Blood was always hard to get out of fabric no matter how much he scrubbed with the soap it wouldn’t come out. Growing increasingly annoyed, Illiam washed the skirt more roughly thanking the gods that the linen wasn’t a light color. Eventually placing the skirt into the wooden bucket to soak he stood to wash the soap off his hands. Illiam would have to ask a monk to finish cleaning this since he could not be kept away from his work for too much longer. 

 Walking back into the small hospital Illiam changed his shoes to prevent mud from tracking inside. He also put on the tunic that he had removed before walking outside. Although he probably should wear it when outside he never liked wearing it when he had to clean. 

“Master Cowley, are you well?” An old woman asked him as he entered the room where the patients were resting. 

“I am well, Margaid.” He responded, “but you should be resting back to bed with you.” 

“I just need to walk about.” The widow responded ignoring Illiam’s heed. “I am not as infirm as you children think.” 

Illiam let out a small laugh, “I know Margaid but it is best that you rest some. Your leg won’t get any better if you are to walk around on it.” He took her arm gently and brought her back to her bed. 

 Once she was laid back he checked the bandages that he had placed on her leg. She had gotten a nasty gash on it while working a week prior and had only gone to see Illiam after it started to fester. The ointments and honey seemed to be working well. The physician had chosen this route of treatment over the amputation that several monks had suggested. They may be fun to perform but amputations weren’t needed most times to Illiam they were more of a last resort for infections. And for a woman like Margaid it would cause far more issues. She was a lot more active than most men he knew and had been since Illiam’s father was a kid. Whether it was due to stubbornness or pride Margaid had refused to let her younger kin take over her farmwork. 

“Master Cowley, have you heard that there’s a new king?” Margaid asked.

“We have a new king?” Illiam responded, “I wasn’t aware there was even an election active.” 

“Oh there wasn’t, the new king is the bastard of the previous king. Took the throne by force if my grandson is correct, you know how he is.” 

“Let us hope he doesn’t take that force here.” 

“When have those kings ever come here, couldn’t even bother visiting once since they took ownership.”

 The isle that they’re on is a small landmass off the shore of Angleterre. The isle is ruled by two families the Cowleys and the Cannells. Illiam was the youngest son of the Duke Cowley and had avoided all noble responsibilities because of it. Those were for his brothers to handle, he was happier at the hospital. Dealing with illness and injuries was far more fun than dealing with noblemen. 

“That’s a good thing,” smiled at the old woman. “If they don’t bother coming over we can get away with more than our mainland counterparts can. Now off to sleep with you, dinner will be ready in several hours.” 

That night Illiam had time to confront something that had been delivered the morning prior, a letter written by his father. Nothing good could come from that, he knew how much his father hated writing them. And his suspicions were placed correctly written on the parchment was a call for him to return home urgently with no other explanation. 

 Because of this Illiam was now gathering what he could to prepare to travel home. He didn’t know if someone was dying or not but it must be that something truly horrible has happened. Thus Illiam was sure he couldn’t wait until morning to leave. 

 Setting out he saddled his horse, a mare named Glass for her gray coloring. He had been sure to not pack too much stuff as to not overwork the aging girl. 

 By the time Illiam arrived at his family’s estate it was likely midnight. He hopped off of Glass and led her to the castle gate, banging his hand on the wood. After a short wait the gate opened and an unfamiliar boy walked out. 

“...who are you?” the boy looked at Illiam, lifting the lantern up to see better. “...Oh Sir Illiam, come in, come in.” He walked back and gestured for Illiam to walk in. 

“Thank you, but I am not a Sir. No need for that level of formality.” 

“Oh yes, I’m sorry.” The kid bowed, “Your father has retired for the night.”

“How is he?”

“Huh, he’s in good health from what I’ve heard from the housestaff.” 

“Really?” 

The boy nodded back in response and took Glass’ reins. “I don’t need to escort you to your room, my lord.”

“There’s no need for that,” Illiam still lost in thought over why his father must have called him to return, if he was not ill.

The estate had not changed since he was last there around five years prior. The only difference he could notice is slightly more moss on the stone walls. Illiam’s bedroom was also left completely untouched with a layer of dust on the desk that he had crammed into the corner. Despite his father being a duke their family estate wasn’t as grand as the title would suggest. The bedrooms regardless if they were for the servants or the noble family were roughly the same size. His room was a bit smaller than the one he had been given in the hospital. All the furniture was pushed up against the walls. 

 Illiam dropped his bag down on the floor and flopped onto the bed resulting in the dust stirring causing him to cough. 

 He needed to clean, but it could wait until morning.