A/N: As many in the comments have predicted, the road to Tumbleton grows ever shorter. As our sole perspective in the Greens, Hobert is witness to many of their more deplorable acts, as will be shown in this chapter. We want to thank you all for your continued support of this story, and feedback/comments are always greatly appreciated!
Hobert II
Longtable had offered a much greater resistance than many of the other castles that had pledged their swords to the usurper Princess Rhaenyra's cause. Hobert had been relieved that the siege had offered him the chance to spend less time atop a horse. My saddle sores have become more than bothersome. The march from Oldtown had been a long one, but since the bloody battle along the banks of the Honeywine, his cousin Lord Ormund's army had met no real resistance as they continued northeast. We have Prince Daeron and Tessarion to thank for that, Hobert mused. The Prince oft flew ahead of the army on his dragon, reporting of any activity he saw on the roads, preventing any attempts by the Blacks to set up an effective ambush or organize any retaliatory strikes.
Hobert took another sip of Arbor Gold, and slouched further into his camp chair. I'm always so dreadfully tired. In his youth, Hobert Hightower had never been a vital or vigorous man, and with his advanced age, he had never felt older. When he woke, his whole body would ache, and it would take several minutes for him to rise from his cot, stiffly and miserably. His sleep was fitful and restless, and when he did dream, he would dream of his home, the Hightower.
Oh what I would give to return! Hobert had heard that one never truly appreciated what they had until it was gone, and he found those words truer and truer with every league he put between himself and his beloved home. How I miss the sea breeze, and restful days spent in comfort and contentment. Hobert sighed sadly. War does have its horrors, I suppose.
Hobert was drawn from his morose thoughts by a man-at-arms wearing a Hightower badge stepping into his tent. "M'lord, the maester is here to see ya." Seeing Hobert's small nod in the affirmative, the man-at-arms walked back outside, and Hobert could hear the man's muffled voice permitting the maester entry.
With a small ruffle, the maester slipped through Hobert's tent flap, the chain about his neck clinking. Hobert sat up in his chair, and called out a greeting to the man. "Good evening, maester Armond."
The maester smiled thinly. "Apologies, Ser, but my name is Aubrey." He walked across the dusty Myrish rug that stretched along the floor of Hobert's tent, before stopping and bowing slightly in front of him.
Slightly embarrassed, Hobert nodded in return. "Yes of course, maester Aubrey, how silly of me to forget!" Taking another sip of his Arbor Gold, Hobert made a gesture towards several empty silvered chalices and a flagon. "May I interest you in some Arbor Gold? I find that this one is a particularly exquisite vintage."
Maester Aubrey smiled again, but shook his head. "Many thanks, Ser Hobert, but I must respectfully decline. With the influx of gold and provisions from Longtable, I must needs make a complete inventory of it all before the army marches again. It would not do for the baggage train to have supplies unaccounted for."
Hobert nodded. Maester Aubrey had proved invaluable in helping to ensure that the baggage train of Lord Ormund's army ran smoothly. Though Hobert commanded the train, he had assigned the duties of organization and inventory to maester Aubrey, while he had allocated all other matters of import to his attendant knight, Ser Jared. The majority of the maesters accompanying Lord Ormund's army on its march were young men who had only recently forged their chains, eager to prove their talents and catch the eye of important Lords. With luck, they may be asked by a powerful Lord to serve at his seat when the war ends.
Maester Aubrey was not an exception. He was a young man, and Hobert guessed that he had counted nearly thrice as many years as the maester. If his memory served, Hobert believed that the maester had been born a Prester of Feastfires. He has been a great help to me throughout this loathsome march.
The maester cleared his throat politely, and Hobert regarded the man tiredly, awaiting his daily evening report. "Though our food supplies had been lower than advised for an army of such size, the addition of House Merryweather's foodstores to our own has ensured that the army will remain adequately fed throughout the foreseeable future of this campaign." Maester Aubrey paused, brandishing a small scroll from within his deep sleeves, and regarding the writing on it. "The gold we have seized only adds to the considerable amount kept for the paying of the mercenary companies that march with the army."
As the maester droned on, Hobert found himself struggling to focus as fatigue continued to set in. Once the maester finished his report, Hobert planned to get as much sleep as possible before the next day's march. Lord Ormund had called together the Lords and other leaders of his army together earlier in the day to discuss their next destination now that the siege of Longtable had been brought to a close. Bitterbridge is the next seat that will be paid a visit by my cousin's army.
