Betrayers Game - PREVIEW - Ch. 1 At Peveril Castle
- Alia Hewitt
- Mar 15
- 18 min read
To the illustrious Peveril Family,
In the spirit of renewal and camaraderie, I extend to you a cordial invitation to the upcoming Feast of St. George in Nottingham. It will be my great honor and privilege then to make the presentation of the newly appointed High Sheriff of Nottingham, Derbyshire, and the Great Royal Woods. Such an event, completed by the esteemed presence of your family, will mark an earnest recommitment of the crown to the nobleman of this fine county.
The deep affections held for your house by my father have not been forgotten by his majesty, the King. Every loyalty is rewarded. Your arrival will be eagerly anticipated.
With splendid regards,
His Grace, Prince John, Duke of Normandy and Lord of Ireland
The pink dawn kissed the dewy dales through a velvety late-spring blanket of fog which stretched across High Peak for as far as the eyes could see. And despite its unwelcoming purpose of showing guests directly off the cliffside, a noblewoman in a woolen mantle climbed up into the ivy-covered archway of Peveril Castle’s western gate. The Baron of the High Peak, Lord Roger Peveril, a widower, had already lost four of his seven children and tried to remain calm as his youngest daughter, Eleanor, perched precariously on the ledge. This castle was their ancestral home and the seat of their family’s honor, but as he watched her stare wistfully away, it occurred to him that he only ever brought her there in times of tragedy. The last fifteen months had been no exception. To her, he imagined this place was just a graveyard.
He dared not speak as he arrived below her on the lawn. The mist whipped up into her face drawing some tendrils away from the rest of her long hair to dance in the wind. His sweet Adella insisted that Eleanor favored him, but he would not see it, for he couldn’t wish that fate upon her.
“Any courier on the horizon?” he said once she noticed him.
“No, but there’s nothing to see in a fog like this.”
She hung her feet off the ledge, adjusted her skirts so they would not catch and hopped down onto the landing. Eleanor had twenty-four years, most of which she spent in the household of her eldest brother, William and his family, in Nottingham. He had been sheriff and castellan there for many years. Then when Eleanor reached sixteen, Adella arranged for her to be a lady in waiting for the Duchess of Gloucester, Eleanor’s peer and the newlywed bride to King Henry’s youngest son, Prince John. This is where she remained, mostly, until she returned unexpectedly to Nottingham just months before the accident.
“No letters from your sister?”
“Not until June, I should think, once the baby arrives.”
“Then what have you got your eye out for?”
“I thought I might hear from Lady Kevelioc or the duchess as I believe they’ll be in Nottingham soon.”
“Oh,” said Roger.
His two youngest children had been stifled by this mourning period. They led busy lives, greatly away from him. But when a single night stole Adella, William, and his beautiful young family away, the grief overwhelmed Roger and he struggled to surrender his surviving children back to the uncertainty of the world. His elder daughter, Ione, was already married and a mother, therefore obligated to return to her family after the funeral; Eleanor and Robin were still unattached and beholden to their father’s wishes.
“Have you seen Robin?”
“Not for three days,” she sighed.
While Eleanor tempered any listlessness with her correspondences and all the hobbies expected of her position, her brother snuck away from the High Peak as often as he could manage and made it very clear to his father that he grieved the loss of his golden chance to fight alongside the Lionheart far more than any death in the family.
As if summoned by the thoughts of him, Robin could be seen running up the glade waving his bycocket in his hand. A pair of dutiful guards in cerulean surcoats raised the front gate to receive the spry nobleman.
“A royal herald is coming!” he said, breathlessly skating to a halt before them. “They say he has a message from the council of regents!”
“Really?” said Eleanor.
“Aye, I heard it from a Chesterfield fellow in a pub that they are expected in Castleton by midday.”
“Never a more trusted source than a fellow in a pub,” said Captain Lothar of the Peveril Flag Guard, bowing as he joined them in the center of the lawn, pike in hand. “Good morning, my lords and lady.”
