Death to the Grand Guild

4

The Tale of a Mercenary

Harwin was looking at the cog from the pier. He liked the name of the boat, the Rachel. It sounded like a pretty girl, an honest girl. The kind of girl he hadn’t had the pleasure to find since he left Hayston.

It was another stinging reminder of what he had given up when his uncle sealed his fate with this exile.

He was struggling with his conscience since he walked the Breeston docks that morning, thinking of Bitters and what he’d say if he could see him now. All those years I trained you to take the helm of high captain, and you shame me by becoming a mercenary.

The promise of gold had him eager to begin and he would have left that night, but that impulse had faded, and now he felt it was out of obligation.

Edmund had wasted little time in securing passage with the harbormaster, finding a merchant who eagerly took silver to book their passage. His brother took care of the tolls and squared their affairs with Relling the innkeeper the next day.

The owner of the inn was devastated, his brother had remarked, vowing to keep their room vacant until they came back to the city.

His brother had surprised him, enthused to begin this journey north. Harwin had warned him that it could involve risk, but his brother didn’t share his concern. He told him that the cog would take them to Billingsly. From there, they’d rent mounts to climb through the pass in the mountains to the town of Faust.

Edmund believed the climb would be populated by fellow travellers, helping them blend into the crowd with little notice. His brother was proud of what he arranged. What he didn’t calculate was who they were escorting, and if they had a plan of their own.

He was feigning interest as Edmund rambled on about the whole harbour. He still was bothered by Edmund’s remarks at the tavern, letting his secret out for all to hear; they had reconciled but it still hurt.

When Julius and Osmond arrived, they were riding in a cart they had rented from a friend. A muscled Nuhrish man was pulling it like an ox, with Julius at its helm.

His face looked full of apprehension, he noticed, while Osmond walked beside them wearing a bitter scowl. He was gritting his teeth while glancing at the healer with his apprentice sitting next to him on top of a chest at the cart’s rear.

Osmond went ahead of them, approaching Harwin as the cart stopped. His friend was in an ornery mood.

“This blasted woman is going to be a problem,” he said, and she gave orders at once as she leaped over the sideboards of the cart.

“You there,” she pointed at Edmund; his brother had jumped in a flash. “Help the fat one carry the chest.”

“Julius, you and that lummox help the master.” Harwin learned that the “lummox” meant him.

She was vile and demanding, rude and attractive as well. His brother couldn’t keep his eyes off her. The healer was a different matter. He looked to be suffering from an illness as he was swallowed up in his garments.

“Just don’t ask. I have shown concern for his condition and she bit my head off.” Julius whispered as he passed him.

The healer was wearing a long ermine fur of a mix of brown and white, too elegant for travelling, over a woollen black cloak that kept his head hidden. He was shaking as Harwin approached, icy pale, and weak, his long blonde and brown hair damp with sweat.

He looked to be suffering from a fever, his murky green eyes sunken in his face. The man was exhausted and trying to smile, his voice was a weary whisper. “Thank you, lads, pardon my condition, please. I look forward to your company.”

The man clutched Harwin’s arm tight while Julius was grasping the other, supporting his weight and keeping him from losing his balance. His steps were slow, and even slower when they walked up the incline to the ship.

His apprentice, as Julius had informed him, was not an apprentice in Harwin’s mind. She could pass for the healer’s daughter or maybe his sister, but she lacked the words and finesse to do those skills.

She was a warrior if he had ever seen one, her body lean but hard. Concealing armour, he noticed, beneath a large, blue, wool cloak that covered her to the knees.

The woman was following behind the healer, his legs faltering from fatigue as they set foot upon the ship’s deck. Edmund and Osmond were shaking as well, their pace slow while they lugged their massive chest.

The two were bent over like old crones, setting the chest on the deck of the ship with a loud thunk when the captain approached them.

“How can I help you, my lord?” the grizzled captain asked. He was a man of forty, with long black hair that was lying loose, wearing a blue-dyed jerkin over grey woollens.

