Session Eighty-Three - June 11, 2011

[Matt]

Peonu 17, 732

As a general rule, Sir Baris Tyrestal tends to enjoy the short, southbound gallops from Tashal through the fruited fields of Semethshire to Varayne Manor. Being a bluff and hearty sort of knight, Sir Baris seldom regrets leaving behind the noisome environs of the walled city, and today’s journey is especially pleasant for its crisp morning air, with thick blankets of Harnic mist clinging to the treetops, and the gratifying sight of the local peasantry busily toiling in the fields and dutifully tugging their forelocks as the knightly folk pass on by. Sir Baris finds Sir Alfred Doulzarn to be an indifferent interlocutor as the horses clop along the country road, however, and even Sir Prehil Firith disappoints on this occasion, failing to wax profane or expostulate humorously during the entire ride, and Sir Baris begins to suspect that these fellows are failing to get into the proper spirit of the thing. Nonetheless, by the time Varayne Manor heaves into view by midday, Sir Baris can already feel his blood stirring at the prospect of a few days hunting and feasting with these gentlemen on Sir Ewen of Ravinargh’s splendid estate.

Lady Afaewynn Barthy, the bailiff at Varayne, greets the lord of the manor and his travelling companions in the courtyard of the manor house, and the guests are offered refreshment and shown up to their rooms. Lady Afaewynn and the Thardan sergeant Denyl of Shrew, it appears, had vacated their quarters in advance to make way for the visitors. Kaelyn of Aletta, apparently eager to seize upon some useful parergon while away from the city, takes the initiative in organizing the disposition of the guests and the various members of Sir Ewen’s circle, playing Walin of Vastair for the day. Kaelyn is the moody and impatient scholastic whom Sir Baris is in the habit of annoying at Raven Hall, the girl periodically mandating endless stretches of absolute peace and quiet in the house while goggling into containers of water. Sir Baris on this occasion gives her a wide berth, unwilling to chance her wrath, and instead looks in on the Thardan troops as they discreetly move out of the tower and shift themselves to the outbuildings along the south wall. Later, in the great hall, Sir Baris hears Lady Afaewynn inform Sir Ewen that a few peasants are harboring grievances they wish to air before their lord, and Sir Ewen states that he will hear these complaints after noon on the nineteenth.

The present afternoon passes, much to Sir Baris’s delight, with the knightly folk being led about by Lady Afaewynn on a leisurely tour of the messuages and appurtenances, including a detailed discussion of the four hundred acres of wood which Sir Ewen’s fief encompasses. As they perambulate, Sir Ewen takes pains to become better acquainted with Sir Alfred, and Sir Baris listens in with interest. The knight is evidently from Novelim manor in western Oselshire, the second son of a recently deceased landed knight. Sir Baris gathers from the conversation that Sir Alfred’s elder brother has duly inherited the family pile as a matter of course. Sir Alfred has two sisters as well, one being a Laranian priestess (Sir Baris has become resigned to the fact that the kingdom of Kaldor is absolutely overpopulated with these scourges), and the other is decently married to a fellow knight. Sir Alfred, it seems, has been employed with the sheriff’s guard for some three years. Sir Ewen at this point wonders whether Sir Alfred spends the bulk of his time in the city or in the shire, and Sir Alfred soberly relates that his duties tend to be restricted to within the city of Tashal and outside its walls for a few miles or so. Sir Alfred then offers Sir Ewen his congratulations on having won the tournament last year, and the First Knight in turn expresses his regrets at not having had the opportunity to converse with Sir Alfred at the time. After an ensuing, awkward lull in the flow of the conversation, Sir Alfred compliments Sir Ewen upon his eaves.

Sir Prehil, having remained uncharacteristically subdued during the tour up to this point, observes, “You know, Sir Ewen, you could house a small army here!” Lady Afaewynn coughs discreetly and Sir Ewen laughs, responding that thus far the neighbors have been friendly and there has been no call for any such thing. Sir Baris can’t help stealing a glance at the outbuildings along the southern wall. Later, following their circumnavigation of the outlying habitations, Sir Prehil opines that Varayne boasts a relatively small village given its total acreage, and could likely use additional labor. Sir Ewen jokes that the knight is beginning to sound a bit like Sir Andro Valador, which causes Sir Baris to chuckle. Sir Prehil sputters, mock indignant, and relapses after a grin into his atypical silence until the conclusion of the manorial circuit.

