Helena caught an impression of dark braids falling forward to frame the downturned face bent in prayer, though that almost-vision was quite fleeting. It reinforced the previous vision Helena had seen of Baroness Ardith in the mirror the night before. A stream of whispered prayers flowed from her lips involuntarily, an overflow of words that Ardith had prayed during her brief lifetime a few generations earlier. There was a footfall outside the door—no, that wasn't happening now, Helena reminded herself as panic began to rise within her, that was a memory of some occurrence long since passed—and the prayers ended abruptly, the young baroness leaping from her prie-dieu to hide her beads, her incriminating shiral beads, beneath the Lady of Heaven's shrine, lest her husband discover them and somehow realize their significance.
Helena opened her eyes, blinking away tears she was unaware that she had shed. She handed the beads back to John, wordlessly sharing her impressions with him as their fingers brushed. Shared them with Duncan as well, glancing up at him as his fingers tightened involuntarily on her shoulder at the sudden surge of memories and emotions flooding through their brief link.
John looked lost in his thoughts as he crouched before her, his mind going back over the images Helena had just shared. "That was her bedchamber, wasn't it? The current library, I mean. The prie-dieu and the wall shrine were in there, although in Ardith's time the prie-dieu was just below the shrine, so she would have been looking slightly up at it when she knelt to pray. But I got the impression that there was a bed behind her, not bookshelves."
"Yes," Duncan confirmed. "A canopied bed with blue draperies. I saw that as well. There was a matching curtain on the same side of the chamber as the wall niche, where the passage to the former garderobe would have been, so that makes sense. And there was a tapestry on the wall opposite the shrine."
"She was so frightened of him," Helena murmured. "Terrified that he would discover what she was, what his unborn son was as well. Poor child! It certainly couldn't have been a love match—either that or she knew her husband's hatred of Deryni was so strong that she feared no amount of affection he might have felt for her could have withstood the discovery of her heritage." She looked at John. "You never have told me much about what her journal says. You didn't want to risk biasing my own impressions, I believe you told me. Can you sum it up now?"
John glanced up at Duncan inquiringly then nodded. "It pretty much confirmed what you've told us so far. Earlier on in her marriage, she was content enough, although as time went on she began to recognize her husband's antipathy towards the Deryni race. Her family's bloodline had been a well-kept secret up to that point, so she only felt a few qualms at first about the possibility of discovery. She began to suspect she was with child towards the end of her second year of marriage. At that point, the tone of the entries starts to change. Her family was betrayed by someone they trusted—the journal doesn't give many details, but we got that much from it—and of course once they were brought to the stake on trumped-up charges of sorcery and trafficking with demons, she fell under suspicion as well. Her marriage protected her to some degree from outside interference; the first Baron Henslowe had a fair bit of influence, enough to prevent anyone from simply charging her with false crimes. But of course, there was no one to protect her against
him. And a man with anti-Deryni sympathies could hardly have been well-pleased to find himself saddled with a new bride whose family had turned out to be 'treacherous, demon-worshipping Deryni.'"
Helena nodded, glancing back up at Duncan as well. "Do you think her husband killed her, in the end? I'm sure she must have been quite tempted to flee, the poor dear, but where
could she have gone to seek refuge, on her own without family left to turn to and in that particular social and religious climate?"
Duncan sighed. "As much as I hate to assume the worst of our host's ancestor, I imagine that the first Baron Henslowe must have been highly tempted to be rid of his Deryni bride once and for all, in one way or another, and preferably before the birth of any heir who might carry the 'taint.' Whether he'd have resorted to such an extreme solution as murder so he could be free to marry again is anyone's guess, though. We haven't enough evidence to know one way or the other.
She certainly seemed to fear he was capable of turning against her that violently, and two years of marriage to him would have made her a better judge of the man's character than I could be at this far a remove, I should think."
"Was the baby ever born?" Helena asked. "Or did her anxieties make her miscarry?"
The two men shared glances again. This time it was John who answered. "The journal doesn't say. That is, it ends abruptly several months before the baby would have been due, and no miscarriage is mentioned before that final entry."
"How far along would she have been at that last entry?" Helena asked. "Or is it undated?"
John nodded unhappily. "It's undated, though I got the sense that the last several entries were written not too far apart." He held out the tiny christening gown. "Maybe this might tell you something?"
Helena studied the tiny garment, not touching it at first. It appeared unfinished. The basic construction was complete, but the gown was still unhemmed, and the pattern of embroidery embellishing the garment was only half worked. She steadied herself with a deep breath and held out her palm.
A series of conflicting emotions surged through her, and she closed her eyes, focusing on sorting them out. There was contentment at first and cautious joy. Helena got the sense that these had been her emotions earlier on, perhaps when she'd first begun to suspect that a child grew inside her, had first got the idea to cut out the gown in case it should be needed later. She'd hoped it would be needed, for her husband had wed her for breeding heirs. But then, layered atop these initial feelings, came the now familiar fear. A secret kept to avoid disappointing a husband if she were to lose a child after announcing its arrival too early became a secret kept to avoid losing her child to an outraged husband's fury at its Deryni blood.
