Robin

  Robin was sweating hard under the afternoon sun. The last time his clothes were this soaked was when his father had taken him up to Honeyholt to replace the door their workshop had made that was starting to rot.

  Every artisan in Honeytown had the honor of contributing part of Honeyholt, from candleholders and gates made by the smiths to tapestries woven by cottage weavers. While most of the castle was still created and maintained by the craftsmen in residence, everyone took pride in providing their very best to House Beesbury.

  The only problem was, Robin’s father had made him carry the replacement door all the way up the hill himself, and would thwack him with a stick if Robin let it drag on the ground.

  But today’s sweat was a good one, brought on by fun rather than stick-motivated hard labour. Barret had come down from Honeyholt with a freshly-made ball, leather covering an inflated pig’s bladder, and told the gang to follow him into town. There he drew a big box - rectangle, Robin reminded himself, Barret said that shape was called a rectangle - in the dirt and started explaining the rules for a game he called soccer.

  That was a dumb name in Robin’s opinion, seeing as you didn’t sock anyone while playing. You didn’t even use your hands! Football would have been a much better name, seeing as you could only use your feet.

  Regardless of the weird name, the gang quickly found themselves having loads of fun. They ran up and down the street, kicking the ball back and forth, and chasing wild hits that sent the ball flying out of the rectangle.

  Robin quickly found himself rushing forward every time he got the ball, sending it towards the end that was marked as the goal. Barret, as goalkeeper, would usually block the ball, or it would fly way off course, but when he did get it past the line Robin felt amazing.

  Today was shaping up to be as good, if not better, than yesterday. The return of Barret’s older brother, Alan Beesbury, had seen a small festival break out. People flocked to the docks to see the next lord of Honeyholt step off the ship, and cheers were given when they saw how regal and noble he looked. Then, Lord Beesbury had thrown coins into the crowd, and people moved the celebration to the market, whose vendors were more than happy to cater to the new clientele who were flush with excess money.

  Old Tim had looked so happy when Robin had checked in with him, and he had brought the coin he had made up to the hideout first thing next morning. That was cool, finding a month’s wage sitting in the cave.

  But today’s game was a more involved sort of fun. Yesterday, Robin was just a single fish in the river of people. Today, people noticed them. Most adults just walked around them, but as they played a girl came out from the Violet Inn. Robin recognized her as the innkeeper’s daughter, and she had some of Alice’s yarn flowers in her hazelnut brown hair.

  She approached slowly and spoke in a hesitant tone. “May I join you?” She asked sheepishly.

  Barret beamed at her question. “Of course you can!”

  Once Barret explained the rules to Jenny and she kicked the ball around a few times, the floodgates seemed to open. More and more kids flooded out into the streets to join them.

  Soon enough, there were more kids than Robin could count on his hands and feet, and he could only count them with the numbers that Barret had taught the gang. There were so many players Barret had to split them up into different teams, with Robin, Alice, William, and Henry as captains. After a big speech about the rules and how teamwork was the best way to win, they started playing.

  Only two teams would be in the game at a time, with the losing team being sent to the sidelines to wait for their next turn. Barret acted as judge, giving penalties when someone broke the rules.

  It was tiring, but fun. At some point, Barret had gotten the innkeeper to bring out a cauldron of clean water with a ladle for anyone to drink from, and even drew some game boards in the dirt for kids to play the various games he invented while they waited.

  When the sun started setting, Barret called an end to the game. Even though Henry was the best player by far, Alice’s team had won with a four game streak, and Barret had said it was because they had the best teamwork. Then, Barret promised some food and led everyone in doing stretches, weird movements that made your body feel bad and then really good.

  Soon after, the innkeeper came out with trays of bread and cheese. It was the lumpy kind Robin’s mother made at home, white and wet and fresh, but Barret had paid for a little bit of honey to be drizzled on top. Everyone got a small slice and Barret talked about the importance of eating good food, not just bread.

  “Where’d you get the coin for this?” Robin asked as he savored the delicious treat. As a carpenter’s son, Robin’s supper was usually a piece of coarse bread and cold soup leftover from dinner. That was filling, but this was tasty.

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  Barret smiled as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a messily embroidered handkerchief. “My father has been giving me extra money each week, ever since we showed him that hive. I don’t really need to spend it on anything, so it adds up. Besides, this isn’t that expensive. You should see the cost of some of the spices in Honeyholt’s kitchen.”

  That, more than the fancy ideas and nice clothes and people treating him with respect, was what reminded Robin that Barret was a highborn the most. He never thought about money, never wanted for anything. Robin had often tried to do odd jobs around town to bring a few coppers back to his parents, and here was Barret spending silvers on feeding other people.

