Caspian
Tristan’s shaggy blonde curls bounced as he nodded, testing the beam more carefully before he trusted his weight against it.
The thatching of the stable had collapsed in the storm the night before. It had flooded several bales of hay and left a damp layer over the whole floor. The stables now reeked of straw and mold and worse.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m handing up the thatch needle, ready?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy’s head poked back down.
Caspian raised the bucket of supplies over his head, and Tristan caught the handle in his outstretched hand.
“Lord Caspian!” Lionel’s voice echoed through the stables. “Sir! What are you-”
His steward’s eyes ranged from him to the ladder.
He was wearing a blue doublet with silver trim, clean and creaseless as usual.
His black boots were pristine and gleaming, as if daring the mud to sully them.
Caspian surveyed his own appearance. He had shed his fine clothes hours ago and was now covered in sweat and straw and shit.
“Thatching is loose, the stables are flooded,” Caspian explained, watching the boy’s work as he set the roofing back into place. “Can’t have the horses standing in the damp, and if the rain’s going to keep up…” He sighed. “Best get it fixed as soon as possible.”
“Of course, sir, but certainly the stable master could see to this.”
“The stable master is tending the horses and ill versed in roofing,” Caspian explained, still looking up as the boy began to thread the needle through the thatch, pulling it back into place. “Tristan here is the only one on the grounds who’s up to the task it seems.”
Lionel looked up at the lad skeptically.
“It’s true, sir. My uncle taught me two summers past,” he called down without looking away from his task.
The steward shook his head and looked back at Caspian. “There is another pressing matter that requires your attention.”
“What would that be?” Caspian asked, wiping his hands on a rag.
Lionel cleared his throat. “The local farmers have been reporting incidents of livestock killings near the forest’s borders.”
“Wolves?” Caspian asked.
“It was the first thought, m’lord, but it seems not. They’ve sent a representative who wishes to meet with you.”
Caspian rolled his lips thoughtfully. “Tristan, do you have a handle on things up there?”
“Yes, sir,” he called, his voice echoing strangely from his place so high in the rafters.
“Very well, Lionel, would you be a good man and mind the ladder? I’ll send someone to relieve you.”
“Sir?” Lionel said, looking flabbergasted by the request. The task was admittedly outside his usual duties.
“I’m assuming it would be best if I change before this meeting?” Caspian said pointedly.
“Of course, yes. I’ll see to it.”
Caspian left him awkwardly holding the ladder, but hardly in any effective manner. He sent the first footman he could find to assist them.
When he’d taken over Northall Keep, Caspian had rounded out his staff with capable youths from the local orphanages. They worked hard and were thankful to have a roof over their heads, let alone wages. Qualities that more than made up for some coarseness of manners in his book.
He dressed himself in fresh clothes, first giving himself a quick wash just to remove the stable smell clinging to his skin.
Soon enough, Caspian was on his way down the ornately carved oak staircase that led into the main hall.
A grand old tapestry hung on the back wall, embroidered with his sigil, the great bear of Northall.
Just underneath was a wooden throne of sorts, which he was meant to sit in while people stood before him, seeking his audience. He’d hardly used the thing.
The farmer was dwarfed in the middle of the open hall, looking stranded on the grand blue rug like a ship lost at sea. He was likely wearing his best clothes, his thin brown hair combed neatly to the side. His posture was closed and nervous as he gripped his hat tightly before him.
Caspian greeted him with an easy smile. “So what have you brought me?”
The farmer watched him, his eyes flicking between the points of interest, the signet ring, his snow white hair, the scar that ranged down the side of his cheek. He bowed nervously. “News of hardship, I’m afraid, m’lordship.”
“Tell me.”
“Yes, m’lord. For the past month, we’ve been losing our prize stock. The beast strikes every week or so often, devours four odd head of cattle in a single night. The whole of the animal too. Leaves not but bones.”
“Well, that certainly is not wolves,” Caspian said seriously.
“No, m’lord.”
“Has no one seen it?”
The farmer shrugged. “Attacks at night. Its range is large. It has not been seen, only what it leaves behind- m’lord,” he added with a little bow. “I’ve brought these. Found ‘em on the remains of my dairy cow.”
Caspian came closer as the farmer held out a little pouch. He opened it to see a bundle of thick black quills. His brow furrowed.
“When was the last attack?”
“Three days past now. Seems the beast is ranging south as the weather turns.”
Caspian nodded. “Well, I suppose I will have to find the beast then, won’t I?”
“You would go yourself, m’lord?” The farmer looked at him agape.
“Yes. I think I should,” he said, studying the quills closer.
“You are certain, sir?” Lionel said from behind him. “Lady Priscilla’s party is expected shortly.” Though he had not even heard him approach, Caspian had grown too accustomed to his steward’s uncanny presence to be startled.
“Yes, I am quite certain,” Caspian sighed. “I shall find the beast on my own.”