House Gallows

### Chapter One: Dinner

The Gallows of Gilneas were an affluent, eccentric family. With their luxurious manor perched on the cliffs overlooking the ever grey and stormy seas and notorious penchant for meddling in noble affairs, the family held a firm standing within the upper class of the walled city. Their patriarch, a cantankerous and mean-spirited old codger named Marvan, sat firmly at the house’s head, ever pestering his two children to make advantageous marriages while berating his wife of almost thirty years for any slight, perceived or otherwise.

What vexed Marvan today was the hassle of hosting a Winter’s Veil feast for the entire extended family. He had never been a festive man, nor a particularly nice one. He stalked the manor’s main dining hall with his hooked nose in the air, sniffing in derision as his servants scurried about to prepare the Gallows’ fanciest crockery and silverware.

   “Scuff a single fork, and the damage will come from your wages!” he snapped, deliberately frightening one of the newer maids. The young woman had done nothing wrong and was polishing the cutlery dutifully-- Marvan had simply felt like shouting at her. She bowed her head in acquiescence nonetheless. There was no arguing with Lord Gallows.

Luckily for her, the old man’s attention was caught by his wife Winifrieda, who hurried into the room, fiddling with a diamond-set earring as she weaved her way between chairs and staff. A handmaid pursued her, quietly beseeching the noble lady to slow down so she could finish buttoning her gown. Winifrieda was a good ten years Marvan’s junior, though the sheer stress of dealing with him had turned her once lustrous hair a flat grey and creased her elfin face with lines. She was a noblewoman by birth, and the two had met perhaps once before their respective families arranged their marriage. They had despised one another from day one, just as they did now.

   “Marvan,” Winifrieda grumbled as she drew to his side, frowning and smoothing out his shirt. “Do stop slouching-- I’ll not tolerate a hunchback for a husband. When are the guests due to arrive? Is little Rhamiel Harwood bringing that common boy with him? Be sure to keep an eye on him if he does-- in case he tries to pinch my silver!”

Marvan groaned at her questions and waved a hand to shut her up. “One thing at a time, Winnie! You’ll be the death of me-- though that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Winifrieda shrugged. "Perhaps."

   “Heartless woman,” Marvan muttered. “The guests are arriving within the hour. I trust your harpy of a sister will know not to be late. And yes, as far as I know Rhamiel is bringing that peasant with him. I’m not at all happy about it, but you can consider this my sole act of charity for this god-awful Winter’s Veil.”

Winifrieda pursed her painted lips, dissatisfied with everything her husband had told her. She breezed past Marvan and disappeared through a door, the handmaiden still on her tail.

--

As it turned out, Winifrieda’s harpy of a sister did indeed arrive promptly, hopping lightly from her carriage and trotting up to embrace her sibling in a polite, insincere hug.

   “Winnie!” cried the esteemed Lady Constance Rothchester. “What a long time it’s been. You look beautiful, darling-- oh, and there are the little ones!”

She detached herself from Winifrieda to bound across to the Gallows heirs, Aldridge and Alphonsine, hugging them in turn. Neither were particularly little, nor did they appreciate being described as such. They were adults in their twenties, both primed to take the centre stage in upcoming noble affairs.

   “Hello, Auntie Connie,” they grumbled, each breathing a sigh of relief when she released them. Constance was small and round, and though her feelings for her sister were almost entirely artificial, she felt a peculiar sense of pride of her niece and nephew. She’d had no children of her own and often joked to Winifrieda that she’d quite like to steal Aldridge and Alphonsine for herself. That sentiment was very clear from the bear-like hugs she would inflict upon them on her increasingly sporadic visits.

She thrust out one meaty hand to forcibly ruffle Alphonsine’s hair, tearing a few strands that caught in the many rings that decorated each finger from knuckle to nail. Alphonsine gave a yelp of pain, exercising all her self-control to not glare at her auntie.

   “You have such *lovely*red hair, Alphie!” Constance marvelled. “I do wonder where it came from-- certainly not your mother!” She chuckled and cast a glance at Marvan, who slouched grumpily at the doorway. He scratched his head, inspected his nails, and then started to chew on them. Constance wrinkled her nose. “I’m quite sure his was brown before it turned to slate. Ah, perhaps the red is a relic of a long-dead ancestor.” She turned back to the two, now training her eyes on Aldridge. He was a younger version of his father in every sense, with shaggy brown hair, vacant green eyes and a mouth set in a perpetual pout. His nostrils flared-- round and prominent from years of being picked-- and a spark of some independent thought passing his mind twinkled in his gaze.

