In the wild lands of medieval England, a brutal winter settles upon the poor villagers of the northern realm of Westcliff. But it is not just marauding wolves that they must fear. As they toil for their master Lord Westcliff, he makes plans that wil...
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As he watched the men in the distance begin their slow march into the dark treeline, Lord Westcliff pulled wildly at his hair. He stared intently into the woods, hoping to see his men withdraw with their targets in tow. But all he saw was his garrison disappear into the thick greenery. He stood there, hearing the occasional distant scream from within the woodlands and prayed it was not any of his precious business partners. He noticed a dull pain in his head and looked down to his hand to see a clump of his hair in his fingers. He flashed his eyes left and right to see if he had been overseen. But every soldier stared out beyond the wall or busied themselves in preparation of the castle defences. Lord Westcliff pressed his hands down on the wall ledge and leant forward over the its edge, using the position to casually let his torn hair fall down into the moat below. As the seconds became minutes and with nothing happening by the treeline, he turned to the House Sergeant and summoned him over.
"What happened here?" he demanded with a shrill edge to his voice. The House Sergeant firmed his jaw and shook his head.
"Too early to tell Sir" he replied. "Twas not our men who accompanied the nobles up from the harbour."
Lord Westcliff snarled at the answer, it confirming what he already knew – there was no-one he could cast immediate blame on. An unwelcome thought popped into his head – perhaps he should have sent a contingent of his own men down to escort the lords to his castle? Lord Westcliff ground his teeth as the idea frayed at his mind. But that would have been disrespectful to his new allies he decided, reassuring himself with his own thoughts. No, there was no certainly no blame for him to brook here.
In failure, it is always the leader who must accept fault sounded the familiar voice in his head. Lord Westcliff cringed at the voice and wiped his hand over his face. An image of his father appeared in Lord Westcliff's mind – he was towards the end of his life, frail and terrified. And for some reason the image would not go away. Not now! Lord Westcliff snapped back silently. He heard a deep chuckling in his mind, a mocking sound that would not leave him. He clasped his hands to his head and tried to shake the voice free. But no matter how hard he shook his head, the mocking voice echoed in his brain.
"Sir, is everything alright?" the House Sergeant asked, placing a hand on the young lord's shoulders to steady him. Lord Westcliff snapped his eyes open, fear clear in them as he did. He noticed one of the soldiers behind the House Sergeant ratcheting up a crossbow; the man was watching him as he did so. Lord Westcliff's fear turned to cold rage. He pointed to the man.
"You" he called with a calm voice, "bring me that bow."
The soldier did as he was bade and approached Lord Westcliff and handed him the crossbow.
"Now go stand back over there" came the order. Again the soldier did as he was told. And then he jerked in shock as a heavy bolt thudded into his belly. He looked back at his master and before he could scream, the soldier fell over the wall to splash and sink into the moat below.
