The Last Knights of Cambria Book 1: Echoes of Gideon

Chapter 2: My life becomes a Skyrim sidequest

First Gareth deems we need to visit the milner (seamstress essentially) to get me a cloak. I'm not about to say no to a good wizard's cloak. So we go there. And in return for helping to unload a wagon of fabrics we get a simple, deep green wizard's cloak. That's what I'm calling it. Nobody else needs to call it that, it's fine. It has deep pockets and covers up my modern garb, though nobody really questions that so that's good.  Also, the sea breeze makes it fairly cool so I'm glad enough of the cloak.
Gareth then leads us to a farrier.
"Why are we going here?" I ask, tripping after him.
"I've got some rabbit pelts to trade for horse shoes," he explains, which doesn't explain anything at all. I follow him anyway. It's not like I'm not having a good time. I honestly didn't notice the rabbit pelts he's carrying I just figured they were part of his outfit. I don't know. I'm very overwhelmed with having a very good time.
Yes, I should be worried about home, but the thing is my mother won't be missing me just yet. And if I've dropped off the face of the earth that's really sad but this could be heaven maybe I just died. So, you know, I should enjoy myself. There's nothing I can do if I did die. It's not like I have any clue how to get home. I'll try to read some of the books in the library later but for now, I might as well enjoy myself. My mother would want me to be happy she's always on about it, "I want you to be happy Gideon" well I am.  I'm visiting a farrier to trade rabbit pelts for horse shoes. This is my dream reality it's so close to my dream reality that I can't even believe it's happening.
The farrier greets Gareth by name and gives him the horse shoes which I help to carry. Then we head deeper into the village. My Vans are not good for walking and dodging horse manure in the road, and I mentally note to make sure I find a way to get my hands on some better boots. I have decent hiking boots at home but that does me no good at all right now, I need something for walking all over in the dust.  I'm a million miles from home and I don't even care. I'm better than being home. I'm free.
Gareth guides me through town to a small house, with herbs hanging from the rafters and cats prowling outside. A herbalist, or something like that? My research usually started with cool kings who won fun battles and ended obsessing over medieval weapons to be honest, I'm not up on every single occupation.
"Got the shoes for you," Gareth grunts by way of greeting, and little old woman who looks like a witch comes out from behind a rack of—spices? "Can I get a pouch of pepper?"
"Already? What do you owe the Duke of Conwy for?" The woman chuckles.
"His new squire needs a decent weapon. Anyway, I think it's good practice to keep the Duke of Conwy moderately happy with me," Gareth points out.
"And this would be his new squire?" She asks, looking directly at me.
"Gideon, ma'am," I say, bowing.
"Pleasure to meet you," she smiles though, with crooked teeth, as though she guesses I'm not just a squire.
"And you as well," she says, holding out a pouch. Despite the smells in here I identify it as being some sort of hot pepper, ghost pepper or something equally awful more than likely by the way my nose tingles.
"From the far south, I'm sure I don't want to know what he's doing with it," she says.
"I doubt you do, thanks again and can I get some cinnamon?" Gareth asks, putting a couple of coins on the table.
"Of course," she gives him back one and gets the requested cinnamon.
"Here, actually no, I'll keep it. It's your first day and you already met Dancer, god's blood that's enough for a boy, how old did you say you were?" Gareth asks, leading me back out into the sunshine.
"Fifteen," I say.
"Hm, my little brother's nineteen, it's him we're getting honey for," he explains. I did not know we were getting honey.
"Ah," I say, following him quickly. He's decently taller than me, probably just shy of six feet, but he has a fast pace for he knows exactly where he's going and I'm easily distracted staring around at the mountains and the castle in the distance. He doesn't particularly wait for me either, just expecting me to scurry along and catch up.
It's far too much to hope the cinnamon is to be traded for honey. No. Instead we go to a hat shop.
"Hello, Efa," Gareth smiles. The girl who hops up is maybe his age, maybe mid twenties, he looks probably well into his thirties, though it's hard to tell. He could be going grey early. His face has lines, but I suppose that to be from the sun.
"Gareth, I didn't think I'd see you at all this week," she says, coming over.