Just before dinner, while Sir Baris stretches his legs and sips an afternoon ale in his quarters, Tora of Sordel reports for duty and briefs Sir Baris on her activities since their arrival at Varayne. Tora, never in Sir Baris’s experience the most presentable of females, appears on this occasion a bit smudged and noticeably damp with perspiration, but she wades into her account with enthusiasm. It seems she has not allowed the grass to grow beneath her feet since their arrival at Sir Ewen’s manor, having begun her activities by immediately scouring the place for evidence of hounds upon the property. She had been disappointed to find none at all, but took this in stride, noting to herself that the success of the hunt would therefore depend entirely upon the prowess of the hunters. Looking about the place, Tora estimated that the weather at Varayne has been dry for the last four or five days, and reflected that today’s clear and cold weather seemed guardedly promising for tomorrow. While musing upon this, she happened upon Sir Alfred’s elderly huntsman Poul attending to similar concerns, walking about with a single, superannuated hound in tow. Poul of Jarak, Tora reports, is a crusty, weather-beaten old fossil who has been in Sir Alfred’s service since the Doulzarn cadet was knighted, and apparently arrived at Varayne with the baggage train, as it were. As if reading Tora’s mind, Poul had squinted up at the sky and observed that it will be “fine for hunting on the morrow, if it doesna’ rain.” Tora finds his manner laconic and clipped, but not unfriendly.

Tora explained to the old hunter that she and Imarë had decided to scout the hunting grounds in a preliminary fashion, having consulted first with Lady Afaewynn and then with the reeve, Bran of Jems. Sir Baris imagines Tora adopting a lecturing manner with Poul, expounding on how Sir Ewen’s four hundred acres of wood are arrayed in three regions: a smaller preserve located to the west of the manor, and two larger expanses of woodland to the northeast and to the south. The western and southern woods are worked by the peasantry of Varayne, who are allowed to collect drop-wood by hook and by crook, and to forage the manorial pigs amongst the trees and undergrowth. Sir Ewen’s principal pasture land is to the north of the manor, and the arable land is to the south. The woodland to the northeast of the manor house is the lord’s hunting demesne, comprised of about one hundred and eighty prime acres.

Imarë having joined them while Tora related this intelligence, Tora, the elf, Poul and the dog proceed to scout the woodland to the northeast. They find a few trails, signs of game, and some old tracks and new which are all easily identified and followed. They detect no sign of boar, but evidence of deer is relatively abundant and fresh. They all agree upon where the hunt should start, taking into account the extents of the grounds in all directions, and then return to the manor house satisfied with their reconnoitering.

Sir Baris, taking it all in, finds this report to be bracing stuff, keenly bucking him up for tomorrow’s hunt, and with buoyant spirits and expansive bonhomie he descends a short time later to supper in the hall below. The other knights are already seated at the table on the dais, while the others of lesser station fill the benches at the lower tables. He notes that Tora is still looking a bit begrimed, but then laughs at himself with some concern, wondering if a fastidious Filen of Oppias is beginning to wear off on him. Taking his seat, Sir Baris notes with a slight souring of his mood that the gold Laranian statue Sir Ewen won at the tournament is displayed on the mantle over the fireplace, although the Thardan plate, nowhere in evidence, is apparently being kept in reserve for tomorrow’s feast after the hunt. Sir Baris rallies with some effort and, more enthusiastically than usual, does what he can to keep the small talk going throughout the dinner, while hoping that Sir Prehil will soon regain his accustomed, unbuttoned expansiveness, lest these meals at the manor become too burdened with his own labored repartee.

Peonu 18, 732

When Sir Baris descends to the light, pre-hunt breakfast in the early morning hours, he notes right off that Kaelyn of Aletta is not in evidence at the board, and assumes that she must be above peering into a tub of somebody’s bathwater. Remarking aloud to this effect, Sir Baris learns to the contrary that Sir Ewen has sent the young wizard off to Tashal, escorted by two Thardan soldiers, with 120 Khuzan pence in her purse to shop for small gifts for the two guests of the manor. Relieved, Sir Baris commences to clattering his cutlery and otherwise disturbing the household with abandon. One person he fails to disturb is Tora, however, who has been up since well before first light, intent upon presiding over things while the sleepy cooks dragged themselves early to the kitchen hearths and prepared the pre-hunt meal. Tora stomps in while the others finish eating and announces with satisfaction that the weather is again cold and clear, with a fine wind in the north.

