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Threads of Destiny
Book I of the Bloodstone Amulet
Larry Perkins
Copyright © 2009
Perkins, Larry
Threads of Destiny
ISBN 1441471723
Threads of Destiny
The Bloodstone Amulet
Book I
by
Larry Perkins
2
Chapters
Prelude
1. Midsummer
2. Most Remarkable Encounters
3. Weighing Options
4. Camber
5. Urgent Dispatches
6. Hazardous Beginnings
7. Raising the Dales
8. Raiders!
9. Picking up the Pieces
10. Interrupted Journey
11. A Change in Status
12. Future Prospects
13. A Change in Plans
3
Prelude
Long ago, before the stars began to shine, before old stories
were told in front of hearth fires, before time itself began to
churn, three old crones sat down to weave destiny: one to card,
one to spin, and one to weave. Nameless they were, but men
named them for the power of their craft. The Norns, they were
called, the weavers of fate and fortune, of luck and cursing. The
oldest, the Carder, whose powerful hands pulled out of the past,
present and future the stuff of destiny, bound wisp on wisp into
gossamer rolls and handed them one after the other to the
Spinner.
Spinner’s dexterous fingers span new fibers into those
already in her grasp, twisting, stretching and pinching them into
yarn. The stuff of stars it was, colored by fire and shadow, earth
and sky, water and stone. And when her spindle filled, she
spooled it and stacked for her sister, the Weaver.
Only Weaver had the knowing of her craft, ceaselessly
knotting new threads onto old, and casting the shuttle across the
loom, deftly catching and sending it back; she wove, she wove.
Her warp threads were time and seasons, love and hate,
compassion and cruelty, vanity and compassion, joy and sorrow,
and a thousand others, the constants, the unchangeables, strung
up and down from beam to beam. Her shuttle found its way in
and out among them, weaving randomly at times and sensibly
beyond. Lives were scribed there, tied on at birth and clipped by
her pitiless knife when the end had come. She wove, she wove.
Written, as it were, the destiny of men and nations and of the
gods themselves. No one was exempt; no existence was there
outside the warp and weft of her loom. She wove; she wove.
No appeal could she hear, no birth cry, nor wailing at death
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for she was deaf to all sound. Blind she was as well, seeing
without seeing by the feel of her hands. She sang as she plied
her craft, the changeless, changing pattern that sang life into the
cloth she made. The pattern song keened the time for harvest
and hunger, youth and age, of life and death. Heroes and
cowards she wove from hero threads, and cowards and heroes
from common stuff. The destinies of men and women, kings and
slaves, nations and gods; she wove, she wove.
That is the way of things. That is how the Saesen tell it.
5
1
Midsummer
Light streamed through the open shutters, and sun dust swirled
when the foredawn breeze pushed through the cracks in the
shutters of Jon Ellis’ cottage. In the distance a dog barked as if
testing its voice, and finches twittered in the branches across the
dusty track from the house. Jon stretched and yawned, tensed
himself to get up, but relaxed back into the too comfortable
straw pallet and bedding. Eyes shut against the growing light;
he waited, his body pleading to stay in bed just a little longer.
His mind told him to get off the mattress; he’d slept long
enough; there were things that needed to be done. Jon stretched
again, took a deep breath, and sat up. He sniffed the long linen
shirt he’d left on the floor beside his bed and decided that it
didn’t smell that bad yet, the week was just ending. He’d have
to wash it before long and pulled it over his head. He wandered
outside to the summer kitchen a few yards from the back door of
the house. The heat from a fire in the middle of summer would
have made the house unbearable, so he made his way to the
outbuilding.
Jon dug into the nearly empty wood box to find some
kindling and reminded himself once again that he would need to
start the onerous task of gathering firewood for the winter from
the forest before the rains came in autumn. He knelt and
arranged the pieces carefully in the mouth of the wide stone
fireplace and blew gently raising a fine pillar of ash until he
coaxed a flame from the banked coals, still warm from the
6
previous evening’s dinner fire. He added enough wood to
ensure enough heat to cook his breakfast of barley porridge.
Waiting just long enough to see that the flames would take hold,
Jon dipped the water bucket into the wooden barrel under the
back corner of the house and hauled it into the kitchen and filled
the covered iron pot he used to heat water.
Jon Ellis was twenty years old and had been living on his
own for the past three months, since Eastermonth to be exact.
He and his mother lived in a solid two room cottage with
thatched roof in need of repair that one of Jon’s grandfathers
had built. Most unmarried young men of Jon’s age lived at
home with their parents, but his mother had decided to leave
home to care for her mother over in Camber, about fifteen
leagues west of Redding and left Jon to fend, at last, for himself.
Jon’s father had died in a quarry accident five years since,
leaving Jon and his mother to get along as best they could.