Taking another deep sip of his Arbor Gold, Hobert noticed that the maester seemed to be finishing his report. He bowed to Hobert, his chain clinking, and made to leave his tent. "Maester!" Hobert called out, and the young man turned to regard him. "What news have you of the condition of the Bastard of Bitterbridge? We may have need of him when we march on his home."
Maester Aubrey thought for a moment before responding. "Ser Tomard Flowers' condition improves daily, Ser Hobert. He will carry burn scars for the rest of his life, but he will soon have no further need of the salves and bandages that I have been applying to his burn wounds each morn."
Hobert nodded at the maester's words. "Thank you maester. That will be all for tonight." The maester inclined his head at him, then turned and left his tent quietly. Draining the last dregs of Arbor Gold from his goblet, Hobert stood from his camp chair, wincing at how his sore body creaked with the sudden movement.
As he prepared to call for a squire to help him remove his mail for the evening, a messenger with a Hightower badge entered Hobert's tent. "Apologies, Ser, but I come with a message from Lord Ormund Hightower. He has called for an emergency council in his pavilion, and your presence is expected with as much immediacy as possible."
"I say we should have sent the bitch the Bastard of Bitterbridge's head in recompense for the dragon egg!" Ser Jon Roxton shouted, and many of the men in Lord Ormund's pavilion cried out their approval. The egg that Bold Jon referred to sat on a table placed at the rear of Lord Ormund's pavilion. It was a splendid thing to look upon, possessing a pale green color, with beautiful sworls of silver across its surface.
Hobert found himself at a loss for words as the Lords and knights surrounding him argued about what the army's next course of action should be. What a terrible, terrible tragedy. The Prince Maelor Targaryen had been little more than a babe when he was killed, a child of about three years. The knights that Lady Caswell had sent with the Prince's dragon egg hadn't wished to give the details of his death, but when pressed, they eventually revealed that he had been torn to pieces by a crowd of smallfolk wishing to claim the usurper Rhaenyra's bounty.
Lord Ormund sat at his table in silence, face taut and dark with a barely-contained rage. Cousin Bryndon controlled his emotions with less grace, stalking back and forth in front of cousin Ormund's table like a caged beast. We were only thirty leagues away from where Prince Maelor was killed, but it may as well have been one thousand. We weren't able to save him all the same. The Prince Daeron had yet to return from scouting ahead along the road to Bitterbridge in preparation for the army's march the next day. Hobert knew that cousin Ormund wouldn't dismiss the assembled nobles and knights until the Prince arrived at the pavilion and was given the news.
Lord Unwin Peake began to speak, and though his voice was not nearly as boisterous as Jon Roxton's, it was full of a cold fury that drew the attention of the men in the pavilion. "The usurper Princess Rhaenyra's folly has cost our King and his leal subjects far too much. It is long past time that we sent a message to catch the attention of the Princess and her traitorous followers. I say that we raze Bitterbridge to the ground, and slaughter all within and leave their corpses for the carrion crows!"
Hobert felt himself paling at Lord Unwin's words. The murder of Prince Maelor deserves harsh retribution, to be sure, but to raze an entire town? Lord Unwin's words had garnered a mixed reaction from the assembled men. Some were nodding and calling out their support, while others appeared more hesitant. To this point, we have done nothing to those who surrender to us except to claim their food stores and treasuries, and to take some of their garrison into our own army's ranks. Lord Unwin was suggesting more than a sack, he was calling for the utter annihilation of a town and castle that had stood since the Age of Heroes.
Hobert glanced at Lord Ormund, wondering what his response would be. Before his cousin could speak up, however, the tent flap was flung aside as the Prince Daeron Targaryen strode in. The occupants of the pavilion grew silent as the young dragonrider crossed its length to look upon the egg placed on Lord Ormund's table. Upon seeing it, the Prince's face grew dark with fury, his purple eyes glinting dangerously in the light of the braziers throughout the pavilion.
