The Lady of Restenford and her retinue arrive on the outskirts of a settlement just as the sun is setting itself into the horizon, visible beneath the clouds that have dogged their travel all day. Within the town, though it is a bit small to be called that and definitely too large to be a village, they find at its centre a walled off stone manor house with a large sturdy gate. Ser Edmund's residence. Still visible in the half light, across the large wide river that skirts the town, is a large imposing castle. Ser Lothryn advises this is the home to one of Malegaunt's vassals.
Lothryn also notes with worry the absence of any other stone walls in Lastford. Not even a palisade for protection. He muses over this as Ser Fossett dismounts and knocks firmly on the door set into the gate. His thuds echo into the silence. The place seems strangely deserted; no smoke visible from the kitchen or hearth fires; the ground looks undisturbed; no voices, no dogs, all is quiet.
“Oo is eet?” Comes a voice from behind the door.
Fossett starts a little then draws himself up to his full height in importance, he is the representative of his Lady. “It is your Lady.”
“Me laydee? Aye ‘av no laydee!” The voice resolves itself into the face of a wizened old man; old brown eyes screwed up to squint into focus. His chin is grizzled, cheeks drawn and hair a long, grey and unsightly thin mop from a balding crown. Fossett coughs and perseveres.
"This is the Lady of this Land." He flourishes a hand at the disguised Laria.
“Theese are Sur Edmund’s lands an’ ee ‘as no laydee! Come boy make sense!” The old face squints in a new fashion as if trying to make out the faces of the others accompanying this young nuisance of a lad. What a time to be calling at anyway.
“An’ oo Sur, be you?” He looks pointedly up at Lothryn who dismounts and steps forward. Nodding agreeably at Fossett as he walks past, Lothryn quickly explains that Lady Iah is now heir to the Bann of Restenford and therefore Lady of Restenford and all its vassals and their fiefdoms. He finishes by saying that as such they are here to speak with Sir Edmund for an official introduction.
“Aaaah well ee’s not eer is ee? Ee’s off at that ‘untin lodge ee ‘as. Taken em all ee as, an left me ‘ere to look after the place ee ‘as. Aye don’t know when ee’ll be back but ye can come in an wait. Ahm Willam, the warden of this ere manor. Come in! Come in!”
They are led through the courtyard to the stables were the knights Fossett and Shelby house and tend to the mounts. Inside they are offered all that Willam can - bread, cheese and board for the night. He apologises but his master, Ser Edmund, has taken the whole household to the hunting lodge in the South in the Korcari Wilds. Laria asks if he would be so good as to arrange a guide to the hunting lodge for them in the morning for it is important that they meet with Ser Edmund soon. Willam grumbles and thinks, rubbing his stubbly chin.
“Yees me son could av taken you.”
“Ah, that would be most welcome.” Smiles Laria.
“Eh? But ee’s dead now.” Willam grimaces and shakes his head. “I’ll ‘av me grandson show you. Ee knows the way awright.”
Once the young knights enter from their duties, Ser Lothryn asks if there is an inn nearby for some refreshment. The old servant nods and explains that there is a traveler’s inn just back along the road, not far. Willam excuses himself and skulks off, back to his cramped quarters by the gate. Lothryn asks Shelby along with him and they quickly change from their knight’s garb into something more comfortable and less conspicuous. Fossett stays behind, happy to attend his duty as protector of Lady Iah and her companion Laria. He is not one for drinking strong ales.
They find the inn safely and swiftly enough, keeping to the middle of the road in the growing dark. They find it to be quite quiet, though there are lights on and there is convivial chatter but no signs of any caravans or horses. A quiet inn for one meant for travelers coming to such a large town, late autumn though it is.
Entering, the conversation goes quiet for a moment as the regulars take in the new comers, but picks up where it left off as Lothryn and Shelby head for the bar- four kegs on the far wall tended by the inn keeper. They order a container of whatever is popular and seat themselves at an unpopulated table hoping to hear any passing news through the chatter.
What comes to them is what would be expected - the normal chatter of the every-day man; about work, home and life. Nothing relative to Ser Edmund or the land or the town. Shelby finds the brew to be a pleasant dark ale of chestnut hue and not-too bitter taste, at least the journey is not all wasted. Soon the atmosphere is broken again by the entry of a party of armed men, not knights and not peasants. The silence is different this time; the regulars keep their eyes fixed in their drinks and the air tenses. Once the talking begins to start uneasily again the knights decide it best to leave. Outside they find the newcomers mounts - large fairly well kitted horses. Walking past them in the direction of the manor they notice the beasts move to keep them in their sight. “Interesting.” comments Lothryn. They are trained Warhorses.
