If Monarch’s Keep was the golden yolk of the city, Monarch’s Hold was the albumen and shell. The Webber residence was positioned just south of the yolk, meaning Bradshaw was always just a short walk from the royal sparring grounds beneath the prince’s tower.

“Who goes there?!”

There were always some dim-witted Lancaster sentries manning the gateway in and out of Monarch’s Keep.

“Bradshaw Webber, son of Maxwell Webber!” He called up to them, craning his neck to see the two sentries exchange words between the parapets.

The gates remained sealed as Bradshaw waited down below. After a minute passed, he called up again. “Our family is part of the royal court! My father, Maxwell Webber, sits on the high council!”

“Sat!”

“Excuse me?”

“Sat,” I said. He sat on the high council! Not anymore, I’m afraid.”

“You must have a strong desire to see your head separated from the rest of your body!” Bradshaw retorted.

The two sentries snickered to one another, stepping down from between the parapets.

“Hey!” Bradshaw shouted after them. “I’m meeting with my Uncle Godwin at the sparring grounds! I am expected-”

With a stiff grind, the gates were pulled apart just far enough for Bradshaw to step through. He could still hear the sentries laughing above him as he passed underneath.

At the sparring grounds, Godwin greeted Bradshaw with a grave stare. Godwin had been grave for as long as Bradshaw could remember.

“You’re late.”

“I was held up by two dunces at the gate.”

Godwin’s mug was mostly covered in prickly, gray facial hair, his eyebrows like two fat caterpillars dancing on his forehead. Rumor had it Godwin possessed body hair thicker and more resilient than most leather armor. The gray-black coat began at his cheekbones and traveled uninterrupted down his entire body, or so Bradshaw had heard tell. “If you expect to lead this family, you’ll have more than your fair share of dunces to deal with on the royal council.”

“Uncle Godwin, once Cormick marries my sister…”

At the mention of his son, Godwin scowled. “If Gilbrand was still alive, things would be much different. As it stands, I would prefer not to sit yet another dunce on the council.” Calling his son an idiot was as close as Godwin got to a sense of humor. “Stay put while I retrieve the blunted blades.”

Godwin ducked below the entrance to the armory just as Cormick stormed into the sparring grounds.

“You forked tongue, serpent sproutling! Your wit far exceeds the number of your years, but let me assure you, it shall serve you naught when I have wedded your sister to my bedchamber! So, until then, I suggest you try to stay in my good graces. I do not wish for there to be strife between us.”

Bradshaw found himself wishing he had grabbed a dulled blade to whack Cormick’s blabbering mouth. Instead, he retorted: “The day you marry my sister is the day Ser Huron Faust the Silent Knight of Northborough rides a piebald steed!”

A moment of bafflement and Cormick recovered. “Okay, I didn’t get that reference, but your wit is misguided. Words mean nothing when compared to steel, and I doubt you could even lift a sword, let alone wield one against me in a du-el. Your sister is the loveliest maiden in the realm and her hand will secure me a seat on his majesty’s high council!”

“Arienne will never choose you!”

By now, Cormick and Bradshaw’s dispute had caused onlookers around the sparring grounds to drop their activities and gather about.

“Arienne will choose me because I was the one who pinned to the ground with arrows Black John the Cleft-footed, Unitare’s most infamous horse thief!”

This old tall tale, thought Bradshaw, who was happy to finally have a chance to denounce Cormick in front of all the fighting men of Monarch’s Hold. “Black John tripped and cracked his head on a rock! You just pinned his body to the ground at point-blank range and told the tale false to all the good people of Monarch’s Hold. I was after that thief myself; I witnessed your craven deeds with mine own eyes!”

“Why do you hate me so?” Cormick replied, flummoxed. “You ARE twelve!”

Bradshaw knew he had struck a nerve, and in this verbal duel, he was about to deliver the killing blow.  “Because you are a liar and a craven! And I’m thirteen!” Bradshaw would have continued berating the off-balance Cormick, but he stopped short once he noticed that Arienne had pushed her way through the crowd and had apparently been listening for some time.

Bradshaw wondered if he had gone too far because, however misplaced the feelings were, he knew how deeply Arienne cared for Cormick.

“Cormick, are these words that my sweet brother speaketh true?” She fawned over him, looking tiny next to Cormick’s considerable height. “Tell us the truth of your brave deed, which avenged this kingdom’s many stolen horses, so that my brother and I may know the true temperament of your valor.”

Cormick, with his meticulously quaffed hair flustered, glanced to and fro between the murmuring audience, Arienne on his shoulder, and Bradshaw standing with his arms crossed, all of them waiting for a response.

“Aye, wee one,” Cormick addressed Bradshaw. “I have not told the whole truth of that fateful night.”

A hush fell over the crowd and Arienne gasped in disbelief, even Bradshaw was disquieted. Could it have really been this easy?

“The truth is…”

Bradshaw blanched at the dramatic pause and cock-eyed glance that Cormick shot him. He had seen it all before, his shifty cousin was about to win over his peers with a tale so tall that it defied doubt...