All of Bree was in an uproar. Many were shocked, disgusted and fearful. Geoffrey had been awoken by an urgent knocking at the front door during the early hours of the morning when the sun was beginning to creep over the eastern horizon. It was Mr. Grassfoot, who lived next door to the Redstem house. Although fond of gossip and prying into other peoples’ affairs, Grassfoot kept an eye on Geoffrey’s family when he was away for long periods of time, which he was most grateful for.
‘Geoffrey, my dear fellow!’ Grassfoot panted.
‘What is it, Thomas?’ Geoffrey snapped. It was a rare occasion that he was able to sleep at home, in his warm bed, and not out in the wild. He did not care much for being disturbed this early.
‘There has been a murder, Geoffrey!’ Thomas gasped. ‘Over at the boar fountain. You must come at once!’
Geoffrey told Thomas Grassfoot that he would meet him at the fountain in a few minutes, giving him enough time to get dressed. Kissing Edith’s forehead as she slept, he was quickly away and across town. A great crowd had gathered at the marketplace where the large fountain depicting a boar stood. Many were still garbed in their nightwear, having forgotten their decency in the rush to get a glimpse at the crime scene. A score of Watchers had been sent to the fountain, in order to begin their investigation. Geoffrey spotted Grassfoot in the crowd, and pushed his way through to reach him. In doing so, he found himself before the fountain. There a man’s lifeless and pale corpse lay face down in the water. Though, there was no water to be found; only a scarlet liquid that poured from the man’s throat. One Watcher turned the body over, revealing a long, clean slash across the throat. This was no murder, Geoffrey thought, this was an assassination.
‘Who was he?’ he asked Grassfoot, who seemed to be enjoying the whole ordeal far too much. For certain he would be talking of this for weeks to come, especially as he got to view the corpse himself.
‘No idea, Geoffrey. Some beggar, by the looks of it’ He replied simply. Though there was truth to his words, for the corpse was dressed in old rags. His hair was long and greasy, with a black beard to match. Perhaps he had come to the fountain for a drink of fresh water, as so many townsfolk do, before he met his gruesome end.
‘Right, folks,’ One of the Watchers announced. ‘that’s enough entertainment for now, be away with you all. Let us get on with our investigation.’
Geoffrey knew as well as anyone that this so-called “investigation” would consist of a day or two of door-to-door questioning, before the case was given up on and forgotten. If the victim was but a beggar, then little care would be taken to apprehend his killer. Geoffrey walked home with Thomas Grassfoot, who gave him the privilege of his theories on who the assailant could be. But Geoffrey cared not, and wished only to go back to sleep. No such luck for him. This was no murder, Geoffrey thought, this was an assassination.
The same evening, Geoffrey was at the Prancing Pony. All day that beggar’s corpse had plagued his mind; his only respite was to be found in the bottom of a wineskin. Such a clean cut, he thought, executed with such precision and finesse. The assailant certainly knew how to use a blade. The blade would not have been some simple kitchen utensil. A dagger of fine make, for certain, and an even finer edge. Whoever the murderer was, for certain, knew who they meant to kill. But why? At that moment in his thoughts, Geoffrey realised he was not alone at his table. Across from him sat an elderly fellow garbed in a long, tattered grey robe. He was bald, save for the thin sideburns that were the colour of snow. Geoffrey recognised him at once – it was Barnaby Stumpseed, the Mayor’s clerk who had assisted him in tracking down Kim Honeybark some time ago. Now he looked frailer than Geoffrey remembered, relying heavily on a wooden staff.
‘You look troubled, Geoffrey Redstalk.’ Barnaby murmured once he had finally settled in his chair.
‘Redstem. And I am no more trouble than the next man, Barnaby Stumpseed.’
‘I know what is on your mind. Your presence was noted amongst the crowd this morning, you see. I know well enough that a man like you would not allow such a grave matter go.’
‘And that’s why you’re here?’ Geoffrey asked. The clerk had proved useful before, so perhaps he could provide some clues concerning the murder of the beggar.
‘Indeed so, indeed so.’ He began. ‘A moment whilst I gather my thoughts – Ah, yes. The poor fellow whose throat was cut was called Aaron Barken, a vagrant of the Beggar’s Alley.’
‘I guessed as much. Do go on.’
‘Indeed. Know that he was not your average beggar, though. He has been in the forefront of a number of… demonstrations against the authorities. Demanding bread, work, and a renovation of the Alley. He was very popular among the poor, for he was a great and passionate speaker.’
‘Do you mean to say that he was killed because of this?’
