EPTThe Fog
Part II
Co-written by Martin August (marttorn) and Alex Dellinger (Archas)
It was no use. Restauld sighed, his breath freezing in the air, and cringed in frustration. The bastard blade from his youth was no longer apt to cut a simple tree. That, or his whetstone was to blame. Why in the world had he not thought to bring an axe to this forsaken island? Perhaps the Lords will have one on their ship, by chance.
As if summoned by Restauld's reverie, the faint silhouette of a military ship began to emerge from the thick fog far to the north. The details of the boat slowly became apparent as it pierced the fog layer, revealing an ornate vessel surely meant for only the most important of Lords and Ladies to commandeer. He watched the great warship slowly approach, squinting and still half-fearing for the firewood he would not have by the time they docked on Knyfe. What a sorry structure that dock was; in truth, to call it a "dock" was hyperbole unbefitting of the brief wooden jut that started where the grass ended… but it could anchor a ship, at the very least. With a confident stride that contrasted starkly with the unease he felt within, Restauld walked up to the dock to receive the Lords Mortimer, Grant and Stafford.
William Mortimer was a slender man with short, brown hair, his twenty-nine years of age marking him as one of the most junior of Lords. His lack of a beard or other facial hair only lent credence to his youthful appearance. While William held substantial clout in the politics of royalty, Restauld knew well that the Young Lord was the least concerning of his three noble guests, and for good reason: William had inherited the throne of Finnstead Keep only a year before. His father, Lord David Mortimer, had been captured during a skirmish with House Talbot, sworn enemy to House Mortimer. Houses Talbot and Mortimer had been in conflict for years, each vying for the title of "Reaver of the North", and Lord David's seizure only exacerbated the tensions between the two Houses. Six months of fruitless negotiations with Talbot's Svennstead Keep (where David was held as a prisoner of war) tried the patience of all involved, but none were as frustrated as William. In an act of desperation, the Lord's son dismissed the pleas of his military advisors and launched an attack upon Svennstead in hopes of rescuing his father. Despite holding the element of surprise, Mortimer's forces were deftly deflected by the armies of Talbot, resulting in both the massacre known as Mortimer's Folly… and the execution of Lord David. Regardless of his lack of military prowess, however, William remained a potent threat due to his many powerful allies in high places.
Eustace Grant, the Lord of Lions, was a direct contradiction to William's ineptitude in battle. Once feared as the most ruthless and skilled warrior in all the lands, countless foes had fallen before Eustance's colossal war-hammer, and even more defeated by his expert leadership and military command. Thirty years prior, he had proposed (and carried out) House Grant's betrayal of the western House of Lovell. In a brilliant maneuver, Eustace had commanded a small squadron of swordsmen during their midnight infiltration of Castle Lovell, claiming the fortress for his own before the dawn broke. The newly-crowned Lord brutally slaughtered all those of House Lovell who refused to bend the knee, defiling the picturesque castle by mounting their heads along the ramparts. Time, however, proved an insurmountable foe for Eustace, and the renowned warrior had grown bloated and weak in his elder years. His mane of white hair served to enhance the image of the Lord of Lions, but it was often whispered that "Traitor Lord" was a more apt title.
Hugh Stafford was a visually unassuming, and unappealing, man. Though his broad stature matched that of Restauld, nothing else about him was handsome. The gods had hardly done him any favors, as his dark, beady eyes and his splotched bald head served to composed a particularly ugly man. Despite Stafford's lack of military prowess, both on and off the battlefield, Restauld knew him to be the most dangerous of the three Lords gathered on Knyfe Island. Though untried in battle, House Stafford had no need for armies, for they claimed their coin through diplomacy, checkbooks, and honeyed words. It was said that no soldier was as skilled with the blade as a Stafford was with the quill, and Lord Hugh certainly reinforced the aphorism. Possession of the largest treasury and the most land of all the Houses allowed him to buy and con his way toward any objective. Although negotiations to purchase Bayeux from natives had failed years before, an army of sellswords paid for by the Banker Lord had managed to elicit a change of heart within the unarmed natives after slaughtering nearly all of them.
Lord Stafford was the first to depart from the warship. "Ah, Master Restauld! It’s been far too long, my friend!" Hugh exclaimed, accompanied by a disarming smile.
"Well, that wouldn’t be my fault, m’lords, would it?" Restauld returned. The false smile he wore masked the frustration and anxiety that churned his stomach. Lords Eustace and William both exchanged their courteous greetings, and silence fell on the group as they made their way towards the cottage.
As they approached the cottage, Restauld turned to his lordly companions and gestured toward the door. "Well then, step inside if you would, m’lords. There's plenty of seating by the kitchen table, and I’ve saved a casket of wine for you."
Eustace had never been a patient man, so no one was overly surprised when he strode through the doorway with nary an acknowledgement of Restauld's generosity. The aging warrior looked around the inside of the cottage with slight disbelief in his eyes, as if he were a museum's curator first laying eyes upon a vandalized exhibit. His glare halted every time it came across a missing brick, and widened considerably upon catching sight of the soaked straw roof. A particularly observant man, Restauld noticed the Lord of Lions' displeasure. You wouldn't have to bear the sight of this if you'd responded to my damned letters, you know.
