“A favour, Lord? Of course, what is it?”
“I’d like to send some knights out with you.” Fitz held up his hand before the man could object, “I know what you’re going to say. You’d have a conflict of command.”
“How would I command a knight, Lord? They’re above me.”
“I’ll make it clear to them that they’re under your command. If there’s any trouble, you report back to me, in person. Clear?”
“Aye, Lord. I don’t like it, but I’ll do as you wish. Is there anything I need to know?”
“Yes, keep an eye on Sir Maynard, he’s one of the new knights. He’ll likely cause trouble. I’ll send Sir Rodney out with you, to help keep him in line. Rodney will take his orders from you, and then he’ll deal with Maynard.”
“Is there a reason for this, my lord?” Gerald looked concerned.
“He needs seasoning, Gerald, and it’ll be good practice for you.”
“Commanding knights? Why would I need practice commanding knights?”
“Not knights specifically, but learning to deal with problems is an essential element of command.”
“You don’t want to deal with him yourself, do you?”
Fitz smiled, “There, you’ve mastered your first lesson. Now, I must be off; I have things to attend to.”
He left his friend in the courtyard, a bewildered look on the younger man's face.
* * *
He found Sir Lionel guarding the prisoner. She had been moved, and now was held in a room attached to a long corridor, which ended in a chamber where the knight sat, oiling his weapon. “My lord,” he said, rising to his feet as Lord Richard entered.
“How is the prisoner?” asked Fitz.
“Quiet,” the knight responded.
“You won’t be needed anymore, Sir Lionel. I have made other arrangements for her guard.”
“My lord?”
“You are dismissed. Return to your regular duties, but remember, you are not to breathe a word of this prisoner to anyone, and the same applies to Sir Maynard. See to it that he understands.”
“Yes, Lord,” Sir Lionel replied, gathering up his sword.
Fitz waited while the man left, his footsteps echoing away into nothingness. He grabbed the torch from the wall, making his way down the hallway. There was a total of six rooms here, each with its own bed, desk and chair. They must, he reasoned, have been built to house more important prisoners, though he struggled to think of any time in the past when that had been necessary. The doors were wooden, each with a barred window displaying those within. As the only prisoner currently abiding within, the woman had the place to herself.
He knocked on the door and waited patiently. When there was no reply, he repeated his actions.
“I am your prisoner,” the woman responded. “Why do you insist on playing this ridiculous charade? If you want to enter, just enter.”
“I didn’t want to intrude,” said Fitz, opening the door. The woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the doorway. “I wish to apologize for your earlier treatment. My brother has assigned me as your jailer; I am to see that you are provided for. Is there anything you need?”
“My freedom,” the prisoner requested.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. I must do my duty.”
“Duty? That’s just a word to hide behind, to do unpleasant things.”
Fitz was incensed, “Without duty, all would be chaos. Duty keeps the peace, allows people to live their lives safely.”
“You’re wrong,” she responded, “life IS chaos, the survival of the fittest. The strong devour the weak.”
“No, that’s not true,” retorted Fitz. “It’s the obligation of the strong to look after the weak.”
“You’re a fool if you believe that,” she replied.
“Am I? Then you must also be a fool. You called off the animals when they attacked us. Why?”
“To avoid their deaths,” she answered.
“Exactly, to protect them. If you truly believed the strong devour the weak, then you should have left them to be slaughtered.”
She sat in silence for a moment, before responding, “I will concede the point, but I still maintain my argument for most cases. Isn’t it the motto of the army, that might makes right?”
“I can’t argue with that,” Fitz agreed, “but I have been raised with my obligation to protect others.”
“Your father must have been a most unusual man,” she said, “for I fear he did not hold ideas common to most.”
"Not really," he countered. "My father had little to do with my upbringing, but he did instill in me my sense of duty. It used to be more common to follow the old ways of the nobility, but the fashion nowadays seems to be unbridled greed and power.”
Both remained silent while Fitz tried to organize his thoughts.
“I wonder,” the prisoner said finally, “if I might not have another blanket, it gets rather cold down here.”
Fitz seized upon the morsel of conversation, “Of course, I will see to it immediately. I’ll also see if I can find you some warmer clothes. Do you, perchance, read?”
“Yes,” she responded, “why do you ask?”
“You’re likely to be here for a while,” he acknowledged. “Reading would allow you to pass the time. We have a number of books in the Keep; I'm told my mother was an avid reader. I can bring you some if you like?”
“Very well,” she said, “I might as well put my time to use while I’m here.”
“Then I will leave you, Madam, while I see to your requests.” He left the room, careful to lock the door behind him. He still felt uneasy about her captivity but knew he dared not go against the wishes of his brother.
* * *
The warmer weather had come, and Lord Richard made his way to the prisoner. It had become a ritual, every morning and evening he would bring her food and ensure she had water to last the day. Today he had selected another book to bring her, for she had proved to be a voracious reader.