The hunting party eventually assembles in the courtyard and Tora, plying Sir Baris with information, points out that Poul’s superannuated dog is to remain behind, making this an entirely houndless affair. Imarë and Tora, seasoned archers, knowledgably supervise the distribution of the short bows from the armory, while they and Poul each string their own longbows. Sir Prehil offers a companionable flask around, opining garrulously that the weather would be cold enough to freeze Dekajis’ balls off, if something of that sort hadn’t been done already. Sir Alfred, flexing his bow, frowns censoriously. Sir Baris smiles, the snail apparently now on the thorn and all right with the world.

And so they set off, up amongst the village houses and past the large central well. Peasants who are out and about at their morning labors, driving pigs from their pens and cows from their byres, stop and tug at their forelocks as the hunting party strides purposefully by. The hunt wends its way up into the cool shade of the woods, taking the general direction the three huntsmen had scouted the afternoon before. Sir Baris and the other knights tromp along, watching as the three hunters fan out ahead in different directions through the thicket, casting about for a trail.

Soon word is relayed back that Imarë and Tora have each found a deer trail, Tora’s trail being the freshest, and they all converge to plan their line of attack and take another swig from Sir Prehil’s flask. Following Tora’s trail for a while, Imarë is the first to sight a doe at about one hundred fifty feet to the front of them, but this creature is left unmolested, as it is poor form to slay the female of the species during the springtime. The huntsmen work their way back to the knights and all decide to circle back and follow Imarë’s trail instead. They relocate it quickly. Tora opines that the trail appears to be actually two deer, and they follow the signs successfully in spite of the meandering path the trail takes through the dense woodland. The two deer part company after a time, the three hunters scan the immediate area, and Imarë offers that the left-hand deer seems the larger of the two. Tora, in the vanguard, loses the trail briefly, but the elf sets her straight, leading the group until both female hunters spot their quarry at the same time as they top a small rise overlooking a stream widening into a sylvan pond. A large stag can be seen below, bending its neck to drink, about a hundred yards away. They hold up their hands, and the knights halt behind them.

Sir Baris is eagerly attentive as the hunters deliberate, and the decision is made to send Tora the long way around the pond, with Poul and Imarë going the short way, hoping to flush the buck up the rise and toward the knights. The plan agreed upon by all, the knights array themselves along the possible paths the deer might take if successfully flushed up the rise. Sir Baris takes up his position, nocks his arrow, and draws on his bowstring, hoping to save a split-second should opportunity strike. Tora, meantime, has worked her way down the slope and is beginning to come around their quarry.

Before she can arrive in her preordained position, however, Sir Baris sees Tora freeze and hears the faint snap as she missteps, breaking a thick twig with a heavily placed foot. Down below, the stag starts and bounds, heading toward the elf and Poul, paralleling the line of the ridge. Sir Baris raises his short bow and fully draws on the bowstring, tracking the deer as it races. Imarë, down below and off to the far side, fluidly looses an arrow and Sir Baris clearly sees it flash into the creature’s left hindquarter. The arrow, presumably lodged well on its mark, causes the stag to fall, one leg going out, but it immediately rises to its feet and dashes up ridge, veering off to Sir Baris’s right. He hears Sir Prehil decline with one word, giving the shot to Sir Alfred, and the Sheriff’s knight lets fly an arrow which impales the bounding deer with an enormous spurt of blood, causing it to stumble, run about fifteen more feet, and then collapse, heaving and thrashing for a moment.

A general cry of approbation goes up as the knights converge together, peering down to where the deer has fallen below. Sir Baris, turning to the others and laughing, heartily bellows his congratulations to Sir Alfred on his really fine shot, and pumps his fist in the air for good measure.

Sir Ewen staggers, emitting a muffled sound.

The woodland falls silent as the knights all pause to consider the fletched shaft protruding from Sir Ewen’s right thigh. Sir Baris stares down at his bow, the nocked arrow nowhere to be seen. Sir Prehil, a look of horror upon his face, looks at him and exclaims, “By Save-K’nor’s hidden tattoo, you’ve shot Sir Ewen!”

Sir Ewen, examining the arrow emerging from his leg, glances up with brilliant eyes and smiles grimly. “Sir Baris, I believe your shot has gone astray.”

Sir Baris looks on in mute shock for a moment, and then puts down his bow and swears foully. Looking around at the trees and undergrowth as if searching for a culprit, he throws his hands up and turns back to them all, exasperated. Cursing again, he awkwardly suggests that perhaps Sir Ewen is making a rather big deal about a minor injury. The other knights avoid meeting Sir Baris’s eye, and someone calls down to the hunters for assistance.

