《Aylee》Chapter 7

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For the first time in Everett Hembry's life, he felt truly tired. His muscles ached, his head pounded, but mostly his mind wished to take a break from solving problems, especially now that he faced one that he felt no confidence in solving. He had traveled days on end, but he could find no one who would sell him the goods he needed to run his store. Though he had imagined traveling just outside the jurisdiction of the new portreeve, Everett had passed through four districts, and each had, at some point in the recent past, introduced the same ridiculous requirements. Vendors could sell only to local sellers, only certain sellers could sell in any area, anyone caught buying unregulated goods would face the stocks, and prices could not rise above a certain level determined by the local governors. Few would sell to Hembry under such conditions, and Hembry had not yet figured out how to work around the situation.

His ale burned his throat on the way to his gullet, and with the cleansing, his disappointment dulled, though it could not fade. From a nearby seat in the public house, Everett soaked in the gossip, just desperate enough to try to distract himself by the idle business of others.

"…she surely is lovely," a man drawled toward his friend, "but if you don't buy her a servant, you watch. She will revolt. She fancies herself a lady..."

"...but I will not pay such an outrageous tax," another asserted to the neighboring seat. "If I end in the stocks, my family will starve; same if I pay the tax, but the one I get to buy up essentials before they take me away."

“The problem is with the principality, offered his companion. “Who do you think is appointing these fools to manage our towns? And they can’t even control their own.”

“The errant noble?”

“The same. I heard he brought a troop of men who pushed their way into the homes and pubs, slept in their beds for night a week and engaged in serious acts of malfeasance against the womenfolk.”

“Well, spite the peer, I say!”

“Spite the peer!” Came a chorus of agreement from several other voices.

Lowering his head into his drink, Everett blew out a breath. Though he could not deny the difficulty that had befallen the region, largely at the hand of authorities, he despised the methods of the Steeplers and other dissident groups. If the fools in the pub truly adhered to the philosophy, Everett might feel better drinking alone. Throwing down a coin, he pushed away from the bar. The next sentence he heard arrested him, though.

“...What he said is true,” a woman behind him was saying in a low voice to her maid. “And it’s spreading, this infamy. I heard tell of a merchant's daughter, hit her suitor over the head; cleaved the skin near in two..."

“Where was this?” the maid gasped. “Do we know her?”

“Nah. She’s in one of those odd towns by the marsh. No noble to keep order.”

Everett Hembry felt himself sober up swiftly, falling back onto the high stool so he could hear more of the conversation..

"She is lucky he lived,” replied the maid, her round face full of shocked circles, “or she would face stoning."

"She still may, if they ever find her. She has gone on the run."

"I have heard stories of this character, though, the man. Do you think her perhaps justified?"

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"Is a woman ever justified in this world? Especially since he made his intentions clear. Even if he forced a kiss, or whatever else, she would soon be his wife. She had no reason to cleave his head with a rock."

Everett could hardly breathe. A merchant’s daughter, near the marsh – the story sounded uncomfortably like something his Aylee would do. Cleave a man’s head with a rock? Few women would dare, and with so few merchants in the region –

"Who?" Everett demanded. "Who is this merchant's son? This merchant's daughter?"

The older woman turned to Everett, surprised at being addressed by a stranger. "Malchus Lorne was the young man's name; I don't know the lady's."

All doubt removed, Everett stood to his feet. He wanted to shout, "Her name is Aylee Hembry! Remember it!" From the pit of his stomach, a rage surged up and threatened to overwhelm him. All the problems with his business faded into insignificance, and his exhaustion gave way to a charge of anger. Though he perhaps should have, he never considered the possibility that he had erred in his deduction of the girl's identity. Malchus Lorne had held Aylee in his sights for more than a year, and the man’s conniving had induced more than one sleepless night for Everett while he traveled, leaving his family unguarded.

He could have felt incensed that no one considered Aylee important enough to remember, but in a way, he preferred Aylee's anonymity. For Aylee, such invisibility equaled both security and a future unscathed by scandal. Aylee should thank the heavens that no one knew her name. If Everett could get back to her before word got out, perhaps he could manage the damage to her reputation.

