Tue Jun 10, 2003 12:15 pm
Church-bells rang a clarion song to a morning that still smelled of rain.
William, the blacksmith's apprentice, stirred in his straw-stuffed cot, and saw through the dusty windows of the townhouse a tall shape brushing past the front door; and though he sat up swiftly and moved to check it -
His gaze was cast to an empty street. He'd been about to shut the door and return to bed when his foot nudged against something that had been placed on the doorstep.
A simple basket and a loaf of bread.
William blinked; he knelt to inspect the basket, and saw that each house, the whole street down, was similarly gifted. A basket on each doorstep; a piece of parchment nailed to each door.
"Wot's all this racket?" muttered Elden Blacksmith as the big man thundered to the door, and looked at William. "Eh?"
William wordlessly shrugged and pulled the parchment off their own door, passing it to Elden. He himself couldn't read, but the blacksmith was nunnery-schooled and knew a few words.
"Enh. It says...wot? It says somethin' about..."
Dear people of Myrken Wood,
You have suffered much in recent times. Consider this a gift from one who, like you, knows what it is to be forgotten. I pray that it will alleviate your sorrows, even for what time it lasts.
This is my home now, too. You do not suffer alone.
I have set up a centre for flood relief in the Town Square. All victims of the recent scourges and their families are welcome to partake of my givings. It is the very least I can do.
Yours,
Marquis Malengóne Al-D'arcu
"...somethin' at the town square we ought to see, eh?"
Rumpling the parchment, the blacksmith ushered William out the door, and hollared to rouse his sleeping wife.
The flood had swept through Elden's workshop, rusting some of his materials and washing away others. But here was a chance to reclaim something - if this mystery nobleman was good for his claims.
***
Early this morning, church-bells heralded the start of a very strange day. For each house in the immediate Myrkentown had been gifted with a small loaf of bread and a note upon the door; how the Marquis had engineered it all was anyone's guess. Word spread like wildfire that there was a madman giving away free food at the Town Square.
When the masses arrived it seemed there might well be a riot of a different kind; for there, parked right in the square, were a series of large, heavy wooden wagons laden with crates, and tended by several swarthy men of broad build and hearty, expansive moustaches. They looked distinctly foreign, but their manner was cheerful enough as they passed out the crates; one to each household, holding within it bread, cheese and salted meats.
As the crowd grew more agitated only the booming voices of the wagons' guardians kept deft-handed rascals from seeking more than their fair share; and while some gave suspicious eyes to the apparent gypsies, it was hard to avoid an overall mood of joy - most were merely too happy to be able to feed their families to wonder where the enigmatic Marquis had gathered all this food, or the amount of money he might have spent in purchasing it.
A face they did not know watched from a wall near the town square. A hard, hawkish face of pale hue - whose hair was paler still, snow-white curls cast about his elderly visage. He leaned there, simply-clad, and watched the spectacle unfold; none would know him, yet, as its perpetrator.
But as he turned and walked away with a quiet click in triplicate - each tall boot and the end of his ebon walking cane - he knew they would not soon forget the name of Marquis Al-D'arcu.
And all was well.