Chapter 7

-Inscribed upon the Tome of Kings

Early Winter, 3133, Highbridge

Garrett Orgreave sat in silent thought in the study above the great hall of North Crossing Tower. As the highest point in Highbridge, the study in the tower provided the best view of the forest east of Highbridge. There was still no word from his Lord Father, Lord Clemond Orgreave, or any of the men who accompanied him to Maeden. A week, and still no word. Garrett's mind wandered to the many possibilities. Perhaps they had stayed the week in the town, thinking it best for this accursed snow to stop before they returned. Perhaps also, his father had decided to pay visit to one of the other towns near Maeden. It had been several years since his father had ridden into the deep forest, it would have been an opportune time to reassure the townsfolk with his presence. Or perhaps, thought Garrett, he had already been killed by the Singers in Maeden and his body mutilated.

Despite the falling snow, and the bitter cold of the air that swept in through the open window that faced east, Garrett did not close the heavy shutters. Instead, he rose, and stood in window, oblivious to the snow collecting in his beard, and strained one last time into the swirling white darkness. A sudden noise behind him brought him from his thoughts. He turned, expecting to shoo away one of the keep's servants who had no doubt come to offer him wine, but instead of the face of a servant, he was greeted by the concerned face of his wife. She clutched her arms under her thin shawl against the cold air.

"Lady Bettyn," he said seeing her covered only with a light robe over her dress, "You should dress warmer!" He moved to put his arms around her to keep her warm.

"Husband," she began, backing away from him "You should come to bed, it has grown late. I am sure word of your father and cousin will come in the morning. You should sleep."

She regarded him with that same expression. Her face was pleading, seemingly concerned, but beneath it, deep in her eyes, he knew she was only doing her duty as his wife.

"Tell me, Lady Wife," he said coolly, "If I come to my bed, will it be warm or cold?"

"I have told the servants to keep the fire strong in our bedchamber, if that is what you mean," she said.

He looked at her for a moment. She would have been attractive to many men, he thought, with her delicate neck covered with the chestnut tresses of her long hair, her pale, soft skin, and her pleading brown eyes, she could have been the fantasy of many men. But he knew the cold whiteness of her complexion was not skin deep, but penetrated to the bone. She was a loveless creature, and their marriage was a loveless one as well.

Garrett turned away from her, his hands gripped the stone sill of the window tightly. He tried to control his anger.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it!" he said through clenched teeth.

"If My Lord commands me to bed with him, then I shall bed with him," she answered. She returned to the door, and stopped before going through. She turned back to him, and he could feel her eyes boring into the back of his skull. "What is your command, My Lord?" she asked sarcastically.

"Since when has a command of mine been of any importance to you?" he returned.

"You commanded me to bear your son and heir, did you not?" she asked.

"We can both see how well that command was carried out. What did you do when you carried him?" he asked, staring directly into her eyes.

"What are you saying?" she demanded.

"I suppose your nightly draught of poppymilk while you bore him had nothing to do with his condition today." He knew that was too much, it would only anger her. But he was too far now, he could not stop. "He is four summers old now, and yet you still keep that wet nurse about for him to feed! Do you truly believe he can ever be my heir? He does not speak!"

Her eyes were wide with anger, no hatred. I should not have said that.

"Perhaps he simply does not want to speak to you." She said coldly between clenched teeth.

Before he could answer, the sounds of footsteps on the stairs below interrupted him. He straightened himself and regained his composure, drawing his shoulders back and standing up straight, trying to look lordly to whoever came through the door.

When he saw the cheerful face of Fleming Ware behind the cold countenance of his wife, he let out a breath and relaxed.

"By your leave, Lord Husband," she curtsied and met his stare one last defiant moment before turning and descending the steps to the keep without waiting for an answer from him. Her emphasis on the last part only made him angrier.

Fleming watched her depart, a most knowing and disdainful look on his face. When she rounded the curve at the bottom of the steps, he turned his attention back to his friend in the tower room. He entered and closed the door behind him.

"These keeps, they're so drafty!" he commented.

Garrett could not help but smile as he closed the shutters to block out the cold air. It angered him that his friend had the ability to make him smile or laugh when he wanted to be so angry. "They must be, or they begin to smell like the manure that lives in them," he said dryly.

"Come now, Garrett!" Fleming said. "Can it be so bad as that? All women have their moods. She will warm to you come spring."

"You have told me that every year for the last seven!" Garrett said, perturbed.

"So why expect any less of me this year?" asked Fleming with a smile. "Let's talk of other things! You worry too much. Your wife, your father, you need to relax for an evening! Come with me to the great hall! I have a bottle of fine Hebronus Red! We'll drown your worries in wine!"