"Yeah, had business in town, showing the Duke of Conwy's new squire around, he's not from Harlech," Gareth says, nodding at me. The town is being called Harlech as well as the castle, I take it. I don't remember that from reading maybe it's a custom.
"Oh gods, that's awful, poor child—,"
"Oh I'll make sure he's all right—,"
"This time."
"Yeah, yeah, this time, anyway, I brought you cinnamon, can I get a length of white ribbon?" Gareth asks. Yep, another side quest.
"What um—happened to the last squire?" I ask.
"Nothing important," Gareth says.
"He lost his mind—that's not necessarily to do with the Duke though," Efa says, quickly like it definitely is to do with the Duke.
"It's fine," Gareth says. Gareth's casual relationship with my personal safety is a bit troubling I'm not going to lie. I don't personally expect to live through the week, but it's gonna be a bloody brilliant week. I'm about to get a sword. I'm a wizard. I'm okay not living through the week.
"Here, you go," she says, wrapping up a bit of ribbon for him, "Me and Lowri, were thinking of going to the solstice, do you want to come?"
"Ah, yes, but I've got to see what I've got going, yeah definitely if I'm not needed," he says.
"He been doing bad?"
"Has his moments," Gareth says, grimly.
"Take care," she bids him goodbye with a kiss on the cheek, and we depart.
"Who doing bad?" I ask.
"My brother, he's ill, he's who the honey's for, soothes his cough now and again, my mother thought anyway," Gareth explains. One more time, haven't gone anywhere near honey.
"What's making him ill?" I ask, hurrying to keep up.
"Bad lungs is all the doctors have said. Doctors say he doesn't have five years," Gareth says, grimly, no trace of smile now.
"I'm sorry," I say, wondering what it really is. Untreated asthma? If so that won't kill him but the smoke from fires in the winter would make him ill. I resolve to try to determine the symptoms, surely even my basic knowledge of modern medicine will help?
"Ah, we all only have the time god gives us. Still, likely he'll outlive me," Gareth scoffs, almost smiling now, "Anyway, this way, turn here."
"Beekeeper?"
"No, not yet. Got another stop first."
This stop is at a pub, where a serving girl scurries out, squeals at the ribbon, comes back with sandwiches for both of us and a keg of ale. I'm really terrified I'm going to be expected to carry that, but apparently I look as small and scrawny as I am. Gareth shoulders it and hands me the sandwich—well it's more of a pasty or pie. I'm sure it'll make me sick but I'm starving by now and eat it immediately. It tastes like venison or pork maybe? It's fantastic this is how you get food poisoning I think, but I don't care. I believe I've mentioned what a good time I'm having.
I don't dare ask if the beekeeper is next but blessedly it is. My legs are getting tired. In case it wasn't obvious I spend many hours a day on the internet in a seated position. All this walking is new to me.
We make our way out of town, to a pleasant little cottage. Be awfully nice if a wizard lived here. Doesn't seem to. But would be awfully nice. It's a cottage hemmed by fields of flowers, and a big dog trots up to greet us. Gareth pets the dog with a free hand.
"Hello, Owain," Gareth says, setting down the keg of ale, as a man comes around from behind the cottage, oh he's the beekeeper we're finally here. Good.
"Boy, if you stole this now," Owain (pronounced Oh-wine) shakes his head. He's old enough to be calling my guide 'boy', easily in his seventies.
"I traded it for it freely. I can be a honest man," Gareth says, holding up his hands innocently.
"I can spare a couple of jars, that's all," he shakes his head.
"That's fine, it's just this heat," Gareth says, shaking his head. It is not hot. There's a cool sea breeze and the air is fresh, rolling off the mountains. It can't be seventy out.
"Wait here. Who's the kid?"
"New squire."
"Hm," Owain disappears inside his hut. I'm happy to stand there staring off at the mountains and shifting on my aching legs. I'm not used to this much walking.  The man returns with a set of small jars of honey, which Gareth quickly deposits in his leather satchel that he has on his waist. The men say their goodbyes and we depart. I just assume we're on our way to some other convoluted errand, but we just make our way back towards the steps of Harlech castle.
We're not going in the main entrance, as before we're going up the 108 steps up to the prisoner's tower, which is the north-east tower. This means that we double all the way down to the sea, walk along the rocks, then climb up. It's precarious at best, but Gareth acts like this how one normally gets in places. I go along with it, more interested in staring off at the sea or studying the firm grey rock beneath my quickly scuffed hands. The salty air is invigorating, and I don't think I'll get tired of listening to the crash of the waves.