There was nothing Helena could sense from the garment to indicate what had happened to Ardith's child, however, nor what had happened to his mother. She handed the christening robe back to John, again sharing her impressions with both priests.
A few light sprinkles of moisture began to fall. Helena glanced up, startled, to find that the wintry gray clouds she'd seen moving towards them earlier were now almost directly overhead.
"We'd better get back inside before the bottom falls out of the sky," Duncan said, offering Helena a hand up from the bench.
As she rose, the droplets grew, turning swiftly from mere hints of moisture to falling rain. "Too late!" John yelled, dashing towards the cover of the nearest wall of the Keep, which partially blocked the wind blowing the storm clouds overhead. "Over here; it's drier at the base, and we can follow the length of the wall around to the garden entrance."
Duncan and Helena dashed across the narrow expanse between them and John, the magistra nearly tripping as her footing slipped once upon encountering the slight slope of the recessed area where the former moat had once been, though Duncan caught her with a hand at her elbow. They sprinted across the remaining yards, finally making it to the narrow strip of ground against the keep where the high stonework blocked the falling rain, keeping them mostly dry. Helena reached out to steady herself against the wall. A torrent of panic, horror and despair tore through her, and she recoiled, screaming.
Chapter Nine: http://www.rhemuthcastle.com/index.php?topic=771.0 (http://www.rhemuthcastle.com/index.php?topic=771.0)
Good heavens, what a family! I loved Sister Helena's response to the young upstart and it would have been nice to be a fly on the wall for Bishop Duncan's "chat". The wet tunic was a lovely touch! ;D
Poor Baroness Ardith - I wonder what Sister Helena will be able to learn from the Keep wall. Yes, I know, next week......
Heh. Yes, Duncan might be a good-natured bishop and courtier most of the time, but he's also Duke Jared's son (also a kind and caring man in the right company, but as Rimmell learned, definitely not one to cross!), and there was at least one moment in HD, when his rage over his father's death at Wencit's hands caused him to lose his usual control and kill the Torenthi hostage, when we see Duncan's fiercer side. Whatever he told Lord Elbert, I'm sure that's the Duncan McLain the hapless youth suddenly found himself facing, and not simply some 'rusty old priest.' ;D
There have been many moments in our modern real world where the powers-that-be have had to resist the temptation to treat prisoners as hostages - for example. captured Somali pirates. Follow the Pakistani situation as a wider worked example, where the ISI, a force long-recognised as autonomous of the Government, has nearly supplanted the administrative authority completely.
It would be interesting to discover whether the readings differed by site, as the sympathy must be reinforced by locative association. As far as the breeches are concerned, perhaps it wasn't anything aid - with his powers, I'd have been tempted just to give him a glance and at the same time force his sphincters to relax for a moment. The simple feeling resulting should shame a lad his age and deliver the message to respect the Church autonomously of any other message!
Each and all. The west tends to take the moral high ground of refusing to descend to the level of the pirates, but is often sorely tempted - for example, in the case of Khadafi, I wonder how far away the advisers were. Part of the problem is that the bosses can afford to take moral positions the troops have problems with, as it's kind of personal at the front, something the Press have problems realising.
I'd differentiate between the later Marist interpretation you verge on and the earlier Virginal one. Not much remains of it, but if you visit the churches at Léau, Avioth (the birthplace of St Bernard's Salve Regina), or to a certain extent the Imperial Basilica at Aachen, you find traces of the Cistercian take on the Virgin (for example, in the Vaginal shape of the classical ecclesiastical medallion).
In respect of where this tale is headed, Avioth is particularly relevant, as in its Recevresse it spearheaded the cult of the newborn, to the extent that the stillborn were brought there from far afield in the hopes that some form of life would be miraculously discovered allowing an instant christening and thereby salvation.
Like grandfather, like grandson (and by the sound of it, son as well). Sounds like the young brat got what was coming to him and hopefully got read a lecture on respect by an irate bishop!
Not helped by the wetlook habit now worn by Sister Helena as the result of the rainstorm. The (nameless) lad's a quandry: why's he still at home when he should be off squiring, maybe soon to be knighted? Rejected or runaway?
Which nameless lad? Not referring to the Baron's grandson, are you? If so, his name is Elbert (it's mentioned at the top of the scene where he's about to give the visitors a tour of the gardens). And yes, at his age he's probably a squire to his father. Many lords fostered out their sons, but not all. Maybe they had trouble getting some other knight to take the little git into his household? ;)
And as to the wet habit, they weren't out in the rain all that long, and were mostly sheltered by the wall of the Keep, so hopefully Helena didn't suffer too much of a drenching. Don't want her waking up too mortified. ;D
Indeed on all points. (Doffs his chaplet).
Mind you, describing him as a pudendum may need editing for final publication.
