Edward I - First Draft
This is the first draft of the first chapter of the first book in the series, currently under the working title of 'A Murder of Crows.' This chapter is from the P.O.V of Edward Whitemount.
In his chainmail and leathers, Edward felt far more comfort than he had for some time. The gentle breeze that ignited the forest with graceful motion warmed his soul as it chilled his skin. As he crept through the glen, he spotted a doe, grazing peacefully across the stream. Slowly, Edward reached for an arrow, and knocked it into his bow. The string tight, his muscles tense, he released his grip and the wooden shaft sprouted bloodily from the doe’s throat. Gargling, it toppled into the undergrowth. He grinned, pleased with his accuracy. A dear was a fine kill, and tonight’s feast would surely be plentiful. As he drew his knife to butcher the beast, a figure burst through the broken curtain of the forest. Gregory, captain of the guard, was a lowborn, in truth, but a fine fighter and a finer man still. He stood a foot shorter than Edward and wore leathers of poor quality. “Poachers, my lord,” he said, bowing, “They picked a poor day to steal from your lands, my lord.” Gregory led him to a small clearing, where two boys, no older than Edward’s own son, knelt with swords held at their throats. Quivering, their eyes were fixed on the ground, their bodies twitching uncomfortably. Edward observed them for a few moments, daring them to look up. “You smell like shit,” he said with a grin. His hunting party, now gathered like an audience at a spectacle, chuckled. “Theft is one thing,” noted Aros Flint, master of the hunt, “But from your own liege lord? Lowlife.” “Easy now, Master Flint,” Edward suggested, kneeling to the boys’ height. “What are you doing here?” He gestured for the blades to be withdrawn. One of them raised his head awkwardly, his eyes struggling to find Edward’s face. Nervously, he spoke. “We’re starving, my lord. We mean no harm.” “Starving?” “Our village, our farms. Pillaged and burnt, my lord.” Tears formed in his eyes as Edward released a solemn sigh of sympathy. Patting the boy on the arm, Edward stood and beckoned they join him at his horse. Several carcasses and chunks of meat packed the saddlebags, and Edward picked up two with his gloved hands. “I dare say we have enough meat for tonight,” he announced, tossing the food to the poachers, who expressed relentless gratitude. “That reminds me, Master Flint. I felled a deer through the glen. I trust you can deal with it?” The master bowed and disappeared through the trees. Edward, disturbed by the thought of raiders, turned to Gregory. “Escort these boys home,” he commanded with a calm authority, “Investigate these claims and report to me tonight.” With the poachers long gone and the forest now behind him, the thought of raiders returning to Dregonvell weighed on his mind heavily as his horse trotted home to Knightsmire. It was approaching nearly twenty-five years since he had last purged the warriors from northern Tembra, completing his father’s work, and he was in no way prepared to return oversees, leaving his family and realm. Scratching his coarse beard with concern, he noticed a second horse trotting alongside him. Harold Maxil, master of the horse, had joined him at the head of the party. “My lord,” he ventured cautiously, “The poachers, if you don’t mind my asking, you let them go. Why?” Edward pondered the question, running his answer through his head. “If I were to punish those trying to feed themselves and their families in the face of great hardship, I would have no subjects left.” The rest of the ride was silent, save for the crows that encircled Knightsmire, the great castle of Dregonvell and the seat of House Whitemount for over seven centuries. Edward had ridden this path a thousand times, but the sight of his castle never grew dull. Walls of thirty feet protruded from a great mountain, through which the Severed Tower sprouted and reached for the clouds. Within the bailey, a bustling community of blacksmiths and weavers, cooks and squires thrived in the shadow of the Great Keep, a once magnificent military stronghold and now an even grander familial home and seat of power. Entering the gates, Edward’s party dismounted and left their horses with Aros Flint. With tonight’s feast set to rival last year’s, Knightsmire was even more hectic than usual, with tables laid from the bailey to the gatehouse ready for the many guests. Edward wondered if this was too much, and questioned his decision to invite every vassal. In the flurry of people and extravagance, Edward