Also, if he knew Malchus Lorne, Aylee would need to worry about more than her name. The Lorne family did not run themselves by principles that would protect Aylee from physical harm, and if she did not kill the man, she might get herself killed. With renewed motivation, Everett paid his tab at the pub, grabbed his things, and cut his travel time in half on the return trip home.

+++++++++++++++++

Raehan Hembry had held herself together for the sake of her children, but saying goodbye to her oldest daughter, especially under such dire circumstances, had nearly broken the woman's heart. When Everett rode unexpectedly up to the house, horse and man panting in unison, Raehan finally lost her control and burst into tears.

"You know..." she blubbered. She could read the fury on his face.

"I know..." Everett nodded, pulling her head into his chest. For several minutes, he just let her wet his shirt with her tears.

Raehan had to try several times to begin the narrative, but once she began, the words flowed out like a flooded river "I wish I understood everything," she lamented. "But Aylee didn't have time to tell me before Malchus Lorne burst into our house and demanded to see her. I rushed her out of Chapman's window before she explained. If the young nobleman hadn't run interference, I have no doubt that Malchus would have found her."

"Nobleman?" The word drew Everett up short.

"Well, he claimed he was a tradesman, but his manner did not speak commoner, and I have never met with that level of formality outside of the castle."

"Do you think him trustworthy?" The coincidence bothered him, though the circumstance seemed to aid his daughter. “I don't like it. There are stories in the villages…”

Raehan considered for a moment. "I do not know why, but I do think him trustworthy. Not that education equals character - the educated are just as often scoundrels - but he reminded me of the people I encountered during my summer at court, as it were. True, I did not visit often with the noblemen, but when one interacted with them for a while, their character became apparent, and I began to discern the virtuous from the villain. Only..."

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"Only what?" Everett had almost relaxed his concern, but Raehan's hesitation gave him pause.

"He seemed to want anonymity, and despite his words, I felt certain he was a noble under veil."

For a moment, Everett wavered. For his whole life, he had ignored gossip, figured it either idle tales carried by a bored populace or intentional misinformation. On his recent travels, though, the rumors had born evidence – broken townspeople, broken-down property, wandering livestock. A rebellious nobleman, put out of his inheritance by an angry father. Such a man, and with Everitt’s Aylee in his sights? Malchus would seem a nuisance by comparison.

“From what evidence do you consider him trustworthy?” Everitt prodded.

“You know me, Everitt. I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but even so, I can smell a scoundrel. This man was as honorable as any I have met save you.”

"Or wears the face of honor. Where are they now?"

"Well," Raehan sighed, "Aylee, at least, is supposed to be at Lady Willen's. I have heard nothing from the old woman in the last few days, but I would expect her to guard closely any information about Aylee."

"True. Perhaps I should go visit Lady Willen."

"Everett," Raehan prodded, "what would you think if we sent someone else instead? I know that you would like to see Aylee one more time, as she fled unexpectedly while you were gone, but I fear that Malchus Lorne is monitoring our house. I think if you or I went to find her that he would follow."

"Then we send Chester."

"Chester. I understand even better than you how little he is qualified to perform any office of responsibility, but this is a small task, and what does he risk? In fact, I think he should stay with her. Under what other circumstances could he learn independence with so little danger to himself or anyone else. He could act only as her companion, and perhaps as a messenger back and forth between us. One of the only skills worth having that he has developed is his stealth, seeing as he sneaks up on animals of various kinds with little difficulty."

Raehan sighed. Thanks to Malchus Lorne, she would now lose two of her children, one whom danger followed and the other she would send purposely into that danger.

"I'm sorry, Raehan. I can't sit here and do nothing. Either he goes or I go. I feel like sending Chester would risk little, and I agree that I need to be here to protect our home. So, unless you can come up with a better solution,”

“Are you certain?”

“I have heard rumors, Raehan, and I need confirmation that she is safe. I will go get Chester."

Though she chewed her lip with consternation, Raehan did not protest when Everett called in their eldest son. After a few instructions, Chester began his trek through the edge of the forest, keeping to the trees and utilizing all of his animal tracking skills to follow Aylee's path to Lady Willen's cottage. His curiosity piqued when he recognized the marks in the dirt that indicated that someone had swung Aylee up onto a horse. When he found his sister, no doubt she would share an interesting story.

Everett peered into the deepening gloom of evening, watching out Chester's window until he could no longer track his son's movements. After a few moments of gazing mindlessly at the treeline, Everett Hembry stood resolutely to his feet.