The healer whispered out, “Peregrine, you can call me Peregrine.” The captain couldn’t hear him, leaning in real close, causing a fit of panic in the woman, who Julius called Camille.

“Stand back! If you need a name, then you call him Master Haldock,” she barked out. “What we need is a place near the aft of your ship. A corner will be fine. I don’t want him disturbed by ignorant cretins who can’t mind their business.”

The captain wasn’t sure what to say to her venom. “Welcome to the Rachel, my crew is at your service. I can get them to take your chest—”

“The chest will be taken care of, it’s none of your concern,” she interrupted in a sharp tone.

“I’ll be happy to accommodate you, but at this moment I have not been paid. Until then, young lady, your demands will be ignored. The tolls are taken care of, but another step will not be taken until gold touches my hand.” His tone reminded him of Bitters, as he chuckled under his breath.

“I thought you had this taken care of, Julius, that is why the master insisted upon you!” she berated their mate until the frail voice of Master Haldock silenced her.

“Camille.” The woman bowed her head, embarrassed. “Julius doesn’t have that sum of money. Mistreating him, I will not tolerate,” he said in a pained effort as he reached inside a sleeve in his cloak. He produced a small sack tied tightly with twine and gave it to the captain.

“This should suffice.”

The captain loosened the string, and many falcons were its contents. “Please, call me for whatever you need,” the captain said with a surprised look. “My name is Rodrigo and you will have your corner, you and your men will be fed, and I can even post a few of my men to provide security.”

The master nodded as the captain dismissed himself, then the healer went limp as Harwin clutched his waist to keep him from falling. The energy spent on climbing aboard had incapacitated him.

“Be careful with the master!” she shrieked.

“You.” She pointed to Edmund again. “Quit gawking at me. Help that bald oaf pick up the chest and let’s go.”

They were groaning as they went around them, Camille followed them in a huff, and Julius exhaled, feeling troubled.

“This is ludicrous,” he whispered. They nudged close to Master Haldock, picking him up gingerly and following. Edmund and Osmond had found a proper corner when Camille’s voice became quiet.

He took a moment to glance around at the other passengers loitering around the Rachel. They must have been a queer sight to the lot.

Harwin counted eleven prisoners in fetters, escorted by eight from the militia destined for the mines. He spotted a few merchants looking in shock at them as another group was pointing and snickering at one another. They had the look of foragers by their wares, he guessed, or hunters since they were all armed.

Camille opened the large chest, which couldn’t help but garner everyone’s attention. It had a grain like maple, but it had a white tint, something unusual as Harwin frowned at the inconvenience it presented.

He had expected it to be filled with gold by the way she was protective over it. A pile of folded blankets was nesting on linens at its top. No doubt a ruse, the way his brother and Osmond had wrestled with it. Something heavy had to be at its bottom.

Camille promptly closed it and covered the flat lid of the chest with blankets, then ordered Julius to help her lie the master on his side upon the lid. She rolled up another blanket and set it under his head, then piled a big fur upon him as they tucked in his legs to fit properly on the top.

“You stand there, lummox.” She pointed to her right. “The beanpole to the left, I want the repulsive one with the beard in the middle. Julius, you sit near me,” she said in a blunt snarl.

He watched poor Julius slide the two small travelling chests they had brought in front of where Master Haldock was resting. After a quick glare of approval, the miserable woman found an empty crate nearby and sat beside him.

Camille leaned in close when she had something to say to Julius, then, hawk-like, peered over to see if one of them had moved. Edmund, not knowing what to do, just sat on their chest with a puzzled look as Harwin nearly laughed.

Looking around, he had a decent view of the entire harbour. He could barely see the statue they passed of Arturo Breeston, the hero of the Ankirk war they passed by getting here.

The old Guildhouse was on the left corner, and Raines Bank which was the old Breeston manse from long ago manned the right. Harwin could see the Tetford brewery behind them as billows of smoke rose from the twin chimneys as he longed for an ale at the moment.

