"Just rumours," Fitz continued, "but there are numerous accounts that the sergeant was seen trying to stop the carnage and pull the soldiers back under command. There's also the matter of his record on the frontier, which was exceptional."
"But..." Barrington stammered, "someone must be made to pay! We can't have people going around killing nobles!"
Shrewesdale was unusually quiet. No doubt he knew where this was heading and was waiting for Fitz to show his hand.
"That's all well and good," continued the baron, "but the mob more than likely killed Lord Walters and we have no way of finding out who is responsible."
"I take it," interjected the earl, "that you have a solution to propose?"
"Of course, Your Grace, I think I have a solution that would fit everyone’s needs. I propose that we place the blame on a military unit out of control.
As punishment, dismiss the sergeant from the army, then find him an out of the way job, far from Wincaster where no one will ever hear from him again. The family will retain their honour, after all, since their son was dead, he couldn't control his soldiers, could he? It also stops us from publicly executing a man who has served the king loyally for years, while still getting him away from prying eyes!"
"Excellent," uttered the earl. "We can ship him off to one of the Royal Estates, out in the middle of nowhere. Does he have any skills?"
"I believe he was a farmer before he joined the army," supplied Fitz.
"Perfect," the earl replied with mock joviality. "We'll send him to Uxley; the king never goes there. It's just close enough to Wincaster that we can keep an eye on him, but far enough away that he can't cause problems. What position do we give him? Guard? Stable hand?"
"I should think that groundskeeper would be more fitting to his talents my lord," suggested Baron Fitzwilliam.
"Groundskeeper it is then," the earl downed the rest of his drink. "You have solved a problem for us, Fitz" he congratulated. "I shan't forget it. The king will be pleased."
"I am honoured to have been of service, Your Grace," he replied, bowing slightly.
"I shall inform His Majesty that the matter has been dealt with and have Marshal-General Valmar cut the orders," said the earl. He turned toward the door and stepping forward, placed his glass on the table. As he did so, Beverly opened the door, standing out of his way. "Come along Barrington, we have details to execute." He made this last statement as he began to leave the room.
Barrington, caught unawares, desperately downed what remained of his refilled wine glass and hurried to catch up, placing his glass tottering on the edge of the table as he left. The glass wobbled slightly, then fell from the table, saved from crashing to the floor by the dexterous hand of Beverly.
She closed the door as the two nobles left, the sound of their distant footsteps still echoing in the hallway.
"That was neatly done Father!" she exclaimed.
"I wish I could have done more, but these are dangerous times, and it’s best not to push the king’s favour these days."
It was three days later that Lady Beverly Fitzwilliam met her father at the Queen’s Arms. He was sitting outside, watching people walk by, a tankard of dark ale on the table beside him. A serving wench made her way to the table and laid down a plate of bread and cheese beside him. He was appreciatively looking over the plate as his daughter came toward him.
"You look pleased with yourself!" She had noticed the grin on his face.
"Ahh, Beverly my dear, so pleasant to see you. Come and try some of this delicious cheese." This last statement was made as he popped a piece into his mouth. "A most excellent Hawksburg gold!"
She sat down waving to the server to indicate that she would have the same ale her father was drinking. "I don't know how you can stand that, it smells awful!" She wrinkled her nose as the aroma wafted toward her.
"I must admit that the taste far exceeds its smell!" he exclaimed.
The server brought her a dark ale and wandered off. She waited until the server was out of earshot.
"What news?" she hastily enquired. "Has everything been arranged?"
"Yes. Even as we speak, Gerald is en-route to the Royal Estate at Uxley, where he will take up the position of groundskeeper. We have kept him safe!"
She visibly relaxed. She had been convinced that something would go wrong, but now, as she sat with her father, she could finally take a deep breath. The constant plotting and currying of favour at court was exhausting. One always had to look over one’s shoulder, and be careful when talking, lest eager ears were listening.
The relaxation abruptly ended with her father’s next words.
"Now, we just need to get you a position at court!"
Chapter 9
Settling In
Summer 953 MC
GERALD awoke with the sudden movement of the wagon hitting a pothole and jarring his body. He winced as his leg cried out in agony while he struggled to keep a calm demeanour. The man beside him paid no attention as the wagon kept moving.
He thought of taking more numbleaf, but his supply was getting low. He imagined the rare plant was hard to come by this far from the Capital. Best to save it for when he needed it.
The trip to Uxley had been arduous. It had been one wagon after another, for he could not afford an actual carriage to travel in. The ride had been bumpy, and now he was on the last leg of his trip. He was aboard a wagon belonging to Uxley Village’s saddle maker, a man named Sam. The man was disgustingly cheerful and had talked Gerald’s ear off all the way to the Uxley Estate.
"Shouldn't be long now," the man chatted, "this road bends around a bit up ahead, and then we should have a clear view of the Hall. Ever been out this way before?"
Gerald rubbed his leg and then answered, slowly, “Not really. I travelled through the village on the way to Wincaster, but I’ve spent most of my life in Bodden.”
“Bodden? That’s on the frontier, isn’t it?” asked Sam.
“Yes, far to the northwest.”
