For days Raghnall witnessed multitudes arriving at Ravensholme. The castle, no-longer quiet, hummed with life. No matter where he was, talking and movement could be heard behind doors and through walls. The intensity of activity was such that he could wander about the castle un-noticed by staff and guests alike.
The arrivals paraded through the courtyard and the flower garden and up the staircase to the main entrance, where a small army of servants awaited to take coats and luggage. For the most part the arrivals wore grey-white and silver finery under their coats; their faces heavily powdered, white with rose tinted cheeks. Men and women alike wore large curly wigs festooned with ribbons. Arm in arm, well-fed husbands and self-starved wives floated up the grand staircase to be led to their accommodation followed closely by attendants of their own each dressed in the colours of their master’s heraldry. Once ensconced in their chambers, facades of pomp dissipated and as he wandered, Raghnal overheard muffled conversations, orders, requests, complaints, arguments and singing in accents and languages from all across the realm.
Raghnall had not seen or heard from either Malaegar or Aaralyn for these past few days, doubtless due to their duties as hosts. Though he had received instruction to dine as he wished in the breakfast room and not to think too poorly of his hosts. This morning he had eagerly chosen a rich blue jacket from the clothes he had been provided and sat down to a simple early breakfast of poached eggs, toast and beer.
As he finished, the first group of guests for the morning service entered the room. The young servant boy stepped forwards from beneath the tapestry at the end of the room and cleared the table as two servants followed to take the guests’ orders. Raghnall nodded his thanks to the boy as he placed his napkin upon his plate and smiled at the guests as he left.
“I say, was that a member of the family?” A loud, shrill voiced woman, painted pale, asked her heavy-set husband. “He does not look like a northerner.” She exclaimed as Raghnall closed the door behind him with a smirk.
Raghnall was in the mood to explore and followed his feet along the various passages they took him down. Wherever possible he evaded the sounds of visitors and conversation, choosing the quiet halls to venture down.
After a while, he came to a hall where the corridor widened with a yawning arched ceiling. The walls were lined in deep red marble. His pace slowed as he entered for upon the walls, something caught his eye; the scarred remnants of heraldic crests. Each shield was carved in white stone and carefully cemented into the red marble. Each had been utterly ruined, hacked, scratched and scoured. Even the wall about each had not escaped the wrath of whatever instrument had been used in the vandalism. Raghnall reached out and ran his fingers over the scars on one of the crests. Once again, he was concerned.
“Who would do such a thing?” he murmured. Aaralyn’s words in the garden came back to him ‘I do not believe my brother is of sound mind… This pendant is the only remnant of our family that has not been vandalized by my brother.’ His eyes landed upon a statue in the centre of the room. It was cast bronze, set upon a white marble base. It had been covered with a black cloth. Raghnall’s curiosity could not help but lead him to tug the cloth. Beneath was the image of a woman. She wore a flowing dress and in her arms she cradled an oak sapling, seemingly shielding it from some unseen threat.
As Raghnall contemplated the statue’s anxious face, his gaze was drawn to the door at the far end of the hall as the faint smell of smoke became apparent. He noticed the pale light of day peeking underneath the door, spilling across the smooth black floor. A key was in the lock. He tried the handle and the door was indeed locked. He turned the key and pressed the handle. The door opened a little, only to be immediately halted by something heavy. There was enough space for Raghnall to squeeze his way through the gap, so he did.
Suddenly he was outside, or at least exposed to the elements. The door had been blocked by a large beam of wood, charred and stuck fast in a mound of ash and debris. Raghnall’s own feet began to sink into the sludge, so he deftly hopped to another lump of burned timber so that he might look about. This had been a room, though ravaged by fire. There was no roof and the walls were charred and crumbling. A cold breeze rolled in off the moors, past the remnants of window frames and pillars which pointed, gnarled and fractured, to the grey sky. The charred remnants of shelves, parchment and the collapsed roof formed a mound of wreckage in the middle of the room.