had nearly forgotten the solemn cause for his annual feast. Before the guilt could overcome him, Edward bagged a rabbit from the hunt and made for the temple and the catacombs below. As he entered, an overwhelming silence starkly contrasted the festivities outside. Edward scanned the room, and strode past the pews and beyond the altar. “Good afternoon, Lord Whitemount,” welcomed a disembodied voice. “Alban,” Edward replied, noticing the frail man knelt in prayer in the corner alcove, “I thought I was alone.” ”One is never alone, my lord,” noted the alban, gesturing to the eight sculptures of the gods adorning the wall above the altar. “Care you to sit?” Alban Jacob had been at Knightsmire longer than Edward had been born, and he was always warmed with his enlightening conversations. He’d answered all his questions on the gods he’d had in his youth and had brought immense comfort following the tragedies that had haunted Edward’s family. “It is good what you do, Lord Whitemount,” the alban said, “My memory fails me. Have you ever missed a year?” Edward shook his head. “Never.” The alban appeared pleased with the response, smiling and looking at Edward with weary grey eyes. “I’ve prayed for him every day.” “I know.” “He is surely feasting with Lord Lumar himself.” “I know.” Jacob struggled to his feet, clutching a pew with his bony fingers. “I will leave you to your prayer, my lord. Enjoy the feast.” With a parting bow, the alban made for the door. As Edward sat alone in the temple, he glanced at the gods on the wall, staring down at their noble subject. He had long accepted his place in this world, a vessel through which the gods impart their earthly will. But the gods were fickle, and Edward understood this more than most. The gods are many things, he thought. They’re wise. And loving. But above all they are balanced. In the eyes of the gods only life can balance life and only good can balance evil. Edward had long considered what evil he had committed, and for how long he must be good to climb back into the light. He had hesitated long enough. The stairway to the catacombs was narrow and dark, save for the flickers of refracted light still visible from the glass ceiling of the temple. Most found the catacombs morbid and a place best forgotten. Edward, however, knew better to disrespect Ostrapath, Master of Death, and often found himself noting that it was only the dead who may rest. The catacombs were dimly lit by dim braziers adorning the walls, framing each tomb in a dismal orange. As he walked among his ancestors, Edward squinted until centuries of Whitemounts were behind him, leaving only the family he knew at the end of a corridor of ghosts. Before him lay his father, Richard. Edward stared at his bust, the eyes of the one they called ‘the Formidable’ only half as penetrating as they were in life. Beside the prior lord rested his wife, Edward’s mother. Maria’s bust was forlorn and crudely chiselled; such was the fate of a suicide. Finally, Edward turned to the tomb he had come to see. The bust of a fourteen-year-old lordling was a rare sight in these crypts; most in Eremere died in infancy or adulthood. Nevertheless, Edward placed a cautious hand on the stone coffin of his elder brother. Grasping a nearby iron box, Edward set light to the wood inside. Kneeling, he placed the meat from the hunt into the flames, which licked lovingly at the carcass. “Pyriax, Lord of Fire, take my offering,” chanted Edward, the words imprinted on his memory after years of incantation, “Lumar, the Lord in Purple and King of the Light, accept my token and give good grace to my brother, Richard Whitemount, son of Richard. Ensure he is basking in the light of your domain.” Eyes closed, Edward absorbed the gentle crackling of the fire as it swallowed the meat, until the flames died and the heat brushing his face faded away. The coolness of the evening struck him sharply as he emerged from the temple, where his lady wife awaited him. Charlotte was dressed in her finest emerald gown, the silk delicate and patterned ornately. Her light brown hair was neatly allowed to flow down her back, and a circlet of gold held it in place on her crown. She had long comforted Edward over his years of grief, and her dark eyes were as kind as ever. “Most of our guests have arrived,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the courtyard. By now, the servants preparing for the feast had long departed, with only two dozen remaining to wait on the guests. In their place, lords, knights, and squires milled across the courtyard, greeting one another and sharing