‘Tell him I await his return with breathless anticipation. By the way, tell Vorfgan not to duel anyone with sticks again; we can’t have all the barons here walking round with bells
ringing in their ears.’
‘That sounds like a story I should hear sometime – but I should be on my way right now. Until we meet again when hopefully things will be better between you both.
Farewell.’
Although her husband’s absence was for one day only, she was now mistress of the hall with all its concomitant responsibilities. This included listening to petitions from disgruntled
locals with an axe to grind. Ordinarily, she would send them away and ask them to come back on her husband’s return, but she was in a bloody mood and decided that this time she would hold
court herself.
She soon regretted her decision; the first petition was between two fishermen disputing ownership of a boat. The older man had been ill for some time and had leased his boat out on the proviso
of the catch being shared equitably; the younger man stated that the boat had been sold to him and had written proof from the other of this. Two simple questions later and it was obvious that the
‘seller’ could not read or write so she found in the older man’s favour, warning the loser that he would be flogged if he tried something like this again.
The second petition was against the proprietor of the local brothel: a couple of the women that worked there accused him of brutalising them if they made insufficient money or threatened to
leave and work elsewhere. They displayed the red marks on their wrists, where they claimed they were restrained by ropes while they were beaten; there were no marks on their bodies, they said,
because it would damage their ability to earn. The proprietor, a burly lump of muscle and bone called Cragvan, was a former sailor and prison guard who certainly knew how to injure without bruises;
he used thick ropes on them among other things. The man’s defence seemed to be little more than that they were whores whose word could not be trusted. He appeared stunned when he saw it was
the Baroness holding the hearing.
‘So how did they get the marks on their wrists?’ she asked him.
‘Self-inflicted, my Lady; they have a grudge against me because they think I take too much of their earnings, but with the rent on the place they work I have no choice.’
‘I see.’ To her annoyance this was trickier than she wanted it to be; it was little more than one word against another. She called over Wulfthram’s seneschal and right-hand
man, a grizzled fellow in his sixties called Bruan.
‘My husband would let him go, wouldn’t he?’
‘With a warning, my Lady; he would send the guards round to visit occasionally, to make sure nothing like this was going on again.’
‘But the girls would be too frightened to say anything, and if he leaves no marks...’
‘There is no real evidence against him and so, if he is punished too harshly, questions may be asked as to the wisdom of your justice. A brothelkeeper often has a wide net of contacts and
could use that to bad-mouth you in the town and surrounding area; it could well prove detrimental to your husband’s attempt to govern these lands in the long term.’
‘You’re not happy with me taking this court, are you?’
‘It is entirely your decision, my Lady, though Baron Wulfthram’s first wife never sat in judgment on others.’
‘Well, hopefully Camille will guide me to show some little of her wisdom. Tell me, how much do these girls earn?’
Both women had seen better days. They were probably in their thirties but looked older; they had the large haunted eyes and sunken cheeks of women that had fought hunger for many years. The one
woman had an ugly red welt on her forehead in the shape of a W where she had been branded, a punishment for prostitution.
‘These two? They are not the best he can offer; they probably pick up a ducat an hour of which they would keep thirty pennies or so; so for eight hours’ work they would get two,
maybe two and a half ducats.’
It was a pitiful amount – barely enough to feed them, let alone any children they might have.
‘I didn’t know Wulfthram branded the girls up here.’
‘He doesn’t. She must have received it elsewhere; only thieves and felons that injure people get branded. He doesn’t see whores as criminals.’
She spoke to the branded woman.
‘Do you have any children?’
‘Two, my Lady. One works on the boats helping to mend nets and sails; the other is little more than a babe.’
‘Your older child is...?’
‘Seven, my Lady.’
‘Seven.’ She turned to the other woman. ‘And you?’
‘I have five children all under ten, my Lady. My husband works the land for you and the good Baron Wulfthram.’
‘Thank you.’ This wasn’t getting any easier; she shut her eyes praying silently for divine inspiration. Suddenly something did come to her and she called Bruan over again.
‘Their wounds, how long will they take to heal.’
