A Fate Sealed

Crumbling Castles, Chapter 13

Jan 28, 2025

blue flower on brown wooden table — Photo by Mélanie THESE on Unsplash

April 5th, 1444
To Sir Ranulf Irving, knight and steward of Éochythe, from his nephew, Sir Gilbert Irving, Lord of Éochythe.
My dear uncle, forgive me for but lightly breezing over the formalities. A troubling matter has come to my attention, one which I am loathe to consider yet unable to put from my mind without due caution. I will tell the tale; I pray you to read it in its entirety.
It is just this: nearly a week hence, I was attacked on the road with my companions. I was injured, my friend and squire Elton Jameson was killed, and my page and I only escaped with our lives by the grace of God in the timely arrival of a doughty swordsman to aid us.
The marauders were no common men, though at first they seemed so, and soon made it known that they were hired blades. This may not come as a surprise to you, though I pray it does. We left London that night, thinking to return home and discover the rogue behind this baseless attack, but were soon attacked a second time. We were prepared this time and beat off the attackers with injury to only one of our party. This forced us to take lodging at a place of refuge rather than continue on our way. I will not tell you where, lest the message itself bring further danger. What mean I by that? Only that by some way we are being pitted against one another. I will tell you why I have cause to be wary, though it pains me to put it in writing.
It was in this second encounter that these villains made such claims as shocked me, despite their previous implications of the same. Their claims—Prepare yourself, dear uncle, for I can scarcely believe it myself—point directly to you as orchestrating these attacks on me. Can it be so, I wonder? I wonder, but cannot credit the idea. Only the caution that you have instilled in me prevents me from rushing to your side to assure myself these claims are false, for they grieve me and cast a shadow on the character of a man I know in truth to be good. Tell me frankly: are they false? Answer me speedily, I beg, and we can find the source of these dastardly rumors together.
I send this by the hand of a courier, and by his hand I expect your reply, dated not more than a week from today. He does not know where I lodge, only where to meet me on his return. If any harm befalls him by your hand, I will know that you are not the man I have trusted as a father since my own passed, but a scheming murderer. I have every faith in your just mind in reading this and your goodwill toward me, but send me a line of confirmation so that I can have no room for doubt if I am found again by those who seek my death in your name.
May the Lord of Hosts bless you and guide you, as He ever has, and show you what ought to be your course of action. I will keep you in my prayers and thoughts, as I always do when we are apart.
Sincerely your devoted nephew,
—Gilbert

~~~

“That’s a lot of words,” Ralph said gruffly as Gilbert finished reading the proposed missive aloud. Walter thought he sounded more disagreeable than before Ansel suggested the letter. Gilbert flushed. Would he have read it aloud if they were not haggling over the phrasing? It seemed very personal in style. Even in accusing his uncle of plotting against his life his love and respect for the man shone through.

“For someone who hardly says any words, I suppose it would be,” Tiffany retorted, but not in her sharp way. This seemed to be teasing, and Ralph took it so. He laughed easily.

“I speak when my words will carry some weight. There is little use in them if not to convey something of import.”

“How ever did your sisters tolerate that?” She asked. “Women are not so easily satisfied by such taciturn answers as you give, for we like you to talk enough that we can hear what you feel but choose not to say.”

Ralph lifted an eyebrow. “If that is what you think, you know little of other women yourself. I have seven sisters younger than me, and they are all different. Some talk more than you and young Ansel combined; others speak fewer words and less often than I.” He glanced at Gilbert. “I hold them in great affection, as you do you uncle, Gil, and confess that for a moment I missed them rarely as you read.”

Walter had been watching Gilbert closely. He was re-reading his words, tapping his quill against the stone as if pondering some change, and then setting it down again. His brow was creased and drawn low as he frowned at the parchment, clearly upset that it had to be written. If it was your mother or aunt, you would be railing either at them for deceiving you with their wiles or at someone else that it was impossible, he reminded himself.

Gil looked up when Ralph addressed him. “Is it possible to do otherwise when separated by time and distance from those the Lord gave us to love and hold dearest? But at least if you return, you do not have the possibility of their concealed hatred hanging over your head.”

“You truly do love your uncle, don’t you, Gil?” Tiffany said, her voice softened with wonder. “How, even in the face of this?”

Ansel, who knew him best, answered first. “Surely you have had someone close to you who has shown you what goodness looks like. Someone who is the embodiment of the scriptures, ‘love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind,’ and ‘love your neighbor as yourself.’ Lord Ir—” he stopped himself and smiled sheepishly at Ralph. “Gil has been a brother to me, as Squire Elton was to him, but Sir Ranulf has been a father to us all. We would not know righteousness were it not for his teaching and love of truth.”

Walter glanced about at the others as the lad finished his speech and noted with interest the grave concentration on Ralph’s face. Had he again reverted to his fugitive warrior mystique? He seemed to draw out that grim nature only when he deemed it necessary to show force or conceal his identity. Walter shifted uneasily, half tempted to look around for some danger.

~~~

Ralph felt Walt’s eyes on him, but his mind was racing, and he was in no mood to share his musings just yet. Gil thought the world of his uncle, as did Ansel. What could have motivated a Christian of such high caliber to turn suddenly on his own flesh and blood? If it were an inheritance, would he not have rid himself of his nephew when Gilbert was a child? There had to be some other motivation.

Walter shifted his weight again. Ralph quirked a brow at him, a grin pulling at his lips. “Am I making you nervous, Walt?”

Walter flushed. “Not quite yet.”

“But I’m getting there,” he said with a chuckle. Then he turned more soberly to Gilbert, who was still fiddling with the letter. “What is your uncle’s stake in your property, Gil? Is there anything that could have sparked greed or fear that has come up in the last six months or so? Debts, perhaps?”

Gilbert shook his head slowly. “I think not. My uncle has never been one to gamble. The only debt we could owe is to the previous holder of Éochythe, but that is ancient history and more a technicality of conscience than a debt to be repaid.”

Ralph lifted the missive from Gilbert’s hand and passed it to Ansel. “Seal it before the paper is as wrinkled as Gil’s forehead. Aleric will be here this evening, and he will see that it is sent by trustworthy hands.”

“I still do not see why I could not take it,” Ansel said, taking it. “I know the way, and there would be no concern that I would lose it.”

“No,” Tiffany put in. “Only concern that we would lose you. If Sir Ranulf is behind this, he would imprison you to draw Gil out or torture you until you revealed this place. Sending a courier that knows neither Gil nor his location is best for all.”

Ralph gave her a smile as Ansel shrugged and bounced off to plunder sealing wax from Gil’s bag. She didn’t return it. Tiff’s mood had lightened a little since they came, but she was still uncomfortable with the dark and stayed near the light. At night, she had the upper level to herself, and he knew she kept a fire burning all night. In time, he hoped her fear would lessen. He couldn’t stay forever; Italy still called.

It’s not time for daydreams, Ralph, he reminded himself. He turned back to Gilbert. “Tell us about the former lords of Éochythe. I’m intrigued.”

A Note from the Author

I totally spent an hour or two looking up medieval letter-writing structure for this chapter and then ignored half (or more) of what I found because I was writing that portion at an absurd hour of the night, and it was way too late for coffee. 😅 Anyway . . .

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