I spent that evening holed up in a cosy local tavern by the name of ‘The Flying Pig’, swallowing my sorrows with several pints of frothing golden beer with the intention of washing away the bitter aftertaste of the day’s events. No matter how much alcohol I might consume, however, the foul memories continued to pester me with the relentlessness of… well, the cloven hooves of several goats’ stomping upon my backside. I grimaced, rubbing my bruised tailbone tenderly.

After I had finished reshaping his face into a kitten’s arsehole, the snotty little worm from earlier that day had run, wailing, straight back to his father to snitch on me. Predictable, really, but annoying all the same. His battered face was apparently all they needed as evidence to know that I was to blame for everything that had happened- which included the escape of their livestock across the hills- even though I myself was in an even worse state and peppered head to heel with livid goat-shaped bruises. According to the ‘adults’, however - of which I in all my twenty years of age was not classified a part of - my own sorry state was further evidence that I was an irresponsible delinquent who needs to 'act my own age’. I had tried blaming it all on the goats, but unfortunately they were more tempted to believe the whining complaints of a sixteen year old to my own fanciful assurances. Typical.

Apparently, punching the son of an important Lord in the face wasn’t seen as an acceptable use of my time, so I had been forced to endure an hour or so of my father’s heated insults and rebukes before he finally gave me leave to fuck off and get out of his sight, which I had promptly set out to do. And so I came to my current situation, slouched over the grubby bar of some random inn not far down the road from the squat stronghold of the Crawfords. I must have looked quite pathetic in my messy clothes, for I had been in such a foul mood that I had stormed straight out the front door and forgotten that I still looked like I had spent the night in a pigsty. It was a good thing, then, that everyone else in that inn did too. That's peasants for you.

I thought back to all the misfortune that life had thrown at me so far. Truly, if only they weren’t metaphorical, I might have made my own fortune through a never-ending supply of lemon juice from the sheer volume of lemons life had thrust at me over the past couple of months alone.

First of all, there was the whole ‘I rule over potatoes’ fiasco. Must I really explain my discontent at that? Second, there was no ‘I’ about it since my grandfather still lived, and even should he die, the title would still pass one after another to dear dad’s three brothers before it eventually got around to him and finally me.

Honestly though, I probably wouldn’t have been too bothered about not inheriting such an empty title were it not for the fact that I was ninety-nine percent more likely to attract a higher degree of beautiful wealthy woman should I have the word ‘Lord’ plastered before my name. That, and my grandfather was stinking rich and I’m particularly greedy when it comes to money; mostly because I spend it all on booze and gambling the moment it drops within my hungry clutches, slipping straight through my fingers like coin-shaped sieves.

Actually, it’s precisely that reason that brought me to my third misfortune. Being so far down the inheritance ladder, I never had many interesting career options in my youth. Becoming a knight was a childhood dream of most people of my station, and I admit that it had sounded like a good idea to me too as a kid. The moment I was sent away to act as a page and subsequently a squire, however, I swiftly learned that becoming a knight requires dedication and effort, and in much higher quantities than I have ever been capable of. As a result, that option fell through almost immediately, and I was sent back to my father as a ‘hopeless case’ prone to ‘unalterable slothfulness’ and with a ‘spineless disposition’. Perhaps I should have been offended by that but, since it saved me from extra work, I didn't see the downside.

The succeeding suggestion was that I offer my life to the church and train to become a clergyman. To be fair, I enjoyed those couple of years a damn sight better than I had the former. For one, it involved far less physical exercise apart from the ceaseless bending of the knees that came with year-round prayer, and while I was by no means spared beatings by sadistic nuns it was comparatively less dangerous than the beatings I had gotten from wooden swords or a mailed fist. There was also the added bonus of the monastery’s wine cellars and the hoards of virgins that I was only then becoming old enough to appreciate, but alas it is deemed wrong in the eyes of the Gods to ‘tempt a woman from her marriage with Divinity’ and I was cast out for my sinful dispositions within the second year. My father wasn’t surprised to find me crawling back to his doorstep except for the fact that I had lasted that long.

After that, there was naught left but to try to find me something vaguely useful to do, but after another couple of years my father realised the futility of it all. He names me a troublesome pest, needing to learn some respect and decent manners, and I can hardly argue with him on that one, but what I did find disputable was his subsequent idea to drag me with him to the frosty northern slopes of Haarland where the Lord of Harrowshiels’ halls were situated, so that I might learn by his good example.