“Have you heard of Robin’s herald, Captain?” she inquired.
“I have a scout that reports a heavily protected, possibly royal group is riding this way. At their current pace we shall see them at midday, but in my opinion, it’s more than a herald. Are we expecting any visitors, my lord?”
Lord Roger felt the weight of a letter from Prince John tucked away in the pocket of his cloak. It had been nearly a month since he received it and then hid it away without sending a reply or sharing it with his family.
“No, no,” he said, thoughtfully. “What else do we know of the mysterious band?”
“Seven mounted knights with no banners, and a single axle pack cart.”
“Thank you, Lothar. We will receive them, whoever it is.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The captain stood to attention. His armor crashed like a cymbal as he placed his hand over his heart before continuing with his duties. Robin turned to his father; “You must have some idea who it could be?”
“Easter is over, everyone will be in the counties before long,” said Roger. “It would be better to go and prepare yourself so you are not presented thusly?”
The skin on Robin’s neck and wrists were aflame with the splotchy red patches which emerged whenever he exerted himself. He was really another William, but to his mother, he was her red-breasted babe so Robin became the name he preferred. He even chose to use it among the king’s men to distinguish himself.
The three of them ducked into the cozy main room of the residential halls, where their chamberlain had set out a pitcher of cider and a breakfast of breads and jams. Lord Roger grabbed one of the loaves and tore from it. The golden crust gave way to a still steaming fluffy inner bun which he dipped into the waiting dish of apricot preserves.
“Perhaps it is Longchamp, himself.”
“Hmm, it could be,” said Roger.
“Seems a bit out of the way,” said Eleanor. “His jurisdiction doesn’t really reach-“
“He may have important news to deliver,” interrupted Robin. “Also damn his jurisdiction, he should be the only justiciar. His majesty splits it to appease our ungrateful northern neighbors who thank him by cozying up with Lackland.”
“Will you tell me where you have been for three days or shall I just assume you walked from a pub in Chesterfield?” asked Roger.
“Of course not,” he said, heading up the stairs to his private chambers to change. “I’ve been at Marian’s.”
He knew perfectly well that his son had an infatuation with a shepherdess from Cave Dale since he was a boy. Like his brothers, Gideon and William, Robin spent his childhood springtimes at Peveril Castle training with the old knight who used to rent it from the barony. Robin preferred to sneak away then too. William used to report just how often Robin would be found playing with other children in Castleton or shooting apples off trees for the shepherd’s daughter. He continued eating with Eleanor while he thought.
“Should he be free to marry the shepherdess?”
Eleanor looked shocked at such a statement. “Does he want to marry her?”
“I would hope so,” said Roger, helplessly. “He spends nights with her now? If he were just another villager, people would say they had eloped. But he must know it is time to choose a wife.”
She nodded her head as she poured her father’s cup of cider and then her own. Younger sons were not always taught to value the balance of affection and duty, but all noble daughters knew their marriages could turn the tides of war.
“Too true,” said Eleanor. “Who could we turn his attention to instead?”
She mimed craning her neck over some imagined crowd as if they were at the lists or in a grand hall where eligible ladies were plenty. He humphed in defeat as she was right, they were completely isolated from court in the High Peak and even Nottingham could be a full day's drive if you had a fast horse with the endurance to match. She dusted her fingers soon thereafter and took her leave to be ready for the day, leaving Lord Roger alone with his thoughts.
He took them with him to his privy chamber where he startled his valet with a curt dismissal. Hurriedly, the valet sorted away the rest of the fresh laundry from his hands and darted out of the room. He was a good lad but nothing his lordship wore as an aging nobleman compared to the plated armor of his youth. There was once a time when Lord Roger held a company of two squires and a valet to manage the shields, swords, and other regalia. Now, he preferred to serve himself in dressing.