When the Prince began to speak, his voice seemed to be nearly as full of grief and sorrow as it was with rage. "So the rumors I heard throughout the camp were true. They've murdered my nephew." His mailed fist was clenched, and the Prince's eyes blazed with a murderous fire. "The life of just one of my brother's sons was not enough to sate my vile half-sister and her brood. Will it be my niece next? If it's blood that the Queen and her supporters want, then I shall gladly give them that. Aye, I'll see them drown in a river of it."
The Lords and knights surrounding the Prince began to shout their support, with Ser Jon Roxton's voice being the loudest of all. Lord Unwin Peake merely stood in silence, but a vicious smile had spread across his face. Lord Peake wants revenge for his son as much as for the King's murdered heirs. Ser Titus Peake, Lord Unwin's last living son, had died not long before the army's arrival at Longtable, wasting away from wounds taken in a skirmish with broken men. So many lives of impeccable lineage lost, and for what? Hobert frowned in vexation. Because a Princess couldn't be satisfied with the rights of her brother being upheld.
Prince Daeron turned to cousin Ormund, addressing him directly. "I will mount Tessarion and fly without delay. I mean to burn Bitterbridge to ash before the sun has risen." It was at that moment that Lord Ormund finally stood from his seat, and all within the pavilion regarded him expectantly.
Placing a hand on Prince Daeron's shoulder, the Lord of Oldtown began to speak. "My Prince, I will not deny you your revenge, for the Queen and her supporters have well-earned such retribution. However, I beg of you that you wait to attack Bitterbridge until you have my army at your back. We can't risk the life of another Prince of the blood so callously." Lord Ormund smiled darkly before continuing. "And with the aid of the army, my Prince, I can assure you that the price Bitterbridge will pay for its treasons will be steep." Prince Daeron did not speak in response to Lord Ormund's words, but merely nodded his silent assent.
To Hobert, the army's march spanning the thirty leagues from Longtable to Bitterbridge felt as though it lasted a lifetime, due to the anticipation of what was to come. Hobert had never more felt his threescore years of age than during that seemingly interminable ride, as Ser Jared occasionally rode up alongside him in a cloud of dust to report on the state of the baggage train. Though the Roseroad allowed for efficient travel, the size of the army marching along it meant that Hobert and the baggage train arrived at the chosen campsite last, as the sun sat low in the evening sky.
The army had camped about a league south of Bitterbridge, along the banks of the Mander. It seemed to Hobert as though a grim pall had hung over the camp that night, for it had not taken long for the rumors of Prince Daeron's planned vengeance to spread amongst the men. The mercenaries sharpened their swords, the pious men prayed, and all waited for what the next day would bring. Hobert had tossed and turned in his cot, unable to sleep, considering the part he would play in the events of the upcoming day. It will likely be battle, with whatever forces Lady Caswell manages to muster. It mattered not, however. Bitterbridge could have an army larger than ours defending it, but they would still break under the flames of Tessarion.
Before dawn, Hobert rose, waking his squire to help him get into his plate armor. Though it's frightfully uncomfortable, I dare not be unprepared if fighting starts. As the morning sun shone across the camp and sparkled along the waters of the Mander, Hobert rode to join his cousins at the front of the army, entrusting the baggage train to Ser Jared. Though it took him some time, he eventually found himself at the front of the army's vanguard, awash with knights in shining armor atop proud and powerful steeds. The forces of the usurper Rhaenyra stand no chance against such puissant knights, Hobert thought with pride. Much of the chivalry of the Reach rides beneath the King's banner. We shall see that he reclaims his rightful throne.
Lord Ormund nodded at Hobert from atop his white destrier as Hobert steered his palfrey towards him, and cousin Bryndon gave him a fierce smile. Lord Ormund called out to Hobert as he joined the trotting group of Lords and landed knights at the head of the van. "I'm glad that you have joined us this morn, cousin Hobert. It is my intent that all the members of our family in this army be present to witness the justice meted out to the Caswells for the murder of our relation, the Prince Maelor." Hobert nodded at his cousin's words, before dabbing at the beads of sweat forming upon his forehead with a kerchief. Let us hurry and make an end to this miserable day.
Hobert watched intently as Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron rode forward to treat with Lady Melissa Caswell. Though if my memory serves, she was born a Ball. Since her traitorous husband's death on the orders of King Aegon, the woman had been ruling as regent for her young son, the new lord of Bitterbridge. She had originally shared the rule with the castle's castellan, Ser Tomard Flowers, but since he had ridden off at the head of a great host along with Lord Thaddeus Rowan, she had ruled alone. That was how the Bastard of Bitterbridge had described it, at least.
