Page 5 of Wed By Proxy

In his father’s day, on nights such as these, the whole household would gather around the huge stone hearth in the Great Hall and someone would tell the old tales. Sometimes it was an aged servant, and other times a travelling bard, who might know different variations on the stories. But the most vibrant tales were told by Old Helga, who had been the local wise woman. Tales of the Wild Hunt and how the All-Father would be riding forth with this company of wolves and ravens. Woe betide any hapless traveler who strayed into their path. But the All-Father could be beneficent, when the mood took him, and if he found his quarry worthy of reward.

Guy wondered if Old Helga still lived. He had not heard any mention of her in years. He had not ventured along the path that led to the wood for many a long day. Doubtless her cottage still stood, even if it was empty, as it was in such a remote spot. Though on his land, she had paid precious little by way of rent or tithe. Her kind never did. Witches. He gazed sightlessly into the darkness, remembering that Yuletide many moons ago when she had foreseen his own demise. What was it she said?

He couldn’t remember. He had only heard it secondhand for his father would never speak of it. Whatever it was, it had been enough to get her thrown from the hall and denounced by his father. Folk whispered it was something about his downfall being tied with the Blechmarsh line. Well, if that was so, she had been right enough. The southern king had roundly defeated the north, and united all Karadok under his standard. But the lords of Martindale had always been loyal to the northern crown and had fought to the bitter end.

They had not gone down without a fight, and they had paid the price. Not as cruelly as some, he thought reflecting on his neighbors, the Kerslakes who had their ancient castle razed to the ground, or the Pierces who had lost all three of their sons in battle. But then, had their house not also lost all its sons? All their future sons that is, for he would be the last of his once proud line.

He stared out into the darkness. Had Old Helga really seen it all in the bones? If so, her warning had fallen on deaf ears. His father had remained stubborn and staunch to the very end. Luckily, he had died in his bed before the northern cause had folded and before his only son had been forced to marry one of the enemy. But who would have thought the war would wage for ten long years? Ten years and he had transformed from boy to man in that time. Forged in the fires of bitter experience.

The rain beat against the roof, distracting him from his thoughts, and just as he was turning onto his side, he heard the loud three knocks against his fortified front door. Except, he couldn’t possibly. Not from the vantage point of his bedchamber. Even as he told himself this, he sat up in his bed, his heart beating loudly. He somehow knew that was what he had heard. Someone had knocked at his door. For a moment, one of the old tales flashed into his mind. The tale of the disguised traveler, come to test the worthiness of the inhabitants on a cold winter’s night. To see if a humble beggar would be offered shelter from the storm. Except, it was no beggar that stood before the potential host, ready to stand in judgement. He shook his head. It wasn’t like him to be so fanciful.

The house was all in silence. It seemed the summons had stirred no one save himself. Grumbling, Guy reached for a robe, and donned it. He craned his ears, but did not hear another sound. Doubtless it was all in his imagination, he told himself uneasily. He must have imbibed more than he’d realized, or else it was stronger than the usual fare.

He had just reached the top of the staircase when he heard another three bangs again on the door and almost jumped out of his skin. This time, he knew it was not mere imagination, for he heard faintly the kitchen dogs barking down below. They had been roused by it also. Snatching up a candlestick, he approached the door and began drawing back the bolts. As the swung the door open, he braced himself, but that did not stop his eyes from starting from his head at the sight that greeted him.

Flanked by two beadles and another he vaguely recognized as a representative of one of the wealthier merchant families from nearby Wickhamford town, were two youths, soaked to the skin, their wet hair plastered to their heads and their stockings and boots covered in mud. Grimly, Guy ran his eye over them. They were not part of his household, he was sure of that.

“My Lord Martindale—,” began the beadle, and at his words, the smaller youth let out an exclamation.

Guy’s gaze snapped to him, and the little wretch had the nerve to stare back at him with open curiosity. “Y-you’re Lord Martindale?” he stammered, through lips fast turning blue.

