Prologue

           The old man lay silently in his bed, the air whistling in and out of his chest like wind through the branches of the giant oak tree outside his chamber window. Every now and then a fit of coughing racked him, causing his frail shoulders to shake with every violent hack. Eventually it would subside, but his chest and throat ached with the force, and he knew his time was short.

            Mrs. Hawke, the housekeeper who seemed she had been at Easton Castle longer than he had, helped by bringing him bowls of broth to sip when the pain wasn’t so bad. She had just left his chamber to put a bowl on a tray for him when another fit of coughing attacked him. His back hunched, he retched into his hand, which was covered in flecks of dark blood when he pulled it away from his mouth.

            Shuddering with the effort, the old man reached to the table beside his bed and picked up a goblet of water. As he sipped it down, a shadow fell over the open entrance to his chamber. He turned his head, and nearly dropped the goblet when he saw who was standing in the doorway.

            “So, it is true,” came the voice, a voice the old man hadn’t heard in years. Still the same voice – laconic, slightly mocking, only now it was laced with bitterness and resignation as well. Hardly the tone a boy should use when speaking to his father.

            “Of course it’s true,” the old man said, lying back against his pillows with some effort. “D’you think I would have written you if I weren’t on my deathbed?”

            “Quite honestly, I’m shocked that you did anyway,” the younger man said. “Of what interest could your death possibly be to me?”

            The old man cackled, glad now that he had sent for this youngest son of his, so that he could have these last few moments of entertainment before the good Lord – or the devil – called him home.

            “Didn’t you know?” the old man asked. “In a few days – or hours, if I’m lucky – you’ll be the earl of Easton.”

            “Either your sickness or your evil has addled your wits,” the younger man said. “I’ll never be the earl. Remember? You told me every chance you got while I was growing up, until I wised up and left you to rot with that petulant whiner of an older brother of mine.”

            “That petulant whiner has been gone over five years now, my son,” the old man said. “Fool got himself killed in an accident with his horse. Broke his neck so hard they couldn’t even straighten his head to bury him. No, my lord, when I die – and it won’t be long now – you shall be the earl of Easton.”

            The younger man blanched as his father described his older brother’s death. He had not known. No one had written him. True, he had disliked his elder brother, seeing him merely as their father’s weak, mindless minion, but still – he should have received word. Particularly since his brother’s death left him heir to the title of Earl of Easton. But it would be just like the old b*****d to let him find out this way, wouldn’t it?

            The young man watched as his father was incapacitated by another fit of coughing – this one more violent than any had been. He saw the gnarled hand reach out to clutch at the pewter goblet of water on the bedside table. He made no move to assist the old man. The hacking cough continued, and suddenly Mrs. Hawke barged into the chamber, pushing past the young man in the doorway with amazing strength for a woman of her many years.

            “Here you are, my lord,” she said soothingly, putting the goblet to the cracked, wrinkled lips and holding it there until the coughing faded. She turned disapproving eyes to the young man in the doorway, who refused to flinch under her gaze. He had never understood Mrs. Hawke’s unwavering devotion to the old b*****d, and decided then and there that his first duty as earl would be to get rid of the ancient housekeeper.

            “Come to claim yer inheritance already, eh?” she asked with the boldness of a longtime servant. “Yer father ain’t even dead yet, boy.”

            “Well, Mrs. Hawke, it just so happens that I was not aware until a few moments ago that I even had an inheritance,” the young man said. “It seems no one bothered to inform me of Stephen’s unfortunate accident. However, I think you and I can both plainly see that my father does not have much time left on this earth. I will have you know that I have already decided that once I am earl, your services will no longer be needed at Easton Castle. If you have nowhere to go, I shall see that a cottage is built for you.”

            The old woman’s mouth, with its smattering of blackened teeth, gaped incredulously at him.

            “You would turn out an old woman?” she asked in a querulous voice.

            “Some would call it retirement. I am not throwing you into the forest to fend for yourself, Mrs. Hawke. I have offered to build you your own cottage if your children cannot accommodate you. However, I feel that with my father gone, it is best if we start over here. I can guarantee you that this household will be managed quite differently under my rule than under the rule of that heartless old miser you’re clinging to so desperately. Do not, for a moment, think that he cares what will happen to you once he’s gone. He does not.”

            “Yer awful sure of yerself for a boy who, until a few minutes ago, was nothing but the hated second son of the great Earl of Easton,” Mrs. Hawke said contemptuously.

            “Ah, you see, there you’re wrong, Mrs. Hawke,” the young man replied easily. “The great earl of Easton had only one son, who unfortunately grew up to be the wretched piece of garbage you see here. There hasn’t been a great earl of Easton in more than twenty years.”
            “You always were ungrateful,” the old man snarled. “I have neighbors who would gladly slice off your head for the chance to be the earl of Easton. Neighbors who have been better family to me than my own son! I could turn around and hand the title right to one of them!”

            “But you won’t. I know you, Father. You’re a miserable old b*****d, but you still have your pride. You would never turn the title over to someone not of your own blood. You are far too proud, and too stubborn to admit your failures both as a father and a husband.”

            “Get out!” the old man shouted. He hurled the empty goblet toward his son, but his arm was weak and it landed on the floor quite short of his son’s feet. The young man bent down and picked it up, placing it back on the bedside table next to the terrified Mrs. Hawke.

            “Try and get some sleep, Father,” the younger man said. “In your condition, it is not good to overexert yourself.”

            He turned abruptly and left the chamber doorway, hearing his father’s swearing cut off by yet another bout of violent coughing.