As the leader of the baggage train, one of Hobert's chief duties was overseeing the three prisoners the army had been trundling along with them in an iron-caged wagon. Some prisoners taken after the battle on the Honeywine river had refused to be reconciled and were promptly executed. Though they had also refused to be reconciled, Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Alan Beesbury, and Ser Tomard Flowers had been deemed knights of enough status and import that they would be brought to King's Landing to face the judgement of King Aegon himself.
Wearing tattered and sun-faded doublets that bore their Houses' sigils, Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury had grown haggard during their captivity, but still spit curses and threats when provoked. Lord Alan Tarly was especially wroth, for his family's ancestral valyrian steel greatsword Heartsbane had been taken by the knight who captured him. Ser Balman was the foremost of Bold Jon Roxton's household knights, and though some argued that the knight had risen above himself in taking Heartsbane, Ser Jon Roxton had reminded them that it was Ser Balman's by right as a prize of war.
Once his burns had healed enough that he could walk, the Bastard of Bitterbridge joined the two Alans in the caged wagon, covered in salves and wrapped in bandages that were dutifully changed by maester Aubrey each morn. His doublet bearing the reversed colors of House Caswell had been returned to him, singed so badly from flame that the white centaur across its center had turned half black.
Lady Caswell had ridden across the stone bridge spanning the Mander to meet Lord Ormund's approaching army with a score of household knights and men-at-arms. The town of Bitterbridge with its small stone-and-timber castle in its center loomed on the other side of the river, and its streets were crowded with terrified people fleeing further northeast from the town along the Roseroad. Wearing a mourner's black riding dress, as well as a black woolen cloak fastened with a golden centaur clasp, Lady Caswell appeared exhausted to Hobert's eyes. Her green eyes had dark bags under them, and she clutched her reins so tightly that her knuckles were white as bone.
With a strained voice, she addressed Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron, but Hobert and the other men assembled behind them could hear her words. "We have been aware of the approach of your army for some time. I do not have the soldiers to fight you, and I wish to avoid bringing bloodshed and destruction to this town at all costs. All that I ask of you is for the terms that were offered to every other castle that your army besieged." The men around Hobert began to murmur angrily, and he could only imagine what expressions must have crossed the visages of Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron.
In a cold voice tight with rage, Prince Daeron responded. "I think not, my lady. You shall receive the same terms you gave my nephew Maelor." Hobert watched as the color quickly drained from Lady Caswell's face.
When Lady Caswell spoke again, whatever decorum she had maintained had been washed away by panic, and she spoke in a desperate and pleading tone. "Prince Daeron, you are mistaken. The Prince Maelor was brought here in secrecy by Ser Rickard Thorne of the Kingsguard, to an inn within this town that is admittedly of ill repute. I had no knowledge of his presence until he had already been murdered by rabble. I made sure that all who were responsible were hanged in retribution. Prince Maelor's death was a travesty, and I would have done all in my power to prevent it had I known of his presence."
Lord Ormund was the next to speak, in a tone that was no less enraged than Prince Daeron's. "And what, pray tell, would you have done with Prince Maelor had you been able to retrieve him? Returned him to the usurper Rhaenyra? She surely would have killed him just as she ordered for the murder of his brother, the Prince Jaehaerys. House Caswell have proved themselves not only as traitors to the realm, but have also allowed for the murder of a Prince of the blood. You must needs pay a dear price, my lady."
As Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron turned their mounts to rejoin the rest of the army, Lady Caswell called out in anguish. "What of the people of this town, the wounded in the town sept, and the refugees that are seeking shelter here? They have done no wrong, and many are simply fleeing ahead of the warfare and destruction that your army has left in its wake!"
Prince Daeron turned one last time to regard the distraught Lady Dowager of Bitterbridge. "They all share the blame for my nephew's murder as much as you do, my lady. And the punishment for murder is death." With that, the Prince galloped away, riding in the direction of the camp where his dragon Tessarion roosted. With a face as white as snow, Lady Caswell and her escort rode back across the stone bridge spanning the Mander into the town.
Lord Ormund turned to Hobert, and spoke to him in a grave tone. "Have the prisoners brought up to the front of the army, cos. It is long past time that we show them the fate of traitors."
