The High Priestess of Doomreeper Motte

Day 28

To His Royal Majesty King Arthur of Albion,

Your Majesty, I, Sir Harold Harefoot, am pleased to inform you that I have successfully defeated the pagan rebels. Yesterday morning, I stormed Doomreeper Motte and drove the rebels out into the Marshes of Olde Murcia. When Lord Percy finally arrives with reinforcements, I will pursue them myself. You have my word as a knight that, soon, The Umberlands will be restored to your Kingdom.

No doubt, chroniclers will tell of my duel with Scar McCallion and my single-handed victory over the Wulfsblood Twins. They’ll mention the siege ladder that carried me 100 feet above the ground and over the Bloody Wall and the battle axe I used to break in and free Lady Elizabeth from her cell. I hear the singers are already composing a song about the arrow I put through the neck of The High Priestess. Such revelries are beneath me of course but I shan’t deny the people their fun.

Despite these personal triumphs, I seek neither reward nor favour. I am content to be but a mere footnote in the grand story of Albion’s unification. It is enough to know that I have done my own modest part in guaranteeing the continued prosperity of our kingdom under your wise and distinguished leadership.

Separately, I understand there are still two vacant seats at the Round Table. Of course, one would never be so bold as to put oneself forward but, if your majesty should seek my counsel, I would be happy to recommend any knights who have excelled during the campaign. It is in battles such as these that true warriors demonstrate their value.

Finally, some of the more superstitious folk are wary of cooperating with my knights in the search for the remaining rebels. I am at your majesty’s disposal, of course, but I believe it is necessary to produce a show of strength to ensure their loyalty. Lord Percy is a fine man, but these people will respect a warrior over an aristocrat. With your leave, I’d like to put my right-hand man, Boris Bonebreaker, in charge of the garrison whilst I hunt down the rebels.

Glory to Albion!

Your humble servant,

Sir Harold Harefoot

Day 34

To His Royal Majesty’s Keeper of Letters (PO Box 1, Camelot), 

Your Majesty, I am writing to update you on the circumstances at Doomreeper Motte. Though we have captured the fortress, our losses have been heavy. I arrived to find a thousand men dead and a thousand in no condition to fight. If I were not so focused on the task at hand, I would point out that I told the boy Harold to await reinforcements so as to mitigate losses on our side. If he’d heeded my warning, perhaps he wouldn’t have had his nose broken by the Wulfsblood Twins but alas…

Although I have put my men to repairing the stronghold, I’m not convinced it holds much strategic value. The walls are only about 20 feet high, and it appears the remaining rebels have dissipated into the Marshes of Old Murcia. Meanwhile the townsfolk are turning against us. The oaf Boris caused a palaver 2 days ago in the Red Brothel by trying to pay with shillings rather than the crude bronze tokens that pass for currency up here. It didn’t help that he’d sent a girl to every wounded soldier, so the crown is now 6000 shillings in debt to a Northern brothelkeeper. Forgive me your majesty but if Boris wants someone to get fucked, I know where he can start.

On a more positive note, the fair Lady Elizabeth is free and unharmed. Although someone seems to have hacked the door to pieces, her quarters seem relatively comfortable. At least the rebels have retained some sense of chivalry. Still, the experience has taken its toll.

Many have suggested a swift marriage may be the only way to temper the cruel blow that fate has taken to her delicate soul. Despite my protests, some are even saying I should shoulder that burden for the good of the realm! Of course, if one were to be asked, one would be honour bound to wed the fair Lady and oversee stability in The Umberlands, though one understands such discussions will wait until the rebels have been quashed. 

Finally, you will be pleased to learn that two days ago, Sir Baldrick the Cunning tracked down a leading rebel figure called The High Priestess, seemingly harmless but revered by the townsfolk. Ever the diplomat, Boris Bonebreaker decided to hang him in the town square. This was unnecessary but less mad than his proposal to impose a curfew before sundown (as if the townsfolk didn’t hate us enough already!). I must pick my battles with that one.

Besides, I’m increasingly convinced of the need to stamp out paganism in Albion. The townsfolk whisper curses in ancient tongues and the symbols of heathen gods are appearing in strange places. It’s all nonsense of course but a tad unnerving for the men. Of course, I’m not personally prejudiced. I have pagan friends. I’d just rather not find myself next to one in a horse-drawn carriage! 

I believe, in time, I can explain to the townsfolk the folly of their backwards ways and apprise them of Albion’s socioeconomic and cultural supremacy. 

Yours truly,

Lord Percy of Cottonberry Hall, Warden of Bottombyshire, Esteemed Member of the King’s Council, and Heir to the Fiefdom of East Westersex.

Day 40

Dear The King,

I don’t want to write. I hate writing. My letters and words are not good, but I have no choice. When Harry went to the marshes, I had command. Things were good. There was problem with a silly brothelkeeper but mainly things were good. Then things went bad.

