《Prince Oswald》


 Chapter I

    A player¡¯s tale, as it were.


    The First Act.


    Chapter I


    A narrow brook wound its way between the roots of ancient oaks. By the water¡¯s edge, a stag stood poised beneath the dappled light that filtered through the canopy. The animal lowered its head to drink and but for the gentle babble, the woodland lay in quiet stillness.


    Turstin. Steady now. Draw your bow.


    Oswald¡¯s fingers fumbled with the string, his grip uncertain. He was slight, his arms weak, and his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to pull the bowstring taut. His breath came in short, nervous bursts.


    Turstin. Relax. Steady your aim. You¡¯ll need to calm your heart.


    The boy¡¯s hands trembled, the bow felt heavier with each passing second. He glanced at his father for reassurance, but Turstin¡¯s gaze remained focused on the stag.


    Oswald. I¡ªI¡¯m not sure I can.


    Turstin. Of course you can, you¡¯ve drawn before. It¡¯s only a matter of focus. Trust the bow, trust yourself.


    Oswald took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the effort, and drew the string back. The stag continued to drink, unaware of their presence within the thick swathes of bracken. The wind rustled the leaves around them, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and moss.


    Turstin.  Let it go. Fire now.


    But Oswald hesitated. The bowstring stayed taut, and his breath caught in his throat. His eyes were wide, locked onto the stag, still unaware and peaceful.


    Turstin.  What are you waiting for?


    His lips parted, but no words came out. His hand, stiff and unsure, lowered the bow slowly.


    Oswald. I just can¡¯t do it. I can¡¯t kill him.


    The stag lifted its head and, sensing a change in the air, turned its gaze in their direction. Then, with a graceful leap, he vanished into the underbrush and the shadows of the trees.


    Oswald. I¡¯m sorry! I¡¯m too afraid.


    He met his father¡¯s gaze, and Turstin¡¯s eyes softened. Slowly, he straightened, his hand resting briefly on Oswald¡¯s shoulder.


    Turstin.  What you showed was mercy. It¡¯s not the same as fear, Oz. In fact, it¡¯s one of the most important virtues a king can show.


    Oswald looked off once more to the empty brook.


    Turstin. Let it go. We¡¯ll try again another time. One day you will learn to separate that side of you and close your heart to pity. Come, let¡¯s rejoin the party.


    He turned away and Oswald followed closely behind him, mirroring his father¡¯s steps.


    A pair of armoured guards approached. ¡°Your Majesty.¡± They bowed their heads in unison and fell into step beside him, through the thicket.


    A clearing opened before them where the sky hung low and grey, threatening a drizzle. In the centre stood some long-felled giant of a tree stump where the lords in silks and velvets gathered. Their conversation ceased as the king of England strode into view.


    Morton. Your Majesty!


    They bowed low as he straightened before them, carrying himself with a natural authority.


    Oswald trailed behind, his small hands clutching his cloak against the chill. Taking his place at his father¡¯s side, he looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered man. Though still growing into his features, the prince already bore a shadow of the king¡¯s sharpness in the line of his nose and the curve of his brow. Beneath his hat, fair hair fell in soft waves to his ears, and his pale gaze darted nervously among the assembled lords.


    His older cousin, the Duke of Arundel lingered to the side, sleek in rich embroidery. As he raised his head, Oswald caught the flash of a cynical grin beneath the fine, long strands of hair that fell across his eyes.


    King.  Why don¡¯t we rest here a while? The dogs need watering, and so do we!


    The burly Earl of March, his ruddy face splitting into a grin, thumped his meaty fist against his thigh.


    March. Ah, now there¡¯s a fine decree!


    King. You two! Hand out the canary.


    At the command, the king¡¯s ever-present pair of servants emerged from behind him.


    Daub, short and wiry with a sharp nose, carried a stack of goblets clinking softly with each step. Wattle, broader and slower, but with an endless supply of toothy grins, balanced a cask of wine sack on his shoulder.


    Wattle. A toast to noble thirst, eh, Daub?


    Daub. Not if you spill that cask, you lubber!


    Their exchange brought a smile to Oswald¡¯s face. The two had a knack for mischief, and their presence was always a welcome reprieve from the formality of the court.


    As the servants began pouring wine sack into goblets and distributing them, the king stepped upon the tree stump, raising his voice to gather attention.


    King. Now gather round us, noble gentlemen! Indulge this old fool in his weepy sentiment.


    Wattle nudged Daub, in a conspiratorial whisper.


    Wattle. And ¡®ere he mounts the pulpit! Have we enough sack to sleep through this?


    Daub. Less chatter. Hand a cup to the prince.


    With a wink, Wattle approached Oswald, offering a goblet.


    Wattle. This¡¯ll warm you up nicely, milord!


    He accepted the cup with a shy nod of gratitude.


    King. Foremost let us celebrate our prince now come to a lusty age, young Oswald here joins us on his first of merry hunts!


    The prince¡¯s cheeks flushed, feeling their eyes on him. The king gave him a firm pat on the shoulder.


    King. In truth, he¡¯s yet to find the flair for it, but manliness will come with application. So let us raise a cheer for him! Huzza!


    ¡°Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!¡±


    A few of the lords raised their goblets, nodding emphatically as they saluted the boy. Oswald straightened his stance, attempting to mirror his father¡¯s posture.


    March. Don¡¯t be shy, keep going. That¡¯s it, fill it right up now.


    As Daub scurried off to fetch more sack, the king¡¯s jovial expression gave into a sombre sigh.


    King.  Now, noble lords, we must turn to a more tender matter, one best addressed swiftly, lest our heart unstitch itself. Our most ill-tempered brother, Rolf. He grew weary of the rule of England and, in his discontent, shook the fragile foundations of our house by raising rebellion against us.


    Daub. Quickly now. Old Bath looks ready to drop where he stands.


    Wattle hurried over, pressing a goblet into the hands of the grey-haired Earl before he could teeter.


    King. It was a bleak and bloody winter, until at last we met upon the field. O the curse of Cain does mark us still! Brother against brother, kin against kin. But one of us arose to lift the gaping crown.


    Oswald¡¯s gaze lingered on his cousin, whose grin seemed strained, his knuckles whitening as they gripped the head of his cane.


    Wattle. What d¡¯you make of Arundel¡¯s being here?


    Daub. A veil, there¡¯s malice behind it and more o¡¯ his father in him than the king can see.


    King. England licked her wounds...wounds we feared too grievous ever to heal. Yet, by grace or fortune, the realm begins to recover. Nothing troubled us more than the thought that our most gentle nephew might never look upon us as his uncle, his father, and his king.


    The king regarded the duke with arms outstretched, a genuine warmth towards him.


    King. Yet, here he stands today. Lothaire, good Arundel! Lothaire, who with a grace greater than we could hope to possess, and with the wisdom to see his father¡¯s folly, attends this hunt with thoughts of peace and fellowship.


    He turned to the rest of the lords, who straightened and fixed their attention on him.


    King. We honour you! A toast to warm beginnings and hearts unburdened!


    The duke stepped forwards and swept into a low, theatrical bow.


    Lothaire. Thank you, Your Grace! I do pledge my loyalty. Indeed, a murky cloud behind us lours, yet by God¡¯s will, it has been so ordained that I, bereft of one father, find another in thee.


    Applause broke out, led by the beaming king until he raised a hand.


    King.  Not so long ago, we could not have dreamt that such happy days might follow! And yet, here we are, bound together in fraternity. How we do wish our late queen were alive to see this day, she would have been so pleased.


    Oswald¡¯s fingers instinctively clasped his chest, where, beneath his tunic hung a pendant. A gift from his mother. That small token, along with his memories, was all he had left of her.


    Daub. Look, how Morton croons in the ear of Arundel.


    Wattle. Saying what, I wonder? Oh, to be a fly perched inside his lughole!


    Lothaire¡¯s gaze stayed fixed ahead while the Earl of Morton leaned in close, with murmurs meant for no other ears. Whatever he said, it left no mark upon the duke¡¯s polished demeanour.


    King. And this occasion we so gladly celebrate was devised by none other than our very own Earl of Morton. Is that not so, my lord?


    Morton.  Indeed it was, my liege!


    With immediate coolness, the Earl stepped forwards and bowed even lower than the duke had before him. He was a lean figure with fox-like features and a neatly trimmed beard.


    Morton. Marry, and well I wot, a wretched war it was. But it brings me great pleasure to see kin reunited!


    As he straightened, his sharp eyes slid towards Oswald, lingering just long enough to send a chill down the boy¡¯s spine. He swallowed hard and dropped his gaze as a sudden uproar began behind them. The hounds were breaking into eager howls, their cries echoing through the clearing.


    King. Ho! The dogs are restless! Well, let us tarry no longer and press on!


    The lords parted, joined by their attendants.


    Wattle. Milord, have you had quite enough?


    March. More sack! More sack you wretched slave!


    Morton. Don¡¯t leave him dry, now.


    March. You hear him? Listen to this wise Athenian!


    Oswald¡¯s gaze lingered on Lothaire, who stood apart. By his side loomed an imposing figure, his bodyguard known as Blitmund. The mute was a constant presence, seldom seen far from the duke and clad entirely in black, save for an iron masque that concealed his face.


    Wattle. Does the black warder partake? I¡¯ve never seen him without that mask.


    Daub. Nor I. Offer him a cup and see.


    Filling a goblet, Wattle extended it towards Blitmund who only stared back at it blankly.


    Wattle. He doesn¡¯t.


    Oswald, still watching them, found his thoughts interrupted by a sudden weight on his shoulder. Startled, he turned to find the Earl of Morton smiling down at him.


    Morton. A pretty thing, that pendant that you wear.


    Oswald¡¯s hand flew instinctively to his chest, his brow furrowed¡ªhe thought it had been concealed.


    Morton. Fear not, my lord. I am no filcher, at least not today. I understand it was a gift from your mother, a wonderful woman she was. She had a rare gift, seeing the best in everyone, even scoundrels like me. Keep it well.


    Oswald.  I will, sir.


    The Earl¡¯s keen eyes lingered a moment longer before he turned away, his cloak swishing through the leaves.


    As the group began to move deeper into the forest, Oswald lingered for a moment, his fingers brushing the pendant.


    Then, he heard his name. "Oswald!"


    He turned, and his heart began to race. Beneath the sprawling arms of an old yew, was Lady Joan. She was a little older than him, dark brown hair loosely braided over one shoulder, her fingers idly twirling the end of it. A smirk played at her mouth and her eyes were glinting with mischief.


    Oswald.  What are you doing here? Shouldn¡¯t you be with the ladies?


    She rolled her eyes and scoffed.


    Joan.  And miss all the fun? You¡¯d have to tie me to a tree first. My father made me come, but he won¡¯t let me do anything. It¡¯s sooo boring.


    Oswald.  I think he¡¯s right, it¡¯s too dangerous for you.


    Joan narrowed her eyes and folded her arms.


    Joan.  Oh yeah? Well I could hunt better than you anyway!


    Oswald.  I¡ªI didn¡¯t mean it like that!


    He lower his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. She held her glare for a moment longer, then smirked, satisfied that she¡¯d flustered him. "Mm-hmm," she hummed.


    Joan.  What were you thinking about? When I called you?


    He shrugged.


    Oswald.  I was...just thinking.


    She arched an eyebrow.


    Joan.  About what?


    He hesitated, then blurted out...


    Oswald.  Do you think I¡¯ll make a good king?


    The smirk on her face faded. She studied him for a moment.


    Joan.  That depends. Will you let me keep sneak away from the boring feasts?


    Oswald.  Of course! I¡¯ll come too.


    Joan.  Then yes, you¡¯ll be a fine king. Haha!


    She stepped closer.


    Joan.  But I think you¡¯ll have to learn how to scowl more. Kings are supposed to look serious.


    Oswald furrowed his brows in a mock attempt at a scowl and she giggled. He felt his smile widen. A horn sounded in the distance. The hunt was moving ahead, he made to leave.


    Oswald.  I should go find my father.


    Joan.  Hurry then. And...Oswald?


    He turned back.


    Joan.  I think you¡¯ll be a great king, I really do.


    Oswald felt warmth spread through his chest, they smiled at each other for a lingering moment.


    Then, with a burst, he hurried forwards to find his father.


    Daub. Steady, my lord!


    The two servants trudged along, lugging the empty cask between them.


    Wattle.  By my count, the grand old Earl of March has all but emptied the castle cellars.


    Daub.  Indeed, I should imagine he¡¯ll be spraying Spanish wine ¡®til next spring.


    They shared a snicker until the Earl of Morton stepped suddenly into their path, his sharp eyes glinting beneath the low brim of his hat. They came to an abrupt halt.


    Morton.  Hold a moment, you two. I need a word.


    He leaned in closer, his tone dropping to a murmur.


    Morton. I want you to stay close behind the king. I fear treachery is afoot...a plot against his life.


    Wattle.  A plot? From who, milord?


    Morton¡¯s lips pressed together thinly, his gaze flickering briefly to the forest.


    Morton. That¡¯s what I intend to uncover. Will you do as I ask?


    Daub . If it please you, milord. But...we¡¯re no soldiers. If trouble finds us, we¡¯ve little to stop an assault.


    Morton. Keep your eyes sharp. If you spy any hint of foul play, call out and holler loud enough to wake the dead. Whatever happens, know this: you two are key to what comes next.


    He turned swiftly on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he disappeared into the trees, leaving Wattle and Daub standing in uneasy silence.


    Wattle.  I don¡¯t like this. Why¡¯s he asking us?


    Daub. Those black clouds yonder, I like even less. Come on. Let¡¯s find the king.


    Without another word, they hurried off into the crooked woodland. The gnarled branches closed in around them as the first low rumble of thunder rolled in the distance.


    The king surged forward, his boots thudding against the wet earth as he dashed between the trees, weaving in pursuit of the boar. "Tally-ho!" he called, his voice cutting through the wind and the heavy thrum of distant thunder. "This way!" His hand gripped the hilt of his hunting spear, ready for the final blow.


    Behind him, a lone guard struggled to keep pace, huffing as his feet slipped in the mud. The world above, swirling with ominous clouds, crackled with powerful tension. Gusts of wind rushed through the forest, making the branches creak and groan.


    Young Oswald, barely able to keep up, stumbled through the underbrush. His cheeks flushed with exertion, his breath shallow, and his legs burning from the relentless pace. They came upon a stream, winding its way down from the earlier brook. His eyes flicked nervously to the sky, dark and turbulent, as a fierce crack of thunder rattled the trees above them. It was a sound like the earth itself had split in two, and Oswald froze, instinctively clinging to the nearest tree trunk for support.


    The king knelt, cupped his hands, and drank eagerly from the cool water.


    Oswald. Father! I think we should turn back.


    He cried, his voice strained and weak.


    Oswald. Can we not return home?


    The king glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowed in concentration, eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt.


    King. Home? She¡¯s nigh run to ground! We can¡¯t let her slip us now!


    His was voice hard with determination, though his gaze shifted briefly to the horizon, where the storm was fast approaching. But his focus was unwavering¡ªthe boar was near, its scent still fresh in the air, and the chase was all that mattered.


    A blinding white streak of lightning split the sky, Oswald gasped, his heart jumping into his throat as he recoiled from the sight.


    Oswald. The storm is drawing near! Let us retreat to where it is safe!


    His small hands tightened on the tree, but the king paid him no mind, lost in the frenzy of the hunt.


    King. Ha! The blood is in the chase! But where to? Where is everyone?


    He scanned the area, noticing that their party had scattered. His lips pressed together. "Did they lose heart or their way?" A guard, panting heavily as he caught up, looked around in confusion.


    Guard. Our party is scattered, Your Majesty! I think we¡¯ve outrun them!