If I thought my legs were burning before that is nothing compared to the agony I'm in as we ascend the stairs. I'm not about to complain, but I would like to breath normally. I occupy myself with studying the castle. The  west tower is where the library was, Gareth took me out and around through the middle ward to descent the steps of the Prisoner's Tower, which is is the only tower with an entrance. On two sides the castle is surrounded by steep rock, that leads down to the ocean, that's how we got in and out. On the other two is moat, which a draw bridge crosses to let you in the main gate. I assume normal people enter and exit that way.
On castle standards the thing is sensational. I'm going to guess it's a summer palace for the royal family? It's the sort of place one holes up in. It's not grand. It has a reasonably small staff I'm surprise royalty would make their permanent home here. As I recall, Glyndower used it as his fortress during his bid for independence, if that worked and these are his descendants, maybe that's why they use it?  It was used in the War of the Roses I know, by both sides, that's how I got to reading about it at two am a couple of years ago. It's absolutely gorgeous in person. It bleeds power and history and it takes all I can do not to bend down and kiss the steps.
"Those steps get the best of men. It's my way in and out since I'm not like, supposed to be in half the time," Gareth says, as he fishes in his pocket for a key. "You're meant to be in, but I wouldn't trust the guards at the gate to know you yet. Give 'em a bit."
"Yes," I can't really breath right now. God, this place is beautiful. I really did die and go to heaven didn't I?
"Come on, you want that sword?"
Yes, definitely heaven.
I step into the dark tower, and am immediately hit with the horrible smell of the dead. I've been at the museum long enough to know the general smell of old exhibits and the dying. But this is putrid. I wince, and Gareth quickly offers me a jar of some sort of grease, essentially petroleum jelly. I stop my nose with it quickly, nodding in thanks. He doesn't bother for himself, used to it, which is troubling.
"We're going to meet the Duke of Conwy; you don't have to talk to him," Gareth says, sort of moving me behind him.
We progress down a set of stairs. Ah. The dungeon. It's dimly lit with just candles, and a roaring fire in what looks more like a smith's hearth than anything. A number of irons lay in it. And there is—oh wow cool torture machines? But like, torture machines that have been used very recently. I'm trembling with excitement and fear.
"I told you I'm busy today, Gareth," a frightening, cold voice says, lilting, and almost high pitched. The speaker turns, a man, tall though not unnaturally so. Maybe six four at the most. Pale with jutting cheek bones and the most soulless eyes I've ever seen. They're a pale blue, but entirely guiltless. He has permanent looking sacks under his eyes, all purple and blue with blood.  The man has brown blonde hair that's sweaty and short. He's wearing a dark cloak and all black robes, an anomaly from the people I've seen in town. If you were to pass this man on the street you would immediately just assume he killed someone. That's the vibes he gives off. Like he has definitely committed a felony just lock him up preemptively.
"I know and to be clear I probably would have bothered you anyway, but now I've got an excuse. New court wizard, he's been sent by his parents never been in Gwynnedd let alone Harlech before, let alone ever had a weapon," Gareth says.
"So you thought you'd come and pilfer my very limited supply?" The man folds his arms, glaring at us. This is not light glaring, this is a man who looks like he knows ten ways to tear you apart and is picking his favorite.
"Yeah, that's precisely what I thought, in fact," Gareth nods, smiling charmingly.
"Well, you can forget it, and get yourself and child out of here. I'm trying to fix the Maiden, and unless either of you want to become test subjects I'd recommend bothering somebody else," the Duke says, his voice dripping with malice.
"An—Iron Madien?" I ask, holding up a hand hopefully, "Could I—see it?"
"Why in god's name would you say that?" Gareth breaths.
The duke stares at me, "What's your name?"
"Gideon, my lord," I say, "I really—like weapons."
"Come along then, Gideon," the Duke picks me up by the arm with one hand, something that should not be this easy for anyone. But his hand has a vice grip and his fingers are cold.
"Jac, don't you DARE close him in that thing!" Gareth darts after us, as the Duke carries me into another, small room. With a lantern at the door I can see nothing deep in. But in here it smells even more rank.
