Chapter Text
There's nothing he hated more than these newly built castles.
For some absurd reason, the contractors always just had to make the walls smoother. Never thinking of people like him that had the intention of scaling them. No sir. Not at all. Older establishments had so many handholds, gifts from lazy builders or from the test of time. But no. Nowadays, people were becoming aware of the fact that if one was rich enough for a castle or a tower, they had something valuable. Had to use better materials and architects. Just to make his job harder.
Matthew's fingers were chafing under the worn leather gloves. Gritting his teeth, he bitterly thought that he'd have to replace it after this. He kept climbing, feeling the tips of the gloves fraying and exposing his fingers. He mentally sighed.
The wind was picking up. His black cloak flapped, making some noise. Matthew bit his lips and fought the urge to grab it and cease the noise. What if the Baron had heard it, and was now debating to peek out of his curtains? He cursed silently. He pushed the worry to the back of his mind, and concentrated on climbing to the window of the study.
He had observed the castle for weeks; he'd have to to achieve his task. The castle was enormous, and nearly impregnable through his usual means. And this wasn't his usual task.
The Green Duchess had come to him and his father at their mill some months ago, with supposed urgent business. Apparently, the Duchess had an eye on Matthew and his small village for some time, and thought that he was the best for the errand she had in mind. The errand? Kill her rival, the White Baron.
Matthew was horrified. How would he kill a man? A Baron, no less. How could he? He could do anything but that. He instinctively looked around for his father, but remembered the Lady had sent him away when the details of the task was explained. The Duchess had looked bemused, a small smirk playing on her pink lips. He felt as if he were going to throw up.
Shaking, he shook his head. He was not going to do this. Not at all. Her smirk turned into a wolfish grin. Playful, yet deadly. Matthew didn't even try to hide his distress.
“Oh, Matthew,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. It made Matthew's stomach turn. She adjusted the flower in her hair and motioned to one of her guards. The guard went outside to the carriage and back, this time wielding a large bag. He dropped the bag onto the table they were sitting at, resounding with a clang. Some of the contents spilled out. Matthew's eyes widened. It couldn't be.
The large bag was filled with gold.
“I've some more of these back at my castle. If you do the task, I'll give you this bag now and the rest after you're finished.”
Matthew's mind whirled. This would really help his father and the village. He sat there, staring at the bag, mind processing the events that laid before him. But he couldn't. He had come close before, but actually killing a man was out of his league. After some seconds, he felt the Duchess's gaze. He quickly decided that he'd lie. There wasn't any chance that she knew, anyway.
Nervously looking up at the Lady, he said offhandedly, “Well, I mean, I'm just a miller's son after all--”
“Cut the shit, fucknought, I know what you do, and I know that you've come close on several occasions to what I want you to do.”
Matthew's eyes widened. The Green Duchess made a noise of disdain.
“Aw, c'mon! Don't give me those goddamned doe eyes! Are you seriously the Fair Rogue or are you just fucking with me?”
“I-I just didn't know you knew, Duchess.”
“Ugh. How am I not supposed to know?”
“Well, I mean, only the Roving Bandits know that. And even then, only Chief Arthur and Second Alfred know the whole story.”
The Lady raised an eyebrow. “Not even your father?”
Matthew shook his head. He was still nervous and scared shitless of the woman in front of him, but the pretense of innocent village boy was gone.
“Hardly. I shouldn't think his heart could take it.”
The smirk reappeared on the duchess. “Young Rogue thinks that his father won't approve of his stealing and maiming, what a good son you are.”
Matthew shrugged. “Tough times calls for tougher measures.”
“Though,” she purposed, her lips a bit puffed out. “If you are the famed Rogue, why are you in a place like this? You should be swimming in money by now.”
Matthew walked to the window nearest to them. They'd a slight view of the village.
“If you haven't noticed, there's been a drought. For a while. We're farm folk, ma'am. No crops, no money. We've not even enough to feed ourselves, much less sell it to the artisan folks up near the coast. When the tax collector comes around, our hands'd be empty.”