    The wind and the rain picked up, and the groaning trees protested the downpour. The sky grew darker still, with the thunder growing louder and the lightning flashing ever more violently.


    Oswald. Father, please!


    Behind them, three figures approached, all dark and drenched like black dogs.


    Morton. I warrant those two are out cold. Look ahead, it¡¯s the king! Now falls the stroke, my lord.


    From beneath his cloak, Morton produced a rusty knife and pressed it into the duke¡¯s waiting hand.


    Morton.  Take this one, make it ugly. Upon the next crack of thunder.


    Lothaire¡¯s slender fingers curled around the hilt. His lips twisted into a cruel smile as his piercing eyes fixed on the figure of the king in the distance.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Lothaire.  I have waited long for this. Blitmund, make ready.


    The silent warder at his side gave a curt nod. Rain dripped down the blank expression of his iron masque as he unsheathed a dagger from his belt, its blade gleamed wickedly in the stormlight. Without a word, the three figures advanced, their steps muffled by the god-hurled elements. The howling of the wind cloaked their movement as they closed in on their prey.


    Ahead, the king paused, turning slightly as if sensing something amiss. Oswald clung to his tree, wide-eyed and trembling, his chest heaving from exertion and fear.


    The king¡¯s guard had no such premonition. The black-clad figure of Blitmund reached him first, striking with brutal efficiency. The dagger drove deep into his neck, the wet sound of steel parting flesh swallowed by the roar of the storm. The guard¡¯s eyes went wide as his hands flew up to his throat, his gurgled breaths drowning in his own blood. He fell to his knees, lifeless, before crumpling to the forest floor.


    King.  What? Murder! Treachery! No, no!


    The king¡¯s cries rang out, but the thunder drowned his voice, the wind whipping it away in collusion with the assailants. Lothaire stepped forwards, his devilish grin alight in the flash of lightning.


    King. Rolf? Is that you? My brother, undead?


    He recoiled, his face twisting with both fury and disbelief, but there was no time to react. Lothaire leapt upon him with the swiftness of a striking adder, driving him to the sodden earth. With a clang, the king¡¯s spear fell uselessly from his grasp. His arms were pinned beneath the duke¡¯s surprising strength.


    Lothaire. This¡­is for my father!


    He raised the rusty blade high, the jagged edge catching the light of the next flash of lightning. With a savage cry, Lothaire brought it down, driving it into the king¡¯s chest with ferocious force.


    The king gasped, his body jolting with the impact, but Lothaire¡¯s rage was unrelenting. Again and again, the blade plunged into the king¡¯s chest, each strike sending fresh sprays of blood to mingle with the rain-soaked earth.


    The duke¡¯s face was a mask of grim satisfaction.


    Oswald. Father!!


    The boy screamed until his throat was raw. His small hands clutched at the rough bark, his knuckles white as his world crumbled before him.


    The sound caught Morton¡¯s ear, and he turned his head sharply with cold intent. Slowly, he stepped forwards, his boots sinking into the mud with each deliberate step.


    Morton. And now, for you, my little lordling.


    The earl¡¯s voice was low, almost coaxing, as he approached. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead. He reached into his cloak, drawing out another peasant¡¯s blade.


    Oswald stumbled back, his legs trembling as panic took hold. Behind Morton, Lothaire rose, wiping his bloody hands on the king¡¯s cloak as Blitmund rose in a shadow.


    Morton lunged to grab Oswald, but the boy ducked out of reach with a panicked burst of speed.


    Morton. Bastard! Get back here!


    Morton darted forward, his blade flashing through the air. Oswald cried out as the edge slashed across his leg, pain shooting up to his thigh. He stumbled but willed himself forwards, feeling the warm slick of blood trickling down his calf. Each step was agony, but desperation drove him to the dense treeline ahead.


    Morton.  I slashed him¡ªhe won¡¯t get far. Go after him!


    Blitmund darted into the thicket without a word. In his heavy armour, he moved with an unnatural speed. Oswald glanced over his shoulder, terror gripping him as he saw the relentless pursuer closing in. He knew he couldn''t outrun him for long.


    He scanned the undergrowth frantically until he noticed a sturdy oak nearby. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain in his leg, he scrambled up the trunk, clutching at slick bark and gnarled branches. Rain streamed down his face as he pulled himself higher, with ragged and shallow breaths.


    The heavy footfalls drew closer, then stopped. Blitmund stood at the base of the tree, his blank mask tilting slightly upwards, scanning the dark woods. In his hand was a red hat, it must have slipped off! Oswald froze, clutching the branch tightly and daring not to breathe.


    As quietly as he could, he began edging along a thick branch that extended around the far side of the tree. He dared a glance below and saw Blitmund¡¯s head swiveling from side to side, the masked figure studying every shadow.


    Then, without warning, he launched forwards, his black cloak disappearing into the trees ahead.


    Oswald sagged against the branch with relief. But he didn¡¯t dare descend yet. Instead, he climbed higher, towards the crown of the tree, the branches creaking beneath his weight. Reaching an extending limb that afforded a better view, he clung tightly to it and peered through the rain-dappled leaves.


    Below, he could see Lothaire and Morton, still in the clearing where the king had fallen. Oswald¡¯s heart clenched, but he stayed silent, watching them from his precarious perch.


    The storm had now passed, leaving behind a heavy, brooding silence.


    Lothaire gazed down at the king¡¯s lifeless body, seemingly in contemplation.


    Morton.  What¡¯s the matter?


    Lothaire. ¡®Rolf.¡¯ He called me by my father¡¯s name. He looked upon me and saw his brother¡¯s face, as though I wore it like a mask.


    Morton strode towards him, his boots squelching, and snatched the blade from Lothaire¡¯s hand.


    Morton. Well, isn¡¯t that fascinating? Now pull yourself together!


    He leaned in close, his face inches from Lothaire¡¯s, his voice low and cutting.


    Morton. I hope you¡¯re ready to play your part. You¡¯ve been assaulted, remember? Though at a glance, I¡¯d say you don¡¯t look nearly dishevelled enough for it.


    Before Lothaire could protest, Morton raised the butt of the knife and delivered a sharp blow to the back of his head.


    Lothaire. Oh! You idiot! Was that truly necessary?


    He rubbed the growing bump fiercely, wincing.


    Morton. No. Now, lie down and keep still. I¡¯ll be back with the party.


    Lothaire glowered at him but complied, lowering himself to the damp ground with a reluctant sigh. Morton held both rusty knives out before him, then let them fall near the king¡¯s bloodied body. Turning away, he vanished into the shadow of the trees.


    Lothaire.  Miserable wretch. What little say I had in this dwindles with each minute.


    He shifted uncomfortably on the ground, water soaking through his fine clothes, he looked towards the distant treeline, where Morton had disappeared.


    Lothaire. And what¡¯s been left unsaid? I took in this business to be king, not merely a pawn.


    He lay back against the earth, his eyes flitting skyward as cool drops of rain fell upon his face. A grin once more curled at the corner of his lips. ¡°I did it father, did I not say I would?¡±


    Oswald was shivering, frozen to the branch above. His burning gaze was fixed on Lothaire. He wanted to leap down from his perch, to rush at the duke and strangle him right there on the ground. But fear gripped him¡­he was too small, too weak. All he could do was watch as the man who had murdered his father lay in the mud, smiling. The frustration knotted in his gut, but he remained still, his body trembling against the tree''s rough bark. At the sound of rustling leaves, Oswald¡¯s head snapped to the side as Wattle and Daub stumbled out of the trees, rubbing their heads and blinking in confusion.


    Wattle.  Out like a light! Were we assailed? Or did we break into the sack ourselves? Ow, me sorry skull! Ringin'' like it were for mass! I¡¯ve been struck by somethin'', be it bludgeon or sherry. What d¡¯you see, Daub?


    Daub. Only stars. Now, what¡¯s this? O mercy! We¡¯re too late.


    They both froze as began to comprehend the grisly scene before them.


    Wattle.  It¡¯s the king, slain! And the duke!


    He frowned and bent down to pick up the knives from the ground, turning them over in his hand.


    Wattle.  Hang on a minute, this knife is mine, ain''t this one yours?


    Daub. It is...this isn¡¯t good.


    ¡°Over here!¡± Lanterns bobbed in the gloom, voices rang out through the trees, and figures began to emerge.


    Daub. Now we¡¯re in a stew. Put the knives down!


    He hastily tossed his blade to the ground, Wattle followed suit, his hands trembling.


    The lords had arrived, led by the Earl of Morton. Their faces turned as pale as they surveyed the grisly scene: the bodies, the blood, and the two hapless servants standing over them.


    Bath. What happened here? Is that...the king? No!


    Morton.  O wicked deed! What villainy?


    Wattle.  We can explain¡ª


    Daub. My lords! We¡¯ve only now stumbled upon this gruesome scene, having been attacked ourselves but a moment ago¡ª


    Wattle. We may be very drunk!


    The Earl of March, swaying, clenched his fists. His bloodshot eyes burned as his face twisted into a mask of rage.


    March.  You wretched slaves!!


    In a fit of drunken fury, he unsheathed his greatsword with a rasp of steel. He staggered forwards, brushing aside half-hearted attempts by the others to restrain him.


    Morton.  Peace, my lord! Stay your hand!


    But March was beyond reason. He closed the distance with terrifying speed, his heavy boots thundering towards them. Raising his sword high, he swung down with all his might at Daub.


    The blade struck true, biting deep into the servant¡¯s shoulder and cutting through flesh and bone. Daub¡¯s body crumpled to the ground with a wet thud, blood pooling around him.


    Wattle. Daub! No! Please! Mercy!


    Before Wattle could even scramble away, March knocked him flat with a brutal kick. The drunken earl loomed over him, his face red with fury, his breaths heaving. The tip of the greatsword hovered above Wattle¡¯s chest.


    Bath. Hold there, Gerald! Enough!


    His voice rang out, but it was no use. March, his expression twisted into a grotesque snarl, paid no heed. With a guttural roar, he drove the blade downwards, the weight of the strike cutting deep into Wattle¡¯s chest and silencing him.


    From his perch in the tree, Oswald clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his scream. His stomach churned as he watched the scene unfold, horror clawing at his insides. The clearing was filled with an oppressive silence, broken only by the sound of March¡¯s laboured breathing as he leaned heavily on his bloodied sword.


    Bath. Foolish man. Now we know not their intent. Are you so blind in your drunkenness?


    March, chest heaving, pointed a wavering finger past Bath, his eyes wild but focused.


    March. Yet sober enough to see...the duke still lives!


    The lords turned sharply, their collective gasp echoing through the clearing. There, amidst the carnage, Lothaire began to stir. The duke was slumped against the ground, rubbing at the back of his head with an expression of weary indignation. Blood streaked his face, mingling with the rainwater dripping down his chin.


    Morton. Fetch him medicine, immediately!


    The Earl of Craven, always eager to ingratiate himself, dashed forwards to assist.


    Craven. Thank God, my lord! What happened? Here, take my hand.


    Craven reached down, but Lothaire waved him off, groaning as he steadied himself and pointed at the grisly remains of Wattle and Daub.


    Lothaire.  We were set upon by this pair of base and foul servants.


    March. They¡¯ve been dealt with, my lord! Most thoroughly!


    Lothaire cast a dispassionate glance at the fallen men, the corner of his mouth twitching as if in faint amusement.


    Lothaire. Before I knew it, I was struck. All went dark.


    The Earl Rivers bent low over the bodies and raised his lantern. Its light threw sharp shadows, illuminating the crude weapons and bloodied clothes.


    Rivers. But for what purpose? I cannot understand it. Their own base instincts, perhaps? Or were they put up to this by some nefarious gentleman?


    Morton.  I note that the Earl of Lichfield is not present this day. There are many who would see the duke and the king remain at odds.


    The lords exchanged uneasy glances.


    Bath. You don¡¯t accuse him outright, do you, Morton?


    Morton.  I merely suggest it warrants investigation.


    Rivers straightened, his face pale as he looked over the clearing.


    Rivers. But the prince? Where is the crown prince? And Arundel¡¯s ward? Surely they must be accounted for!


    As if summoned by his words, a figure emerged from the trees, moving with an unhurried, spectral grace. It was Blitmund, Lothaire¡¯s masked warder, his iron visage gleaming dully in the faint light. His presence sent a shiver racing down Oswald¡¯s spine. Hidden above, the boy clung tighter to his perch, scarcely daring to breathe.


    He seemed like an apparition from a tale told to frighten children¡ªthe reaper himself come to carry away the dead.


    Lothaire. Blitmund! My loyal friend, you escaped with the prince, did you not?


    Blitmund gave a slow nod, his blank expression revealing nothing. The lords leaned in.


    Bath. And where is the boy? Speak, man!


    In answer, Blitmund reached behind him and heaved a heavy carcass into the clearing. It hit the ground with a wet thud. A boar, its belly cruelly slashed open, entrails spilling out. Gasps rose from the lords, but Blitmund was not finished. Slowly, deliberately, he raised something small and red in the air. The lords froze, their expressions ranging from horror to despair.


    Oswald¡¯s eyes widened. He recognised the object immediately as his own hat, the one he¡¯d lost during his frantic flight.


    Bath.  No!


    Morton. The prince? Eaten? God blind me!


    Lothaire stepped forwards, his features grim but his voice was almost soothing.


    Lothaire.  Young Oswald was slashed in the attack. If it¡¯s any comfort to you, my lords, I believe he did not live to suffer such indignity.


    The lords bowed their heads with solemn reverence as the king¡¯s lifeless body was gently raised and carried away by the attendants. No one spoke at first, the forest itself was silent in mourning for the loss of its sovereign.


    Breaking the silence, the Earl of Craven with his voice trembling, raised his arms to Lothaire, as though to usher in a new dawn.


    Craven. With the king and crown prince deceased, bless their souls, being the king¡¯s nephew and next in line, I do believe the crown falls to you, my lord. Nay...Your Majesty!


    There was a murmur of agreement, hesitant at first but growing in strength.


    Bath. That is so. Hail the King of England!


    ¡°Long live the King!¡± As one, the gathered lords and servants lowered themselves to their knees. Their heads bowed, they offered their allegiance to Lothaire, who stood above them, his back turned to the crowd. For a moment, he did not respond. When he finally turned to face them, his expression was a perfect mask of reluctant duty.


    Lothaire. O it stings to even consider such matters at this time! Very well then, if only to preserve order amidst the storm. I accept this burden with a heavy heart.


    He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the kneeling figures before him. For all his outward composure, there was something in his eyes...a glint of triumph, perhaps.


    Lothaire.  Come, let us part from this dreadful scene. The day is not yet done, and there is much still to do.


    The lords rose to their feet as Lothaire strode ahead and the party began their procession.


    High above in the tree, Oswald remained still, his body trembling with the effort of holding his breath. He waited until the last figure had disappeared into the misty distance, and even then, he dared not move. Only when the forest was silent once more did he begin his cautious descent.


    Reaching the ground, Oswald hesitated. His eyes were drawn to the spot where his father¡¯s blood had stained the earth, the dark crimson seeping into the soil. The weight of everything he had seen and heard crashed down upon him, and he finally let his turmoil loose.


    He dropped to his knees, his hands covering his face as a torrent of tears overcame him. He wept until his chest ached, his sobs echoing softly in the stillness. His father was gone. His home was gone. The killer now wore the crown, and his cousin''s treachery hung over the kingdom like a black cloud.


    For a moment, he considered finding the good lords and telling them the truth. But the thought of Blitmund¡¯s shadowy figure creeping up behind him stayed his resolve. He could see it clearly in his mind: the cold glint of the blade, the iron mask looming over him. No, the lords would never have the chance to hear his words, let alone act on them.


    He wiped his face with trembling hands and looked into the forest beyond. There was no time for mourning now. He had to survive.


