“How are you aware of the situation, My Lord?” he inquired, “I was made to believe that it is not common news.”
“And I am not a common man,” said the Earl. “It was I who actually suggested Duke Edmund for the position to Lord Stokeworth this morning. I’m afraid it was the only choice.” He smiled at Tobias who felt a chill down his spine.
“Well suggested, My Lord,” said Tobias curtly. “I shall be taking my leave now.”
So it was Lord Blakemore who was behind this, thought Tobias as he marched towards the stables. Tobias dreaded the very name of the house Blakemore. If the Lord Earl was involved, he had better be on his guard. He exited the palace into the stables and looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling in from the west, and the sunshine that had not long ago flooded the hall was now nowhere in sight. It would soon rain. Tobias was not a superstitious man, but he knew a bad omen when he saw one. “I hope all turns out for the better,” he muttered to himself as he mounted his horse and rode away, disappearing towards the city gates.
Chapter 4
Abigail swallowed the tonic that Pip had brought her in one gulp and shuddered, her face crinkling in disgust. She had been feeling sick all morning, and the night had been no more pleasant. It was not an easy job, carrying a child. She was convinced of that now. She always felt sick and hungry; when she ate, she could not swallow without a feeling of nausea and had to rely on broths for nutrition. No matter how much she drank, she was always thirsty.
Edmund’s assistance had been plenty and gracious; however, she grew wary of his over-protective antics. She was grateful, of course, but she craved the freedom she had before all of this. Now she could not take a walk without the Duke insisting to accompany her; she could not even go to the privy without a chambermaid following her inside. And no matter how much she implored, Duke Edmund would not relent.
“Do you need water, my love?” he asked her, putting a gentle arm across her shoulders.
“No, My Lord,” she sighed.
The Duke looked at her with an odd expression. “Leave us, Pip,” he said, turning towards the boy, “but stay within earshot.”
“Yes, My Lord!” he exclaimed, gave a salute, and marched off.
Abigail let out a slight chuckle. Pip always seemed to amuse her. She still remembered when she had first met the boy; his innocence had left her in fits of laughter. Pip had been a huge help to her and the Duke, especially being the only one who warned the Duke of Earl Horace’s treachery when he had Abigail abducted. The Duke had been extremely grateful and had called for Pip to be brought to his castle at once in the hopes for a better life for him. Pip, however, had refused to budge from the city, claiming that he would go nowhere without his father. A dilemma that Tobias had resolved by presenting a highly favourable option. Abigail was grateful for that; she was rather fond of Pip, as was most of the castle.
“Is something the matter?” asked the Duke when Pip had closed the chamber doors behind him. “You seem weary. Should I call for the chambermaid to warm the bed? You may want to rest or …”
“No, My Lord,” said Abigail, cutting across her husband, “I need nothing of the sort.”
“Then what is it?” He grabbed her hand. “What is it that ails you?”
“I dare not say, My Lord,” muttered Abigail, “for fear of sounding ungrateful.”
“That breaks my heart, my love,” said the Duke. “You have nothing to fear. Tell me. What is it that ails you?”
“’Tis nothing but how I haven’t had a moment to myself ever since you heard news of the child,” muttered Abigail, hesitantly. “I miss taking lone walks in the orchards, My Lord. It was one of my fondest habits.”
“Is it that you do not enjoy my company?” asked the Duke, baffled.
“No, My Lord, of course not,” said Abigail hurriedly, “never let a thought of the sort cross your mind. ’Tis just that I wish you would not fret too much, my Duke. You have your own matters to attend to. Papers pile up in your study, Edmund, and they are left unattended for days. I pray you would leave me be, Edmund. ’Tis nothing I cannot handle.”
The Duke was quiet for a moment, looking down at her hands in his. Abigail worried that she had upset him and was about to offer words of consolation out of guilt when he let out a small chuckle.
“I have been acting like a worried mother hen, have I not?” He then laughed a hearty laugh. “The love I have for you compels me so, Abigail. But of course, you shall have your lone walks if you so desire. But what one does on a walk by one’s self is something that I shall not understand. Nor why ye would fear complaining, my love.” He laughed again.
“And what sort of a Duke would leave papers piled up in his study to fret over his wife for hours is something I shall not understand,” Abigail retorted.
“Is that so?” He chuckled again and pulled her into his embrace, “Ye be too gentle for this wretched world, Abigail,” he said as he gently leaned down to kiss her.
Chapter 5
Samuel sat in his usual spot, looking up at the sky; or the fragments of it that he could behold, at least. Sometime after the sun had descended from its highest point in the sky, the jailer stepped in again and set down a tray of what smelled vaguely like stale vegetable broth and some bread with a pitcher of water. He gave him his usual grunt and stepped out. But this time, he left the cell door slightly cracked open. Samuel stared at the tiny opening suspiciously. Surely he had just forgotten and would soon lock his door shut, but that never happened. Still, Samuel waited as he ate, staring at the door left ajar and wondering what it could mean.