Fear not, I take great care to stay within the boundaries of what Monsieur and Madame Moderators will allow. Although I have been known to shove forcibly at those limits now and again, most often in my efforts to be just as kind and gentle to my cast of characters as KK is to hers.... ;)
Maybe that little brat's mother could benefit from a "Duncan lecture" as well. "Like Mother, Like Son".
The redneck angle was rather more the remnants of Eric the Redneck. Roger de Hauteville, the Norman who took Sicily in 1068, was just four generations removed from a Viking chieftain who was part of an invasion of France in 885, and was himself paid as a mercenary by southern Italians who wanted the Arabs out of their hair, not the best of moves as within a generation they were all his clan's vassals. His life overlapped that of Eleanor of Acquitaine, in power terms his son's immediate neighbour, sufficiently for him to have been an architype behind her invention of the ideals of chivalry, as a measure to reduce the simple barbarity of his ilk. One might paint hm in Taliban terms without too much inconsistency.
"Erik the Redneck"...why, yes, I do believe I know what my husband's costume will be next Halloween. LOL! ;D
Better than my own distant ancestor Eric Bloodaxe, mind you - but I'll leave that to those who want to get into a Hallowe'en frame of mind to investigate exactly how he earned that soubriquet...not the only one, mind you, the French have an abusive term, tire-dents, refering to an ancestor on the other side of the family, who introduced the first commercially-available false teeth, Waterloo teeth they were called...reminds me, gotta go sharpen my scythe for tomorrow. Yup, the back lawn's a meadow and yup, I've got a real scythe. Should liven up the evening for the kids.
Reminds me of the time I took my daughter to the York Dungeon, one of these local gory history reenactment places where the locals find gainful employment. A quiet day, they took rather too long between scenarios, so I removed my back pack and put it on under my jacket for a joke. Said local never seems to have encountered a six-foot 120kg hunchback before...not least when I got me daughter to offer me a slug of Jack Daniels and I was able to reply, "No, no, the Bells, the Bells..."
Anyone else with some 'orribly 'admirable 'ancestors?
There's the old tale about the tattoist turning up the day before the execution with instructions from Elven Safety to mark a line of dots with "Cut here" at the end...
Aside from that whole "dead people don't party much" thing, no problem at all, except that it would be difficult to ever pass Brion off as Duncan without an extreme makeover. :D. And again, there's the whole "medieval clothes don't count as costumes because I get to wear them regularly and just think of them as normal wardrobe" mindset that would make it unlikely DH would be interested in showing up to a Halloween party as anyone from the Deryni books. (That and he's not read them.)
So the streets of Mobile are thick with lepers in full rags, complete with bowls and clappers, dripping merry pus, and the corners are decorated with visitors from Folsom Street, hung in irons? Persuade him his alternative is to go as Marat - Charlotte Corday fixed HIM in the bath, so presumably utterly uncostumed.
Steam catapult yet! The question is whether to load with gummi bears for the adhesion, or chocolate eggs for penetration. I reckon I can hit one of the sprites at fifty yards. Next project, a self-igniting Chinese cracker load for Nov 5th. Remember, remember, the 5th of November, Gunpowder, Treason and Plot. However, Guy Fawkes masks are now being worn by Anonymous members, the anarchist group currently besieging St Pauls Cathedral who also specialise in DDOS attacks of capitalist websites. They really don't understand what happens to Guy Fawkeses on Fireworks Night!
We've ended up on the wrong meme here - this is Lammas Night territory, where the white covens may be somewhat concerned by the confused symbology of the night. Souls on the loose tonight are most certainly not celestial - yet - but may be infernal. The balance lies on the dark side, therefore, as shown by the artistic themes on the subject. The accursed walking the earth, temporarily released from limbo as the sole option to checking in to a more painful place, the poor Bishop would surely sympathise with DH's lack of inspiration! It's a night for all good vicars to be preparing their sermons for the morrow. But for the bad ones...
Just had the first nervous visitors, no wonder given the classical radio channel in the background had just hit the peak of the Dies Irae from Berlioz' Symphonie Fantastique as they rang the bell! By comparison with the Belgians, weak and quivering...
The coolest Hallowe'en costume I ever had was when I was 11 or 12 and I decided to go as the Headless Horseman from "Legend of Sleepy Hollow." My father took some heavy wire mesh and bent it into the shape of a head & shoulders that fit on top of mine like football pads. It had a hole in the chest I could see through. We made a severed neck from paper-mache, then took an old black turtle neck of my father's and pulled it on over that; I could see through the cloth, dimly. We then put an old tweed jacket over it and stuffed the sleeves with newspaper and my mother sewed a pair of gloves stuffed with cotton onto the sleeves and glued a riding crop to one hand. I wore jhodpurs and boots. For years afterwards it lived in the furnace room and scared unwary visitors.
Then there was the famous sign put up by George Thalben Ball over the Music Department at Kings College London in the 1960s, "Abandon Counterpoint All Ye Who Enter Here"...which does simplify matters when it comes to Hildegard. Mind you, I've always wondered exactly how she managed to keep her bunch spotless when the rest of the Rhine was full of Carmina Burana monasteries and nunneries, intermingled.