Chapter 3

“No, I will not!” The young noble woman screamed at her parents. “I will not marry that old man! He’s old enough to be my grandfather, let alone my father! First you try to foist me off with a man old enough to be my father, now you want me to marry someone old enough to be my grandfather?”

A pewter goblet flew across the room, bouncing of the wall, spraying it’s contents all over the floor. Her parents had learned long ago, to their cost, that if bad news were to be delivered, then first remove all breakable objects within reach.

Lord Blackmore looked with despair at his only daughter. She was nearly twenty eight years old. She should have been married a decade ago but there was always an excuse. They were either too old or stupid or ugly or poor or any number of these in combination. Admittedly some of them were a little older, by maybe a decade or three, but, given that she has a reputation as a head strong, somewhat spirited woman it was getting more and more difficult to find suitable suitors.

“Now, dear, be reasonable. Earl Tathlone is a very influential wealthy man. He, like us, requires and heir. Both you and your children will be extremely well provided for,” her mother expounded.

“I don’t care! He is old and ugly! I will not marry such an old man! I would rather go into a convent!” she screamed.

“You will do as I command! You will marry Lord Tathlone, I have given my word!” Lord Blackmore boomed.

“Then you can just un-give your word! I don’t care! I will not marry him! Tell me, where are all the young men? Where are all the sons of the nobility? It’s been years since any eligible suitors have called. It’s the Baron Shieldsmith, isn’t it? He’s been warding them off and threatening them, hasn’t he? Ever since I refused him, there have been less and less of them. That’s when all the trouble started wasn’t it? The raids, the bandits? You only want me to marry Lord Tathlone so he would use his influence with the king to force the Baron to stop his attacks. Well, I won’t! You’ll not sell me like some prize heifer. I’m your daughter, not some prize cow to be auctioned off to the highest bidder!”

“Don’t you care about the people? Don’t you wish to stop the raids? The peasants are suffering grievously because of this.”

“Why should I care about the peasants? They’re just peasants! They will always be suffering and poor. They always have and always will. That’s their station in life. The man I marry will be young, handsome, brave and strong! Not old, infirm and senile! I remember him from the ball. He smelt like a goat!”

She thought back to the ball that had been held just two months ago. She remembered Lord Tathlone. He was a kindly man, polite, thoughtful but just a little vague, forgetful. It was unkind of her to mention his smell; but, unfortunately, he did smell like an old goat! She remembered his steward, a man a man named Ebeneezer. He was an obsequious little man. Bald and pasty faced, with bulging eyes. The way her looked at her had made her flesh crawl. She shuddered at the thought. No, she would never marry Tathlone.

“You really are a self-centred little bitch aren’t you! Where do you think all your fine things come from? Who do you think pays for your fine dresses? Your servants? Your jewels? It’s the peasants working in the fields, the mines and the woods. It’s their tithes, their taxes, their rents that pay for it all. What will we do if they are killed or run off?” he father screamed at her.

“Then get some more. There’s always plenty of them. They’re all around us, grubby grasping little hands, always holding them out to touch us or begging for some coppers. I’m sure a few less won’t matter,” she shrugged.

“A few less! How can you be so dismissive of peoples lives? Don’t you care about the people around you?”

“Of course I care. I care that they do as they are told and don’t answer back! I care that they don’t touch my things and put their grubby smelly hand all over my clothes.” By now her blood was up. “And anyway, the only reason you care about these people is so they can supply another young maid for you to chase!”

As soon as the words had left her mouth she knew she had gone too far. There was an unwritten rule that no-one ever mentioned her fathers addiction to young women, or her mothers ‘interest’ in the young guardsmen that she would have visiting her quarters late at night.