hearty laughs over tankards of ale and goblets of wine. The gatehouse was adorned with the flags of all the mighty houses of Dregonvell. The steel anchor of House Boors, the rearing pony of House Langworthy, and the axe of House Blackborough making up but a few of the dozens of banners. Within the great hall, the upper lords and their families conversed and bantered, and Edward greeted each with warmth and kindness. First was Earl Ryger, the elderly head of House Langworthy and lord of Branley. Beside him sat Lord Boleskin, and opposite was Lord Fursdown. At the other end of the hall, the solitary Earl Blackborough sat with his three sons, observing the feast with a grim silence. House Crispin had made an appearance, though Earl Jonathan had taken ill of late. Still, Edward noted, the presence of his countess and their children would not go unnoticed. Taking his seat at the table overlooking the rest, Edward began the feast. Beside him was his high countess, Charlotte, and on his right his son and heir, the Lord Arther. At seventeen, he was becoming quite the young man, at least in Edward’s mind. Still, of course, he had far too much to learn. His daughter Eleyna had been taken to bed; for all her energy this time of night was no place for a lady of eight years. Sir Tristan Boldbrook, Edward’s loyal sentinel, sat next to Arther, and had trimmed his previously bushy auburn beard. The man was nearing fifty, but could still best many a younger soldier, and Edward’s court was all the more safer and his council all the more wiser for his advice. The first course arrived, and even Edward marvelled at the selection on display. Three entire pigs with apples wedged in their mouths dominated the tables in the hall, and several other meats lined the benches. Vegetables, roasted and boiled, brought colour to the plates of the guests, who tucked in with vigour. As Edward ate and enjoyed the meals he’d paid for, he spied Gregory slipping in through the doorway. Most were too engrossed in their eating to notice, but Edward had been anticipating his arrival for some time. The captain of the guard carried a concerned look on his face as he strode down the perimeter of the hall until he’d reached Edward’s chair. “What did you find?” Edward asked impatiently. “Not here, my lord.” Edward wondered what couldn’t be discussed in such a noisy setting, but reluctantly left his plate and beckoned Charlotte and Tristan the sentinel to follow him to the corridor behind the hall. Even here, the echoes of laughter were carried through the thick stone walls, and the four of them gathered in a hunched circle. “The poachers were-,” Gregory began. “Poachers?” Charlotte demanded, shocked. Edward gave her a calming touch. “In the forest. They’ve been dealt with. Gregory, continue.” The guardsman obliged. “The poachers were from a village – Bowvon – and they spoke the truth. There was more ash than wood.” Sir Tristan shifted uneasily. Edward thought back to his years in Beaucroft as a ward to his uncle High Earl Clifford Tarnell. The raids in those days were terrible enough to hear of, but Tristan lived it. “There’s more, Lord Whitemount,” Gregory continued, lowering to a hushed whisper, “I tracked down the bandits in question. I tracked them to Axebury.” “Jasper Blackborough’s land,” exclaimed Tristan, gritting his teeth, “Why has Lord Whitemount not been informed, or better yet these brigands dealt with?” “There could be a perfectly rational explanation,” reasoned Charlotte. “I’ll talk to him,” Sir Tristan offered, enthusiastically. Edward appreciated their support and offers, but ultimately thought this were best handled by himself, and he told his advisors as much. Jasper Blackborough was the earl of Axebury, and had command over the second largest keep in Dregonvell, the formidable Axehill. The man himself was a callous individual, and Edward held an intense mistrust of him, hence his exclusion from many of the realm’s positions that heads of House Blackborough had traditionally held. Still, he enjoyed toying with others through his sporadic attendances of feasts such as this. He sat now, hands crossed below his chin, speaking to Simon, Edward’s bastard son, who had somehow managed to sneak in from the courtyard, the proper place for bastards. Blackborough was a man of nearly sixty years, his face clean-shaven, but that only revealed a tarnished visage of wrinkles and blemishes. His hair, however, was full and thick, dyed black with some sickly oil harvested from the fields of Axebury. “Simon, you should be outside,” Edward instructed as he approached the table. Blackborough