"I have work to do, Raehan."

"At this time of night?" Raehan tried to hide her anxiety.

"Much is said once the sun goes down that would not be heard in the light. If what I heard in Lolly's Pub is right, Malchus Lorne is not our only problem. He may be just the closest."

Once Everett reached Bennigton's own pub, he found confirmation for his suspicions. Not only had the new portreeve changed the rules of trade in Bennigton, he had changed the laws surrounding ownership of property, political influence, and general development of commerce. Under the new laws, Everett and his fellow businessmen would lose their ability to practice their businesses, and the people whom they served would receive inferior products, pay more, and miss the competition that had previously given them choices. Not only that, but Everett suspected that when the townsfolk realized their land had fallen to the highest bidder, they would either lose heart or revolt. Perhaps by the duke's design, as the rumors claimed. Who else had the power to enact such policies across so many districts?

Everett Hembry foresaw that his daughter's dilemma might prove the least disturbing portion of current events, a mere bellwether to presage an impending and life-altering mayhem. Roaming noblemen, villainous raids, and troops run amok. All boded ill for the peace that had ruled the land for over thirty years.

"He is not here," came the answer when Everett inquired about Malchus in the local tavern. "Apparently, he was sent by the portreeve on some business just north of town. A rogue nobleman masquerading as poor, deceased Capigan."

Deceased Capigan? "Tonight? Malchus was sent so late in the evening?” Or had Malchus manufactured the story to justify heading after Aylee with reinforcements. Suddenly, the man’s other words seeped into Everitt’s brain. “Wait, did you say a nobleman?" The coincidence seemed too unlikely.

"Yes. The young man fell out of favor with his father, and, rather than change his behavior, the youth fled from his father's borough. Without his usual resources available, the noble has resorted to strong-arming thievery. He has a band of followers who find his rogue ways rewarding, and his charm and nobility buy them a luxury which they have not experienced before."

Everett whistled in disbelief – standing to his feet, he turned to quit the pub. At that moment, a page approached him with the news that Aylee had indeed arrived at Lady Willen’s, and Everitt relaxed a very little. Still, he sent the page back with the news of Malchus and his band of men – the old woman would need to recruit some help of her own from the marshers. Despite the slight relief, Everitt felt a persistent tension swim through him and grip him - a current seemed to have swelled beneath the fields of his homeland that could only spill over into trouble.

++++++++++++++

From the deepening twilight around him, Jameson could discern very little but the fog of his breath against the cold. In the distance he could just make out the twinkling lights of a town, but he dared not approach the town at night. Since he had left Aylee Hembry with that crazy old woman days before, Jameson had traveled to three more towns, and his assessment of his situation did not bode well. He had left at home the meddling of unwelcome authorities, but it seemed that unwelcome authorities had increased everywhere once he had left home.

Policies regarding commerce and ownership had shifted throughout the region, and a general sense of unrest had arisen among the populace. If he had hoped to find conspirators willing to join forces with him, Jameson had lost his chance before he had begun. Many would have risen against the current regime, but few would trust a stranger, especially one born from circumstances of fortune. Perhaps in the unrest, he could recruit from among the dissidents, but could he trust such men?

Unfortunately, he had also written his own epitaph with the report he had fabricated for Malchus. What had begun as an innocuous tale had morphed in the hands of an evil man, and now the rumors ran such that the local commoners guarded their daughters and brandished firearms when words would have worked better. According to reports, a disgruntled “nobleman,” rebellious against his prudish father, had absconded from his noble position and begun marauding through the region with a band of miscreants and vagabonds, pillaging and thieving wherever they roamed, ravaging all the local maids, and wholesale ruining lives. A few months before, such a report would not have received consideration as true, but when a people begin to mistrust the high authority, nobility soon suffered by association.

"Friend," came Itchy's welcome voice from beside him. "Your pacing won't let the men sleep. Every crunch of a leaf wakes them a bit more, and you are going to worry them into leaving you."

Jameson placed his foot back from whence he had raised it.

"I know you are right," Jameson acknowledged. "But how am I to stop it? They have merged my story of the estranged noble with the marauding band of rogues. How is that going to serve our cause? By this time, I should have a full troop, and I am limited to a mere twenty men."

