“Tobias!” he heard a voice call out. Looking around, he saw the Duke approaching him, dressed for travel with a cloak around his shoulders and a sword at his hip. “Are the horses ready?”
“Aye, My Lord, they are,” said Tobias, gesturing to two beasts standing at the gates. “The saddlebags are full, and we are ready to set off.”
“Good, good,” said the Duke, nodding approvingly. “Said your goodbyes, Tobias?”
“Aye, said my goodbyes, alright. To my beloved wife and seven young children,” he replied wryly.
Chuckling, the Duke grabbed him by the shoulders and ushered him towards the horses. “Let us be off, then,” he said.
The two men approached the horses and mounted them in unison. With a “Hah!” the Duke ushered his horse into a trot and headed for the castle’s open gates. Stopping at the gates, he looked back at Tobias.
“Before I forget, my friend,” he said, digging in his pocket, “Here!” He took out a small object wrapped up in cloth and tossed it to Tobias.
“What is it?” he asked, examining the object, but the Duke had already turned his horse around and was trotting down the road. He shook his head and carefully unwrapped the package, revealing a shiny, brand new wooden pipe. Smiling to himself, Tobias pocketed the pipe and spurred his horse into a trot behind the Duke.
Chapter 8
Abigail could not help worrying endlessly about Edmund. She watched him and Tobias trot off towards the capital city from the window of her chambers. She worried that the Duke would have to face serious repercussions for what he had done. He had abandoned his post and had thus broken a royal decree and disobeyed the Crown’s orders. For a common soldier, that meant he would go straight to the gallows. Edmund’s high status might protect him from such a fate, but there would definitely be a heavy penalty. She had expressed her concerns to the Duke as well, just before he had left.
“What do you think they will do, Edmund?” she had asked while the Duke was lacing up his boots.
“Nothing, nothing,” he had said, waving an arm in dismissal. “Probably naught more than a fine. Nothing too bad, my love.”
“My Lord, it might be wise not to underestimate the extent of Harold Blakemore’s power and treachery,” she had replied, a bit annoyed at his nonchalance.
“I am not, my fair lady. But the man is not above the law. The King’s justice will always be done in the land. It might be so that Earl Blakemore has a firm grasp over the House of Lords, but the Crown stands tall over everyone.”
The Duke’s words echoed in Abigail’s head. She wished it would be as her lord husband had said. But she still remembered what the Earl had said to her when he had taken the castle, “But I have already won,” he had said. His confidence had jarred her then, and it jarred her now. Even when the Duke had come to reclaim the castle with a whole cavalry, he had simply handed the castle over and had left the estate with the composure of a man who was going for his afternoon tea rather than to stand trial for illegal occupation. He had been smiling when he was escorted into a small wagon, his hands bound together by chains.
Abigail could not throw off the feeling that the Earl was two steps ahead of them, as he always had been. She knew that the Earl had already predicted what the Duke would do and had made ample preparations to turn the tide against him. She feared for Edmund for she could feel a storm coming. Just then, there was a slight knock on her door, and Pip entered.
“You called for me, Duchess?” he asked.
“Aye, I did,” she said kindly, turning towards him. “I need ye to go down to Nurse Daisy and ask for a vial of that morning sickness tonic. I’m afraid it’s worse than usual today.”
“Very well, My Lady,” he said, “I shall fetch it in a jiffy.”
With that, he bowed and exited the chambers. Abigail watched him go, a sad expression on her face; it broke her heart to see the boy like this. He was still grieving for his father. The old Pip would have greeted her with a cheery smile and a salute and would have run off as fast as his feet could carry him. He seemed to have lost all his cheeriness and energy. To her, it seemed as if the boy had lost his childhood.
Abigail still remembered when she had lost her father in that dreadful mining accident. For a long time, even the sight of coal dust would leave her inconsolable. Time had healed that wound, and she wished it would do the same for Pip. Abigail could not help feeling guilty over the whole tragedy as well. His father was, at the end of the day, one of her subjects, and she was directly responsible for him. She had let him down when she let the man die for a crime he had not done. She went off to sit on her bed for the morning sickness had left her weak in the knees. It was then that Pip re-entered, presenting a small glass bottle of clear liquid. Abigail gulped it down gratefully and proceeded to lie down on the bed.
“Anything else you may need, My Lady?” Pip asked.
Abigail looked the boy up and down. He was no more than eleven years old; still a child. “Yes, Pip, I do,” she said.
“What is it, My Lady?”
“That you sit down here. I have a story to tell you,” she said, beckoning him to sit down next to the bed.
“A story, My Lady?” he asked, crossing his legs and hastily plopping down on the floor next to her.