“Is it dangerous up there? I hear the Norlanders are always raiding.”
“Yes,” answered Gerald, exasperated by the endless questions. “The Norlanders are constantly trying to steal from us. Occasionally they mount a full-scale attack.”
“I take it you’ve seen some fighting then?”
“You could say that.” Gerald lapsed into silence, hoping the man would stop talking, but it wasn’t to be.
“Is that how you were wounded? Your leg I mean?”
“Yes,” an annoyed Gerald continued, “though it was made worse in the Capital. I took a second cut to the leg stopping a riot.”
The driver nodded as if that cleared up everything.
“How much longer till we arrive?” asked Gerald, eager to be finished with this enforced companionship.
“We’re almost there,” the saddle maker continued. “In fact, we’re right beside the grounds now. Everything to the east of here is the Uxley Estate.”
Gerald looked at the wide-open fields in surprise. “Where are the crops?” he asked.
The saddle maker smirked, “You won’t see fields farmed around here. The Hall was a retreat for the Royal Family, a place for them to get away from the Capital. It used to be a favourite place for the king to hunt, but it’s all quiet now. Though I dare say, there’s a healthy yield of weeds about.” The man laughed at his jest, then continued. “The grounds run for acres, but most of its still wilderness, covered in trees and whatnot. There’s an extensive hedge maze behind the Hall. It was said to be a favourite of the queen, but I hear it’s overgrown now.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, when the king took up with his mistress, he stopped visiting. The staff now does little more than just prevent the house from falling apart. There hasn’t been a royal visitor in years, as far as I know. I’m told the king’s mistress prefers the warmer weather to the south.”
They were almost bounced out of their seats as the wagon struck another pothole. Gerald landed at a
slight angle and pain shot up his leg, causing him to hold his breath against the throbbing.
His host continued his discussion without interruption, “What is it you’re here for again?”
“I’m the new groundskeeper,” he said. “I suppose they need someone to clear away the weeds.”
“You don’t seem very happy about it.”
“Nonsense,” said Gerald, sarcastically. “I’m overwhelmed with excitement.”
“I imagine it’ll keep you busy, at any rate. It’s a vast estate.”
There was a bark from the back of the wagon, and the saddle maker’s dog poked his head between the two men in front.
“Jax is excited. He doesn’t come up here very often.”
Gerald absently pat the dog’s head. “Does that mean we’re almost there?”
“Yes, just beyond the large elm tree there, is the main gate. From the gate, there is a road that heads straight to the Hall, forming a loop at the door, you’ll see.”
“Your dog certainly likes attention,” said Gerald.
"Who Jax? He loves it. He just thinks he's a small dog in a large dog’s body," he chuckled.
"Well, he's certainly a large dog," said Gerald.
Gerald saw an immense archway as they approached the gate, crowned with a wrought iron top. The two large sides of the gate were pushed open, but it was clear they hadn’t been closed for years, as evidenced by the weeds tangled among the vertical metal gates.
In days gone by the Hall must have been an impressive sight, but now the entrance, rather than being an ornate roadway lined with neatly trimmed trees, was a mass of weeds and unkempt bushes.
The house, however, was another story, for although it was only two stories high, the exquisite white stone used to make it stood in stark contrast to the unkempt roadway; small towers decorated each corner.
The wagon pulled up in front of the door and halted.
“Here we are,” announced Sam with a smile. “Good luck to you.”
“Thank you,” said Gerald, “I appreciate the ride.”
“If you ever find yourself in the village, look me up,” offered Sam, “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“That’s kind of you,” replied Gerald noncommittally, slowly lowering himself from his seat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
His feet hit the gravel, and he remained upright by holding onto the side of the wagon. Sam passed him his crutch, and he nodded his thanks. The house looked immense, but he could see the signs of negligence now that he was close to it. The windows were dirty, and the shutters showed where the paint was flaking off.
He moved slowly to the back of the wagon to get his belongings while Jax ran across the top to meet him. He patted the dog a final time as he retrieved his bag. It was hard to be annoyed with such a friendly beast, and he found himself smiling.
He tapped the wagon with his hand, and Sam started moving out. He watched him drive off and was filled with remorse; he had been rude and petulant. The man had only been trying to be helpful. He tucked the crutch under his arm and walked toward the stables, the gravel crunching beneath his feet.
The smell of horses wafted in his direction, pulling his mind back to Bodden. He had never been an accomplished horseman, not like Fitz or his daughter, but he could ride when needed. As he approached the side door, his right foot struck an over-sized piece of gravel and pain lanced through him. He stopped to catch his breath and waited for the familiar throbbing in his leg to quiet down.
He poked his head in the doorway to see a man brushing down a horse, steadying the beast with his hand on its shoulder.
“That’s quite a horse,” he greeted the man.
The man looked up from his work, “Yes, this is Blade, he and his brother pull the wagon.”
It reminded Gerald of the knight’s horses in Bodden. They were of a similar size, but where a knight’s horse was trained to fight, this creature appeared to be docile.
He stepped through the doorway, careful to avoid hitting his foot on the slight incline. “I’m Gerald Matheson,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m the new groundskeeper.”