The three huntsmen come up and Sir Ewen’s wound is conferred over. Tora takes over and removes the bloody shaft and cleans the wound, Sir Ewen appearing rather blanched and severe throughout the whole procedure. Poul meanwhile has been field cleaning the deer, breaking its limbs, slitting it down the middle and removing the offal. Imarë slips off to summon litter bearers from the manor as well as extra peasants to help carry the stag. Sir Prehil looks into his flask, observes that the sun is getting low anyway, and offers Sir Ewen the last swallow. As they parade through the village the peasants cluster about and look on in concern. “Did the stag gore you, m’lord?” one worthy calls out. Sir Baris marches rigidly, head high, looking straight ahead. Kaelyn, having just arrived back at Varayne, takes in the tableau and immediately glares at Sir Baris.

Sir Ewen refuses to be brought upstairs and sent to bed, insisting instead on being placed in the great hall at the head table. While Sir Alfred and Sir Prehil are absent, with Sir Baris lingering awkwardly in the wings, Imarë attempts to heal Sir Ewen but has no success. The head is struck off the stag and Sir Alfred gallantly presents it to Sir Ewen in memory of the honor of the day hunting, not the disgrace of having been shot in the rump. Sir Ewen graciously thanks Sir Alfred, and commends him again for his cool-headed bringing-down of the stag. Billo of Hart, the woodward, is reputed to be handy with the taxidermy, and is tasked with undertaking the preparation.

Sir Prehil Firith pulls Sir Baris off to the side at one point in these proceedings, his tone almost kindly. “You know, Baris, it might be better if you ate somewhere else tonight. I hear the food at the local inn is not bad.” Sir Baris’s shoulders slump at the suggestion, keenly aware that he is about to forfeit a really outstanding binge at Sir Ewen’s table, but he grudgingly acknowledges the wisdom of Sir Prehil’s words. And so Sir Baris duly absconds to the White Stag Inn, Tora tagging along to provide whatever supervision and moral support she is able to afford.

Sir Baris Tyrestal, always a resilient fellow, is already beginning to brighten by the time he crosses the threshold of the inn, looking forward to a fine flagon of ale to replenish the sinews and elevate the spirits. A hush dampens the indigenous chatter as they enter, however, and the locals cast dark and sullen looks in their direction. Sir Baris sighs inwardly but strives to remain sanguine. A man in a leather jerkin wearing a falchion in his belt puffs out his chest a bit and announces, “We don’t like trouble here.”

Tora steps in, always adept with introductions. “This is Sir Baris Tyrestal, a friend of your master, Sir Ewen of Ravinargh.”

The man nods, eyes still narrowed. “I am Mahe of Roggen, yeoman of this manor.”

“It is Sir Baris’s pleasure to be here at the White Stag.” Sir Baris swivels his head between these two, reduced to the role of spectator during this interchange, looking for an opening. He is impressed to note that the establishment is quite bustling with patrons, and he hopes that this fact bodes well for some excellent ale.

Mahe introduces Billo of Terrel and Kres of Nugen, two other yeomen of the manor, as well as Brulis of Hyrale, proprietor of the White Stag. “So, you are companions of our absentee lord?”

“Er, well, yes,” Sir Baris assents tentatively, speaking for himself at last but reluctant to fully endorse this absentee business.

Billo of Terrell clears his throat and speaks up as Sir Baris and Tora seat themselves. “We’ve heard some rumors. There are lots of soldiers at the manor. Rumors that Lord Ravinargh intends to dismiss the yeoman. This touches us.”

Sir Baris considers. “I can see why you might think that, but I assure you, he has no such plans.”

“As a yeoman myself,” Tora adds, perhaps noting a hint of skepticism in the crowd, “I give you my word.”

“He has no intention of dismissing you,” Sir Baris adds.

“We are relieved to hear this,” Mahe of Roggen states cautiously. “And we hope you will tell our lord that we are prepared to fight for him anywhere, anytime, and defend our homes and our neighbors.”

“I will tell Sir Ewen that you are loyal servants, brave and true,” Sir Baris assures them, beaming now as a brimming tankard of ale is placed before him.

Kres of Nugen turns to Tora. “If you are a yeoman, which manor are you?

“The manor of Sordel, near Querina.”

Nods of guarded satisfaction at that. “I’ve heard of Querina,” one local confirms.

Talk of the manorial life, and then of spring planting, naturally develops from this line of conversation, and after some time, marked by a number of ample ale replenishments, Sir Baris gets the clear impression from the locals that some significant number of acres at Varayne lie unproductive because there are not enough hands to exploit the land. After a bit of this griping, the innkeeper comes over and whispers something to Mahe, apparently warning him to not anger the knight. The talk then turns to crops, foals, and other bucolic matters. More ale arrives in a seeming endless succession of tankards, and Sir Baris gradually begins to lose the thread of the conversation.