After Jon helped his uncles and cousins dig the burial pit on the
long sloping hill west of Redding, they lay his father’s body in
the grave with a few of his possessions. Then they built a pyre
on top of his father’s body and over the grave. As oldest son,
Jon set a torch to the kindling and his mother and her friends
stood or sat on the ground grieving and keening. By the time
the wood burned down to ash, the women had ceased to wail.
Jon stepped forward and poured a jar of ale into the grave,
which hissed and spat ash into the noonday sun. With the help
of his kinsmen, Jon erected a stone ten hand spans high which
Egan Holman had brought down from the quarry as the other
men and boys filled and tamped the earth of his father’s grave
leaving a small barrow mound compared to the others around it.
When Jon had turned sixteen a year later, he and his mother
were hard pressed to scrape together eighty pennies to pay the
death duty on his father’s narrow land holding just off the
Camber Road. Their last cow had been led away by the bailiff
in partial payment of the inheritance fee still owed to the Thane.
They were so destitute that Ralph Warren, the local miller, had
actually tried to buy Jon’s wardship from his mother, but she
had refused. She had no interest in selling her son to the most
7
detested man in Redding. Then, like an event from a children’s
tale, someone placed a leather bag with one hundred silver
pennies beside the front door. When Mistress Ellis opened it and
saw the contents, she collapsed onto the pounded clay floor and
wept until her over apron could absorb no more.
But the money left after the duties were paid didn’t last long;
John had been forced to go down to Ralph Warren’s gristmill
and beg for work. In the beginning Warren had offered Jon
occasional work at his mill, and Jon had satisfied Warren as to
his ability to work. Jon had worked there ever since. In those
five years Jon had grown from a gawking, spindly youth into a
handsome, well-proportioned young bachelor who was a regular
topic of conversation among the young women his age when he
made deliveries sitting atop one of Warrens’ wagons.
Jon stood nearly six feet tall with straight dark hair in need
of a trim, and clear green eyes in a rather angular face. The
heavy lifting at the mill and his outings in the wilder parts of
Saeland whenever he had any time to himself, had given him a
strong back, sinewy arms, and powerful legs. Jon had a ready
laugh and regarded himself as a hard worker. His thoughtful,
even disposition, much like his father some said, had gained him
many friends his own age in town, and he was a favorite of
children in the neighborhood.
Steam bobbled the lid of the pot as the water came to a boil
quietly but enough to remind him to push the iron hearth hook
away from the fire. He threw a few peppermint leaves into an
earthenware mug to steep and then added a couple of handfuls
of barley meal to the boiling water to make porridge. While it
cooked, he carefully toasted a slice of barley bread that he
buttered and slathered with some of last year’s half-crystallized
honey. It was rather poor fare as breakfasts went even for a
young bachelor. As soon as he’d thrown the crumbs outside for
the land wight and rinsed the wooden breakfast dish, Jon poured
the rest of the hot water into a bucket and went out into the
sunlit work area behind the house with a drying cloth and scrub
rag. He drew his shirt off and proceeded to scrub his face and
8
neck, down his arms and his feet. Lastly he poured the rest of
the bucket over his head and sputtering and spitting wiped the
rest of himself down, a better bath than most.
He pulled his shirt over his head, drew on a pair of short
trews, and cinched a brown leather belt low around his hips to
make a tunic, leaving the long tongue of the belt to hang down
in front. In cooler weather he would have worn long woolen
trews and a long-sleeved overtunic, but in mid-summer a belted
shirt and trews was enough. Pulling his light-weight leather
boots onto his feet, he glanced around to make sure everything
was as it should be then latched the door behind him on his way
to the mill.
Ralph Warren’s mill with its great oaken wheel on the south
bank of the Holbourne River was one of the landmarks of
Redding. Each day when flour was to be ground or delivered,
Jon worked the mill. Warren may have been the owner, but he
didn’t do work as most people might define it. He spent time at
the mill at his cluttered accounts table, but when any real work
was to be done, Jon did it under the miller’s always-critical eye
and that of his shrewish wife. Ralph was fair enough to Jon; he
always got his pay, but Ralph’s reputation as a miser ensured
Jon never got more than the least the miller thought he could
part with. Warren wasn’t above short changing his customers if
he thought he could get away with it either, using the pretext of
the Thane’s mill tax to explain away any discrepancies. Jon did
what he could to make amends by adding to the orders when the
Warren wasn’t looking, and Ralph seemed none the wiser, so
far, a suitable arrangement as far as Jon was concerned. But it
rankled Jon that he worked for the most disliked man in
Redding.
By tending the field and garden which stretched from the
forest to the Camber Road with its vegetable garden, barley
field, and orchard behind the house, Jon was able to raise most
of the food that he and his mother ate or bartered with their
neighbors through summer and winter, just as most families in
Saeland did. His mother was an expert seamstress and between
them they provided for themselves with a little to spare. But of
9
late Jon had become dissatisfied working at the mill. He felt like
he should be doing something more; mill work felt more often
than not, like a dead end, endless lifting and shifting meal, flour,
and grain. Ralph Warren was becoming more difficult to deal
with all the time, and Jon didn’t see how he could work there
much longer. But Jon had put off serious thought about a
change, because the options available to him were severely
limited.
