Lowen Roscarrock’s arse hurt. Hard wooden seats, uneven wheels and stupid flighty horses did not make for a smooth carriage ride.

‘The Au Claire’s have cushions, Uncle Tomas,’ said Lowen.

‘They do Lowen, that’s true. Well remembered.’ Tomas Roscarrock turned to face Lowen, his broad, hunched shoulders covering the entirety of the window.

‘They’re far more comfortable. I rode in their carriage once.’

‘Did you? How was that.’

‘Far more comfortable, Uncle Tomas,’ Lowen said through gritted teeth. ‘Why do they have cushions and we don’t? Father is at least as rich as Lord Au Claire.’

‘I am not privy to my Brother’s accounting, little Lowen, so I could not say for sure.’ Tomas’ beard shifted a little.

‘Uncle Tomas, you are not answering my question and I think you know that full well. Why can – no.’ Lowen started again. ‘The Au Claire’s have cushions in their carriages while we have wooden seats. Why is that?’

‘Oh, why didn’t you just ask Lowen, instead of dancing about the point,’ Tomas’ beard opened up to reveal a full grin of white teeth. ‘The Au Claire’s have cushions because they are Northern pansies while we have the blood of the Old Hunters in our veins.’ Tomas leaned in. ‘Tell me Lowen, have you been in all the Au Claire’s carriages?’

‘No, just the one for the children,’ Lowen admitted.

‘And do you think Lord Alexis sits on a cushion?’

‘Probably.’

‘He probably does yes. Now do you think Lord Alexis’ Gardener sits on one?’

‘Probably not,’ Lowen squinted at him, unsure where this was going or why.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

‘And why is that, Lowen?’

‘Because – because he’s a Gardener? And Lord Au Claire is a, you know, a Lord?’

‘And the Gardener is lesser, yes?’

‘Yes. No. I don’t know Uncle Tomas. I just want a cushion really.’ Lowen squirmed, trying to alleviate some of the pressure on his aching behind.

‘Lord Alexis is a man just like his gardener, just like you and me. None is better than another, Lord Alexis just has a fancy name. We sit as our workers do, just as we were born the same and will die the same, when we dine with the Old Hunters.’

‘Didn’t know the Old Hunters had steel buttocks,’ Lowen muttered.

Tomas looked down at Lowen and rubbed a hand through his sandy blonde hair. ‘Are you okay, Lowen?’

‘No, Uncle! I am uncomfortable! We have been over this, abundantly, I feel!’

‘I mean with Caja.’

Lowen went quiet at that. He looked at his feet.

‘It’ll be fine, Lowen. You know Caja’s a good person. I’d be glad to have you as a son.’

‘I know she is, Uncle. That doesn’t mean I want to marry her. I don’t want to have to,’ his face scrunched up, ‘lay with her.’

‘You don’t have to do any of that sort of stuff, Lowen. Plenty of married nobles are more friends than aught else. It’s just something our rank forces us to do.’

‘You said we were all just men, equal in the eyes of the Old Hunters.’

‘We are, Lowen, and although we must do what we can to remind ourselves of that, some things just can’t be avoided.’

‘Hm,’ said Lowen, with finality.

They sat in silence, watching the countryside roll by. Sheets of icy rain battered the side of the carriage and it tilted dangerously when the wind struck it. They went up and up into the moorland. The stubbly grass had a purple tinge when you looked at it from an angle. Lowen fiddled with the decorated handle of his rapier. It was just another part of the tyranny of rank that he had wasted so many hours fencing to end up being gifted a weapon that was a little more shiny, a little more gilt, made a more impressive schwing when it cut through the air. Lowen looked across the carriage to the other bench, where Tomas’ Bec de Corbin lay, taking up the entire length of it. It had a head of dark grey steel, and a long tapering point; Tomas’ years as a miner had clearly shaped his preferences. Lowen had seen him training, punching holes through sheets of steel a palms width thick with little effort. Tomas moved like a glacier, with all the power of one.

‘I need to pee, Uncle.’

Tomas nodded, he stuck his arm out the window and banged the roof, their carriage came to a stop, and the ones behind pulled in front.

‘Don’t take too long now, don’t want to lose your Father. It’s an important day for us all, Lowen.’

‘I won’t,’ Lowen called, jogging to the treeline. He began to pick his way into the copse, and once he was sure Tomas wouldn’t be able to see him, he ran.

He ran and he didn’t look back again.