Peonu 19, 732

Sir Baris, still beastly drunk from the night before, slinks back to the manor sometime after dawn, Tora still maintaining a weary but watchful eye on her knightly charge. Weaving a bit, Sir Baris picks at some of the cold breakfast leavings and retires to a bench at the far, lower table, disinclined to conversation with his fellow knights. Sir Ewen, he notes, is ensconced in his chair at the head table reviewing some parchments, and Sir Baris is acutely aware of Sir Ewen’s occasional grimaces as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat from time to time. Aside from a curt nod from the Lord of Varayne upon Sir Baris’s advent in the hall, little passes between the two men.

Sir Baris nibbles with little enthusiasm upon the scavenged food, his head still thick from last night’s drink, his stomach rolling slightly. When Tora approaches Sir Ewen, begging his leave and explaining that she retained a “bone” from the stag’s heart to present to Sir Ewen, with the expectation that it might bring good fortune to Lady Thilisa’s pregnancy, Sir Baris catches a glimpse of the shriveled bit of viscera as it changes hands and his gorge becomes suddenly buoyant. Swallowing convulsively, he shakes his head, used to finding himself made of much sterner stuff. Shooting Sir Ewen, he admits to himself, has gotten him thoroughly rattled. Tora comes over and joins Sir Baris at the table near the staircase.

She begins to murmur something about Sir Alfred in Sir Baris’s ear, but Sir Prehil noisily descends the stairs at this point and plants his fists on his hips, surveying the hall with a jaundiced eye.

“I’m have to tell you, Ewen, your hospitality leaves a bit to be desired. I have spent a night in your manor, and have had a bed, and only that!”

Sir Ewen grins, putting down his scroll. “Surely there’s not an appetite for country matters in the city alderman?”

“Yes, by Halea’s heavenly quim! What about your bailiff?”

Sir Ewen raises an eyebrow. “You wish to tilt your lance at Lady Afaewynn?” Sir Ewen laughs, shaking his head. “Well, then, you have my leave, Prehil.”

Sir Baris watches Sir Prehil depart, wishing he could witness that particular encounter in the lists when it occurs, but concludes that he has not the energy to stir from his seat.

Tora, resuming her effort to convey her news, commences to whispering a most astonishing account, obtained from Kaelyn, of how Sir Alfred took offense at Sir Ewen and departed abruptly last night after the table linen had been drawn and the cordials had been passed around. Sir Baris straightens with interest, casting an eye in Sir Ewen’s direction.

It seems, Tora relates in a hoarse whisper, that the feast had been going quite well, the steward having really outdone himself, and the choicest parts of the venison having been apportioned to Sir Alfred and Sir Prehil as honored guests of the manor. The present of fine silver rings, fetched from Tashal by Kaelyn of Aletta earlier in the day, had been well received. After dinner the cloth had been drawn, and a local pear brandy had augmented the sense of conviviality and accord. Until, that is, Sir Ewen had broached “a matter of grave concern” with Sir Alfred, indicating the murders Kaelyn had been asked to investigate.

Whereupon Sir Alfred had become quite frosty, inquiring as to which party had retained her services. Two of the temples in the city, Sir Ewen had responded. Was one of those temples the Laranian temple? No. At this response, Sir Alfred had nodded soberly. Sir Ewen had then continued, stating that he was concerned to find his own name had become associated with the matter, “because of the very affair that led to my acquiring this manor.” Sir Alfred, then, coldly: “I know how you obtained this manor, Sir Ewen.”

Sir Ewen had gone on to express umbrage that he was evidently being treated as a subject of the investigation because some Morgathians had escaped from Abriel Abbey. At this, Lady Afaewynn snorted in derision at the notion that Sir Ewen had enabled this escape. Sir Alfred, however, then stiffly asserted that he did not have enough evidence to either support or refute the theory, which in turn caused Sir Ewen to become implacable himself.

“Sir Alfred, I’ll warrant I killed more Morgathians in one day than you have taken in your entire investigation.”

Sir Alfred then arose, took off the silver ring he had been given, slapped it down on the table, and said, “Sir Ewen, stay out of my investigation. If you don’t, you will answer to the Laranian church, and to the King.”

“I’ll answer to the King and anyone else, Sir Alfred, but my honor answers to me alone.”

