The Comte may not have been blessed with thick hair, chiselled physique or a handsome face, but he had excellent hearing. Marc often wondered if that served the man well in life, as a way of weeding out the disloyal staff.

“Who goes there?” the Comte said. 

Marc closed his eyes and held his breath, worsening the beating drums in his ears. With a little of luck the man would dismiss what—

“If you think you can fool me, Marc, you are sorely mistaken,” his father added.

For a moment Marc experienced what could only be described as a falling sensation. To keep himself from falling apart, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and bowed his head. Once the drums subsided, alone with the tension that had built up along his forehead, did he open his eyes and pivoted into the doorway.

“An assassin you are not,” the Comte said. “A cavalry charge would have been more discrete.”

The sounds of two men coming to attention with their weapons rattling were clear from where Marc hid, as were those of heavy footsteps fading. While that meant the guards were no longer an immediate concern, he now had his father to contend with.

He snuck up to the door and chanced a quick peek. The Comte faced the hallway leading towards the stables. He had a feeling that commotion they were to due to an exhausted servant that Marc evaded earlier. With any luck, she is too winded to pass on details.

With an opportunity at hand, Marc bounded across the large double doors and pressed himself against the wall. He remained like that for what felt like an eternity, as his heart pounded into his ears. I hope no one heard that.

“Anything to report?” The Comte asked. 

“Nothing to report since the doctor went in, my lord,” a guard said. 

Marc recognized the voice as being Hugo, one of the Comte’s personal guards. There would be no way of getting past them without being reported. Bertrand would have no sway either…

“Make sure it stays that way,” the Comte said.

In the distance there was some yelling followed by several footsteps echoing through these cavernous halls. Whatever the commotion was, it was enough to concern his father.

“Go,” the Comte ordered. “I’ll stay here while you sort out that mess.”

While Marc would never admit it, he was thankful for all that weapons training, and running that he had ensured. It served him well as he ran over the dough terrain of the outer perimeter towards a side entrance of the keep.

He was also fortunate that the sun was leaving just enough of its august presence to maintain sure footing. His pace was steady and true, his sight augmented by his memory and natural reflexes. Still, by the time Marc reached the side gate, his lungs were burning.

This area between the outer wall and the keep itself was rarely used. There were reasons for this, and the most important was the prevalent stench of a summer day. At one end there were stables with their large pile of manure, and this was where the chamber pots were tossed out the windows. At least they cart off the stuff when the pile gets too big.