Lord Vane

5. An Evil Landlord

I am evil. This must be what you think. As I wander the length of the gallery, it looks like I am truly interested in the Vane family portraits and their respective histories (the polite versions, as told to me by Ulra). But I am only here to entertain myself.

Rain banishes me from the gardens and I am still not allowed to the stables. So, instead, I search a hall of the deceased for a great brown mole with a single coarse hair, high on a left cheek. I will know this to be Lady Malika once I find it.

Her tale varied some from one talebearer to the next. Sometimes it was a fairy that blighted her strong strong pride; sometimes it was a troll. Either version, her mole was a kiss from a wrathful creature that the lady had erred in crossing.

As children, we learned the cost of pride from this story. But now with just a few days in this place, I've learned other versions of these elusive grand people. And they are far different from their fantastic tales.

Ah, here it is. The mole is not that big and I see no hair.

What was it Ulra said? Lady Malika had an insatiable thirst for learning. It drove her to other lands in search of wise mentors and brimming libraries. She left as an attractive girl with a lovely face mark and returned as something else entirely. I imagine shunning her local folklore and reaching above her station was enough to consign her to trolls and alter her beauty in the eyes of the villagers.

I am nearing my lord's study when I stop at a striking painting of a raven haired beauty, Lord Vane's great great grandmother. Hers is a grisly end, told and retold next to the crackling common fire. I hope you won't mind if I save her tale for another time, although the gloomy weather is the perfect backdrop for it.

I head further toward the study and freeze when I hear shouting.

"WHAT KIND OF LORD ARE YOU?!" The man sounds like a growling bear.

Even from the place I stand frozen in the hall, I hear him heave hard for his breath. "YOUR PEOPLE DEPEND ON YOU AND THIS IS WHAT YOU GIVE 'EM?!"

If there is a reply to this, I cannot hear it.

"MY WIFE IS DEAD. YOU HEAR ME? DEAD! HERE YOU HAVE THE BEST CARE, EVERYTHING YOU NEED WITHIN THESE WALLS. ALL COFFERED BY MY FARM. I COULDN'T EVEN AFFORD TO HELP MY OWN WIFE BECAUSE OF YOU FILTHY LANDOWNERS!"

There is no time to retreat even if I had the presence of mind to. A red haired man thunders past me, his face distorted with unfettered hate. But I still recognize him.

Farmer Benru. His farm is a distance from the village and I hadn't seen him around in years.  His wife and two children, a girl and a boy, sell wares and goods at the market occasionally.

I knew her to be pregnant and, honestly, it has been years since she looked well to me. The village fishwives often said she was courting Lord Death.

When the sound of Farmer Benru's heavy footfalls fade, I come enough to my senses to leave the area as silently as I can. I find another hall to walk, my mind a pulsing mess. Four days into my marriage and I can't help but feel heavy with the accusations I just heard.

A woman, wife, and mother is dead. And my husband was just laid to blame through neglect. In what way exactly, I do not know yet, but the damage is done and my heart is wringing.