Sir Alfred had stalked from the hall at that point, calling for his horse and retainer. Sir Prehil, smiling for the first time, had turned to Sir Ewen. “I don’t doubt you have killed more Morgathians than he has in his entire lifetime. Your honor is safe with me, Sir Ewen, and you can tell that to anyone you care to.”

Sir Baris absorbs this incredible account after Tora had withdrawn, keenly regretting that he had missed the dramatic contretemps, and wondering what Sir Alfred’s next move might be upon returning to Tashal. He resists the urge to go over and question Sir Ewen about the matter, however, sensible that his friend might still remain a trifle austere after yesterday’s unfortunate turn of events.

Later on in the day, Lady Afaewynn alerts Sir Ewen that the peasants have arrived, wishing to air their grievances. They file in and mill about in the hall, where the tables have all been shunted aside and his large chair moved so that Sir Ewen is seated elevated over the audience. Sir Baris finds one of the smaller chairs over at the side of the hall and installs himself there with a good vantage to observe the proceedings. He nods to Kaelyn and Cekiya, who are perched upon one of the benches up against the same wall, evidently with the same intention in mind. Cekiya stares at him queerly then looks away, while Kaelyn pretends she doesn’t see him at all. Sir Baris shrugs and sighs wearily. Lady Afaewynn is bringing order to the place with a clear voice, gaveling the meeting to order as it were.

From there things develop rather quickly, and to Sir Baris’s satisfaction he learns that he is not long to be denied entertainment. The first of the petitioners steps forward, Lady Afaewynn identifying him to Sir Ewen and the assembly as one Mak of Terrall.

Sir Baris stirs, and before he can stop himself has blurted aloud, “I met a Billo of Terrall last night!” The congregation, apparently unaware to this moment of Sir Baris lurking on their periphery, all turn their heads. Sir Ewen raises an eyebrow. Sir Baris, subsiding, crosses his arms and nods to Lady Afaewynn, as if to say, pray continue.

“Billo is my older brother.” Billo shuffles his feet a bit, and then haltingly relates his concern to the hall at large. The miller of the village, one Klam of Bruns, would appear to have a daughter named Trexa. At this point the small audience parts, and an older woman in the raiment of a Peonian Ebasethe steps forward with a burly looking miller and his very young daughter at her side. At this point, Sir Baris becomes aware of Cekiya slinking from her position beside Kaelyn on the bench, easing back into the shadows and away, and he frowns at this, puzzled. Returning his attention to the main event, he notes that Trexa is fresh and pretty and clearly in the family way. Sir Baris listens with interest while the miller accuses Mak of Terrall before the entire assembly of having debauched his daughter. Trexa, in turn, refuses to acknowledge Mak as the father of the impending child.

Mak regains the floor at this juncture, and pleads his case to Sir Ewen. “It is highly unlikely that I am father of the child, lord. While it is true that I had relations with the girl, I have but one ball. And so, the odds are with me, my lord, that the child isn’t mine.”

Sir Baris frowns, uncertain if he has heard the man correctly. He notices that Sir Ewen is furrowing his brow as well and glancing at Lady Afaewynn, who in turn is devoid of expression.

Meanwhile, the girl Trexa is giving her quavering deposition, wringing her hands and looking abjectly uncomfortable. “… so I wasna’ even sure, my lord, if I had had relations with Mak. He said this was just something that people do, and there would be no consequences.” Tears brim in her eyes, and the Peonian Ebasethe bends and murmurs words of comfort while the husky miller casts a poisonous gaze in the direction of Mak of Terrall.

Sir Baris looks with interest to Sir Ewen, and has to admit to himself that Mak’s lack of one onion complicates an undoubtedly sticky situation. He listens while Sir Ewen gamely attempts to ascertain whether the young girl has been chaste aside from her encounter with Mak, but the girl’s answer suggests to Sir Baris that the poor creature is unclear on the most fundamental procedures in these matters, barely knowing the sword from the scabbard, as it were. Glancing at Sir Ewen, he imagines that the lord of the manor looks as if he could do with a stout drink already, and this only the first of the three cases for the presiding magistrate. Finally, having heard enough, Sir Ewen shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his face whitely impassive for a brief moment. Sir Baris winces from his vantage in the wings.

Sir Ewen addresses Mak, his voice carrying through the hall. “A young woman’s virtue is never a matter for half measures,” he lectures sternly. “Also, to my knowledge, one ball has never resulted in one half a child. Therefore, the full responsibility of paternity must rest upon your shoulders.”