‘Two to three weeks I would guess, my Lady.’
‘Very well.’ She stood as she was supposed to in giving judgment.
‘It has been decided that there is not enough evidence to convict Master Cragvan of damaging these ladies.’ She avoided looking at their faces. ‘However, it appears that they
have received injuries that would impair their ability to work while the marks are still visible. Master Cragvan is deemed to be responsible for their welfare while they work for him and so he is
required to pay compensation to them until their injuries heal in about three weeks’ time. He will pay them each sixty ducats, plus a further ten to cover costs and expenses incurred in
bringing this case. Seneschal Bruan will ensure that the premises are visited regularly so no further injuries are sustained by his staff. The petition has been heard.’
The ladies gasped with delight while Cragvan’s eyes burned into her. The guards led them out of the hall.
‘You know,’ Bruan said, ‘it would be a very stupid man to beat women without leaving a mark only to neglect injuries caused by wrist restraints. Why tie them up when they only
needed to be held down?’
‘Are you implying that those injuries were self-inflicted?’
‘I imply nothing, my Lady; only that justice has been seen to be observed.’
‘I hope so; he underpays those girls anyway. What is the next case?’
‘One more case, my Lady; an odd one, too. Some fishermen and their families from Baron Farnerun’s lands have fled here and settled themselves in Roten, the large fishing town in the
north. They are eating into the locals’ catch and compete successfully with them on market day. The petitioner is a local magistrate who wishes them to return home but they say they are
afeard to. I don’t know why.’
‘Right, send them in.’
In they came. The magistrate was a tall thin man with a large crooked nose dressed in a faded red velvet jerkin and breeches; the exiles were represented by a stoutly built man in oilskins and a
small shrewish-looking woman in a well-made though slightly threadbare dress that would have been quite the fashion twenty years ago. The petitioner spoke first.
‘My Lady, I am sorry to take up your time like this, but this is a matter that cannot continue without some resolution. Some three months ago six small fishing boats arrived here from the
town of Oxhagen on the coast, where Baron Farnerun has his lands. Since then they have purchased two houses in Roten and have set up in business here. In our town everyone has their own delineated
fishing grounds from which they deviate only with permission from the family in whose waters they wish to fish, but these outsiders’ fish where they like and furthermore undercut our fish
prices in the market, pulling trade away from families who have fished here for generations. When I asked them why they have moved here in the first place they give us some Uba-driven nonsense
about running away from ghosts! I humbly beseech you to tell them to return home.’
‘And what do you have to say about this?’ She turned to the other man.
‘My Lady, I know I am the outsider here but I beg you to hear what I have to say. When we arrived we asked the magistrate to be granted some fishing grounds, however remote or poor. We
were refused. We have also been refused access to the market and so have to trade from our homes half a mile away. Selling the fish cheaper is the only way to attract custom, even if it means we
barely make a profit.’
‘So how did you purchase your houses?’ Bruan asked brusquely.
‘Our life savings, sir; we now have nothing left and live three families to a house.’
‘If things are so bad here, why leave your home town? What is this ghost tale that frightens you so?’ Ceriana asked.
The man looked sheepish, so the woman spoke instead; she sounded like someone who would not be argued with.
‘My Lady, as my husband’ – she dug him in the ribs – ‘seems to have lost the use of his tongue, allow me to speak on his behalf. We lived in Oxhagen, a fishing town
that lies in the shadow of some ancient ruins, built by people long dead. Everyone says they are haunted but we’s as lives there laughs at such talk. My family has lived there for hundreds of
years and has never seen or heard anything scarier than a night owl screeching. Well, some three months ago, maybe four, my youngest, Moris – he is seven he is – well, he was playing in
the ruins with his friends. Close to the ruins is a small cove – Pedens Cove; it is sheltered and has a beach and a steep path leads right up to the ruins it does. Well, Moris was chasing his
friends around and mayhap catches sight of the cove below, and what do you think he saw, my Lady?’
Ceriana shrugged; she imagined the woman’s husband spent as much time at sea as possible. ‘I do not know. Please tell me.’
