Burdened by a rawhide and stubborn legs, Weddle struggled to the gates of Vasier Castle, where the standing guards kept strict vigil over who came and went. A checkpoint and chokepoint to Weddle’s urgency. He skipped his way to the front of the early morning queue, in search of the most senior guards, relying on discerning rank via the dress code, only to find the usually decorative designs had become bland reiteration of the purple and gold. Even the royal insignia had succumbed to symbols of religious devotion. From rope-tethered metal adornments to patchwork purple crosses over rustic chain mail armor.

‘What is your purpose, pastor?’ called out the head guard from above the castle gatehouse.

‘I have a message for the queen’s mother. News from Sir Bradfrey’s campaign.’

‘All royal messages go through the quartermaster. Jamison will escort you,’ said the head guard with a mouth full of fruit. He then waved Weddle past the backlog and into the care of one of his junior guards, who had yet to grow into his newly allocated attire. ‘Do not leave his side, do not engage with others, do nothing else until the quartermaster has given his blessing. Good day, sir, and good luck.’

‘Ah yes, of course. Thank you and God bless,’ said Weddle as he puffed air, trying to keep up with his more able-bodied guide.

Their journey was one of intermitted stop-starts, as the young guardsman did his best to remain polite, despite Weddle’s constant need to catch his breath. Pauses offered Weddle a chance to observe the sights of the imposing palisade that overshadowed the serfs and lower classes. Which, to his surprise, displayed a very uncharacteristic cleanliness to what he deemed normal for such lower rung of society. The pavements were spotless, alleys devoid of rubbish and rodents. Yet, as he observed the peasantry, he sensed a hollow, soulless lack of community as absent-minded commoners wondered around, anxiously avoiding anyone not about their business.

The only gathering of like-minded people was coming from the raised platform outside the inner walls. Where one white-robed religious figure spoke out against the perils of false truths. His words directed the seething rage of heckling bystanders to the misfortune of one slender, light-skinned man. The man looked to have never worked in his life yet found himself at the mercy of zealotry. His hands and head were secured tightly inside the wooden pillory.

‘This man is no fool. He’s the devil’s tongue with the wicked man’s wit, deceiving his way to the queen’s ear. For what lies he’s said, what blasphemy he’s fed. Luring our queen from the righteous path of the One True God and into the hand of the heathenous,’ said the religious figure as the first of many rocks and rotten inedible unleashed an aerial assault from the most boisterous of the mob.

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It was enough to shake the naivety from Weddle conscientious openness. And he felt the crowd’s ambiance in contrast to the silent majority, who were too afraid to speak their minds. Compliance by religious order was being carried out without question, with the guards standing their like statues, seen but not intervening in quarrels of religious justice.

After they passed through the lower rungs of society, they entered the fortified barracks. The original structure of Vasier, it was the military outpost from the old Rowan Empire. The quartermaster’s residence was an old Domus-style house. A square box building with an open-aired central garden of thorns and red earth.

Inside, the guard led Weddle to a confined room of two bare wooden stools divided by a long rectangular firepit. There were two guards standing on either side, blocking the narrow passage between Weddle and the empty seat.

Suddenly, a balding, hard-nosed man barged in. ‘I am Cestmir. What are your matters here?’ the man said with an impatient scowl and tight fists around a bent horse whip. The inanimate object was the fulcrum for his inner tension.

‘Messages for the queen’s mother?’

‘You are?’

‘Weddle, a travelling friar from the northern region. I’ve recently come into the service of Sir Bradfrey.’

‘Fine, give the messages here,’ said Cestmir before clicking his fingers to the partitioning guard holding the flanks of the fireplace.

‘They are for her eyes only. Sir Bradfrey’s seal should be enough,’ said Weddle, to no avail.

‘No, give them here,’ said Cestmir more insistently as the rapid-fire clicks brought the guard to impress upon the less forthcoming Weddle the need to give up his satchel.

With a minor struggle, the parchments made their way to the quartermaster, who, with no hesitation, ripped open Sir Bradfrey’s seal.

Its contests engrossed Cestmir, and he skimmed from line to line, biting his bottom lip, becoming more unsettle with every paragraph. His right leg tapped the floor rigorously while his lips began making silent curses from under his breath. ‘Guards leave us,’ he finally said.

When he and Weddle were alone, Cestmir turned to him and asked, ‘What do you know of this’?’

‘Nothing directly, but I should be able to guess to the substance of his messages,’ said Weddle, his guilty instincts playing through any attempt to disguise himself as merely the unwitting messenger.

‘In that case, I’ve just saved your life.’

‘I trust you have, but what comes next?’ Weddle queried.

‘This Anneliese. Is she real?’

‘Most certainly, and should I mention, a very loyal servant to the lord.’

‘Hmm, go back to Sir Bradfrey. Tell him the message wasn’t well received. Speak nothing of our meeting. Simply that the church will not tolerate such miracles, and that if he knows what’s in his best interest, he’ll rid himself of this girl before she causes trouble.’

‘What of you, my good sir? Surely, you’re hiding from those same evils you’re protecting Sir Bradfrey from?’

‘I have my duties and my burdens. The queen’s mother will hear what she needs to hear, but if by some unfortunate circumstance, she catches wind of such witchery, Sir Bradfrey better bring more than triumphs to his name. For both our sakes,’ said Cestmir with angered trepidation as he threw the parchments into the fire and waited until all legible evidence turned to ash.