            He entered the chamber that had once been his own. It was small, and located at the end of a long corridor, as if someone had built it there as an afterthought. Gagging on the swirl of dust that came up as he pushed open the door, he surveyed the chamber and was both pleased and annoyed to see that it was exactly the same as he had left it, twelve years before. The tables, chairs and wardrobe were covered in a thick film of gray dust. The bed was child-sized, and remembering how his feet had hung over the edge when he was sixteen, the young man wondered if it wouldn’t be a better idea to sleep in the loft in the barn.

            Going back down into the Great Hall, he caught a ginger-haired maidservant by the sleeve and asked her for a basin of water in which he could wash.

            “Aye, sir,” she said, nodding. “I will bring it right up to you. Will you be needing anything else?”

            “Were my brother’s clothes packed away after he died?”

            “Oh, no, sir,” the maidservant said. “The earl wouldn’t let no one pack up Master Stephen’s things. Why, his rooms look exactly the same as they did when he went out for that last ride. It’s like his pa thinks he might be coming home.”

            “Do you know where they are?” he asked the outspoken little maid.

            “Yes, sir,” she said.

            “Bring me breeches and a shirt, please,” he said, and she dropped him a scant curtsey before he turned and went back to his chamber.

            The water and clothing were brought and he stripped off his own clothes, dusty and stained from several days’ hard riding from London. He washed as best he could in with the small basin of water, then went to his old bed and pulled the coverlet down, sending another cloud of dust into the air. Choking a little, he slid naked beneath the coverlet, shivering until the heat of his body warmed the mattress enough for him to get comfortable and drift off to sleep.

            He did not know what time it was when he woke, but it was raining heavily outside. The sky was still black, except for intermittent flashes of lightning. It had been nearly dusk when he arrived at Easton Castle – he could not have been sleeping for very long. Wondering what had awakened him, he settled back down into his bed and tried to go back to sleep. But sleep would not come.

            Suddenly, low wail sounded from the opposite end of the corridor. As he listened, it grew louder and more intense.

            Well, the time has come, he thought grimly, and climbed from the bed. He found an old nightgown in his wardrobe, and pulled it over his head. It was tight – his body had filled out since he was a lad of sixteen. But it did its job. He left his chamber and headed down the hall to his father’s rooms, where a crowd of servants had gathered, yanked from their sleep by Mrs. Hawke’s noisy grief.

            The old man lay against his pillows, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, his face twisted into an expression so grotesque it was almost comical. Mrs. Hawke had thrown herself across the gnarled corpse and was wailing piteously. She was not wearing her cap and tufts of sparse white hair fluttered as her body heaved with sobs. He leaned down and strained to pull the old woman off of the body.

            “Let me help, my lord,” said a boy, stepping from the gaggle of servants in the hall. Together they detached Mrs. Hawke from the old earl’s corpse, and the boy half-carried, half-dragged her to the servants’ quarters, where they found her in the morning, dead of her grief.

            “We’ll bury her next to him,” the young man said. “God knows, she’s the only woman he ever treated with any respect. I won’t disturb my mother’s resting place by putting that b*****d beside her.”

            The servants all glanced at each other, thinking that their new master had vocalized what they had always thought, but never said aloud. Perhaps a change was coming to Easton Castle.

            Since it was winter, the ground was frozen. It took six men nearly a full day to dig the dead man’s grave. Easton Castle’s Catholic priest came down from his small stone church and said a blessing over the mound of frozen dirt. As soon as the priest was done, the new earl of Easton went back up to the castle and began to make plans.

            The castle would need repair. It was in nearly unlivable condition. The rain from a few nights before had soaked through the roof, leaving puddles of water all over the floors. It was drafty, and filthy, and with such a barebones staff, the work would take years to complete.

            The earl dusted off a desk in his father’s study and sat down to write two letters. The first was to his cousin and best friend, Hayden Welles, the Viscount Beddingfield, who was currently at Queen Mary’s court. He informed him of the death of his father and his unexpected accession to the title of earl of Easton, and begged him to take leave of the Queen and join him at Easton Castle. The second was to his nearest neighbor, Lord Haughton, the earl of Bolingbroke. He also informed Lord Haughton of his rise in status, and told him that he would be visiting soon to get to know his neighbors. What he did not tell Lord Haughton was that he wished to get a lay of the land, and perhaps borrow some of Bolingbroke’s men to aid him in repairing the castle. He dripped wax on both parchments, sealed them with his father’s ring, and went off in search of the ginger-haired maid. She was outspoken, but seemed competent, and indeed she knew exactly where to go to see that his messages got delivered. Easton Castle had no majordomo – the last man to hold the title had been dead nearly ten years. Perhaps the chatterbox maid would know of someone, and maybe he would promote her to housekeeper.

            He could not do anything more until he received replies to his messages, so he arranged to have the master chambers cleaned and the bedding replaced, as they were his rooms now. He was the Earl of Easton, and finally had a purpose in life. And his father was not there to take it away from him.

Reviews

[Lorelee Tate]

Excellent start! I have a couple suggestions for you.

You have some sentences here that are written in the passive voice. For example: "...it was raining heavily outside." All of these can be reworded to be made active, not to mention help the flow of the sentences themselves.

The chapter starts in the point of view of the old man, then switches to the young man's. Switching point of view in the middle of a chapter can potentially be confusing, so consider just rewording some things to make the old man's actions at the beginning known without revealing what he thinks, sees, hears, etc.

The transition between taking Mrs. Hawke to the servants' quarters and her death in the morning is a bit sudden. In fact, there's hardly any transition at all. Consider breaking up some sentences so that the information conveyed by that one sentence comes at a more regulated pace.

In spite of all these, I really liked this chapter. The young man makes for a very intriguing character and I am anxious to see what happens throughout the story.