Free The Falls of Erith by Kathryn Le Veque Page A

girl’s hair. “There are… ways.”
    “What
ways?”
    Constance
leaned in close, her lips almost against the girl’s ear. “Listen and learn,
darling. Your grandmother knows best.”
     
    ***
     
    Creekmere
Castle was a small fortress built in the shape of a triangle.  It was partially
buried against a heavily forested hill and nicely arranged, as Braxton noticed
as his army approached. Baron Wenvoe carried around one hundred fifty men, not
a sizable force.  In fact, Creekmere seemed like a miniature version of a
normal sized castle.  Everything about it was small, including its lord.
    Neil
Wenvoe met Braxton in the bailey of his small, red-stoned fortress.  He was
short and round, with small eyes and a smelly aura.  Braxton left Dallas
settling the men and went inside the small keep to conduct business.
    He
was on edge as he followed the baron into the dark, fragrant structure.  He had
been on edge ever since leaving Erith, feeling more apprehension with every
step of his destrier. It was unusual that he felt such apprehension; he had
been a mercenary for twenty-one years and in that time, had learned to keep his
apprehension at bay.  He knew his anxiety was not because of the job itself. He
did not fear battle.  His trepidation lay in the unknown details that would
soon be made clear to him.  Something told him to expect the worst, and for
good reason; Cumbria was relatively sparsely populated. How many troublesome
neighbors could Wenvoe have? With an unsettled debt with Garber Serroux, a
neighbor less than a day’s ride to the south, there was good reason to be
suspicious.
    The
keep was three stories, with one room per floor. The baron took Braxton into
the great hall, well furnished with fresh rushes, fat tapers, and even a
tapestry hung high on the wall.  Fine wine, cheese and brown bread were brought
out to refresh them.  The baron took a seat on the long scrubbed table,
motioning for Braxton to sit opposite him.
    “I
take it your travels were uneventful,” Wenvoe said.
    “We
had no trouble, my lord,” Braxton replied.
    “Good.
Then we may get to business.”
    So
much for the pleasantries, though in Braxton’s business, he was used to the
lack of social graces. Men did not hire him for his oratory skills
    “Your
initial missive stated that you had need for my military services, my lord,”
Braxton said. “You mentioned trouble with a neighbor. I would hear the entire
story and what, exactly, you want of me.”
    Wenvoe
nodded. “Trouble indeed,” he snorted. “I will tell you my situation and exactly
what I need from you. You shall be well paid for your efforts.”
    “I
always am, my lord.”
    Wenvoe
lifted a bushy gray eyebrow at the comment but continued along his line of
thought. “I have many friends and allies in Cumbria and elsewhere. Not too long
ago, my ally, Edward de Romille of Skipton Castle, sent a missive to me that
was of particular concern.”
    “And
what is that?”
    “’Twould
seem that someone is trying to cheat me out of what is rightfully mine.”
    “If
you would be plain, my lord.”
    Wenvoe’s
round face flushed. “Years ago, a former ally borrowed a great deal of money
from me. When he could not pay it back, he promised me the hand of his daughter
when she became of age in repayment for this debt. Now I am to discover that
the family is soliciting marriage offers for this same daughter when the girl,
and the fortress, rightfully belong to me. And I would now take what is mine.”
    Braxton
suddenly had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He simply could not
believe what he was hearing, though in truth, he was not surprised.  The
coincidence was nauseating and he knew, before names were even spoken, who the
family was. It was all to close, too coincidental. It was like a bad dream.
    “And
this family, my lord?” he asked steadily.
    “Serroux,”
Wenvoe’s expression took on a furious cast. “They are in possession of Erith
Castle, to the south about a