“So,” the Duchess interjected, “you saw how much you're paid and thought it wasn't fair to them.”
Matthew cocked his head, pondering. “More or less. It just didn't sit well with me knowing I'm here with more than I need and them with nearly nothing.”
“Well aren't you a good little boy?” she said with a grin. She looked at the village. “D'you think that they know that their money comes from a rather crookedsource?”
Matthew shook his head. “I take pains not to let them know. They're honest people, they don't need to know. But they do need the money. I come around at night and leave a bag of coins after a job.” A small smile appeared on his lips.
The Lady of Green's eyes widened, her eyebrows raised, and a knowing smile playing on her lips.
“You're perfect for the job, Matthew,” she said, walking up to him. “Think of the village.”
Matthew did think of the village. Later that night, he lied to his father, saying he was going to work at The Lady of Green's castle to work as a servant for a few months. He stowed away the bag of gold with the map to the White Baron's abode, and a blueprint of his castle. He packed his bags, hid his daggers, and next morning he was off.
The following month was spent surveying and spying on the White Baron's castle, learning every routine, every habit, every pattern. There wasn't much to catalog. Barely anyone came in or out, except the occasional messenger or grocer from the big towns. Matthew hid out in the woods, planning and biding his time, until the perfect night came.
This night isn't as perfect as I thought it would be, thought Matthew, clinging to the slippery rock. The wind was blowing harder. Hopefully, if the noise was audible, the Baron'd think it was the the flags or something. God damn. The leather had frayed completely, and the tips of his fingers were bloody. Fuck. He bit his lip. Almost to the window. The Baron usually slept in the armchair of his study, often from late nights of doing paperwork. He had done the same this night, leaving ample chance for Matthew to sneak behind him, slit his throat, and be on his merry way.
Matthew's stomach lurched at the idea. He assured himself that it would be quick. A swift, strong slice, and he'd be done. He'd slip out before the Baron even realized he was dead. He'd go back to the Green Countess and collect his reward, and then give it to the villagers. They'd be set for life and he'd never do anything like that again.
Catching his breath, he reached the window. Silently, he climbed through the window and slipped into the room, barely disrupting the half-drawn curtains and open windows.
He looked around. He could hear soft snoring coming from his left, and looked to see a figure sleeping. Matthew felt himself suffocating.
He crept behind towards the White Baron, and stood behind him. Noiselessly taking out his dagger from his belt, Matthew positioned it under the Baron's jaw, and gulped. Oh God, this was it. He could barely breathe. He took a deep breath, screwed his eyes shut.
“Do you really think I'd go out like this?”
Matthew's eyes shot open. Immediately, the White Baron knocked the knife out of Matthew's hand, grabbed his arm and flipped him over the chair. Matthew quickly jerked his body, preventing his neck from snapping. Quick as a spring, he got back up, and aimed a blow at the Baron's head. The Baron raised his arms to block it, but failed to notice Matthew's other fist coming at his abdomen. It hit him in the stomach, and he doubled over.
Matthew rushed to find his dagger, and just as it was in his hands, the Baron's body slammed into him, pushing him to the Baron's desk. A bottle of ink spilled on his arm and shirt. The Baron pinned Matthew and started kneeing him in the lower abdomen. He slung an arm over Matthew's throat, nearly choking him. Matthew could feel the metallic taste of blood in the back of his throat. Desperate strength surging, he somehow grappled the Baron onto the desk, face first, and managed to reposition the knife under the Baron's throat again.
“I am the Fair Rogue,” whispered Matthew in the Baron's ear, spraying blood on the back of his neck. “And I'm sorry that I have to kill you.”
“Not yet, shithead,” croaked the Baron. Matthew didn't register the comment, and was about to slit the Baron's throat, when the Baron maneuvered his legs under Matthew's, causing Matthew to fall, smashing his chin on the desk.
The last words that he heard before falling unconscious was the White Baron cackling, “Always watch your feet.”