Sir Aleck Rowland’s Manor-House in Upchurch, Feast of Mariusmas, XVII Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten. Vespers.
Dale, Sir Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow.
The great hall in Upchurch House is a dry, high-ceilinged room, its walls cheerfully painted with hunting scenes. Smoke from the smoldering fire lingers among the exposed rafter beams high overhead. The floor is covered with rushes that crackle as laughing children tease one of Sir Aleck’s new pups. To the side of the hall sits a large, oaken table, littered with the remains of a splendid meal of roasted stubble-goose, dressed special for today’s Feast of St. Marius. The consortes and other men at the table relax as Sir Will Garnfellow, his viol in hand, plays a lively tune, accompanied by Vandoren with his psaltery. Beating time on the table is young Bardolph, who sits next to the old veteran Nym—both men accompanied Garnfellow on his journey to Upchurch from Heremac. And on the floor of the hall, Sir Aleck and his wife Alice dance to the music.
Near Aleck’s empty seat sits Anselm, his chaplain: A young, pale man, he looks on with amusement as his lord gambols about the hall. Next to Anselm is Oswald, Aleck’s loyal henchmen of many years. A stout, red-faced fellow, Oswald is said to be a doughty serjeant, but kind-hearted, having sired most—if not all—of the children scurrying about the great hall. Hovering over the table is Old Cerdic, Aleck’s stooped and aged porter, said to have served in that capacity at Upchurch House for years and years.
As the music stops, Aleck bows to the table, and then bows to his lady. The knight then wipes the sweat from his brow and approaches the group.
“That tune was well played,” laughs Sir Aleck.
“And that figure was well danced,” roars Garnfellow, setting his viol aside to snatch up his mug of ale.
“All the praise is due my partner,” responds Sir Aleck, and his wife smiles and courtesies. Alice Rowland is a small, slight woman, with bright, mirthful eyes and white hair pulled back from her careworn face.
“Then we should drink to the fair and gracious Lady Rowland,” exclaims Garnfellow, “And to her most excellent ale!”
“Here! Here!” says Vandoren, lifting his own mug up. The rest of the men follow suit, toasting Lady Alice, who dismisses the attention with a wave of her hand.
“Sir Hamral, How fares it with thee?” asks Aleck, reseating himself at the table.
“Fine,” answers Hamral.
“I tell thee, Garnfellow,” begins Aleck, “I wouldst swear that this fellow was born in the saddle. Verily, he takes to it like a duck to water. His lance-work needs some improvement—I avow he wouldst rather trample his adversary to the ground than joust with him—but all-in-all, Sir Hamral has come along splendidly!”
“Tis a wonder that you found a mount that could carry his monstrous frame!” says Garnfellow.
“After seeing Justicar bear you up, Fatty,” says St. James, “Nothing would surprise me.”
“This man Dale is also faring well,” says Oswald, with a toothy grin. “I didn’t knock thee about too hard today, did I, lad?”
Dale winces and flexes one of his arms. “I shall feel one of your blows tomorrow morn, but aside from that, I expect to live.”
Sir Aleck nods his approval. “What is the word come from the front? How fares our Pentian soldiers against the ruckish legions?”
“My lord,” says Anselm, “I received a dispatch this morning from my own brother. Although the news is mostly bad, there are a few rays of sunshine amidst the storm clouds. Kirke and his men have suffered grievous losses to the north, trying to regain Utterbol—to no avail. And to the south, the rucks have rallied, after months of confusion since Lord Charles slew their wicked master. My brother writes that there is now fierce fighting all across the lands held by Antace.”
“I had hoped to see Briareus driven out of Utterbol by year’s end, and my Count back in his rightful place,” murmurs Aleck, sadly.
“Not all the news is so disappointing, my lord,” says Anselm. “My brother also writes that the Seeker, Gregory the Risen, led a successful raid against Grimall Keep, rescuing several of his captured brother-knights from the clutches of a foul witch. Gregory surprised the defenders of the Keep completely and stole away before the rucks even knew what happened.”
“Any word from Lownell?” asks St. James. “Has Nestor strung Sir John the Bastard up by his arse yet?”
“My brother did send some strange news,” answers Anselm. “It would appear that things are faring somewhat better for the poor folk of Lownell. While cruel Prince Busirane has been fighting in Antace, his idle brother Nestor spends most of his days besotted, giving the simple carles some measure of peace. But stranger news I have never heard as what follows. My brother writes that many of Nestor’s rucks have of late taken up the Pentian cause, and are now said to be devout children of the Church of the Five.”