Jon lived in Redding, one of the large towns in Saeland, two
hundred and fifty or so thatched houses that ran in rather untidy
rows parallel to the south side of the Holbourne River. A
shallow ford made it possible for people to live on the north side
at Overton, but for some reason Redding had remained firmly
attached to the south bank and only a row of farms reached
toward the forest just visible to the north across the river. The
houses were built of an admixture of old honey-colored
sandstone and half-timbered houses, but most, like Jon’s, were
wattle and daub, a useful mixture of chipped straw, clay, or cow
dung plastered over the wattle laths. The baker, the smith, the
chandler’s shops were strung along the main east-west street
through town which was called variously, Holbourne Street or
Selby Road depending on which end of Redding one lived on;
the true name often a lively topic of debate in the Swan after a
couple of beakers of beer.
The Hall was the largest building in town, square and very
old, where on occasion, a hallmeet was ordered and decisions
were made that affected the people of Redding under the
watchful eye of the Thane. For a few young men, like Jon, the
Hall was where he spent went a winter or two learning to read
and write from a tutor. Jon’s father had insisted he be educated,
and to Jon’s frustration but eventual benefit, he had learned to
read and write and was able to figure in his head or on
parchment much to the delight of his parents. Grudgingly, Jon
too, had come to value, what he had learned.
At the base of Quarry Hill was the Harrow, the sacred
enclosure, one of the three largest in all of Saeland. It served as
one of the places where people from leagues around came to
10
feast and make offerings during Slaughtermonth in late autumn.
The low enclosing wall kept grazing animals outside the holy
precincts. Inside a marvelous spring issued forth from the
ground, which at times roiled and bubbled, though cold as
snowmelt. Nine stones had been set up in a wide circle around it
to guard the spring long before, Jon’s people, the Saesen settled
at Redding. Woden’s Stone stood twice as high as the tallest
Saesen and was covered from top to bottom in with
interconnected spirals and whorls. At its base lay the Slaughter
Stone, waist high, and polished smooth from end to end. Legend
had it that the stones were heaved out of the ground by giants
long before any man hunted the forest. The Harrow was a place
of dread and awe and yet an integral part of the seasonal round
of life in Saeland. Near the circle’s gateway stood the weather-
beaten timber house of Eofa. She was a frightful being, Jon had
often thought of her as the perfect representation of a night hag,
who made her living by foretelling the future for those who
visited the Harrrow all through the year. People came to perform
sacrifice and inquire about marriages, the outcome of an illness
or injury, to be touched by her distaff for healing, or any of a
hundred other day to day concerns of ordinary people. Jon, like
his neighbors, gave the Harrow a wide berth; the fear and awe
generated by the bloody sacrifices throughout the year and the
eerie, high-pitched keening of the seidwoman kept all but those
determined to hear her mumbled foretellings away. The Harrow
at times served as a sanctuary for hunted criminals or the target
of a clan feud that none dared violate. The only way out of
sanctuary was a trial, which tended to give the aggrieved parties
time to come to their senses. The pull of the stone
representations of Woden All-Father and Earth Mother, Frithe
and Fregr, Tiw and Thunor were powerful for many in Saeland.
Only the Harrow at Camber superseded it.
In the three hundred and twenty three years since Jon’s
ancestors wandered into the lands around Redding, most of the
forest had been cleared from around the towns, and the
landscape tamed to produce almost everything that anyone
could want. His Ellis ancestors married into the powerful
11
Gessing clan who first occupied the lands around Redding long
ago. Even in Jon’s day the chief of the Gessings held the office
of Thane and governed Redding Hundred under the Earl of
Saeland. The name of Ausbert, the first of the Ellises in
Redding, was included in the long chants sung around winter
hearths about the earliest Saesen.
Jon’s mother, Gytha, was the daughter of one of the
influential sub chiefs of the Stalling clan from the area around
Camber. But the Ellis family had over time been much reduced
in means and holdings until Jon was the only Ellis in the seat of
his family’s ancestral home, although he could claim blood
kinship and obligations from many of Redding’s inhabitants.
He was like most Saesen, a poor cottar.
Since his father’s death, he and his mother had lived in the
house where Jon had grown up just off the Camber Road. Then,
just a few days after New Years Day, early in First
Plowingmonth, word came that Granny Stalling had become ill,
unable to live any longer on her own. Jon’s mother decided to
leave Jon in Redding and go care for her mother in Camber.
She had not wanted to leave Jon alone, but the house and hythe
strip was all she had left of her life with her husband, Dean
Ellis, and it was Jon’s by right and custom. Granny Stalling
could not be persuaded to budge from her house on Stockwell
Road, and since Jon’s work at the mill was their only regular
income, after some weeks of indecision, Jon’s mother tearfully
packed most of her belongings into a neighbor’s borrowed
wagon and went to live at Camber.