He knocked on her door, as was his custom, and then waited for her to say ‘enter’ before unlocking it. He laid the platter of food on her table and then grabbed the book he had tucked under his arm. “I noticed you had finished the last one I brought you, so I fetched you another,” he said, handing her the tome.
She picked it up, opening the cover to examine the title page, “The Merchant and the Prince,” she read out loud. “I’ve heard of this.”
“Yes,” Fitz proudly announced, “by the great writer, Califax.”
“I’m quite familiar with his works,” she announced.
Now it was Fitz’s turn to be surprised, “You’ve read Califax?”
“That surprises you? I didn’t always live in the woods, you know. I was born in Tewsbury.”
“How did you come to live in the Whitewood?” he enquired.
“It’s a long story,” she answered.
“We have plenty of time,” he suggested.
“Another day, perhaps,” she replied, flipping through the pages. "I visited the great library in Shrewesdale years ago. There is a statue of Califax.”
“I’ve never been,” admitted Fitz, “though I imagine it as a great city. I know it used to be the cultural capital of Merceria.”
“That was a long time ago,” she reminded him. “It’s an old city now, run down and corrupted by those in power, but the librarians were most helpful. I studied there for some years.”
Fitz was taken aback, “You studied there? So you had an education, then?”
“No, I studied there myself. I knew how to read, but I was self-taught. What better place to learn than a library with the collected wisdom of the kingdom? I used to make copious notes.”
“Perhaps,” he offered, “you’d like to write? I can arrange ink and parchment if you wish.”
“I think I should like that,” she replied. “That’s most kind of you.”
* * *
It was several days later when Fitz observed Ge
rald leading a patrol of men back through the gate. With his own responsibilities keeping him occupied, he was pleased to see his friend carrying on in his absence.
He nodded as Gerald dismounted. “How goes it?” Fitz asked.
“Well, my lord,” his protege replied.
Fitz had heard a slight hesitation in Gerald's voice,“Something wrong?”
“It’s Sir Maynard, my lord.”
“What of him?”
“He’s been causing… problems,” again the hesitation.
“Spit it out, man,” Fitz commanded. “What type of problems?”
“He’s been speaking ill of you, Lord,” Gerald replied. “I told him to guard his tongue, but he told me to mind my own business.”
“What did Sir Rodney do?” asked Fitz.
“He wasn’t with us; he had to investigate another animal attack.”
“Another? I thought they’d stopped.”
“No, far from it. If anything, they’ve picked up in the last few weeks.”
Fitz frowned, no doubt he would be asked to talk to the prisoner again. He must make an effort to find out more.
“Where is Sir Maynard now?”
“He mentioned something about the dungeons, though I might have misheard him.”
Fitz immediately grew worried, a look that was not lost on his friend.
“Is something wrong, Lord?”
“No, Gerald. See to your horse; I have some unfinished business to attend to. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Aye, Lord,” the man replied.
Lord Richard rushed to the dungeons, worried for the prisoner's safety. Would Sir Maynard try to seek retribution by killing her? He arrived to find things as he had left them. A knock on the door resulted in the woman's usual response. He opened it to see her sitting at the table, her hand holding a quill hovering over a parchment.
“What are you writing?” he asked.
“Just some random thoughts,” she replied. “Is it mealtime already?”
“No, I had some free time, so I thought I might visit.” He moved closer to the table, and his eyes glanced over her notes. “I fancy myself an accomplished reader,” he said, “but I can’t make head nor tail of that.”
“It’s an ancient language,” she said.
“Elvish?”
“No, older. It’s amazing what you can learn from ancient texts, though I fear I haven’t mastered it.”
“Is there anything you have need of?” he asked.
“My freedom?” she responded. “Oh wait, let me guess, it’s not within your power.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Then nothing,” she responded, “though I thank you for your visit, it’s lonely here without my friends.”
“Friends? Perhaps I can contact them for you, let them know where you are.”
“I don't’ think that would be wise; they’re not Human.”
“Orcs?”
“No, animals. I doubt you’d be able to communicate with them.”
“You can speak to them, can’t you?” he suddenly realized.
“Yes, though not in the traditional sense. I have to use magic.”
“Did you command them to attack our hunters?”
“I can talk to them; I don’t control them.”
“You seemed to control them when we found you.”
“That was different, I was asking them.”
“Would the animals stop attacking us if you asked them to?” he persisted.
“And why would I do that? Have you stopped hunting them?”
“No,” he reluctantly admitted, “we’re running short of food.”
“Then they do what they must to survive,” she said, “though I fear many more may die before this affair is settled. Tell your men to stop hunting, and the attacks will halt.”
“You know I can’t do that. My brother would never agree.”
“Then release me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“You know I can’t do that either. Tell me, if we did stop hunting, would that truly end the attacks?”
“I cannot say for certain,” she replied, “but I think it would be likely.”