    Oswald. I¡¯ll...I¡¯ll have to hide.


    Swallowing hard, he turned his back on the path taken by the new king and his party. With one last glance at where his father had been, he tightened his jaw and hurried into the unknown, the mist swallowing him whole.


    Some minutes passed and birdsong finally returned to this lonely part of the forest. The mutilated bodies of Wattle and Daub lay untouched, sprawled in grotesque positions on the forest floor. Blood pooled beneath them, glistening darkly in the muted light. Above, crows began to circle and cry. One by one, they descended, hopping closer to the corpses with greedy, beady eyes. The first brave bird pecked at Wattle¡¯s motionless hand, testing the flesh, before plunging its beak in with a vicious twist.


    As the carrion feast began, a faint glow shimmered in the air above the bodies, like the first blush of dawn, and it coalesced into two distinct shapes. They flickered, pale and translucent. Then, as if stepping indoors from a blizzard outside, the two pale wisps of Wattle and Daub approached each other from out of nowhere.


    Wattle. That you, Daub? Knocked out again! Could be worse, I thought we¡¯d been killed.


    Daub. So did I. But where is everyone?


    Wattle.  You not feeling well, Daub? You could do with a bit more sunlight, I think.


    Daub.  Was it all a dream? The king¡¯s missing¡ªWattle¡­


    Wattle. What¡¯s got you quivering? Oh! Who are they, killed on the floor?


    Daub. Wattle, we¡¯ve passed on.


    Wattle.  Passed on to what?


    Daub.  The afterlife! That¡¯s us! We¡¯re ghosts!


    Wattle. No...it can¡¯t be! So, what do we do now? How do we pass on¡­further?


    Daub.  To heaven?


    Wattle. Well, we¡¯ll try that first.


    Daub. I believe it¡¯s said a soul is kept in purgatory until they¡¯ve completed their purpose.


    Wattle.  Wonderful! I don¡¯t have one of those...anything else?


    Daub. No...Oh, I pity the king, he was a kind man.


    Wattle.  Ay, for all the jests and jabs we gave him, he was just.


    Daub. He didn¡¯t deserve to die so horribly, nor his gentle son.


    Wattle. The boy couldn¡¯t tell a bowstring from a bootlace. But he was a good lad, that one.


    Daub. You know, the Duke of Arundel, he¡¯s behind all of this.


    Wattle. No doubt about that. A curse on his blood!


    Daub. He killed the king and the prince, leaving himself next in line for the throne.


    Wattle. If I have any purpose, it¡¯s not resting until that cur is deposed the way he did the king.


    Daub. And the true king, Oswald, restored to his rightful place!


    Wattle. Ha! We cannot sleep, Lothaire! And so neither shall you!


    With that, they vanished, leaving only a faint echo of laughter that sent the crows scattering.

 Chapter II

    The royal court was a cavernous hall with towering pillars that vanished into shadow beyond the reach of torchlight. The fortress, now a labyrinthine stronghold of dark stone, had been expanded endlessly by order of the king. But for all its lofty grandeur, a looming dread clung to the walls, as though it were forgotten whether its purpose was to keep intruders out or its inhabitants in.


    Lothaire sat slouched on the cold, black granite throne, a great fireplace roasted behind him. A crown sat tilted on his head and his cheek rested against his clenched fist. Lines now etched his face, not from age alone, but a decade of navigating the endless mire of court politics and noble demands. Beside him, as ever stood Blitmund, hands rested on the pommel of a broadsword.


    Before the throne, the lords had gathered, draped in their finery and pomp. Their voices filled the chamber, one after another, in a choir of grievances and requests.


    Craven.  Your gracious Majesty! The situation in my lands has grown dire. My peasants have risen in revolt! They blame high taxes, poor harvests, and, most insultingly, my stewardship!  They gather in numbers, wielding makeshift arms, and have already stormed three of my manors.


    Lothaire stared back at him blankly. The earl hesitated, his lips pressing together.


    Craven.  My levies are stretched thin. I beg you, Sire, for soldiers to crush this rebellion before it spreads further.


    The king leaned back.


    Lothaire.  You beg me for soldiers? Now that¡¯s amusing. I recall you boasting of a well-trained retinue just this winter past. What became of them, I wonder?


    Craven.  The men I have are not enough, Your Grace. The peasants are emboldened! Many have fled into the forests and fortified their numbers. They¡¯ve even drawn vassals into their cause with false promises. It¡¯s treachery, plain and simple! King Turstin would¡ª


    He stiffened, and murmurs rippled through the court.


    Lothaire.  Yes? What would the dead king do?


    He let the question linger for a moment before waving a hand.


    Lothaire.  Enough. I will consider your request. But mark this: if the crown sends soldiers, they will not simply put down your rebellion. They will stay to oversee your lands, as you have failed to.


    Craven paled, but he bowed as low as his back would allow him.


    Craven.  As Your Majesty commands.


    The Earl of March was next to step forwards, his heavy boots echoing on the flagstones.


    March.  My liege, the borders of my lands are threatened! Those bastard Cambrian lords  encroach upon my territory. These old disputes were long settled! But my soldiers¨Cfilthy cowards that they are¨Crefuse to fight. I humbly ask for your support to press my righteous claim and restore order.


    Lothaire raised an eyebrow and looked over at Blitmund.


    Lothaire.  The Earl of March, coming to me for help with a border squabble? Tell me, Gerald, do you expect my knights to fight your battles for you? Or my coin to persuade your discontented men?


    March flushed with anger, his fists clenched.


    March.  If my own men fail me, I will find others. But without the crown¡¯s backing, I cannot guarantee the borders will hold!


    Lothaire.  We will discuss this further in council. See to your men, March. Weakness in leadership is more dangerous than weakness in numbers.


    The Earl took a step forward, jabbing a finger in the air, only for Blitmund to snap towards him, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. March froze mid-motion before a nervous swallow, and stammered retreat.


    March.  M¨Cmy thanks, Your Majesty.


    With a stiff bow, he stepped back, his gaze flickering between the king and his warder. Blitmund held his stance for a moment longer before, just as smoothly, returning to his post.


    The earls continued their petitions, their voices blending into a ceaseless drone. Lothaire¡¯s hand fell to the armrest of his throne, his fingers tapping it in a rhythm of frustration. How tedious it all was...this endless cycle of grievances, demands, and petty squabbles. He had dreamed of glory, of ruling as a king among kings. Instead, he had inherited a kingdom of complaints and compromises, a realm that demanded everything and gave little in return.


    Above it all, the sound of the court faded into a dull hum in Lothaire¡¯s ears. His gaze drifted to the massive stained-glass window at the end of the hall, where sunlight filtered through, casting fractured colours to the floor. Beyond it lay the endless sprawl of his fortress, its battlements reaching ever outward like the tentacles of a great beast.


    Lothaire stood abruptly and the court fell into an uneasy silence. His gaze swept across the assembled lords, their faces etched with discontent or barely veiled disdain. He raised a hand, beckoning towards a side entrance.


    Lothaire.  How dreary are these crooks! Bring in better company.


    The heavy doors creaked open, and a group of courtesans swept into the chamber, their laughter and perfume filling the air. They were dressed in silks and jewels, with bright and practiced smiles. They surrounded the king, their playful chatter quickly drowning out the murmurs of the courtiers.


    Lothaire grinned, feeling the lords look on in silence and disdain.


    The Duchess of Kendal stood apart from the rest, her fan fluttering in her gloved hand, her gaze fixed on the king with a hawklike intensity.


    The murmurs of the court grew louder as the Duchess stepped forwards at last with her dress sweeping across the floor. She curtsied deeply, ignoring the paramours and their laughter.


    Kendal.  Your Majesty, if I may steal your attention? Dreary crook that I am.


    With a smirk to the girl at his ear, he nodded in the direction of Kendal.


    Kendal.  It has been ten years since your ascension to the throne and it has been ten years since you promised marriage to me. The realm looks to its king for stability...for a legacy. Might I be so bold as to ask when you intend to take me as your queen?


    Lothaire¡¯s jaw tightened, and for a moment, the room fell utterly silent. He straightened in his seat, his fingers gripping the armrests of his throne.


    Lothaire.  I wasn¡¯t aware my personal affairs had become a matter of state, Lady Joan.


    Kendal.  Duchess, Your Grace. The crown¡¯s affairs are the realm¡¯s affairs! And the duchies wish to see the royal line continue. I only hope to ease such concerns...with your favour.


    Lothaire¡¯s gaze hardened, but returned his attention to the courtesans beside him.


    Lothaire. The realm has endured a decade without my heir. It can endure a little longer, as can you. You have my leave to depart, Duchess.


    Her smile faltered, and she curtsied once more striding pass the earls and out through the doors.


    The throne room buzzed faintly with murmured conversations and shuffling feet though fell quiet  as the Earl of Morton stepped forwards to address the king.


    Morton.  I remember when you said you wanted to change this country for the better, my lord. Not merely to take the throne, but to make something of it. Have you forgotten?


    Lothaire, seated high above the assembly, rested his cheek again on his fist, his expression bored, his gaze flitting lazily over the room before finally settling on Morton.


    Lothaire.  And I remember when you knew the time to hold your tongue.


    Morton continued, undeterred.


    Morton.  My tongue will hold when I see growth, my lord. But we are only dying. Look across the channel, to the continent. They build, they think, they create. Their rulers patronise the humanities. Their universities brim with students debating philosophy, poetry, and the histories of great men. Their halls resound with oratory that sways nations.


    He gestured broadly, his voice rising.


    Morton.  And what have we here? Halls of learning that gather dust, silent tombs for old parchment. We have become a kingdom of archives, not progress.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.There was a faint shifting among the gathered lords and courtesans. A few exchanged glances and stiffened uncomfortably. Morton¡¯s voice dropped to a sharp, intimate tone.


    Morton.  You know what it took to put you in that chair.


    His words hung heavy, laced with meaning. Lothaire¡¯s hand dropped from his cheek, his expression hardening. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and unspoken words passed between them.


    Morton.  You¡¯ve ignored my counsel. Forgotten your friends and made the wrong enemies.


    Lothaire.  That¡¯s enough.


    His voice cut through the air, low and dangerous.


    Lothaire.  Enough, I said!


    He raised a hand, waving Morton off like a gadfly. The earl stood frozen for a moment, his eyes cold, before he took a step back. His retreat was slow and deliberate, his gaze was fixed on the king, who slumped back into the throne.


    The room remained silent as Morton reached the edge of the gathering, the faintest curl of a bitter smile playing at his lips. He turned his back to the king, muttering just loudly enough for himself.


    Morton.  A kingdom of light, you once told me. And here you sit in the darkness.


    He disappeared into the crowd, his shadow slipping away into the quiet of the hall. The murmurs resumed, timid and subdued, as courtiers and lords shifted uncomfortably in the wake of his words.


    One of the courtesans leaned close, whispering something that made Lothaire chuckle for the first time that day. In truth, he cared little for these whores, but he relished the irritation they stirred in the court.


    The lords murmured to each other in disbelief.


    Bath.  It pains me to say that His Majesty¡¯s father would be rolling in his grave to see him act in such a manner.


    Lothaire.  Who said that?!


    The laughter stopped. The courtesans exchanged uneasy glances, their mirth fading as they stepped back. Lothaire froze, his hand gripping the armrest of his throne until his knuckles turned white. Slowly, he rose, his gaze locking onto Bath with intensity.


    Lothaire.  Get out.


    The lords hesitated, looking to one another.


    Bath.  Your Majesty¨C


    Lothaire.  I said, get out! All of you!


    The lords filed out in a hasty, awkward silence. The courtesans lingered briefly, one of them daring to touch Lothaire¡¯s arm in reassurance, but he shook her off with a glare. They, too, fled the chamber. The heavy doors slammed shut, leaving the king almost alone.


    Blitmund, looming like a gargoyle, had not moved a muscle, Lothaire turned to him, sagging his shoulders with a weary bitterness.


    Lothaire.  They''re vultures, every one of them. Circling, waiting for me to falter so they can pick me apart.


    The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls of the chamber. The king sat hunched in his chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.


    Lothaire.  I hate it.


    Blitmund, of course, said nothing. Lothaire chuckled dryly.


    ¡°I only did it to impress him, you know? Father.¡±


    His fingers curled into fists.


    ¡°That¡¯s all I ever wanted...to earn his respect. Even after all these years, that¡¯s all I want. But why?¡±


    He leaned back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling.


    ¡°These old fools are always telling me how great he was. Rolf, the great Duke of Arundel! So strong, so noble!¡±


    His lips curled in disgust.


    ¡°But all I remember is a bully. You know, of course. A man who never let a mistake go unpunished, who never had a kind word for his own son.¡±


    The fire popped. A gust of wind rattled the heavy drapes covering the windows. Lothaire swallowed hard, lowering his voice. "Perhaps that¡¯s him," he said, glancing around as if the shadows were listening. "Haunting me. Do you hear them in the night? The moans and whispers? I wake up to see furniture shudder across my chambers¡­¡±


    Through his mask, Blitmund watched him motionlessly. Lothaire let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "I thought if I expanded the castle, made it grander, it would silence the whispers. But now...I¡¯m running out of room to escape them."


    The doors creaked open again, and a messenger entered, bowing low.


    Messenger.  Your Majesty, I bring reports from the west country.


    Lothaire.  Speak.


    Messenger.  There have been...rumours, my lord, from a small village named Barrow Gurney. There¡¯s a nunnery nearby, on the hill. Locals claim to have seen what looked like the late King Turstin...as he was in his youth. A young man, alive and well.


    Lothaire¡¯s ears pricked up and in a sudden, fluid motion, he pushed himself to his feet.


    Lothaire.  Say that again.


    Messenger.  The villagers claim to have seen¡ª


    He strode down the dais and stopped inches from the messenger, locking onto the man¡¯s face.


    Lothaire.  You¡¯re certain?


    Messenger.  The reports are vague, my lord, but¡ª


    Lothaire.  Send Grey with a garrison. Scour the whole village from top to bottom. I want every corner searched. Arrest every young man and bring them to me so I might see for myself.


    The Messenger bowed deeply, then turned and all but fled the chamber. The room was silent again, save for the crackling of the hearth. Lothaire exhaled through his nose and turned to Blitmund.


    Lothaire.  He won¡¯t escape us twice.


    Blitmund tilted his head a fraction and Lothaire let out a dry chuckle, rubbing his temple.


    "I know, I hate being king. But if this whelp reveals himself, then we¡¯re both losing our heads¡­ Come, I want to speak to a bishop."


    With that, he turned, and Blitmund swiftly followed, the heavy doors creaking closed behind them.


    A faint rustle broke the stillness, and from the shadows the Earl of Morton stepped forwards, his sharp eyes swept across the empty hall. The faint glow of a guttering torch caught the silver strands in his hair, now streaked with grey from a decade of discontent. So, the prince is rumoured to reside in the hills to the west.


    "Lothaire¡¯s rule has bled the life from this land," he muttered. Worse than under old Turstin¡¯s reign...a king whose flaws, at least, were tempered with strength.


    He began to pace, his steps echoing against the cold stone floor.


    "He too will have to go," he said, with a shrug. "I thought he would make a fine blade, but he has dulled with misuse and outlived his purpose."


    Morton halted before the empty throne, his fingers brushing the armrest as a slow, grim smile tugged at his lips. "I¡¯ll find the boy and mould his tender mind...not as the Earl of Morton, of course, but a humble yeoman, still faithful to his father, the great and noble king." His fingers tapped idly against the throne¡¯s armrest before he turned away.


    "This time, he won¡¯t slip through my fingers. I¡¯ll whip him into a fierce and loyal hound." His eyes darkened. "And when he is ready, I¡¯ll set him loose upon this court of pigeons!"