The day before she left was a minor holiday called Gang
Day. It was the custom for the entire populace of Redding to
beat the bounds of the town. After the young boys were ducked
in the Holbourne, the lively procession paraded to the west
boundary marker stone. There the boy’s heads were bumped
against the stone and told, “Remember, your home is here in
Redding.”
Jon and his mother walked arm in arm in the procession
down to South Pond where the boys were wetted again. The
entire assemblage then marched through town to the east
12
boundary stone where the young boys were once again bumped
up against the ancient sandstone boundary pillar and reminded
that inside the boundaries of Redding they were home.
“Why are the girls never bumped against the stones?” Jon
asked as they strolled among the chattering villagers eagerly
anticipating a day off work and family gatherings.
“I guess we listen better than the boys, but on Gang Day you
have one more chance to knock some sense into them,” his
mother chuckled. It was an old joke, not lost upon the young
man considering living on his own for the first time.
“Now you find yourself a nice Redding girl and settle here
where you belong.”
Jon started to protest, but his mother cut him off mid-
sentence.
“I know what you’re going to say. Meg this and Meg that.
Aren’t there some pretty girls here? Someone we’d know the
family and clan connections for?
Jon grinned. “Yes, Mother. You’ve said the same thing at
least a score of times. Once more won’t change my mind.”
“Well, it never hurts to try does it?” Gytha laughed. “Looks
like banging heads on stones doesn’t have the effect we think it
does in your case.”
The next morning after piling the neighbor’s wagon so high
that Jon had to tie ropes together to reach around and over it, his
mother kissed his cheek and bid good-bye.
“Now mind you, I expect that you’ll take care of the place.
You work hard down at the mill and come visit us when you get
a chance,” Mistress Ellis lectured as she stepped up into the
wagon seat next to the drover who’d agreed to take her to
Camber. She fixed Jon with a glare expecting him to follow
orders. She wasn’t easy with Jon’s glowing descriptions of the
young woman he saw every chance he visited Ribble. Nice, the
girl might be, but Gytha had her heart set on Jon settling down
with a young Redding woman, hoping that a match with one of
the landed Gessings would improve their fortunes. Then with a
shout at the ox, the wagon rumbled away down Camber Road.
Jon was on his own.
13
Jon had obediently visited his mother and grandmother once
with a full report on how things stood at home. But he
disappointed them on finding the right Redding girl to marry, he
knew every girl his age in Redding. Many of the young women
were too closely related to Jon and there were strict, if unwritten
rules, forbidding marriage within certain degrees of kinship.
Most of the other girls were Jon’s childhood friends, not in the
running for romance as far as he was concerned. So Jon did
what most young men did, he searched for a young woman of
his age when he traveled outside Redding to pick up or deliver
goods for Warren.
Almost two years ago while delivering flour to Ribble, a
small farming village about twelve leagues north and east of
Redding, Jon had, on account of weather, spent the night in the
barn at an inn there. That was where he met Meghan Turner, the
daughter of the keeper of the Ribble Inn. After subtly
establishing that they had no close clan ties, Jon stopped at the
inn whenever he had a chance. He had grown to love Meg, and
she him. Infrequent walks and talks chaperoned by Meg’s
younger brother, Tristan, or Meg’s mother brought them close
together each time he found an excuse to make the drive or walk
to Ribble. Jon visited when he could, which was not as often as
either of them would have liked. The initial excitement of living
on his own had given way to a feeling Jon came to recognize as
loneliness. He had been thinking he and Meg might be able to
set up a household sometime in the coming year, but he wasn’t
sure Meg was thinking that way. The last time he’d brought it
up, the argument had ended with Meg weeping at something
he’d said to offend her, which to this day he was unable to
explain.
Jon’s second love was exploring the countryside. Maybe it
was in his blood from his grandfather Stalling, but Jon had come
to know Saeland for many leagues around Redding about as
well as anyone who lived there. He was counting the days until
his twenty-first birthday next Yulemonth which would make
him eligible to join the Guard. That was something he yearned
for. His grandfather, Kell Stalling, had been in the Guard at
14
Camber and had taken Jon to the Armory and several
musterings and introduced him to Thane Senwith Giffard, who
commanded the Guard on behalf of the Earl. Jon had never
forgotten the stories of brave deeds done long ago, the smell of
oiled leather, and the heft of a strong yew wood bow and a long,
single-bladed knife, the traditional weapon of every freeborn
Saesen male.
Once or twice a year there was nothing he liked better than
wandering through both settled and wild lands on his own or
with a friend or cousin or two if he could persuade them to go.
