Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.
The Bullstead
When they started out early the next morning, Ala felt like there was a quiet tension in the air. It was of the kind that accompanies the anticipation leading up to a fight. They left the Ford Inn with the cavalry in the vanguard, followed by Caerel, Ala and the others, then the mounted archers, the supply train and the pikemen at the rear. They rode with a screen of two outriders to scout ahead, one on each side of the road. It was possible that the Oakharrowers had spotted them arriving at Ford Inn. It was even possible that they had spies at Hightower, but they would have to have a network of sentries to be able to relay that message to Thetwick faster than they were travelling.
Ala needed a moment to focus on the task at hand. She was feeling guilty that she had not told Martha that she had killed her younger brother, Jake, who had been among those who meant to assassinate her at Larkhill.
An ambush or other attack seemed likely in light of what they’d learned at the Ford Inn. It was certainly what Ala would have done had she been leading the Oakharrowers. The requirement for added caution slowed down their travel. The outriders would call a halt if they saw something they felt needed investigation. It caused many stops. Nonetheless, they passed by the Brightfield caravan stop by mid afternoon which meant they were still solidly outpacing a normal ox drawn caravan.
Not long after Brightfield they saw a burnt farmstead in the distance, some parts of which were still smouldering and producing smoke. Questioning eyes turned towards to Ala.
“I know that place. Quite a well to do farm, Thets call it the Bullstead. It was founded by the man who brought me to Thetwick, William the Bull. Rich, by Thetwick standards… or it was.”
“We’d best investigate it,” ordered Caerel.
Brugor waved to the outriders to turn towards it. She had passed by the Bullstead many times on patrol with the militia, sometimes stopping to water the horses. She had even stopped there on her own once, trying to find out more about ‘the Bull’ himself. She had been told by Palady that the man had been on the patrol that brought Ala to Thetwick as an infant. Her visits had never led to any new information about herself. Now the smoking ruin appeared to be deserted.
The archers formed a cordon around the farm and everyone in Caerel’s little command group dismounted to look around. There were two corpses in the yard in front of the burnt out building as well as dead livestock. The dead bodies were two men, dressed as farmers customarily were. There were only two dead animals, a cow and a pig, the rest of the livestock was gone, but it was clear there had been more. Ala remembered the place as a prosperous farm, one of the richer ones in Thetwick by virtue of the size of its lands. The farm itself was a large building forty yards long with stout stone walls. It had burnt out, the thatched roof and interior had been almost completely consumed by flames. Roughly a third of the building had been the family’s living quarters, the other two thirds had been a barn for storage and livestock. Only part of the charred wooden skeleton and the low stone walls remained. Judging by the decomposition of the bodies and the remains of the fire, it hadn’t happened more than a few days ago.
Brugor shook his head in disgust. “I’ve seen this before, milord. This looks like the behaviour of an occupying army, an oppressor. They are operating overtly, not worried about reprisal. They are here in strength, feeling invulnerable. We have to assume that they control the whole Westmarch which puts us deep in hostile territory. I’d wager they have a significant force here. Probably too many to take on.”
Caerel shook his head. “These people were innocent. Defenceless. Why murder them and drive them off?”
“They probably needed supplies. Perhaps plunder, or the men merely wanted some amusement. Who knows, milord? One thing is certain. Oakharrow is making its move on the Westmarch and by extension, Taladaria. We should send fast riders back.”
“Not yet. We must know more first,” said Caerel.
Brugor frowned, clearly disagreeing, “if this force is larger than we anticipated, we may not be able to get anyone out in time. I urge you to send men now, milord.”
Caerel was irritated, “and tell my grandfather what? That we found some driven off farmers? We need to know more, Brugor. Also, we will be depleting the cavalry if we send some of them away. My decision is final, Sergeant-Major.”
“Yes milord.” Brugor didn’t look like he agreed. He was used to following orders though, even if they came from inexperienced twenty-two year olds.
During the exchange Matt had been scraping around in the ruins of the Bullstead and he waved to them over, “as far as I can tell, if there were any survivors, they were either carried off, or they didn’t wait for the fire to burn out.”
“What makes you say that?” Asked Caerel.
“They left their valuables here,” Matt shrugged, “people who flee usually only leave their riches behind if they have no other choice.”
Ala went over to see what had led Matt to his conclusions. He had uncovered a stone in the floor that was removable. He had an uncanny ability to home straight in on spots where people might store valuables. Underneath was a small wooden hatch, inside of which was a small chest, and some bundles wrapped in oilskins against moisture.