“This must have been the castle archive which Eldridge spoke of?” Raghnall mused as he bent low to retrieve a small piece of paper caught in the ash at his feet. The fragment was burned at the edges, but appeared to have been a food inventory for a feast in the distant past. He let go of the piece as the wind caught it and carried it away towards the moors.
“A tragic accident indeed!” He spoke aloud as he hopped to another charred island deeper into the wreckage. Looking upwards, to the top of the remains of a buttress, a bug eyed granite grotesque stared back down at him. It no longer had a roof to support upon its back and it was now destined to be worn away by the wind and rain. “Though Eldridge does not think this was necessarily accidental?” Raghnall reached out with a foot and pressed at another charred beam, only for it to disintegrate beneath his weight. He regained his balance. “Perhaps Lord Malaegar did do this? After all he does have a quick temper.” He thought back to his breakfast with the young Lord and the way his anger flew at the merest hint of being misled. He knelt and reached into the debris, grasping a piece of charred wood. He rolled it thoughtfully for a moment in his hand and flung it back into the pile, disturbing a crow who complained with a harsh call and flew away. Raghnall stood once more, he watched as the bird flew up into the heights of the castle.
“So close to the rest of the castle though?” he turned full circle. Despite this archive apparently being upon a promontory overhanging the moors, one could not have known a fire would not have spread to engulf a large portion of the castle. “Malaegar would not risk such destruction, surely?” If nothing else, the young Lord appeared to be proud of the inheritance which this place afforded him; Raghnall could not imagine him risking that legacy. He reflected upon the vandalism he had witnessed throughout the castle. Malaegar reckoned that vandalism was from before his time. Perhaps Aaralyn was mistaken in the timeline, despite legitimate concern for her brother’s temper? “No.” Raghnall shook his head. He could not believe that Malaegar would be so reckless as to go fire-setting just as he was inheriting his title as Lord of Ravensholme. “This must, surely, have been a tragic accident?” A chilled wind howled through the ruin. He blew warmth into his hands. “Whatsmore who am I to second guess my host in a time when such grave responsibilities are coming to bear on him?” Raghnall pulled his fine jacket tight around him and hopped back towards the door. “Afterall, I know all too well that the weight of such a burden is hard to bear!” He closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock.
Suddenly quite aware of his isolation, Raghnall followed the faint sounds of life until he found himself back in the entrance yard by the main gate. It was still as cold as the day he arrived in the shadow of the tall towers, though today horses, carriages, and many servants on foot processed around the yard in an orderly file. Each gilded carriage paused while their aristocratic passengers disembarked at the iron gate before then being guided to the stables.
Raghnall noticed a somewhat less fine, simple wooden carriage as it came to a halt. It was not an aristocratic family, but rather a group of hooded figures who stepped down to the cobbles. Their robes were shades of deep green, though they were well worn and tied with coarse rope at their wastes. They struck Raghnall as being monks of some order unknown to him. He could not hear what they said to the boy who greeted them, but they did not appear to have any luggage or attendants. The servant bowed and gestured for the five to follow into the castle.
Deciding to follow as their carriage was drawn into the stables, Raghnall kept pace as it rattled violently on the cobbled floor, passing under the black arch. Raghnall saw to his right and left carriages parked in stalls and their horses guided away to be watered. The carriage halted on the straw laden floor and the four beasts of burden were unbridled. Raghnall stepped to the side to allow three stable boys to push the carriage into its stall. He smiled, aware that he stood out, dressed as he was in a deep blue jacket. The boys began to clean the carriage with water and rags.
Deeper into the building he went, ducking wooden beams which became progressively hazardous in their placement. As he progressed, the stables merged into other structures and steadily became quarters not for horses, but for people. Jammed beneath the rafters, there were improvised wooden structures as much desperately holding in place the building’s collapsing innards as providing shelter. Into each hollow were stuffed coarse pillows and blankets, scarcely above the straw laden floor. Through the gloom, Raghnall became aware of movement within some of these bunks. There was coughing and a baby cried out. The air was close and the smell, pungent. This was far removed from the luxury of the castle. A shaft of light cut through the gloom from a hole in the roof at the rear of the space with a few hunched figures gathered around repairing their uniforms in the precious light. They briefly looked up, then back to their work as Raghnall passed by.