Most days away from the mill were usually work days on Jon’s
small holding where he grew the food his family ate. The
occasional days spent in the wild, he persuaded himself were
good training for the day when he could officially join the
Guard, as the militia was called by most residents of Saeland.
Thane Giffard, head of the militia and as close to a tough, hard
man as Jon knew, supervised the Guard from the Armory over
in Camber. The Thane was responsible to the Earl himself for
the safety of Saeland, the Marches, and the Dales.
Jon made an attempt each time he visited his grandparents to
call in at the Armory, one of the oldest buildings in the country.
Once used for meetings of the Saeland Council, it was built as a
strong house, able to withstand an attack if necessary, and then
as headquarters for the Guard. Jon loved the Armory better than
any other building in Saeland. The smell of leather and oil, racks
of ancient pikes, lances, and barrels packed with arrows, ancient
maps of the country all filled him with a great desire to be part
of the Guard, and the Thane knew it. Thane Giffard had known
his Grandfather Stalling for years and would only smile his
knowing smile whenever Jon mentioned that he would reach his
majority next Yulemonth.
Most of central Saeland, the areas around Redding,
Holbourne, and Colby and down into South March gave little
thought to the Guard. Generations had passed since anyone or
anything had threatened the peace. Jon didn’t think there was
even a single member of the Guard in Redding. Meg’s father,
Durban Turner was a section Captain for the Guard at Ribble,
15
and Jon admired him for that and for siring such a daughter as
Meghan. Then in Full Summermonth of that year, a week
before the great mid-summer feast, Jon had a stroke of luck, at
least that is how he thought of it, at the mill.
Warren stood at his desk, his eyes drawn back to the terse
wording of the note he’d received still lying on the stacks of
accounts. His guts twisted from the sheer stupidity of what he
had committed himself to. He sat down, and put his head in his
hands. He half expected that particular summons would never
come, yet there it lay. Mowbray had written that he needed an
urgent meeting with him just two days from now at Skipton,
quiet, off the beaten path, little Skipton. He’d lied to his wife
about where he was going, and again to Jon.
A shadow passed the window and he glanced up to see,
Thane Anson Gessing clutching a missive that was suspiciously
similar to the one lying on top of the other accounts.
“Did you get a note from Mowbray?” Gessing blurted as he
poked his head through the mill door.
Warren smacked his note with the back of his hand. “Right
here. I’ve just sent Jon off for the week.”
“I saw him on his way home. When will you leave?”
17
“I’ll go tomorrow morning; I’ve told my wife I’m going
south to see my brother. She’s not suspected anything. How
about yourself?”
“I’ll go tomorrow afternoon. What do you suppose
Mowbray wants?”
Warren shook his head. “I don’t know what could have
changed, certainly nothing around here. He says here he wants
to purchase flour, as much of it as I can grind, fair enough price,
too.”
The Thane sat down heavily in the chair opposite the miller.
Looking furtively about as if someone might be listening, he
leaned toward Warren. “Are you sure about this, Ralph?”
Warren paused for moment.
“Wish I was, but I don’t dare back out now. There’s good
money to be had out of it, for both of us.”
“Ah, yes, the mill tax. I hadn’t thought about that.” Yes, of
course, you’ll need to take the appropriate measure out of each
and every sack. As long at the Earl doesn’t know how much
grain is really being ground, he’ll be none the wiser,” added the
Thane. Warren could see the avarice in Gessing’s eyes and the
rank sweat of him.
“But it’s the other that’s somewhat unsettling; that’s what it
is,” responded the Thane, “and it frightens me. Do you think
they can take control over at Camber like they say they can?”
“If we stick together, it’ll work,” assured Warren.
“Mowbray’s promised help from outside hasn’t he? Says
Saeland is ripe for a new leader, and we’d be among those to
gain the most advantage, if we choose sides early. That’s why I
brought you in.”
“I don’t like it,” complained Gessing. “We have a lot to lose
if Mowbray’s wrong; you realize that don’t you?”
“Of course, but nothing’s going to go wrong. Mowbray’s
bunch is taking most of the risks; and we just have to take a few
orders and sit back and wait to see which way the frog jumps.”
“If you say so,” sighed Gessing. “If you say so.”
Tristan’s voice at the door was the first thing Jon heard the
next morning.
“Jon! Jon!” called Tristan, “are you awake? Mam’s sent me
to tell you breakfast is nearly on the table.” Jon yawned and
smiled to himself. One of the important most unknowns of his
life had been revealed last evening. Meg was coming to
Redding! Dressing quickly he hurried downstairs barefoot,
feeling each of the rough-hewn hardwood treads as he carried
his gear out to the front porch and set it down, so he could leave
directly after breakfast. Passing the kitchen he could smell
bacon frying and oatmeal boiling. He pawed through his hair
with his fingers and hoped he was presentable and returned to
the kitchen. Master Turner waved Jon to his customary place
beside Tristan. Mistress Turner greeted him cheerfully across a
pan of scrambled eggs cooking over the coals in the hearth for
the other guests who had yet to make their appearance
downstairs. Tristan slipped into his seat and joined them, and
together they managed to devour most of what Mistress Turner
had made.