The Duke completely ignores him, fetching a lantern and swinging it deeper into the room. At one end of the room sits a tall, iron coffin, standing open with rows of I'm sure very sharp spikes lining the inside. The Iron Maiden.
"Fascinating," I breath, stepping closer. Iron Maidens probably weren't mediaeval torture devices, they likely dated later. Even if we are assuming this is SuperiorTimeline 1400s, then he still shouldn't have one. There were similar things, but they weren't called that.
"Beautiful isn't she?" The duke asks, stroking it like a favorite horse. He puts his cheek against the metal. God, this guy is insane. I absolutely adore him.
"She's amazing," I say, touching it tentatively. The spikes are fairly sharp, he's clearly been replacing a few. Hence the forge.
"I helped my father build her, when I was probably your age, or a bit younger," the duke says, softly, "For my birthday he let me choose which prisoner to put inside her."
"That's such a disturbing memory you didn't need to share with us!" Gareth says, physically tugging me away, "We are now going to leave!"
"My father used to close me inside her, when I was lad, for hours at a time. Test of will. I found it—relaxing," the duke says, still staring at it, "Do you want to go in?"
"I mean, absolutely yes, but I don't think Gareth wants me to," I say as Gareth physically picks me up.
"My little brother is fine," the duke says, dryly.
"You're brothers?" I ask.
"No! Daily I take comfort in the fact that I am in no way related to you," Gareth says, trying to haul me to the door, but the Duke stops him.
"My mother married his father, who was not my father," the Duke says as I try to figure out the logistics of that.
"Bye Jac, see you again when you surface—," Gareth still trying to carry me away.
"But didn't we bring him something? He probably has more weapons I could see?" I plead.
"He's fine, settle down Gareth," the Duke says, knocking me free and shining his lantern on a table. "Come here, boy. This is what I'm currently working on, you can read can't you?"
"A Sicilian bull?" I ask, deciphering the man's messy scrawl on a variety of parchments. He's got an ink and quill here well he is a Duke he would be literate.
"Of course he can read, he's fifteen," Gareth says. Technically I don't celebrate my birthday till fall. So I'm sort of fourteen but I'm rounding up.
"Hm. Looks like maybe ten. I found these plans, in the wreck of a ship."
"The ancient Greeks used this—usually in a shape of a bull a fire lit underneath the metal housing, which a person is stuffed inside, and slowly roasted," I say, quietly. I doubt if any were found this far north and west, but he did say he'd found the plans.
"Aye, I'm hoping to reconstruct one for practical purposes," the Duke says.
"Can I—I mean, can I  help?" I ask.
"Sure, you can."
"No, please don't do that!" Gareth sighs.
"You can ignore him when he speaks, hope someone told you that. Weapons are this way. I keep a supply here, aside from the armory, in the event of an invasion, should I need to barricade myself and royalty in Prison Tower," he explains.
"Yes, because you can wield 149 swords at once," Gareth mutters.
"Again, ignore him," the Duke says, showing me through a low door. Well, not low to me, but he has to duck and Gareth nearly does.
We step into a circular room, it must be directly below a tower maybe? I don't know I'm turned around. The room is huge, probably the size of a basketball court or the like? And it's full of weapons. Every kind imaginable. Swords, great swords, axes, spears, shield, and then bins and crates of arrows, and spear tips, and then tables for working on the things, as well as several sets of mail. Tears spring to my eyes. It's so beautiful. I never imagined I'd see anything like this, let alone get to touch any of it.
"They're gorgeous," I say, walking reverently over to a set of flails, lovingly oiled, obviously, gorgeous dark wood. The maces have every head imaginable, all sharp and heavy, heavy steel. I can only imagine the damage such a device would do in the Duke's hands. Easily six foot four, he's likely trained in carrying full plate armor which means he can wield this thing, easily thirty pounds, while wearing in his case about a hundred pounds worth of armor. Gareth is a bit smaller so his armor would weigh less, but he would be no less deadly with it. Maces could damage plate armor, and are a simple enough weapon for say defending stairs or just silently bashing the heads in of would be intruders. They are on strike weapons, and unlike a sword it's not going to get damaged or broken and it is still gonna break bones through mail.  An ideal weapon especially if you're arming nobles in the event of a attack. I notice lighter ones, that I or a woman could use, that is someone untrained and with less muscle. To be clear, the knights are effectively professional body builders, even if someone like Gareth doesn't wear armor often he'll still drill in it or something to that affect.