"No, Fleming, not tonight," Garrett said. "I just don't feel like drinking. I am not in the mood."

"Now you sound like your Lady Wife!" Laughed Fleming, placing his arms about his friend's shoulders and leading him to the door. "You're not in the mood! Hah!"

If any other man had said such a thing, Garrett would have had him bodily removed from the keep and thrown in the river, but he had know Fleming Ware his entire life, and he knew Fleming meant it only in jest.

"Enough! Enough!" cried Garrett in mock pain, "I can take no more! I will drink with you, but no more comparisons with my wife!"

"Deal!" laughed Fleming. "Come now! We should start drinking right away!"

"What is your hurry?" asked Garrett.

"Well," said Fleming, trying too hard to hide a smile, "if we wait any longer, your wife might not be in the mood any longer when we're finished!"

Garrett laughed and followed his friend down to the Great Hall of the Keep.

The hall was draped in shadows, the only light coming from a large fire in the hearth on the east wall. Garrett and Fleming took chairs from the great table and dragged them next to the fire. Fleming propped his heels up on the hearth produced a large bottle from the folds of his cloak and removed the cork with his teeth. He turned the bottle up, taking a long drink from it, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Hebronus Red!" he exclaimed while handing the bottle to Garrett, "the best in the city!"

Garrett looked at his friend and paused before taking the wine. Rumors in the keep told stories of Fleming's escapades at local taverns. The stories were filled with wine, women, and song. Looking at him now, Garrett could tell that these nightly jaunts were beginning to take their toll on him. He looked drawn somewhat. His arms and legs were thin, too thin, and his hands shook slightly as he held the bottle. Fleming had at one time been considered among the most handsome men in Highbridge. The maidens flocked to him like geese. Garrett had no doubt that he still attracted the women whenever he visited the taverns or whorehouses, but his lifestyle was beginning to take its toll. The coal black hair was unwashed and unkempt. The once-fine garments he wore needed a washing as well. And the bags under his eyes were no longer subtle, but indeed conspicuous. Garrett said nothing and took the bottle. The sweet smell of warm red wine filled his nostrils. He took a long draught from the bottle, relishing the sweet flavor as his drank.

He was about to hand the bottle back to his friend when the sound of footsteps and the flickering of a torch interrupted him. He rose and turned to face a keep servant.

"My Lord," the servant began, "A message has arrived that requires your immediate attention."

"Very well," he answered, holding out his hand to the man, "Give it to me."

"Um, no My Lord," the servant looked nervous now, "it is not that kind of message."

"Well, out with it, man!" Fleming interrupted.

"Perhaps My Lord would understand better if he followed me to the courtyard."

"Fine, then," said Garrett, obviously annoyed at the whole circumstance. "Lead on, then!" he shouted to the servant.

Garrett and Fleming followed the man through the lower level of the keep to the main door. Garrett took a heavy from cloak from a peg on the wall before telling the servant to open the door. Fleming appeared to be content with his thin woolen one. "Let's go," Garrett commanded.

The servant opened the door, and the courtyard beyond came into sight as the door swung out of Garrett's view. He expected to see the dark, quite courtyard, and maybe a guardsman escorting a messenger, but the sight was quite different. Though dark, the courtyard was well lit by men with torches. The snow was falling heavier. At least ten city guardsmen stood in the courtyard with several of the keep's guard. In the middle of this group was a wagon hitched to a farm horse. The men were all talking loudly amongst themselves, but stopped when they saw Garrett emerge from the keep.

"My Lord!" cried Carmen Stollt, captain of his father's house guard when he saw Garret and Fleming.

"What is this, Carmen?" asked Garrett. "It is too late for games!"

"No Games, my Lord. A message about your father, we think."

"A letter?" Garrett asked.

"No, a body." Stollt answered, stepping away from the cart.

Garrett immediately straightened, and he heard Fleming draw a breath beside him. He felt his heart jump and his throat constrict. The horse hitched to the cart neighed and pulled against the men holding the reins, and Garrett took a step forward, expecting the worst.

In the back of the cart, Garrett could make out the figure of a man, or what appeared to be one, with his body covered by a large cloth from the waist up. The boots on the body were well made leather, designed for travelling or riding. The pants were dark, their color impossible to tell in the torchlight.

"Remove the cloth!" he commanded, expecting the worst. He braced himself for the sight of his father's lifeless eyes that he knew wold greet him when the face was uncovered.