    Turning sharply, Morton strode to one of the narrow lancet windows, his silhouette cutting a dark figure against the dying light. His eyes swept over the distant land, the vast sprawl of England, his for the shaping, and rose his voice.


    "England, be my tapestry! The prince, my thread¡ªto weave my will upon that fertile spread!"


    He let out a low chuckle, stepping back into the shadows. "Well then, Gurney, it is. I look forward to our reunion...Your Majesty."


    The great hall swallowed him whole, leaving only the restless flicker of torchlight and the wind¡¯s hollow moan through the fortress walls.

 Chapter III

    Nestled upon a gentle rise in the rolling Mendip hills, was a nunnery overlooking the vale below. The honey-colored walls were entwined with deep green ivy, creeping up to kiss the narrow, arched windows that caught the low sun. The moss-clad chimneys coughed up the occasional curl of woodsmoke, fragrant with the scent of burning applewood and rosemary.


    Oswald walked along the empty cloister, his fingers tracing the cool stone columns with an absent mind. Reaching an open window, he leaned upon its ledge to gaze out from, feeling the warmth on his face. A low stone wall, half-tumbled in places and crowned with a flourish of wildflowers, enclosed the nunnery¡¯s grounds, beyond which a scattering of orchards and meadows stretched toward the wooded hills. In spring, the fields of green and gold would burst with a congregation of daffodils, nodding together in the wind, while the summer¡¯s heat coaxed the hedgerows into a riot of honeysuckle and dog rose.


    For ten years, this place had been his sanctuary, and yet his prison. He had never once set foot beyond its bounds, though temptation had tugged at him in restless moments. To walk the length of Britain, to trace the mighty river to London, to stand upon the cliffs at Dover before the sea...such thoughts were a dull ache in his chest. But the world beyond was treacherous. To be recognized was to be doomed, his life would be snuffed out before he had a chance to plead his case. A fate as swift as it was certain.


    A small village, Barrow Gurney, lay below in the vale, its thatched cottages huddled close along the winding, cobbled lanes. Each morning and evening, the familiar toll of the priory bell drifted down to its inhabitants. Perhaps it was secluded enough, tucked away from the eyes of the realm, that he might one day slip down unnoticed.


    A rustle of fabric drew his attention, and he turned to see Prioress Agnes approaching, her habit dark against the sunlit stone. She was a woman of sturdy frame and countenance. Her watchful eyes, met his with an urgency that sent a flicker of unease through him.


    Agnes. Oswald, my child! There are strangers in the village.


    Oswald. What manner of strangers?


    Agnes. Soldiers on horseback!


    A chill ran through him.


    Oswald. The king¡¯s men?


    She pursed her lips, folding her hands before her.


    Agnes. I do not know, but it is enough to be wary. For the next few days, I want you to wear your habit. Just to be safe.


    Oswald hesitated. Once, the nun¡¯s habit had been a second skin that kept him hidden from prying eyes. But of late, it felt more like an ill-fitting disguise that chafed at his pride. Among the sisters, he felt acutely aware of his own ridiculousness. But now was not the time for pride.


    Oswald. I shall do as you say.


    The Prioress inclined her head, satisfied.


    Agnes. Good. Join us for plainsong soon. It will ease your spirit.


    With that, she turned and strode away. Oswald watched her vanish behind the heavy chapel doors before exhaling slowly. The news of soldiers in the village gnawed at him like a hound at a bone. He had begun to think he had been forgotten, that the world beyond these walls had moved on without him. A fragile hope had crept in that perhaps, he might be left in peace, free from fear and the shadow of pursuit. That was all he wanted. Just quiet and solitude. He wanted to forget all about princes and dukes, to let that fade into nothing more than a half-remembered dream.


    But the past was not so easily buried. Thoughts of his father rose unbidden, and with them a sharp, hollow pain. He forced them down, unwilling to linger in memories that led only to grief. His hands moved instinctively, clasping around the pendant that rested beneath his tunic. His fingers tightened around the cool metal as a lump formed in his throat. It was all behind him now. Another life from now. With a final lingering glance to the hazy valley, he turned and headed back inside.


    Oswald shuffled into the vast, echoing nave, into the flickering glow of candlelight and the faint scent of beeswax and incense. It was silent but for the murmur of whispered prayers and the faint rustling of fabric against stone. He was clad in the habit of a nun, retrieved from his dormitory and draped loosely over his slight frame. Though he did not entirely stand out, his height made him conspicuous among the shorter sisters. Yet they moved around him without pause, carrying on as if nothing were amiss. They moved in solemn procession, their voices rising in unison.


    Nuns. O intemerata et in eternum benedicta singularis atque incomparabilis virgo dei genitrix maria gratissimum dei templum.


    Oswald moved with careful steps to the farthest end of the transept. There, before an altar draped in white linen, he knelt. A stained-glass window above bathed the cold stone in pools of coloured light, and in its glow, the carved Madonna gazed down in benediction.


    Nuns. Spiritus sancti sacrarium ianua regni celorum per quam post deum totus vivit orbis terrarum.


    With his fingers entwined, he bent his head, murmuring his own quiet prayers. He prayed for the sisters who had sheltered him, who had shown him nothing but kindness despite the burden of his presence. He prayed that no misfortune would befall them for harbouring him, that their days would remain peaceful. If a price was demanded for his sanctuary, let it be his alone to pay.


    Nuns. Inclina, Mater misericordiae, aures tuae pietatis indignis supplicationibus meis, et esto mihi miserrimo peccatori pia, et propitia in omnibus auxiliatrix.


    As he exhaled slowly, centering his thoughts, a movement at his side caught his attention. He opened his eyes. A nun had knelt beside him.


    This was somewhat unusual, but not uncouth. Oswald was about to face forwards again when something about this particular figure gave him pause. A second glance sent a chill through him.


    The nun was large for a woman, nearly his own height but broader, her sturdy frame strained against the stretched fabric of her habit. Her hands, pressed together in pious devotion, were wide and square, the knuckles coarse and dusted with hair. The sight unsettled him, but it was the coif, pulled unnaturally low over the brow, that sent a whisper of unease through his thoughts.


    "O most blessed John, the beloved and friend of Christ¡­" The voice was low, rasping, and utterly incongruous. Oswald stiffened. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head, and the figure turned likewise.


    Beneath the coif, shadowed by the dim chapel light, was a broad, ruddy nose and the unmistakable bristle of a red beard. Oswald inhaled sharply, recoiling instinctively, but his gaze was arrested by the man¡¯s eyes...keen, gleaming, filled with mirth yet strikingly familiar, though he could not, in that moment, place from where.


    The bearded nun gave an absurd and most unsettling grin.


    Strange Man. Blessings, sister.


    His mouth barely concealed his amusement. Oswald¡¯s breath caught.


    Oswald. Blessings...what art thou?


    The stranger inclined his head, as if greeting an old acquaintance.


    Strange Man. Your humble servant, my lord.


    Oswald. I think not. Get away from me.


    He surged to his feet, heart hammering, and turned sharply away, tugging the folds of his coif lower over his face. His feet carried him swiftly to the far end of the transept, where he threw himself down once more in feigned supplication, pressing his hands together with a furrowed brow. He willed his mind to focus, to regain the composure that had slipped so quickly from him.


    A moment passed. Then another. He opened his eyes. And there they were again...those same beady, knowing eyes, watching him with unmistakable amusement.


    Strange Man. You bear a striking resemblance to him, my lord! Your father, I mean. It''s like looking upon him alive once more...except, of course, for the nun¡¯s dress.


    Oswald. You''re mistaken, stranger. I am no lord. I was raised here in this nunnery.


    Strange Man. Forgive me, my lord, but I am not mistaken. I understand your caution, but I am no danger to you. My purpose is to return you to your rightful place upon the throne.


    Oswald. What? Who are you?


    Strange Man. A forester, my lord, by the name of Robin Goodfellow. Once a yeoman, a loyal supporter of your dear father, good King Turstin.


    Oswald couldn¡¯t believe what he was hearing. He stared at the man, searching his face for deception, but found none. The name meant nothing to him, yet the conviction in the man''s voice unsettled him.


    Oswald. I¡¯m afraid you have the wrong man, Goodfellow. I am not the son of a king, and even if I were, I would want nothing to do with a throne. I suggest you take your search north of the Avon. You¡¯ll find no princes here. Good day, sir.


    With that, he made to rise, eager to put distance between himself and this madman, but before he could, a firm hand seized his wrist and wrenched him back down. The forester leaned in close, his voice low, his breath warm against Oswald¡¯s cheek.


    Strange Man. I served King Turstin on many a battlefield. I knew him well, advised him more than once. I would know his face even if he were turbaned in Damascus. Enough of this charade, my lord. You are in danger here, we must leave immediately.


    His piercing gaze bore into Oswald with an eeriness that sent a shiver down his spine. Oswald clenched his fists, willing himself to remain steady.


    Oswald. I am sorry, sir, but I am not who you think I am. I am no prince. I will never be a king. I am but a servant of the priory.


    The man¡¯s gaze flickered downward, his lips curling into a knowing smile.


    Strange Man. That¡¯s a fine pendant for a mere servant.


    Oswald¡¯s stomach dropped. His fingers flew to his chest, where the chain had slipped free from beneath his tunic. He hurriedly tucked it away, but the forester¡¯s hand was already reaching for his skirts.


    Strange Man. And that¡ª


    The fabric lifted, revealing the long, jagged scar that marred his thigh.


    Strange Man. ¡ªis a most curious mark for a nun to bear. Now tell me, my lord, how did you come by it?


    Oswald. Unhand me, sir!


    His voice rang sharp through the nave, and in an instant, the chanting ceased. Heads turned, and the rustle of shifting habits filled the sudden silence. The stranger¡¯s grip tightened, but so did Oswald¡¯s resolve. With a sharp jerk, he wrenched himself free, stumbling backwards against a wooden pew. The forester rose as well, unhurried, brushing down his stolen habit as though he had all the time in the world. He reached for Oswald¡¯s shoulder, his grip firm, his grin returning.


    Strange Man.  There¡¯s no need to raise voices, my lord. If you would but come away with me a moment¡ª


    Oswald. Get away from me! I know not what you speak of, and I¡¯ll not go anywhere with you!


    The man sighed, shaking his head as if scolding a petulant child.


    Strange Man.  Now just¡ª


    Agnes. Just what is going on here?


    The Prioress¡¯s voice cut across the room,She had appeared at the back of the nave, at the head of a growing throng of sisters, their faces tight with disapproval.


    Agnes. Who are you?


    The other nuns had risen from their prayers and were now gathering, their soft murmurs swelling into a tide of unrest. As soon as their eyes fell upon the broad-shouldered intruder in their midst, the wave broke.


    Nuns. Get out! You don¡¯t belong here!


    They surged forwards, swarming the man with surprising force, their hands pushing, clawing at his sleeves, shoving him towards the chapel doors.


    Strange Man.  Off me, you hens!


    He staggered backwards, batting them away as best he could, but there was no resisting them. Oswald stood frozen, watching as the forester twisted in their grasp, cursing and laughing in the same breath. They drove him across the nave before he was finally forced out into the cloister. The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind him.


    Oswald remained rooted where he stood, shoulders heaving. His legs felt weak beneath him. He hadn¡¯t realized he was shaking until he looked down at his hands.


    Agnes stepped forwards, her stern gaze softening as she studied him.


    Agnes. Are you harmed, my child?


    Oswald. No...I¡¯m fine.


    Agnes. But you are pale as a wraith. You¡¯d best go and rest yourself.


    Oswald hesitated, still staring at the door.


    Agnes. I shall keep watch for any more unwelcome visitors. You needn¡¯t worry.


    He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.


    Oswald. Thank you, Mother. Please be safe.


    He turned on unsteady legs and made for the dormitory, his mind in a fog. His pulse had yet to slow. That man had known him. That man had looked upon his face and seen his father. How many others might do the same? It had been years since he had allowed himself to dwell on such fears, years since he had begun to believe that he had been forgotten, that the world had finally moved on and left him to his quiet existence. But now the past had come knocking. And if this supposed ally had found him, who else might be looking?


    His throat tightened. He quickened his pace, pulling his habit close around him, Why couldn¡¯t the world just forget about him?


    Oswald pushed open the wooden door to his small dormitory, stepping into the solitude of the chamber. It was a humble space, but as a refuge it was more valuable than any prince¡¯s chambers. Beneath the low ceiling, a narrow cot was pushed against the stone wall, its woolen blanket neatly folded at the foot, while a plain wooden chest sat beneath the single window, holding the few belongings he possessed.


    He let out a weary sigh, bolting the door behind him. His hands trembled slightly as he ran them over his face. He would likely have to leave soon. The shadow of his past followed him like a hound on his heels.


    Crossing the room, he sat on the edge of his cot and reached beneath his tunic, pulling forth the pendant that had betrayed him earlier. The cool metal rested in his palm, glinting in the dim light. He traced its edges with his thumb, gazing at the delicate engraving, the royal sigil...his mother¡¯s gift, all that he had left of her. He closed his eyes, summoning what little memory he had of her kind face, her soft voice that once would sooth him off to sleep. He longed to speak to her now, to hear her words as a grown man, to know what she might say to him. Would she tell him to run? To hide?


    And his father, if King Turstin still lived, what would he say? Would he chide Oswald for his cowardice? Would he urge him to take up the crown he had never wanted?


    A sudden whisper slithered through the room, raising the hairs on Oswald¡¯s neck.


    ¡°Revenge...! Oswald...revenge!¡±


    His blood turned to ice. He jolted upright, breath caught in his throat. The voice had come from near the window, an eerie, disembodied echo that sent shivers through his spine.


    ¡°Father?¡± His voice was barely above a whisper.


    But that hadn¡¯t sounded like his father. The tone had been unfamiliar, chilling in its urgency. He swallowed hard, scanning the dim chamber, his grip tightening around the pendant. Shaking off the creeping dread, he sat back down, burying his face in his hands.


    ¡°What to do? What to do?¡± he murmured, his voice hollow.


    ¡°You know what you must do.¡± Oswald¡¯s head snapped up. His breath hitched as he caught sight of movement in the room.


    A shadow emerged from the darkness near the window, the floorboards creaking beneath slow, deliberate steps. The stranger from before was advancing toward him, no longer clad in a nun¡¯s habit but in the garb of a forester. Lincoln green beneath his cloak, and a broad hat shaded his red hair and beard. He looked every bit the rogue he had claimed to be.


    Oswald¡¯s heart leaped into his throat. He opened his mouth to scream, to call for help, but in an instant, the man lunged forward, pinning him down and clamping a hand over his mouth.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.The scent of sandalwood and rich wool filled Oswald¡¯s nostrils as he struggled, his pulse pounding in his ears.


    Strange Man. Now that¡¯s enough of that, my lord. You¡¯re going to lay there and listen to what I tell you.


    Oswald, wide-eyed, could only stare into the man¡¯s keen gaze.


    Strange Man. First of all, no more jests. You are Prince Oswald, son of Turstin, are you not?


    There was no hiding it. He was caught. Who knew what this rogue would do if angered? If he had meant to harm Oswald, surely he would have done so by now. Slowly, hesitantly, Oswald nodded.


    Robin. That¡¯s a good lad. Now, as I said, my Christian name is Robin. My purpose is to guide you on your journey to become the rightful king of England. You don¡¯t have to make it alone. Pay no mind to my filthy boots and base blood...I know much in the way of court politics. Your father recognised the wisdom I had to offer him. I¡¯m willing to instruct you every step of the way, teach you to be a strong and wise king, and to crush your enemies. Stick with old Robin, he¡¯ll show you the path!


    He eased his grip slightly.


    Robin. I¡¯m going to remove my hand now. You¡¯re not going to yell out, are you?