"Here, give the boy a sword will you? He's the court wizard but after Sadie—I'd sooner he were armed than not," Gareth says, getting the pouch of pepper out of his pocket.
"Ah, you're too kind brother," the Duke smiles a thin, half smile as he takes the pouch.
"You're putting that in people's eyes, aren't you?" I ask.
He nods, "Clever kid."
"I've seen it before," jalapeño got in my eyes not intentionally. I about died. Well, not really but I haven't attempted to open take out on my own again.
"Yes, you're very frightening," Gareth says.
"So, this is my very limited supply of weapons," the Duke says, gesturing around and ignoring Gareth.
"They're all lovely—are these lantern shields?" I breath, kneeling in front of one.
"You've heard of them?"
"Read only, I've never seen them in person," I say, touching the smooth metal reverently, "May I?"
"Better let me, here, I've got only five—,"
"Oh, only five of this thing only you know how to use?" Gareth asks.
"It becomes like background noise after a while I promise—here, gauntlet, and grip on the back," the Duke flips over the shield to show me the mechanism. Lantern shields were a mostly Italian design, they incorporate a lantern for night duels, and then sometimes a variety of mechanisms like swords that sometimes retract. On these they do. I'm not overly surprised to find it here. The Duke is well educated enough to have at least heard of the things and it's not impossible he travelled to a region where they were used at some point. It's local materials and looks like he fashioned it himself. Dueling shields have been found across Europe, that is, shields fun little attachments built in or retractable, like swords or spikes, and while an army wouldn't be fitted with them a private enthusiast having them isn't uncommon.
"The idea is they're good for night patrols, especially if we're under siege, and walking the castle rocks that way you've got a weapon and all in your hands. That retracts a sword, two spikes there, dagger, lantern," the Duke says, showing me how the sword retracts.
"That's brilliant," I say, moving carefully out of the way as he hangs it back up on the wall.
"Now, we're hoping you don't need a shield everyday," the Duke says, laughing thinly. He has a haunting, serial killer sort of laugh.  "These are the swords, now, that I couple possibly spare. Here, try this."
He gets a hand and half (commonly called bastard) sword. These are about three and half to four feet long at the most, and are the typical swords you would see in movies with knights fighting duels and the like. Gareth has one on his belt, the thing is heavy, easily five to ten pounds. That's a lot to hold in one hand. Swords like these became more popular as time went on, they can be used one or two handed, and are short enough to be practical yet heavy enough to be deadly. In theory a fifteen year old like me would be training on one, to know the weight of it, and would have been since I was ten or so. He's offering it to me now to see if the grip or weight suits me.
"I'd never be able to wield it, I never learned," I say, taking it gently. It's impossibly heavy in my hand, I'd never be able to uses it in a fight.
"You were never taught sword play?" The Duke asks, understandably confused. It would be unheard of for a boy to get to my age and have zero knowledge especially considering I've been knowledgeable of the types of weapons he has down here. Most boys become pages at eight to nine years old, and likely a father or male figure would have taught you to hold and use the thing before that. At my age most boys would already be hoping for knighthood. I mean I am hoping for knighthood of course but that isn't my reality.
"No, but I wanted to learn," I say, quietly. All I can hear is my step-father's voice ringing in my ears. I was seven. I saw a flyer at school for fencing lessons and I came home and begged my parents to let me take them.
"Why?" My stepfather had laughed, "You think you can be Percy Jackson, slaying monsters? Real life isn't your make believe and your books."
I cried. That was of course why I wanted to do it. I wanted to learn how to fight with a gladius like in the books and I did want to be a knight.  Gladius are Roman short swords, they're shorter than a hand an half, and thicker. Bit different fighting style though the principals of the pointy end going in the other man, are the same. And I cried because of course I wanted to be a hero like in the  stories.
So of course I didn't get the lessons. And I just contented to go up to my room, shut the door, and learn everything on the internet I could about swords.