"Use thy energy for useful purposes, not lamenting the state of things. Come with me into Lolly and let us investigate our situation more thoroughly. Surely the report will not prove uniform across the entire region. These things never do. Perhaps we will have a report to give the men in the morning."

"Though not necessarily one they will wish to hear," Jameson murmured.

"Thou hast succumbed to self-pity, Friend Jess. Come on. We will find ye a source of inspiration."

When Jameson glanced up into the face of his companion, he hardly recognized the man. Though only a few years older than Jameson, Itchy had always looked at least a decade his senior. Now, though, Itchy had succumbed to Jameson's instructions on dress and bearing, and the tall young “peasant” looked decidedly noble. His hair, so often matted with the earth from his chores, now hung loosely almost to his chin, and Jameson recognized a decided ruddiness to it that he had not seen before. Ironically, the wandering life that now hung heavily about Jameson's neck seemed to refresh and embolden his friend. A definite swagger had lengthened the man’s stride, and Itchy seemed even more comfortable in his place in the merchant class than did Jameson. Though he recognized his own powerlessness to have done so, Jameson wished he could have convinced Itchy to accept an elevation earlier in their friendship. They might by the present time possess a relationship as peers rather than the loyalty of a servant to a master.

Jameson pressed the thoughts to the back of his mind as he approached the wall of the town. Hailing the watchman as they passed, Jameson and Itchy strolled casually inside, desirous that any who saw them would note nothing out of the ordinary. Itchy found no difficulty blending in, but Jameson bore himself in such a way that everyone noticed him. With the recently circulating rumor, much of the attention came in the form of suspicion. Itchy had managed to educate his master on the proper gait and bearing for a commoner, but Jameson could not entirely lose that self-command and courteousness that distinguished him even among nobility. Those he encountered may not have known Jameson for certain as noble, but they could not avoid considering the possibility.

Lolly's pub seemed no different than any other small-town pub. When Jameson entered with a handful of his troops, dressed as workmen, and each had settled into a booth or on a stool, Jameson sat back and listened to the resulting discourse. So much unrest in the region! He found it hard to believe that Maximus could manage a maelstrom of chaos in such a short time Yet, somehow chaos reigned in the region. Perhaps the appointment of unscrupulous governors had played the largest roll, and the shouts of “Spite! Spite! Spite! Spite!” which frequently filled the streets on feast nights barraged Jameson like the pellets from a fireshot. Even in the pub, he heard a few grumbled “spite the peer” declarations which sent his hand to his chin and the scruff he had grown there – at Itchy’s behest – to help him blend in with commoners. Unfortunately, Itchy’s notable size meant that the servant could not blend in, and Jameson therefore did not accompany Jameson on the nights in the pub. Jameson missed the security of unfailing loyalty by his side.

Behind the blinding glow of candles, shadows grumbled over the current state of affairs. Before Jameson had even begun his endeavor, the chips had stacked against him. Still, he had far too much at stake to lose heart so soon out of the chute. After surreptitiously handing some coin to one of his men, the drinks began to flow, and the misty weight of the dark, crowded room lightened significantly. With the weight left the grumbles, and hoots and shouts soon carried tales that would otherwise have lain under darkness.

Like every other town in the region, the locals in Lolly complained of the new policies, but few could maintain the talk of politics or noble intrigues. Instead, most concerned themselves largely with local matters. The raids in the forest hit closer to home, and Jameson heard varying theories regarding the source. A few brave souls tried to lay blame at the feet of dissidents, but the popular reports revolved around stories of a rogue noble. A man of high stature, dressed in refinement, had brought in a near troop of reprobates into several of the villages, and after wreaking havoc, had left behind broken houses and broken hearts. So far, Lolly had escaped the damage, but some of the farms on the outskirts of the town had suffered.

There were some inconsistencies that differentiated the story from Jess and his troops, namely that he never dressed in refinement when he entered a town. Only when he engaged in clandestine meetings with chosen villagers did he show his true face. Still, Itchy claimed he could not lose entirely the refinement of a noble, so perhaps the townspeople spoke of him. With the infamy, though, there could be no similarity.