‘Perhaps so. It is indeed beyond coincidence that on this very day, he had planned to give a speech before the Town Hall to all the poor of Bree – in earshot of the Mayor. To tell them all of his demands on their behalf, and perhaps even to stir up riots and revolt. There was one who assured the Mayor that Aaron Barken would trouble him no more.’
‘Who, Barnaby? Give me his name!’
‘Bertram Aldroot.’
This was a name known to all in Bree, as well as the rest of the Bree-land. Betram Aldroot, sometimes calling himself Lord Aldroot, was said to be the wealthiest man in Bree. With that affluence came influence, and with that influence came power. It was often said the Aldroot could make or unmake a Mayor at will. He had served as an alderman of Bree for many years now, as had his father before him. Aldroot’s lineage was said to be noble, or even royal, if one was to trace it back to the time of the old kingdom.
‘Are you telling me that Lord Aldroot had Barken murdered?’
‘I tell you nothing, Geoffrey Redstalk.’ Stumpseed said sternly. ‘Aldroot speaks for himself. But I do warn you to beware in this matter, for the knife which slew this beggar can just as easily find its way to your own throat.’
With that the clerk struggled to his feet and took his leave from the inn. Geoffrey was left alone at his table to brood over Barnaby’s compelling words. Lord Aldroot was not a man to be crossed, there was no question His age had not made him kind, but was said only to fuel his avarice. The seat of the Aldroots could be found in the Brandy Hills – at Aldroot Lodge. Far from being a lodge, it would be better to call it a mansion. This is where Bertram ruled his trading empire, which mainly dealt in the production and sale of cider.
Geoffrey knew well enough the reach that a man like Aldroot would have over the authorities in Bree. No doubt he had the Watch on his payroll, so the “investigation” into the murder would surely be abandoned no sooner than it had begun. He could not appeal to the Mayor, who too was likely to be under the influence of this so called lord. If he wanted answers, and justice, for Aaron Barken then he would have to take matters into his own hands. Both would be found at Aldroot Lodge, to the east.
It was a two day ride from Bree to the Brandy Hills, where the lodge was to be found. Nestled upon a high hill, surrounded by tall trees, Aldroot Lodge commanded a view of the vast woodland. It was three stories high, the first being made of light stone and the other two of well-sawed logs which were stacked up in an even and quaint pattern. There was a paved pathway that led from the bottom of the hill to the front door of the lodge, the likes of which was too narrow for a horse. Binding his horse to a nearby tree, Geoffrey made his way up the steep and narrow path.
Upon reaching the summit, the doors of the lodge flung open. A young, slender and handsome man brandished his fine blade at Geoffrey.
‘Away with you, knave!’ he cried out. ‘Before I slice you like a steak!’
Geoffrey knew who this man was. Everard Aldroot, the grandson and heir of Bertram. He was famous for his prowess during tourneys, both in melee and jousting events. Often considered the epitome of chivalry and such flowery values, Geoffrey was well aware of the fact that this man – or rather boy – had never seen a real battle before. In his experience, these knights (or so they called themselves) seemed courageous when aiming a wooden pole at their opponent on horseback, but when faced with an enemy who wish them real harm, they are the first to flee in terror.
‘I come seeking the master of the house, Bertram Aldroot.’ Geoffrey announced.
‘That’s Lord Aldroot to you, knave!’ Everard cried again. ‘Now be gone, lest you want a quarrel!’
Geoffrey took a few steps forward. ‘I will see the master of the house now. Tell him that I know about Aaron Barken.’
The pale eyes of the youth narrowed. ‘I know not of what you speak of, knave. But alas, I cannot let you leave this place now.’
With that, he charged at Geoffrey with his fine – but thin – sword. Despite his reservations, Everard proved to be more than capable with a blade. Geoffrey, in turn, drew his greatsword. This so-called knight did not seem to adhere to the guidelines of chivalry in this fight, using any means to defeat his older opponent. But Geoffrey had been fighting to kill his enemies for many years now, whereas Everard’s training would have consisted only in beating his opponents, before lending them a hand back up again. But now it seems that the young knight had forgotten his honour, slashing at Geoffrey’s leg, with one such slash finding his thigh. For a moment it seemed that Geoffrey Redstem might be defeated by a tourney knight. Parrying a lunge aimed at his chest, Geoffrey was finally able to disarm Everard – his priceless sword clashing down the steps of the pathway, out of sight. The young man fell to his knees with tears in his eyes, begging for mercy.
‘Go now, before I changed my mind.’ Geoffrey barked, sending Everard running off after his sword. ‘I have business with your grandfather.’