He hung his cloak on a knob and pulled the letter from its hiding spot. It had an oversized red wax seal of two prowling lions hanging from a white ribbon. Lord Roger unfolded the vellum sheet and read it once more. He hadn’t just lost his family, he’d lost his king and the quarrelsome sons Henry left behind were foreign to Roger. He knew his lack of response would be noticed. Still he had left the letter to age in his pocket, too heavy on his mind to even speak.
With St George’s Day now practically upon them and a looming visitor, Lord Roger would no longer be able to veil the fief in his grief. Several hours later this was confirmed when the fog cleared and the approaching party emerged on the road before Castleton and raised their flags; Bright red with the same two lions stitched in golden bands.
“It’s Lackland,” reported Robin to his father and sister, who were waiting in the lord’s seat. “That is a bit of a disappointment.”
“How can you find a duke to be less exciting than a herald?” said Eleanor as she began to clear away her embroidery with the silent assistance of her handmaiden.
She had been working on this cream floral project for many weeks. Usually he would read or occupy his time with official matters, other times he watched beautiful designs spring to life under Eleanor’s stitch. Today though, he barely registered her presence as she and her handmaiden carefully removed it from the frame.
Robin shrugged, dismissively. “You know how I mean to say it.”
“No, I am afraid I don’t,” said Eleanor.
“It is doubtful that he comes on the king’s business,” he reiterated. “So why is he here?”
“I suppose you will have to ask him.”
He scoffed; “You sat plush on the pillow of his wife for years and exchanged countless letters since, yet you never learned anything that might inform this sudden arrival?”
“Thank you, Aidith,” Eleanor dismissed her handmaiden and flattened the front of her gray velvet surcotte as she answered.; “Have you ever had a friendly correspondence? We don’t write about politics and gossip. What am I supposed to know?”
“I don’t know, Eleanor. Just tell me what he’s like then.”
“He’s a bit hot-headed, but charismatic, I suppose. More like you than you’d probably care to hear.”
“Aha, fair jest,” chortled Robin sarcastically.
Roger watched his children interact without really hearing for a while from the high backed wooden chair at the rear of the sunken hall. He had never expected to hold the Honor of Peveril. As a younger son himself, he humbly accepted that such things would elude him, but then uncles and brothers were taken by war and disease until only he remained. Ever unworthy, ever unprepared. He wished to turn these complex feelings into words and perhaps Robin, in particular would benefit from such insights, but he remained distracted until Robin referred to Prince John as Lackland once more.
“Please address him, formally. You have never met him and it would be impertinent to use such a moniker without rapport,” said Roger.
“Oh, would he be bothered to hear it?” he larked to his sister.
“Not always, but have you ever met another man who wanted to hear their cradle name?”
“No, but I will not call him Prince, not when the only Prince I know is little Arthur.”
“His grace, should do just fine,” said Roger.
A trumpet blared from the front parapets of Peveril castle, signaling the arrival of their guests. The lords and lady went to greet them, emerging to the great cacophony of energetic ponies, whinnying and stomping on the lawn. And breathless squires unburdening themselves near the cart. The knights were nearly indistinguishable from one another in plain brown surcoats, except their weapons.
The rider of a great black horse had the finest sword, with a hilt of gold, encrusted with gems and etched with the initials of King Henry II. This rider brought his beast to a halt and dismounted. Lord Roger bowed as Prince John removed his conical helmet. Though Roger saw him as a young man, only older than Eleanor and Robin by a few years, the duke wore his dark beard trimmed along the lines of his hollow cheeks which gave him a more gaunt, aged look.
“Pleasant greetings, house of Peveril,” he said. “I hope you will forgive me for trespassing unannounced.”
“Of course, your grace,” answered Lord Roger. “We welcome you openly any time.”
“Good, good,” said John, relinquishing the reins of his steed off to the waiting stablehand. “I only ask to intrude upon your hospitality for a single night. I will ride back to Nottingham in the morning. For now, I’d like to reintroduce myself to my darling Isabella’s beloved Lady Eleanor.”
