Trug de Bellême

The ride back north was a blur – all Trug could see was an endless loop of his father's death. The stumble, the fall. Tears blinded his eyes, his throat was raw from screaming. His mount was no warhorse, but the sounds of battle and the scent of fire had driven the poor beast mad with terror, and the miles were flying away beneath its hooves. Looking back, Trug could see the ruddy glow of the fires at the camp flickering against the black, billowing clouds of smoke boiling up into the sky.

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An unknown time later, his horse finally gave into exhaustion and slowed to a walk. Trug lifted his head, and blearily took in his surroundings. Although the hour was getting late, a gibbous moon helped pick out the walls of Chernsburg rising ahead. The city had been built atop a rise, and the slopes leading up to it were covered in the rude huts and shacks of the local workers. While violent crime was kept to a minimum by the City Watch, the slums were not a good place to dawdle after dark – particularly for a boy who looked as threatening as a wet dishrag. Trug spurred his mount through at a trot, getting a few sidelong glances from the local denizens as he passed.

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As he rode up to the gates, Trug saw two of the guards in a very animated discussion. “...forest fire, mayhaps?” said the taller of the two, looking off to the south. “If that's the new township, his Lordship is going to be fuckin' livid. Glad Jory was on runner duty tonight, you couldn't pay me enough to wake up the Count when –“ The guard's companion nudged him with an elbow as he caught sight of Trug riding up the path. “Halt, lad. Who goes there?”

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“Sergeant, I must see Count Gram!” Trug's voice came out in a harsh, grating rasp. “The mill is b-burning, the workers are being attacked, a-and... my... my father...”

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“Your father?” The guard stepped closer, peering up into Trug's face. “Wait, I know you, you're Bellême's son. Where is your father, lad?” Trug couldn't speak, tears and rage had choked him as surely as a garrote. He could only shake his head. “Dead? Dammit... Let's get you to the Count, lad. Come on, get down, that horse of yours is about done in from the looks of him.”

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Trug wordlessly dropped down to the ground, feeling as though he had been hollowed out inside. He followed the guardsman through the postern gate, where a pair of destriers had been tied to the hitching post. The guard helped Trug up onto one of the stallions, mounted behind him, and sent it off along the road to the Central District at a gallop.

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Chernsburg was set out in a hub, with gates at each point of the compass. Directly inside the walls, the wood and plaster shops and homes of the city's vendors and workers lined the streets. The citizenry here were clearly better off than those in the slums, but the houses and tenements were by no means grand – most had seen better days, and even the largest of the houses were cheek and jowl with their neighbors.

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The charger went across Horn Way, a large street which wound around the entire city. This street marked the beginning of the Central District, where the craftsmen, merchants, and lesser nobility called home. The streets here were brightly lit with torches, and the crimson and black liveried City Watch were a regular sight as they went around on patrol. The homes here were of far better construction, with tended hedges and the occasional piece of sculpture to set them off from their neighbors. Trug saw several of his father's projects, including many of the gabled roofs which had made him his fortune.

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The Count's manor stood at the center of the city. It was a two story red brick structure, surrounded by a low stone wall. Even at this late hour, the manor blazed with light – clearly the Count was already awake. Two watchmen waved them through the gates, and the sergeant pulled his horse to a halt in front of the iron-studded front door of the house.

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The massive portal was pulled open as they approached, and a man wearing the City Watch uniform stood in the entryway. The man looked to be in his fifties, with a large scar down the right side of his face. A gold braid hung over his left shoulder, and his arms and armor looked well-worn. “Torvald, what news?”

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The sergeant banged his fist to his chest in salute. “Captain, this is the Bellême boy. Just arrived at the gates, said he was at the township when it was attacked. Asked to see the Count, sir.”

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The man grunted, and stood to the side to allow them in. “Best make it quick, boy. Gram's not in the best of moods right now, but he'll want to hear what you've got to say. Follow me.”

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Trug took in the scenery as he passed through a short hall toward a stairway. What he could see was gorgeous – well-fitted floors of sanded cherry wood, almost gleaming in the lamplight. Plaster on the walls, hung with a variety of tapestries and paintings. Laquered wood furnishings and silver-backed wall sconces polished until they shone. Clearly, the Count did not skimp on his comforts.

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At the top of the stairs, the Captain stopped before a heavy oaken door and gave Trug one last warning look. “Best behavior now, young master Bellême.” He knocked once, and opened the door into the Count's study.

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Count Gram had clearly not been out of bed for long. His white hair was tousled and sticking up every which way, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was standing behind his desk, reading a scattering of reports. A pewter mug rested on the side of the desk, next to a silver wine decanter. His gaze rose as the trio entered the room, and he did not look pleased.

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“What is it now, Dumorne? I already have someone reenacting the Richfort rebellion on my land, and now you're dragging in waifs and orphans?”

