The courtyard is a chaos of raised voices and the neighing of horses and the splashing of mud, which coats the ground; it has been churned loose from the frosty ground and warmed by the trampling of hundreds of feet.


Across the courtyard from you is the inner keep, a building made from Roman stone and patched with Anglo-Saxon woodwork. It is where you host your warriors and organize meetings, and it also functions as your personal quarters.


You should organize a meeting soon, but it would be wise to meet with your family first.

You speak to Father Wilfrid

You decide to pay father Wilfrid a visit. The man has served your family for nearly forty years, and he has served you personally as teacher, mentor, and adviser. As a person, you harbor a vague dislike for him, and the feeling is mutual. However, you can trust him to give good advice, and for that reason you set off in the direction of the huge stone church that towers above every other building within York's walls.


The church, St. Peters, was built nearly three hundred years ago, and it has stood against the tides of half a hundred bloody wars. Staring at the immense building of hard cut stone, you are overcome with a sudden monumental certainty; that one way or another, the church will outlive you, and everyone else. Something about its towering austerity lends to its aura of chilling weariness, like the pressure of an invisible hand.


You never really liked churches, and a career as a soldier has done little to improve the situation. When you enter the building, you can feel the judgment, the guilt, bearing down on you. You have defended your kin and country with the ruthless efficiency of a trained warrior, and for that you have been condemned, deemed impure. No one says this, of course; the priests are always tactful and subservient, listening to your confessions with dull faces, but you sense their fear. They watch you like a caged animal, one that could at any minute turn on its companions. Whenever you touch one of the priests, you see the undeniable flicker of disgust that bolts across their faces for the briefest of instances.


To them, you will always reek of blood.


Shouldering your emotions, you push open the thick oaken doors that bar your entry to the church.

You enter the Church

Father Wilfrid kneels at the far end of the church, prostrate before a towering sculpture of Jesus upon a cross. He is dressed in a plain woolen robe that drapes loosely across his skeletal form. His hands are spotted with age, and his left shakes incessantly. His lips are thin and chapped, and they move loosely, muttering prayers in Latin. As he whispers, his head bobs slightly, shaking the wisps of white hair that sparsely cover his head.


You wait patiently for him to finish, ignoring the suspicious glances of the other priests. Your eyes drift upwards, where a lengthy tapestry occupies the farthest wall. You spend the next five minutes perusing it idly, watching grotesque caricatures of heathens smolder in the depths of woolen flames.


At last, father Wilfrid finishes his prayers and struggles to rise, heaving awkwardly against a weathered can that shudders under his minute weight. You offer a hand, and he regards it with unhidden distaste, as though you had presented him with a human heart as opposed to an offer of aid. You withdraw the hand tactfully and Wilfrid gets shakily to his feet.


He looks you up and down, as though he expects you to suddenly dematerialize.


"You're back"


You nod, trying not to think back on your less pleasant schooling days.


"How fare the people?"


Father Wilfrid looks at you with grudging respect. His teachings of angels and gospels have long since faded from memory, but his teachings on the importance of a lord's people have remained steadfast in your mind.


"They fare as well as one might expect. They grieve, and you cannot deny that their grief is largely your fault"


You exhale tiredly, Wilfrid grabs your arm


"We have our differences, you and I, but we agree on one thing; a lord should never forget about his people"


You nod and begin to speak, but Wilfrid cuts you off


"I know you must hate the Normans, but if you rebel, you will lose, and it will be the people, your people, who will suffer because of it. You cannot rebel against King William"


The old priest coughs harshly, his battered lungs quivering. He spits out the last sentence


"If you rebel, we will all die"

You say "I won't rebel"

You laugh bitterly


"If I wanted to rebel, I would have done it in the throneroom. It's too late now."


Father Wilfrid looks at you strangely, overcoming a momentary hesitation; he places a scrawny arm on your shoulder


"You are making a wise choice, lord Aethelwulf"


You want to say something, and for a moment you just stand there, staring at your old tutor. Father Wilfrid breaks the silence


"You should go, doubtless you have work to do"


You nod and turn to depart, as you leave Father Wilfrid offers one last comment


"I am proud of you, Aethelwulf, even if it doesn't seem like it"


You push open the heavy church doors and step out into the crisp December air.