"Um—no, I wasn't allowed," I say, wiping my face with the back of my hand to disguise my tears.
"That's a cruel thing to do to a child," the Duke says.
"Jac, your dad locked you and me in the Maiden for fifteen hours," Gareth says, hand on his face.
"When you quit screaming I fell asleep, not the same depriving them of weapons that's evil minded," the Duke says, "Never mind boy, I'll teach you if you like."
"Would you?" I ask hopefully.
"Yeah, for now though lets get you something smaller you can at least wave about so you don't get kidnapped or the like," the Duke says, nicely.
"Do you have a rapier or something along those lines?" I ask, rapiers are shorter, thin swords maybe four pounds, they're what we think of when we think of pirate, or Zorro swords that's more like a rapier. Now there's subsets and all else, but we're talking a thin blade, with a traditional basket hilt.
"I can do a bit better, a Falchion," he says, going to another wall, "A peasant's weapon but it's damn sharp and will protect you for now till you learn of finer things—,"
"Really?" I scurry over, hopefully. Falchions are as he said peasant weapons, with a single sharp edge they're about the size of a machete, and very few actual falchion's survived as they weren't usually carried by nobility. Similar to a machete the user slashes with it, though the art form is a bit different, it's about a two and half feet long, and while it's heavy it's not as heavy as a knight's sword.
"I keep a few about, best to be prepared, that will do fine, the sharp end goes in the other man," the duke says, laying the sword in my hands. It's gorgeous, a deep smooth silver with a razor sharp edge. The hilt is simple and molded from the same bit of steel, so it's nice and solid. The hilt is wrapped in soft leather. It's just shy of three feet in length and can't weigh more than a couple of pounds.
"She's wonderful," I say, feeling tears in my eyes again.
"Treat her well and she'll keep you safe while we work you towards finer things, one day you'll be able to wield one of these," the Duke gestures to a a set of two handed swords, he has a wall of them. These things are easily seven feet long, some just a bit shorter. These would be wielded on horseback usually, for slicing off the heads of foot-soldiers, and then probably the king has one for ceremonial reasons. These have more practical than ornate hilts. Below them are broadswords, knights might use these in battle, they're essentially the same as their larger cousins in that they're meant to be handled with two hands, unlike the bastard sword which could be used with an an off-hand (dagger that is). The broadswords are going to be about forty to forty-five inches, so about a foot longer than my falchion, and will weigh closer to five to ten pounds depending on the make. They're about same size as a bastard sword, but heavier and intended to be used with two hands, whereas a bastard sword is more of a jack-of-all-trades, a well made one could be used one or two handed, maybe left or right handed. Ergo if you're Gareth wandering around, the bastard sword is what you want on your hip if you get into a duel or whatever, the great swords and long swords are too heavy and cumbersome to carry around day to day. A king would carry one into battle but his men at arms would actually carry it till he needed to use it.
I'm currently getting emotionally attached to my Falchion, however, "Does she have a name?" I ask, holding the Falchion carefully.
"Not yet," the Duke says, a bit amused, as he hands me a  leather scabbard, and a belt that's probably going to be too big. "I just acquired that, it's from my father's collection, likely never been used."
"I love her, thank you, one's ever given me a sword before," I say, as I hurriedly put on the scabbard.
"That's okay, nobody's ever spoken to him voluntarily before," Gareth says.
"I'm going to keep him," The Duke says, ignoring his brother's jib.
"You completely aren't; he's our court wizard."
"I will if he's happy here and just stays, now, lad, about midnight I usually take a walk around the courtyard—,"
"Oh my god that's you?? Quit scaring people you're the most terrifying person in Wales we talked about this last week—," Gareth says.
"—come and find me, I'll help you practice with that, all right?" The Duke asks, nodding at me with something like affection.
"Thank you so much—I will," most definitely.
"Cool, you don't go places alone with him; we're leaving," Gareth says.
"Sure you don't want a go in the Maiden—don't look at me like that Gareth. You just said he's a wizard he can magic himself out anytime," the Duke says, shrugging.
"I'd like to see all your machines, but maybe another time," I say, because Gareth just balled up the back of my shirt and is dragging me towards the door.
"Right then. Be seeing you Gareth."
"Give your daughter my love," Gareth says, hauling me bodily up the stairs.
