Chapter IV ... of the Hare

  Magistrate Hayes

  ??? ?????? ???????? ???????? ?? ???????????? ?????????? ? ???????? ???????? ???? ???? ?????????????? ??????, ?????? ?????? ???????????? ???????? ?????? ???????? ???????????? ???? ???? ??????????, ???? ???????? ???? ???????????? ? ?????? ?????????? ??????????, ?????????? ???????? ?????? ?????????? ? ???????? ???????????????????? ??????. I knocked my arrow with ease, for my strength had hardly deteriorated throughout the years. Yet it was my eyes that betrayed me, their sharpness dulled with my flying age.

  A rather large and peculiar-looking hare rustled among the distant bushes, its form barely visible from where I stood. Flanked by a few pine trees, I was left with little room for error, demanding that my arrow fly true and straight. Usually, my love for nature would stay my hand from harming such a harmless animal, but in today’s circumstances, I felt the weight of expectation. I struggled mightily, both in my failing sight, which made it hard to focus on the hare, and in loosening the arrow. The hare itself was unlike any I'd seen before, with ears larger and more floppy than most, and a nose wide enough to seem almost comical.

  “YOU EITHER HAVE IT OR ‘YE HAVEN’T, OLD MAN!” a voice cried out behind me. Though I knew it well, the shout still startled me, which made my grip falter, releasing the arrow too soon. By good fortune, I missed by the breadth of a barn, causing the hare to scurry off.

  With a sigh of relief, I turned around, and standing over yore was Sir Delwyne, my bulwark. Now, mark my words, Sir Delwyne is a fine, handsome young lad indeed. Truth be told, were I a maiden, I’d surely strive with all my might to wed him, and that based on his looks alone! Aye, it be true, even if I plowed my own seed in the same pumpkin patch, I’d pick him for my mating season. For what lass wouldn’t lose herself in those blue eyes and that gleaming skin of his? Though twenty years past, I’d have outshone him easily, both in appearance and, mayhap, in a joust as well. ‘Tis likely why I’ve fared so well in life, though I wouldn’t want to sound too proud like him.

  I asked him what he found so amusing, as he stood across the vegetation with a playful grin, to which his only response was my lack of genitals regarding nature. Were it any other man speaking to me so, I’d have challenged him to a duel on the spot. But Sir Delwyne and I go back many years. Instead, he bade me return to the main entourage, where our baron awaited. Today was indeed a day of note, for but a few times each year, should the weather be kind, I joined a small company of knights, the city’s bishop, our esteemed Lord-Mayor, and our Baron for the hunt. Though I am known as one with a fondness for beasts, I set those feelings aside, for this rare occasion allows us to speak freely, without curious ears. Moreover, the autumn season draws close—my most favored time of year. I’ve always loved the changing of the leaves, and the pleasant crunch they make beneath my feet as they fall.

  Even as Sir Delwyne and I wandered back to the main trail, the woodland creatures busied themselves with preparations for the coming winter. Squirrels darted about, and birds flitted to and fro, gathering what they could. The soft chirping of crickets filled the air, joined by the distant call of a lone stag. A gentle breeze swept through my hair, carrying with it the crisp scent of autumn and a few amber leaves. All this stirred in my thoughts until we came upon the rest of our company, which truly ruined the mood.

  There was Baron Broughton, as fat as a whale that one is. Though I jest in my thoughts, I’d never utter such words aloud. In truth, he is a great man, yet in matters of politics, he’s as cold and cunning as a highwayman. His appearance matched his nature, fiery ginger hair and sharp hazel-green eyes. He donned garments of the finest make, with jewels adorning him near to excess, glittering on nearly every limb. Then you have our esteemed Lord-Mayor Dabyrie, to which everyone adores. He was an elderly figure whose years had rendered him thin and somewhat frail, though his attitude remained gentle and kind. There’s a running joke amongst the other legislatures that Lord-Mayor Dabyrie has been bald since the founding of Holsworthy, and if he waxes that noggin of his. Though, mark my words, he’s as pure of heart compared to any other man I came upon.

  Then there was Bishop Mallory, another elder, though younger than the Lord-Mayor. A gentle soul, he was, yet he oft steered clear of the world of politics. Our good King Malcolm, however, decrees that every city council in the realm must have a clergyman present, for the sake of the church’s laws and influence. Thus, Bishop Mallory holds his seat at the U-shaped table, more by the King’s insistence than by his own desire. Then, of course, we had our very own Sir Delwyne, and another knight, Sir Reed, who, by far, was the most questionable man on our hunting expedition.

  I pitied Sir Reed, truly. Before he even drew breath, the world had already deemed him a prodigy, an ideal son of Andorhal. His parents were figures of great renown in the feudal realm, both possessing the striking blue eyes and fair blonde hair that marked noble blood. So much was expected of Sir Reed, but when he was born with brown hair and eyes like a commoner, the hopes of many nobles withered. They ceased to see him as a future leader of armies. Yet the common folk still adored him, for he was a warrior blessed with skill beyond his years. But as time passed, so did his passion. Now, though still a young man, he wanders the streets of Holsworthy, tasked with protecting the Lord-Mayor. And still, in recent days—though I say this with the deepest respect—he seems lost, more distant than before. His eyes, once bright with promise, now seem hollow, as if the fire within him has all but faded.