Friar Sidrach shakes his head. “That is strange news, indeed.”
“What of Sir Reginald?” asks Mendelor.
“I have heard nothing more,” answers Anselm. “The last word I was given is known to you all: Sir Reginald currently abides somewhere in the wilds near Derwich, leading the rebellious men there in their raids against the rucks.”
“It would appear as if everything is going according to plan,” says Valerius, abruptly.
“Yes,” says Anselm, slowly. “Yes, I suppose it would.”
Mendelor suddenly interjects: “Before we go much further, I would like to do some scouting near Lownell. First, I would like to find that troll cave—remember the one we found while we were escorting those priests into Lownell? I want to see if that cave is empty. This might be a good place to gather before our raid, and maybe a good place to bolt to—should things not go so well for us.
“If the cave is empty I want to spend a little time hiding the entrance, maybe make some trees look like they have blown down in front of it or some such camouflage. I will also try to hide any trail that may be going up to the cave.
“Then I would like to scout around Lownell itself. Find out what the terrain is like, if there are any hills hard by that might make a good lookout.”
“How long do you think you would be gone?” asks Vandoren.
“I figure I will hide for a few days outside Lownell, watching the comings and goings of the rucks and try and find a good time and place to attack.”
“You proposal seems sound enough,” says Valerius. “And besides, I am occupied with important work for the next couple of weeks. Remember, though, that discretion is an utmost necessity.”
Mendelor nods. “I will travel no roads or paths and I will move as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“The weather will take a colder turn in the next few weeks,” warns Friar Sidrach. “Last night was a full moon, and a hard frost was on the ground this morn. Praised be the Five that the harvest is almost complete.”
“Well said, good Friar,” says Aleck. “All the sheaves are in and most of the threshing and winnowing is also complete. It looks to be a fine yield this year. My rents were due today, and even despite the hardships associated with the rucks so close to our lands, most of my tenants were able to fulfill their obligations. But Upchurch was not always filled with fields and pastures—Cerdic, tell our guests how our manor gained its name.”
Then old Cerdic, mouthing some dried bread, looks up suddenly and grins a toothless grin.
“Good my lord, nothing on the Five’s green earth would make me happier. Know, sirs, that the woods and meadows about us are filled with all sorts of game. A great bounty. Now, the old Count of Kirke—and not the father of the new Count, either—this was all before even him, understand? Well, I can tell you that the old Count was a man for hunting. Church, tournaments, even war could not stir him from the trail of a hart. His hawks and his hounds were the fastest—and priciest, I suspect—in the all the Frounter in those days. Or so they used to say.
“Well, Kirke used to keep a small house here, which he used as a retreat, he did. And well did old Kirke love his visits here. Oh, no, not this house—the old one burnt to the ground years and years ago. But never mind that now: the old Count would come here with his men for weeks and weeks on end of hunting. And as time went on, Kirke even went so far as to create a special post, to which he would appoint one of his favorite knights. The position was originally something like protector of the lands or somesuch. But the most important duty for any knight appointed to this house was to make sure that the hunting retreat never lacked for ale and dry firewood.
“Several years ago, one of these appointed knights, Sir Antony of Kindesley, died here. Now Antony was a wealthy man, but without a wife or lands of his own. But in his will he bequeathed all his wealth to the Church, and asked that a chapel be built here, dedicated to his patron saint. And that is just what they did, and that is why we have that fine looking church outside. It is all due to Sir Antony, it was. May the saints keep that blessed man.
“Well, the years went by and the old Count, he married. And his wife—well, she didn’t think much of all of the Count’s hunting, day in and day out. Headstrong she was, and Kirke doted on her in a most terrible way, so she more often than not got her way. Oh, there are some stories there—but I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, so I won’t get into any of that today.
“But anyway, old Kirke used to like to steal out every now and again and return to his old hunting retreat. And every time his wife asked him where he was going with all his men and his horses and hounds and hawks, and he would say to her in turn, ‘Why, I am going up to church,’ which was not really a lie, but not quite the truth, now was it? But in any case, the name has stuck.”
“Ha Ho!” cries Garnfellow. “That was a tale well told, thou old rascal. I had wondered why I felt so much closer to the Five since I had arrived here. And now I know!”
“Enjoy it, Fatty,” says St. James. “This is as close as you will ever get the Five!”