When the final dregs of water went down his throat, finishing his meal, he got up and walked over to the door. Hesitantly, he leaned out, looking down the corridor for any sign of his jailer. He looked back and then hesitantly stepped out the cell. Taking each step slowly and carefully, he walked towards the end of the corridor, towards the lobby. The jail seemed eerily empty; even the lobby showed no traces of another presence. He slid towards the main gate leading to the streets and took a hesitant step onto the unpaved road, out the jail. He looked around and yet saw no guards. He smiled to himself, proud of what he had accomplished when a man rode up to him. His smile vanished. Undoubtedly, it could not have been that simple, and a guard had inevitably come to escort him back to his cell. The man looked down at him.
“Ye be Samuel Cooper?” he asked in a gruff tone.
“Aye, that be me,” said Samuel, still rather hesitant.
The man immediately dismounted and handed Samuel the reigns of the thoroughbred horse. “Ye are to ride straigh’ to Aldrich, no stops in the middle, eh? Oh, and the saddlebags on this horse here be loaded with bread and ale and coins. So ye be needing no stop neither. Hurry now. An’ take the western exit, eh? Straigh’ to Aldrich!”
With that, the man looked around once suspiciously and darted off into a dark alley. Samuel mounted the horse as perplexity plagued his mind and demeanour but nevertheless urged the horse into a trot towards the western gate of London. He kept looking back, expecting to be stopped at any given moment and dragged back to that dingy cell of his. Only after he had left the city of London well behind him did Samuel truly celebrate his freedom. Chewing on freshly baked bread, he let out a huge whoop of celebration. “Ye watch out, eh, Duke? I be coming to take revenge on you and that wench of yours,” he muttered to himself as he rode towards the castle of Aldrich.
Chapter 6
Harold Blakemore stood in front of a tall mirror, admiring his reflection. He had always been proud of his looks; tall, strikingly handsome, and with long, flowing blond hair. Surely, he looked like a true, blood prince. Like a prince from all the merry songs that midwives sang to their despicable infants in desperate efforts to put them to bed. And he sure knew how to hold himself like a prince. Lord Harold knew that he was better than the rubbish around him. He was a Lord, a Prince. The others? They were insignificant. Expendable. Only he could be everlasting and splendid as he was. Suddenly, there wa
s a light knock at his door.
“Enter!” he called out in a dignified voice, turning around to face the door.
A small messenger girl entered, “My Lord Earl, you called for me?”
“Ah yes,” he said. “Fetch the cook from the kitchens for me. And hurry.”
The girl nodded and scurried off. The Earl stared in her wake. Oh how long he had waited to be called the Lord Earl. He deserved the title. He talked like a Lord, walked like a Lord and above all he looked like a Lord. Instead, the title had gone to his fool of a brother. He had not the wits of ruling or his own abilities. And he was an invalid to boot. Their father had not wanted Horace to inherit Aldrich; it was known near and far. The great Earl of Aldrich, Lord Lance Blakemore could not have an invalid as his successor, but he was bound by the Crown’s law to name his first-born son as his heir. So he resorted to the one thing that he could do. He plotted to have his elder son killed.
It was only a mother’s love that saved him. Their mother wouldn’t stand for it, and so Horace managed to outlive his father and inherit the castle.
Unable to see the beloved castle of his father and the pride of his forefather wasted so recklessly, Harold had gone to Scotland in the hopes of making his own way. “Bah!” he muttered to himself, disgusted at what had happened, “The folly of a woman will cause the end of this Kingdom, I say.” He was disgusted at his mother’s emotions and her inability to see sense. But no matter; he had finally inherited what was rightfully his. Thankfully, no wench could ever find Horace Blakemore attractive enough to even think of lying with him, and thus he was left without an heir. Lord Harold chuckled to himself.
It was then that the messenger girl returned, “The cook as you demanded, My Lord,” she said and backed out the door frame. The cook entered with hesitant steps, looking apprehensive. He gave a bow to the Earl and stood there, waiting for the Earl to state the purpose of the summoning. But the Earl just looked at him, a small smile on his face. It was after a few minutes had passed that the cook finally looked up at the Earl and said hesitantly:
“Yes, My Lord? You summoned me?”
“Indeed, I did,” replied the Earl, his silky voice cutting across the eerie stillness in the room.
A few more seconds of silence passed after which the cook once again mustered up the courage to inquire, “How may I be of service?”
“You may not,” said the Earl, smiling from ear to ear.
The cook looked up at the eerie smile on the Earl’s face and went white with fear. With shivers running down his spine, he again asked, “Why have you summoned me, My Lord?”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Earl, clapping his hands together and startling the cook. “So decent of you to ask. You see, my good man, I have a problem. I cannot possibly bring myself to make a decision. How about you help me reach a conclusion?”
“Of course, My Lord,” said the cook, surprised, “But what does the opinion of a humble servant matter, My Lord? Surely one of your advisors …”
The Earl held up a hand to silence him, “In fact, my good man, your opinion matters the most for the subject at hand.” The Earl smiled again.
This time, the silence did not extend as long, and the cook asked, “If I may, My Lord, what is the subject at hand?”
