[EDWARD’S POV]

 

August 10, 1338

The acrid scent of blood hung heavy in the air, a macabre reminder of the violence that had unfolded within the walls of the inn. Though I had entered with no intention to harm, the unexpected turn of events had left me stained with the crimson lifeblood of others. The innkeeper’s wife lay cold and still, a victim of a struggle gone wrong. Her death, a heavy weight on my conscience, was compounded by the necessity of taking the grieving innkeeper's life as well.

 

Left alive, consumed by the fiery rage of loss, he would have become a vessel of vengeance, a relentless force seeking retribution. His every waking breath would have been dedicated to a singular purpose - my demise. The mere thought of the carnage that could have resulted made my actions, however brutal, seem justified.

 

The night had been long, filled with the tense atmosphere of interrogation. Each individual working within the inn had been questioned, their stories carefully dissected for inconsistencies, for hints of complicity. But the key to unlocking the truth lay with the innkeeper and his wife.

 

Faced with a wall of silence, I knew I had to resort to desperate measures. The only way to break through the innkeeper's stoic facade was to use his wife as leverage. Single, shallow cut, inflicted over and over again with a chilling deliberateness, served as a stark warning. It was enough to make him speak, to reveal the truth he so desperately sought to conceal.

 

But in the cold light of morning, the weight of my actions pressed down heavily. The shallow cuts, intended to be a mere tool, had become a fatal wound. The innkeeper's wife succumbed to her injuries. The blood that stained my hands now felt like a monstrous burden, a reminder of a life needlessly lost.

 

The inn, once a haven for weary travelers, was now a scene of devastation, a testament to the tragic toll of violence. And as I stood amidst the wreckage, the scent of blood clung to me like a shroud, a constant reminder of the night's horrors and the heavy price I had paid for the truth. 

 

The weight of three lives, two adults and one unborn, lay heavy on my soul, yet remorse remained curiously absent. Instead, a cold urgency thrummed through my veins, fueled by the information I had extracted from the innkeeper and his wife.

 

I barked a command, my voice cutting the door of the room. "Soldier! Dispose of these bodies!"

 

The metallic tang of blood clung to my hands as I rubbed them against the sheets, a futile attempt to erase the crimson stains. Downed a goblet of wine, the fiery liquid doing little to quell the storm brewing within me.

 

Stepping out into the hallway, I found everyone assembled, a grim tableau illuminated by flickering candles. Their faces, pale and drawn, reflected the night's horrors. A silent exchange of nods passed between us, a morbid acknowledgment of the deeds done.

 

"Gather around," I commanded, my voice laced with authority. "Tell me everything you know. Every detail, every whisper. Leave nothing out."

 

One by one, they spoke, their voices hushed and filled with trepidation. They spoke of subtle poisonings in that night’s supper, of horses weakened with lethal herbs, of a carefully orchestrated plan to eliminate the Earl's contingent.

 

Their words confirmed what I already knew. The innkeeper had been right, his information accurate and invaluable. Unfortunately, he couldn't live to reap the rewards of his truthfulness.

 

"Listen closely," I said, my voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "Half a mile behind this inn, deep within the forest, lies an open field. We will dig there."

 

As they nodded, a flurry of activity ensued. Soldiers hastened outside the inn, intent on retrieving their horses and gear. A select group hurried ahead to Christchurch's camp, a call for reinforcements echoing through the night. Meanwhile, I mounted my horse, prepared to lead the way to the field. In no more than a handful of minutes, I located the area—an expanse that spanned thousands of square feet.

 

With the impending arrival of additional forces, the urgency to uncover the truth surged. The field, though sizable, held a daunting mystery waiting to be unraveled.

 

Dawn had barely broken when the men arrived, their faces etched with a grim determination. Under my orders, they began to unearth the secrets buried within the field. The rhythmic clang of shovels against earth echoed through the air, a chilling counterpoint to the birdsong that marked the new day.

