Assembly #2
Euphemia bows with practiced coyness. A demure smile.
Lowered eyes. A woman who knows precisely how little she is expected to say.
It is a moment she’s been preparing for her entire life.
It chafes something inside her, a groove that’s been worn in over time.
For now though, she is happy to give them what they expect.
Anything to see Percival and Thurstan fail.
Percival rushes through his next words. “Yes, a belated congratulations to the happy newlyweds. Let us proceed then, shall we?”
Dagfinn holds out his hands. “Slow down, Percival. I’m afraid you haven’t introduced us to your guest.”
Dagfinn gestures to where Thurstan is sitting as stiff as a plank.
He looks so unlike the disheveled carter she remembers that Euphemia hadn’t even noticed him when they entered.
He wears a brown vest and matching trousers that appear to be sewn from a finer cloth than anything she’s ever seen him in. The garments fit poorly at the shoulders, as though borrowed, not tailored, and Euphemia has no doubt that they came from Percival’s own wardrobe.
But even dressed in fine clothes, Thurstan cannot hide what he is.
His hands are still rough from labor. His nails are dark with dirt he could not scrub away. Sweat beads along his hairline. If she were closer, Euphemia knows he would still smell of hay, manure, and the earthen bundles he handles.
Percival may have dressed him like a gentleman, but Euphemia sees the frightened laborer underneath.
When the room turns toward him, Thurstan looks anxiously about before belatedly standing and offering out his hand.
“The name’s Thurstan.”
It is not lost on anyone in the room that he did not address Dagfinn by title. As though even speaking it might grant Dagfinn some authority he has not yet earned in Thurstan’s eyes.
Dagfinn accepts the hand, giving it a firm shake. “Dagfinn Varinsson. A pleasure. Well, perhaps a nuisance, if I’m being honest, since I’m told you’re the one who’s come to claim my land.”
Euphemia recognizes the bait Dagfinn’s just laid out.
Thurstan doesn’t take but a second to take it.
He leans back in his chair with smug glee. “Interesting that you’d choose that word, when it’s your family who’s stolen from me.”
Percival, sensing his time has come, resumes his speech. “Yes, which brings us to why we are gathered here today.”
Percival turns from Dagfinn and faces the crowd. He does not need to ask for their attention. They are already leaning forward, hungry for the story they’ve been promised.
He holds up the deed as though it were a relic.
“I present to the people, the deed to Thorfell Manor.” He holds it up for everyone to see. “You all know Thorfell Manor. You all know the Varinsson name. And you all know that Lord Otho passed away last year without seeing the estate formally placed into his son’s hands.”
A few voices murmur agreement.
“In the family’s state of grief, I allowed the matter to rest. I waited. I sent word. I offered patience.”
The air in the room grows hungrier.
Euphemia bites the inside of her cheek. She has to remind herself to stay calm.
The corners of Percival’s mouth barely twitches.
“Handling the deed was not an issue. It’s not uncommon when a family faces loss and they have an heir that will presumably inherit everything.
However, as the months went by, I attempted to contact Lord Varinsson numerous times to complete the paperwork.
Each time, I was assured by Ms. Kelda Varinsson, his mother, that the matter would be addressed shortly.
I was told her son had fallen ill and could not see to it just yet.
Being the kind gentleman that I am, and understanding of the family’s continued suffering, I exercised patience and reassured Ms. Kelda that we would see to it when the time was right.
“That is, until this man arrived in town a week ago.”
Percival gestures toward Thurstan, and a few heads turn.
“He claimed his family once owned the estate, and that the Varinssons stole it from them a couple generations back.”
“That’s right,” Thurstan eagerly adds.
A few more murmurs rise from the crowd.
Euphemia’s stomach tightens. There it is. The story Percival has been feeding them.
She glances at Dagfinn.
Nothing in his face betrays him.
Percival addresses the townsfolk again. “You all know the history of Thorfell Manor. It is true that Lord Rayner Varinsson came to these lands, raided this town, slaughtered its lord and lady, and claimed the manor as his own. The Varinssons have held it ever since.”
A few older villagers nod. Others shift uneasily. This is a story they have heard and lived. Perhaps from fathers and grandfathers. Perhaps whispered over ale when the fires burned low.
“And though they’ve been diligent and just lords—and ladies—” Percival adds with a saccharine smile toward Kelda, “As keeper of deeds, it is my duty to see that the old claims of this land are not forgotten. Up until Thurstan’s arrival, I believed all descendants of the original line to be deceased. ”
Euphemia’s fingers curl against the fabric of her gown.
