"50? Are you sure?"

"Yes, my King."

King Osmund strolls back and forth, his metal plated boots scraping against the cobbled stone of his lordly hall.

"Are we certain they are Offa's men? 10 defeated by a mere local doesn’t sound true." Osmund says.

"They had his royal banner, my lord. I advise we wait for more information before acting-"

"Godwine.” Osmund pauses and rubs his forehead. “You are my messenger, not my advisor."

Osmund stops and look at Godwine, who’s head is bowed. Godwine is a small, young man with a blonde bowl cut and intense acne. His cheeks are ghoul-like, his chin and forehead are both narrow and his build is thin, avoid of nutrition. His dark brown robe contrasts his light blue, innocent eyes, and hangs off him as if he is but a mantlepiece for it.

"Perhaps now you can earn your place as one if you do as I next ask." A wry smile comes across the old Lord’s face.

Godwine looks up.

Osmund's green eyes shares his stare, before looking down again, slowly pacing from left to right.

"Have you ever killed, Godwine?"

“Of- of course, my King." His expression contradicts his answer.

"Killed humans, I mean." Osmund says.

Godwine fails to muster a response.

Osmund strokes his salt and pepper beard, before restarting his stroll from left to right.

“The local who died will already be hailed as a hero, I’m sure of it. Make sure his family joins him and use the dead Mercian’s weaponry. This must look like a Mercian attack.”

Godwine forces a nod.

“If you succeed, lordship and land await you. Along with the title of royal advisor.” Osmund stops. “No, perhaps this job is above the likes of you…”

“No, my king! I- I will do it.” Godwine hollers.

Osmund smiles. “Good.”

“I look forward to the challenge. The family will die, as will anyone who dares to stand in the way of your wishes. I give my life.” Godwine says.

Osmund turns once more to face Godwine, his smile faux and his eyes crinkled. “Hurry along then.” 

Alwin slows his horse as he reaches the village of Houe, a prominent village along the southern coast of Sussex. He slides off the back of his horse. He gives it a pat before beginning his stroll into the village. He swings back his hood off his head, his chestnut crew cut hair now free in the wind. The village seems abuzz of activity, with a gathering of locals around what looks like the town hall of sorts.

“Osmund must answer! We have been violated, with our livelihoods now uncertain!” the crowd roars of anger come into earshot as Alwin approaches. On Alwins journey to Houe, he had heard of a woman who owned a tavern. A trustworthy and fair Saxon lady, with two sons and a veteran Anglian husband. That must be her, standing atop a wooden crate, leading the crowd.

Alwin weaves his way through the crowd, getting closer to the small wooden crate in which the lady preached from.

“We have been left unprotected by our supposed protectorate! If one cannot protect his subjects, what use is he?” She shouts.

Alwin grins. The naivety of the public to think the lords and ladies of the land would ever listen to such peasants. He stops in the middle of the large crowd of around 30 and looks around. A high target with little protection? This woman is brave. Alwin has spent plenty of time with royalty. A rant like this could be silenced by a swift arrow to the neck.

The crowd start to disperse as the woman climbs down from the box, with her point well and truly made. She starts waddling her way to the grand tavern that sits to the east of the town hall upon a small hill.

“Drinks on the house! Tonight, we celebrate the life of my husband, my hero, the slayer of Mercian scum; we drink to Pendraic!”

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The moon watches in silence as Godwine flumps from his horse. He adjusts his blacked-out mask and make-shift hood. He mustn’t be seen. He simply mustn’t. A busy tavern means plenty of risk-

No. They die tonight.

He walks towards the tavern, the rowdiness inside acting as a silencer to his jagged, wobbled steps. His small height assists him, as he crouches down beside a window.

He rises.

And glances.

There.

A large woman behind the bar, serving drinks at high speed. Beside her are two teenage boys, one younger blonde, one older brunette.

He drops out of sight and breathes. That’s the target.

He breathes.

And breathes.

“What on earth are you up to then?”

Godwine clutches his sword and looks up in a panic.

A young man leans on the side of the tavern with a wry smile. He has short chestnut hair and a slender figure. A hood rests on his young but strong shoulders.

“Nothing for you to know about, sir.” Godwine tries to hide his sword. “I'm just... out on a walk. Catching the sea's breeze and whatnot.”

“You’re gonna struggle if you’re crouched down like that.” Alwin responds.

Godwine stands up straight in huff. His sword falls to the floor in the process.

Alwin laughs.

“Ah, now I see. Go on, tell me, who’s the target? Which King sent you?” Alwin crouches down and peers into the window, mocking Godwine.

Godwine quickly picks up and flings his sword towards Alwin, aiming for his neck.

Alwin dodges, dashing backwards in one swift movement. The sword flies onto the muddied ground.

He shakes his head and draws his longsword from the large black sheath on his back which was hidden by his dark cloak. Each inch of the gleaming silver blade stuns Godwine, with gold and dark red leather wrappings on the handle and a Roman red tassel hanging off the bottom. The handguard is spiked on the ends, with Roman numerics inscribed into it's metal.

“A Roman?!” Godwine exclaims.

The tavern doors swing open. Scores of drunk locals stumble out, singing songs of their hero, Pendraic.

“Stop there.” The landlady says, walking out with a bow drawn, aiming it at Alwin.

“I’m a good shot, y’know. This is an evening of celebration for my beloved, and you want to ruin that?!” she approaches Alwin, her anger only slightly swaying her aim.

She gets closer.

And closer.

Until the point of the arrow ever so barely pierces Alwin’s cheek.