Raghnall stooped under hanging laundry as children chased past in a game of ‘touch’ between the bunks. He approached a corner where candlelight led him up a wooden ladder. At the top Raghnall came to another level which no-doubt had once been a wooden floor, as windows cut into the black walls testified. Here, bunks rested upon beams which spanned the space in ramshackle fashion. Below, he could faintly see yet another squalid level, dimly lit by candlelight which reflected upon a wet cobbled floor. The wood creaked as he hopped from beam to beam, here and there the occupants of nested beds stirred, only to moan and turn over again to sleep.
Having returned to the safety of the lower floors, Raghnall was in awe at the conditions these people endured. It was astonishing to him that the staff of the castle and their families still lived as refugees from their flooded land. Raghnall now understood the bitterness with which Eldridge remembered the past. By comparison to this, who could not feel aggrieved?
Raghnall made his way back and out through the stables. Carriages were still emerging through the gate house, oblivious to the shanty town which was all about them. He stopped for a moment, looking up again at the height of the towers. He wondered why such a ghetto was necessary in so massive and sprawling a castle.
Deeply unnerved and suddenly sickened by the clothes he wore, Raghnall made his way back to the castle to find Eldridge. He trotted up the steps, past the queue of Lords awaiting their allocation of chambers and tossed his host’s fine blue jacket upon the chequered floor. He continued into the castle in his plain white shirt. Raghnall ran through the corridors in search of his man, pushing past guests touring the halls of Ravensholme. He made his way to the main library, a gentleman was perusing poetry, but Eldridge was not there. He continued to search, opening doors as he came to them, to no avail.
Eventually, Raghnall caught sight of the old man, directing a servant girl to relay a guest’s luncheon order to the Chef Pewtreth in the kitchen. Raghnall rested a hand on Eldridge’s shoulder, panting heavily. The old man turned, momentarily surprised.
“Have you knowledge of the slums?” Raghnall wheezed. Eldridge looked back to a list in his hand, mumbling to himself. “Eldridge?” Raghnall repeated “Have you knowledge of these people and their strife?” Raghnall gestured to a servant passing with three cases of luggage awkwardly stacked in their arms.
“Strife?” Eldridge inspected the list over the rim of his glasses, counting with his free fingers. “I had wondered when you would find your way to their… refuge” He smiled briefly and continued to count.
“How is it that this came to be?” Raghnall had caught his breath. Eldridge began to walk with purpose along the corridor.
“That what came to be?” he asked seemingly both distracted and irritated.
“The foul conditions in which they are forced to dwell.”
“I have already explained; necessity and poor stewardship.” Eldridge turned a corner, followed closely by Raghnall.
“Why is this tolerated? Why have you not appealed to your Lord?” Eldridge stopped in his tracks.
“There is something you must come to understand, Raghnall. Things are the way they are and they have been that way for a good long while before you arrived at Ravensholme.” He leaned closer, causing Raghnall to step back against the wall “You talk of strife? At first these people, or rather likely their parents, were grateful for shelter. They were simply glad to be dry and free of their drowned dwellings!” Raghnall nodded thoughtfully “Since then, negligent stewardship, short memories and now a growing tyranny dull any inclination to protest. You speak of appeal?” He laughed with a cough “I understand you found your way to Ravensholme’s archive, which now lies in ashes?” Raghnall nodded.
“I was noticed?”
“Ofcourse you were, Raghnall.” Eldridge grimaced. “Return to that sorry place and consider your appeal.” Eldridge’s voice lowered to a whisper. “You forget yourself m’Lord, Raghnall. You are a Geographer of Capita, are you not? Else you are a liar? Therefore you have neither rank nor right in Ravensholme to affect change to our plight.” He stepped back “Today, of all days, we must have faith that better times lie ahead of us. Now, if you please, I have much to organize in the smooth running of this gathering. Good day, Raghnall of Capia.” Eldridge strode away, immediately returning to his count. Raghnall retired to his chamber. Perhaps the old man was right?
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