Not that Jameson doubted the existence of a marauding troop, as evidenced by burned out villages and broken buildings, so apart from his plan for his father, he began to consider how he could manage interference with the other destructive forces. Placing his father back in his rightful position would work best, but surely he could impede the chaos where he encountered it. The impotent despondence and rage on the face of far too many men in the pub, no doubt some of them fathers to victimized maids, stirred fury in Jameson’s chest. Unfortunately, as he listened to the speech around him, he knew that more than one force hindered the cry for justice. Society still held far too much indolence regarding honor, and Jameson could do little to counteract that.

"I am not sure," insisted one man with a scruffy and ragged beard, "that Rolph's daughter was completely unwilling."

"Every man says that when accused of being a rogue," answered a scrawny man with hardly more than moss growing on his upper lip. "But her father would call that a lie."

"Ha!" Ragged Beard guffawed. "And every father would say that!"

"The trick is finding the truth. It is hardly permission when ‘requested’ by a nobleman. Did she really have a choice?" said Scrawny.

"Well," volunteered the lone grey beard in the bunch, "what we do know is the nobleman's character. A good man would not ha' set upon the animal pen as he did, and just for fun, too. If he didna' have fifty animals for every one of Farmer Merican's, then I'm a goat. Did you catch the finery that the leader wore for his acts of vandalism?"

"Thou art certainly a goat," Ragged Beard guffawed again, apparently his laugh of choice, "but ye are right, as well. No doubt that man could ha' bought every animal in Merican's pen, but instead, he turned them out of their dens and set the place on fire."

"Fire?" gasped the old man. "I hadna' heard of the fire. That bespeaks a depraved man."

"That it does," agreed Scrawny. "And did ye hear that he was asking after a girl? Some girl who had spurned him in another town, but he would not leave her be. He thought she mighta taken refuge in Lolly."

"Is that not old news? I remember hearing of that several weeks ago. Is the rogue still on about that?"

"Apparently," Ragged bellowed, "she cleaved his face in twain with a rock, though I saw no evidence of injury outside of a fading bruise on his cheek. Man had been hunting her through Banda for nigh a week."

Jameson couldn't hold in a hiss of apprehension and surprise. Was there a second man whose face was bruised by a maid? Not likely. More likely, Malchus Lorne’s story had morphed – as stories would – and his identity obscured, but Jameson could not mistake the details of the tale. He wished he could speak out to correct the misconceptions without harming his own cause or the girl’s, but he dare not. Before he could consider how to move forward, the next words ripped him out of his ponderings.

"...had just found the girl out when he sat down in this very pub. Apparently, she had settled in the marsh – not a very secure hiding place if you ask me, so close to their hometown," Scrawny was saying as the room faded back into Jameson's thoughts. "When the noble tore out of our town, he planned to head there to retrieve her."

"Poor girl, if he treats her like he did Rolph's daughter," grumbled Grey Beard. "May Providence send her a savior!"

Jameson sat frozen in his seat for a full minute before he could force his body to respond to his shocked mind. Although he did not wish to involve himself in anything that distracted him from his father’s plight, he could not lay aside the idea that he needed to help Aylee Hembry. Hopefully, he wasn’t too late.

"How many days hence did this scoundrel flee from your fair town?" Jameson broke his silence, not quite able to maintain the cool disinterest he so far had achieved.

"Only this afternoon," Grey Beard shrugged. "Ye can still see the glowing embers of Merican's barn a mile or so yonder."

If he returned to help her, his own troops would sit idle for at least an extra day, and he could ill afford to delay his proceedings. Still, to let that coward attack a defenseless woman? Would he trust her well-being to her father and whomever Master Hembry could recruit to help? He should. He would have for anyone else. Even with every selfish consideration pressing it down, though, Jameson could not quite suppress his growing desire to aid her.

Without preamble, he leapt to his feet, and his soldiers stared at him with confusion. Once outside, Itchy riveted him with a look of alarm. By the time the pair raced back to their horses, Itchy in a struggle to stay up with him, Jameson’s heart had burst into full-on flame. Several hour's advantage, even with a bevy of troops, would prove difficult to undo, but not impossible. If he rode hard, Jameson could reach Aylee Hembry before Malchus did with his band of men. He grabbed his horse's reins and flung himself into the saddle. Behind him, Itchy did the same, not even questioning why he did so. Now that Jameson had made his determination, he would succeed, and if he could not save Aylee, then more than just Malchus would suffer repercussions.

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