“I will give it some thought,” Fitz promised. “Perhaps I can find some way of convincing him.”
“I have a sense that time is running out,” she said, somewhat cryptically.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I cannot say for sure; I sometimes have flashes of insight. I fear something big is coming.”
“I’ll keep your thoughts in mind,” he said, turning to leave. “Perhaps my brother will be in a more amenable mood tomorrow.”
He stepped through the door, deep in thought and turned to lock it. A shape came seemingly from nowhere, and a blinding pain surged through his head. He staggered back only to see the form of Sir Maynard, towering over him, dropping a stick to the ground. Suddenly the knight's strong hands gripped him around the neck, choking the very life out of him. The room swirled, and he fought to maintain consciousness. He grasped the young man's strong arms in an effort to pull them from his throat, but the knight's fingers were locked securely around him. His eyes began to bulge, and he felt himself slipping on the floor.
Sir Maynard drove him back against the wall, holding him up with his youthful strength, Fitz’s feet dangling as the knight tightened his grip. The room was going black. Sir Maynard's face was pressed close to his, and then the knight's eyes suddenly held a look of surprise. His grip slackened, leaving Fitz looking on in disbelief as thin vines began to erupt from the man's neck, growing thicker as he watched.
His throat released, he slipped to the floor, but the body of Sir Maynard seemed suspended in the air. The woman was standing in the doorway to the cell, her hands gesticulating in front of her. The floor had exploded beneath his enemy, and now another large, thick vine erupted from the floor to pierce Sir Maynard's back and protrude from his mouth. There were even flowers budding on the vine, adding to the macabre vision.
He stared for what seemed an eternity, his mind struggling to make sense of what he had witnessed. “Thank you,” he stammered. “You saved my life.”
She lowered her hands, “I regret having to kill the man,” she said, “but I saw no other choice. It was either him or you. I’m afraid I’ve sealed my fate. The baron won’t look kindly upon having one of his men killed. He’ll want me executed.”
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I used vines,” she explained. “It’s a spell.”
“But they erupted from stone,” he remarked.
“No, they erupted from the earth below the stone. I can’t conjure from stone; I’m not that kind of Earth Mage.”
He looked at her with new eyes, “With power like that, you could have escaped at any time. Why didn’t you?”
“Would the hunting have stopped?” she asked.
“No, but at least you’d be free.”
“You’d just send even more soldiers to hunt me down. At least by my being here, things are not escalating.”
Fitz looked at the body of Sir Maynard, still shaking slightly from his ordeal. The body remained suspended in the air, impaled by the vines. “Can you reverse the spell?” he asked.
“You mean remove the vine? Certainly, but why?”
“I’m going to save your life,” he answered. “Please, proceed with your spell.”
She began the incantation, and he watched her hands swirling about in front of her, the effect almost mesmerizing. Moments later, he heard a sound like creaking wood and the vines began to recede, growing smaller until they disappeared into the floor. Only the bare earth beneath the displaced stones bore evidence that anything had happened, save for the body lying upon them.
Fitz drew his sword and started swinging at the body.
“What are you doing?” the woman yelled.
“Covering up the cause of death. Nobody will look closely; the man attacked me, and I defended myself. You won’t take the blame.”
/>
“Why would you do that?” she asked. “Take the blame for my actions?”
“You saved my life,” he responded, “and it’s the right thing to do.”
She looked on in silence as he completed his work.
“There,” he said at last, “now I just have to haul his carcass out of here.”
“You must lock me back up,” she reminded him, “or someone might suspect I had a hand in this.”
He nodded and fetched his keys. He was about to close the door when he paused. “I’m curious,” he said, “why is the Whitewood so important to you?”
“It’s my home,” she replied, “and we must maintain the balance.”
“The balance?”
“Yes, all things must be in balance or everyone suffers.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” he searched for clarification.
“If wolves hunt the deer to extinction their own survival is in jeopardy. The same is true of Humans. Imagine if you hunted all the animals from the woods, there would be nothing left. Without the animals, even the plants would begin to suffer. Nature is a delicately balanced environment, if one thing gets upset, the entire system suffers.”
“So you're saying that if we over-hunt the Whitewood, there will be repercussions.”
“Yes, though some might not be seen for many years.”
“You're a wise woman,” he proclaimed.
“You may call me Albreda,” she offered, “for that’s my name.”
“Very well, Albreda. I thank you for saving my life. I shall do all I can to repay that kindness.”
-Interlude II-
Bodden
Summer 960 MC
Baron Richard Fitzwilliam sat back in his chair, taking a deep drink of his wine. “That was how she saved my life,” he said, “though I never told anyone about it till now.”
Anna scrunched up her face, “I’m confused. She saved your life and yet she felt compelled to come and help you? That doesn’t make much sense.”
“I’m betting,” said Beverly, “that my father hasn’t finished the tale. He’s drawing it out. Isn’t that right, Father?”
Mercerian Tales Page 4