 

It took half an hour before the first gruesome discovery was made. A body, still bearing the marks of recent death, lay exposed to the morning sun. As the digging continued, the field yielded its macabre harvest. One by one, the bodies were unearthed, thirty-four in total – thirty-two men and two horses, interred in this hidden graveyard.

 

The faces of the deceased were eerily clear, untouched by the ravages of time. They stared vacantly at the sky, a silent proof of the violence that had claimed their lives. The sight was both unsettling and strangely fascinating.

 

Among the deceased, a stark difference in attire provided a clue to their origins. Twenty-nine wore matching garments, a striking combination of gold and crimson. But three figures stood out, their bodies starkly bare. Their faces, mangled beyond recognition, hinted at a brutal struggle. More chilling still, their right arms were severed, as if to hide some unseen truth.

 

The innkeeper’s words echoed in my mind. His description of four men, monsters who arrived just before the Earl’s contingent, filled me with a sense of dread. He spoke of one particularly deranged individual who, in a fit of rage, had slain one of his workers for daring to question him of his own origins.

 

The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. The innkeeper’s death, the poisoning of the horses, the ambush on the Earl’s men – all pointed towards a larger conspiracy, a web of deceit that stretched far beyond this isolated inn.

 

The discovery of the bodies was just the beginning. The hunt for the truth had begun.

 

As the bodies were examined meticulously, a grim realization settled in: my father, the Earl, wasn't among the deceased. Swift deductions led to the conclusion that he was either missing or had fallen victim to the remaining assassin, who might have taken the body as proof of kill—a possible custom within their circle, although unfamiliar to me.

 

A revelation surfaced from the innkeeper's account. Among the four men who ascended the stairs, only one returned that night—the most dangerous of the group. Hastening outside, he vanished for the entirety of the night, not returning until dawn broke. He then went back upstairs and his eventual descendance was marked by an unsettling sight—three severed arms held within his grasp. His subsequent command to bury the bodies far away was carried out diligently by the innkeeper, concealing the evidence. However, the innkeeper made no mention of any additional body accompanying the dangerous man, suggesting the possibility that father’s body might not have been brought back into the inn. The assassin had then vanished, vanquishing any trace after completing his mission.

 

—---------------

 

August 12, 1338

 

The past two days felt like an endless pursuit shrouded in frustration. Every step forward seemed to lead to dead ends, leaving us grasping at faint traces of blood that were swiftly washed away by a merciless downpour. Even the remnants of those crucial hints, those elusive drops of blood, vanished near the river bank, leaving us stranded without a clue. Desperate for any sign, I even chartered a merchant vessel from a local affluent trader in Christchurch to scour the banks of the Stour River, but our efforts yielded nothing substantial, not even gleanings from conversations with the locals.

 

Now, we trudge towards London, burdened with a sense of defeat, to relay our findings and determine the next course of action. The morale of our formidable three-hundred-strong force has plummeted, mirroring the despair that's taken root within me. If not for the weight of responsibility to my sisters and my people awaiting my return, I would have struggled to find the strength to persevere. Their future hinges on a leader resilient enough to navigate us through the looming uncertainties, and that responsibility weighs heavy on my shoulders, compelling me to push forward despite the daunting obstacles.

 

Observing the weary visage of Osbert amid our journey, it was evident how these past days had etched deeper lines upon his already-graying hair. Riding his horse with a stoop and eyes heavy with fatigue, he bore the weight of an entire era's turmoil. His posture, akin to that of a somber statue, could have easily deceived one into mistaking him for lifeless, were it not for the steady rhythm of his breaths.

 

It struck me then, witnessing Osbert's plight. His resilience mirrored that of a weathered oak enduring the fiercest tempests. A lifelong companion to my father, he had traversed a path intertwined with trials and triumphs. As life seemed to gradually brighten, casting hopeful rays upon our existence, the looming shadows of war eclipsed all prospects. And now, amid this chaos, the boy he adored, the teen he trained, and the man he raised was lost in the abyss.