leant back on his chair. “Relax, Edward.” His voice was deep and smooth, with a polish over every word that irritated Edward and then some. “His mother may be some whore you fucked in Lylelor, but he’s a Whitemount by blood.” The earl grinned at Simon, who smirked in response. “Why not father,” the bastard said, pulling his wiry hair from his face, “You allow me to style myself as a Whitemount. Why not act like one?” “If you wish to keep your name you’ll do as I ask,” Edward demanded, the kindness gone from his face, “Earl Blackborough and I have matters to discuss.” “Oh goody,” the lord chided, as Simon sulked away. “To what do I owe this honour?” Edward sat himself where Simon had been, and stared intently at his vassal opposite. It was disconcerting, seeing the man so collected and confident, when many would cower or grovel. “I’ve received word of bandits on my land,” the high earl stated. “And do tell why this concerns myself,” Blackborough retorted. “They have camped in Axebury for some time, I am told.” “By who?” the earl demanded, “Not that peasant guard you keep, I hope?” “What business is it of yours what company I keep?” “It’s not proper,” he said, spitting a bone he’d picked from his teeth onto the floor, “Your father knew how to run a court.” Edward twitched and forced his fist back under the table. Aware of onlookers, he lowered his voice through gritted teeth. “You know nothing of my father.” “I know more than you,” the earl mocked, “I was on his council. I was his treasurer. Although you of course would not know that. Where were you? Lylelor?” “I was a boy.” “You spent a lot of time in Lylelor, I recall. Nothing, it would seem, could entice you back. Certainly not the war. But not even your mother’s funeral?” “Enough!” Edward’s fist slammed hard on the table, and Blackborough’s goblet toppled causing wine to gush across the table. “Deal with the bandits. And if you don’t, there will be consequences.” As Edward marched furiously from the table, Blackborough stood and kicked his chair over. “I look forward to it!” he announced loudly, with a cold grin. Before Edward could retort, the earl had gathered his party and made for the door.
Edward
In his chainmail and leathers, Edward felt far more comfort than he had for some time. The gentle breeze that ignited the forest with graceful motion warmed his soul as it chilled his skin. As he crept through the glen, he spotted a doe, grazing peacefully across the stream. Slowly, Edward reached for an arrow, and knocked it into his bow. The string tight, his muscles tense, he released his grip and the wooden shaft sprouted bloodily from the doe’s throat. Gargling, it toppled into the undergrowth. He grinned, pleased with his accuracy. A dear was a fine kill, and tonight’s feast would surely be plentiful. As he drew his knife to butcher the beast, a figure burst through the broken curtain of the forest. Gregory, captain of the guard, was a lowborn, in truth, but a fine fighter and a finer man still. He stood a foot shorter than Edward and wore leathers of poor quality. “Poachers, my lord,” he said, bowing, “They picked a poor day to steal from your lands, my lord.” Gregory led him to a small clearing, where two boys, no older than Edward’s own son, knelt with swords held at their throats. Quivering, their eyes were fixed on the ground, their bodies twitching uncomfortably. Edward observed them for a few moments, daring them to look up. “You smell like shit,” he said with a grin. His hunting party, now gathered like an audience at a spectacle, chuckled. “Theft is one thing,” noted Aros Flint, master of the hunt, “But from your own liege lord? Lowlife.” “Easy now, Master Flint,” Edward suggested, kneeling to the boys’ height. “What are you doing here?” He gestured for the blades to be withdrawn. One of them raised his head awkwardly, his eyes struggling to find Edward’s face. Nervously, he spoke. “We’re starving, my lord. We mean no harm.” “Starving?” “Our village, our farms. Pillaged and burnt, my lord.” Tears formed in his eyes as Edward released a solemn sigh of sympathy. Patting the boy on the arm, Edward stood and beckoned they join him at his horse. Several carcasses and chunks of meat packed the saddlebags, and Edward picked up two with his gloved hands. “I dare say we have enough meat for tonight,” he announced, tossing the food to the poachers, who expressed relentless gratitude. “That reminds me, Master Flint. I felled a deer through the glen. I trust you can deal with it?” The master bowed and disappeared through the trees. Edward, disturbed by the thought of raiders, turned