Arc 2

Part 1

Ben had no sooner set about the business of restarting his city life when things began to happen that would forever prevent any return to what was before. The first hint of the way things were to be came in the form of a knock at the door of his small Attic room. Ben was busy unpacking boxes and looking at the clothes he had been wearing with his soldier's eye, the interruption, when it came, was more than a little welcome.

"Open," he called, setting aside another lace ruff with a shake of his head.

"I am looking for Sir Cromwell" the new arrival's voice announced.

"You found him" he replied, suddenly noticing how his own voice had matured over the last year.

"Ah" the man replied straightening. He was short and well dressed in what appeared to be livery of some kind. In the darkness the heraldry was more than a little indistinct, much like the man's face. "I bring you a missive from the Countess" the man announced in an upper class accent. He held out a gilded envelope.

"The Countess?" Ben asked, seating himself on a box to open the missive.

"Yes" the man replied, suddenly speaking as if to a child, "The Countess…"

"Ah" Ben replied as if he understood. He unfolded the letter from the envelope, noting that it too seemed more than a little over-fancy. Holding it up to the light he absentmindedly noticed the messenger had failed to leave. He quickly scanned the letter.

"The COUNTESS!" he blurted. The smug messenger put on his best smile. "Fuck me" the eastern man swore, destroying the fop's mood. "The Countess" he muttered. In all the years Ben had been in Nuln he had only ever glimpsed its ruler twice, once during a festival and once when she attended a party he was at. Both times she had not so much as glanced in his direction. She was not only one of the richest people in the Empire, an aunt to the current Emperor and the undisputed ruler of Sudenland but also the yardstick by which the country judged its fashions.

Yet in the hands of the young exile he held a personal invitation to the Countess's court. The letter was polite, but not overly so, holding more than a slight edge of command to it, and was signed by the Countess herself. It also gave no indication as to the reasons of the sudden summons. To top it off the day that he was expected to appear was very soon indeed, how the hell could he be ready in time?

"I shall tell her that you will be happy to attend" the messenger prompted.

"No" Ben cut him off, much to the man's astonishment, "I'll send her a letter to that effect." He explained. The messenger nodded in a slightly patronising way. "That's how these things are meant to be done isn't it" Ben asked, suddenly less sure.

"Indeed" The messenger agreed. Ben nodded and went looking for his writing desk. "Er Sir?" the herald broke in, "Perhaps you could send it later?"

"Yes" Ben agreed, stopping his hasty search. "I'll do that" he nodded assertively. Yet the man still didn't seem to be leaving. They looked at each other for a moment then the man pointedly coughed and Ben finally got the idea. He fished into his purse and paid the man a shiny sixpence, which did the trick. Soon Ben was alone once more in his loft, with only his boxes for company.

"Now where did I put that damn desk?" he asked aloud.

O

O

In the end he borrowed the necessaries from Jacques and got Catherine to pen the missive. Not only was her writing far more polished than his but she also seemed to know what to write far better than he did. Despite all of this it took nearly two hours to get the wording into a state that they could both live with and written onto a piece of paper that seemed posh enough. It was then that Catherine asked the fateful question, "So what will you be wearing?"

Now Ben was no longer the 'barbarian' he had been when he arrived in the city so he did have enough of a notion as to what he was going to wear. He explained his ideas to the young lady, and received an emphatic head shake in return.

"No, no no!" she argued, "That won't do. The whole red thing was a passing phase, turn up in that and everyone will know that not only are you out of fashion but you are also desperate to please."

"Well aren't I?" he asked in return.

"Of course you are" she agreed, "It the countess for goodness sake, she can make or break you with one flick of her fan. But you can't possibly go to the court looking like you're desperate."

"Even if I am?" he replied, knowing the answer but more interested in this new side of the young woman he thought he knew.

"Especially if you are" she said in a mock despairing tone. "No," she continued, "what we need is something different, an angle…" Ben just nodded and made an agreeing grunt. Catherine stood up from her desk and began to pace, idly chewing on her lower lip as she did. Of course this stopped any other thoughts entering Ben's head, he had simply never seen her looking this unguarded. Even at the meals he had shared in the house she had always been acting as the hostess, and so more formal than this.

Suddenly she turned on the young knight. "I've got it" she said eyes flashing in triumph and smiled set to dazzle. He might have managed an inquisitive grunt but the very next moment she was right up close and pressing a manicured finger into his chest. "You'll go as a Marcher Knight."

"But I am a Marcher-" he began, confused.

"Exactly!" she agreed in an exultant voice. "If you went as a Nulner then you'd be just another face in the crowd but this way…"

"I'm different?" Ben guessed.

"Indeed you are," she agreed with a warm smile. "Now what we'll need is…" and she drifted off into a long list of thing s that seemed to have absolutely no relevance. Soon she was even making lists. It took Ben a little while to catch up, but by that time what he thought really had no bearing on the situation anyway.

O

O

So here he was, a little under a week later, dressed in what Catherine had decided was 'authentic' Mark attire. His boots were polished, black, and leather. His trousers were ostensibly utilitarian riding breeches, but in fact the single most expensive article of clothing he had ever bought, at least until the doublet had arrived. It was cut in suede and linen, black with yellow highlights and silver buttons. Over the top he wore a severe fur-lined pelisse, held with a solid looking bronze double clasp. Rather than carry one of the slim rapiers that were so in fashion this season he was equipped with his own heavy sabre and broad knife.

With a nervousness that he hadn't felt since the night before his first battle he approached the twenty-foot high oak gates to the ancient Palace of kings. He never even needed to present his invitation.