The Dalbon Chronicles: A CK/FBCB Dynasty

[Cap Ologist]

The funeral was attended by only two people, three if you count the body in the casket. Most of the people who would have been there were already permanent residents in the cemetery. The priest looked around and quietly asked the lone mourner if he should wait or go ahead. The muffled response was unintelligible, so he decided to begin.

The lone mourner sat silently on the front row. Numbly, bankrupt of emotion, listening to the familiar words failing to provide comfort when comfort was needed more than ever. The rain began to fall at some point, a light drizzling mess. Just enough to get everything wet, but not enough to fight off drought. The priest cut some of his preplanned remarks short, and it was over. An awkward pause, a few coughs, one last glance at the coffin, and a short walk to a nearby car, followed by a dazed drive back to the family house, the Dalbon house as it was known around town.

Fortunately, the house had a covered walkway from the garage to the back door. Right key, right direction, finally the door unlocked. Light switch by the door flicked on, and the darkness retreated from the invasion of light to lie in wait for it's chance to reconquer it's prize.

Through the kitchen, down the short front hallway, lights invading darkness in every room as the mourner searched for solace. Front parlor? No. Guest bedroom? Of course not. Grandfather's den? Why the hell not? Solace would not be found no matter how diligently it was searched for. Not today.

The old leather chair beckoned from the corner. How many hours had young children sat in front of Grandfather, listening to the stories he told. Stories. No matter the audience, no matter the list of things pressing, he always had a story, a story that seemed almost as if he knew what troubled the heart, and what the heart needed to hear.

Grandfather was not here, but there was Scotch on the table, and Scotch would have to do today. Johnny Walker Blue, the one thing Grandfather would never allow to run out of. The first shot of warmth on that day followed the first shot of whiskey.

The room was so familiar, nothing had changed in the last twenty-five years. The couch against the far wall, the book shelves to the right, the coffee table and coffee table books, the... One book caught the eye. It was obviously an older book, the binding representing a time long past when books were sold not by megabook chains in crowded shopping centers, but by distinguished stores in quiet buildings.

A thin layer of dust was quickly dispatched, and the book was briefly set down, only to be picked up again after another glass of whiskey was poured. Settling back in Grandfather's chair, taking a step back in time, The Dalbon Chronicles was opened.

The first story in the Chronicles was so familiar, so well known that it probably didn't even need to be read. Guigues D'Albon, the first known ancestor of the family. Guigues the Old had somehow managed to find favor with the German king, and was awarded a small landlocked county, Dauphine Viennois for his services. His failing health led him to pass his title of Count of Dauphine Viennois to his oldest son, Guigues the Younger. Guigues the Younger lacked the wisdom and loyalty of his father, but possessed more than a healthy sum of ambition.

It was this ambition that led him to the neighboring county of Forez in pursuit of a bride, a bride who would hopefully bear many strong sons as well as provide a link of inheritance to the Forez/Lyons lands. What he got was more than he'd ever expected, and like most men more than he deserved.

Ida de Forez would be his companion for the rest of his days. Her gentleness toward all she came in contact with broke through the cold ambition that shrouded her husband's heart. His eyes no longer looked north to her family lands for his own possible gain.

His ambition was not destroyed however, just redirected to the south. It came to pass that Guigues the Old had used his allotted days on earth. The King of Germany, still holding warm feelings toward his former servant, would condescend to attend the funeral. When news that the King would be there, the ambitious dukes and counts made plans to attend, in hopes that they would somehow win the favor of the King.

One of these dukes who came to the small family castle of the D'Albons, was the Duke of Apulia, Robert Guiscard de Hauteville. The Duke of Apulia was an independent Duke who held much of the lands and titles of the southern peninsula known as Italy. de Hauteville wanted to shore up support from the German king for an ambitious conquest of the fortress at Palermo in Sicilian territory.

It was a seemingly harmless comment, but at some point during the day, de Hauteville made a remark that was not meant to be overheard, and definitely not by the host of the funeral. Guigues the Younger, who'd had a bit too much to drink, had now found his target for his ambitious plans. Knowing that it would take the Duke some time to return home and assemble his forces before laying siege to Palermo, Guigues the Younger quickly gathered his smaller force of men. Though they were small in number, they were incredibly well trained and led by Guigues' Marshall, his bastard brother, Humbert.

The small force moved quickly and captured not only Palermo, but the neighboring territories of Agrigento, Trapani and Siracusa. Guigues used the plunder from his decisive victories to arrange a ceremony where he proclaimed himself the Duke of Sicily.

This move angered greatly the de Hautevilles, for they had their eyes on an even bigger prize, the Kingship of Sicily. To make matters worse, two independent counts that bordered the de Hautevilles holdings pledged their loyalty to the upstart Duke of Sicily.

