“It’s probably nothing more than an overblown children’s tale. Designed to get the buggers to eat their vegetables and mind their elders.”
“Perhaps. But it doesn’t explain the pilgrims we met on the road to our destination.” He was thinking of the man with one leg, the blind woman, and the young family of four, so tired, so poor, they were all but skin and bones. Each and every one had refused their offer of a ride in the dry and relatively comfortable empty coach that accompanied the retinue - more for looks, than practicality.
When prodded to explain their preference to keep plodding on through the rain and ever deepening shadows of the vast looming woods, with heaven knows how many sharp tooth predators lurking, each had declared the mysterious Beast would know if they took the easy path. That a pilgrim had to prove themselves prepared to face trials of hardship.
It had taken the royal contingent two solid days of riding through the woods, spending restless and damp evenings huddled around the fires at designated cleared campsites before they reached the Keep. Gods knows how long it would take the pilgrims on foot, but none appeared despondent or deterred. Nor would any of them explain what they hoped the Beast would grant them when they reached their goal.
Though there were rumours of miracles performed. And just as many counter rumours claiming the Beast would gift a quick death to anyone found unworthy. Frustratingly, none of the stories were particularly clear on what kind of sacrifice would be required in exchange for the boon the pilgrims sought? Flesh? Blood? Servitude?
Given all the tales and warnings they had been subjected to once they were within a week’s ride of Gloomenthrall Woods, it appeared the mythic Beast was equals parts vicious sharp fanged killer, and at the same time, a saviour of pure goodhearted men.
“I thought for sure they’d been talking about Baron Gloomenthrall.” Brandth pondered, taking the barest sip of mead to wet his parched throat. “But whilst he’s loud… earthy, and wide, I do not think the Keep’s liege could be considered a Beast.”
They shared a look, both recalling the way Baron Gloomenthrall had descended upon the royal entourage the moment they had arrived. The Keep’s servants swarming them in a practised manner, leading their ten guardsmen, the empty carriage and all the horses hurriedly away. Heading, they were advised, to the stables and accommodations located off the main internal courtyard of the Keep.
His Lordship, all smiles, backslaps and enthusiastically loud greetings, steered Brandth and Talac inside the Keep. The greeting feeling determined and practised, like a working dog driving sheep. Herding them deeper still, into a huge dark cavernous cold great hall. Though six fires burned in grates large enough to each fit ten men standing upright, the chill in the air persisted.
A hall that was surprisingly crowded. Over forty men present, sitting in small groups, most playing games of chance with cards or dice. From their clothing and manner, it was easy to surmise these men were noble born. And at first Talac was unable to comprehend why they would choose to linger here, in a damp, dark Keep, miles from anywhere.
Then he noted the women who floated up and down the staircases endlessly, on errands he assumed. Even more of their gender gathering in small groups on the balconies overlooking the great hall, chatting, smiling coyly, laughing softly. So many women. Fifty. Fifty-five, maybe more.
“Me kin, daughters mostly.” Baron Gloomenthrall acknowledged gruffly, rolling his dark eyes in a put upon manner. “I’ve had six wives, Gods rest their souls, except for the current Lady of the Keep of course. She’s resting following the birth of our last child… a girl. Still, I’ve always done my duty by my people and kept myself wed, but what do I have to show for it… daughters, sisters, nieces, granddaughters. You’d think when you married them off the numbers would reduce. No, they come back. Calling themselves widows, often dragging their daughters with them.” Baron Gloomenthrall scratched his ass, heaving out another sigh. “So many women… and this lot hovering, hoping to score a girl and a dowry. Eating a man out of house and home whilst they get their courage up.”
That was an inexplicable statement but Baron Gloomenthrall had already shifted topics. Wanting news of the Vallas Realm. Before moving on to the topic of Pallene, where the Golden Palace was located. Considered the epicentre of the Realm. Before finally enquiring after the health of his Lieges. A far from subtle man, as he questioned them bluntly like you would if you caught a man stealing from you.