    Oswald shook his head, and Robin released him. He sat up and leaned back, watching the man warily. There was a dormant, dark anger looming somewhere in Robin¡¯s eyes, and Oswald had no wish to stir it.


    Robin. So what say you, my lord? Are you ready to become king at last?


    Oswald sighed, shaking his head.


    Oswald. I¡¯m afraid not. I¡¯ve left that life behind me and have no desire to return to it. Look what it brought to my father. I thank you for your support, Robin, and I do not doubt your wisdom...but I will never be king.


    Robin¡¯s smile faltered.


    Robin. Oswald...whatever is the matter with you? If you¡¯re worried about Lothaire, I¡¯m ten steps ahead of him! He won¡¯t touch a hair on your head while you¡¯re under my wing! You¡¯ve no desire to be king? More riches than you can imagine? A bride so fair and pure? The keys to the kingdom are in your hands!


    Oswald. The kingdom of heaven is all that interests me.


    Robin scoffed, shaking his head in frustration.


    Robin. Heaven? Oh, for the love of¡ªLook, we all know the truth of what happened to your father. Don¡¯t you want vengeance for him?


    Oswald looked down, rubbing the back of his neck.


    Oswald. It¡¯s in the past. I can only forgive Lothaire. ¡®They that take the sword shall perish with the sword.¡¯ Is that not so?


    Robin¡¯s expression darkened. He stood up abruptly, his face twisting in disgust.


    Robin. No. No, it is not. What has become of you, my prince? How can you have such disregard for your father, for your country? Have you no manly pride? If you will be a eunuch, then fetch me some wine!


    Oswald looked away sheepishly, wishing he could shrink into the shadows and disappear.


    Robin. Your people are in crisis and you¡¯ll just hide here? Whose bastard son are you? Not Turstin¡¯s! Well? I call your Queen mother a harlot, boy, what say you? Nothing? God blind me!


    A flicker of stubborn defiance rose in Oswald. He pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room with his back turned.


    Robin. What life have you here? A misery. Surrounded by those ewes, dressed like this...will you just wallow here? Or be a man and take some action?


    Oswald. Man is a brute! I have no interest in such chest-thumping, so I¡¯m afraid you¡¯ve wasted your time, sir. Now, please leave and never return.


    He felt his face burn red and turned towards the door.


    Robin. I would not love my country to give up and leave now. If you persist in this vein, then you leave me no choice, my lord.


    Oswald spun just as Robin rushed towards him. Before he could react, strong arms seized him, and he was lifted off his feet with a yelp.


    Oswald. Get your hands off me!


    Robin threw him over his shoulder. Oswald kicked and thrashed, but a cloth was suddenly pressed to his mouth, muffling his protests.


    Robin. We¡¯re going to get well acquainted whether you like it or not. Some day you¡¯ll thank me.


    With that, Robin climbed through the open window, lowering them both into the nunnery grounds below.


    The damp earth squelched beneath Robin¡¯s boots as he landed on the grass, still gripping Oswald as the younger man thrashed in protest.


    Oswald. Let me go, you lunatic!


    His voice was muffled by the gag forced over his mouth. Robin¡¯s patience wore thin. He set Oswald down roughly, yanking the cloth away.


    Robin. Will you be still, boy? You make a commotion fit to wake the dead.


    Oswald, however, had no intention of cooperating. The moment his feet were firmly on the ground, he twisted free of Robin¡¯s grasp and made to run.


    Oswald. Help! Someone¡ª


    A hand clamped over his mouth again, dragging him backwards. They wrestled, Oswald kicking and digging his heels into the ground while Robin grunted, barely managing to restrain him.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on here?¡±


    The sharp voice cut through the evening air.


    Both Robin and Oswald froze, their breaths shallow. Turning, they found themselves face-to-face with a nobleman, his hand resting lazily on the hilt of his sword. Behind him stood several soldiers, their surcoats marked with the king¡¯s sigil.


    Oswald¡¯s stomach twisted. Agnes had spoken of the king¡¯s men patrolling nearby...these must be them. Robin seemed equally at a loss for words. His grip loosened, and Oswald wrenched himself away, both of them fumbling to form a reply.


    The nobleman sneered, raising a hand as if to halt their stammering excuses.


    Baron Grey. Never mind, I have an idea.


    He took a step forward, eyeing them both with exaggerated scrutiny, lips curling in theatrical disapproval.


    Baron Grey.  You ought to be deeply ashamed, especially you, sister.


    Oswald stiffened.


    Baron Grey. Were I not on a mission of greater importance, I would have you both jailed for such lechery.


    Robin blinked. Oswald, for all his earlier struggling, now looked as though he wished to vanish into the earth. They exchanged a wary glance before Robin cleared his throat.


    Robin. Forgive me, milord. We were just leaving.


    Placing a firm hand on Oswald¡¯s back, he attempted to steer him away, but the path was swiftly blocked by two armored soldiers. The nobleman shook his head and puffed out his chest.


    Baron Grey. Not. So. Fast.


    He took a measured step toward them, adjusting the cuff of his fine gloves.


    Baron Grey. You see, I am the Baron Grey of Ruthin. You haven¡¯t heard of me? Well, this place is dreadfully isolated. Nevertheless, I am here on a mission of high importance and utmost secrecy.


    His voice dropped to a dramatic hush.


    Baron Grey. King Lothaire himself has tasked me with locating a certain young man in this area. Fair-haired, pale-eyed, said to resemble the old king Turstin.


    He paused, letting the words hang in the air, watching them closely.


    Baron Grey. Some believe him to be Turstin¡¯s son, thought dead...but perhaps not. Have you seen the prince?


    Oswald forced himself to keep his gaze lowered. Robin shook his head with mild confusion.


    Robin. No, I don¡¯t believe so, milord. I¡¯d remember such a face!


    Baron Grey.  Indeed...and you, madam?


    Looking up, Oswald lifted his voice into a more delicate tone.


    Oswald. A young man, you say? No, milord, none of those around here.


    He cast a glance toward the nunnery, feigning thoughtfulness.


    Oswald. But should I see one, I¡¯ll be sure to come and find you!


    The Baron narrowed his eyes, had he seen through the ruse? But then he gave a satisfied nod.


    Baron Grey.  Good. I would suggest you two go your separate ways¡­


    Oswald exhaled, relief flooding him as he turned toward the nunnery¡ªonly for his path to be blocked with a clang of iron armour, showing his own face back to him.


    Baron Grey.  ¡­after you have both been searched.


    The sneer returned to his face as he turned to Robin.


    Baron Grey.  You first, woodsman.


    The soldier stepped forwards and began patting down Robin in an apathetic search. Robin stood still, offering no resistance, though he huffed when the soldier¡¯s hands strayed too close to his belt.


    Robin. Watch those hands, friend.


    The soldier scowled but said nothing, finishing his search without much fuss.


    Baron Grey, however, was paying little attention to his man¡¯s work. His gaze remained fixed on Oswald, making his skin crawl. He tried to hold still, to appear unbothered, but the intensity of the baron¡¯s stare forced him to look away, feigning modesty. The soldier straightened, turning back to the baron.


    Soldier. Nothing of interest, my lord. Though his hands are more fit for a quill than an axe, by my reckoning.


    Robin tensed ever so slightly, then met the soldier¡¯s gaze with a lazy smirk. Baron Grey, however, was still watching Oswald.


    Baron Grey.  And now you, sister.


    Oswald flinched inwardly, his stomach twisting. A soldier stepped forwards, ready to perform the search, but the baron lifted an arm to halt him.


    Baron Grey.  Allow me, squire.


    He stepped closer with mock gentility, but the glint in his eyes betrayed his enjoyment of the moment.


    Baron Grey.  A lady requires a more delicate touch, after all.


    A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips. Oswald instinctively recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. He forced himself to remain still, his heart hammering against his ribs as the baron closed the distance between them. The nobleman''s breath was unpleasant...wine, something acrid, something stale. Oswald clenched his jaw as Grey¡¯s gloved fingers crept toward him, sliding over his arms, his shoulders. Then lower.


    The touch was light at first, as though the baron was savoring the game. But then his hands paused, resting at Oswald¡¯s chest. A flicker of confusion passed over his face. His fingers pressed, as if trying to make sense of what they found...or what they didn¡¯t.


    Oswald held his breath.


    Then Grey''s hand brushed against something beneath his tunic. His fingers hooked under the thin cord around Oswald¡¯s neck and lifted it free.


    The pendant swung into view, catching the last rays of the dying sun.


    A small, unassuming piece of metal, except for the unmistakable crest upon it.


    Oswald felt a bolt of panic strike through him, but he forced his expression to remain neutral, tilting his head, offering a hesitant smile.


    Oswald.  This? Oh, just something Prioress Agnes made for me. Pretty, isn¡¯t it?


    The baron did not smile. His gaze flicked between Oswald and the pendant, the smirk on his lips twisting into something sharper, more knowing.


    Baron Grey.  Indeed?


    His voice had softened, almost playful amusement with a trapped mouse. He twirled the pendant between his fingers, watching the metal glint before meeting Oswald¡¯s eyes again.


    Baron Grey.  Now tell me, sister...why would Prioress Agnes fashion a trinket bearing a royal sigil?


    The words sent a wave of cold down Oswald¡¯s spine. He swallowed, his mind scrambling for an answer...but there was none.


    His shoulders slumped. He was done for. Robin, who had been still until now, shifted slightly. Oswald saw his sharp gaze flick toward the soldiers, sizing them up. Then, just as quickly, he seemed to decide against anything rash.


    Meanwhile, the baron chuckled, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment.


    Baron Grey.  Ha! You thought I wouldn''t recognize it? Tut, tut.


    He shook his head, wagging a finger as though Oswald were a mischievous child.


    Baron Grey.  We have been naughty, haven¡¯t we?


    Oswald¡¯s jaw tightened.


    Oswald.  I can explain that, milord.


    Grey grinned.


    Baron Grey.  I¡¯m sure you can. And I simply cannot wait to hear the tale.


    Before Oswald could summon a response, a soldier stepped forward.


    Soldier. My lord, we are losing sunlight. The nunnery must be searched with haste.


    Grey¡¯s sneer faltered. He glanced over his shoulder towards the nunnery, clearly displeased. His grip on the pendant tightened before he gave a slow nod.


    Baron Grey.  Very well.


    He let the pendant drop, but not before sliding it from Oswald¡¯s neck. He handed it to the soldier.


    Baron Grey.  Keep these two under arrest in our camp.


    Oswald barely had time to process the order before the baron leaned in again, his voice dropping to something just for him.


    Baron Grey.  We¡¯ll have to reacquaint ourselves later.


    His breath was hot and cloying. Oswald stiffened as a soldier roughly shoved him forward.


    Robin was beside him in an instant, casting a glance toward Oswald before turning his attention to the woodland ahead. They were being marched away from the nunnery, down into the darkening trees. The sun had begun to set, washing the landscape in a dim gold, soon to be swallowed by shadow.


    As they walked, Oswald¡¯s thoughts raced. For ten years, he had lived in relative safety...hidden, protected. And now, in the span of minutes, it was over. The pendant had sealed his fate and he felt empty now, without it.


    Robin.  Don¡¯t look so grim, lad. We¡¯re not dead yet.


    Oswald turned his head to see a smirk on Robin¡¯s face. There was something almost reassuring in the man''s easy confidence. But Oswald knew better than to take comfort in false bravado.

 Chapter IV

    The trek through the woods was long, their pace kept quick by the impatient prodding of the soldiers behind them. Oswald stumbled more than once over roots and uneven ground, and each time, a rough hand yanked him upright before shoving him forwards again. Robin, for his part, had taken a different approach. He sighed heavily, shaking his head as though this were all some absurd inconvenience.


    Robin.  Now, gentlemen, let¡¯s be reasonable. This is all a mix-up, you see. A misunderstanding of the highest order. I am an honest traveler, and this poor, unfortunate thing has nothing to do with the king or any trouble of that sort.


    The soldiers merely grunted with indifference.


    Soldier.  Be quiet and keep moving.


    Oswald, too drained to respond, kept his head down. Every step took them further from the nunnery, further from safety. His mind swirled with dread.


    Before long, they reached a clearing where a camp had been set up. Soldiers sat on overturned logs, gnawing at hunks of bread and drinking from flasks. A few stood sharpening their weapons, while others lay on their backs, arms crossed behind their heads as they gazed up at the darkening sky. The moment Robin and Oswald were shoved into the camp, all eyes turned to them.


    Soldier.  Sit.


    They were forced to the ground, backs pressed together. Oswald barely had time to get his bearings before rough hands grabbed at his wrists and pulled them behind him. A rope was looped tightly around them, his hands bound to the pike driven deep into the ground between them.


    Robin.  Oh, come now, is this really necessary?


    He let out a dramatic sigh. The soldier tightening the knots didn¡¯t respond, but simply gave an extra tug before stepping away. Oswald wiggled his fingers, testing the restraints. They weren¡¯t budging. His shoulders ached, and a deep weariness settled over him. He had barely slept the night before, and the events of the day had drained him of all strength. His stomach churned with a sickening mix of fear and exhaustion.


    Oswald.  Excuse me, but what about when we need to use the privy?


    A soldier smirked before tossing a wooden bucket at his feet. It landed with a hollow thud. Laughter rippled through the camp.


    Oswald closed his eyes. It had been a terrible, miserable day. He longed for his narrow cot back in the nunnery, for the simple comfort of the woolen blanket he had so often taken for granted. He wished he could wake up and find this was all some wretched dream. The soldiers quickly lost interest in them, returning to their food, their dice games, their idle conversation. The fire crackled, casting an orange glow against the deepening blue of the sky. For a while, Oswald sat in silence, staring at the dirt beneath him. He barely noticed when the first tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. His breath hitched, and his shoulders began to shake.


    A soft, miserable sob escaped him. Robin groaned.


    Robin.  Don¡¯t tell me your weeping, like some wee lass?


    Oswald didn¡¯t respond. He couldn¡¯t.


    Robin shifted behind him, the movement making the rope between them creak.


    Robin.  Pull yourself together, boy! We¡¯re in this mess because of you. If you hadn¡¯t been so difficult, we¡¯d be well on our way in secret.


    Oswald didn¡¯t have the energy to argue. Maybe Robin was right. Maybe if he had cooperated, none of this would have happened. Instead, he remained quiet, his mind drifting towards what awaited him. Would he be dragged before King Lothaire in chains? Would he meet the same fate as his father?


    Night settled over the forest. The soldiers, filled with their meal, began taking turns sleeping. A single man was left to keep watch over them, an unfortunate soul with a dull gaze and a vacant expression. The soldier sat on a log, arms crossed. He lasted all of five minutes before his head lolled forward, and soft snores filled the air.


    Oswald¡¯s heart jumped. He shoved his shoulder against Robin.


    Robin.  Ow! What on earth are you doing now?


    Oswald tilted his head toward their sleeping guard.


    Oswald.  Look!


    Robin turned, his tired expression sharpening.


    Robin.  Splendid. Splendid, indeed!


    Keeping their voices low, they struggled to their feet, awkwardly trying to maneuver with their hands bound. It was far from graceful.


    Robin.  This way!


    Oswald.  Like this?


    Robin.  Move your arm...no, your other arm!


    After a few agonizing minutes of fumbling, they finally managed to slip the rope up and over the pike. They both exhaled. Their hands were still bound behind them, but at least they were free to move. Robin nodded towards the downward slope of the woods.


    Robin.  Come, let¡¯s be gone before they notice.


    Oswald and Robin had barely taken a step when Oswald hesitated, his gaze flickering back towards the camp.


    Robin.  What are you waiting for?


    A hollow ache settled in his chest, not exhaustion or fear. His pendant.


    It had been taken from him, handed off to one of the soldiers like some insignificant trinket. But it wasn¡¯t insignificant. It was the last link he had to who he was...to the family he had lost.