Listening to the peaceful sound of the Mander's rushing waters, Hobert could almost imagine he was out for a ride along the Honeywine outside Oldtown. I was scarce more than a lad in those days. The Old King still ruled then, and the Realm prospered for it. Hobert was glad that his dear wife Joyeuse had not lived to see the days of peace of plenty that they had known since their births crumble away into warfare and strife. I wonder what my dear sunflower would think of me now. Hobert had been a handsome man in his youth, solid and strong from his days as a squire, and when he still cared for sparring with other knights at the Hightower. I trained often, though I never truly distinguished myself. The passage of time had not been kind to Hobert or the Realm, however. Now I'm old and stout, and forced to leave the home I love to ride to war.
"Please, Ser!" the voice behind him called, and Hobert turned to regard its source, the visions of his days of youth banished from his mind's eye. The Bastard of Bitterbridge clutched at the iron bars of the cage he was trapped in, a pleading expression spread across the parts of his face that weren't obscured by tightly-wrapped bandages. "I beg of you, let me speak with Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron. I was the castellan of this town and castle before you captured me. Let me speak with my goodsister, and bring this madness to an end before lives are needlessly lost!" Hobert frowned as he regarded the distraught knight. All those bandages give him an almost ghoulish look.
Hobert repeated the words that he'd heard the Prince speak at the earlier parley. "Your goodsister and the people of this town are all responsible for the death of Prince Maelor, and they will receive the punishment that all murderers receive: Death." The Bastard of Bitterbridge continued to clutch at the iron bars of the cage and plead, while Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury glared hatefully at Hobert.
A loud roar echoed throughout the sky, and Hobert looked up quickly as Tessarion flew overhead, gliding low over the Mander towards the town of Bitterbridge. A maelstrom of blue cobalt flame gushed forth from its maw, and a structure near the foot of the stone bridge spanning the Mander was quickly turned into a roaring blue pyre. As Prince Daeron continued to burn the town from atop Tessarion, Lord Ormund's army began to gallop and charge across the bridge into the blazing town, shouting battle cries. Archers several ranks deep along the banks of the Mander drew their longbows taut, before firing volley after volley of flaming arrows in a deadly arc into the already-blazing city.
"NOOOO!" Tom Flowers screamed. As the Bastard of Bitterbridge began to shriek spittle-laden curses and kick ineffectually at the locked door of the cage, Hobert watched the town across the Mander burn. His cousin's army continued to pour across the bridge into the town in a torrent of steel and death, and Hobert began to hear screams and wails drift hauntingly across the river, as the townsfolk who had not been immolated by dragonflame were accosted and put to the sword.
Across the wide waters of the Mander, Hobert began to see indistinct groups of people fleeing the burning town of Bitterbridge. Many fled northeast, further along the Roseroad. However, those groups were mercilessly run down by mounted knights and mercenaries on horseback, who ran them through with lances or hacked them down with swords.
Other townspeople ran in Hobert's direction, fleeing from the southern edge of town towards the bank of the Mander river opposite to Hobert. They began to fling themselves into the rushing waters, thrashing about and struggling to stay afloat as the water's strong current began to take hold of them. There must be hundreds of them, Hobert thought with growing dismay. Men and women, young and old, strong and weak, all chose the swirling waters of the Mander over the flames of Tessarion and the swords of Lord Ormund's army. However, the rushing waters proved stronger than the townspeople that attempted to traverse them, and one by one their heads began to sink beneath the water, and did not reappear above the river's surface again.
A scarce few townspeople made it all the way to the center of the Mander before drowning, and to Hobert's surprise, one burly man made it nearly three quarters of the way across before his strength gave out. Hobert shuddered as the man's face slipped beneath the river's surface, for his facial features had become distinct enough that it seemed to Hobert as though the man's eyes were fixated directly on him. This is wrong, a small voice within Hobert seemed to call out, those people you watched die had no part in this war, yet they were slaughtered all the same.
Hobert quashed those thoughts as soon as they came to him. Prince Maelor, the King's last son, was butchered in this town by these selfsame townsfolk. Hobert thought back to Prince Daeron's words. They all share the blame for the death of the young Prince, and the punishment for murder is death. Hobert repeated those words in his mind again and again to himself as Bitterbridge burned and its people died.