I do not see Lord Percy. He is never away from the woman Elizabeth. Harry is not back. He said he would return but he is not back. It is just me. I do not think I am all there either. I see funny shapes and bad things. I take milk of the poppy to stop the visions, but they stay. Even when I close my eyes they stay.

Harry always says I am a case of baskets. It is why my fighting is so good. But my head is worst it has been. The men too. I did not want to hang the High Priestess, but the men said it was her. They said if she died the bad things would stop. They didn’t stop. They come out at night when the fog is down. I see them in the town square and the streets. Townsfolk, shadows and funny shapes.

I try to lightly question the townsfolk, but they go mute. I am not a talker. I am a fighter. I fight the shadows, but they go where I can’t reach. I fight the visions, but they laugh at my blade. I killed the High Priestess, but she visits me every night.

Fighting does not work here. Lord Percy and Sir Baldrick are talkers. They stay here. Send me to find Harry. If you say yes, I will go to him. I will help him.  

Boris Bonebreaker.

Day 46

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to Camelot in the hope that my words will reach the King as soon as possible. I have grave news regarding our campaign in The Umberlands. The severed head of Sir Harold appeared three nights ago on a pitchfork in the town square. Based on a cursory examination, he has been dead for nearly two weeks. 

Lord Percy is currently grieving with Lady Elizabeth. I understand he held a great deal of affection and admiration for the brave young knight. In truth, he has forbidden me from writing to you, no doubt to avoid unsettling Your Majesty. Regrettably, I feel I must defy his orders for the first time in my life.

The situation at Doomreeper Motte is becoming increasingly dire. The buffoon Boris has finally snapped. He had been off his rocker for days when Your Majesty prudently decided to send him to find Sir Harold. Unfortunately, the young knight’s severed head appeared the night before he was due to leave. His condition worsened. Last night, he was found wondering the corridors looking for Lady Elizabeth, knife in hand. I did what we should have done from the start. He is now imprisoned beneath the castle until he starts talking sense. 

Still, his savage questioning techniques have left the townsfolk mute with fear. A young urchin told Sir Melchet they would only speak to the High Priestess. That would be very helpful if we hadn’t killed her (twice by all accounts!). I suspect the rebels have help from within these walls. Therefore, I have formed a cunning plan…

I will announce that we’re heading South and leave Sir Melchet in charge of Doomreeper Motte. The rebels will no doubt return to their stronghold within a week and try to retake it. Little will they know; I’ll be waiting in the Willow Woods to ambush them in the rear. We will finish them once and for all!

When I am victorious, there may be talk of honours and rewards, but I would never dream of profiting from the service of the realm. In fact, I would even be willing to remain here to keep the peace. If one were to be offered Doomreeper Motte as one’s seat from which to do so, one would be only too happy to oblige, in service of the realm.

I will write again once the rebels are vanquished.

Yours sincerely,

Sir Baldrick.

Day 52

Send help! Sir Baldrick and the bulk of our foot are dead. The walls are overrun. Lord Percy ventured outside to calm the rabble and we have not seen him since. Lady Elizabeth and I are ensconced in the main keep where the townsfolk can’t reach us. 

The shadows do though. They whisper of the High Priestess, and they reach out to Lady Elizabeth. Dead things in the corner. Strange shapes on the ceiling. 

Fear not, Your Majesty. I am a knight, and I will protect her. Please send help though, even a warrior such as I cannot hold a castle alone. 

Signed,

Sir Melchet.

Day 55

To Your Most Royal Highness King Arthur of Albion,

I was most delighted to receive your letter, though somewhat saddened by its contents. It is a tragedy that the campaign could have been so derailed. I have called the banners to Highyorke Castle, and we will march tomorrow. Sadly, I knew neither Sir Harold Harefoot nor Boris Bonebreaker though they sound like upstanding gentlemen. 

I did know Lord Percy. In fact, we grew up together. He was always far too trusting for his own good and I will ensure that those treacherous townsfolk receive their comeuppance. Similarly, I fought alongside Sir Baldrick and Sir Melchet at Crabshaw Creek. Brave men who did not deserve to die. I will crush these rebels for you and for Albion.

Furthermore, I believe that for the good of the realm we must ensure this never happens again. If one were asked to, one would happily govern The Umberlands alongside the Yorke Plains to ensure such a tragedy could never again blight this green and pleasant land. 

Finally, it’s a trifling matter but I was slightly confused by your instruction to rescue Lady Elizabeth. Naturally, I live for the rescue of fair maidens, but Lady Elizabeth is not at Doomreeper Motte. She has been here in Highyorke Castle for the past two months, since before the campaign started. Whoever Sir Harry Harefoot rescued, whoever Lord Percy acquainted himself with, whoever is in the main keep with Sir Melchet, that is not Lady Elizabeth.

Yours most faithfully,

Lord Edmund of Highyorke.