The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

trappings of a rich man engaged in the business of preparing for the day. Instead, the walls were bare and functional, with two charcoal drawings hung on one side, near the window, and a ceremonial sword on the other. The scribe could see no other adornments. Only a simple washbasin filled with water, scented with lavender, a brass ewer, and a side table on which a set of clothes had been placed.
    “Is it not what you had expected?”
    “No, my lord, I…” The sudden question goaded Simon to honesty, even as he wondered if the other man’s partial gifting had sensed his thoughts or if his expression had simply given him away. “I had imagined rich men would gather rich things around them. It is what I would do in your place.”
    Lord Tregannon laughed, his grey eyes dancing. “On the contrary, men born to riches soon tire of them. Rich things are a public display, and not always a private desire.”
    “Of course, sir.”
    Still tasting the Overlord’s words in his mind, Simon smiled; he couldn’t help noticing how the other man’s costume belied him. This day Lord Tregannon had chosen to wear a rich crimson tunic embroidered with gold leaves, which offset the simplicity of his hose, although even there Simon could tell the cloth was expensive and the stitching elegant.
    At last, the Lammas Lord was ready to speak.
    “Have you eaten yet, Simon?” he asked.
    Simon shook his head, uncertain how to reply, but Lord Tregannon only smiled.
    “I see you have had little use of society in your travels. No matter. Come, I will call for food and we will eat together before our business. There is time before the pleasure of the morning hunt.”
    He left the room and Simon followed in his wake. In the corridor outside, he turned right, but not before commandeering a servant with his request. Some moments later, the two men sat in a small corner room in the castle, with windows overlooking the south side of the bailey. From outside, he could hear the noise of cattle and horses, the rise and fall of voices and the clatter of armour. The servants laid out honey and fresh bread, two young pigeons, cheeses and a flagon of ale with two polished beakers on the table, and left bowing.
    “Please,” Lord Tregannon gestured at the table with his hand, gold rings flashing in the sun. “Eat what you will.”
    Simon waited until his companion had torn off bread and spooned honey into the middle of it before serving himself. The bread was still warm and his stomach growled. Lord Tregannon smiled and pushed the platter of bread towards him.
    “Eat,” he said again.
    Needing no third bidding, Simon did so. The bread tasted of summers filled with corn, and the flesh of the pigeon melted on his tongue. The cheese too was potent, a local blending, he assumed, not one he recognised, but every village he had ever travelled through always prided itself on the distinctiveness of its own local cheeses. The distinctly unique flavours depended on the herbs available.
    During the meal, Lord Tregannon said nothing, but once or twice Simon caught him looking at him, those hooded grey eyes seeming to weigh him in the balance. He wondered if he passed the test, and what test it might indeed be. When the meal was over and the root beer drunk, a servant came to take the remains away.
    “Now,” his companion said. “To business.”
    If he had expected Lord Tregannon to return to his private rooms to conduct whatever business he had in mind, he was soon proved wrong. The Overload showed no fear of the possibility of spies. And if Simon had expected him to approach the matter in hand in the round-about custom of his people, he was wrong there also.
    “There are particular things I wish you to do for me,” Lord Tregannon said, leaning forward across the table and fixing his gaze on a spot somewhere in the area of Simon’s right shoulder.
    “My lord?”
    “You may have noticed certain…levels of activity amongst my soldiers in the brief time you spent in the bailey this morning.” When Simon nodded, he seemed satisfied and continued. “Yes, I thought as much. Whatever the poverty of your trade, you do not strike me as an unobservant man. Perhaps though, therein lies the little success you’ve had? Beyond your mind-skills of course. The ability to read people is a desirable one.”
    “Yes, sir,” he said into the pause left for this purpose.
    “Good. Then you will have noticed that I am training my military to fight, and fight well. If