Conspiracy of Silence

Conspiracy of Silence

  A story of the Count of Trall

  by

  Marcus Pailing

  (c) Copyright, Marcus Pailing, 2012

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and places in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental.

  The maps in this publication were created by the author using Campaign Cartographer, from ProFantasy Software Ltd.

  Other titles by Marcus Pailing:

  The Fields of Battle trilogy

  Part 1: The Death of Kings

  Part 2: The Demon’s Consort

  Part 3: Fields of Battle

  The Withered Rose

  (The events described in The Withered Rose take place some years before those covered in the Fields of Battle trilogy.)

  For more information on the world of Gilderaen, and on future books, visit the Gilderaen page on Facebook.

 

  Contents

  Map: Western Hograth

  Conspiracy of Silence

  Author’s Note

  About the author

  Other novels by Marcus Pailing, available as eBooks:

  Map: Western Hograth

  Conspiracy of Silence

  I am an old man now, as you know all too well, but I still remember clearly the first time I met Kieldrou, the Count of Trall. It is a story I told many times to my children, who grew up eager to hear about that great man. In turn I have told it to my grandchildren here, when they sat on my knee or huddled before the fire, begging to be told about my youthful encounters with the man who was so dominant in Hograth – in all of Gilderaen, possibly. But those of you who are my guests here tonight, you have not heard it before, so I trust my dear grandchildren will forgive my relating it again. Oh, you wish to hear it, do you? What, even having endured it so many times before? Well then, we are all content.

  I should say, to begin with, that my first encounter with the Count was of great importance to me. Many small folk account their meetings with the rich and powerful as noteworthy, for obvious reasons; but in my case it is especially true, as the whole path of my life changed as a result of my meeting. After all, here I sit as the lord of a manor in a great barony, a position rarely, if ever, achieved by one of lowly birth such as I. This particular tale will not explain how I crossed the boundaries of position to reach my present status. It must be told, however, as a necessary prelude to that particular story.

  I am long past my usefulness now – no, don’t deny it, for we all know it to be true, otherwise I would have ridden with you on your hunt today, rather than spending the daylight hours here beside the fire. But I was a mere boy when I first met the Count, back in the first years of his greatness – it was the year of 1257, when Kieldrou had only ruled Trall for two or three years and Sturgar, the Earl of March, was still in high favour. I must have been fourteen at the time, for I had not yet met Lyssa, who came to Gerroch a couple of months later, after I turned fifteen. That was my lovely Lyssa, who eventually became my wife and the mother of my children, grandmother to some of you here.

  I was orphaned at an early age, and was sent by my mother’s family to the royal castle of Gerroch to earn my keep as a stable lad, for they could not take me in. They had three sons of their own, my uncles, who each had children, and although the land was fertile I was a burden they could not shoulder. I do not think I was unwilling to go.

  I remember that it was a warm spring, one of the warmest we had had for some years. As often as I could I would escape the oppressive heat and smell of the stables, after I had completed my morning tasks of feeding, grooming and mucking out. I would run out of the castle, past the friendly gatekeeper, and flee to our favourite spot on the river, some two miles from the castle and the town. There the trees clustered about the cool, refreshing water. The road ran along the top of a low ridge, following the course of the river towards the town. When you were in the trees, or splashing about in the water, you could see all the way to Gerroch, and two or three miles in the other direction; but if you wanted to you could easily hide behind the screen of tree trunks and foliage, escaping notice even while you spied on the road. Sometimes I went down to the river on my own, but often I escaped there with others of the castle boys – even with some of the girls, if they could sneak away from the kitchens or poultry at the time.

  On that beautiful spring day I went to the river with my two best friends, Madric and Theostan. Madric was my age, a stable boy like me – he died last year, I heard, during that harsh winter, which saddened me, for he was my closest friend. Theostan was a year older than we other two, and he worked in the smithy. He was the envy of us all, for he was a big youth, his work at the bellows and hammer giving him thick arms and big shoulders. We were thin, undersized lads – not without strength, for never let it be said that stable work doesn’t require muscle – but at fourteen we were still narrow-shouldered boys, not yet men.

  When we reached our spot we plunged down the ridge, through the trees towards the water, stripping off our clothes as we ran, shouting with joy at our temporary freedom. We leaped into the water, which was not deep, and soon much of the stable dirt had sloughed from our skin. We splashed around, play-fighting, Madric and I attempting as always to duck Theostan below the surface. We never succeeded, of course, and more often than not we were the ones who got doused, held under by his strong hands as we churned up the silvery water around us with flailing arms.

  In the middle of this fight, however, we felt Theostan’s grip on our heads slacken and we erupted, spluttering and laughing, preparing to do more battle. But Theostan was no longer interested in us. He stood still in the water, which lapped around his waist, and his breathing was laboured as he stared up past the screen of trees, towards the ridge.

  “Look,” he said, pointing along the road. “Will you look at that.”

  We followed where he pointed, shielding our eyes from the glare of the sun and squinting. There was a column of men riding along the road towards Gerroch, perhaps a score of them, maybe more. Spear points glinted in the sun towards the rear of the caravan. It was impossible, at that distance, to see any detail, but the size of the party told us one thing at least – that here was some lord, riding towards our home.

  Now we knew that, within the week, Gerroch would be inundated by the greatest and noblest of the land. The King himself was coming here with his court, during his annual progress throughout the kingdom. Things had been under preparation for weeks – provisions brought in, accommodation arranged, merchants arriving with their wares – but here was the first sign of what was to come, and we were the first of the castle folk to see them.

  “I wonder who it is,” Madric said, the apparent nonchalance in his voice not quite succeeding in hiding the excitement that he felt – that all three of us felt.

  We scrambled out of the river and ran to our clothes, tripping ourselves up as we struggled to clamber into our trews and pull our woollen shirts over our heads. Still dripping wet we tugged on our shoes and raced through the trees, up the steep slope of the little ridge to stand at last on the crest, at the roadside, gasping for breath and staring wide-eyed at the approaching horsemen.

  As they drew closer, we were able to get a good look at the two men who rode at the head of the column, slightly ahead of the next men in the file. They were talking and laughing together and, so far, it did not appear that they had noticed us.

  The man on the near side was certainly the shorter of the two, but he rode with the easy comfort of one who was at ease with his stature: straight backed, hand loosely but firmly holding the reins, controlling his horse with strong legs. His right hand was on his thigh as he leaned closer to his companio
n to make a joke. His hair was short, blond, his features strong and handsome, his shoulders broad. His clothes were certainly not shabby, even if they were not rich – simple riding leathers, but well made, especially his boots of soft doeskin, such as we poor lads had rarely seen.

  But it was his companion, on the right, who drew our attention. Tall, in his late twenties, as was the other, he was similarly well-proportioned. He wore silver rings in his ears, and a silver chain hung around his neck, resting on the breast of his richly embroidered tunic. He also wore boots of supple doeskin, but these were newer than those of his friend, and probably had been more expensive, as far as our untrained eyes could tell.

  Yet there was one feature about him which really stood out and drew our eyes to him in