“Aye. My father used to tell it to me when I was your age,” she said, running a hand through his hair, “Whenever I would feel troubled, it would give me hope. It’s a legend about the great King Arthur.”
“I know of King Arthur, My Lady,” said the boy eagerly.
“I’m sure you do, Pip. So you see, Pip, King Arthur was a great ruler of this country in ancient times; in times of dragons and druids and wizards. He was so powerful that the people used to say that even the wind blows only at the command of the great king. Legend says that King Arthur and his loyal Knights of the table once waged a great war against the giants of the north.”
“Giants, My Lady?” asked the boy, wonder in his eyes.
“Aye, Pip, giants. Taller than the tallest of towers and mightier than twenty horses put together, the giants were causing havoc in England, killing hundreds of men and stealing sheep. It was then that the great King drew his mighty sword—”
“Excalibur!” exclaimed Pip.
“Excalibur,” agreed Abigail, “He drew his mighty sword, and he charged the giants and sent them scurrying to the north. He won seven great battles against the giants, but in the eighth battle, he lost.”
“He lost, My Lady?” asked Pip. “How could he lose?”
“Even the mightiest among us face failure sometimes, my boy. Even they feel fear and remorse and sadness. And it was all that what King Arthur felt for he did not just lose the battle; he also lost a trusted friend and knight, Sir Lancelot.”
“He died?” asked Pip.
“Yes, Pip, he died. But he died fighting, never giving up. He slew five giants single-handedly before succumbing to death. The tales of his bravery were sung throughout the land. But Arthur was broken. He was so dejected that he decided to stop the war against the giants and retreat to his castle. It was then, Pip, when all was lost to him that Arthur prayed. He prayed to God, and God sent him an angel.”
“I know of angels, My Lady,” said Pip, “I heard about them in church.”
“You must have. So the angel came to Arthur and spoke to him. And he told him of Lancelot and how Lancelot was watching him from heaven, where he has a huge castle and fruit and wine aplenty. The angel told him of how his friend Lancelot was sad to see Arthur so lost and dejected, and he urged Arthur to continue his war against the giants so that his friend could see him win and be happy.”
“Lancelot was watching, My Lady?”
“Yes, he was. So Arthur, rekindled by the angel’s words charged the enemy once again and won the last great war against the giants, slaying every last one of them for the kingdom and for his friend, Lancelot. The end.”
Pip was silent for a while after the story had ended, looking down at his hands. “Do
you think my father is in heaven, My Lady?”
“I know he is, my boy.”
Pip suddenly jumped up and embraced her. Abigail held him close to her while he cried into her shoulder. Running her hands through his hair, she silently wept too. After all, he was only a child.
Chapter 9
Earl Harold Blakemore had woken up to dreadful news. The moment he got the letter signed by Lord Walder, he rushed to his chambers to talk to him about the news. However, he was informed that the Lord had left for Buckingham Palace to handle some state issues, and he had been turned away. Since then, he had done nothing but pace in his chambers, taking small sips of wine. What he had learnt could possibly put an end to his plan, as he knew it. The late Lord Stokeworth’s son, Warren Stokeworth was set to return to London to take his place in the House of Lords within the fortnight.
The young Lord had been in the colony of Kenya when he had gotten the news of his father’s demise and had been implored to return to England to take his empty seat in the house. Since he was known to be in the greater African continent, studying the different cultures there, Harold had not predicted his timely arrival. He had expected the Lord not to return to London for at least the next five months or so.
He did not know much of Lord Warren except that he was younger than he was, merely a few years above thirty. He was an excellent lawyer, having studied in the best universities around the Kingdom. He was also known to be fond of travelling and had visited almost every British colony around the globe. From India to the Americas, he had seen it all. But the young Lord was mostly known for his grace and charm. Earl Harold had only met him once before, at a gala at the Buckingham Palace some nine years ago. He remembered the young man of twenty to be tall, charming, well spoken, and extremely likeable. Of course, the Earl had hated him since.
However, what bothered the Earl the most was not the Lord’s youth or charm or grace. Rather, what bothered him was his influence on the House of Lords. The Stokeworths were a long chain of Lords who had direct ties to the Crown. They were respected and looked up to all over the Kingdom as being the second most influential family of Britain, right after the Royal family. Before his demise, the late Lord Stokeworth commanded the respect and obedience of almost every Lord in the House. Surely his son would enjoy the same exalted status.
Harold feared that the young Lordling would be hard to persuade and bend to his cause. He feared that the man would be the same as his father, citing claims of honour and integrity. He despised the kind of self-righteous, soft hypocrites that these people were known to be. They would happily indulge in nights of debauchery and dissipation, engaging in every single vice known to man. But when it came to issues such as these, they were the first to bring up claims of honour and righteousness. Just then, his door knocked, and a young messenger boy stepped in.
