The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

Lands and all its lesser lords into disrepute.
    The boy knocks on the bed-chamber door and opens it without waiting for any command. When Ralph turns round from the window, the boy won’t look him in the eye. He’s only fifteen winter-cycles old and he’s been Ralph’s personal steward for two days now—a slight boy with pale blond hair and a limp which almost echoes his own. Ralph doesn’t even remember his name. As he thought, the boy is later than he was yesterday, but Ralph says nothing; he’s too young to be caught up in the middle of Lammas politics. Too young, also, to be forced to stay with a discredited Lord.
    “Why do you stay, boy?” The question is spoken aloud, even though Ralph had not realised he would do so, and the boy starts, almost dropping the jug of water and basin he clutches under one arm.
    “My Lord,” he mutters, dodging past and placing the items on the side shelf. He is still carrying the bundle of clothing Ralph asked for. “Do…do you wish me to lay out your morning dress?”
    Words crowd Ralph’s mouth. So many questions he wishes to ask, but he cannot bear listening to the answers. He wants to ask again why the boy stays when there is no future here, or not one that bears any resemblance to the past they have known. He wants to ask where the other servants have gone and what they might be doing, if indeed they are still alive. He wants to ask if the boy imagines that the soldiers will be any defence against the mystery of whatever is to come upon them. Most of all though, he wants to ask if he thinks that Ralph’s presence here is more of a blessing than a curse.
    Of course, he asks none of these things. Not of a servant. Ralph’s father taught him well. Instead, he shakes his head.
    “No,” he says. “Leave them on the bed. I will dress myself today.”
    As he speaks, Ralph remembers the last time he made the decision to dress himself—the morning when Simon the Scribe first visited the castle.
    He brushes the memories aside as the boy nods a reply and leaves. He doesn’t look back.
    When he’s gone, Ralph fills the basin with the icy water and splashes it over his face. It knocks away his self-pity and makes his mind feel clear. He washes quickly and, as he dresses in plain clothes, Ralph thinks about what has happened and what might still.
    He chose to support the mind-executioner, believing that what he offered would bring peace and prosperity to those under his care, the Lammas people. There had been unrest for so long in the lands, wars and rumours of wars, that an alliance with a man who promised peace had been too tempting to resist. But he was fooling himself. If he is going to survive, and by the gods he intends to, Ralph will have to acknowledge the truth to himself, at least. What the mind-executioner had promised him was power, the chance to extend the Lammas rule into the lands beyond their borders, the chance to make the Tregannon name more far-reaching than that of any of the minor lords around him.
    Simon, the mind-executioner had said, stood in the way and must be destroyed. Ralph had been committed to give up the scribe as easily as if he had been a sworn enemy, and with no second thoughts about what he was doing—betraying a friend and a man under his protection for the sake of gain. He could fool himself that he’d been blinded by the mind-executioner’s mental hold, but the fact remained that Ralph had been willing for him to have that power. The fault in the first place had been his, so where is his honour now?
    He doesn’t bother with breaking his fast. The questions in his mind aren’t conducive to eating, though he does finish last night’s wine. Instead, he walks out into the corridor, favouring his wounded leg a little, past his private rooms, through the series of stone-carved arches and into the dining-hall. One maid-servant is clearing out the grate, though why she should do so he has no idea. There will be no entertainment here for many seven-days, he thinks. Ralph ignores her but the sound of his boots on the slabs and the swish of his cloak send her scuttling away into the shadows.
    In the courtyard he shouts for the horseman and waits, rubbing his hands together to fight the cold while he appears. Like the steward for the dressing ceremony, the horseman is not swift. Again, Ralph does not complain. Even so, that must surprise the man—he has sometimes been harsh in his lordship, though not until recently unfair. He can see