Not because she believes him.
Because she knows what comes next.
“But then this honorable man arrived at my doorstep with a story to tell.” The words drip from Percival’s tongue so dotingly that Euphemia nearly tastes the rot beneath them. Percival pats Thurstan on the shoulder. “Go on. Tell them what you told me, Mr. Carter.”
The room hushes, only the sounds of a few coughs and creaking benches to fill the hall.
Wide-eyed, Thurstan adjusts himself in his seat.
“Alright,” he begins, clearing his throat. “Well, I’m Thurstan Carter. I live in Nottinghamshire with my son. But my family didn’t always live in those parts.”
He pauses, glancing toward Percival.
Percival eyes him with impatience.
Thurstan clears his throat. “But I suppose what you really want to know is that my family was once the Walshams.”
Soft gasps whisper across the room.
“We had land in the north. A manor. Wealth. Then your family came and took it from us.”
Dagfinn, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch at the finger outstretched at him like a pitchfork.
People in the crowd turn to their neighbors. Whispers spread through the hall, catching like fire as they pass from mouth to mouth.
Euphemia can hear their murmurs of suspicion and intrigue, and it awakens a slow-simmering rage inside her.
She knows this sound.
The sound of people deciding what they believe before they have heard the truth.
It seems no matter where she goes, she will always be surrounded by people hungry for a spectacle and eager to cast blame.
Her hand finds the edge of her sleeve, twisting the fabric between her fingers. She just hopes Dagfinn can handle this as masterfully as they planned.
Percival raises a hand, returning the crowd to silence.
“And tell me, Mr. Carter,” he continues. “When was it that you knew the Varinsson family owed you a debt?”
“It wasn’t until that woman there came to town and left with one of our own.”
Percival interjects. “And for the people, let it be known that Mr. Carter is pointing toward Ms. Kelda Varinsson.” Percival’s tone shifts to that of a parent gently trying to coax their child to do something they don’t want to do.
“And what about Ms. Varinsson coming to town made you realize it was her family who was responsible for the loss of your heritage?”
“It was the name of the place she was headed. Thorfell. I remembered it from stories my family used to tell me about where we came from. The place my grandfather was slain and my father barely made it out alive.”
Beside Euphemia, she notices Kelda’s hand flex in her lap, her fingers curling into fists.
Euphemia places her hand over them, drawing her gaze. She gives it a gentle squeeze, one she hopes reminds Kelda that the truth will prevail today. Not this horrendous butchery of what really happened. Not the story Percival has stitched together from old wounds and half-truths.
Kelda’s fingers turn beneath hers and squeeze back.
“Precisely.” Percival clasps his hands together, addressing the townsfolk now. “Mr. Carter came to me looking for answers. As a trusted official and friend to the Varinssons, I located the deed simply to dismiss Mr. Carter’s unlikely claims. But to my astonishment, I found merit to them instead.”
With the bravado of someone who has rallied many crowds to suit their own gains, Percival crosses the floor. He lifts the deed high enough for those in the nearest rows to see it, then carries it toward Dagfinn.
“Would you mind reading this line aloud for the people?” he asks.
Not breaking eye contact, Dagfinn grabs the deed and reads, “Thorfell Manor, and all assets therein, are legally the property of the undersigned.”
Dagfinn looks up, but Percival taps the parchment again.
“And then, please state the name signed underneath.”
Dagfinn reads it aloud, “George Walsham, and all heirs of—”
“That’s my father’s name,” Thurstan provides. “Well, we’re Carters now. We changed the name when he left the north. But we were Walshams, alright.”
A gamut of voices rise from the crowd. Everything from doubts to boredom to outrage.
Euphemia feels the room tilt toward Thurstan.
The story sounds plausible. That is what makes it dangerous.
But they planned for this too.
It’s the moment Dagfinn has been waiting for.
Percival snatches the deed. His immaculate robe shifts around his legs as he moves, the fine embroidery catching the light despite the grime of the assembly hall.
“So you see,” he says. “Although we are elated to see your health returned to you, Lord Dagfinn, I am afraid that the matter of the estate is already quite clear.”
One of Dagfinn’s eyebrows kicks up. “Oh, I fully agree.”
Euphemia’s heart thumps, the anticipation finally erupting.
Dagfinn reaches for his jacket pocket and withdraws a neatly folded piece of stained parchment and unfolds it with maddening patience.
A few people in the crowd lean forward.
Percival’s expression twists.
Euphemia nearly smiles.