“You have been greatly missed at court, dear lady,” continued John, pulling off his riding gloves and scooping Eleanor’s hands into his. “And I, the good prince of King Henry II, also play the role of humble page today for my sweet wife as I deliver to you her letters.”
Eleanor dropped her foot behind herself into a respectable curtsy, but her face was straight, mismatched to the convivial attitude extended by John. He presented a folded parchment sealed with a small ring stamp with Isabella, Duchess of Gloucester’s visage. Eleanor took back her hands and the note as she rose.
“Thank you, your grace.”
“The pleasure twas mine,” said Prince John, graciously. He turned back to Lord Roger; “Come along now, show me the archer boy.”
Without hastiness, Robin stepped forward. His jaw clenched as they sized one another up. They were fairly matched in stature.
“You are the one they call, the robin?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“His majesty's finest archer?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“And you were at Poitou.”
Robin repeated, measuredly. “Yes, your grace.”
Prince John let the conversational silence hang in the air as the other knights climbed from their saddles and dishelmed. It was Prince John who had tried to take that castle with his father’s army several years ago, but they both spoke with an unconcerned easiness that Roger could never understand. He heard they were already calling those the Old Wars, but to Roger even his first time on the battlefield often felt like yesterday.
“Then it will be a delight to see you in action on May Day,” continued the prince, once he was sufficiently amused. “You know, I was surprised to arrive in Nottingham with no additional preparations being made to your apartments. But then my invitation went completely unanswered. I knew I must come and check on you at once.”
Roger could sense the shock of his children in his peripheral vision but would not look at them as he hung his head in regret.
“Apologies, your grace, there was much to say-”
“Shall we discuss it over a supper? A great red buck crossed us just this morning,” said John, waving to the pack mule driving a small cart. “We will leave it with your kitchen and speak of business again only once the carving is done.”
“The kitchens are just there in the new halls,” said Eleanor, directly. “I shall alert the chamberlain to your stay and prepare beds for you and your knights.”
“Fair lady of the castle,” said one of the knights, pleadingly. “Will you have enough wine and ale to quench our thirsty souls?”
“I will have the drink,” said Eleanor. “But if it is your soul that is thirsty, you will need to seek out the chapel not the dining room.”
The knight who posed the question bellowed with laughter and introduced himself with a low chivalrous bow that nearly draped his mop of dark, sweaty hair to the ground; “Sir Thorne Harrowgate, available to your every whim.”
She waved for a servant to fetch the chef.; “We shall begin with the buck, then?”
He invited his guests down into the lord’s hall. There was a grand fire and just enough room for them all to crowd inside. Prince John sat himself proudly and easily in the lord’s chair much to Robin’s chagrin.
“You were missed by name at the coronation, Sir Robin,” said Prince John. “Your fellow knights wore cerulean pins upon their hearts in condolences for your family’s grief.”
Robin pursed his lips. “Did they?”
“Yes, it was something grand to witness, even William Marshal donned one. That is to say, the coronation was something of a religious experience for all. Stunning parades, stirring orations, a realm united. It’s a shame your family was not there.”
Just then, Eleanor joined them accompanied by the valets with trays of thick shavings of cured meats and cut pears topped with a brush of soft cheese. They had to hold the trays high to keep from knocking into the fully armored knights.
“Perhaps a disarming is in order, I believe all threats can be stayed by our most capable Peveril Flags,” she said.
The knights had dwarfed the space with the extra room required for the safe movement of shields and swords. They were chatty and agreeable as they followed Eleanor to set their things aside.
“I have maintained all of the fiefdoms responsibilities despite our absence from court thus far,” said Roger to Prince John. “My nephew is in Nottingham to keep the castle in accordance and my daughter h…”
He was ignored and so trailed off. Prince John’s attention transfixed upon his hostess. Now comfortable, the first goblet was poured and the knights cleared every morsel from the trays. Once John began toasting with his knights, Eleanor crept to her father’s side to whisper in his ear.
