(Page 1 of 7) Cry for the Wolf : Prologue by Richard Walker
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SUMMARY: In which King and war council debate tactics and a mysterious witch stalks her prey ...The sky hung low overhead with dark, surly clouds that threatened to douse the stubbly fields dotted with campaign pavilions, but in their own time. The bright heraldic colors of the tents put on a brave show, but they were no match for the season and its weather, or the mood of the men who occupied them. The scattered trees waved in the fitful, pugnacious gusts of wind that sent the golden, russet, and dirty brown leaves of autumn scurrying in whispering flights willy-nilly about the camp.
The largest of the. pavilions was surmounted by a number of cleverly carven falcons clad in silver-gilt, wings spread wide over a gilded crown marking the king who dwelled within. His majesty was taking counsel. It was shaping up to be a late and rather unusual campaign this year. Tall and still well-made despite his having seen more than fifty years, with auburn locks streaked with winter white and shorn to fall in waves to his shoulders, His Majesty, King Owain, fretted with the puffy velvet sleeves of his silver embroidered doublet of deep ultramarine blue as he paced the fine carpet.
"Sweet Light above! Why couldn't We just have had a simple band of rebellious barons as in years past?!"
The dozen or so richly dressed and armed men in attendance passed a look about the tent between them, but none was bold enough to make a reply at this point. There really was little left to say. They had been on campaign deep into the autumn, now, and at the king's wages, and winter would be upon them all too soon.
''An hundred, two score and seven dead - that We know of! - mauled by wild beasts too cunning by half to let my hackles lie down!"
The gathered nobles added nods of assent with passionate grunts to support them, hoping to keep their royal liege moving towards the solution or final course of action that would carry them through the winter. All they wanted to do was take their leave and return to their fiefs, their own lands and family concerns, again. One of them then shrugged his broad shoulders and shook his head, coal black locks swinging. It was the king's closest confidante, he with the least to lose in speaking up.
"But the hunt hath gone well, my liege." His great cloak was held at each shoulder by golden broaches in the form of ducal crowns wrought of clusters of roses and generously studded with glittering rubies. The armorial bearings upon his black velvet surcoat were halved with those of the king, a great honor. Sir Stephen du Maurier, Duke of Pur Pale, King's Champion and closest friend since His Majesty's childhood.
"Yes, Sir Stephen," the king nodded thoughtfully 'neath the weight of a crown that had grown steadily heavier with the score of years that had passed since he donned it, "But not well enough, it seems. Though the worst of it hath been here in the Low Marches, this is not the only district beset. Indeed, all the shires across the mainland southern parts of the realm have felt the wolves' bite."
A beefy man, not short but by no means tall, with ruddy face and ruddier beard and a wild wiry fringe around his balding pate then shifted uncomfortably on the cushions of his campaign chair.
"Good Sire, we have done all that we may, doing what we can, and e'en now preparing to maintain vigilance through the hard winter months, for hard it would seem they will be if 'tis bad enough in the mountains and uplands to force such numbers of wolves down upon us now.
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