    His eyes swept the camp. The pendant gleamed dully in the loose grip of a sleeping soldier, the chain draped over his palm like a snared rabbit. Robin followed his gaze and immediately groaned.


    Robin.  Oh, no. No, absolutely not.


    Oswald squared his jaw.


    Oswald.  I¡¯m not leaving without it.


    Robin¡¯s head tilted back as he exhaled through his nose.


    Robin.  Oh, so now you¡¯ve grown a spine?


    Oswald.  It¡¯s mine. It belongs to me.


    Robin.  Currently it belongs to that rather large, dangerous-looking man who could wake up at any moment and kill us both.


    Oswald didn¡¯t care. His heart pounded with a fierce certainty that he couldn¡¯t explain. He had spent years hiding, stripping away pieces of himself to stay safe. He wouldn¡¯t let them take this, too.


    Oswald.  I¡¯m getting it back.


    Robin eyed him, then the soldier, then the ropes still binding their wrists together.


    Robin.  This is madness.


    Oswald took that as agreement. They moved carefully, feet barely making a sound over the packed dirt as they crept across the camp, their bodies awkwardly tethered together. The fire had burned low, now flickering in the darkness. Every step felt like balancing on a knife¡¯s edge.


    When they reached the sleeping soldier, Oswald knelt, forcing Robin to awkwardly crouch beside him. Their hands were still bound behind their backs, making the simple task before them absurdly difficult.


    The soldier''s grip on the pendant was loose but not loose enough. Oswald nudged the chain with his fingers, trying to slip it free, but the moment he did, the soldier¡¯s fingers twitched, tightening instinctively. Robin shot Oswald a sharp look.


    ¡°Now what? He mouthed. Oswald ignored him, shifting closer. Together, they began to pry the soldier¡¯s fingers apart, one by one. It was painstaking work. The moment one finger was loosened, another would tighten.


    The soldier murmured in his sleep, his brow twitching. Oswald froze. Robin held his breath.


    The soldier stirred slightly, turning his head...but then, with a deep sigh, he settled again. Oswald and Robin exchanged a look before continuing, even more cautious than before. With excruciating slowness, they peeled back the last stubborn finger. Oswald gave a final, careful tug and the pendant was free. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, Oswald clutched the chain in his bound hands and pulled back, his heart racing. Robin nodded toward the trees.


    They crept away, barely breathing, stepping carefully to avoid the scattered equipment and uneven ground. When they were finally clear of the camp, Oswald exhaled a shaky breath.


    Robin.  Never again.


    But there was no time to celebrate. A shout rang through the camp. Then another. Then the clang of armor, the hurried rustle of men scrambling to their feet.


    Robin.  Run! Fly!


    Oswald didn¡¯t need telling twice. They bolted, still bound together, nearly tripping over each other as they crashed downhill through the trees. The forest stretched ahead of them, dark and endless. For a moment, there was nothing but the sounds of their hurried breaths and the snap of twigs beneath their feet.


    Robin.  Faster, man, faster!


    Oswald gritted his teeth and ran, the pendant clutched tightly in his hands.


    His breath was coming in ragged gasps, his limbs aching with every step. Robin was dragging him along, the rope cutting into his skin as the older man pulled relentlessly forward. His shoes slipped on the damp leaves, his body heavy with exhaustion, but Robin barely slowed, half hauling him through the undergrowth like a stubborn mule.


    Branches whipped past them, the sounds of pursuit fading somewhere in the distance, but Oswald could hardly think. His legs trembled beneath him. He could not go on.


    Then, quite suddenly, the trees opened up.


    Oswald stumbled, his foot hitting open earth instead of tangled roots, and in the dim moonlight, he saw that they had circled back around and emerged downhill of the nunnery.


    Before he could get any words out, Robin cursed and dropped¡ªhard.


    Oswald barely had time to register the tug before he was yanked forward, stumbling wildly, and then¡ª


    Splash.


    Freezing water engulfed him. He flailed with sheer shock, spluttering, the cold biting through his clothes, soaking him to the skin in an instant. He surfaced with a strangled gasp, coughing up water, his hair plastered to his face.


    Robin.  Bloody nuns!


    They¡¯d fallen into the fish pond. Oswald wiped his face on his shoulder, Robin was already dragging himself out, dripping and furious.


    Robin.  Who in God¡¯s name puts a pond here?!


    Oswald would have laughed if he weren¡¯t miserable.


    With great effort, they heaved onto the grassy bank together, his entire body shaking from cold and exhaustion. He collapsed onto his hands and knees, spitting out water. His tunic clung tightly to his skin, his limbs felt like lead, but at least the rope around their wrists had loosened slightly in the wet.


    Robin.  Come on, we can¡¯t stop now.


    He heaved Oswald up with a firm tug.


    Oswald wavered unsteadily on his feet, dripping onto the grass.


    Robin took a step forwards, but Oswald didn¡¯t move and called over his shoulder.


    Oswald.  Where are you going?


    Robin.  We keep moving. The soldiers won¡¯t take long to pick up our trail.


    He pulled again, but Oswald resisted, pushing himself forwards with what little strength he had left.


    Oswald.  I haven¡¯t changed my mind, you know. As soon as the soldiers leave, I¡¯m going back to the nunnery.


    Robin¡¯s expression darkened with frustration.


    Robin.  And get caught? Again?


    Oswald.  They won¡¯t search the nunnery twice.


    Robin let out a dry, humourless laugh.


    Robin. You truly think they won¡¯t? You think they¡¯ll let this go? Pardon me, Your Majesty, but you are a fool.


    Oswald swallowed, his chest tight.


    Oswald.  I don¡¯t care. It¡¯s my home.


    Robin¡¯s face softened just slightly, but he was shaking his head. He inhaled deeply, then straightened


    Robin.  My lord, you will have to forgive me. But as your steward, I¡¯m going to force your  hand in this.


    Before Oswald could react, Robin yanked forwards again, dragging him with renewed purpose.


    Oswald stumbled, pushing back as hard as he could, but Robin¡¯s grip was like iron.


    Oswald.  Stop! Let me go!


    Robin.  Quiet! You¡¯ll get us spotted!


    They staggered against each other, tripping over their own feet, bickering in harsh whispers as they wrestled for control. Oswald yanked one way, Robin pulled the other. It was a ridiculous, miserable battle. The rope, damp and knotted, chafed against their skin. Every step was a struggle, a test of wills neither was willing to lose.


    But Oswald knew he was fighting a battle he could not win...Robin was stronger, more determined. Still, he dug in his heels, dragging back, gasping with exertion until at last, his knees gave out.


    With a strangled sound, he collapsed onto the damp grass, his legs utterly spent. Robin, not expecting it, stumbled forwards with the force of his own pull and with a grunt, he fell too.


    For a long moment, they simply lay there, panting, back to back, their bodies trembling with exhaustion. The world was still. The wind whispered through the long grass. The scent of wet earth clung to the air. Oswald lifted his head slightly, blinking through long, damp lashes.


    Quite by accident, they had come to rest among a set of ancient barrows. Great mounds rose around them in rays of moonlight. The night stretched on, vast and silent except for the distant hoot of an owl. Upon the hill, the nunnery stood dark against the sky. The soldiers were out there, somewhere, hunting them.


    Oswald exhaled slowly, lowering his head again. Robin shifted behind him.


    Robin.  We should be hidden here. It¡¯ll be a cold night, but at least we have each other to lean on.


    Oswald didn¡¯t respond, only let himself sink against Robin¡¯s back. He focused on his breathing, slow and deep, trying to calm his frayed nerves. After a long pause, Robin spoke again, quieter this time.


    Robin.  In the morning, we¡¯ll climb back up to the nunnery, get untied, and I¡¯ll leave you. I¡¯m sorry to have involved you in this¡­I¡¯ll find another way to fix this country.


    Oswald blinked. His head lifted slightly. Robin was letting him go. For the first time since the nightmare of this day began, he felt relief. He couldn¡¯t help but smile.


    Oswald.  Thank you, Robin.


    Robin nodded, tilting his head toward the looming burial mounds, their shapes casting long shadows across the hillside.


    Robin.  These are the resting places of great kings¡­your ancestors. Once, they were honored by their people, their deeds were sung in mead-halls.


    He gestured vaguely at the mounds, a bitter edge to his voice.


    Robin.  Who are they? I couldn¡¯t tell you. Now they are forgotten. Covered in earth, swallowed by time.


    Oswald didn¡¯t reply. He simply stared at the mounds, at the long grass swaying gently over them. He hadn¡¯t even known these graves were here. Would he be the first in his bloodline to reject the crown?


    He swallowed, turning his face away from them, from Robin, from everything. Oswald let his body relax, easing into the stillness. A long, quiet moment passed before Robin murmured absently to himself.


    "Marry, and well I wot, but I am sore spent..."


    Oswald¡¯s heart stopped.


    His eyes shot open wide, breath caught in his throat.


    That phrase¡­that voice, a familiarity Oswald hadn¡¯t noticed until now.


    For a moment, the world felt eerily distant, the night air thinning around him. His pulse roared in his ears as memories, long since smothered, came clawing back to the surface.


    The thunder, the mud and the blood. Oswald¡¯s entire body went rigid, his stomach turned to ice.


    No, no, no¡ª


    His mind¡¯s eye stripped away the red beard, the ragged clothes, the easy smirk. Beneath it, he could see it clearly now¡­the face of the man who had helped kill his father. The man who had once tried to kill him and left him with the scar on his leg.


    Oswald¡¯s breath came sharp and quick, but he forced himself to steady it. Don¡¯t let him notice. He clenched his jaw, staring dead ahead into the darkness, his entire body screaming to run, but he couldn¡¯t. He was tied, trapped, back to back with the man who had stolen everything from him.


    ¡®Robin¡¯ shifted slightly, his head pressing against Oswald¡¯s back. Oswald flinched, but then he realized he was asleep. A soft, steady breath. Then another. Then a quiet snore. Oswald¡¯s hands curled into fists. The fear in his chest twisted, darkened and thickened until it was something else entirely. Something he hadn¡¯t felt in years. Anger. Raw and white-hot, unlike anything he had ever known. The nerve of this villain! To play at being his savior, to pull him along, pretending to care, to speak of kings and legacies as if he had not personally destroyed Oswald¡¯s own. To sit there and sleep like a man without a care in the world, let alone guilt.


    The many nights Oswald had spent alone, curled in a ball, grieving and afraid¡­because of him. The nights crying out for his father who once had held him close, who had carried him on his shoulders, who had made him feel safe, now gone. Because of him.


    His nails dug into his palms. For as long as he could remember, he had never wanted to hurt someone. His breath came slow and deliberate, his body locked in place.


    The moon passed across the sky, and he lay awake, staring, his mind racing with what he would do in the morning.


    Then¡ª


    A voice. Soft, distant.


    "Oswald."


    "Father?"


    A figure stood just beyond the barrows, wreathed in the pale light of the moon. Oswald struggled to his feet, his heart aching, hands reaching¡­


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon."Father!"


    His father¡¯s face loomed before him, but the warmth was gone. His gaze was heavy, piercing.


    "You let them live."


    Oswald froze.


    "Lothaire sits my throne. Morton walks free. And you¡­" His father¡¯s voice darkened. "You hide."


    Oswald¡¯s chest clenched. "No, I¡ª"


    "You saw them kill me. And you do nothing."


    "No!" Oswald reached for him, desperation rising in his throat. "I¡ª I won¡¯t¡ª"


    Darkness.


    "Oswald.¡±


    ¡°Oswald!¡±


    A sudden jolt and Oswald gasped awake. Sunlight cut through the grass. The world was bright  and gold. Something firm, insistent kept nudging against his back¡ª


    Robin.  Oswald? It¡¯s morning. Let¡¯s get moving.


    Oswald blinked, his heart still pounding. He turned his head and saw Robin shifting beside him, using his shoulder to rouse him. Reality settled in. The cold, the barrows, the rope still binding them together. With a weary sigh, Oswald pushed himself upright. Robin grunted as he struggled to his feet alongside him. Without a word, they started the long climb back up the hill, keeping as well hidden as they could.


    Robin.  We¡¯ll keep off of the path, of course. I wouldn¡¯t use the front doors either.


    As Robin and Oswald climbed the hill to the nunnery, Oswald stole a glance at him¡­the man who had haunted his dreams, whose gleaming eyes filled his nights with terror. Walking side by side with him now was something Oswald could never imagined. And what would happen when they became untied? Would he simply walk away, leaving Oswald behind? Or was this another sort of deception, too murky for him to see through?


    They came to the base of the nunnery wall, eyeing its weathered stones and the tangle of vines. Robin craned his neck, taking in the height of the wall.


    Robin.  Well, this is a fine puzzle, isn''t it?


    Oswald swallowed, he wasn¡¯t exactly the climbing type.


    Oswald.  How do you expect us to do this, tied like this?


    Robin shushed him with a nudge of his shoulder. "Look there." He nodded towards a wooden pulley system mounted on the upper part of the wall. A thick rope dangled from it, swaying gently in the morning breeze.


    Robin.  That¡¯s how they haul up supplies. If we can grab it, we might just hoist ourselves over.


    Oswald.  How do you propose we¡ª


    Robin jerked his head toward a barrel standing near the wall, half-full of rainwater.


    Robin.  We get up there, and you bite the rope.


    Oswald stared at him.


    Oswald.  Bite it?


    Robin.  You¡¯re young. Firm teeth still. Up you go.


    With some effort, they maneuvered onto the barrel, wobbling dangerously as they struggled to balance with their hands tied behind them. The wood creaked beneath their combined weight.


    Robin.  Jump on three. One¡­ two¡­


    The barrel wobbled.


    "Three!" They leapt together, Oswald¡¯s mouth clamped onto the rope just as their feet left the barrel. The sudden weight yanked it free from its hold. The pulley groaned, the rope whipped downward, and A loud clatter echoed from the other side of the wall as the pulley mechanism jolted into motion. The rope tightened, then suddenly lurched, yanking them both off their feet and for one brief, exhilarating moment, they were weightless.


    Oswald yelped as he was dragged upwards, his boots scraping against the wall. The pulley groaned under their weight, inching them steadily toward the top. The rough stone scraped against Oswald¡¯s back as they swayed, but against all odds, the makeshift hoist was working.


    Then, just as Oswald¡¯s head crested the top of the wall, the pulley snapped.


    They tumbled over the ledge, landing in a tangled heap in the nunnery courtyard.


    Oswald hit the ground first, landing flat on his back with an agonizing thud. His lungs emptied in a shocked wheeze. Robin, unfortunately, landed right on top of him.


    Oswald.  Oof! Get off of me!


    Robin grunted, shifting just enough to let Oswald suck in air.


    Robin.  You need to put more meat on your bones, my lord.


    He rolled off while Oswald groaned into the dirt.


    Oswald.  And this was the inconspicuous entrance?


    Robin.  Quiet! The king''s men could still be here.


    They crept across the courtyard, sticking close to the walls, avoiding the nuns going about their morning routine of quiet industry. Slipping into the refectory, Oswald breathed a sigh of relief until Robin abruptly ducked, pulling Oswald down with him. A familiar voice rumbled through the chamber.


    Baron Grey.  A fine meal, Lady Agnes! It is rare to find such hospitality on the road.


    From their crouched position behind a table, Oswald could just make out the sight of the baron standing near the high table, a goblet of wine in hand, his sword at his hip. Agnes stood stiffly beside him, arms folded in front of her.


    Agnes.  We serve all who pass through, my lord.


    Her voice was polite, but there was no warmth in it. Grey took a sip of wine, sighing in satisfaction before setting the cup down. He seemed in no hurry to leave, but lingered, gesturing around.