 

The twists of fate, inexplicable and unforgiving, had unfolded in a cruel sequence for this noble soul. In Osbert's tired countenance, I saw the toll of a life lived alongside honor and loyalty, now weighed down by the crushing burden of recent events. The irony of destiny played out in his existence, a testimony to the enigmatic ways in which life unfolds for those who embody goodness and resilience.

 

I turned my gaze forward, resolute, and guided our force onward toward the capital city, determined to press on despite the challenges that lay ahead.

 

—-----------

 

August 14, 1338

 

The Earl Marshal's empty seat cast a shadow of loss, a reminder of the absence that weighed heavily upon me. Despite the void, the king remained composed, his countenance unwavering, perhaps a deliberate facade to maintain an appearance of steadfastness in the midst of troubled times. His demeanor, a necessary portrayal for a monarch steering a nation through the perils of war, especially in the absence of one of its most skilled commanders, my presumed deceased father.

 

As I commenced my report, I carefully chose what to disclose, omitting the grim details of certain deaths. It wasn't an act of concealment but rather a strategic move. Revealing such information could inadvertently cast me in a harsh light, and that was a narrative I couldn't afford. Not when I stood on the precipice of inheriting one of the realm's most influential earldoms following my father's passing. Perception in the eyes of the court held immense significance, and I needed to maintain a semblance of fairness and judiciousness, not only as a prospective earl but also as a dutiful subject of the kingdom.

 

After concluding my report, I observed the courtiers closely, hoping to discern any telltale signs of guilt or knowledge among them. Yet, their expressions remained inscrutable; either they were truly innocent or masters of concealing their thoughts behind practiced masks of indifference. With my duty discharged, the king addressed me.

 

"It grieves me to acknowledge the absence of my uncle and your father, cousin," the king's solemn words echoed through the hall. "If no further information arises by coming Monday, you shall be coronated as the next Earl of Norwich and Duke of East Anglia, right here in this esteemed royal court."

 

A profound silence enveloped the court, briefly lingering before erupting into applause. Though I already held the prestigious title of Warden, the official investiture as a Duke elevated my standing to an unprecedented level among the nobility. It positioned me at the zenith of peerage, rivaled only by the ruling family themselves. Expressing gratitude, I bowed graciously to the king, seeking his blessings, which he bestowed upon me generously, urging me to get some well-deserved rest.

 

I returned to my chamber and as darkness draped the castle, I was summoned to dine with the royal family. The supper setting was quite a luxury, a medium-sized table graced by the presence of esteemed guests. Seated at one end was myself, positioned opposite the king. On his right sat the queen, Phillipa of Hainult, and to his left, the heir to the throne, eight-year-old Prince Edward of Woodstock. Flanking the queen sat Isabella, the king's eldest daughter, who had recently celebrated her sixth birthday, and beside her, Joan, the king's second daughter, merely four years of age. Notably, the queen bore the visible signs of pregnancy, likely in the seventh or eighth month, promising the imminent arrival of another member of the royal lineage.

 

Greeting each member of the royal family respectfully, I took my place at the table, commencing the evening's repast. The array of dishes presented was a culinary variety, ranging from traditional English fare to delectable offerings from Italian cuisine. Each bite carried its own unique essence, an experience heightened by engaging in light conversation. However, the somber atmosphere weighed heavily upon the table, overshadowing the gastronomic delight.

 

Despite the exquisite variety of dishes and engaging discussions, the specter of my father's absence cast a pall over the meal. By the supper's end, while my belly was sated with the delectable feast, my mind remained hollow. The sweetness of the exchanges with the royal family could not dispel the melancholy that hung over us in the wake of my father's mysterious disappearance.

 

I exchanged pleasantries with the royal family before departing for my chamber. However, halfway there, a spontaneous urge seized me, redirecting my steps toward the royal garden. The night's tranquility beckoned, prompting me to immerse myself in its serene embrace. Settling onto the lush grass, I embraced the gentle breeze and savored the symphony of chirping crickets that enveloped me. Amidst the palace's labyrinthine intrigues, this sanctuary offered a rare respite.

 

As I luxuriated in this brief reprieve, a familiar voice broke the silence with a greeting, "Good Evening."