writing_shadows

Tunbridge was dank, the rain coming down in sheets and battering the walls, each blast of wind causing the torches to flicker and the wood to feel ever more slippery and sodden. Outside the long wall the Medway swept past, its swell in full fury as it tried to cast free of its banks and flood the town. In the distance of the night, the bridge itself – a dark, sinister silhouette outside the castle walls – remained stalwart. Around it, the ramshackle houses and inns of the town felt the storm’s relentless cry and shuddered, but the bridge resisted all.

William knew it was the key to Kent. The Medway flowed south to North, out of the Downs, while the Rother went in the other direction, pushing out to Rye. Anyone hoping to enter had to take the London road, past Rochester, or the Pilgrim’s Road, across the great Tun Bridge; anywhere else was a plague of high hills, tributaries and marsh. It was why his family had built their seat here; they were the lords of the crossing.

He turned his face away from the harsh flow, and walked down the steep slopes toward the inner circle. The rider had come in late, his cloak stinking of damp and urine, his horse spattered with mud from the hard road. Up close, William’s nostrils flared as he smelt the blood and corruption in the man’s lungs and tasted the salt on his skin.

“A foul night,” he said, rubbing his knuckles in the wet. “Hard ride?”

“Hard enough my lord,” the rider agreed, his hair matted in the downpour. He was old, nearly 35, his face worn down near to bone in parts, clumps of beard clinging to his chin. William flicked a finger to a nearby groom, who saw to the man’s horse in silence.

William turned, and walked under the stable’s thatch, stepping inside far enough to avoid the dripping streams of water, but not far enough to risk stepping in the dung. The rider, grateful for the shelter, followed him.

“Well, Brenner? What’s on the road?” he was curt, to the point. Brenner was one of his scouts, a wily raven that sat on the Pilgrim’s way and made sure little escaped William’s attention. Like all his scouts, he expected to meet his lord at night; after all, it would not do for scouts to be seen in the day.

“Pilgrims, as usual, off to Canterbury. To the East there's the usual traffic, cargoes from Flanders. There's two wagonloads heading the other way coming across the Weald to market at Ashford; one lost a wheel at Otford, so they'll make for Sevenoaks I'll wager.” Brenner pulled out a pouch, and took a swig of beer. “But the reason I’ve come is there's a noble on the road. Small party, but one you’ll take note of, I’ll warrant. Armoured well enough.”

William waved down the offer of the filthy man’s beer, his mind turning. Please, don't let it be Templars... I can't have them in my rear. “What arms?”

“De Ferrers.”

William cursed; it was worse than heretic head-worshipping swine. “De Ferrers,” he muttered. “So the horseshoe lords of Derbyshire have descended upon me, have they? No doubt to claim the kinship of my wife, and a manor should I grant it to them.”

“Seems that way, m’lord.”

For a moment William realised he’d been speaking of noble matters beyond Brenner’s comprehension. What did a scout know of such things? The man had served him well enough with this little titbit, but now he had little interest in debating the finer points of manoral tenancy with a man who'd never even risen past a sergeant. “How far?”

“A couple of miles, not at Hangman's Hill yet. Moving at night, it seems. I’d expect them before watch change.”

“Well done, Brenner. Get yourself to the common room, take bread and mead and get a good night’s sleep.”

The man nodded, and took his leave. William stood for a moment, licking his fangs, before glancing out once more at the rain. The fell wind was blowing more than rain to his gate. It would seem now he had to contend with one of his wife’s family, hoping to claim some morsel from his table. It would be the third or fourth son: yet another landless boy hoping to carve out a manor for himself in the rich belly of Kent.

Well, no doubt he could use this boy, well enough. His wife would do whatever he commanded, and he was confident that between them they would make sure any aspirations this young hopeful had would fit in with his own designs.

He returned to the bailey, past the dogs and his guard, into his bedchambers, toward the beauty of his wife who rested under the heavy cloths of his bed. He smiled at her, marveling at her youthful beauty. She looked like a maid of twenty years, not a woman in her winters. Cainite blood was potent indeed.

“My lady,” he said, “it would appear we are to have a guest.”