Harwin counted many large barges that were waiting for the upcoming harvest of wheat that would leave Hayston in the coming weeks. His brother was hopeful, anticipating being summoned by the harbormaster after they returned.

Harwin didn’t get promising news after visiting Arlo Withers before they departed. He was thirty-two spots from the top. Arlo had encouraged him to not despair.

He had let go of many men recently for various reasons. Three for showing up drunk on the job, and one was stabbed and killed by his wife, while another was arrested for buggery and sent to the mines.

Arlo checked another off his list since he was a corpse, and another one, he mentioned, told him to bollocks off. He urged Harwin to visit him in a week, to see his updated list as he would begin to seek men for the vacant positions.

Harwin didn’t want to let his brother know that his funds were evaporating, having forty-two silver oaks left from what Argyle had given him. Furthermore, he spent his reward money and traded the weapons from the Yellow Handers for work from the smith.

His concentration broke when Rodrigo’s men brought him a small keg on which to sit upon. Osmond as well, and he plopped upon it with a bored look on his face. “I can’t see the water from here,” his bearded mate yelled over to him.

“You can stand on your keg.”

“I’d rather sit and talk, instead of being treated like a child,” Osmond said while rubbing his beard, a habit he noticed when frustrated.

“Can I sit beside my friend, or am I to stay here until we reach Billingsly?” Harwin asked.

Camille looked up but ignored him. This went on as he asked her again and again as moments passed, still paying him no mind as the Rachel had sailed away from the sight of the city.

The cog twisted its course north and sailed up the Nyber River as Harwin caught a glimpse of Merriweather. The village the Guild had built on the north side of the Nyber to escape the filth they called their citizens.

It seemed like an hour had passed until his boredom was relieved when another of Rodrigo’s men returned with a bowl of soup. A fish stew with leeks and a hint of garlic with a warm hunk of barley bread.

“I can’t wait to get to Lonoke. I’m going to buy a whole rack of lamb crusted in herbs,” he yelled to Osmond.

“What is an herb? Is it like a potato?” he answered back.

“For the sake of the gods, I want to move,” Harwin grumbled when the lad returned for his bowl. “We need the liberty to move!”

“What could be so important? You are under our hire. Why can’t you listen?” Camille replied, frowning as she turned to Julius. “I thought we requested professional men. What type of mercenaries are these?”

“I am his brother,” Osmond said in anger. “You wanted professionals, this is as professional as Breeston can furnish. My brother was afraid if he found you real mercenaries, they’d have killed that man slumped over in a heap, then taken turns buggering you.”

“You want to try it, lout?” Camille stood and opened her cloak, her hand on the hilt of her sword. Good steel, he noticed, with a set of leathers in banded iron rings that would fetch many a gold falcon.

“Be quiet, Osmond,” Julius pleaded. “Can they at least sit among themselves?”

“I’d rather they not,” Camille objected.

“I have to take a leak, then,” Harwin interrupted, losing his temper. “Since I have no choice but to stand here, then so be it,” he remarked while climbing on the keg, his brother groaning aloud while he was standing, ready to expose himself.

“The gods’ mercy, Harwin.” Edmund was yelling at the top of his lungs. “Please, kind miss, let them sit together. They both are impossible and they will antagonize you until we are drawing steel on one another.”

“Edmund is right. We have to live with them every day,” Julius begged to convince her, as she huffed a deep, resentful sigh and nodded her approval.

The argument had drawn a bunch of whistles from the militia, propped on their iron-tipped spears and laughing. Even the poor lot in fetters were amused as he glanced over and smiled slyly at Camille.

Her stare was frigid, and she wasn’t intimidated nor scared of his size, he noticed.

“I don’t think she cares for men,” Osmond remarked with a laugh as they moved away along the ship’s rail to converse.

“That thing has no love for anything, she is as friendly as a wasp.”

“Julius has a thing for her. So does your brother,” Osmond pointed out, looking over at Edmund as he peered at her, enchanted, then said in a jape, “If she ever has a kind word for him, he’d soil his linens.”