“Has Meg left yet?” asked Jon, leaning back from the table.
27
“Just going now,” explained Mistress Turner, “Gil Weaver
is going down to Holbourne and offered take her that far, he’s
behind time today. One of the cousins is driving over from
Colby to collect Meg and take her to my sister’s place. If you’re
finished, why don’t you go up and help her carry her things
down?”
Meg met him on the stairs carrying one large and one small
bag. He kissed her and took the bags, and placed them next to
the front door. She led him to one of the tables in the common
room and sat holding each other by the hand and talked about
the past three months. Meg’s father came out of the kitchen and
wiped down the tables for the guests who’d soon be down for
their breakfast
“Well, you’re off then, Jon?
“Yes, sir, Master Turner, thank you again.”
“You call me Durban, my boy,” as he had requested a dozen
times, and Jon had ignored. The two Turners escorted Jon
through the door and onto the shaded porch.
“Goodbye, Jon,” Meg said more steadily than she felt, “I’ll
see you in a few days?”
He kissed her lightly, and said that he would. She turned back
into the inn.
Jon was ready to go, but it was obvious that Durban had
something else he wanted to say. Master Turner cleared his
throat.
“I know you’ll be careful, Jon, but you ought to know the
Normen have disappeared from the border,” he declared. “We
aren’t saying much to anyone, but word does get round up here.
There’s talk of raiders up in Norsk country. I’ve got four men
out now, you keep your eyes and ears open. If you see or hear
anything suspicious, or you meet up with one of them Norsk
soldiers, hear ‘em out, and race back here quick as a lightning.
Don’t want any nasty surprises.” Durban studied Jon
thoughtfully. “I see you’ve got a good long knife, but aren’t
carrying a bow. I’d feel better if you had one.”
Jon had learned basic knife fighting and archery skills as
almost every young man in Saeland did, but since there was
28
little if any kind of game in the hills around Redding, most
young men he knew never became skilled with a bow. John fit
into that category. He knew it was important for Guardsmen to
be sharp-sighted and accurate, but he didn’t know anyone in
Redding who could teach him anything he didn’t already know,
and his archery skills left much to be desired. Jon’s father had
taught Jon the use of the long knife in a fight, for every man,
young or old, carried a knife on his belt and was expected to be
able to use it. A man’s knife served as a deterrent, but twice in
Jon’s life, his knife skills had saved him from being robbed by
thugs.
“I’ll give you one of my bows, if you’ll have it.” Durban
offered. Jon had never taken a bow on his outings and felt a
little uneasy about taking something of Durban’s, but he didn’t
want Master Turner to think him foolish for going unprepared
into the wilds.
“I would appreciate it,” answered Jon honestly. Durban
disappeared and returned just as quickly with a yew wood bow
in each hand and a leather cylinder bristling with iron-tipped
arrows. The cylinder was exactly like the ones in the Armory in
Camber. Something about Jon’s expression must have given his
thoughts away, and Durban smiled.
“Not all of us have been fat old innkeepers forever, you
know,” and chuckled at his own joke. “Most of us in this valley
are in the Guard.” He held out the bows.
“Which one?” Jon took the shorter of the two and strung it
easily; the wood smooth and strong.
“This one pulls too easy to for me, I think,” observed Jon and
took the other one Durban held out to him. When Jon pulled the
long bow back almost as easily, Durban’s eyes widened.
“You’ve got an arm on you, Jon.”
Ignoring the compliment, Jon changed the subject. “This is
a good bow. You’re sure you don’t mind my borrowing it?”
“Use it well, my boy,” was all Turner commented as he
held the sling of the quiver out to Jon. Jon unstrung the hand-
crafted bow and wrapped the string loosely about the bow and
tied it onto the side of his pack. Pulling an arrow out, Jon
29
sighted down the shaft and tested the tip that glinted in the sun.
“They’ll fly straight and true, them arrows will,” Durban
declared.
“Thank you again; I …” words failed Jon. “I don’t know
what to say.”
“Say no more, Jon. You watch yourself out there, it isn’t a
walk on the Holbourne Road once you get out past that line of
hills,” and waved his hand toward the northern horizon. “Now
you listen to me, the Normen out there, if you meet any, they’ll
see you long before you see them. If they are about, use your
best manners. A few of them speak our language though with
an accent I find hard to make out. You’ll come back this way,
won’t you? You know you are always welcome in our home.”
He patted Jon on the back, and Jon thanked him again and set
off for the distant heather-clad hills. He followed the main road
which ran west and a little north through the mixed forest of ash,
maple, and sycamore toward the far northern towns of Gamble
and Whitburn.
