The scouts from Chirk Castle returned under the cover of dusk, their horses' hooves kicking up soft clouds of dirt as they hurried through the gates. The castle, a structure of grey stone, loomed above them, its battlements lined with archers peering into the twilight. The air was thick with the scent of pine from the surrounding forests, mingled with the tang of burning torches.
In the hall, Sir Richard, the commander of the garrison, stood clad in his polished armor, he had just come from a patrol. His steely eyes, sharp as the edges of his sword, flickered with impatience as the scouts approached. His brown hair was cut short, revealing a jagged scar that ran from his temple down to his jawline, a memento from battles past.
The lead scout, a wiry man with a haggard face and eyes shadowed by sleepless nights, stepped forward and bowed. "Sir, their numbers grow by the day. They gather at Llangollen. We fear they may launch an assault within the coming days."
Sir Richard's lips curled into a sneer. "Assault?" he echoed, his voice dripping with disdain. "They wield inferior siege weapons, relics that crumble before the walls of Chirk. Their past efforts have ended in failure, and so will this one."
"But, sir—" the scout pressed, his voice tinged with urgency.
"Dismissed," Sir Richard interrupted coldly, waving the scout away. His tone left no room for argument. "Don't fear those who have only tasted defeat."
The scouts exchanged uneasy glances before retreating, their footsteps echoing through the hall. Sir Richard turned to his officers, his eyes narrowing. "Let them come," he muttered, his voice a low growl. "We will crush this welsh rebels and remind them of their place."
As the castle settled into the night, Sir Richard's confidence remained unshaken.
----
The stone walls of the local church in Bala were draped in somber shadows, the flickering candles casting a warm glow over the gathered crowd. The scent of incense wafted through the air, mingling with the hushed whispers of the townsfolk who had come to witness the ceremony. Father Noahstood at the altar, his hands raised in solemn blessing, his voice echoing through the hallowed space as he invoked divine favor upon the proceedings.
"Rise, Ieuan, son of Owain Glyndŵr, new lord of Bala," Father Noah declared, his voice firm, yet reverent. The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with significance.
Ieuan, stepped forward. As Father slipped a simple yet symbolic ring onto Ethan's finger, a murmur of approval swept through the crowd. The applause began hesitantly, then built in intensity. Callwen, seated near the front, was the first to rise, his clapping a bold declaration of support. The room filled with cheers, the sound reverberating off the stone walls, a crescendo of community unity.
At the back, a man named Simon, cousin to the traitorous Waladr, clenched his jaw, his eyes dark with resentment. His claim had failed, and now he stood as a silent witness to Ethan's ascension, his bitterness simmering beneath a forced facade.
The manor bustled with life that evening, the celebration spilling into the night. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, and the finest produce Bala could offer. Music filled the air, the lilting notes of a harp mingling with the laughter of children and the clinking of mugs. The townspeople reveled, their joy fueled by the generosity of their new lord, the feast paid for from Waladr's storages.
As the festivities reached their peak, Ethan stood at the head of the main table. He inhaled a particular aroma deeply, his senses heightened. A tang tinged the air. His gaze sharpened as the servant placed the cup before him, his hand trembling. Ethan's mind raced. Arsenic? Someone was trying to kill him.
He raised the goblet high, his voice cutting through the revelry. "Friends, neighbors, on this momentous day, let us raise our cups in unity, in celebration of a brighter future for Bala!"
The crowd roared their approval, and as Ethan brought the goblet to his lips, he watched. The servant's eyes darted nervously, and Simon, seated towards the back, fidgeted, his restlessness palpable. Ethan drank slowly, scanning the room, noting every anxious glance and shivering breath. Inwardly, he mused, This family is as treacherous as ever.
As he set the goblet down, he motioned discreetly to Tarwyn, who stumbled over, half-drunk but quickly sobering as Ethan whispered urgently. Within moments, guards flanked Simon, seizing him as he struggled and protested.
"What is this!?" Simon spat, his voice a mix of panic and indignation. "Unhand me!"
Ethan stood, his expression grim. "People of Bala, this man, Simon, cousin to the traitor Waladr, has conspired against me. He has sought to poison your lord!"
Father Noah stepped forward, his brow furrowed. "My lord, such a claim requires proof—"
Before he could finish, the servant was also brought along as he burst into tears, his voice shaking. "It was him! He threatened my family! I had no choice!"
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Simon thrashed against his captors. "Lies! It's a ploy!"
Tarwyn stepped closer, searching Simon's clothing, he retrieved a bottle in his belongings. "And what is this?" he asked, his voice dripping with accusation.
"Medicine!" Simon stammered, sweat beading on his forehead.
Ethan raised a hand. "Then drink it."
Simon's face paled. The crowd began to murmur, the tension thick as a storm. "Drink! Traitor! Drink!" they chanted, their voices growing louder.
Father Noah sighed, stepping in. "Let us not shed blood on this sacred day."
Ethan nodded, his gaze locked on Simon, who was dragged away, his fate sealed. Yet, a shadow of suspicion lingered in Ethan's mind. The priest's reaction ealier was also..... is he involved?
Later, the archery games commenced, a tradition for the new lord. The crowd gathered at the lakeside, bets flying as they anticipated Ethan's failure. A small wooden boat bobbed in the distance, the target set.
Tarwyn smirked, clapping Callwen on the back. "Easy money," he jeered.
Ethan took his place, the bow resting comfortably in his hand. The noise of the crowd faded as he drew back the string, his focus absolute. The arrow flew as if it was being guided by something, slicing through the air with precision, and struck the target.
Silence, then an eruption of cheers. Tarwyn gaped, his smirk fading. Ethan lowered the bow, a faint smile playing at his lips as he glanced at the stunned faces around him.