Harwin kept looking at his brother, grinning, catching him staring at her as his eyes darted to the ship’s deck in embarrassment when he noticed them looking his way. His face turned red as both laughed at him.

They were hours away from Breeston when they grew bored of looking at the jutted rocks of the plateau, bickering to Camille until she granted Osmond his dice, and let them sit in a shaded place within eyesight.

The pair played monarchs for several throws until two from the militia joined them, and a kid who introduced himself as Robin Bivens, one of the foragers Harwin had noticed earlier. He was betting coppers on everyone’s throw trying to win the side pot.

Osmond was down two coppers and he was down one when three of Rodrigo’s men sneaked over while the captain was in his quarters. Harwin then rolled until he was up a copper, then passed to Osmond, his mate boasting aloud to goad the others to bet against him.

The pot was building until he threw two crowns, winning eleven coppers as the onlookers cursed his luck.

Harwin grew tired past midday, as the captain had skewers of goat meat sent to appease them, and a cup of mead to wash it down.

Rodrigo sent three of his men to stand sentry near the group, and the gesture relaxed Camille. Who permitted Julius to join him, and they viewed the long barley fields that grew north of the Nyber.

He had never known so much food existed as Harwin discussed farm life and being a field worker. Julius pondered if he was suited for such a place, as his ignorance of nature amused Harwin as they spotted a large crane flying from near the river’s banks.

Osmond played with the few who lingered. He could hear him laugh after a good roll as the group gambled until the afternoon had reached the evening.

Harwin peered over as they passed a small village along the river, livestock farmers as Julius pointed to sheep that were grazing on a small hillside in wonder while nibbling on an apple he had brought. He tossed the core into the river, then began a conversation with one of Rodrigo’s men that stood nearby.

His attention wandered to their employers as the healer never moved since they departed the docks. Camille must have allowed Edmund to move closer. He was sitting a few feet away and staring at her, too timid to speak as the woman never paid him any mind.

She was occupied with caring for Peregrine, wiping his forehead with water that Rodrigo brought in a pale, mumbling it seemed as if her thoughts were somewhere else.

“Will he live to pay us?” Osmond grumbled after he rejoined them to look upon the waters. “He is sweating like a mule. I hope we don’t get ourselves stranded in Lonoke with no coin.”

“Relax, friend Osmond. In a fortnight, we will leave Lonoke with our purses stuffed with gold,” Harwin said, encouraging him. “Then you can buy that dilapidated inn.”

“Yeah, I have it worked out,” his mate claimed. “We can buy a three-floor skinny along the Old Wall. Live downstairs and rent eight rooms for three silvers a week. I can cook a stew while Julius finds the tenants. You should go in with us and run the door.”

“You can cook?” Harwin laughed, finding humour in imagining it.

“What is there to it? Some leavings and taters with good clean water,” Osmond said, then scoffed at him. “You mock me because you aren’t interested. I am trying to do you a favour — you ain’t going to love being a bloody tosser.”

“What is this word, “tosser”, you keep mentioning? I hear it all over, what does this word mean?” Harwin asked to get under his friend’s skin.

“It means what it means, I don’t know. It sounds right and I don’t pretend to make a better word for it.” Osmond then wagged his finger at him. “You won’t find any glory in it, no reason to wear those fancy arms you got.”

“Why don’t you and your brother stay in Lonoke? We can do the same thing there. It’s a much nicer city, my brother says.” Harwin asked.

“Breeston is what we know, and why ask such a question?” Osmond said, rubbing his thick beard. “You’re exiled in Breeston, and your brother has just wandered out of his shell. He will turtle up again in a strange city, and so would I, so would Julius.”

“My exile can be anywhere. Me being sent to Breeston was probably Bitters’s idea, so he could check on me there and get reports sent to him by the captain.”