The man placed his brush down on a nearby stool and walked over, extending his hand in reply, “Glad to meet you. I’m Jim Turner, the stable master.” He looked Gerald up and down, sizing him up. “I have to say,” he continued, “I’m a little surprised. It’s not like we’ve had a groundskeeper in the recent past, and, quite frankly, you don’t look much like one.”
Gerald wasn’t quite sure how to respond, was this man mocking him?
“Not that it matters much, half the staff here is completely unnecessary. Can I ask how you got the job?”
Gerald cleared his throat, “I was recommended by Lord Richard Fitzwilliam, the Baron of Bodden.”
“Indeed,” the man appeared suitably impressed, “and what, might I ask, did you do for the baron?”
“I was his Sergeant-at-Arms for many years.”
“Well, welcome, Sergeant Matheson, to Uxley Hall. If you just let me get Blade here settled, I’ll take you up to the Hall.” He picked up his brush, “Have a seat,” he indicated the stool off to the side, “I’ll only be a moment.”
Gerald sat, grateful for the chance to rest his leg. It was aching again; he considered taking some more leaf but decided against it. He would have to have his wits about him for he was soon to meet his new employer. Being drugged up on numbleaf was probably not his best option for the coming situation.
He watched as Turner walked the animal out of his stall, and handed the reins to a stable boy. It was remarkable how compliant the creature was. He had seen knights struggle with controlling their mounts, but very few had this kind of relationship with a horse. He remembered Baron Fitzwilliam. There was a man who was comfortable around horses, a skill he had imparted to his only daughter.
“This way,” the stable master indicated, “I’ll take you to the servant's entrance around back.”
Gerald dutifully fell into step beside the man, who was gracious enough to walk slowly so that he could keep up.
“The Hall has a dozen or so staff, but for the most part, we’re not very busy. The king doesn’t visit here anymore.”
“Yes,” said Gerald, taking an interest, “they mentioned that in the village. Why is that?”
“The king has many estates,” the stable master continued, “and I hear he prefers to spend his time at court among the wealthy. There’s not much here at Uxley Hall to maintain his interest.”
As he was talking, they were walking down the side of the sizable building. Gerald looked up at the stonework. He could see the fine craftsmanship that had built this place, but it looked like it had not been maintained in years; shutters were broken, bricks were cracked, and the multitude of windows were filthy. He thought he caught a glimpse of someone at one of the windows, out of the corner of his eye, but when he focused his gaze, he could only see a curtain falling back into place.
"So, the place is empty?" he enquired.
"Not exactly, but there's little to do here. You'll find there's an overabundance of staff, and the work is not too strenuous. I expect you'll spend most of your time cutting the grass and trimming the hedge." He nodded toward the vast maze they could now see around the back of the Hall. It was indeed a hedge maze, but the corridors were difficult to see. It had plainly not been trimmed in many years and was now a riot of branches and leaves. If he had wondered what he would do to keep busy, the state of the grounds answered his question.
"Here is the servant’s entrance," presented the stable master, indicating a large wooden door. "We use this whenever we enter or exit the house unless of course there are visitors, but the king hasn't visited in many years." He opened the door as he spoke, and entered the building with Gerald in tow. They walked into a small hallway, with coat racks on the wall on one side, and a small bench one could sit on while removing boots on the other. He beckoned the new groundskeeper to follow him. There were two doors visible, and he nodded to the clo
sest one. "Through there is the kitchen, and the door at the end leads to the servant’s dining room. Follow me."
They turned to the left and entered the kitchen. It was a large room, with ovens along the outside wall and a large work table in the centre. Cabinets and shelves were scattered throughout the room along with a sink, the latter having a hand pump for water. The kitchen was a busy place. Turner introduced the staff that was present in a whirlwind of names. There was Mrs Brown, the head cook, another named Mary, a teenaged girl named Sarah who he rather gathered was the scullery maid. Two more women were sitting at a smaller table nearby, and he struggled to hear their names over the noise of the kitchen.
Gerald nodded as they were introduced He was not likely to remember them all, but he was confident he would learn them in due time.
“Now,” the stable master continued, “we’d best take you to see Hanson, he’s the steward, although he also acts as the head servant when necessary. You can leave your bag here, and we’ll get it on the way back.”
They went out the other side of the kitchen into a hallway which led to the front of the house. They walked no more than ten feet to a doorway on the left that open to another, shorter hallway.
“He’s in his office, down this way,” announced Turner.
They stopped at the door, and the stable master knocked three times.
“Come in,” responded a firm voice from inside.
Turner opened the door and waved Gerald inside. “I’ve got the new groundskeeper here, a Sergeant Matheson.”
An old man sat behind an enormous wooden desk; his thin hair combed over a mostly bald plate. His face was clean-shaven, revealing a wrinkled countenance. The steward had stacks of papers on the desk and was using a quill, which he dipped absently into an inkwell then scratched on the parchment in front of him.
Gerald stood in front of the desk, as any good soldier would.
Hanson waved his hand absently, “Have a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment. You can go Turner.”
“I’ll wait for you in the kitchen. When Hanson’s done with you, come and see me.”
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