Crimson Chains - The Dark Beginnings of Father Christmas

Chapter Seven - Gilded Scheming

Lord Westcliff sat at his table and stared out to the sea. Several storeys up in his private tower, he rested in his strongroom – a place of safety from all but the strongest of winds and beyond reach of most missiles. Only a well-aimed ballista bolt or a boulder thrown from the stoutest of war machines had any chance of striking this high. Starvation and disease were the only genuine threats should he need to encamp to this last resort. But with months of supplies stored in the turret, it was extremely unlikely that anyone besieged in the strongroom would ever need to worry. Narrow windows built into the walls were angled to cover every line of fire and with a hefty arsenal of crossbows stacked by the windows, anyone approaching this tower was well within range of a skilled shooter. Lord Westcliff prided himself highly on his markmanship.

He cast his eye lazily back to his bed, noticing a rustling of the sheets and caught sight of the long dark hair of the previous evening's conquest. He had been in a fine mood, celebrating the success of his trade deal. As the evening had worn on, one of the pleasure girls had taken his fancy. As he looked at the girl again, he shook his head as he recognised why he had picked her. The similarities with Lady Saida were quite striking. Her skin maybe not so dark, but other than that this one could easily pass as her double. The girl looked up from the sheets and smiled coyly as she caught Lord Westcliff's eye.

"Leave!" he commanded simply, denying the hopeful glint in the eager woman's eye. She frowned and threw a practiced pout onto her lips, keen to earn more gold, but Lord Westcliff simply shooed her away with his hand. Not willing to argue with the young man, she threw a translucent shift over her shoulders and stomped out of the room. If Lord Westcliff had even noticed the histrionics, he didn't show it. His eyes were firmly locked onto the grey waters beyond him. He forced his fantasies concerning Lady Saida from his mind, reminding himself he was a noble and could not become entwined with a woman of Moorish heritage, no matter her status in her homelands – and no matter how attractive she was. Saida was effectively an ancestral enemy and for him to succumb to her would only lead to his downfall. He knew as well as any how little an opportunity needed to be for a rival to seize it.

Lord Westcliff found his gaze drawn over to an old stone bust of his father. The bust showed the man thinner in the jowls than Lord Westcliff remembered him, and with a strong confident look to his eyes. It portrayed a man perhaps ten, maybe fifteen years older than Lord Westcliff was now, a man in his prime. The bust had been made at a time when the weight of responsibility had been less of a burden to the former ruler, when he had juggled the demands of the role effortlessly. But in the months leading up to his death, Lord Westcliff's father had appeared a shriveled version of the stone image. Fearful and confused, he had suspected treachery from every corner. His weakness had been talked about openly in neighbouring courts, and all the noble houses had waited in anticipation to see who would move to usurp Castle Westcliff and put the wretched old man out of his misery.

And so when news spread of Lord Westcliff's passing, the only surprise had been that his death had been natural. Wagging tongues had been quick to assume a coup from within, and for the old man's bloodline to swiftly follow him in death. But far from it, his son and heir had survived and been coronated without incident. The young lord stood to look at his father's image, examining his features in detail. His hand came up and felt at the ridges of his face, the thickness of his hairline.