“I knew he were a little liar!” gasped the other beadle, seizing the lad’s arm and shaking it. “Said you knew his lordship, didn’t you, you little swine!”

The other lad sprang forward at this rough treatment, “Don’t you touch him!” he yelled, only to be cuffed roundly by the other beadle.

“Now, now,” interjected the merchant distastefully. “Let’s not get over zealous in pursuit of our duty, officers.” He looked back at Guy. “May we come in, my lord?”

“What business is this of mine?” Guy growled, even as he fell back to allow their entry.

His eye was drawn again to the smallest youth, who surely could not be more than thirteen or fourteen in years, unless he was severely undernourished. They trooped past him, dripping rainwater puddles onto the floor. Guy turned his head, hearing an inner door open and saw two befuddled-looking servants peering around it. He guessed his household had probably been celebrating the season in his absence, and that must have been why they had been so hard to rouse.

“Light the fires in the main hall!” he barked, and glanced at the shivering boy again. “And fetch blankets!” He did not know why he added the last directive. Doubtless the angelic face hid the soul of a hardened criminal. Still… For some reason, he did say it. He wasn’t worried overmuch that anyone would accuse him of being tenderhearted. If they did, it would be a first.

The servants fled before him, and Guy led the way to the hall where they were hurriedly lighting the sconces. Bogdon nearly fell into the fireplace he was rekindling, and Jankin looked decidedly bleary-eyed as he brought in ale and blankets for their visitors. Obviously, he thought grimly, his servants had been making merry below stairs.

Guy pulled out a chair and gestured for his visitors to do likewise. He stared at the two boys a moment, before nodding toward the fire which had been banked for the night, but was now starting to put forth flames again. The bigger one took his meaning and dragged the smaller one toward the blaze.

“Hold!” ordered one of the beadles sternly. They were divesting themselves of their rain-soaked cloaks and hats.

“Let them stand with their backs to the fire,” Guy found himself growling. At their astonished faces, he added in a surly voice. “You’ll be cheating the hangman if you let them catch their deaths now.” The merchant’s son laughed, but the beadles both took their seats stiff with affront. Guy motioned for Bogdon to bring forth the ale jug, and his guests were served refreshment as the two boys stood huddled before the huge fireplace, far bigger than the both of them. The whole time, Guy was strangely aware of the huge eyes fixed on his face. Who was the boy to him? Could he be the offspring of one of his men? He raked his memory, but could find no answer.

“Take a blanket,” he barked, ignoring the reproachful gaze of the first beadle. “I can’t hear myself think above the chattering of teeth,” he added, and looked up as more footsteps approached. This time it was Firmin, who had either not yet undressed, or had delayed to redress himself.

He gazed about him in astonishment. “But what is all this?” he asked.

“Join us,” said Guy. “I’m about to find out myself.” He turned back to the men now seated at his table. “Well?”

“My name is Thurston, my lord,” said the merchant when the two beadles sat in stony silence. “Today it was my civic duty to serve as a parish officer. These boys were apprehended earlier in Wickhamford town.”

Instead of asking what that had to do with him, Guy found himself glancing back at the fireplace where the bigger boy was now vigorously rubbing a blanket over the smaller boy’s head and mumbling under his breath. The smaller one stood patient as a lamb, as he was subjected to what looked like a thorough scolding. Could they be siblings? There was precious little resemblance that Guy could see. The bigger boy had rusty brown hair and freckles whereas the smaller one was fine-boned and delicate, with skin that looked translucent in the flickering firelight.

Guy turned back to find all eyes on him. “What had they done?” he asked testily.

The first beadle bristled. “Assaulted a poor carter delivering his goods.” Guy stared the man down. “My lord,” he added hastily.

“Really? These two boys?” he asked scornfully.

“Don’t be deceived by appearances, milord,” piped up the second beadle. “They’re a pair of devils the both of them. Poor man was covered in bruises and that little one even bit him.”