to Gregory. “Escort these boys home,” he commanded with a calm authority, “Investigate these claims and report to me tonight.” With the poachers long gone and the forest now behind him, the thought of raiders returning to Dregonvell weighed on his mind heavily as his horse trotted home to Knightsmire. It was approaching nearly twenty-five years since he had last purged the warriors from northern Tembra, completing his father’s work, and he was in no way prepared to return oversees, leaving his family and realm. Scratching his coarse beard with concern, he noticed a second horse trotting alongside him. Harold Maxil, master of the horse, had joined him at the head of the party. “My lord,” he ventured cautiously, “The poachers, if you don’t mind my asking, you let them go. Why?” Edward pondered the question, running his answer through his head. “If I were to punish those trying to feed themselves and their families in the face of great hardship, I would have no subjects left.” The rest of the ride was silent, save for the crows that encircled Knightsmire, the great castle of Dregonvell and the seat of House Whitemount for over seven centuries. Edward had ridden this path a thousand times, but the sight of his castle never grew dull. Walls of thirty feet protruded from a great mountain, through which the Severed Tower sprouted and reached for the clouds. Within the bailey, a bustling community of blacksmiths and weavers, cooks and squires thrived in the shadow of the Great Keep, a once magnificent military stronghold and now an even grander familial home and seat of power. Entering the gates, Edward’s party dismounted and left their horses with Aros Flint. With tonight’s feast set to rival last year’s, Knightsmire was even more hectic than usual, with tables laid from the bailey to the gatehouse ready for the many guests. Edward wondered if this was too much, and questioned his decision to invite every vassal. In the flurry of people and extravagance, Edward had nearly forgotten the solemn cause for his annual feast. Before the guilt could overcome him, Edward bagged a rabbit from the hunt and made for the temple and the catacombs below. As he entered, an overwhelming silence starkly contrasted the festivities outside. Edward scanned the room, and strode past the pews and beyond the altar. “Good afternoon, Lord Whitemount,” welcomed a disembodied voice. “Alban,” Edward replied, noticing the frail man knelt in prayer in the corner alcove, “I thought I was alone.” ”One is never alone, my lord,” noted the alban, gesturing to the eight sculptures of the gods adorning the wall above the altar. “Care you to sit?” Alban Jacob had been at Knightsmire longer than Edward had been born, and he was always warmed with his enlightening conversations. He’d answered all his questions on the gods he’d had in his youth and had brought immense comfort following the tragedies that had haunted Edward’s family. “It is good what you do, Lord Whitemount,” the alban said, “My memory fails me. Have you ever missed a year?” Edward shook his head. “Never.” The alban appeared pleased with the response, smiling and looking at Edward with weary grey eyes. “I’ve prayed for him every day.” “I know.” “He is surely feasting with Lord Lumar himself.” “I know.” Jacob struggled to his feet, clutching a pew with his bony fingers. “I will leave you to your prayer, my lord. Enjoy the feast.” With a parting bow, the alban made for the door. As Edward sat alone in the temple, he glanced at the gods on the wall, staring down at their noble subject. He had long accepted his place in this world, a vessel through which the gods impart their earthly will. But the gods were fickle, and Edward understood this more than most. The gods are many things, he thought. They’re wise. And loving. But above all they are balanced. In the eyes of the gods only life can balance life and only good can balance evil. Edward had long considered what evil he had committed, and for how long he must be good to climb back into the light. He had hesitated long enough. The stairway to the catacombs was narrow and dark, save for the flickers of refracted light still visible from the glass ceiling of the temple. Most found the catacombs morbid and a place best forgotten. Edward, however, knew better to disrespect Ostrapath, Master of Death, and often found himself noting that it was only the dead who may rest. The catacombs were dimly lit by dim braziers adorning the walls, framing each tomb in a dismal orange. As he walked among his ancestors, Edward squinted until centuries of Whitemounts were behind him, leaving