That Guard work was dangerous had never really occurred
to Jon, but if that was the case, so much the better. Jon wasn’t
afraid of being alone in the wild, he relished it. The solitude,
sounds of woodland birds and animals, wind in branches, the
sun on his back, these things Jon enjoyed. He crossed the old
stone bridge over the Ribble and turned up the river road
without passing anyone. Farms and homes lined the stony-
bedded Ribble through the upper parts of the valley for four or
five furlongs. By the time he passed beyond the last farmstead
in the valley, the road had dwindled to a track and then shrank
to a path such as an occasional fisherman or militiaman might
use.
Vadim surveyed the Norsk village, alert for any sign of trouble.
Without shifting his glance, he hand-signaled the rest of his men
to move to the edge of the ember pine forest, so foreign to his
people of the plain. Despite Vadim’s outward confidence, the
30
Olani war chief was disappointed by the third poor farm village
about to be pillaged by his men. He and the rest of the Olani
had ridden alongside the high-wheeled ox carts and their horse
herds for over a month persuaded by promises of silver and easy
plunder in the towns and villages which lay on both sides of the
Great River. This pitiful cluster of timber and mud hovels
across the ripening barley fields was little better than the two
villages they had already savaged. His men were eager for a
fight and the havoc to follow, but there had been little silver and
the land so smothered by the unnerving forest that the herders
grumbled about its worthlessness for raising horses, an Olani’s
true vocation. His captains grew less easy every day.
Vadim glanced over at the foreigner, Ibsen, sitting nervously
astride his horse behind the line of mounted men hidden beneath
the covering branches of the forest. Sweat dampened the
Norman’s forehead and upper lip and stained his shirt.
“He’s ready to piss himself,” Vadim sneered to his brother-
in-law who rode at his side. The foreigner disgusted him.
There was no word in Olani for the contempt he felt for a man
who betrayed his own people to death and torture for silver, nor
did he believe everything Ibsen had promised, and he spoke
more Olani than he admitted. For now the foreigner was
needed, but there would come a time when Vadim would take
personal pleasure in watching Ibsen flayed alive and left staked
out in the sun, a feast for ravens. But for now Vadim would
wait; he had learned to be a very patient man.
Vadim wrested his attention back to the unprotected hamlet.
The two Normen his scouts had found working their field near
the road, who might have sounded a warning, lay behind him, a
feast for frenzied blue flies homing in for a meal.
“These house dwellers will feel the bite of Olani steel,” he
thought, and his hunger for the coming slaughter grew. Land,
slaves, and silver had been promised, and that was what he
intended to have, if not here then somewhere else. Vadim’s
raiding party had left his main camp far out on the open plain
two days ago, moving cautiously on the heels of the scouts over
the crest of a dividing ridge and down a wide valley which
31
sloped toward the river, barely glimpsed far to the west. Vadim
jammed on his leather helmet, topped by the white horse tail
that set him apart from the rest of his men, and urged his horse
out of the dense pine cover. The long arc of his sword glinted in
the afternoon sun as it whispered out of its scabbard and began
carving circles in the air. Vadim lifted his deep voice, calling
upon his gods for aid in battle. The raiders burst into the cadent
chanting that had urged countless generations of Olani into war,
heedless of their lives, and on Vadim’s signal thundered out of
the forest, trampling the fields as they howled toward the
settlement.
Terrified villagers, children and women among them, stood
transfixed in utter amazement and turned in vain to flee the
wave of horsemen that swept out of the grain fields. Vadim
laughed at the terror in the eyes of the first man he cut down, the
blood and screaming adding to his enjoyment of the kill.
A handful of villagers clustered together amid the chaos and
shielded each other as they attempted to resist with the farm
implements they had grabbed when the first unearthly howling
panicked the village. Jerking his horse’s head toward them,
Vadim rode them down, and with a single down and back-
slashing stroke, cut down two of the men; his horse reared and
slammed its hooves down through the skull and face of another.
The rest broke and ran, and were cut down mercilessly by
Vadim’s personal guards. Norsk women screamed and ran to
the sides of dead and dying husbands and sons only to be hauled
to their feet by their hair and herded together with every living
man, woman, and child the Olani could find.
“Find rope,” Vadim shouted, “bind anyone fit to work.” The
bitter tang of smoke drifted from the first flames greedily
gobbling thatched eaves. The fighting had ended, bodies lay
amid pooling gore, and the sound of the shrieks and groans of
the dying and the wailing of women meant resistance had
collapsed. Vadim knew the sound well. He looked about him
critically and remembered his son.
“Stefan,” he cried. “Where’s the boy?” Vadim bellowed into
the smoke. His half-brother and second in command, Ludovik,
32
pointed to the boy keeping watch on the road with five others as
he had been commanded.
Vadim reared up in his stirrups and caught Stefan’s attention
and beckoned him and his companions, bringing the young men
at a gallop, through the dust, smoke and cries of the captives.
“Stefan,” shouted Vadim when he was close enough. “You
and your men escort the slaves back to the camp.”