The Pope, who was monitoring the situation carefully, sent letters to each Duke, declaring that if either Duke attacked the other, he did so at risk of his soul. The threat of excommunication did the trick, and a fragile peace descended upon the area.

Guigues spent much of his fortune building improvements in his provinces that would not only help his people, but would also improve his military. Though the Pope had promised excommunication, Guigues knew that the next Pope might have a different opinion, a very important opinion that could not be left to chance.

Sadly, Guigues would never get to the see his dreams come to fruition, that would be left for his sons to attempt.

Memories came back as the book was carefully placed back on the coffee table. He was a basketball coach in Texas, she was a waitress at a little restaurant in the middle of the Ozarks. It was lunchtime or was it dinner? Didn't really matter in the scheme of things, he had come into the restaurant alone again. Being a small town, she knew he was not a local. He kept to himself, sat at the same table every day, was polite enough, a decent tipper. Their conversation had been limited to the pleasantries and requests that make up typical restaurant banter.

He'd been at the restaurant for at least an hour that day, which was out of the ordinary. If she'd been more observant, she would have noticed that although he was never looking directly at her, his eyes never missed anything that she did. He had just been about to give up when the Hilder boys had come in, led as always by the oldest and biggest, Travis. The Hilder boys lacked brains, lacked manners and most definitely lacked personal hygiene. Annoyed at their noise, he'd almost gotten up and left.

When he saw they sat at one of her tables, he lingered a few minutes longer. It took Travis about 3 minutes to make a fool of himself, and that was only because he spent the first 2.5 minutes on his cell phone.

From his seat across the restaurant, he could see all three of the Hilder boys. He knew them well. Oh, he didn't know these boys by name, in fact he'd never said a word to any of them, but he knew them. You could find them in any small town you went to if you stopped long enough to look. They placed their orders and began to loudly talk about their exploits from the previous night, most likely full of shit, and mainly to let everyone in earshot know how manly they were.

Their food came, and he left his seat to go pay his ticket, maybe go for a walk, maybe go back and read, maybe think about her. Travis' voice caught his attention, "My food is cold, bitch."

He got just what he wanted, every eye turned to see the great Travis Hilder. Seeing that he had their attention, "I'm not gonna pay for that, what the hell kind of place is this?"

She looked for help in a sea of faces, but nobody came to her rescue. No manager trained to rush in and head off a disgruntled costumer. She turned to apologize and that was when Travis, full of himself and critically lacking in intelligence, threw his plate at her. He missed, but caught himself, "Next time, I won't miss, bitch."

A glass of ice water hit him square in the face, and he blinked, stunned. Before Travis knew what was happening, someone had one of his ears jerked roughly back and his arm twisted behind his back. He was moving, and moving quickly through the restaurant. The door was temporarily closed, but his 'chauffeur' didn't slow down to open it. Like a battering ram, the crown of his head plowed through the door and into the stone column outside.

Travis looked up from where he lay on the ground, not recognizing his assailant. He found himself staring up at cold, blue eyes that didn't blink. "You sonuvabitch," Travis began.

"Shut your pie hole," the stranger said. "I don't know who you are or why you don't shower, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you act like that. Get your sorry ass out of here now if you ever wanna walk again."

Travis had never backed down from anyone before, but as they say there is a first time for everything. He picked himself up, brushed his greasy hair back behind his ears, hollered for his brothers and headed for his pickup, then the parking lot exit, then back to wherever maggots like them choose to hang out.

By this time, a crowd had gathered, talking excitedly about what they had just seen. The locals were torn between standing there and rehashing each detail or being the first to start the inevitable phone tag that takes place in small towns.

He walked back inside, picked up his ticket and went to pay the cashier. The cashier was usually a talkative old lady who would bend his ear about all sorts of banality that he could have cared less about, however on this day, she just gave him a quiet, knowing smile and didn't say a word.

Those who had resisted the urge to start the phone tag were looking at him. It almost unnerved him, he put his Lumberjacks hat on, and said over his shoulder, "I hate rude behavior in a man, won't tolerate it either."

They spent the rest of the day together. He was captivated by her in ways he'd never experienced or imagined, and she felt secure for the first time in her life. The rest of the week flew by, and the day they'd been dreading finally came to be.

He had to go back to Texas, to Nacogdoches, but would return as soon as he could. A few weeks later, he was back. Fresh off of his first 30 win season and leading his team to the second round of the tournament, he found himself working as a short order cook at the restaurant during the off-season.

He would often chuckle to himself that he'd won at least 20 games six out of the last seven seasons, was a prominent name mentioned in job openings at prestigious programs around the country each year, and yet in this little town, tucked high up in the Ozarks, he was known simply as Michael, the guy from Texas who'd fallen for Melissa, and fallen hard.