   “I can smell turkey!” he proclaimed, licking his lips.

Constance nodded somewhat pitifully at him, gave Alphonsine a more genuine smile, and flounced off to join her sister. Another portion of the extended family had arrived while she tormented Winifrieda’s children-- a portion she, as everyone else, had quite the interest in. The Harwoods.

Cousin Rhamiel Harwood gingerly picked his way out of his carriage, leaning heavily on the arm of a scarlet-haired mountain of a man dressed in likely the fanciest clothes a commoner like him could afford.

Winifrieda went first to greet Rhamiel’s parents, but gave him and his partner only the most cursory of looks before heading back in to the manor. Marvan followed her, with Aldridge snapping to life to go with his father. Constance smiled at Rhamiel and his guest, but found it to be too beneath her to be the one to initiate conversation with either of them. Rhamiel was equally as noble as she, but to involve himself with a boy like this one skewed the politics somewhat.

It was Alphonsine that actually spoke to either of them first.

She lifted her satin skirts and came to face her cousin, having to crane her head up to look at the commoner everyone was so riled up about.

   “It’s been a while, Rhamiel. Are you going to introduce your guest?” she asked, not once taking her eyes away from the man’s face. She had always been fascinated by the lower classes-- with nobles, a single glance was usually enough to tell you what families any person had blood ties to, but there was no such resemblance in the common folk. They all had such unique faces to her, and this fellow was no different.

Rhamiel nodded, clutching his partner’s hand with tight fondness. “It has. This is Emrys-- Emrys Alderson. Do you know the blacksmith in the city? Emrys is his son.”

Emrys smiled awkwardly, mumbling a quick “hi” under his breath. Alphonsine grinned.

   “Well, that explains why he looks like he could rip a man in two,” she said, nodding to indicate his arms. “You know, if you want any practice doing so, my brother Aldridge--”

   “Alphonsine Beatrice Gallows!” Winifrieda cried from inside. “Bring the rest indoors at once-- the first course of starters is about to begin!”

   “--would not be missed,” Alphonsine finished, grimacing at her mother’s demands. She sighed. “You heard my mother. Lets get this over with.”

Course after course of sumptuous food lined the gilded table, filling the room with an exquisite blend of fragrance that only became richer as more dishes were brought out. They started with tiny bowls of a hearty consommé of bold meat and vegetable, dipping up the excess with fresh-baked bread minutes out of the oven. Next served was  a delicate plate of thinly-filleted fish, both local and exotic, rested comfortably on a bed of wilted greens and a tart vinaigrette. This was followed by sweet slices of melon wrapped in rich, cured ham, lightly doused in the juice of a fresh-plucked orange.

The real treat of the evening, however, was the main course. Though it came sandwiched between two smaller, no less delicious meals, the plump turkey roasted to perfection had every mouth at the table watering. Marvan rubbed his dry hands together in anticipation as the servants gathered to carve the great thing, while Rhamiel observed it hungrily, quietly wondering if he even had the space for more food.

Ultimately, he did. Everyone did. They sat pleasantly full, with empty plates before them, taking a small reprieve from the feast to chat amongst themselves for a bit as wine glasses were refilled. Marvan swayed in his seat now, lavish wine of the finest vintage sloshing precariously at the edges of his chalice. He fixed his beady eyes on Rhamiel, and then Emrys, snorting rudely.

   “You, commoner,” he said, jerking his glass in Emrys’ direction. Rhamiel made a face of distress at that, moving his hand to squeeze Emrys’ below the table.

Emrys mopped gravy from the corners of his mouth with a fancy napkin and let it fall in a crumpled heap beside his plate. He regarded the old man coolly, lifting an eyebrow in acknowledgement. “I’m assuming you’re talking about me.”

Marvan grunted and nodded, his eyes narrowing. “What’s your interest in my nephew, then? Is it his money? He’s dying anyway, so you’ve picked well.”