only the family he knew at the end of a corridor of ghosts. Before him lay his father, Richard. Edward stared at his bust, the eyes of the one they called ‘the Formidable’ only half as penetrating as they were in life. Beside the prior lord rested his wife, Edward’s mother. Maria’s bust was forlorn and crudely chiselled; such was the fate of a suicide. Finally, Edward turned to the tomb he had come to see. The bust of a fourteen-year-old lordling was a rare sight in these crypts; most in Eremere died in infancy or adulthood. Nevertheless, Edward placed a cautious hand on the stone coffin of his elder brother. Grasping a nearby iron box, Edward set light to the wood inside. Kneeling, he placed the meat from the hunt into the flames, which licked lovingly at the carcass. “Pyriax, Lord of Fire, take my offering,” chanted Edward, the words imprinted on his memory after years of incantation, “Lumar, the Lord in Purple and King of the Light, accept my token and give good grace to my brother, Richard Whitemount, son of Richard. Ensure he is basking in the light of your domain.” Eyes closed, Edward absorbed the gentle crackling of the fire as it swallowed the meat, until the flames died and the heat brushing his face faded away. The coolness of the evening struck him sharply as he emerged from the temple, where his lady wife awaited him. Charlotte was dressed in her finest emerald gown, the silk delicate and patterned ornately. Her light brown hair was neatly allowed to flow down her back, and a circlet of gold held it in place on her crown. She had long comforted Edward over his years of grief, and her dark eyes were as kind as ever. “Most of our guests have arrived,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the courtyard. By now, the servants preparing for the feast had long departed, with only two dozen remaining to wait on the guests. In their place, lords, knights, and squires milled across the courtyard, greeting one another and sharing hearty laughs over tankards of ale and goblets of wine. The gatehouse was adorned with the flags of all the mighty houses of Dregonvell. The steel anchor of House Boors, the rearing pony of House Langworthy, and the axe of House Blackborough making up but a few of the dozens of banners. Within the great hall, the upper lords and their families conversed and bantered, and Edward greeted each with warmth and kindness. First was Earl Ryger, the elderly head of House Langworthy and lord of Branley. Beside him sat Lord Boleskin, and opposite was Lord Fursdown. At the other end of the hall, the solitary Earl Blackborough sat with his three sons, observing the feast with a grim silence. House Crispin had made an appearance, though Earl Jonathan had taken ill of late. Still, Edward noted, the presence of his countess and their children would not go unnoticed. Taking his seat at the table overlooking the rest, Edward began the feast. Beside him was his high countess, Charlotte, and on his right his son and heir, the Lord Arther. At seventeen, he was becoming quite the young man, at least in Edward’s mind. Still, of course, he had far too much to learn. His daughter Eleyna had been taken to bed; for all her energy this time of night was no place for a lady of eight years. Sir Tristan Boldbrook, Edward’s loyal sentinel, sat next to Arther, and had trimmed his previously bushy auburn beard. The man was nearing fifty, but could still best many a younger soldier, and Edward’s court was all the more safer and his council all the more wiser for his advice. The first course arrived, and even Edward marvelled at the selection on display. Three entire pigs with apples wedged in their mouths dominated the tables in the hall, and several other meats lined the benches. Vegetables, roasted and boiled, brought colour to the plates of the guests, who tucked in with vigour. As Edward ate and enjoyed the meals he’d paid for, he spied Gregory slipping in through the doorway. Most were too engrossed in their eating to notice, but Edward had been anticipating his arrival for some time. The captain of the guard carried a concerned look on his face as he strode down the perimeter of the hall until he’d reached Edward’s chair. “What did you find?” Edward asked impatiently. “Not here, my lord.” Edward wondered what couldn’t be discussed in such a noisy setting, but reluctantly left his plate and beckoned Charlotte and Tristan the sentinel to follow him to the corridor behind the hall. Even here, the echoes of laughter were carried through the thick stone walls, and the four of them gathered in a hunched circle. “The poachers