“The subject, cook,” said the Earl, as his delicate lips curled into a smile, exposing a set of pearl white teeth, “Is how best to execute you.”
The colour ran away from the cook’s face as he registered what the Earl had said. He immediately fell to his knees in front of the Earl and started howling, “But what is it that I have done, My Lord? I have served this house well. What could I have done?”
“What have you done? you ask,” said the Earl, not the slightest bit of change in his calm yet menacing demeanour. “You, my good man, put too much salt in my lunch. So much that it was absolutely bitter.” His smile faded.
“Oh, My Lord, my apologies,” cried the cook. “Have mercy, My Lord, I have a family!”
“Now, now, that won’t do,” said the Earl in mock pity. “We can’t have you dead if you have a family. Very well, I shall spare you. But you shall have to do something.”
“Anything, My Lord, anything!” cried the cook, looking up at the Earl, his face wet with tears.
“You see that salt on the table?” asked the Earl, pointing to a table in the corner of the room, “Add some of it …” The Earl smiled again.
“To the food, My Lord?” inquired the cook, confused.
“To your eyes,” the Earl said, smiling his widest smile as the cook gasped but obediently turned towards the table and tottered towards the small pile of salt, convinced of the futility of his pleas. The Earl burst into maniacal laughter as the first of the cook’s screams echoed over the grounds of Aldrich.
Chapter 7
Lord Stokeworth sat in his chambers in the Palace of Westminster as the sun gradually went down on the city of London. He could see lamps slowly being lit around the city as he sat by a roaring fire, sipping wine. His room was dimly lit, just as he preferred it to be. Most of the light came from the fireplace. Of candles, he had but one. Looking at the setting sun, he could not help wondering if he was indeed worthy of his position as a Lord in the House of Lords, the United Kingdom’s upper house of parliament.
“The Right Honourable the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland in Parliament assembled,” he muttered to himself, taking another sip of wine.
Right and honourable. Had they been right and honourable when they had fallen victim to the sweet tongue of one such as Harold Blakemore and had decided to send the Duke of Northumberland off to war when civil unrest threatened the peace of his own countryside. With Aldrich on one side and Northumberland on the other, unrest had been common.
It was expected, of course, after the events three months ago. Earl Horace had met his end at the hands of the Duke himself. The people of Aldrich were not so forgiving when it came to the murder of their liege lord. But murder, was it? Not by the Duke’s account. Or by Tobias Harding’s and that lass Abigail’s. The people of Aldrich had not looked favourably upon witnesses from the same castle, but the Crown had accepted the testimony, considering how most people in the court had no doubt of the Duke’s honour. The same could not be said for the late Earl.
The Lord had fought, had held up the session for hours longer and had debated, but to no avail; he had been voted out. Lord Edmund was to be sent to the channel. Lord Stokeworth knew of Harold Blakemore and his cunning, being godfather to him. He had seen the young, innocent boy grow up into the treacherous man he was today. And he had done nothing. Harold would do anything to get what he wanted, and that made him exceptionally dangerous. The man had some rather violent tendencies as well that could not be accounted for, thought the Lord. He could not be left unchecked. He would make arrangements for the Earl first thing the next morning. Lord Stokeworth had made it clear to the Earl that he would not be left unchecked in the absence of the Duke, right after he had met with Tobias Harding.
The Lord drained his chalice, picked up a small bell made of tin and shook it gently. Almost immediately, a young boy of about thirteen years stood at his door, patiently waiting for orders. “Ah, Will,” said the Lord, “I wish to smoke my pipe. Fill it up with tobacco for me, will you? I do feel light headed.”
“Certainly, My Lord,” said the boy, walking to the cupboard and pulling out a pipe. Lord Stokeworth looked the boy up and down.
“Have you had dinner, my boy?” he asked.
“Yes, My Lord,” came the reply. The boy now tugged at the strings of a pouch, looking to get at the fine, shredded tobacco within.
Lord Stokeworth felt increasingly light-headed as he asked the boy, “Do you think we do good work, my boy? Do you think we serve the realm well? And its people?”
“What matters of the opinions of a common messenger boy, My Lord?” inquired Will, filling up the pipe with tobacco. “I know naught of the sate, My Lor
d.”
“Then again, my boy,” said the Lord, slumping in his chair, feeling sick to his core, “I have asked you and so answer.”
“Yes, My Lord.” The boy faced away from him so the Lord could not see what expressions played on his face as he hesitated. “I believe you do excellent work, My Lord. You stand up for what is right and just in these troubled times.” The boy turned around to face him, “Are you faring well, My Lord? You look sickly. Shall I call the nurse?”
The Lord sat slumped in his chair, cold sweat dripping down his face. What is this? he thought. He had been perfectly fine just minutes ago before he had drunk the wine.
“I shall call the nurse, My Lord,” said the boy, looking stricken. “You wait just a moment.” With that, the boy made to leave, but the Lord called him back with a grunt.
“The wine,” croaked the Lord. “Where did you get the wine?”
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