The lodge seemed to be completely abandoned. Geoffrey had expected there to be a great number of staff and retainers in service to the mighty Lord Bertram. But there did not seem to be a single soul here. The young ‘knight’ and grandson of Aldroot, Everard, had done Geoffrey the courtesy of leaving the great oak doors open before his flight down the hill in search of his precious blade – and life. There was a spacious and tall hallway now, with a tiled floor and wood panel walls. Adorning the walls were many rich tapestries depicting a number of characters from history and legend. Kings and queens, knights and maidens, heroes and villains. Aldroot had always boasted that his lineage could be traced back to the days of the old kingdom – Arnor. No one dared to question such claims, of course.
Searching the many rooms of the ground floor, Geoffrey could find no sign of life. He came across a large dining room with a grand table in the centre, where Aldroot would feast with his rich friends. But to Geoffrey it seemed as though this room, as with the others he searched, had not seen use in a long time. The hearth was empty, the candles were melted away, and dust seemed to cover everything. Nothing to be seen and nothing to be heard. Returning to the main hall, Geoffrey ascended the staircase, the bannister bearing such dust as well.
Upon reaching the landing of the second floor, there was a choice of two long corridors: one to the left and one to the right. It seemed prudent to begin on the left, and search each room of the floor. That was until Geoffrey could hear voices – two voices – talking. The closer he listened, the clearer it became that they were shouting. Following the sound, Geoffrey made his way down the corridor on the right, eventually coming to the very last door where the voices were coming from. Pressing his ear against it, he began to listen.
‘—barely escaped the town without getting caught.’ One man said with a distinct foreign accent.
‘Indeed, that would have been regrettable.’ Another replied, who Geoffrey guessed was Bertram Aldroot himself. ‘But you did what I asked. The beggar is dead, and the Mayor will be most grateful to me, who removed that thorn from his side, and will surely reward me handsomely. Your payment is in the chest, over there on the cabinet.’
Footsteps caused the floorboards to creak as someone made their way across the room. There was a long pause.
‘This is not the agreed price, Aldroot! It is barely a fraction of it!’ the foreign voice cried angrily.
‘Did you really expect to be rewarded so handsomely for slitting some beggar’s throat, loud an disruptive as he may have been? You told me you had been in this business for long, but perhaps I was mistaken.’
‘I will have my gold.’
‘Perhaps, but not from me. Look around you, assassin! Look at this place! Do you really think I have such riches anymore?’
‘You are poor!’
‘Yes, quite poor. I have been so for some ten years now, you see. But no one need know that.’
‘I will have my gold. Or else your secret is out.’ The foreign voice demanded.
‘Oh no, you misunderstand me. When I said that no one needs know of my poverty, I meant no one. Everard, now!’
A long silence ensued. Everard, Bertram’s grandson, was nowhere to be found. Geoffrey might have chuckled at this, but did not in case his presence was discovered. There seemed to be a great deal of irony in assassinating an assassin.
‘You are all alone, Lord Aldroot.’
‘Lord Aldroot, indeed. There it is again. It has always amused me greatly how easily the commons are fooled. I am no lord, nor does my ancestry find its way to the kings of old. No, indeed. My own grandfather was a stablehand. What do you say now?’
No answer came, and another silence began. That was until a shrill voice cried ‘No!’ in the room. It was in this moment that Geoffrey kicked the door open. This was clearly Aldroot’s study, as there was a large bookshelf and a great oak desk. A tall man with swarthy skin stood before the desk, dressed in a ragged tunic. In his hand was a long and narrow dagger, of a truly fine make, dripping with blood. At once Geoffrey knew what had happened. Behind the desk, Bertram Aldroot was slumped against the wall. His hair fell to his shoulders and was a dark grey, the same colour as his velvet doublet. Only now, it seemed that the well-tailored doublet was dyed red. His throat had been cut, just like poor Aaron Barken.
Geoffrey went over to the body, ignoring the fact that an armed assassin was still in the room. There was nothing to be done now, for life had left him. Bertram Aldroot, alderman of Bree, was dead. He had lived his life pretending to be someone he was not, and had become rich beyond reason because of it. If one can make himself appear to be rich and powerful, then rich and powerful he shall become. But such a façade cannot be maintained forever, and Aldroot died in destitution.
‘Who are you?’ the assassin demanded, gripping his bloodied dagger tightly.
Geoffrey stood up, leaving the body where it lay. ‘Your end.’ Geoffrey replied, before drawing out his sword.
As he expected, the assassin took a swipe at his throat. Geoffrey was only able to narrowly miss the blade. He had picked a difficult fight, as his sword was too big to be used effectively against a dagger, especially when that dagger is wielded by a professional. For that reason, Geoffrey threw down his sword.
‘You surrender?’ the assassin cackled. ‘I will make it quick.’
Taking yet another swipe at Geoffrey’s throat, the assassin found his blow parried by another dagger. Geoffrey was no fool, and always made sure his weaponry was versatile. The fight became more evenly fought now. The blades clashed together again and again, the momentum becoming faster and faster. Geoffrey was no expert when it came to daggers, for he preferred to wield larger and heavier swords. The fight led the two out from the study and through the corridor of the second floor. In his heart, Geoffrey knew that he could not beat the assassin. The foreigner had such finesse that he made the older warrior look like a clumsy child learning to fight for the first time. But he fought on nonetheless, for if he was to die then it would be on his terms – in battle with a worthy opponent.
And his death now seemed imminent. A well placed slash at Geoffrey’s hand caused him to lose his dagger, leaving his completely defenceless. He would have liked to have stood firmly in his place as the assassin ended his life, but as he approached Geoffrey could not help but back away.
‘Beg for your life, dog.’ The assassin spat, his wide smile revealing a few rotten teeth.
But a whistle from the distance but an end to that. The glass of the window which the two opponents stood before had been smashed. An arrow had struck the assassin in the eye, his dagger falling from his hand. It was clear that he was in great agony, his death not coming soon enough. Geoffrey picked up the blade that had been dropped at the assassin’s feet, as he fell to his knees. Grabbing him by the collar, he said into his ear ‘Beg for your death, dog.’ So he did, the assassin pleaded in both the Common Tongue and his own language to be put out of his misery. Geoffrey obliged, slitting his throat with the same blade that had felled Aaron Barken and Bertram Aldroot, as well as countless others.
A number of constables, who had arrived from Bree on horseback, now entered the lodge. They had come to question Aldroot about the murder of Barken, as well as a number of other crimes that he had been implicated in. It was clear that not all were on his payroll, if any of them ever truly were. Geoffrey wondered who had tipped the constable’s off, and guessed that it might have been Barnaby, the Mayor’s clerk. After finding the lifeless body of Aldroot, who would be unable to answer their questions, the constables began to search the lodge. Finding various documents that confirmed Aldroot’s corruption and malice, they were soon away. Bertram Aldroot’s guilt was made common knowledge, tarnishing his once golden name. Everard, his grandson, was forced to live in the Beggar’s Alley of Bree, after Aldroot Lodge was burned to the ground on orders of the Mayor. Any officials who had once been associated with the late ‘lord’ were quick to distance themselves from him. This man, who had risen so high and had fallen so much further, was forgotten.
Geoffrey was left to return home to Bree himself, where he might enjoy another day or two in peace with his family before once again riding out into the wild with his company.