“What is it, boy?” he snapped.
“My Lord, Lord Walder has returned to his chambers. He has asked for your presence,” said the boy, hesitantly.
“Very well, I shall be with him shortly,” said the Earl.
The boy made to leave, but Harold called him back, “Boy!”
“Yes, My Lord?” the boy stopped in his tracks.
“Have you always been Lord Walder’s messenger boy?” he asked.
The boy immediately paled. “No, My Lord,” he muttered.
“Who were you running messages for before him?” asked Harold, intrigued at the boy’s response.
“Lord Stokeworth,” said the boy, looking at his feet.
Harold looked the boy up and down. His reactions aroused his curiosity. He would have to remember to investigate the boy further later, but to him, he said, “Very well then, boy. On your way.”
The boy bowed and quickly exited the chambers. Harold drained his wine cup and soon followed, heading for Lord Walder’s chambers. He now made the connection; this was the boy who had been with Stokeworth when he died. He could be a hindrance. Harold suddenly felt very frustrated. Issues upon issues were coming up, threatening his intentions. But first things first; he had to do something about the young Lord before he gained too much influence. Approaching Lord Walder’s doors, he knocked and hastily entered. The Lord was at his table, hunched over a piece of parchment.
“Ah, Harold,” he said in greeting, “I just received this. We should expect Duke Edmund of Northumberland by early evening. We will schedule the hearing tomorrow afternoon, shall we?”
Surely, My Lord,” said Harold, “But My Lord, are you not the least bit worried about the young Lord Stokeworth?”
“Hmm? Warren? Why should I be?” asked the Lord.
“My Lord, he shall have the same influence, the same respect as his father. Might have the same soft heart. He could be a threat.”
“Nay, Harold, he could not,” said Lord Walder with a chuckle. “Boy is as green as grass. He is young, gullible. He will be easy to bend. In fact, I believe he might just turn out to be a great asset.”
“Are you sure, My Lord?”
“Aye, Harold. You worry too much. Now, how about some wine? And we can talk about the hearing tomorrow?”
Chapter 10
“My Lord, shall we report to the Palace?” asked Tobias from atop his steed.
The Duke turned in his saddle to face him, “No Tobias, I would much rather retire to my estate. We can send a runner to the Palace.”
“Of course, My Lord,” said Tobias.
The sun was gleaming low on the horizon, lighting the city of London with an eerie glow. The Duke was tired; they had spent almost the whole day riding for the city. He looked over at his travelling companion. Tobias’s face betrayed no signs of weariness. He looked as fresh as he did when they had left Northumberland; a bit dishevelled, surely, but not weary.
“I never liked the smell of the city, Tobias,” said the Duke. “Horse shit and bread; that’s what London smells like. The countryside is more my taste; the smell of flowers and fruit.”
“’Tis smells like a distant home to me, My Lord,” said Tobias, sniffing and looking around, “a home long left and forgotten.”
“Tobias, where do you think you’d be if my father hadn’t found you that day?” asked the Duke, looking over at his friend.
“Long dead of starvation, Edmund,” said Tobias glumly. He then grinned, “The question, however, is where you would be if your Lord father hadn’t found me?” he said coyly.
“Long dead of over indulgence in narcotics,” he said with a chuckle.
“Aye,” said Tobias, mimicking the laugh, “Sure am glad he found me.”
“What was he to you, Tobias?”
“A father I never had.”
The Duke sighed and looked up at the heavens, “I pray I manage to become half the man he was,” he said.
“He would be proud of you,” said Tobias, looking down at his hands clutching the reins.
“More of you than me, old friend,” said the Duke with another sigh.
The two men rode in silence for a while, the Duke deep in thought. The smell of London brought back memories. His most recent visit to the city was when he was seeking out Abigail a mere four months ago. To him, it seemed like ages. He thought back to the days of debauchery he had wasted in the city, much to the dismay of his Lord father. And now he was summoned to the city to answer for his crimes against the Crown. He felt disappointed in himself, and though he would never admit it, a bit afraid.
“Here we are,” said Tobias from beside him.
The Duke suddenly found himself in front of his city estate in the centre of London. He slid off his horse and handed the reins to a servant that rushed forward to greet them. After commanding him to send a runner to the Palace of Westminster, the Duke decided to retire to his parlour, asking for Tobias to join him. After eating their supper, the two men filled up their pipes with tobacco and sat by the window, smoking their pipes and looking down at the streets of London. They smoked in silence for a while after which Tobias finally spoke.
“T
o think I would ever be smoking city ground tobacco in an estate overlooking these wretched streets,” he said in a weary tone.
“Why not?”
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