Holsworthy

Chapter I ... of the March and Market

Margery

𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔞 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤, 𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔩𝔞𝔡 𝔟𝔶 ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔰𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔶'𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔟𝔞𝔯𝔟𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔫, 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔡. He was one of the city's archers, dressed in a padded jack, one that fit just right, showing off the shape of his chest like it was made for the finest tunic. His longbow rested lazily against him as he chatted with a footman, who, I must say, seemed even handsomer than he. It made my heart skip a beat, like a cheerful flame in the hearth of a cold evening.

In truth, Mother often chided me for my ogling gaze when it came to the city's soldiers, yet this particular one had caught my eye more than most. He was of average build, a bit shorter than his longbowman friend, and wore a sable brigandine. but it was his face that truly drew me in. His strong jaw complemented a chiseled nose, while his brown eyes sparkled in the warm late summer light. But the most striking feature of all was his hair—a curious blend of colors. The chestnut brown flowed in soft waves, yet on one side, a splash of silver intertwined, making him seem both youthful and wise. He was no elder, and hardly approached that age, but I fancied the Divine had chosen him to be one of the more rare, or rather, handsome souls among us.

His name was Harold, and I learned it only after I had playfully pestered one of the more wider guards stationed near our little hovel for his name. Each day, my wanderings led me to the main gate just to catch a glimpse of him. But today, I was here for a different reason. Earlier, the grand bells of Holsworthy rang with a different reverberation, signaling the march of our army. Naturally, my curious hide, along with half the district, came to see what the city had to offer in terms of arms. This time, the crowd seemed even larger than before, likely because this was the second group of soldiers to march through our gates this month, bound for the same war against a kingdom whose name I can never seem to pronounce. And the Divine knows Mother won't bother telling me either.

Though I understand little of the politics that the men love so much, I do know that if Holsworthy is called to send forth troops for battle, it must mean that the realm is growing desperate. How desperate? I couldn't say. I don't spend much time contemplating senseless greed or distant conflicts. I've got my own troubles here in the city, like the leering eyes of too many craftsmen. And being a woman, why should I concern myself with some foreign war? It's not as if I'd ever be called to fight in it anyway.

However, I pondered this all with good thought until I felt a slight quake to the cobblestone below me. In an instant, I, along with the crowd gathered around me to watch the army's march, turned our heads toward a distant sound approaching from not too far away. It sounded like a disorganized march of hurried footsteps, mixed with the clatter of hooves striking against the main road. Then, unsurprisingly, came that very spectacle. At the forefront rode a knight, wearing a set of gleaming plate armor that will impress any maiden. His noble steed, adorned in a splendid barding of rich colors, seemed more a display of grandeur than a suit for the fray. Beside him trotted a small page, a lad bearing the emblem of his lord—a golden unicorn upon a field of deep green. Everything about this knight seemed nigh perfect, as though he had stepped forth from the pages of a fairytale. Yet, what intimated me was the broadsword resting upon his back, hinting at a warrior's readiness that belied the usual sword and board.

Following close behind him were several rows of men-at-arms, clad in their varied gambesons, which ranged from deep blues and reds to muted grays, each bearing the scars of many a skirmish. They rode in an undisciplined manner, with their horses' hooves striking in an awkward-like cadence. Then came the levy, which consisted of a large group of disgruntled men, presumably because they must travel on foot. Though they made up our city's artisans, merchants, and guild members, meaning they were more adequately equipped, many of Holsworthy's denizens feared the idea of fighting in our king's war, especially with the winter hastily approaching. While Mother forbade from learning much about the outside world, it's obvious that Andorhal has been faring poorly in recent battles, so the expressions on some of these men were grim, to say the least.

There was no swell of pride in my heart as Andorhal's golden lion passed, nor Holsworthy's iron gauntlet. No, as I've grown older, my pride in this kingdom has faded, especially seeing how they treat outsiders like Mother. This is merely a place where I live, nothing more, nothing less.

As the gates swung open for the passing army, the throng around me erupted into a mixture of enthusiastic cheers and boos, for some still held hope in the kingdom's efforts. But soon enough, that gallant knight and his army would pass, adventuring to whatever fate awaited them, while I continued to steal glances at my soon-to-be husband, Harold. Yet, while I was here, I should gather some horsebread and barley for Mother and me, a rather lavish meal, considering our simple life.