  It honestly made him a bit annoyed, seeing how careless Barret was with money. But, Robin thought as he took another bite of the honeyed cheese and bread, at least he’s spending it on us. I just gotta make sure no one takes advantage of him. Or, the Seven forbids, hurts him.

  Alan Beesbury

  Alan was not sulking. Children sulked, spoiled children who still thought the world should cater to their every whim. Alan wasn’t a child anymore, he was a man grown.

  So, even though Alan had been in a foul mood and avoiding seeing his father all day, he wasn’t sulking. He was brooding. Specifically, on how home didn’t feel like home anymore.

  Six years. He had spent six years with the Hightowers in Oldtown. In that time he had grown so much, yet Honeyholt had not. It was still as he remembered it when he left for Oldtown, and that was the issue.

  Barret had been coddled. He had always been a rambunctious boy, and Alan remembered how Barret would try and get him to play with those smallfolk friends of his. Alan hadn’t seen anything wrong with it at the time, what with Barret being so young and Lytton allowing it, but even at twelve the boy was still wasting his time galavanting around. Alan’s parents loved all their children, but children, especially noble ones, need order, not love. They needed to be treated with authority, so they could learn the ways of the world and be prepared for their future.

  And Alan was worried his parents were repeating their mistake. Jeyne was acting improperly and running around with strange stories rattling in her head, of dragons and knights and adventure. Instead of punishing her, Alan’s parents did nothing but excuse her actions as a product of her age, and he needed only to look at Barret to see where that would lead.

  He had learned so much from his fostering, especially on how a Lord and noble house should act. With his return, Alan had realized his house was barely noble at all. They were more like merchants, sitting on their little hill and counting coins.

  At least Reylene was acting right and proper, focusing on cultivating her beauty and courtly grace. But that would do no good if their house attracted the reputation of being fools and wastrels. Lytton and Adrianna had sent him away to learn and prepare for being the future Lord Beesbury, so that’s what he did. If his parents did not appreciate what he had learned, then so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time they had ignored him.

  He looked down at the training yard to see it empty. In Hightower, every highborn child would spend their free time sparring and training, to become better warriors and lords. Alan was not surprised to see Barret lacking that same drive. How could he, when his parents had failed to instill in him the proper sense of discipline?

  The boy was probably playing with those smallfolk again. It was one of the first things the servants had said when Alan had inquired about his family. How Barret had a group of children he was always with. More time wasted that could have been spent productively.

  Alan was worried. For House Beesbury’s future, both as its heir apparent and as a member of the family. He didn’t want his siblings to grow up to be failures, to be shunned and ostracised. For peers whisper behind their backs, and to have disrespect heaped upon them for being strange. A king could have his quirks, but a noble from a minor house needed to be respectable.

  There was also that dreadful thought of what if he needed to fight? What if a war broke out, or he was attacked by ne’er-do-wells, or any of the multitude of dangers that could befall a highborn child? No, Barret needed to take his martial training more seriously, and if it fell to Alan to get that done, then so be it.

  His mind was made up. He would head right away into Honeytown, find Barret, and bring him back to the training yard for a sparring session. After seeing what Barret knew, Alan could then plan what he was going to teach him.

  As he got up to leave, a knock came at his door. A young girl’s voice came through. “Milord, your family noticed the lack of your presence at the breakfast table this morning, and your mother has sent up some food for you.”

  Alan opened the door, intent on refusing whatever decadence had been brought to him. But looking at the tray the servant held, it was just some bread and cheese, with the cheese between the toasted slices of bread. It was humble enough food, and at that moment Alan became aware of his empty stomach.

  So, Alan took the plate and gave the girl a nod. She bowed and scurried down the hall. Alan was pleased he had instilled the proper amount of respect in the girl and sat down at his room’s desk.

  He took out his knife and handkerchief and said a short prayer to the seven, thanking them for the meal. Then, he picked up what he could only assume was one of those sandwich things he kept hearing the servants and his family talking about. It was warm, and as he bit into the crunchy bread he realized the cheese had been melted. It was gooey and as he pulled away from the bite, strings of cheese followed like ropes, bridging the gap between his mouth and the sandwich.

  He frantically looked around the room with the cheese still dangling from his mouth. Finally, Alan decided to put the sandwich back down, cut the strings with his knife, before using his handkerchief to clean up his mouth, hands, and any stray cheese that had fallen onto the table.

  That was so embarrassing, Alan thought as he chewed. But also delicious….

  He considered leaving the ignoble meal and leaving, but with victory so close in sight his stomach started to rebel, gurgling and crying out for more. Well, Alan thought as he picked up the sandwich again, it is a sin to waste food, after all.