I’m telling you right now that the only ‘good example’ that I came across was found in the form of his daughter’s shapely arse. A lovely girl by the name of Lilianna Crawford, she shared none of her brother’s ghastly looks and had hips and chest as undulating as the hilly terrain on which she lived; her eyes, startling blue sapphires studded in a face carved from marble, were framed by tumbles of fiery red hair which curled about her slender neck like licking tendrils of flame. I fell in love instantly.

I know, I know- looks aren’t everything, love at first sight is a load of old tosh, blah blah blah- but I solemnly swear that, the moment I set eyes on her as I steered my proud gelding through the sparse throngs who welcomed our arrival to the North, there was nothing I wanted more in the world than to get down on my knees and ask her dainty hand in marriage.

Well, perhaps I wouldn’t have knelt per se since I was still saddled, and in any case the entranceway was slick with mud from our arrival and I was dressed in my best breeches, but I would certainly have made the effort to squat somewhat as I asked her hand.

So, with love on my mind, I’m slightly ashamed to say that I had spent the next few days dogging her heels like a pleading puppy, though I will add that I did it with a certain degree of swagger and charm which no mangey little pup could ever outcompete. I wooed her with my wit at every opportunity, flashed her my very best dashing smile which would have had most women flushing pink in a love-addled swoon, and even played some underhand tactics by tempting her with several consecutive glasses of fine red wine. No reaction. Not even a mildly coquettish smile. She was a tad hostile toward a wandering hand, but that’s never put me off in the past and I sure as Hell wasn’t going to let it get the better of me now. If anything, I found her hot temper quite alluring.

Yet whatever I did, it seemed she would not even entertain me. I’m not a man to give up easily, so of course I continued in my efforts with unwavering determination. Yet, as the days went by, I came to wondering: even if I did manage to capture her interest, what then? I mean, what was I supposed to say? ‘Hello! Would you like to marry me? I’m fifth in line to my grandfather’s potato fields, but if I’m lucky I might inherit them by the time I’m in my eighties, if I don’t die of some unfortunate accident with the local peasants before then’?

A raucous riot of throaty laughter erupted from the direction of some occupied stools to my back, where a group of rowdy northerners discussed sheep. Probably.

I lifted the cool edge of the tankard to my scowling lips as my mood continued to darken with the fading of the sun and the increasing clangour of the roadside inn. I tried my best not to touch the rim to my mouth lest I catch a plague from the thickly accumulated grime which crusted its surface, but to my utter dismay the cup was empty. Again. I slammed the flagon onto the table with a sharp crack, an action which should have been nothing more than a gentle tap had drink not got a grip of me, and I glowered gloomily at the dirt-smeared reflection across the bar which returned my foul expression of discontent.

Why shouldn’t the girl like me? Everyone else did. Surely it wasn’t my looks. Despite being coated in crumbling dried dirt at that moment in time, and despite looking like I’d been dragged backwards through several hedges, nobody could say that I wasn’t bloody good looking. The glorious man staring back at me from the mirror had lightly tanned and unblemished skin, a fine-featured face, stylish facial hair and glorious golden locks which grazed his slender but masculine shoulders. A striking blue eye so pale it might have been the colourlessness of ice winked wickedly; my right eye has always been a milky white, blind since birth, but I like to think that adds to my mysterious allure. I was tall, but not too tall. Thin, but not too thin. Muscular… ah… well, let’s just say I that don’t spend a lot of time body building. Still, I had a first-class taste in fashion, and if someone were to call me physically unattractive they would have to be blind or completely lacking in any kind of taste. It couldn’t have been my personality, either. I had been nothing but nice to the woman, and my charm was as well-oiled as my wit.

There was no point in searching through my non-existent flaws any further. I knew perfectly well what it was which repelled her, and it was exactly the same thing which had me plotting my family’s murder each night; at this rate I was never going to inherit any title until I was a handsome old man, and no self-respecting lady wants to marry a penniless, title-less sod no matter how dashing he might be. No, it was clear to me that if I wanted to get into her knickers then I needed a title and money, and I needed it now.

However, my brooding was cut short as I found myself squirming in my seat, an uncomfortableness welling within me which only came with a severe need to take a leak, and quite soon I was no longer able to ignore it nor concentrate any longer on anything else other than finding out where the darned lavatory was. So, for once, physical needs overpowered my egotistical ones and I abandoned all thoughts as I made a desperate dash for the loo.