I slumped against the side of the coach bench, exhausted and lulled by the rattle of the wheels over the road. We had turned off the main road and climbed a series of gravelled switchbacks flanked by manicured woods. We passed through a small hamlet surrounded by propsperous looking fields and orchards. A few dogs barked but the only light came from the inn and a small block house where an elderly nightwatchman peered out.

"How is it a Brettonian holds a manor in Tilea?" Kian asked as we turned up a hill on top of which sat an elegant manor house of creamy white stucko. Elaborate garden's spread out infront of it, with fragrant rose blooms growing in profusion below handsomely trimmed apricot and plum trees.

"Several generations ago the  Duc De La Rochefoucauld‎ was a great Condottiero," I explained, dredging the information up from the history I had been taught at the convent. He was the bastard son of the Bretonian Duke, but the name stuck. He fought for all of the major cities at one time or another. He was rumored to be devious, treacherous, and utterly ruthless. There were always rumors that he was a bit too lucky, but that isn't so unusual for great captains."

"You are very learned signoritta," the coachman observed. I shrugged my shoulders as two men with halberds in the armor of brettonian men-at-arms stepped from a stone guardhouse at the end of the main drive, polearms raised to block the progress of the horses.

"Who goes there?" the guards called out as the coach slowed to a stop.