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The district surrounding the main gate is known as Festival Square, a lively hub of trade and commerce, where our merchants oft make their dwellings as well. This, by far, is one of the more polished distracts. Compared to the Artisan's Quarter, the tenements aren't spilling over into the street, cordwainers aren't pissing away their morning ale, and there isn't any gong just laying around, and Divine knows if I step in it. Festival Square is more for the refined folk, with their bright pennants and bustling stalls, from whence they call out to passersbys, urging them to purchase their foreign wares. And in truth, I know little of what they sell. There is one stall tended by a rather obese merchant who swears his trinkets come from a grand kingdom far to the south, or a sultanate, whatever demonry that may be. Sadly, he waylaid me one day to inform me that this sultanate is filled with dark-skinned gentlemen who would do vile things to me if they knew my wordy mouth. In response, I informed that bleeding, bald pig to go fuck himself.

True to its name, Festival Square is where much of the city’s merriment unfolds. Fairs of every kind come and go, with a variety of jesters plying their so-called trade. Word even has it that one jester impressed both the Lord-Mayor and the Baron so greatly that they hired him outright. Imagine that, a fool, and a skilled one at that, might find a chance at a better life than most.

So, I took my time browsing the goods the many merchants had to offer—tinware, fresh flowers, bolts of roughspun cloth, and more. Of late, new stalls have appeared, with merchants selling all manner of incense, herbs, and soaps. They even had a new item on display, vinegar, they called it, said to be useful for preserving food or even for some medicinal purpose. Oddly, these peddlers claim their goods can ward off miasmas and protect folk from being ill. Why there's this sudden rush to fend off the Abyss and other evils confuses me, for the people of Holsworthy seem to love their own corruption daily. It's almost as if something unseen is stirring.

In the end, I found myself haggling with an old codger over the price of barley and horsebread. Not that it was much of a haggle—he mostly badgered me to play a round of knucklebones while he prattled on, belittling me until he'd flattered himself into lowering the price. Can you believe it? Normally, these merchants would lower their prices the moment they laid eyes on me, especially when I give them my innocent, child-like gaze they seem to adore. But now, it's as if that charm's fading, almost like I'm growing up far too quickly.

I nearly had him down to a few coppers when a commotion caught my ear near an old stockpile. A battered wagon, weathered and worn, was encircled by several footmen, their hands resting on the pommels of their sheathed swords. Before the wagon stood a small, frail farmer and his wife, the man pleading desperately with the guards to spare his wagon from being seized. Eventually, the farmer's pleas turned to shouts as he tried to fend off the soldiers. Yet, I doubt he fancied himself much of a hero because the men had orders to seize the wagon for its contents, which happened to be grain. To my eye, there was naught wrong with the grain, save for a strange discoloration, but the footmen insisted it carried some manner of pestilence and must be burned. I knew little of this crop-dwelling plague that folks had begun whispering about, but it seemed enough to set a few souls on edge. Thankfully, the man's wife stepped in, calming the scene, and the cart was soon ushered away toward King's Square. I felt for the poor fellow,it's no easy life when you can't even store enough food for the winter. It made me wonder what life must be like beyond the city walls, where such troubles might be even harsher.

In any other quarter, that farmer might've already found himself in the pillory or a gibbet. Mother always warns me to steer clear of certain soldiers, especially the city's Constable, for some of them are cruel-hearted. But here, in such a public district, I reckon the footmen were careful not to stain their reputation before the wealthier folk. Whether it works or not, I can't say for sure. I've seen plenty of folk from King's Square, where us Grey Quarter dwellers aren't welcome, come and wield their power in one way or another. Mind you, not all of them are like that. I've also seen generous souls come to aid us. Like that one old fellow from the church, the bishop, I believe? He's one of the kinder ones. Come to think of it, a bishop may be the highest-ranking official I've ever seen in my young life.

Though Festival Square may cater to the esteemed folk, or rather, the spoiled, it is far from flawless. At the heart of the district stands a gallows, where the city's priggers, felons, and criminals are left to hang in full view of the people. For weeks, no poor wretch had been left to sway in the breeze, but I recently noticed a fresh addition to its grim display. Despite the ghastly sight that greeted my eyes, It's the stench that one never truly grows accustomed to. I dare say a body, swinging from a thick rope, could be smelled from here to Holsworthy's own council hall. Naturally, my curiosity was stirred regarding the crime that led this soul to such a fate. So, I leaned closer to read the sign around their neck, and lo, my eyes widened in shock.

"RAPIST"