    Baron Grey.  A most pleasant respite, but¡­duty calls.


    He gave a wink and the prioress inclined her head.


    Agnes.  So you have said, my lord.


    The Baron chuckled, swirling the last of his wine in his goblet.


    Baron Grey.  Ever the patient hostess, Lady Agnes.


    Agnes.  We met only last night, my lord.


    Baron Grey.  Yes, yes, quite right¡­ Now! Should this wayward prince find his way here, you will do your duty, of course?


    Agnes.  Naturally. The hue and cry will be raised at once.


    The Baron Grey nodded approvingly, then sighed as if reluctant to move.


    Baron Grey.  Ah, well. I suppose I must take my leave. The road calls, and I cannot keep my men waiting.


    Oswald tensed, silently willing him to go faster. But instead, the Baron turned back to Agnes, with a puzzled frown.


    Baron Grey.  There is one thing that concerns me however...


    She swallowed, her hands gripping the folds of her apron.


    Agnes.  And what might that be, my lord?


    Her voice quivered just slightly, the baron leaned in, his sharp eyes fixed on her, and offered a slow, deliberate smile.


    Baron Grey.  Just what you put in your lemon tarts. There is something in them I cannot quite place.


    Oswald felt the breath he had been holding rush out of him. Beside him, Robin sagged slightly, rubbing a hand over his face in silent exasperation.


    Agnes.  My lord, it is but a touch of honey, nothing more.


    Baron Grey.  Wonderful. Ah, but I really must leave without any more delay. Perhaps, once this business with the prince is settled, I shall return under better circumstances.


    Agnes¡¯ mouth pressed into a thin line.


    Agnes.  You will be most welcome, my lord.


    The baron gave her a final lingering look before finally, mercifully, stepping back.


    Baron Grey.  Come, men. We ride.


    The heavy footfalls of soldiers followed as they exited the refectory. A few moments later, the sound of horses moving out of the courtyard drifted through the open windows. Oswald exhaled sharply, sagging against the table.


    Oswald.  They¡¯re gone.


    They scrambled to their feet, Agnes had turned from the doorway, ready to leave, when she caught sight of them. Her hands flew to her chest, her face draining of color.


    Agnes.  Oswald!


    She rushed forwards, voice trembling with alarm.


    Agnes.  What are you doing here? You mustn¡¯t be seen! Those men were looking for you!


    Before Oswald could even speak, her eyes darted past him, landing on Robin. Her expression hardened.


    Agnes.  And what is he doing here?


    Oswald.  It¡¯s a long story¡­but right now we need to be freed.


    Her gaze flickered down to the rope still binding them. With a sharp inhale, she turned to one of the nuns passing by.


    Agnes.  Sister, fetch something to cut these bindings.


    The nun hurried off, leaving Agnes to fuss over Oswald.


    Agnes.  Look at you! You¡¯re filthy and you look half-starved! Have you a fever?


    Oswald.  I¡¯ve only been gone one night¡­


    Agnes.  All the same, you¡¯ll need feeding as soon as we get this rope off your wrists.


    She clucked her tongue, brushing dirt from his shoulders with sharp, motherly swipes. Oswald flushed but made no move to stop her. Annoying as her coddling could be, he was just glad to be back.


    Robin.  He¡¯s fine, my lady. The boy is tougher than he looks.


    Agnes shot him a glare but Oswald couldn¡¯t help but smile a little. The nun returned then, struggling slightly under the weight of a large woodcutting axe. She presented it to Agnes with both hands.


    Agnes.  Is that all you could find?


    The nun shrugged apologetically.


    Agnes.  Well, it will have to do.


    Oswald barely had a moment to process that before Robin took a startled step back.


    Robin.  Hold on just a minute!


    Agnes pursed her lips, already raising the axe to test its weight.


    Agnes.  Oh, don¡¯t be a baby. If you keep squirming, you really will lose a few fingers. Now, put your arms against the table and be still.


    Robin scowled but obeyed, resting his bound wrists against the sturdy wooden surface. Oswald hesitated, mouth opening to suggest something safer, but Agnes had already raised the axe.


    He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for a sharp, terrible pain.


    A whoosh of air¡ª


    A loud thump¡ª


    The pressure at his wrists disappeared. Oswald¡¯s eyes flew open.


    The rope lay severed, fibers splayed in a neat split where the axe had struck. He flexed his fingers, feeling the blood rush back into them.


    Robin let out a breathy laugh, shaking out his own hands.


    Robin.  Saints above, woman. I was expecting a count to three!


    Agnes ignored him entirely, turning her attention back to Oswald.


    Agnes.  You need breakfast. We¡¯ll have it prepared at once.


    With thanks, he nodded, rubbing his wrists. Agnes turned to Robin with a scrutinizing look, now deciding what to do with him.


    Agnes.  And you? Are you staying?


    Robin hesitated for a beat, long enough for Oswald to glance at him in surprise, before flashing an easy grin.


    Robin.  Gramercy, breakfast would be splendid.


    Oswald stared at the axe in Agnes¡¯ hands, his fingers tightening against the table¡¯s edge. He imagined it coming down, not on the rope, but on the Earl of Morton''s head. The image was so vivid, so satisfying, that it startled him. Shaken, he turned away from Robin, crossed himself, and whispered a prayer for forgiveness. If he were to take revenge on Morton, it would not be for himself. It would be for his father. For the man who had ruled with wisdom, who had knelt in prayer before battle, who had spoken of duty and honour as though they were as unshakable as stone. The man who had trusted his lords, only to be betrayed and butchered like a common thief. Oswald let out a slow breath, his fingers loosening their grip. No, it would not be vengeance for its own sake. It would be justice, a reckoning against a criminal.


    Yet this was mere fancy. What could he do? He was no murderer. Morton would walk free, and he could do nothing but watch.


    They both sat at the long wooden table. The scent of baking bread and herbs drifted through the refectory as the sisters prepared their morning meal. Oswald looked across at Robin, studying him.


    Oswald.  Where will you go now?


    Robin.  Oh, I have my plans. The way I see it, this country is ripe for change, but needs a force behind it. I mean to find sympathetic ears among the earls¡­see if any are willing to stand against Lothaire.


    Oswald tilted his head.


    Oswald.  And if they are?


    Robin let out a dry chuckle.


    Robin.  Then we shall have many fine speeches, plenty of oaths, and little action. Without a true figure to rally behind, rebellion is but a pipe dream. A king would change that. A rightful king.


    Oswald''s stomach twisted. Did Robin truly think he could be a powerful figure? The thought unsettled him¡­but also, strangely, intrigued him.


    The sisters placed a spread of coarse bread, fresh butter and soft cheese before them with a pottage of grains sweetened with honey. They placed a pitcher of warm milk between them with a smile. Oswald thanked them warmly, breaking the bread and savoring the simple meal. As he ate, his mind wandered. He imagined grand halls filled with armoured lords, banners raised in defiance, armies mustering across the land. A war against Lothaire.


    Robin finished his meal and pushed back his stool, brushing crumbs from his red beard.


    Robin.  Well, time I was off. Farewell, Oswald. A shame, but such is life.


    He gave Oswald a short nod, then turned to leave. Oswald felt an unexpected pang of disappointment. So that was it? The villain would just walk away? No. He couldn''t allow it.


    His fists clenched beneath the table and he took a breath. He owed it to his father, to Wattle and Daub, daresay, to himself.


    Oswald.  Wait! Robin.


    Robin paused, looking over his shoulder.


    Oswald.  You said you would teach me to be king. That you would take me on the road to my throne. That you would help me get revenge on Lothaire. Did you mean it?


    Robin turned fully now, his keen eyes searching Oswald''s face. A slow smile crept onto his lips¡­one Oswald recognized now, not as a simple countryman¡¯s grin, but as the expression of a schemer who saw his plans falling into place.


    Robin.  Aye, my lord. I meant it and more. I will help you claim your birthright. That I promise.


    Oswald felt his pulse quicken. If he could gain Robin''s trust, he could find the perfect time and place to make him pay for what he had done. But for now, he had to play along. He stood, meeting Robin¡¯s gaze.


    Robin.  Then I want to go with you. I¡¯ve been thinking about it, I want to learn from you.


    Robin extended his hand. Oswald hesitated only a moment before grasping it firmly.


    Robin.  I knew you would find wisdom, my lord. You honour your father and your people. But come, we have much to do and little time to lose. First of all¡ªtake off those awful clothes.


    Oswald grimaced as he looked down at the nun¡¯s habit. He quickly found some more suitable clothing. Sturdy boots, a simple tunic, a wool cloak and a cowl to settle over his head, its folds concealing the pale angles of his face, leaving little more than a glimpse of his downturned gaze. As he dressed, doubts crept in. This was dangerous. The king¡¯s men were looking for him. He had barely escaped once¡­could he truly risk leaving the nunnery again?


    But then another voice whispered within him. He had to do this. The thought of adventure stirred something deep inside him, an excitement he could not deny. And besides...he was somewhat curious. What might the Earl of Morton be able to teach him, before he was brought to justice?


    Just before he left, he found Agnes. She folded her arms, eyes narrowed in suspicion.


    Agnes.  And where do you think you¡¯re going?


    Oswald.  I¡¯m only endangering us all by staying here, I have to leave. Thank you¡­for everything.


    Her expression softened, and without another word, she pulled him into a tight embrace. She whispered against his hair.


    Agnes.  You can always come back. There will always be a bed for you here.


    For a moment, as he held her, it felt like he was embracing his mother again. He didn¡¯t want to let go. But he had to. She pressed a bundle of wrapped food into his hands.


    Agnes.  Something for the road. Travel safe, my child.


    Oswald turned away before his resolve wavered. He and Robin set out and passed the nunnery gate. As they stepped outside, he took one last look at the only home he had known for ten years. Then, with his heart pounding, he followed Robin down the hill towards the village.

 Chapter V

    The morning air was cool and crisp as Oswald and Robin descended the hill, trodding carefully down the rutted track, its edges feathered with clusters of primroses. Oswald cast a glance over his shoulder, scanning for the glint of steel of some watching spy. He pulled his cloak tighter, the cowl settling low over his brow as Robin strode beside him, the faint crunch of leaves underfoot.


    Robin.  We¡¯ll keep off the turnpike, too many eyes.


    He nodded towards the wide road that wound through the valley below. Instead, he veered them into a thicket of trees, half-hidden by bracken and shadowed by a line of twisted hawthorns. The sound of running water grew louder as they approached a small stone bridge arching over a chattering stream. Nearby, a weathered watermill loomed, its wheel creaking lazily as it turned, churning the current into a frothy white.


    Oswald paused on the bridge, resting a hand on the rough parapet, and peered down at the water rushing below. The stream caught the sunlight in fleeting, silver flashes, and for a moment, he let himself breathe, the tightness in his chest easing slightly. Robin stopped beside him, folding his arms.


    Robin.  Here¡¯s the lay of it, my lord. To claim your throne, you¡¯ll need more than a name and a pretty pendant. No man will throw in his lot with a ghost of a boy, hidden away for a decade. A name alone is not enough, not when Lothaire¡¯s got his boot on the kingdom¡¯s neck. Your father had the blood, the wit, and the arm to back it. You have the blood, aye¡­but the lords will need more, and you will need the lords.


    Oswald frowned, shifting his weight.


    Oswald.  If I declare myself now, the king¡¯s spies will have me dead before I reach the next shire.


    Robin.  Before then, even. No, we can¡¯t march in with banners flying.


    Oswald.  Then how do we win them to our side?


    Robin gestured off beyond the wood, beyond the hills towards the wider world ahead.


    Robin.  By proving yourself. Not yet as a prince, but as a man. As a warrior, leader and diplomat. You¡¯ll be a wanderer, a hero in the shadows. Prove your worth to them, your strength and wisdom. Win their favour one by one. Only when the time¡¯s ripe, when you¡¯ve got enough behind you to stand tall, do we reveal who you really are.


    Oswald scoffed, dropping a stone into the water below.


    Oswald.  A hero?


    Robin.  Indeed. Oh, you may be foul paper now, but I will make of you a masterpiece! It¡¯s in your blood, is it not, my lord?


    Oswald.  If you say so.


    Robin.  I do. But for now, we are but wandering errants, looking to make a name. And a name you¡¯ll need! Jack, we¡¯ll call you.


    He clapped him on the shoulder and Oswald frowned.


    Oswald.  Jack?


    Robin.  Jack the Giant-Killer, Jack-of-all-Trades, and Jack the knave if needs be.


    Oswald managed a faint smile, tugging his hood lower until the fringe brushed his eyes, concealing the pale gleam of his face. ¡°Jack,¡± he murmured, testing the sound of it, then leaned over the bridge to catch his reflection in the stream, glimpsing the rogue he¡¯d become.


    They pressed on, the trail winding gently down to Barrow Gurney. The woodland opened into wide fields, divided by idle rhynes, the soil rippled with the undulating lines of ridge and furrow. Grazing sheep lifted their heads to watch the wayfarers pass, while in the distance, a lone herder leaned on his crook. A few weathered cider barrels rested near a barn, and a tattered scarecrow  with a turnip for a head, leaned drunkenly in a fallow field.


    As they neared the village, the old grey-stone walls came into view, thick with ivy. The cottages were squat and sturdy, their roofs thatched thick and golden. Smoke curled softly from chimney pots and the windows gleamed with the warmth from inside. Well-tended gardens brimmed with bounty in rows of mangelwurzels alongside patches of winter greens like cabbage and kale. One porch bore a wooden bench, a basket of rosy apples beside it. Another had a line of washing strung across, shirts and aprons fluttering. In a window, a clay pot held a spray of dried lavender, while a tabby cat blinked lazily from the sill. A few villagers paused in their work as the strangers passed, offering a nod before returning to the rhythm of their lives, mending nets, stacking logs, or leading a plodding Shire horse to stable. Robin broke the quiet, nodding ahead.


    Robin.  We¡¯ll need horses if we¡¯re to roam the country proper. The tavern¡¯s our best bet.


    Oswald followed his gaze. At the heart of the village stood the White Hart Inn, its thatched roof sagging comfortably over thick stone walls. The faint hum of voices spilled out, growing louder as they approached. A weathered sign swung gently above the door, the painted hart rearing proudly despite the chip and fade of its antlers.


    Robin pushed open the heavy oak door, and they stepped inside. The tavern was alive with cheer, a bustling hive of laughter and song. The low-beamed ceiling hung close, while the walls were adorned with old horseshoes and saddles. A fire roared in the wide hearth, casting a golden glow over the crowded room. Villagers packed the benches and tables, red in the face with their sleeves rolled up, clinking mugs of scrumpy. In one corner, a trio of lads strummed a battered lute and scraped a fiddle, their voices rising in a rough but joyful chorus, while an old man with a clay pipe puffed clouds of smoke, tapping his foot to the rhythm. A barmaid, her apron dusted with flour, darted through the throng, balancing a tray of frothy mugs with a grin that never faltered.


    Robin leaned close to Oswald, his voice cutting through the din.


    Robin.  We¡¯ll have transport in no time, my lord. These folk love a good haggle on a Sunday.


    He steered Oswald towards a spot near the fire, where the heat seeped into their bones after the morning chill.


    The crowd¡¯s song swelled and Oswald settled onto a bench, watching with a faint smile as they wove their voices together.


    "Oh master and missus, are you all within?


    Pray open the door and let us come in.


    O master and missus a-sitting by the fire,


    Pray think on us poor travellers, a-travelling in the mire.


    For it¡¯s your wassail and it¡¯s our wassail,


    And it¡¯s joy be to you and a jolly wassail!


    Oh where is the maid with the silver-headed pin


    To open the door and let us come in?


    Oh master and missus, it is our desire


    A good loaf and cheese and a toast by the fire.


