The washed out noon day sun shone through the trees, tall pines the only thing that thrived in this stark land. Two figures made their way silently through the forest, in the practiced but entirely at ease in the manner those familiar with the woods had. One padded along on all fours, while the other stalked along on two feet. The pair taking silent cues from each other as they went, he with his keen nose led the way while she tracked their targets passage. 

The woman motioned for them to stop as she knelt to observe the tracks; they told her at least three men on horseback had come by maybe more if they rode light and double, but she knew that was not so. A day earlier she’d been sitting at her favourite seat in Wintershouses’ one and only tavern, listening to the gossip of the soldier’s passing through and they told of a band of men stealing from the local farmers, and so she found herself on their very trail.  

Only a few hours back she’d passed by a burnt out barn still smouldering, it’s owners had been distraught the farmer injured and the women treated unjustly. She’d had a horse then too but had given it to them so they could make their way to Wintershouse and appeal for compensation with a letter penned in her own hand,  as the acting huntsmen for Duke Rikard in her father’s absence she had such rights.

Now she only hoped the men before her would stop soon keeping up with men on horseback was no easy task. The pair moved onward stepping lightly over a frozen stream following the ever clearer passage of the horses. Soon the four legged one perked up nose twitching excitedly. “What is Hairy, are we close?” Asked the cloaked figure, he growled softly in assent. The pair spread out wordlessly knowing what to do, stepping with even greater care. 

Soon she too could smell them, a combination of woodsmoke, meat cooking and unwashed bodies. She drew her longbow from within her cloak and nocked an arrow to it in one deft motion. First the pair circled around the camp, the three men sat before the fire one tending to cooking and the other two drinking out of leather waterskins, by the sweet smell not full of water. The horses, picketed a short way from the camp noticed them and one whinnied but a soft hand and a whispered word put them at ease. Hairy slipped round to the opposite side of the camp as she stepped forth from the trees. 

The one tending the food noticed her first, and stood up scrabbling for his weapon resting beside him. The other two looked around bewildered at first but soon saw her too and drew their weapons also. “Who goes there?” one asked gruffly, by the looks of it he was the leader of this little band, his longsword of superior quality, an officer once perhaps. 

She kept her cloak’s hood up half drawing her arrow then answered, “Lady Briala Chesfield, acting Lord Huntsmen in service to Duke Rickard the Just, Lord of Wintershouse and Rightful Heir of the Whitelands,” She announced grandly, she never enjoyed this bit, but if you had to do it do it right her father always said.
The group glanced at each other before breaking out in laughter, “You’re just a girl,” the leader said.

“We don’t be taken orders from ‘im anymore,” the cook spoke up. 
Briala sighed dramatically, Hairy taking his cue slipped out of the trees behind them growling the third man, who had not spoken yet turned to face him, but even standing still it was clear he’d been drinking the most an easy target. 
“I would suggest you put you weapons down now gentlemen,” Briala told them, “Hairy strongly dislikes when you point them around,” The drunken one was easily cowed and began to lower his weapon but the leader spoke up before he dropped it.

“We’ll do no such thing missy; I suggest you leave now before things get messy,” He warned her, brandishing his sword. Before the group knew what was happening the leader yelped in pain, his sword hitting the ground with a soft thunk. The other two looked at their leader holding his former sword arm an arrow pierced his wrist, the head having passed right through. 

The drunken one knowing his chances were slim smartly dropped his sword and raised his arms. Unfortunately for the cook he decide to take his chances and charged at Briala. Hairy leaped to action biting deep into the man’s leg. The pair crashed to the ground Hairy’s teeth still buried deep in the cooks leg.

Briala stood before them another arrow drawn and at the ready. “By the laws of the Whitelands I place you under arrest for crimes committed in Duke Rikard’s lands, your fates to be decided by before the court at Wintershouse.” She told them as she gathered some strong rope from her belt. Hairy growled over the miserable lot guarding her as she bound their hands, and then bound them all together. 