“I knew you were hiding something. What am I supposed to do?”
“I’m sorry,” said Roger feebly. “Just clear the cellar and then call at the alehouse.”
“There was a corpse in their cart,” she hissed. “A farmer they accuse of poaching whom we must now return to his family.”
“I will deal with that.”
“No bother, Kitty knows his wife so he is already on his way home.”
“Everything alright, my lady,” piped up Prince John, eyeing their conversation.
“Verily, your grace,” said Eleanor, brightly. “Just making arrangements for the last member of your party.”
The knights and John cackled and he raised his glass to her. She swept promptly out of the room again. Prince John scrapped his chair back and followed after her, Roger immediately nodded for Lothar to accompany her. Robin noticed them go, but had discovered that Harrowgate was also an archer and they began comparing memorable shots. Prince John returned with the captain moments later looking slightly less composed but Lothar gave Roger a reassuring nod. Before long the young men were boastful and ruddy cheeked, calling for their roast as the wind had shifted in the final hour of the beast cooking and sent its smoke right through the hall. After a long absence, Eleanor emerged with her previously braided but uncovered hair hidden beneath a wimple, her forehead shimmering in sweat. She invited them into the dining hall. The venison was displayed alongside a steaming cascade of carrots and other vegetables. She had undoubtedly stepped into the kitchen as this feast was more than the chef, Kitty, and her two assistants could have summoned alone.
“Marvelous!” Prince John exclaimed after everyone had served and sampled. “So, Lord Roger, do you still have the invitation?”
“Yes, I do.”
He drew it out of his pocket. It was snatched immediately by Robin, who read it quickly, then tossed it across the table to Eleanor.
“And had not shown anyone, it seems, why is that?”
“They know that these events are carrying on, but we are in mourning until September, so we will be at court for Michaelmas,” said Roger, decisively.
“Have you ever known a child beholden to a widower’s mourning period. Besides, I hear your other daughter is already round with child once more, so life rolls on-” He downed what remained in his cup and held it aloft for refilling. “- And it is important to me that your house is present to welcome the new sheriff, the cousins will not do. The court needs to see the Peverils.”
He shook his dining knife in their direction across the table. Roger nodded, understandingly, with a mouth full of food. All the while at his other side, Robin shifted in his chair, stewing in agitation. Then, he spoke up.
“Why do you not just name him?”
“Name who?” said John.
“The new sheriff, of course.”
“Dear sir, there is no pageantry in that, and every royal court needs such entertainment. The anticipation… it’s as delicious as this feast.”
“Any appointment by the king is holy, you can’t withhold it from its recipient for your amusement!”
“If it were you, Sir Robin, his majesty’s herald would have come at once,” said John with a sneer. “Just as it went, to the new sheriff. The man himself already knows. It’s only the rest of the court that’s in suspense.”
“So then it’s Ferrers?”
Another one of the knights guffawed. “Wasn’t it William de Ferrers who said the same thing about him?”
“Indeed,” said John. “But only once certain the appointment had eluded him.”
“There has been no sheriff that was not of the Peveril house,” said Robin. “William the Conqueror created the position for our service. If it is not I, then De Ferrers is the child of my aunt, the daughter of my grandfather, Sheriff William the Elder.”
“Do you have a tapestry, perhaps? It’d help some of us to follow along,” said John to the amusement of his knights.
It was not lost on Lord Roger that each of them were knights of valor and skill, not inheritance. He considered that some of them may even have been mudboys. Squires that knights such as Roger would have brought up from the stables when they knew the battle would be too dangerous for well-born ones. As a well-born boy and an archer, Robin had likely only ever fought from defensive positions, where Roger and perhaps everyone in the room had seen the deathly brawl on the field. Even Eleanor may have been closer to the carnage as a nurse alongside Gideon’s regiments for the Young King.