"Which one's his daughter?" I ask, as he drags me back outside into the sunlight of the Outer Ward. I'm well aware of the custom of calling medieval implements of destruction the daughter of their owner, the cannon that besieged this castle during Henry V's onslaught was called 'The King's Daughter'. As I recall a couple of torture machines in the Tower of London bore similar monikers, for the various Constables of the tower, namely the Dukes of Exeter. It's pretty common to have your torture room run by a high ranking noble who is conveniently a sociopath, ergo the Duke running it like that is entirely logical. 
"He calls it Satan's throne, his own personal design," Gareth says, hand still on my elbow.
"Ah," I wince. Likely a form of the Iron Chair, simple enough in execution, a chair with all manner of spikes on it that the victim is slowly pressed into, clamps for head and neck and arms may be involved. Given the name I would guess fire is also involved in this one. I definitely want to see it.
"Look, he's my brother and I'm fond of him but he's really not great to be out, he wouldn't hurt you intentionally but—he mentioned his father? I knew him," Gareth sighs, stopping, "I'm a bastard, right, you're tracking nobody looking for me? His father used to lock me in the Chamber for hours just if I was bothering him. As you heard he threw us both in the Iron Maiden. The man insisted that his son couldn't be master of any of the devices if he hadn't experienced it first hand. Same for anyone else he'd let down there."
"That's horrible," I wince. Those things aren't meant to be survived. I may want to see them for morbid curiosity and I might have a list of current politicians I think deserve those things, but that's as far as it goes.
"Yeah. Jac's been on every one of those machines, he loves pain; he enjoyed it," Gareth sighs a little, "So, point being, he would not notice if you were in pain it has zero effect on him."
"Message received," I nod like I'm not absolutely going back down there first chance I get. This is a very good way to die. I'm completely fine. "What happened to his father? Is that your father?"
"Sorry, that was complicated. My mother lives in the village. My father had me with her out of wedlock, said and done. I'm around here because of my father—," he waves a hand generally, meaning his father was a noble as well. "—and moving on, Third Duke of Conwy, Jac's father, is here, with Jac and Jac's mother. The Duchess of Conwy. We're like, probably a bit younger than you, what I was twelve he was like—maybe fourteen? Anyway, you can't repeat this all right—?"
"I won't," I nod quickly.
"Jac and I just knew each other generally. Anyway. His father was assassinated, by rival nobles I'm sure someone clever like Dancer has their full names and titles but it's not important as they didn't survived. Disappeared they did, well I knew damn well Jac had done something so I told my father, who took me a bit serious and went and checked the dungeon. He'd been torturing them for over a week, calm as anything coming up and chatting with us at meals then going down and working on them. Sitting there calmly while they screamed. Naturally, he had to quit but— and we buried the bodies, technically nobody actually like, knows he did it but it's also like, super obvious I think? Like everyone assumes he did it— look at him," Gareth sighs, "Anyway. He loved his father, I think he a bit snapped sort of, he hasn't been the same since. And he's got a loose definition of safe and where people should and shouldn't be locked and for how long."
"I see—so how are you two related?" I ask, frowning and still planning to go down there first chance I get.
"Oh, yeah, that—we aren't. So yeah, his father, died, his mother re-married, to my father who hadn't been married he'd just had me, which is whatever, so his mother remarried to my father, they had a son, who is now both of our little brother, but we're not related, but we call each other brother as I said we knew one another before our parents married, we're step siblings, but we're not that as I'm not anything," Gareth explains, leading me around the outside wall of the castle.
"Ah," I nod, basically wrapping my head around it. I suppose that doesn't matter.
"Yeah, really irrelevant but as you heard we call the other brother, nobody would talk with us when we were boys for completely me different reasons. My breeding, well his breeding whatever went wrong with him but he's pedigree'd for what that's worth," Gareth scoffs, leading me to a door.
"Where are we going?" I ask, I'm quite tired by now, and it's late afternoon I'm also getting hungry but I don't want to complain.
"Oh, I'm dropping the honey off in my brother's room and you off with Dancer," he says, leading me on in, "Really don't mind Jac; he isn't bad just don't maybe go places alone with him or go down to his dungeon."
"Oh, good, okay," I'm probably gonna do both those things to be honest.