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Trug's fist clenched at 'orphans', and he started to draw in breath for an angry retort. The sergeant's hand came down on his shoulder and gave a warning squeeze – this was not the time nor place for a boy's temper to get the better of him. The Captain cleared his throat and gestured at Trug. “This is Bellême's son, my lord. He's just come in from the camp with news about the situation.”

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Gram's eyes softened slightly. “Ah, William's son. Forgive me, lad, it has been an awful night and I forgot my manners. What news have you?”

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As quickly as he could, Trug related the attack on the work site. The Count's expression went from concern to anger as the tale progressed, and he collapsed back into his chair as the story came to an end. He rubbed at his temples with his fingertips, his eyes closed. “Captain Dumorne. Assemble a patrol and ride south,” said the Count, his tone cold. “Find any survivors, and find me who did this.” Gram raised his head and glared at the Captain. “If it is more than just a few bandits, do not engage them. You're the Watch, not the Duke's army. Understood?” The captain banged out a salute and nodded. “Yes, my lord. On my way.”

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As the Captain left, the Count turned and beckoned at his page. “Bring another cup, boy.” Gram took the decanter and filled both cups, offering one to Trug. “It's a hard thing, losing your father. Nothing that I, nor anyone else can say will make it hurt any less.” He drained his mug, and Trug followed suit. The un-watered wine burned like fire, but Trug almost welcomed the pain. “I do know what you're going through, though. I lost my own father when I wasn't much older than you. And while it may not take away from the pain,” Gram said, leaning over to refill Trug's cup, “it may give you a certain satisfaction to know that this County will not rest until the sons of whores that did this are all swinging from the gallows in the town square. Your father was a good man, one I counted as a friend.”

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Trug tipped back the second cup, more slowly this time. The thought of whoever was responsible hanging by the neck, face blackening, legs kicking for purchase they would never find... Trug felt the warmth from the wine spreading out into the rest of his body; felt the slow rage that had been buried underneath his grief begin to rise. “I want to help find them, my lord. I want to put that rope around their necks myself.”

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Gram smiled wryly, and took the cup back from Trug's side of the desk. “I fear you're not used to strong wine yet, young Master Bellême. I respect your fervor, but I would be doing you a disservice if I sent you out – “

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Trug slammed a fist on the desk, and rose to his feet in tipsy indignation. “Disservice?! Sir, my father is dead and you – “

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“Enough.” The Count stared up at Trug, his eyes once again hard as flints. “I respected your father, and I respect your family. But mind...your...bearing, boy.”

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Trug swallowed, feeling a cold sweat break out on his forehead. Suddenly his knees felt unsteady, and the pain and exhaustion from the past week came crashing back in. He stumbled back into his chair and bowed his head meekly. “My lord, I forgot myself. Please forgive me.”

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“Nothing to forgive, Trug. As I said before, I know what you're going through.” Gram beckoned his page, and whispered a few words in the boy's ear. The page scurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. “I honestly would have been more offended if you hadn't wanted to seek your vengeance, my boy. Hold on to that anger, keep it until you need it. Once this is over, we'll see about getting you some proper military service where you can put that to good use, along with the brains your father and mother gave you.” The door opened to readmit the page, who have Gram a quick nod. “Well, that was quick. Speaking of your mother, I believe she's here to take you back home.”

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His mother! Trug felt the wine in his stomach trying to make a break for freedom. He had completely forgotten about her in the mad dash to escape the camp, and the chaos that had ensued on his arrival in Chernsburg. How was he supposed to tell her that William had been shot down in the woods like a common dog?

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Emily Bellême swept past the page into the room, and dragged Trug into a rib-breaking embrace. She was a tall woman, slender with dark brown hair put up in a braid that reached down almost to her waist. She was wearing a simple blue dress and working shoes, likely thrown on in her rush out to the carriage. She grabbed Trug by the shoulders and held him away at arms length, quickly looking him up and down.

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“Oh, my dear boy, just look at the state of you! Bloodied, beaten, but ALIVE. Praise Ao for that.” She raised her head to look at Gram and made a brief curtsy. “My lord, thank you for sending for me,” she said with a smile, “although it was hardly necessary. I was already at your door when your page nearly bowled me over. I couldn't help but see the fires, you understand.”

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Gram stepped around the desk and took Emily's hand, bowing slightly. “Of course, Emily, of course. My apologies for the delay, but I only just learned of the extent of the situation from your fine son here a short while ago.” He sighed deeply. “I am afraid we must prepare for the worst. William may not have survived.”

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Emily gave a most unladylike snort. “Bill, dead? I'll believe it when I see the body, sir. Not a moment sooner. You know him better than that, Gram.” Emily put her arm around Trug's slumped shoulders and guided him toward the door. “Let's get you home.” Trug was vaguely aware of walking out of the Count's manor and into his family's carriage, then fatigue overcame him and he knew no more.