“You have an uncanny knack for knowing where to look for things like this, Matt,” Ala said.
“Well, I suppose it’s not something to be terribly proud of, but you develop a sense for it. Maybe from now on it can lead to things getting back to their rightful owners rather than the other way around. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, since the rightful owners are probably out in the yard… or prisoners…”
He smiled ruefully as Ala turned to the others.
“I came through here a few times on patrol with the militia. The farmers here were all named William… after the Bull, I imagine.”
Ala thought for another moment.
“So a sequence of William Williamsons. His father’s name was William too, which makes it a little hard for me to remember them all as they all had the exact same name. I think this family has named their eldest sons William since William the Bull. People don’t really bother with last names in the Westmarch. If there’s any information to be about them, it would probably be listed as William Williamson or William of the Bullstead. Something along those lines,” Ala said.
Caerel was looking round. He was visibly shocked by the random brutality that had been visited on these people. “Just poor defenceless farmers, probably have been for generations. How could a warrior do this?”
“I guess a real warrior couldn’t… at least that’s the way I was taught… bullies and thugs… well, they might I guess,” Ala said.
“It’s hard to fathom that such people exist.”
“The patriarch of this family was a famous warrior, served in the ducal regiment. I told you that he was with the patrol that found me? I think he was already famous then. He achieved distinction in the service of the then Duke of Taladaria… that would be…. your father’s great grandfather, I think, Lord Caerel, if I’m counting correctly.”
“Well, his loyalty seems to have been of meagre service to his descendants.”
“This man, William the Bull, left with that patrol after depositing me here. As I understand it, he never returned. I once came here trying to find out more of my own history, when I was younger. No one remembered anything. If I think about it for a moment, I’m sure I can recall the story of how William the Bull earned his nickname. Come to think of it, I think I can even vaguely recall the man himself. Not that I knew he was important, then. Shame I only discovered who he was so much later.”
Caerel looked up at her, initially interested by the tale, only for the look on his face to be overtaken by the realisation of how old she was sinking in. Ala was speaking of events that had taken place more than a century ago.
He shook it off and spoke, “I think I’ve heard a story about a brave man-at-arms who served my great-great-grandfather nicknamed ‘The Bull’. I think he was famous for pushing over a warhorse, rider and all who was about to spear my grandfather. There’s a tapestry depicting the event in the great hall in Peyrepertuse. You actually knew this guy?”
The smile vanished from Caerel’s face quickly as he looked around the ruined farm again.
“Well, I wouldn’t say I knew him. I saw him maybe a few times, I think? Perhaps with the patrol? I don’t remember. I suppose I was too young for the story of his exploits, then. Or I dismissed it… I don’t know. It was a long time ago and I don’t remember anything that went on then it in as much detail as I would like. Not even in enough detail to know what exactly happened.”
Caerel was shaking his head.
“Taladaria hasn’t done right by his family, has it? Do you think… that these two, the corpses in the yard, were the last of the line?”
He looked down. Ala was impressed with the young man’s perspective.
“There were women here too, also children. They’re not among the dead. Hopefully they managed to flee.”
“I can only hope so,” Caerel said.
Matt was looking through the things he had found, he pulled some delicate metal tools from in between his padded armour, and fiddled with the lock on the small chest. It was of remarkably good quality, much better than one would expect among simple farmers. Inside were around twenty silver coins, some jewellery, and four scrolls.
“This hasn’t been opened in a long time. Not in a very long time,” Matt pronounced.
Myrthe looked at him blankly, “how can you tell?”
“The smell. Age… I don’t know… you can smell it when things have been sealed off for a long time.”
Myrthe carefully looked through the scrolls, one by one.
“This one is a deed. It grants this land to William ‘the Bull’ of Thetwick and his descendants in perpetuity. Oh look, Caerel, it’s signed too. In the year 838, by Ivan de Duilhac, Duke of Taladaria. That’s what? Your… ehm… great-grandfather, I think? To the fourth degree, I think, if my maths is right.”
Caerel came over to look, his interest piqued, “truly? Imagine that,” he said, clearly a little speechless to find such a direct link to his family in the ruins.
“The date corresponds with when I think I arrived in Thetwick,” said Ala, “more or less.”
The other scrolls were wills from the two generations since, and a letter from the Duke Ivan to William the Bull’s widow. It informed her of her husband’s heroic death in a battle Ala had never heard of and apparently had included a pension for her. It was dated two years after the land grant. Apparently the dead William, the most recent generation, out in the yard, hadn’t gotten around to a will yet.