It was as if the whole room turned cold. Worried glances moved between the red-faced, heavily-breathing Marvan and an impassive Emrys. It was impossible to tell what he could be thinking. But below the table, he squeezed Rhamiel’s hand back. Now one person knew what was on his mind.

   “Believe me, Lord Gallows, if I were interested in money I’d have robbed you blind by now,” Emrys replied, taking a good, long look at his extravagant, ornate surroundings to prove his point. He then met Marvan’s gaze directly, face set in simple certainty. “I’m with him because I love him. Not all that hard for you to understand, I’d hope.”

Marvan scoffed, shooting an incredulous look to Winifrieda, who frowned and deliberately avoided facing her husband.

   “Did you hear that, Winnie?” he slurred, getting unsteadily to his feet and walking to her side. He draped an arm around her, making her grimace. “This good-for-nothing blacksmith’s son's wondering if I understand what love is! Why don’t you tell him, hm?”

Winifrieda cringed, nose wrinkled in absolute disgust. She pried against Marvan’s arm. “Unhand me, you drunkard. Don’t you *dare*make a scene.”

Marvan didn’t let go, and scowled at his wife. “Ugh. You used to be so beautiful, Winnie. So many, many years ago. But look at you now-- all grey and miserable. How can I possibly be expected to love *that?”*

There was a sharp gasp further down the table from Constance. She had Lord Rothchester's hand in a vice-grip, and glared at Marvan as she practically shook with fury. Yes, her sister did not mean as much to her as she perhaps should-- but that was her sister nonetheless, humiliated in the drunken grasp of a foul old man. Aldridge and Alphonsine sat to her side, both stunned to silence. Aldridge looked as though he perhaps did not fully understand what was going on, and Alphonsine had her teeth and fists clenched tight against the urge to shout at her father.

Marvan surveyed the room, seeming to enjoy the unhappy eyes all trained on him now. He gave a humourless laugh and released his wife, stumbling back to his chair. “I never loved her. Not a bit. Sometimes thought I could, if I tried-- but you threw any chance of that happening to the wind when you slept with Percy bloody Rothchester!”

   “You *what?!”*Constance shrieked, dropping her husband’s hand as though it had suddenly caught fire. She rounded on Lord Rothchester, who bumbled to explain himself, and slapped him square in the face with a heavily-jewelled hand. Percy cried out in pain, spitting blood and a loose tooth.

Winifrieda was on her feet, her face wan and her whole body trembling. “N-No-- Connie, it’s not like that, I--”

   “You’re a damned whore, that’s what you are!” Marvan shouted, seizing a potato from his plate and lobbing it at his wife. It hit her shoulder, splattering her gown with gravy. “I should have known it. Should have known. But, with that said, I got my own revenge.”

Winifrieda looked to him, astonished. “What?!”

Marvan messily slurped down the rest of his wine, a wide grin crinkling his cheeks. “That’s right. The very night I found out, I slept with the baker’s wife! Rather pretty for a commoner, that one!”

Winifrieda screamed in indignation and ran out of the room. Constance sobbed in fury as her husband begged pathetically for forgiveness. Emrys had a perplexed look on his face. He knew the baker quite well-- Lord Gallows had slept with Marlen Greyhart’s wife?

Aldridge was starting to understand what was happening now, and sobbed noisily into his hands. Alphonsine was pale and still, tensed completely.

--

The night devolved quickly from there. Constance and Percy left the manor in separate carriages, and Lady Gallows did not come down from her room no matter how her children begged. Marvan drank until he passed out, slumped over the table, waiting for the servants to carry him to his quarters.

Rhamiel and Emrys made to leave with Lord and Lady Harwood, but Rhamiel insisted on staying a little longer to try to be of some comfort to his cousins. Though Aldridge avoided him, fearful he might catch Rhamiel’s terrible ailment, he seemed soothed enough by the gentle words offered. Alphonsine surprised Rhamiel, tearfully hugging him. It was probably the first time another noble had come so close to him since his illness began. Emrys hung back, knowing this likely was not his place to intervene. He was there to hold Rhamiel steady when his balance failed, later taking him home in a carriage he could scarcely afford.

Through all the strife and the rifts that tore open because of tonight’s terrible Winter’s Veil feast, there was one thing everyone could agree on:

No one was ever going for dinner with Marvan Gallows ever again.