“You said yourself the court wants us-”
“That is enough, Robin,” said Roger, sternly, silencing him in the middle of his sentence. “The captains of Crownwood and Sheildbearers have been without an official leader long enough. All Peveril house desires is for them to receive a dutiful commander.”
Robin grumbled in agreement and stabbed at a carrot with his knife. As Prince John carried the conversation along; “I haven’t met him, but I heard him speak at the coronation. His majesty’s council insists that he is a fine gentleman and uniquely well-suited for facilitating the improvements the crown desires.”
Eleanor looked expectantly at Roger, but he didn’t know what to take away from the confusion and encouragement in her expression. So she spoke up instead of letting her concerns be lost in Roger’s failings.
“These counties are the most bountiful in the isles and things have been peaceful here since the coronation. What improvements could his majesty desire?”
“Don’t fret, High Chancellor Longchamp and others will just make sure there are no leaky coffers, no ill-dealings with outlaws, no mines or quarries operating inefficiently,” said Prince John. “Funding a war can be a dreadfully tedious business and every silver angel must be reported truthfully to the exchequer without interruption.”
“But St. George’s Day is very close,” she said, after rereading the invitation. “By carriage we would have to leave-”
“Tomorrow, yes! Precisely why I came today. We will ride out together and then you will make it in time for the fête du Vendredi, which is when I will be presenting our new sheriff with his Chains of Office before the entirety of court.”
“Your grace, I am sure the new sheriff will have an illustrious reception,” said Lord Roger. “But if confidence is so high in his appointment then why would the delay in our introduction be of any consequence?”
“You are an old knight, Lord Roger, so you cannot pretend to be ignorant to the power of collecting bannermen in solidarity for his majesty. I assure you, this will be a light-hearted affair. No oaths or proclamations of undying fealty, just a little announcement amongst a ball to welcome the season but,” he paused for a moment; “If you are still so grief stricken, I shall give you these options, you either come alongside your children, or you send Sir Robin and Lady Eleanor in your stead.”
“If your lordship decides to stay behind, I would be happy to offer you extra protection while in Nottingham, my lady,” said Harrowgate.
“My guardsmen have always served me perfectly well,” said Eleanor, firmly.
The knights cackled like vultures, helping themselves to more of their spoils from the center of the table. Lord Roger watched with displeasure at how Prince John trained his gaze on her over the ravenous display. Years ago, they were perfectly cordial. Whatever affability they shared then had clearly soured.
“So what does my dear wife speak of in your correspondences, Lady Eleanor?” said John a few moments later. “Recent engagements and the state of the flowers in bloom?”
“Yes, and embroidery patterns she wishes to see me try.”
“Her ideas and your hands. That has always been a formidable pairing.”
“Fashionable, at least,” she remarked.
Prince John laughed.
“It is a shame you have been away from court. You spent your first maritable season with no luck in my house, then the next you were more focused on delivering favors for your brother and then this last stuck here for him as well, this one shall be for you.”
He raised his goblet to her. She tipped hers into her mouth, eyeing Roger from the side. When they retired that night, he was comforted to find that Eleanor had her bed moved into the tower keep, in the apartments next to his, while their guests were most certainly filling the chambers in the residential hall. Lord Roger stood thoughtfully at the landing between their doors. She laid her head affectionately upon his shoulder.
“You will be with us tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I am getting older. I have less to offer in this world.”
“You’ve been moving slowly because of this place,” Eleanor insisted. “You may find a new wind with something more to do.”
He kissed the top of her head; “I hope so.”
She bade him good night. He extinguished the torches in his chambers and sat alone with a candle at his bedside. He prayed, put out the candle and laid back in the blackness. A vision of his wife, Adela, came to him the moment his head hit the mattress. She laid beside him in their bed with her silvery hair brushed and draped all around her. He succumbed to the embrace of slumber, almost feeling her when she reached out to touch his cheek.
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