The Banker Lord, thankfully known for his tact, had taken up residence at the dining table, a goblet of Restauld's best wine in hand. "Lords William and Eustace will be inspecting the island separately. I’ll be here to keep you company in the meantime," Stafford said between sips of wine. "I trust that won't be a problem, Sir?"
Hugh's mockery was subtle, but it grated on Restauld nonetheless. In his agitation, he almost forgot himself and nearly drank directly from the flagon. Fortunately, the impropriety of his actions occurred to him before he took a swig, and he rose to retrieve his own goblet. As Lords William and Eustace departed, Restauld could faintly hear the former mutter, "Bloody peasant's work, this is…", but for whom the observation was meant for remained unclear.
"So, Sir Restauld, how fare things?" Lord Hugh initiated after a brief sip of wine. Restauld cringed up at the wet straw roof, then at one of the brick-shaped holes in the wall facing the sea, and finally answered.
“You’re welcome to guess, m’lord.”
Stafford hand, raising his goblet for another taste, paused in mid-air. His solemn features twisted slightly, granting his face a look of sad disbelief. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as he held that statuesque pose, but both Stafford and Restault were spared an uncomfortable silence when the former responded:
"Old friend, you know I would love nothing more than to relieve these burdens that plague you, but I simply haven't the means to assist you at this time."
Liar. I am not a fool, Stafford. Do you earnestly think I would believe such tripe? The composure and discipline he was taught as a newly christened soldier was quickly failing Restauld. Though he was vaguely aware of his jaw clenching in anger, his mind ignored the detail. The urge to claim his bastard sword and run the old man through was tempting, but Restauld squelched the thoughts of such folly. Carried along by his emotions, however, his tongue and his brain were at odds with each other, and so he found himself in the unenviable position of verbal combat with a Lord.
"And why is that, old man? Have you been spending what’s left of your family fortune on yet another pack of filthy sellswords? Can’t spare the Tenant of Knyfe enough coin for a cottage where he doesn’t freeze in his bloody sleep, m’lord?" Restauld spat the honorific as if it were a slight.
Lord Hugh’s features contorted in a display of rage almost immediately, but he withheld issuing a riposte. Yet, Restauld’s insolent eyes issued a challenge, and both men knew that the Tenant would not accept any honeyed words to dispel the confrontation. Finally, the proprietor of the Bayeux Archipelagos spoke, in a voice so soft and calm that it could hardly be heard over the sound of the waves crashing against the nearby cliffs.
"Withdraw what you have just said, and it might be forgotten by my mercy," the Banker Lord intoned in a voice as icy as the snow that had begun to fall outside. Only the bravest of the brave, or perhaps the most foolish of fools, would have persisted against a threat from one of the most powerful Lords of the land, but Restauld would be deterred no more. He had crossed the point of no return.
"Old man, I don't believe you fully understand your predicament. You’re alone in this cottage. It’s only you, me and my old bastard over there." Restauld nodded towards the corner where his bastard blade leaned against the wall. Both Restauld and Lord Hugh had stood up from their seats, each of them trembling. Restauld was shaking from the cold winds accompanying the snow flurries which were rising outside, but he knew Lord Hugh was shivering for an entirely different reason.
"This is folly, Restauld. If you kill me, my son will inherit Bayeux, and he'll send for your head. William and Eustace will know, when they come back. They’ll know. Don’t do it." His voice was growing more and more nervous, Restauld realized, and it brought a sadistic grin to his face. The Banker Lord's threats were falling on deaf ears.
"And what if I care naught for my life, Stafford? What if I’d rather die by an executioner's blade, than drown from the rains coming through my roof? What if I’d like to take you, the Traitor Lord and the little shit of Finnstead with me to the grave?"
"You know that your words have condemned yourself to a painful death, and yet you relish the chance to exact your petty vengeance? You have gone mad, Restauld."
"Perhaps I have, m’lord." Again Restauld derisively spat out the honorific, turning as he did to where his bastard sword leaned against the wall, keeping one eye on the terrified proprietor. He ripped it from where it sat, as if he was pulling it out of a stone, and lay the blade over his shoulder. Focusing his gaze once more on where the Banker Lord stood, the Tenant slowly strode over, with intent and purpose. Wide-eyed and shaking, Stafford's fear was palpable.
"How far do you plan on running with those old feet, m’lord?" Restauld cajoled, that same merciless grin upon his face.
Lord Hugh faintly whispered a reply, so softly that Restauld's ears barely picked up the words: "F-far enough."
As soon as the pathetic retort had escaped his lips, Stafford pivoted and bolted out the door of the cottage. Restauld followed, but at his own pace, for he knew that over-exertion was unwise in the growing snowfall. He looked around as he came outside. The fog hung high above him, and could not be penetrated by the naked eye.
