Lord Rufus Matravers was no more. His body was eventually found by a local huntsman under mysterious circumstances. His throat was slit from ear to ear, his coin purse taken, and there were a set of muddled footprints around the scene. Not much to go on at all. In fact, the evidence proved so unfruitful that the investigation only lasted two whole weeks before being scrapped as an unsolved murder.
“Brigands, most likely” said Old Alcester, a local blacksmith of the town. “Curious though, how they didn’t bother taking his other valuables.”
“What do you mean?” asked Smythe, a tanner.
“He was still wearing his jewellery. Rings, bracelets, necklace and the like. Solid gold, too! Would have made quite a pretty penny.”
Alcester and Smythe fell silent as the body of Matravers was brought into the chamber, carried by the undertaker and his staff. Almost the whole town decided to attend the ceremony, if only for the food and drink that was provided at the end. Some, the wealthier sort, held Matravers in high regard. His death would be a severe blow to business and, more importantly, the gambling ring that he mastered. Others who attended however loathed the man and would surely spit on his corpse were the chance given. The absence of Matravers’ prime henchman, Savick, was noticed, but little would be done about it at this stage.
At the centre of the gathering stood Ardyn Everett. He too lowered his head as the body was brought past him and feigned sorrow. It would have been very suspicious indeed if he had not attended the funeral, given that he was so recently welcomed into his inner circle. A few rows in front sat Matravers’ now widow. She was dressed all in black, wearing a netted veil covering her face. She was eight years younger than Matravers, making her twenty-six winters of age. She was, and remains, quite a beauty, and everyone knew that their marriage was only one of convenience. Convenient for her, as she could live in relative luxury and convenient for him, to flaunt a trophy wife.
The ceremony did not last long. A few people stood before the body and said a few words before it was again taken away to be buried. It was a warm, spring day which was quite pleasant by all accounts. The gathering stood around the grave, and few stepped forward to throw a token upon the mound of dirt. Only the widow remained as the rest of the crowd moved off, gazing at the tomb stone upon which her husbands name was neatly carved.
“Pardon me” said Ardyn, approaching the widow slowly. “It would be remiss of me not to ask… How are you, my lady?”
The widow did not turn but merely shrugged her shoulders. “As well as one can be in the present situation, sir.” She eventually turned to face Ardyn. Through the veil there were no tears or signs of grief. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
Ardyn straightened himself up before speaking. He was dressed in a black waist coat with burnished gold trimmings. “Ardyn is my name, Ardyn Everett. I was a friend of your late husband.”
The widow raised her eyebrows. “A friend? I doubt that very much. My… husband, had very few friends. Business acquaintances and enemies in the plenty, but no one he would consider a confidant or ally. Why, he barely spoke to me.” She lowered her head. “Forgive me, I’m talking too much.”
“Not at all” said Ardyn, boldly placing a hand upon her shoulder. “Let me rephrase my previous statement, then. I knew your husband quite well. We engaged in business together.” The widow did not flinch or recoil at the gesture but stated back at Ardyn with a bemused expression. “He did not make any mention of you, however. I consider that a fault, by all account. What is your name?”
The widow smiled slightly before saying her name rather abruptly. “Freya is my name, Mister Everett. You can take your hand from my shoulder now.”
Ardyn obliged and bowed his head in respect. “I apologise, I only sought to comfort you in this… ah, difficult time. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Freya. His neglect to mention you was my loss.”
Freya did something quite peculiar at this point. She blushed, perhaps for the first time in a very long time. Matravers liked to keep his wife under lock and key and only brought her out if he wanted to show her off to a crowd. She seldom spoke with anyone other than the household maid and servants. To be flattered by a stranger who, I dare say, was quite handsome, was enough for her to feel pleasantly vulnerable.
“You are not like my husband’s other business partners” she said. “I find them repulsive and unfeeling. Not one of them approached me today to pass on their condolences. All they really care about is his wealth.”
“His wealth?” asked Ardyn, feigning confusion.
“My husband failed to produce an heir, meaning that his wealth…” she paused for a moment, as if wondering whether speaking about this was in her best interest.
“Would pass to his next of kin?” finished Ardyn.
“Precisely” said Freya, “Which to be frank, I find quite overwhelming. I was not always as I am, Mister Everett. I was a simple girl from a simple family until Rufus- I mean, my husband took an interest in me. Then everything changed, for better or for worse.”
This was precisely the news that Ardyn hoped for. A confused woman, vulnerable at this moment with an inherited wealth beyond his wildest dreams. As if having Matravers murdered was not enough. His ambition and greed was swiftly taking hold and, beneath his mask of sympathy and care, he saw through the widow Freya an opportunity too rich to deny. If he could some how win her favour, win her trust, he might be able to squeeze a little more fortune from Matravers beyond the grave.
“If it please you” he said in a soft, concerned tone “I have a table reserved at the local tavern. Forgive me for assuming this but it seems to me that you could use some company. I would rather not eat alone, and I would be delighted if you would join me.”
Freya stared at Ardyn for a while, as if trying to discern his intentions. He seemed kind, caring and considerate, three things that were left wanting throughout her entire life. She had no one else, except servants on hand who would offer little in terms of comfort. Here was a man, who for the first time in a long time showed genuine interest in her wellbeing. An offer she simply could not refuse.
“Very well, Mister Everett” she said.
Ardyn would have punched the air in triumph. Instead, he offered his arm. “Please” he said, “Call me Ardyn.”
