30 Day Image Prompt Competition - August

Day 19 Prompt 1 - Lord of Ravenscrag

He reined the destrier to a halt atop of the hill marking the entrance to Ravenscrag Valley. Below him, glittered the still waters of Ravenscrag Lake it smooth surface touched with fingers of fire from the sunrise. Sheep, eager to feel the warmth of the sun on their shorn flocks, emerged from their shelters to take their first taste of the dew soaked grass. From his vantage point he could hear their bleats of greeting to each other, stirring old memories within him.

The destrier shuffled beneath him, tossing his head with impatience, reminding him that they had not yet reached their true destination. He was in no hurry, though, and his gloved hand stilled the mighty stallion. His eyes swept across the valley, seeing the occasional small hut dotted across the hillside. Faint tendrils of smoke arose from some of the huts as their occupants awoke from their slumbers ready to start a new day.

Across from him, perched with a proud arrogance, stood Ravenscrag Castle. Its towers rising up to the heavens as though in worship to their God. A faint sneer twisted his lips at that thought. The castle’s occupants had used God only as a way to getting what they believed was their due, no matter what the consequences. And now those consequences were making themselves known, bringing forth all the pain and suffering they had suffered.

He watched as the sun rose from behind the castle, its golden fingers of light wrapping themselves around the rugged castle walls. Their amber glow softening its harsh austerity against the skyline. He had vowed never to return to this wretched place yet here he was, sat across from its imposing presence, waiting to commence the final leg of his journey.

He wondered what their reaction would be to his return. Would they celebrate his arrival, the return of the conquering hero? Or would they fear him, his reputation having created a man not to be crossed for fear of bloody retribution. War could turn a man into a hero or a monster dependant upon the tales created over a flagon of ale and retold across the land, with subtle embellishments with each telling. Yes, there was no saying what his welcome would be when he reached the castle gates.

At least there would be one welcome he would not receive, he thought to himself as he started the stallion down the grassy slope. His father’s death two months ago, followed by that of his eldest son in a hunting accident, had prompted his return to the place of his birth. His brother had not wedded or sired any children so that left the title of Lord of Ravenscrag to him, the rebellious second son. A mocking smile tugged at firm lips, how his father would love that. The son he had thrown out of the castle, banishing him from his home, was now the lord of the castle and master of this valley.

He rode along the lakeshore, allowing the stallion to choose his path over the baked earth with its deep cracks. The summer rains had yet to fall upon the valley, replenishing the lake and filling in the cracks in the earth. In a few months, the area along the edge of the lake would be underwater after the rains had fallen and the mountains had shed their mantle of snow.

He was jolted out of his musings by the stallion snorting, warning him that there was something strange ahead. He placed his hand upon the hilt of its sword, feeling its comforting firmness in his hand as he cursed his lack of attentiveness. He was allowing his return to dwell too much upon his mind.

His grey eyes scanned the area ahead, seeing the grass rippling in the early morning breeze, the sheep wandering about their pastures. He could hear the birds calling to each other as they greeted the dawn and, in the distance, the crowing of a cockerel to herald the new day. The air was filled with the fresh, clean aromas of the valley, washing away the stink of death that had hung over him for so long, embedded in his soul.

At first, he could see nothing to startle the seasoned warhorse, as they continued to skirt the lake. Then, as the rays of dawn found their way around the front of the castle, he saw her, lying upon the parched earth, her hand outstretched as though trying to reach someone, or something. He reined the stallion to a halt and jumped down from the saddle, his step light, one hand on his sword.

He looked around him, but could see no other figures waiting to ambush him, nor did their appear to be any life in the still form before him. Alert, he crouched down beside her and removed his glove. The soft skin of her cheek was pale and cold, her long blond hair a wet mass that obscured much of her features. He moved his fingers under the mass, seeking out the pulse that beat in the hollow of her neck. It was there, faint and hesitant, a sign that life still beat within her.

He gave a final look around him, wondering where she had come from, before scooping her up into his arms. She was clad in only a thin chemise that was soaking wet, revealing her slender figure to him. Faint tremors rippled through her body as it tried to stave off the icy bite of the lake. Despite the warmth of the sun above them, the lake would be chilled at this time of year and he wondered how long she had been there.

Returning to the waiting stallion, he removed his mantle and wrapped her body within its furlined folds. The thick cloak would give her some warmth until they reached the castle. There he would appropriate a chamber and a bed for her, one with a roaring fire and some hot bricks to warm the bed with. Providing she still lived, he thought as he climbed up into the saddle with her in his arms.