She spent a while going through their belongings taking what might be useful and what was clearly stolen would be returned to their owners if at all possible, she kicked out the fire and took a small amount of the meat leaving the rest for Hairy to enjoy. Once the camp had been thoroughly ransack she untied the rope binding the three men together and with her sharp knife, and Hairy’s teeth to deter them from anything stupid. She led them one by one onto the horses forcing two of them to ride double and tied them in the saddle and then tied the horses lead ropes to the third horse.

Briala mounted the horse in one swift practiced motion; fortunately her tutors had seen fit to teach her to ride though she did not ride as she had been taught, proper and lady like. They set off slowly allowing the horses to warm up, first at a walk and then a ground-eating trot. Instead of following the trail back she took a detour to well-travelled path, passing by a few farmers and their carts off to some market or another. She gave them all a friendly nod as they went by but an odd sight it must have been three men tied up behind her their only guard a woman and a dog.

A while later they reached Wintershouse as they rode in the people parted before her many recognized Briala and shouted friendly greetings, after all this time many still idolized her it helped that she had spent time cultivating such feeling getting to know the townsfolk on a more personal level than many other nobles. Soon she made it to Wintershouse itself and ordered some guards to take care of the men she had captured. 

Briala and Hairy led the now riderless horse to the stables, handing them over to Tim the stable boy. Hairy perked up tail wagging his job now done he reverted to the puppyish behaviour he had around Tim his true master. “How’d it go Bri you get ‘em?” asked the boy keeling down to pat Hairy and clean his still bloody muzzle with a rag. “Them farmers already came through a while ago Jessie’s in ‘is stall,” He said before Briala could reply. 
“Thanks Tim, can you see to these and make sure the quartermaster gets their saddlebags too,” She untied one of the bags, heaviest and reached into it pulling out two fat silver coins and gave them to the boy, whose perpetual grin grew even wider. 

With that Briala continued onto the keep the heavy bag on her shoulder weighing her down, but she would never ask for help. A servant came running up to her breathless saying, “Lady Briala there’s been news…” Taking a moment to catch his breath before continuing, “Duke RIkard’s fallen in battle, Lord Gregar is the new duke, which means you’re going new Lord’s Hunts—woman,” He told her stumbling over the title. 
Briala didn't know whether to cry or be happy, where was her father? He had left with Rikard yet there had been no news of him, she handed the heavy bag to the servant who visibly drooped under its weight and told him to take it to whoever dealt with money, unable to in her dazed state to remember who that was.

For the next week she spent most of it in her rooms and the rest at the tavern hoping vainly for any news of her father. The days went by and Wintershouse filled up with nobles and dignitaries of all sorts but she kept herself scarce. When finally the day of the meeting came she was as calm and collected as ever, she dressed in her best set of legging and jerkin over the top her heavy cloak clasped with her families’ sigil, the Chesfields weren’t a big family but they were well known. 

At the meet she stood on Joakim’s left side to the rear but high enough about it all to watch all the nobles’ faces having grown up in Wintershouse she recognized most from their past visits, others were entirely new, representatives of those at campaign or fallen in battle. She said nothing during the meeting merely stood and observed, it was not her place. 

When Joakim addressed her almost as an aside, she nodded and brushed past him slipping a note into his clothes, it read:
[i]Should you have need of me send word, not all these men are your friends, do not forget. There are eyes and ears all around.[/i] 
She couldn’t speak openly but she could do this little thing, even if they were never close she had a duty to protect him. He likely wouldn’t find it until he stopped for the night. After she retired to her rooms, her best clothes would look out of place in the rowdy tavern. She also removed the cloaks’ clasp that identified her as nobility to a plainer one. 

After changing she reached the tavern and took a seat to the rear of the room, beside the fire and Josie the barmaid as bouncy as ever brought over an ale with a smile, then raced off to serve some other customers in the busy tavern. All wore different liveries of some lord or another too many to name but if pressed she knew them all. It was still early, for now most of the patrons seemed well behaved so she sat and drank occasionally chatting amicably to the few regulars that knew her.