Falls Ende

Chapter 4

As far as manor houses were concerned, Mellester Manor wasn't particularly impressive. It wasn't constructed as a castle or built with the purpose of defence in mind. It was first and foremost a home to Lord and Lady Mellester and their only son, Sir Wystan. The manor house was built atop a low hill that overlooked Mellester Village and accessed by a curving carriageway that swept up the hill from the road below.

The two-storied house was constructed from stone and contained two wings, much like the letter 'U'. The middle portion of the house faced outwards in the direction of the village. Additional buildings were situated near the rear of the main house, behind a large open courtyard.

There was a particular room on the upper level of the manor house that the lord and lady used frequently, most often in the late afternoon. Because of its small size, it was easy to keep warm, as these days the aging knight and his wife were becoming more sensitive to cold and damp. The room offered a spectacular expansive view of the countryside, and it was in this room that Sir William now sat. An old Irish wolfhound lay curled at his master's feet.

A bandage was wrapped around Sir William's head, causing his longish grey hair to tuft up. Although afflicted with no life-threatening injuries from his fall, he suffered from severe bruising, mainly on his shoulders, arms and legs. A blanket was draped over him, and he held a goblet of heated, mulled wine in his hand.

Since the incident at Falls Ende four days ago, Sir William was unusually quiet and reflective. The lady of the manor believed that the fall shook him badly and that he'd begun to question his own mortality. Today was the first day he had risen from his bed.

The stout, wooden door creaked open and Sir Wystan stepped into the room. A quick glance ensured they were alone and, emboldened, he walked towards his father and made to seat himself in the chair usually favoured by his mother.

"I did not invite you to be seated," growled the lord.

The abruptness of the remark almost made the young man jump.

Wystan's lips were suddenly dry, and he wished he had something to drink. He bowed his head in acknowledgment and respectively remained standing.

William Ainsley stroked his grey beard and felt saddened. His son, his only son and heir, was an abject disappointment. At some point he'd failed in his duty as a father to raise a son he could be proud of. He instilled discipline, taught Wystan everything he knew, just as his father had taught him, but try as he might, he achieved nothing but endless disappointments.

Sir William presided over Mellester Manor fairly and judiciously, and when warranted, his punishments were just. He supervised all aspects of farming, was decisive, and thanks to this, Mellester Manor thrived. Some would say the manor's affairs were even better now than when his father was lord. What would happen when God took him from this earth? How would Wystan, his heir, fare as lord and master?

He turned his head slightly and briefly looked up at his son. He felt thwarted, not by Wystan, but at himself and his own shortcomings. When his time came, as it would soon, he would be judged before almighty God and answer for his failings. He slowly turned away and took a long pull on his wine.

Oblivious to the tension in the room, the old dog lifted a rear leg and pointed it up towards the heavens. It twisted around and shamelessly began to gnaw at something that crawled beneath its fur and over its skin.

Sir William nodded. God just gave him a sign.

Sensing his father's agitation, Wystan nervously shifted his feet. The disquiet unsettled him.

Sir William reflected a moment longer.

When Wystan was a young lad, he'd been sent away to be schooled as a knight. It cost a small fortune and the boy excelled only in carousing and rebellion. Certainly, he eventually became a knight, though the distinction came not without a struggle. A relief to a father, but of little consolation.

Again, the door creaked open, and without looking, Sir William knew his wife Constance entered. He allowed himself the briefest of smiles. Her timing was impeccable.

"Milord," she offered in greeting as she took her customary seat.

He gave her a smile. "Milady." Sir William twisted in his chair so he could look his son in the eye. "You defied me on the hunt. It nearly cost me my life and an expensive hound was killed."

"Milord, I saw the herdsman's son-"

"You saw no such thing. You think me a fool?" interrupted the lord. "You think the knock to my head addled me?" he shook his head in disgust.

"I know what I saw," continued Sir Wystan, somewhat less confidently.

"Enough of your lies!" Spittle flew from the lord's mouth, and his lower lip quivered in rage.

The wolfhound risked a look up at his master.

"I gave you instructions to keep the inexperienced hound tethered and not let it loose. Why did you flout me?"

Sir Wystan's eyes shifted around the room. A look of sympathy or understanding was not reflected in the face of his mother. With defiance, he returned his father's piercing gaze, and then thought it best to remain taciturn.

"I could have been killed!" Despite the injury, Sir William slowly shook his head. "I'm tired of all your falsehoods and lies. No more!" The room returned to silence as Sir William considered how to teach Wystan a lesson. He decided to mull it over for a day or two. "Begone from my sight, and while you ponder on truthfulness, obedience and fealty, find another hound to replace the one that was killed - and pay for it from your own purse."

Sir Wystan swallowed and bowed his head. "Milord, Milady." He spun and left the room, grateful he'd been spared a humiliating punishment.

The continued abhorrent behaviour of their son was a much-discussed topic by Sir William and Lady Constance. Over the years they'd unsuccessfully tried to curtail his extravagances and indulgences, temper his belligerence and instil a sense of morality and virtue into his life - and failed.

As the door closed, Sir William threw his goblet against the wall. Wine splattered everywhere, the empty goblet eventually settling beneath a tapestry. With a grunt, the Irish wolfhound slowly eased itself up, ambled over to the wall and began l*****g.