‘Two ships.’
‘Ships? In a cove? Hardly unusual, surely?’
‘Are but these were ships built like no others anyone here has seen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were built to look like monsters they were – great snake’s head, with wings port and starboard and a long tail.’
Ceriana was suddenly all attention. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, my boy and his friends hid and watched, and from the boat men came climbing up the path to the ruins.’
‘Could he describe these men?’
‘Yes and no, my Lady. No – because they all looked the same. And yes – because they were all bald and wore black cloaks.’
The magistrate cut in. ‘Preposterous! My Lady, do you even wish to hear more of this twaddle? I can have them both flogged for wasting your time, if you wish.’
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Let them continue.’
The woman, who looked momentarily fearful after the magistrate spoke, carried on.
‘The boys watched them disappear into an old stone tower; they were gone a long time, so my Moris, brave lad that he is, snuck up to this tower and looked in.’
‘What did he see?’
‘A great stairway going down into darkness – one that no one that has lived there years like me had never seen before. He started to go down them but when he reached the bottom there
was lots and lots of branching tunnels. The poor lad was already petrified, so he climbed back up the stairs and legged it back home to tell the rest of us.’
The man butted in. ‘None of us believed him, a boy and his wild imaginings, but to satisfy our ladyfolk’ – he looked balefully at his wife – ‘some of us went up
there to have a look.’
‘And were the tunnels there?’
‘Yes, my Lady; it was as the lad said. Three of us armed with cudgels and carrying torches went inside. The tunnels twisted and turned and we were soon unsure as to where we were. The
walls were covered in strange carvings and they were damp to the touch. After walking for some half-hour I turned and Byran, one of our number, had vanished!’
The magistrate sighed and shook his head. ‘I would imagine her Ladyship would like to hear the end to these ramblings before Winterfeast.’
‘Yes,’ said Bruan, ‘finish your story.’
‘We retraced our steps, but took a wrong turning somewhere. While we were trying to find the right way out, I stumbled over something in the dark. I fell and bloodied my chin. When I got
up my companion, Garthen, was standing over something with a torch.
It was a man, as my boy said, wearing black and with no hair, but he was covered in white frost, almost solid, his face and lips cracked. We thought him dead but then his eyes opened and he
spoke to us.’
Ceriana looked intently at him. ‘What did he say? It is very, very important that you remember the exact words.’
‘Well, my Lady, his accent was strong and it made no sense – to me anyway – but it was something like “We have what we came for but we have awoken them.”
“Awoken who?” I asked. “The guardians,” he whispered. I tried asking who they were... “Your death!” and then he laughed. I shook him for more details but he died
there and then. Garthen and I looked at each other, wondering what to make of it all when we heard a scream, a terrible scream. We followed it through the tunnels and turning a corner we saw Byran.
He was stood against a wall and was surrounded.” The man swallowed; he looked frightened. ‘The things surrounding him were ... shadows, dark men shaped things with glowing blue eyes.
Byran was screaming and the frost was all over him like the other man. Then the shadows turned and saw us... Artorus help me, but we ran. We left Byran and ran. The Gods were kind for we found the
exit quickly and we did not stop running till we got home.’
‘And so you fled the village,’ said Ceriana.
‘No,’ said the woman. ‘There is more. Two days later my husband was waiting by the boat, waiting to go out, but Garthen, the first mate, didn’t turn up. Impatient, he
went to his cottage and found...’
‘Garthen, his wife and children, all dead. Frozen to their beds. The man was white.’
‘And so the entire family, cousins and all, decided to leave before it was our turn,’ said the woman.
The magistrate gave a derisive snort. ‘I cannot believe you have wasted our Lady’s time with this nonsense.’
‘Tis true as Elissa is my witness,’ said the woman. ‘The Gods strike us dead if we tell a lie.’
‘Wait,’ said Ceriana, ‘I have decided. This matter needs to be investigated. Until these enquiries are concluded these families are to be giving grounds to fish and a place in
the market. In return for that, they must charge normal prices for their fish. If there is no substance to this story, they are to leave the area immediately and return home.’