The world came screaming around her, men shouting, Caerwyn warning and edging everyone on either side of her. Rhosyn had no time to unravel, she needed to take control.
Feeling the calm of composure steel her, laying the lifeless man gently to the ground and plucking the parchment from his grip—the dock tow payment receipt. She stood, her blush pink skirt drenched in blood and mud, yet no one stood taller and more compelling than Rhosyn.
Facing the dock master with cold resolve, Caerwyn's sword's tip pressed decisively to the man's chest, his off-hand, a short curved blade ready to defend Rhosyn's rear—they were flanked and weapons drawn everywhere. Tension hummed in the air, but words shrunk behind clenched teeth.
"Tell us your name, Master," she demanded and everyone stilled, wondering how and when the fight would escalate.
The man shifted on the spot, as if testing Caerwyn's attention and finding it compelling. He almost seemed bothered that he'd been inconvenienced—that he'd be called to heel. But her expression told him she expected an answer, and Caerwyn's blade reminded him that her patience was dead.
"Master Jute Sarren, My lady," he all but grumbled.
Someone shifted behind her and Caerwyn adjusted, but Rhosyn didn't flinch. She knew that northern men stood at her back, weapons drawn and one of their numbers dead—dead, because one of her men. It was a southern-northern disaster, and if she misstepped, it could mean not only war, but her life.
"You've committed murder, Master Jute Sarren," Rhosyn's voice rang out through the quiet of a crowd amassing.
One of the Master's men poised, where another squared her up, and she could feel Caerwyn's disgruntled eye roll at the situation she managed to get them in the middle of.
"And the punishment for murder is death," her voice punctured the silence, everyone anticipating a clash to erupt. "You will be tried—though I suspect it won't take long—and your punishment will be executed." Rhosyn turned to address his men. "You all will be required to give witness statements and if you comply you'd be free to go. If not," her voice dipped harshly, "you will be tried as an accessory."
A look was exchanged between the two muscle men and their weapons lowered.
"Serjeant," Rhosyn called and a large man stepped forward and bowed. "Take this man into custody."
She turned before the officer had seized the master, Jute's yelp and outcry becoming merely background noise as he was pulled away. Her gaze travelled across six faces, rage mixed with confusion, their grip on their hilts wary.
They all had builds and heights that dwarfed Caerwyn, though she knew her knight could take about three of them before he started to get overwhelmed—and that was if they all surrounded them.
"I apologise for the injustice you've suffered," she offered the men, seeing suspicion shift throughout. She didn't blame them, she'd be the same if it was the other way around.
She bowed her head in respect for their deceased.
"I will get a priest to offer a blessing and wrap the body carefully. We'll transport his body back home immediately, so he can be returned to his family to be buried properly." A man at the front hesitated, eyes shifting unsure to Caerwyn before taking a step forward.
"May I ask, why?" his northern accent thick, colouring his words deep.
"Because he deserves respect and I will not have a criminal stain my hands too—he'll have justice, as would we all."
He simply offered a nod and she handed back the receipt.
"Your ship has paid passage, you may continue your journey, but I require one of your men who knew..." Rhosyn glanced down at the body on the floor, unsure how to refer to him.
"Hark, My Lady—Hark Weller," the head man offered and she smiled her thanks.
"I need someone who knew Hark to help me return him home—but it will be a long journey."
The head man glanced over his shoulder. "Tor," he called, a lean lanky man stepped forward, his eyes lingering on Hark's lifeless form. "Tor Wyke knows the Weller family well, he can escort his body home."
"Thank you," Rhosyn said, Tor's attention snapping to her and his hostility dissolved when he took her in.
She wasn't sure if they could see her turmoil, she was sure her mask was on, but maybe it loomed over her. It had been so long since she'd seen death. In some ways, it felt normal—and that was what disturbed her most. She'd felt the life drain out of enough people already, their warmth turning stone-cold.
Caerwyn stood statue still next to her, watching everyone, but weapons had been sheathed and the north men slipped back to doing work, readying their vessel. Tor remained close to Hark, his head bowed and she wasn't sure if it was due to his height or his sorrow.
The crowd dispersed with help from town reeves, ships sailed through the open bridge, masks dying in the sky as they went on their journeys. It hadn't taken long for a priest, a crowner—to examine the body legally—and two bearers to come.
Soon the body was carefully moved onto a canvas bier and they hauled him to a local church. Tor never left the man's body, and neither did Rhosyn, which earned her his questioning gaze.
"Take this." Rhosyn offered a coin to a teenage boy. "Take my horse back to my estate and request they send the carriage for me," she instructed, the boy taking the coin hesitantly and with a nod from the priest, he was running.
"Why do you need a carriage?" Tor asked, an expectant sound catching in the priest's throat and the northern added, "My Lady," mostly as an afterthought.
"I'm going to ride with you and I'm sure Sir Caerwyn would prefer me in a box, than on a horse's back," she answered, eyes flickering to Caerwyn and spotting the sour look of a man resolved that they were going on a long journey.
He didn't like them taking risks, especially heading north—toward the risk—and through land where her kin was killed. It was all a bad omen, but she was sure nothing could be worse than what already ensued.
Tor looked her over, judging. "Well, you might want to change into something... less..."
Rhosyn glanced down at herself, her skirt sopped in congealing mud and dark dried blood, stained and ruined. It probably wouldn't do them any good to pay their respects to the family literally wearing their son's blood.
"You're right," she murmured, turning to the priest. "Do you have anything I can change into and somewhere to change? It doesn't have to be silk, something plain would do."
The holy man stuttered a little, seemingly embarrassed to offer what common clothes they had. "One of the deaconess' could find you something, I'm sure." The priest called over his shoulder and a young woman appeared wearing a simple but well made dress with a white collar. "Can you help the lady find something appropriate to change into, Kleria?"
Kleria curtsied, nervous panic entering her eyes at the request.
"Anything not covered in blood and mud would be fine, Kleria," Rhosyn reassured, colour returning to the young lady and relief.
Again, her attempt to uproot Worrow and corruption would have to wait. It was a phantom breathing down her neck and a rope looping around her throat. If she didn't fix the problem soon, she'd have nothing with life left to save.