At the castle gates he pulled hard on the long chain that would ring the entry bell. Through a small portal, he could hear the clanging of the bell before a latch was released on a small opening in the sturdy wooden gate.

“Who goes there?” asked the shadowy figure of the guard.

“Lucien Devareux, Lord of Ravenscrag,” he replied, sensing no reason to withhold his identity from anyone.

“Luc --- My lord, forgive me.” The opening was closed with a firm push before the bars across the gate were raising allowing the carved doors to be swept open admitting entrance to the castle grounds. “We were not expecting you to arrive so early,” the guard babbled, his eyes curious as to the bundle the new lord carried.

“I was not sure when I would be able to come here,” Lucien replied, aware of others starting to appear as he passed beneath the entry arch and entered the vast courtyard that led up to the main hall.

“Should I escort you to the hall, my lord?” The guard asked, hesitant as to what his duties should be. The lady of the castle had talked of holding a grand reception for when her son arrived but no one had thought he would return without announcement, especially so early in the day.

“No, you remain here and secure the gate. I know my way to the house.”

Lucien urged his stallion along the rush covered stone path leading up to the main hall. The stone structure, with its linked walkways to the castle’s walls, still a cold and impressive dwelling that did little to offer welcome to one so long from its embrace. Just like his family, he surmised as he reached the stone steps leading up to the solid oak door. Carved metal spars secured the thick timbers, each one carved with a wolf and a raven, symbolising the joining of the Devareux family to the Saxon Wolfsbane all those years ago.

Slowly he dismounted, the young woman still held securely within his grasp. He heard bolts being drawn as he approached the door, hinges squeaking as it was dragged open to reveal an older woman standing before him. She wore a woollen robe, the belt tied about her still slim figure, whilst auburn hair, streaked with silver, tumbled around her shoulders.

“Lucien,” she breath, her face pale as her eyes brimmed with tears. “My son, you have come home to us.” There was no judgement in her voice, only the warm welcome reserved for a beloved one gone so long. She reached out hands with fingers trembling to touch at his arms as though to reassure herself that she had not imagined him standing before her.

“Mother,” Lucien greeted, his voice tight with the emotions welling up inside. He had not wanted to feel this way, to stand before the woman who had begged him to stay, to feel as though he had that night so long ago. He had wanted to be calm and in control, but that control was slipping and would have snapped if the girl in his arms had not stirred, a featherweight movement against his arms. “I need somewhere warm for this girl,” he ordered, the heartfelt emotions banished from his voice. This was the Lord of Ravenscrag speaking now, demanding action instantly following his order.

The moment of reunion and bonding gone, his mother looked down upon the bundle in his arms and nodded. “Estelle, have the fire lit in Lord Lucien’s chamber and some stones warmed for the bed. I have a spare chemise in my chamber which will fit this girl until we can sort her own clothing out. Have it warmed by my fire, ready for when we get there.”

The young maid who had been standing in the shadows nodded to her lady and raced up the wide staircase to the upper level, barking orders as she went. He could hear footsteps moving hurriedly along the upper floors as servants darted to comply with their lady’s demands. Lucien followed his mother up the staircase and along the passageway, past his old chamber and on to the rooms reserved for the lord of the castle.

He wanted to protest that this was his mother’s room, but kept his lips closed together. His mother would undoubtedly take offence at his rejection of these rooms for she now saw Lucien as the head of the family and of Ravenscrag. Not wanting to cause further distress, he followed her into the vast chamber where a fire now burned in the hearth, its flames slowly starting to consume the logs that had been placed.

“Sit her in the chair for a moment, so that she can be warming whilst we get the bed prepared,” his mother ordered, taking charge without hesitation as she bustled around the chamber.

Lucien set his precious bundle down within the arms of one of the two great chairs that flanked the large fireplace. His parents had often sat in these chairs at the end of the day, his mother doing her needlework whilst his father relaxed with a goblet of his favourite wine. It was a ritual unique to the pair of them for Lucien had known of no other couples who ended their day this way.

“Do you know who she is?”

Lucien turned to his mother as she placed a warm chemise on the chair opposite him. “No, she was lying upon the banks of the lake when I rode by. There was no one else in sight. It would appear she had been lying there for much of the night.”

“She’ll be chilled to the bone. Go and wait outside whilst Estelle and I change her clothes.” At her son’s look of protest his mother glared at him. “Out! I will not have her honour besmirched in this house.”

Knowing he could not argue with her, Lucien retreated from the chamber and pondered upon his return home.