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  Lastly, there was Sir Morgan, master to Sir Reed in the arts of war, swordsmanship, and statecraft. He stands as the bulwark of the Lord-Mayor, and in time, as age weighs heavily upon him, the mantle will surely pass to Sir Reed to guard the Lord-Mayor. But for now Sir Reed remains but a pupil. I doubt Sir Morgan shall serve as the Lord-Mayor’s shield much longer, though. The greybeard is growing old, his wild locks and beard nearly overtaken by grey, waging war against the last remnants of his once-brown hair. His hazel eyes, too, have grown cloudy, as though the mists of blindness were upon him, like mine. Still, he strikes me like an old lion, sturdy and strong. By the Divine, he still may yet be one of the finest warriors I’ve ever seen.

  We had been on the hunt for some hours, managing to snare a few hares and even a young doe. But as the day wore on, I felt the familiar pull of politics creeping upon me, a temptation that, by custom, Baron Broughton never resists during such outings.

  “They're marching upon our southern shires, Dabyrie! Can you not see the need to muster our soldiers and send them forth?” Baron Broughton spoke, his voice edged with a hint of annoyance.

  “Mi’lord, I’d ne'er dare question your command, and surely you know this well. But why send such a great force, and led by Sir George no less? At this rate, we’ll be left with naught but bare walls for our defence.”

  Sir Delwyne and I kept our tongues as we wended down the main path, while behind us the bishop, Baron, and Lord-Mayor argued in heated tones. Ahead, Sir Reed and Sir Morgan walked far beyond our company, their distance a great measure away. Yet, despite my silence, I could not help but pass quiet judgment on this endless talk of war.

  “Not that I’ve any quarrel with Sir George,” Lord-Mayor Dabyrie went on, though his tone now bore a hint of retreat. “He’s a fine knight, truly, and it would be a grievous shame to lose him to some senseless conflict.”

  “Senseless?! The Kingdom of Dunholme long had this coming! Plus, what am I to do, hm? Both th’ Sheriff and the Earl have their pricks so far up me arse I hardly any wiggle room. I swear, I can hardly take a shit without them demanding I put quill to parchment about it!”

  A spell of silence then filled the air, and I knew our benevolent Lord-Mayor Dabyrie was growing desperate.

  “Bishop Mallory, what say you of this war? Speak truthfully now—do you believe the sons of Andorhal should be sent to their deaths in wave upon wave?”

  His Excellency took a moment before answering, his pace slowing as he sought the right words. “Were it mine to decide, I would seek peace before war. You all know this well, and as the Divine and Saint Ambrose bear witness, I pray you see that each soldier we send forth is a father, a brother, or son to some family.”

  Bishop Mallory spoke true, I do feel for the men we send to war, but my heart aches even more for their families. At times, I think of my own. My dear wife, my gentle young son, and the daughter soon to come into this world. What if I were to fall? Can I truly trust the city to care for them in my absence?

  “But does not a shepherd stray from his flock at times? Only to return wiser and more victorious in his path?”

  Bishop Mallory appeared somewhat vexed by Lord-Mayor Dabyrie’s appeal to the Divine. “The only battles we should concern ourselves with are those waged within our own hearts. More critically, we must address the growing danger in the south, not that of Dunholme, but rather the eerie plague that threatens our very crops.”

  At the mention of this newfound plague, Sir Reed abruptly halted in his tracks, a look of unease crossing his face. He appeared troubled by its mere mention. After a brief pause, as though lost in deep thought, he silently resumed his pace.

  Though it’s true, the bishop was right yet again. There’s been something foul stirring in the southern shires. Travelers, and even official word from other sheriffs, have warned of a sickness spreading through the grain. Worse still, there’s rumor of it infecting our cattle! This plague scares me far more than the war. The Earl has already ordered that any food or granary showing signs of rot be burned, just out of pure fear. This past month alone, our traders grumbled about their goods being seized and put to the torch for nothing more than a poor harvest. And to think, should this plague find its way to men, the toll it would take.

  To make matters worse, our very own Pope refuses to acknowledge the plague, urging us to silence any talk of it altogether. Even my cousin, Andorhal’s ambassador in the sacred halls of the Holy See, has told me that letters to and from the city have now been forbidden. There must be a link between this plague and the Pope’s strange silence, something binds the two.

  “And what of you, Thy Honor? Have you naught to say on these matters?” Lord-Mayor Dabyrie remarked, at last pulling me into the fray of the conversation.

  “I’ll agree with His Excellency, Bishop Mallory. This pestilence sounds rightfully dreadful, and even moreso towards the war.” I lied—I don’t give a damn about this war, save that it’s unjust. But with nobles and officials all around, I had to keep up appearances. “Wth the Earl’s new decree to burn any crops showing the slightest sign of rot, suspecting them to be plagued, crime has risen in Holsworthy. And not to meddle in military affairs, but if this plague wipes out our grain, what will we feed our soldiers? Tell me, gentlemen, are you aware that Dunholme feeds their armies venison and flank, while we offer ours naught but wheat and barley?”

  “A rise in crime, in mine own city? Why hast thou not spoken of this in council, nor made it plain before all?” Baron Broughton responded.

  “Mi’lord, we’ve not had an official council in ages, the Earl has continually postponed them. I understand he’s under pressure from His Majesty, the King, and th’ King from the Pope to he, to avoid any talk of the plague, but this the only place where my tongue may speak true.”

  “And what of your cousin? Have you received no word from him?”

  “N- nay, mi’lord, nothin’ for the past few months.”

  Little was said afterward as we made our way back to Holsworthy. Yet, I couldn’t help but notice how Sir Reed’s posture had grown stiff and tense since our talk of politics. Sir Morgan, in a quiet attempt to comfort him, laid a hand on his shoulder, but Sir Reed brushed it off, leaving a flicker of sadness in Sir Morgan’s eyes. That, too, quickly faded as we approached Holsworthy’s main gate. Still, a strange unease settled over me, not from the people, but from the city itself, as though its future held a shadow none of us could yet see.