Myrthe remained engrossed with the documents, so Ala inspected the two bundles that were wrapped in oilskins next. One of them was heavier than you’d think and contained a coat of very fine silvery mail, finer than Ala had ever seen. It had blackened patches on it that reminded Ala of the kind of encrustation that had been on Ala’s sword and the remains of its scabbard. She opened the other oil-paper package, impatient now. It contained the remains of a fine, delicately embroidered cloak. The designs on it were like a lot of things she had seen at Yesme’s house, but more dramatic, more yellows and reds. There were great holes in it, but it had once been like a fire inspired version of the same idea, she thought.
“Myrthe, could you please take a look at this?” Ala called shakily.
Myrthe came quickly, a look of concern on her face.
“This black stuff on the armour, and on what’s left of this cloak. It’s the same as was on the remains of my sword and scabbard. This farmstead was given to this family very close to the date I came to Thetwick… William the Bull would have come here, when he was nearby.”
Matt was looking over the scrolls, apparently smelling them.
“Lemon juice, maybe, though I could be imagining it,” he pronounced, waving the Duke’s letter.
Ala looked at him quizzically.
“It means there may be a hidden message, Ala,” said Myrthe.
“How do you know that?” Matt asked Myrthe.
Myrthe just smiled knowingly, “misspent youth I’m afraid.”
“What are you two on about?” Ala snapped, “explain!”
“If you write a message in lemon juice, you can’t see it on the parchment, until it’s heated. To be honest, I wouldn’t really expect it to last for a hundred years. You have to be a little careful not to burn the parchment. We can do it carefully tonight,” Myrthe suggested.
“Heat?” Ala grabbed the document and concentrated. She was good at controlling her gift in small ways. She’d always been so concerned about discovery she’d spent a large part of her youth tightly controlling her fire so no one noticed it. She called flame to her hands and gently heated the document. A text became visible, in a delicate hand.
“That’s a neat trick,” Matt said.
Ala was far too busy concentrating on the parchment to notice his comment.
To my grandchildren, great grandchildren and other descendants,
I have written this note, because I dare not tell my own son about these treasures we keep. My beloved Bull made me swear to return these items to the elven girl named Ala, currently in the household of Palady Georgedaughter, when she comes of age. This will be in perhaps a century or more, as she is a fire elf, not a half-elf as Palady has convinced the villagers. I don’t know much about elves and the like, but my Bull was well travelled and knowledgeable. He was certain she would not come of age for more than a century. I am ashamed to say that my son is too enraptured by wealth. I do not trust him to hold these objects according to his father’s wishes. My dear Bull was an honourable man. He would never want that, so I am hiding these things in the hope that honour returns to this family in future.
Bull never told me the whole tale of what happened during the patrol when they found the elven girl. I think he expected to be able to instruct his own children on what precisely to do. What I do know is that he was present when they came upon a group of evil men and creatures. They were keeping the elven child as a prisoner and carried items that were probably plundered from her companions. The Bull thought it likely that a group of elven travellers that had been ambushed somewhere nearby. The condition of the items convinced him that it had to have been nearby. He and his men searched for the site of the slaughter, but they could not find it in the short time they could afford to stay in so dangerous an area.
Palady has taken to calling the girl Alagariel, after the elven queen in the Faerytale. Bull thought these ruined items belonged to elves who had lost their lives protecting the elf child, as noble a death as can be imagined. He felt she had a right to have these clues to her heritage, though he himself did not understand what family they may have belonged to. It is my desire that our descendants honour his wishes.
Nyra of Oakheart, Widow of William ‘The Bull’ of Thetwick.
Wogekind, 896
Ala was crying. She didn’t really know why. Myrthe hugged her.
“It’s a piece of your puzzle Ala. But we must go, Caerel is growing impatient. I think he wants vengeance for what has been done to these people. We should talk about what all this might mean later.”
Ala gathered the items, put them in her pack and mounted Fulgor. She wiped her eyes and nodded to Caerel who was looking at her to see if she was ready. He obviously didn’t understand exactly what was going on. He was absorbed by what had befallen The Bull’s descendants and wasn’t immediately concerned with what Ala had discovered. He was very keen to continue on to Thetwick. Even so, he hadn’t pushed Ala to hurry, she noted.
When she was ready Caerel led off heading further towards Thetwick.
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