The smoke billowing all around was enough to make Hobert squint his eyes, and it took nearly all of his bearing not to begin coughing violently. By the seven. The sack of Bitterbridge had gone on for at least another hour, while Hobert sat atop his palfrey on the other side of the Mander and watched. The smoke had begun to rise in such massive and billowing inky plumes that the sun in the early afternoon sky had been blotted out, leaving the world painted in a dim ashen pall.
When a messenger from Lord Ormund had finally arrived requesting Hobert's presence in the town, much of the flames crackling throughout Bitterbridge had begun to die down, mostly because there were hardly any structures left standing throughout the town to provide kindling. As he had begun to ride off in the direction of the stone bridge spanning the Mander, Hobert had spared a short glance in the direction of the three prisoners in the caged wagon. The Bastard of Bitterbridge had been on his knees, clutching the iron bars of the cage he was trapped in while he watched his home burn. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, giving him the look of a corpse. Ser Alan Beesbury refused to look at Hobert, and Lord Alan Tarly spit through the bars of the cage at him as he rode by.
It had taken him some time for him to coax his horse beyond the edge of the bridge into the town itself, for his mount had recoiled at the heavy scents of smoke and blood wafting through the air. Hobert had found his cousins in the smoldering ruins of what had been Bitterbridge's town square. Ser Bryndon was cleaning several blood stains off of his longaxe, and Lord Ormund was conferring with several of his knights. He turned to regard Hobert as he approached on his palfrey. "Cousin Hobert," he began, "I trust that our prisoners are now well-enough subdued after seeing the fate of this traitorous town?"
Hobert reined in his horse in front of his cousin as he responded. "They were, cousin Ormund. None spoke even a word as I rode past them to join you in the town." Both cousin Ormund and cousin Bryndon had climbed atop their own mounts as Hobert spoke.
Bryndon smiled viciously. "Mayhaps they'll keep their mouths shut from now on, now that they've seen what fate awaits those who betray the rightful king." Hobert nodded at his cousin's words, hoping that they were true. However, he felt that they would not be so lucky as to be spared Ser Alan Beesbury and Lord Alan Tarly's vehement denunciations of all in his cousin's army as 'faithless traitors to the realm'.
Above the smoky gloom that covered the ruins of the town of Bitterbridge, the castle and seat of House Caswell stood unharmed and silent. Lord Ormund rode in its direction, accompanied by Ser Bryndon, several other Lords and landed knights, and household knights. Hobert joined, riding alongside his cousins. Prince Daeron remained in the sky, wheeling above the castle atop Tessarion. As they approached the raised main portcullis of the castle, Hobert could make out the form of a person standing atop the crenellations of the gatehouse. Reining up below the gatehouse, Hobert saw that it was Lady Melissa Caswell herself standing at its top, looking down at the large force of knights arrayed before her gates. Hobert's eyes widened when he saw the hempen rope tied around her neck as a noose.
Lady Caswell's cheeks were puffy from recently-shed tears, and when she called out to Hobert and the other men of Lord Ormund's army before her, her voice was hoarse and ragged. "Have mercy on my children, Lord," she cried out, and then threw herself from the top of the gatehouse.
Hobert quickly looked down, cringing as he heard the sharp snap of the rope pulling taut. "Mother's mercy!" he exclaimed, horrified. Risking a glance upwards, Hobert caught a brief glimpse of Lady Caswell's boots twitching violently in the air high above the ground. He did not look further up, but rather back down towards the ground.
Glancing to the side, he saw cousin Ormund looking up at the corpse of Lady Caswell dangling above the castle gate with a frown. Turning to the knights and men-at-arms assembled around him, he began to give his orders. "Put the castle garrison to the sword, but spare Lady Caswell's children. Have them brought to me." His men rode forward through the castle gate to carry out their Lord's orders.
Hobert sat in silence atop his horse as knights and men-at-arms rode past him to further whet their swords with blood. He grimaced as the swaying rope above him creaked loudly, but refused to look up and regard the body of Lady Caswell. They were traitors, all of them, he thought, and we're the King's Men, meting out the King's justice. Hobert wished that those thoughts gave him more comfort. Around him, the wind blew, swirling the ashes of the town of Bitterbridge about him and his palfrey. The rope creaked.