The miller nods, Trexa wrings her hands, and Mak of Terrall’s shoulders slump slightly. Sir Ewen glances at Lady Afaewynn, concluding. “I’ll waive the heriot in this case.” Mak brightens a bit at this. Sir Ewen then waves them all away.

Sir Baris nods contentedly, pleased to observe Sir Ewen in a mood to dispense, in this case, a bit of mercy. Which, Sir Baris’s father always liked to say, becomes the thronéd monarch better than his crown.

Next, the beadle Jak of Carthen brings forth a case of disputed ownership. A prize goat is claimed by both Kres of Nuggen and Mahe of Roggen. It seems that the said goat is capable of producing prodigious amounts of milk. It having been let loose on the common some time ago, both of the men now claim it, and the dispute has evidently taken a rancorous turn. Kres says his own goat was the mother of this prodigy, while Mahe claims was his own beast sired this lactating wonder of the goat kingdom.

Delving deeper into the history of the goat, Sir Ewen ascertains that the parental coupling took place upon the common, Kress having had initial possession of the baby goat during its formative months. Mahe, however, laid claim to it from an early day as well, and apparently has been in the practice of snatching it every time it he finds it grazing upon the common.

Kidnapping, Sir Baris thinks to himself, and slaps his knee, stifling a laugh at his own keen wit. Sir Ewen, meantime, looks displeased and sharply questions the two men as to why they have declined to allow Lady Afaewynn, his rightful and judiciously appointed bailiff, to adjudicate and resolve the matter before now? Stammering, the men both convey that, while the matter may seem minor to the lord, it seemed such a great matter to them that they just couldn’t conceive anyone but the lord of Varayne settling the dispute.

Lady Afaewynn leans in and whispers audibly to Sir Ewen that Mahe owes the services of a medium footman, Kress that of a longbowman. Sir Ewen, after deliberating a moment, rules that, in ongoing deference to the honors of maternity, the prize goat shall be milked five days a week by Kress, while the owner of the sire shall milk it two. Both men appear nonplussed by this ruling, Mahe in particular seeming to Sir Baris’s eye not so pleased, but the yeoman seems intent upon keeping a stiff upper lip in the matter. “Given the day for maternity,” Mahe grumbles, “I am only cheated a day, I suppose.” Which leaves Sir Baris a trifle perplexed, but not so much as in the previous matter of one ball leading to half children, so he shrugs it off.

The reeve Bran of Jems presents the final case, petitioning to discuss the waste lands of Varayne with the lord of the manor, claiming that as much as 550 acres are not presently productive. One remedy, Bran suggests in a deferential manner, is that ten new peasant households are needed in Varayne. Second, six existing peasant households should be promoted, so they will work more land and owe more labor. He has, Bran says tentatively, a list of the families in question, if the lord will hear them?

Sir Ewen nods, and the reeve details the six villagers he would recommend be granted greater acreage, along with his suggestions regarding how much land in each situation, asserting that in each case the additional acres are needed both to feed their families and to afford his lordship greater productivity for the manor. Bran of Jems steps back, his presentation complete, and Sir Baris looks on while Sir Ewen consults with Lady Afaewynn for a while. He gathers from what he can overhear that the bailiff would not disagree with the recommendations save regarding one Patril of Fark, whom Lady Afaewynn believes is hot headed and not sufficiently aware of his station to warrant such improvement. After further discussion, Sir Ewen instructs the bailiff to thank the reeve for the care he has taken in his recommendations, which Sir Ewen will approve with one or two exceptions, and indicates that he will discuss the matters further with Lady Afaewynn.

“Is that all?”

“There are no more petitioners, Sir Ewen.”

“If that be the case, I find that I weary.”

Peonu 20, 732

Sir Baris Tyrestal, feeling himself less the pariah and considerably more in the pink than he had the day before, determines to makes himself free of Sir Ewen’s breakfast board today and carry on in his accustomed fashion. He is pleased to see Sir Ewen appearing less pinched himself, and Baris chats with his friend a bit, hoping all the while that the damnable matter of the stray arrow does not come up.

Some time after breakfast, Lady Afaewynn informs them that the Peonian Ebasethe begs an audience with Sir Ewen. Sir Baris retires to a seat at the far lower table while Sir Ewen states that he will see her, calling for some pear juice to be brought in.

The Ebasethe, a tall and dignified woman of middle years, curtseys gracefully before the manor lord. “Sir Ewen, I greet you. We have not met.”

Sir Ewen nods equably. “My matters have kept me from Varayne until now, I am afraid.”

“You bestride a larger stage than our small village. And, while I know that stage, I would by choice stay upon this one. Sir Ewen, I am deeply troubled.”