Back in the safety of the stale and cold manor they find only an hour has passed since their leaving. The ladies are still awake and much refreshed. There is talk of what was found and what should be done on the morrow. It is decided best they leave at dawn and hold back to observe the hunting lodge once they arrive before approaching. Lothryn says he shall have Ser Shelby hang back at the manor and if they are not back within two days he shall gather men at arms from Lastford and mount a rescue mission.
Another cold and wet day awaits as the sun rises behind the grey mask of clouds. Laria and Iah are awake and ready after rising with the start of the creeping false dawn. They have dressed in very simple traveling garb. Lothryn checks on the young knights and the women before going to the gate hut to wake the warden.
He finds the hut in the dark of the gate by the sound of Willam’s deep snoring. Closer he is met by the thick unwashed sour smell of an old unkempt man left to his own devices. Filthy midden he thinks to himself.
“Willam!” His voice booms into the small space of the hut to not even a break in the snoring. He tries another bellow. Nothing.
Holding his nose he gives the man’s sleeping quarters a strong boot. This gets the required response. Willam scrabbles out of his bed, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the shadow in his door.
“Ooo is it naow?”
It seems that Willam hasn’t yet told his grandson what he is to do today, yet alone roused him.
An hour and a half after sun-up Willam's grandson finally leads them from the manor on foot. This is after a discussion over horses versus travel on foot and other disagreements, as well as payment. Willam the elder is paid for his troubles of taking care of the groups’ possessions, while Willam the younger is paid for his services as guide.
The town is now quite busy as the townspeople go about their morning chores and duties. Lothryn and Fossett regard those they pass. It occurs to them there seems to be a lot of civilian-dressed men walking with tell-tale signs- the walk of a man used to wearing heavy armour, hands sitting ready where the hilt of a sword would normally rest. These men seem to be possible sell-swords and mercenaries. This would explain the arrivals at the inn the night before.
As they reach the fields the rain turns from smearing drizzle to the steady sheets of a determined downpour. Soon they are as water logged as the ground around them, more perhaps, and just as cold. Their feet begin squelching into the lands of the Korcari Wilds, a boggy marsh strewn wasteland enveloped in cold mists and strange shadows. Trees are mossy and stunted, plants are of a different nature to those found in the comparably lush Brecilian forest.
At about what would have been midday, if the sun had graced the sky with a show, young Willam points out a patch of slightly less wet, slightly higher ground so they can break for a meagre sodden lunch. The young lad speaks with Lothryn, describing the lodge to him. The knight wonders why they would be waging war with the winter fast approaching- the weather is going from bad to worse and provisions are low enough for the commoners, let alone an incoming army.
By the time the grey sky darkens and the ground becomes even more indecipherable in the twilight they begin to see lights off in the distance of the boggy scrub. Ser Lothryn gives Willam some more silver to convince the lad to lead them closer to what is turning into a dangerous number of camp fires. Some more silver gains a safer, less conspicuous, route.
Nearing the lodge the camp fires are found to be surrounded by various mercenary companies; men, fires, tents of arms, lots of weapons. There appears to be two distinct groups with between a score or more each; brigands and barbarians.
Turning round to speak Lothryn finds that Willam is gone. He searches the scene in front and behind them desperately to find the youth. Not even a minute passes before the doors to the lodge open. All flatten against the ground into hiding. This is not a welcome place to be.
The first figure visible from the open door is a man in black; long black curled hair and beard with black expensive clothing; wearing a white bandage over his shoulder. Laria cringes and spits a slurred insult from between clenched teeth into the ground. Iah dares not raise her head, but looks to her with brow raised. “What?” is the silent question.
“He is that brigand that wanted you as his captured wife!” returns the hiss. Iah’s eyes widen then sour as she remembers Garrett’s lot from that meeting.
Behind the brigand steps a well dressed young man with ashen grey blonde hair; Malegaunt. Behind him a frightened looking boy of no more than fourteen is shoved by a man-at-arms. The black brigand slaps him full force across the face and demands something they cannot make out, gesturing angrily. The boy looks off in a different direction from their hiding place and points, visibly explaining something but the brigand grabs the boy’s hair and slices his throat in one move, the explanation and young life, cut short. Willam’s body crumples to the muddy ground as orders are yelled at men-at-arms who run in the directions instructed.
Lothryn motions for all to follow and they slither to a safe distance before desperately running in another direction in the hope it is the one they came in. The splashing retreat is fortunately covered by the furor of the disturbed camp.
As they run they are haunted by the images of the boy with the slit throat.
[next] session ten
[background] life of lady nimue
No comments:
Post a Comment