One of the city guardsmen stepped forward and drew back the heavy cloth. But the eyes of his father did not great Garrett. In fact, no eyes at all greeted him. The body's head had been hewed from its neck. The shirt was stained with dried, frozen blood, and the skin of the hands and neck were blue. This body had been dead several days.

Father! Garrett wanted to scream aloud, but stopped himself. He looked closer and suddenly was aware that this was not his father. This body was lean and tall, with long legs and arms. Lord Clemond Orgreave was not a tall man, but was broad in the shoulders and thick of limb. This man was neither.

"Who is this man? I do not recognize the body." He said at last to Stollt.

"I recognize it." Said Fleming in a suddenly uncharacteristic tone of seriousness. "Horsten Maar, captain of the city guard."

No one spoke for several moments. It was obvious from the faces of the guardsmen that they knew indeed whose body this was, but were not willing to admit it until someone else confirmed it. Horsten Maar was a very popular captain amongst his men. One of the men sat down on the frozen ground and covered his face with his hands.

"Where was he found?" Garrett asked Stollt.

"The horse wandered up the east road on its own," said Stollt. "One of the townsfolk found it, thinking it a stray. When they saw the body, they called for the guard immediately. I am afraid-" he stumbled for the right words. "I fear what this means about your father. I fear he too might already be dead."

"This is not my father's body! Until we find his body, he will be presumed alive, do you understand?" he snapped at the man rather sharply. Garrett's eyes were fixed on the corpse before him.

"My apologies," he replied. "I only meant-"

"You meant what you said, Carmen," Interrupted Feming. "Don't apologize for that."

Fleming turned to face his friend, whose eyes were red with anger and tears. He grabbed Garrett's shoulders and shook him.

"No one is saying your father is dead, Garrett," he said, "but we must face the facts- this man was with your father and Lord Marten, and now he is dead. We have no word form your father, we must be prepared to accept that if, if mind you, he is dead, you are responsible for bringing justice to his killers."

"Justice?" Garrett asked, "I'll have the heads of every man who so much as knew his killers! Stollt, get your horse, the three of us will find his Killers by tomorrow!"

"My Lord!" Stollt said, "You must remain calm! We do not know who killed Maar or where he was killed! Seeking vengeance will solve nothing."

"I think, Garrett," said Fleming, "that we must now work from the assumption that your father is either dead, or being held captive somewhere. Your father made a mistake. He road off against the Vÿkstraak with but a handful of men without waiting for Duke Gendry to arrive with help. He took the Duke's heir with him, something I argued against to no avail, and now both are missing, possibly dead. You will solve nothing by riding off with the two of us! Duke Gendry will be here by tomorrow afternoon with men who can deal with this situation. You can claim the right of justice from him when he arrives!"

Garrett calmed himself. He regretted his rash outburst. Fleming was right, of course, as he so often was in such matters. Only Duke Gendry had the right to pronounce a sentence of death in Horwald. Unless, that is, the Right of Justice were granted. If the Duke judged that Lord Clemond Orgreave was murdered or unjustly wronged, the Right of Justice would allow Garrett to pass sentence not to exceed the crime.

"Will he grant it?" he mused out loud to no one in particular.

"He must!" answered Fleming.

"Then we must wait until tomorrow before doing anything, My Lord?" asked Stollt.

"No, Carmen," said Fleming.

"No. Call your guards, Captain Stollt, and order the city watch assembled. You will choose a new captain for them until I or my father can appoint a permanent one. We can at least send scouts out immediately around the roads near the city to look for other…messages," Garrett commanded, his voice still shaky from emotion.

"Um, Garrett," began Fleming hesitantly, "There is something else you should attend to."

"That is?" Asked Garrett.

"Lord Marten's wife is still in the Keep, Garrett. Shouldn't you tell her the news? She deserves to know."

"Bloody hell!" Growled Garrett. "And what am I to tell her, that her husband of less than a summer is probably dead along with my father?"

"Perhaps you should just tell her about the body, and tell her we don't know anything yet about her husband," Said Stollt.

"No. This is a job for her Lord Father, Duke Gendry," Said Garrett decidedly. "I will let him tell her tomorrow."

"She'll likely have heard rumors by then," said Fleming. "She'll leap to her own conclusions from there. And that could be worse than telling her the truth."

"My wife tells me that a woman's is the kinder voice from which to hear unkind news," Offered Stollt.

"Fine." Sighed Garrett. "I suppose your wife would like to talk to Elise, then?"

The other two men stood staring at him silently. He realized what he had to do.

"Blast it all anyhow!" He said angrily. "Send for my bloody wife!" he called to the servant at the door.