    For it¡¯s your wassail and it¡¯s our wassail,


    And it¡¯s joy be to you and a jolly wassail!¡±


    The hearty tune bounced off the walls and Oswald felt a flicker of warmth in his chest. These were simple folk, their lives bound to the seasons and the soil, far removed from the intrigues that had shaped his own. He straightened, feeling brave enough to test his new persona, Jack, the wandering everyman. With a deep breath, he leaned towards the innkeeper, a stout man with a grizzled beard and red nose, joining the chatter with a confidence he didn¡¯t entirely feel. Thankfully, Robin led the conversation.


    Robin.  Bravo! A good old song from the good old days! Oh, but they¡¯re long gone now, I fear, buried with the better kings.


    The innkeeper paused mid-pour, wiping his hands on his apron as he squinted at Robin with curiosity.


    Innkeeper.  Kings? Now there¡¯s rich whimsy from beyond our shires! But what¡¯s changed, merry fellow? We¡¯ve our ale, our friends, and our song. Pray tell, what could we be missing?


    A farmer nearby, his hands rough as oak-bark, leaned in, cradling his mug like a treasure. His voice was slow and thick with the West Country burr.


    Farmer.  In this far corner of the world, there¡¯s no old nor new. We live now as we ever ¡®ave and ever will¡­God-fearing, in need o¡¯ naught but fair weather and strong backs.


    The barmaid, weaving past with her tray, flashed a cheeky grin, her dark curls bouncing as she nodded in agreement.


    Barmaid.  You see, master, the folk here entertain an indifference for beyond our hedgerows, the rest of the world and its affairs.


    Innkeeper.  Mmm, but that¡¯s owing to the good opinion we entertain for our own portion of it! He thumped the counter with a laugh, sloshing cider from a nearby mug.


    Farmer.  By my troth, if I ever die, it¡¯ll be in Somerset! Hahar! And I¡¯ll not ask for more than a patch of green earth to call my own!


    The room erupted in chuckles, mugs raised in a lazy toast. Oswald shifted, trying to find his footing in the banter.


    Robin.  Surely, though,there¡¯s value in knowing what stirs beyond? A king¡¯s rule shapes even the smallest hamlet, does it not?


    The farmer blinked at him, brow furrowing, while the innkeeper tilted his head, sizing him up.


    Robin.  See, I¡¯ve crossed each league of this country, from the Holy Island to Land¡¯s End. I¡¯ve seen just how quickly this country has fallen into ruin.


    The farmer snorted, turning back to his drink, and the innkeeper waved a dismissive hand.


    Robin.  We all suffer here in silence while King Lothaire¡¯s done nothing but fill the pockets of his friends!


    Innkeeper.  Well, that¡¯s a step towards charity, ain¡¯t it?


    He grinned wide, and the crowd burst into laughter. Robin forced a chuckle, leaning closer.


    Robin.  Aha. A fine jest, but speaking of charity¡ªmy friend and I need horses to keep on our way. Is there a man here willing to part with a sturdy mare for a fair price?


    The innkeeper shrugged, pouring another mug.


    Innkeeper.  Horses? Aye, we¡¯ve got ¡®em, but they¡¯re our lifeblood. No coin¡¯s fair enough to leave us afoot.


    Farmer.  My old Bess¡¯d sooner kick ye than carry ye, and I¡¯d not sell her for a king¡¯s ransom. He took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A wiry man by the fire piped up with a slur. ¡°Got a mule, but he¡¯s lame in one leg and mean as a wasp. Ten shillings, if ye¡¯re fool enough!¡± The room laughed again, and Robin¡¯s smile tightened as he looked around.


    Robin.  Come now, good folk, a pair of Christians need aid. Two horses, sound and swift¡­surely someone¡¯s got a spare?


    The barmaid shook her head, resting her tray on her hip.


    Barmaid.  Ye¡¯ll find no spares here, master. Try Chew Magna down the drang and over the common, they¡¯ve long enough purses to go without a nag or two.


    She turned away as the song picked up again. Robin¡¯s jaw clenched, but he kept his tone even.


    Robin.  Fair enough. Enjoy your wass-whatever, then.


    He returned to Oswald, who¡¯d retreated to a quieter corner, and dropped onto the bench with a scowl.


    Robin.  Not even a one-horse-town, these yokels are of no help at all! Most Englishmen really are walking stomachs¡­there must be panda bears with higher ambitions! You know, the Latins have a quip about us: ¡®While they were still swinging in trees, we already laid with men,¡¯ they say.


    He huffed, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed.


    Robin.  But never mind them, my lord. You¡¯ll set your sights higher than this rabble.


    Oswald nodded absently, his gaze drifting back to the carefree singers. The firelight danced in their eyes. He envied their small, certain world, untouched by the shadow he carried. ¡°Jack¡± felt flimsy here, a mask that didn¡¯t quite fit, but Robin¡¯s words lingered. Higher sights, the king¡¯s path. He quickly drew his legs in beneath the bench as a great, shaggy deerhound padded past, then loped towards the counter.


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    The heavy door creaked open, admitting the cool air and a burst of raised voices. A party stumbled in, their colorful cloaks marking them as a troupe of traveling players. At their head was an older man with a crumpled cap, his face flushed with indignation. He waved a gnarled hand, gesturing wildly, while his wife trailed beside him, her gentle voice rising to soothe his temper.


    George.  Stand-ins? Ha! You might as well ask me to train a pair of pigs to tread the boards! We¡¯re halfway through the tour, Edith, and those fools have left us high and dry!


    Edith¡¯s kindly eyes crinkled with patience as she laid a calming touch on his arm.


    Edith.  It¡¯s alright, Georgie! Truly. We¡¯ll find stand-ins for them both, you¡¯ll see. The show¡¯s not sunk yet!


    The innkeeper perked up at their entrance, a grin splitting his grizzled beard.


    Innkeeper.  Alright there, George? What¡¯s got you in such a twist?


    He reached for a pair of mugs, pouring with a practiced flourish. George slumped onto a bench, dragging a hand down his face as Edith settled beside him, patting his knee.


    George.  Giles and Cuthbert, the pair of clodpoles. Up and left us in Butcombe, ran off to join a troupe of jugglers, all for some lass! Giles took one look at her tossing an apple and catching it with her foot, and swore he¡¯d wed her. Berty followed, bleating he¡¯d not let Giles plight his troth alone. Now they¡¯re juggling fruit to charm her kin, the lovesick fools!


    Edith.  Oh, they were always more fond of capering than our craft. We¡¯ll manage without ¡®em, love. Just see.


    The innkeeper slid the mugs across the counter, shaking his head with a laugh.


    Oswald, drawn from the reverie, glanced towards the window as George¡¯s rant continued. Beyond the warped glass panes sat two caravans, their wooden frames weathered and splashed with faded paint. Each side was adorned with curling script proclaiming ¡°The Compton Martin Players.¡± A pair of sturdy horses, one chestnut and one dappled grey, stood hitched to them, munching lazily on a pile of hay. He nudged Robin, who had been nursing his own mug in silence, and tilted his head toward the scene outside.


    Oswald.  Robin. Over there¡­


    Robin¡¯s sharp eyes followed, and a single eyebrow arched as a slow, calculating grin spread across his face.


    Robin.  Well, well¡­there¡¯s our steeds, gift-wrapped and tethered.


    He set his mug down with a soft clink and straightened, brushing crumbs from his beard.


    Robin.  Watch me work, my lord.


    With a stretch, he then rose and sauntered over, Oswald trailing a step behind.


    George.  I¡¯ll not have my King Nicolas played by some half-wit who can¡¯t tell a soliloquy from a sow¡¯s ear!


    Robin.  ¡ªPardon me, good fellow, but I couldn¡¯t help overhearing your woes. Robin is my name and this here¡¯s Jack. We¡¯re a pair of wanderers with a bit of acting in our blood from village greens to market squares, you name it. If you¡¯re short a couple of players, we¡¯d most happily join you on the road.


    George paused mid-sip, lowering his mug to squint at them over the rim. His weathered face creased with skepticism, his bushy brows knitting together as he sized up the pair of them.


    George.  Acting experience, eh? You don¡¯t look the sort. What¡¯s your pedigree? Some mummer¡¯s troupe out of Bristol, I take it? Or just a pair of rogues who fancy a lark?


    Edith.  Now, Georgie, don¡¯t be so gruff. They¡¯ve a willing air about ¡®em.


    She offered Oswald a warm smile, with her silver hair and worn shawl she could have been a gypsy herbalist with rosemary and sage in her skirts.


    Robin.  No rogues, I assure you. Though I¡¯ve played my fair share of devils. Young Jack here¡¯s a quick study, he¡¯ll know his lines before you can say ¡°tuppence for a tankard!¡± We¡¯re headed cross-country ourselves; your tour¡¯d suit us fine.


    Oswald nodded, forcing a grin he hoped looked earnest. George huffed, setting his mug down with a thud.


    George.  Well, I s¡¯pose beggars can¡¯t be choosers¡­ Fine, fine. Curse me for a fool, but you¡¯re in. Mind you, I¡¯ll not suffer slackers. You¡¯ll haul props, mend costumes, and learn your parts sharpish. We¡¯re headed west tomorrow, following the Wring. Step out of line, and I¡¯ll have no qualms leaving you by a crossroads.


    Robin¡¯s grin widened, a glint of triumph in his eyes.


    Robin.  You¡¯ve our word, Master George. We¡¯ll be model players, eh, Jack?


    Oswald.  Aye. Model players.


    Edith beamed, clapping her hands together.


    Edith.  There, settled! Welcome to the Compton Martin Players, boys. I¡¯m Edith, how do you do? Oh, you must meet the rest! Kit, come here!


    The players gathered round, mugs in hand, and a burly figure pushed forward, blonde curls and a face weathered by sun and laughter. He clapped Oswald on the shoulder with enough force to make him stumble.


    Kit.  Well met, new boy! What¡¯s your tale then, runaway monk or lovelorn plow hand?


    Oswald blinked, his tongue tangling as shyness crept up his throat.


    Oswald.  Er, I¡¯m¡ªuh¡ª


    Before he could muster more, Kit¡¯s eyes darted to the corner, where the singing lads had struck up a new tune, their voices lilting over the scrape of a fiddle. With a whoop, he bounded over, snatching a battered tabor as he joined the chorus. Sheepish, Oswald sank back onto the bench. He glanced at the other players milling about and his gaze snagged on one figure in particular. A shorter boy, about his age, stood apart, leaning against a beam with a hat pulled low over his brow. A dark ponytail trailed down his back, tied with a scrap of twine, and his slim frame was draped in a patched tunic that hung loose but graceful. Oswald''s breath caught in his throat. The boy was¡­ pretty, in a way that caught him off guard. With youthful, freckled features, sharp cheekbones softened by a delicate jaw, eyes like shadowed pools under a stern brow. There was a quiet intensity to him and a wall of reserve.


    Their eyes met. Oswald froze, caught staring, and the boy¡¯s expression tightened. He crossed his arms and straightened his back.


    Boy.  What¡¯re you gawping at, eh?


    His voice was high and strange, almost strained, as if forcing itself lower.


    Oswald flinched, heat rushing to his cheeks.


    Oswald.  I¡ªI¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t mean¡ª


    His hands fumbling in his lap as he stammered and dropped his gaze to the floor. George waved a dismissive hand vaguely at the boy.


    George.  Fret not, Jack, lad. That¡¯s young Will¡­prickly as a hedgehog with everyone at first. He¡¯ll thaw when he¡¯s good and ready.


    Will snorted, folding his arms tighter. Oswald risked a sidelong glance, his heart stuttering as he took in the boy¡¯s profile again¡­the slim neck, the faint curve of lashes against rosy skin. His cheeks burned hotter, and he turned away, flustered.


    Edith rose and clapped her hands once more.


    Edith.  Right, then. Finish up everyone, we¡¯re off!


    The players drained their mugs and filed out the door as the tavern¡¯s warmth gave way to the brisk midday air. They spilled out into the courtyard where the caravans stood, their wooden frames creaking faintly in the breeze. Kit bounded ahead, still humming the lads¡¯ tune, while Will lagged behind.


    George.  You two, in this one, mind the axles!


    Edith ushered them towards the second caravan, its door swinging open with a groan and musk of old leather and horsehair. They piled in, a cramped tangle of elbows and knees. The interior was a traveler¡¯s trove, a cramped yet cozy nook carved from polished wood. Overhead, a low ceiling pressed close, strung with loops of hemp rope where costumes hung¡ªvelvet cloaks brushing against patched tunics, their hems brushing the shoulders of those below. A narrow bench ran along each wall, padded with threadbare cushions stuffed with straw. A battered lantern swung gently from a hook, unlit but promising warmth when night fell.


    Oswald squeezed onto a narrow bench, Robin wedging in beside him with a grunt, their shoulders brushing Kit¡¯s broad frame. Across from them, Will folded himself into a corner, knees drawn up, his stern gaze fixed on the floor while Edith hummed softly near the door, her shawl draped over her lap like a blanket. The caravan rocked as the horses stirred, and with a lurch, they rolled forwards. The White Hart Inn, Barrow Gurney and the nunnery on the hill began to shrink behind them.


    The tight quarters pressed Oswald closer to Robin.


    Robin.  A fine start, my lord.


    Kit.  So, Geoff, was it?


    Oswald.  Oh, no. It¡¯s Jack.


    Kit. Jack, then. What¡¯s yer story then? What¡¯s a wiry thing like you been up to afore joinin¡¯ us? Robbin¡¯ peddlers or serenadin¡¯ the Mendip maids?


    Oswald shifted against the cushion, his mind racing to stitch together ¡°Jack¡¯s¡± life.


    Oswald.  Oh, er, not much robbin¡¯, I reckon.


    He tried pitching his voice rougher, though it still wobbled at the edges.


    Oswald.  Grew up in a little hamlet not far from here.


    Kit. Oh? Where to?


    Oswald.  Sedgemoor way. Mud and wood, ye know. Da was a thatcher in fact, hands like bark, always smellin¡¯ of reed and sweat. Me, I was runnin¡¯ barefoot after the geese ¡®til I got too big for ¡®em to chase.


    Kit barked a laugh, slapping his thigh.


    Kit.  Geese! Fierce little bastards, mind! Bet they taught ye to dodge quick and all!


    Oswald nodded, warming to the lie. Robin gave him a nod of encouragement.


    Oswald.  Aye, that¡¯s right. Then I took to wanderin¡¯. Hauled sacks at a mill in Wraxall once¡­near broke my back ¡®til I scarpered. Fell in with some peddlers headin¡¯ to Exeter, tradin¡¯ pots and trinkets. Slept under hedges more nights than I can count, but I¡¯ve seen the land¡­moors as far as you can see, rivers twistin¡¯ like er¡­eels.


    He paused, risking a glance across the caravan.


    Will¡¯s eyes were on him, dark and steady beneath the brim of his hat, piercing through the cramped space. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked. Then, as if caught, Will jerked his head away, staring hard at the floor, his slim fingers tightening around his knees. Oswald¡¯s cheeks warmed, and he ducked his head, fumbling to keep the tale going.


    Oswald.  Yeah, anyway. Been scrapin¡¯ by, pickin¡¯ up what I can. Nothin¡¯ grand, just a lad keepin¡¯ his belly full, you know.


    Kit.  Scrapin¡¯ by¡¯s the makin¡¯ of a man, lad! You¡¯ll slot right in, ye¡¯ve already got more tongue than our Willy over there, dour as a monk, that one. And it¡¯s a grand life, it is, this mummer¡¯s game! We roam every corner of the realm¡­every stop has green grass to strut, lasses to wink at, and drink to be drunk!


    Oswald managed a shaky smile. The caravan rocked on, the clutter of costumes and trinkets swaying around them, a little world rolling on to the unknown.