“That is selfish, Harwin,” Osmond interrupted him. “Your brother doesn’t handle change, why put him through another stressful move? I know a little more since Edmund got the gabs from horns the other night and—”

“Not this again,” Harwin said, shaking his head. “You keep hinting about my cuckold story, and I’m not letting you have it. It’s a tragic story and painful for me to tell.”

“Painful, so you want me to tell you a painful story to help you loosen up? What’s the saying? Misery loves company. My story involves Julius, which means you are getting two tragic stories.”

Harwin never replied yes or no, but Osmond told his story nonetheless. “We’re of the same age, one and twenty and we are not true brothers either, but love is not just for those sharing the same blood. Growing up together, our fathers were that word you blurt out between horns.”

“Gong farmer?”

“Yes. Do you know that’s a respectful position in Breeston? Paying over twice that lousy tosser job you covet so,” Osmond said in a serious tone.

“Not every bloke can make it as a gong farmer. The job has a huge risk. You stand up to your knees in people’s shart, let’s say that it’s a slow poison. It took Julius’s father when he was nine or ten.” Osmond says bitterly.

“His mother begged my father to take him in, while she ran off and made a living off her backside,” Osmond informed him, which made Harwin snicker as Osmond smacked him on the shoulder to stop it, he was serious.

Hearing his name, Julius looked up and over at them, shrugging his shoulders, then going back to talking with Edmund. Osmond then leaned in closer so he could continue his tale.

“We even got some tutoring. Our fathers wanted us to learn words and sums, all three of us, counting my sister.”

“You never mentioned you had a sister,” Harwin said, surprised.

“That is because she is a strumpet in the Jack Dobbins ward!” Osmond replied, raising his voice, then calmed back to a near whisper.

“Our father passed away when we were sixteen. My sister ran off soon after and my mum was heartbroken, falling ill, and soon after was bedridden. Julius and I tried to find work.”

“We pushed at the mills until we both bled at the hands. Tossed sacks of flour onto the barges until we couldn’t stand, and then we worked for the ward boss in Tanner’s Square, beating up people who owed him coins. Then my mum turned up dead one evening when we got home.”

Harwin felt too awkward to say words at the moment. It was a pitiful story, but Osmond was on a roll, not pausing while he unloaded his childhood to him.

“Julius sang at a pub for heels of bread. He can sing, you know.” his friend laughed a bit then continued.

“I learned to toss dice from a ringer who lived in Butcher’s Wail. We were determined to be known in the wards and soon found honest work, helping the merchants peddle their wares without being wiped clean by thieves. We even roughed up men who stiffed the prostitutes that work the squares at night.”

“I get what you are trying to tell me,” Harwin said as Rodrigo was shouting at his men. They were lowering sails as the Rachel was approaching fast to a small town ahead.

Osmond rose while watching the crew throw big hemp ropes outward to be moored to the docks. In fascination, forgetting his tragic tale for the moment.

“We can get off,” he yelled, then jumping giddily as a kid. “Where are we? It’s a town, Harwin, it should have a tavern.”

“Quit acting the fool, you dumb bloat. We have to stay here. The master can’t be moved,” Camille bitterly ordered, dashing Osmond’s hopes.

“She is right. And tomorrow, we need to apply our gear since we will reach Billingsly tomorrow. You two want the first watch at dusk?” Julius said to them, making it known that he and Edmund wanted to bed down.

Harwin and Osmond nodded in annoyance, pulling their kegs over to get a look at the small village. His brother told him it was named Venton, a town that stored the Guild’s yields from the mines.

They brooded as the Rachel soon docked, and was tied alongside the other cogs, watching as the boatsmen unloaded sacks of flour and crated goods to the docks, and frowning as the other passenger unboarded, carrying wares from Breeston while they watched in pitiful spite.

Harwin could see that the town supported several inns along the small harbour as he heard a lute from a tavern playing faintly in the distance.

“I’d give an oak for a horn. The whole ship has left us behind except for a few lads. Even Rodrigo has abandoned us for a night of merry,” Harwin said, then sighed.