Sir Ewen nods for her to continue.

“I believe there may be an adherent of one of the dark churches here in your manor. I have no positive proof, but I have no positive denial either.”

Sir Baris gulps at this, remembering with a sinking sensation in his stomach Cekiya’s sudden withdrawal upon the Ebasethe’s appearance in the hall yesterday. Here’s some real trouble, and no mistake, he thinks to himself.
“I don’t know if we are talking about…” The Ebasethe looks left and right, not seeming to notice Sir Baris, her voice lowering. “… Agrik, Morgath, or Naveh.”

Sir Ewen recoils a bit in his chair, appearing gravely concerned.

“I may be mistaken,” the Ebasethe continues, “but a young person wandered into my cemetery the other day. She behaved very strangely. She would not deny that she was a member of any of the three churches. Now, in all fairness, she did appear touched in the head. In fact, she might be not completely sane. On the other hand, she might be under the sway of the dark churches. I would hate to call for an inquisition, Sir Ewen, but I would hate even more to see a dark church gain a foothold here.”

Sir Baris’s blood has run quite cold by this point, images of a sadistic Barald Palgren brandishing pincers and tongs assailing his mind’s eye, and he becomes aware of an unmanly, restless urge to flee the manor posthaste. Sir Ewen, meanwhile, seems to be taking it all in stride, and is sighing and shaking his head sadly.

“I do indeed know the young woman of whom you speak, Ebasethe. She is an orphan, whom I have taken under my care. It seems that, after losing her parents, she fell into the care of the followers of the Lord of …” Sir Ewen pauses, shaking his head again “… the Featherless Multitude?” He frowns. “That doesn’t sound right …”

The Ebasethe’s eyes widen with intelligence. “The Fatherless Multitude,” she corrects, nodding, considering things anew. “That would explain much ...”

“She disconcerts people, makes them uneasy,” Sir Ewen admits.

“That she does. I trust, Sir Ewen, that you will do what is necessary to steer this child along the proper paths.”

“Such has been my intention ever since making her my ward, Ebasethe.” Sir Ewen’s tone is that of an exasperated but kindly parent, aware of having been burdened with a child capable of greater than ordinary mischief. “I would gladly accept any guidance you might have in the matter ...”

The Ebasethe’s eyes shine keenly. “Sir Ewen, I will do you one better than that. Your stewardship of this manor, and of this poor wretch, is commendable. I will write to my brother, and tell him what a fine knight he has at this manor.”

“Your brother? I was not aware, Ebasethe – ”

“Yes. My brother, the King.”

At this point, Sir Baris can feel the hair standing up on his head, and he now finds himself assailed with a second strong urge, namely to merge into the wall behind him. He certainly hopes this Ebasethe person does not of a sudden notice himself lurking like a schoolboy and listening in on her audience. Sir Ewen, meantime, appears unruffled and is expressing mild surprise at this revelation, as if royal princesses are not infrequently found to be inhabiting his manorial lands, coming in on the nonce and asking for audiences, or borrowing cellars of salt or whatnot.

“Yes,” the Ebasethe is saying of the King, “He never has been interested in the task Peoni sets for us, unlike our brother Korwyn and myself.”

“Ah, and where does your brother serve Peoni?” Sir Ewen inquires politely.

“He is a mendicant at Balen abbey,” she explains. Sir Baris misses a few comments which pass between the Ebasethe and Sir Ewen at this point as he grapples with the implications of all of this, not to mention the dangerous foolishness of that troublesome lunatic girl inflicted upon Sir Ewen by his own sister, or mistress, or whomever she is. One thing is for certain, reflects a dazed Sir Baris. There are dangerous women absolutely everywhere, and all of them certainly a far greater a hazard than a simple, misdirected arrow between friends.

“Whatever balms,” Sir Ewen is saying, “the Peonians may visit upon my young friend, I would be both grateful and relieved.” The Ebasethe smiles and nods, offering Sir Ewen the blessings of the Balm of Joy, and with that makes her dignified exit from the hall.

When it seems safe, Sir Baris emerges from the shadows and gives a low, appreciative whistle. “The Featherless Multitude? That’s why you’re in charge.”

Sir Ewen has been staring at the door through which the Peonian had departed. He turns to Sir Baris now, his face haggard and his blue-gray eyes agleam. “Indeed. Have someone find Cekiya, if you please. Oh, and Sir Baris?”

“Yes, Sir Ewen?”

“We leave for Tashal in the morning.”

Sir Baris, much to his own surprise, finds himself enormously relieved to hear it.