But that was Baron Gloomenthrall it seems. Rough. Stout, so very stout, his barrel chest three times the width of Brandth. And he was hairy. His tangled greying black locks falling past his shoulders, his bushy beard longer still. Thick eyebrows hovered above his eyes, making them look smaller than perhaps they really were. The Baron standing at just below the six foot mark, but his stoutness and all that hair made him seem taller, bigger.
His clothing all of good quality, the materials sturdy and comfortable; black breeches, matching surcoat and knee high boots. He was clearly not a man for airs or subterfuge. Eventually asking them rather baldly what a King’s retinue was doing in these parts.
Brandth’s declaration that he was searching for a suitable candidate to invite to the Golden Palace, with a view to meeting and potentially marrying the Prince of the Vallas Realm was met by initial stunned silence. Every female on the staircases or hovering above on the balconies suddenly frozen in place, as if digesting momentous life changing news.
“Ah, now you’ve done it.” Baron Gloomenthrall spat. A wave of all but deafening noise suddenly exploding. Everyone speaking, squealing or shouting at once, their voices echoing in the vast room, the sound building and building. “Enough!” His Lordship had quite the set of lungs. Glaring first upwards at his female kin. Before transferring his glare to the noblemen, noting several had pushed their chairs back, their hands resting on their blade hilts. Rolling his eyes again, his Lordship returned his attention to Brandth. “How many do you plan to take?” He didn’t sound either upset or excited at the prospect that one of his daughters might become the future Queen of the Vallas Realm some day.
Brandth eyed the women hovering on the stairs and the balconies, the air around them taking on a breathless, expectant hush. “I have a list of qualities I look for. If no one meets those criteria, then no invitation is issued. If I find several candidates at the same locale, then I must whittle that number down to one.”
“One?” His lordship muttered before bellowing the word out loudly. “One! You hear that? So, you lot.” He scowled at the noblemen. “Sit down, play your games, and drink my mead, there will be plenty left of me kin to go around.” He looked up, intending to speak again but all the ladies had vanished. “Women.” He muttered under his breath. “Gods help you.” He directed that at Brandth. “I wouldn’t want to be in your boots right now.”
Smiling broadly, Brandth looked unperturbed. “They seem like a group of lovely young ladies. I look forward to getting better acquainted with them.”
Snorting, Baron Gloomenthrall gestured for a nearby servant to show them to their rooms. Their guide leading the way up a myriad of dark stairs, then down several even darker hallways until they arrived at their destination. Interrupting an army of servants still in the process of removing the belongings of whichever nobleman had previously been lucky enough to score the private guest suite prior to Brandth’s arrival.
Now, an hour later, as they tried to get warm in front of the roaring fire whilst Raschion went about the process of attempting to make the room more comfortable, Brandth finally took a telling gulp of mead. “It’s a lot daughters, sisters and nieces.”
“Yes. More worrisome, they were just the ladies of marriable age. How many female kin must the Baron have if you include those already married off, any still in the nursery or schoolroom, and who knows how many spinsters deemed past marriageable age with nowhere else to go?”
“Frightening. No sons you think?”
“Perhaps there are just as many of them, but they have better things to do.”
“And the nobles, you think they’re all here to offer for a bride? His lordship did make mention of dowries. Where does he get his wealth from? With that many mouths to feed, how does the man afford to keep this place running?”
“Did you recognise any of the gentlemen downstairs?” Talac queried, curious.
“A couple of third and fourth sons. And Greasley’s heir, but he’s set to inherit nothing but a big pile of dirt and a delipidated mansion that makes this place look like a shining palace.”
“It was a rather daunting number of dependent female relatives.” Talac’s mind was still boggled by their sheer number.
“You didn’t find it perturbing when he mentioned quite a number are widows returned to the nest?”