“Aye, but at least we aren’t those unfortunate bastards,” Osmond remarked, watching the militia march the prisoners in their fetters as they fell out of sight from the Rachel.

“I hear a day is like a month in the mines. I’ve seen many come back so ill they were carted off the boats, taken past the bricks of Old Street, and dumped in the dirt,” His friend said, looking at the condemned lot in pity.

“Working in the mines was what made the outer wards prosper, over half that lived there would work a season then come back home as the wages were good for the risks. The squares had small pubs and cart merchants back then, and people could afford to keep their cottages in repair.”

Osmond added that the Guild always had prison labour, but as time kept passing, they decided to push the job as a sentence rather than a trade, unleashing the militia out in the wards to arrest the undesirables there.

Doubling their hours digging in those tunnels until many dropped dead. They thought it was brilliant, ridding it of the rubbish they looked down on.

The commoners were driven into poverty, stealing, doing what desperate people do, and then they’re back at that mine in chains, breaking their backs while the Guild gets rich.

The sun had fallen behind the shadows of the surrounding woods and they could see the city constables light the lanterns, the flicker providing faint visibility to the small river harbour.

He could see the lights from the inns, then he could hear people singing, reminding him of Hayston when he was doing night patrols. “Are they asleep over there?” He asked Osmond in boredom as talking about the outer wards was worse than silence.

“I can hear Julius snoring, but your brother not so much. The woman has her head down. Why do you ask?”

“We were talking before we docked, and I said I get what you are trying to tell me?” Harwin said. “Your story was to console me, reminding me I wasn’t the only one who did sordid things. It was a good story, and it helped ease my mind.”

“I wasn’t trying to console you, I only wanted to tell my story,” Osmond muttered, which brought a snicker from him.

Harwin began telling his mate something simple, his memories of meeting his new mother for the first time. How Rose Parsons, the only person other than his brother, that loved him. He never could connect with his father, and when she died of a sweating sickness when he was twelve, the man was more insufferable.

The many white roses that the Hayston people, noble and poor, had cut and laid in the earth with her coffin. He’d wager that white roses are lying there now on her grave.

His uncle would be responsible for most of them, having loved her far more than his adopted father. The jealousy between the two had always made things difficult being a ward. When his uncle did right by them, his father would be prickly, so at sixteen he volunteered for the militia and moved out.

Harwin then changed his story, recalling growing up alongside his uncle’s children while they were being educated. How they chastised him after Rose died, calling him cursed because of his true father and Rose’s death.

He grew up fast as a lad, towering over them at thirteen, even though the oldest, Arthur, as he and the middle child Solomon, were adults.

Afterward, he described the day he had had enough of them mocking him, kicking the insults out of both. The commoners had a good laugh watching a Panhead lad beating up the heirs of the High Lord of Hayston, and sending them running home to his uncle’s. Osmond guffawed at that as he joined him in a long laugh.

His story drifted to his uncle’s youngest, Hawklin, who never let him forget that he was an orphan.

He beat him up so bad once that Hawklin had to have a healer watch over him for several days, each day Hawklin was bedridden he had to stay secured in the stocks where the common folks doing business in the square could have a look at him. The kids would poke at him with sticks and tease him.

His story drifted to Hawklin’s wedding to a major lord’s daughter from White Meadows. How grand he remembered it being.

A large gathering of musicians, with plenty of roasted meat and ale. Unveiling every detail in what the lords of Hayston had worn, Osmond’s focus was rooted deep in his tale, as Harwin was remarking how dignified the look of the priest was in his green, vibrant robes to join his enemy and his new bride in the bonds of the mighty father Xarl.

Harwin recalled how drunk his uncle was, the joining was a political success for him as it came with a dowry of a tenth of the bride’s father’s profits from this coming harvest.

His wretched sons did their best to impress their father, matching him goblet for goblet until they were in a stupor. Even mentioning how drunkenly pleasant Hawklin was to him even though his invitation was an order from Argyle for family unity.\

Harwin shared that as an old Hayston marriage tradition, the unmarried male nobles circled the new bride, and the women around the groom, with each young noble having to kiss the married pair as a blessing of good fortune.