were-,” Gregory began. “Poachers?” Charlotte demanded, shocked. Edward gave her a calming touch. “In the forest. They’ve been dealt with. Gregory, continue.” The guardsman obliged. “The poachers were from a village – Bowvon – and they spoke the truth. There was more ash than wood.” Sir Tristan shifted uneasily. Edward thought back to his years in Beaucroft as a ward to his uncle High Earl Clifford Tarnell. The raids in those days were terrible enough to hear of, but Tristan lived it. “There’s more, Lord Whitemount,” Gregory continued, lowering to a hushed whisper, “I tracked down the bandits in question. I tracked them to Axebury.” “Jasper Blackborough’s land,” exclaimed Tristan, gritting his teeth, “Why has Lord Whitemount not been informed, or better yet these brigands dealt with?” “There could be a perfectly rational explanation,” reasoned Charlotte. “I’ll talk to him,” Sir Tristan offered, enthusiastically. Edward appreciated their support and offers, but ultimately thought this were best handled by himself, and he told his advisors as much. Jasper Blackborough was the earl of Axebury, and had command over the second largest keep in Dregonvell, the formidable Axehill. The man himself was a callous individual, and Edward held an intense mistrust of him, hence his exclusion from many of the realm’s positions that heads of House Blackborough had traditionally held. Still, he enjoyed toying with others through his sporadic attendances of feasts such as this. He sat now, hands crossed below his chin, speaking to Simon, Edward’s bastard son, who had somehow managed to sneak in from the courtyard, the proper place for bastards. Blackborough was a man of nearly sixty years, his face clean-shaven, but that only revealed a tarnished visage of wrinkles and blemishes. His hair, however, was full and thick, dyed black with some sickly oil harvested from the fields of Axebury. “Simon, you should be outside,” Edward instructed as he approached the table. Blackborough leant back on his chair. “Relax, Edward.” His voice was deep and smooth, with a polish over every word that irritated Edward and then some. “His mother may be some whore you fucked in Lylelor, but he’s a Whitemount by blood.” The earl grinned at Simon, who smirked in response. “Why not father,” the bastard said, pulling his wiry hair from his face, “You allow me to style myself as a Whitemount. Why not act like one?” “If you wish to keep your name you’ll do as I ask,” Edward demanded, the kindness gone from his face, “Earl Blackborough and I have matters to discuss.” “Oh goody,” the lord chided, as Simon sulked away. “To what do I owe this honour?” Edward sat himself where Simon had been, and stared intently at his vassal opposite. It was disconcerting, seeing the man so collected and confident, when many would cower or grovel. “I’ve received word of bandits on my land,” the high earl stated. “And do tell why this concerns myself,” Blackborough retorted. “They have camped in Axebury for some time, I am told.” “By who?” the earl demanded, “Not that peasant guard you keep, I hope?” “What business is it of yours what company I keep?” “It’s not proper,” he said, spitting a bone he’d picked from his teeth onto the floor, “Your father knew how to run a court.” Edward twitched and forced his fist back under the table. Aware of onlookers, he lowered his voice through gritted teeth. “You know nothing of my father.” “I know more than you,” the earl mocked, “I was on his council. I was his treasurer. Although you of course would not know that. Where were you? Lylelor?” “I was a boy.” “You spent a lot of time in Lylelor, I recall. Nothing, it would seem, could entice you back. Certainly not the war. But not even your mother’s funeral?” “Enough!” Edward’s fist slammed hard on the table, and Blackborough’s goblet toppled causing wine to gush across the table. “Deal with the bandits. And if you don’t, there will be consequences.” As Edward marched furiously from the table, Blackborough stood and kicked his chair over. “I look forward to it!” he announced loudly, with a cold grin. Before Edward could retort, the earl had gathered his party and made for the door.
Type
Chapter
P.O.V Character
Edward Whitemount
Other Characters
Gregory of Lyford
Charlotte Whitemount
Arther Whitemount
Sir Tristan Boldbrook
Jasper Blackborough
Simon Whitemount
Location
Knightsmire
Chapter
P.O.V Character
Edward Whitemount
Other Characters
Gregory of Lyford
Charlotte Whitemount
Arther Whitemount
Sir Tristan Boldbrook
Jasper Blackborough
Simon Whitemount
Location
Knightsmire
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