A small kiss on the lips, innocent, for the coming of many sons. Strangely, the bride swung wide from the circle and kissed him, which since he wasn’t a blood noble was considered rude.

His cousin became enraged, swearing to have him killed one day and lie in an unmarked grave. A fitting grave for a bastard, he yelled aloud as his uncle pulled Hawklin aside and talked sternly in a private room.

“A little peck on the lips, and he threatens me with death,” scoffed Harwin.

His embarrassed father told him to go home. “Don’t disgrace this house tonight,” he was told bluntly. Edmund spoke up for him, at that time he had bought a cottage, and he had grown tired of our adopted father as well. Harwin had forgotten about that, and the thought filled him with guilt.

Hawklin came back to the engagement. He was still miffed, and they had the big bedding ceremony as Harwin was put in a far corner while the nobles toasted them. It was rushed, the tension earlier put the event in a dour mood, as many looked at Harwin as a nuisance.

“The nobles never accepted that we were wards to a noble, and they never liked me as a second to the captain of the militia.”

“It was tradition that after the toast, the groom carried the bride upstairs and bed her, while the celebration between the nobles carried on,” he told his bald friend.

Harwin felt pushed away as his uncle heeded him to go check on the outer guards to make sure that no vagrants were meandering the grounds. “It was a harmless way to ask me to bollocks off,” Harwin laughed annoyingly.

“I was full from the ale and I had to relieve myself,” he told Osmond, after being kicked out of that farce of a wedding. Osmond chuckled aloud as Harwin was standing along the ship’s rail, laughing and acting out the mockery.

“I had lingered outside for many moments, angry with how I was treated, then something hit my backside as I stewed.” he laughed a bit thinking back.

“Glancing around, confused, I heard a voice. It was meek, so I looked upward. It was Hawklin’s bride, her head peering through the window of his room,” he said while looking over at his brother Edmund, who was still asleep.

He mentioned how cute it felt at first to his mate. The lass waved at him to climb up, the tingle of feeling dishonest hit him and he knew he should leave, but his judgement was childlike from the ale, so he ignored it.

How he found the notches in the bricks of the hall, and amazed he didn’t break his neck as he climbed the wall, finding himself on the windowsill as if he were a stalking cat.

Harwin remembered the lass yanking him by the arm and pulling him inside. His cousin’s backside was on the floor and his feet were up on the bed. Harwin displayed the way he recalled it as he lay on the deck, mocking his cousin as Osmond laughed.

“Hawklin laid there snoring like Julius over there, passed out drunk before he could bed the bride,” Harwin said as Osmond’s eyes grew wide in thought.

“She was in her under linens, her breasts halfway out. The ale was playing tricks upon my eyes, I stiffened, and she noticed,” he said with a sly grin.

He paused for a moment to reflect while his mate’s head leaned in close. The heat of the moment got to him, he told Osmond.

Before he knew it, she was pulling on the strings of his breeches. He threw off his cashmere doublet. The woman kissed him and fondled him as Hawklin snored. She pulled him to her as they fell into the bed as she whispered in his ear to have her.

“She was no maiden, that was for sure. It got faster. Her moans turned to screams. She dug her nails into my back and her screams echoed along the stone walls.” He explained as Osmond laughed aloud.

“My mind kept telling me to pull away, hop out the window and run to my cot at the barracks before I was discovered.”

“You couldn’t, though?” Osmond said in suspense, pulling his beard, imagining he was there himself.

“A servant girl poked her head through the door. I guess she was curious and wanted a peek at what was making such a noise.” Harwin mentions with a bit of spite in his voice.

“I am sure the nobles downstairs could hear it, having a good guffaw among themselves, not knowing the groom was being cuckolded” jested Harwin with a sarcastic smile.

“The girl saw me, opened the door, and screamed. I could hear her steps descending the stairway to inform the nobles. What was the point by then?”

“She begged me to get off, pushing me away as the eyes began gathering at the doorway. Standing nude in all my glory as those nobles were gawking at me in shock,” he said with a guilty shrug, then sighed aloud.

His uncle’s look was horror, and his father stormed away. The other nobles who had a view were a mix of unbelief and outrage.

“That girl’s father was crushed, spoiling the terms of the marriage, the man was looking for a dirk to kill me.” Harwin’s face was grim and Osmond was speechless as to form words.

“Edmund was in tears. He thought I’d be hanged,” he muttered. “Maybe I should’ve.”

“The look on Bitters’s face afterward, when he slammed the stockade door behind me.” Harwin remorses aloud.

“He was silent, unable to unleash his normal barrage of screams at me this time. I had thought that he might pull out his sword and end me there. It was what many had wanted. I thought this was it, just how they decided to do it was the only thing left,” he said, as the guilt from that night crept upon him.

“A hood was placed on my head, and my wrists were fettered, being led, and I could only think the worst and lacked a clue as to where I was going,” Harwin explains as he welled up in tears, reflecting.

“The wheels then went into motion and it was leaving the cobbles, as I was sitting in silence, feeling someone next to me. But that person didn’t answer my pleas.”

“Time had passed, it seemed like hours and I gave up asking that question: where are we going?” he whispered.

“I fell asleep for a spell and awoke to the fetters being removed from my wrists. My hood was then removed, and it was Edmund sitting there all that time.”

“I grew relieved, thanking him for what he had done for getting me out of there as he ignored me. I could hear Bitters outside halt the driver. My captain risked his station to save me from execution.”

Harwin sighed heavily, explaining how Bitters opened the door of the wagon and pulled him out. He was limp as a sheet, thanking him for helping him escape.

The old man slapped the taste out of his mouth, cursed him then unrolled a parchment and read it aloud to a criminal, the criminal was him.

“I was being exiled. What my uncle gave to smooth the embarrassment, and salvage his honour, is something I care not to learn.” Harwin grimly said.

“The worst thing about it was that Edmund had to serve my sentence, too. A bargain to the other nobles who never liked two Nuhrish orphans being privy to my father’s riches.”

“You have lost your father’s fortunes, his lands?” Osmond asked, aghast.

“I would’ve never gotten them. His lands would’ve gone back to the treasury. My brother and I would be compensated for it by the courts,” he explained.

“I lost that fortune, I imagine, and I may have lost Edmund’s as well. I ruined the wonderful life he would have had there.”

Harwin was quiet, wiping away tears, feeling the agony of telling his secret, dumping his folly into someone’s ears, and waiting for the laughs to follow. He looked at his mate, not sure if it was pity or mockery buried in the hair of his bushy beard.

“I am sorry, my friend,” Osmond said, patting him on the shoulder. “I wanted to know, thinking it would be an amusement. I am ashamed, this is a dreadful tale.”

“I want to be a tosser, as you call it. I want to do good things for a change. Even if it’s in a meagre way.” He grew quiet again.

“It is time to wake them, Harwin,” Osmond reminded him, changing the matter to reprieve him as he placed his hand on Harwin’s shoulder.

In an attempt to comfort him as he rose and walked to stir his brother, shaking him vigorously as Julius complained.

“Did you have to shake me so?” Julius glanced up, blinking.

“Get up and give me that bloody blanket, I need it to put under my head.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Julius asked in a sleepy, annoyed tone.

“Nothing, just tired of hearing you snore,” Osmond grumbled as he lay on the deck. “Harwin,” he shouted back. “I am your brother, too, don’t you worry.”

Julius shook Edmund and took his place on Osmond’s keg. “What is he rambling for?” he complained, staring coldly at them while wiping his eyes.

Harwin shrugged, ignoring him, and was resting on his blanket, looking up at the night sky. The stars were mixed with the evening clouds, and a slight, cool breeze was blowing, relaxing him until he drifted into long thought and out into a slumber.