The Stefan’s sharp eyes took in the milling crowd of Olani
raiders shoving and beating the men, women, and children into
two groups with the flats of their swords, others binding the
prisoner’s hands behind and then neck to neck in a lengthening
coffle of terrified Normen.
“What are you going to do with them?” the boy asked,
pointing to a huddle of unarmed peasants who had been left
unfettered, mostly old ones and small children.
“We’ll use them to teach these dirt diggers what happens to
those who resist.”
“Slaughter the rest, and burn the village,” he roared. His
men set about their grisly task seemingly deaf to the hysterical
pleading voices of those about to be butchered.
Knud Ibsen looked on the destruction of the village
struggling not to show the horror he felt as the swords rose and
fell in a red mist. He was canny enough to know that if he
showed his revulsion, he could wind up like the corpses spewing
lifeblood into the ground. These maniacs he’d persuaded to
follow him into Norheim were occupied for the moment, but he
recognized the real possibility that they might turn and rend him
as easily as they struck down defenseless old women with no
hint of remorse, if they sensed his fear. Vadim and the other
leaders were already having a hard time convincing their men
that the farther away from the plains they rode, the better the
plunder. Ibsen’s orders were to get the Olani across the river
and spread as much panic as possible. He knew that time was
not on his side. He was being well paid; perhaps too generous
an offer he thought in retrospect. Even as the smell of burning
stung his nose, he was calculating how to get the Olani down to
the river. “What did it matter if a few people were killed down
33
here? No one cared about the slaughter of a few peasants and
thralls.” The massacre of the old and very young at the first
village had shaken him, and he had simply turned away from the
slaughter. The cries and shrieks cut short left nothing to his
imagination. He kept telling himself it would be worth it when
his share of the silver began to pile up. The thought pleased
him, and his lips turned up in a grin.
Vadim’s eyes gazed toward the river, and he, too, smiled,
steeling himself for the whining that was sure to follow the sack
of the village. A handful of silver coins and trinkets would do
little to quiet the grousing around the campfires. What’s he
smiling for? wondered Vadim, looking toward the Normen.
Stupid, he thought, these Normen are fit only to be slaves.
Without horses to carry their warriors, seizing the land from
these filth eaters was going to be even easier than Ibsen had told
him; there was enough land and slaves to make every man who
had joined Vadim rich beyond counting. Nothing could stop
them. The Olani had come to the West.
34
2
Most Remarkable Encounters
The wind had freshened, blowing steadily and warm from the
south on his back, but Jon paid little attention. The Ribble
veered off toward the east and disappeared into a steep-sided
coombe that it had carved for itself. Durban had suggested that
Jon could make much better time on the rockier and more open
ground of the tablelands above, so he followed a faint track that
angled off in that direction. Upon reaching the rim of the steep
bluff above the river, Jon paused to catch his breath and study
the lay of the land, knowing he would be mapping it later in his
notes. He enjoyed the fact that he would be measuring his
stamina against a series of higher and higher ridges he would
have to climb. Between where he stood and the first long crest
lay a wide swale of coarse grass interspersed with patches of
forest. The path he took continued in the general direction he
wanted to travel, so he settled into his usual brisk pace. The sun
and the uphill climb soon warmed him, and he knew that despite
the breeze at his back, he would be hot and thirsty before the
day was out.
A couple of years earlier, after studying the maps that hung
on the walls of the Armory at Camber, Jon tried his hand at
sketching maps of the places he hiked, and became fairly good
at it, or so his grandfather had complimented him on the
sketches Jon had shown him. Since few Saesen did exploring of
any sort, and no one he knew ever made maps, Jon named
things on his map as he pleased. He never anticipated that they
35
would be of any use to anyone but himself, but they had become
an important reference for him, and he dutifully recorded any
new features or made additions or corrections upon his return.
His grandfather had died before Jon could show him how the
drawings had improved.
The morning passed uneventfully. A few woolly clouds
drifted from the south, and the breeze at his back died away.
The way the heat shimmer touched the horizon indicated the day
would be a scorcher. Twice Jon rested in the shelter of the great
beech trees that provided islands of shade amid the knee-high
grass and heather that clothed the lower slopes of the ridge.
About mid morning Jon climbed to the brow of the first ridge
crowned by a copse of alders. While he caught his breath, he
confirmed that the height on which he stood was but the lowest
of many that he would be climbing for the rest of the day.
As he paused to take in the scene before him, Jon noticed a
rock outcrop just to the east that appeared too regular to be
natural. He strolled toward it, surprised to find the stone outline
of what might once have been a house. The walls were down,
and the individual stones blotched with lichen circles, leafy
white and orange. Heather sprouted from the joints and cracks
but the room arrangement was clearly evident. Jon climbed up
onto the highest point of the wall to get a better view and found
that within a few dozen yards there were two other structures
about half the size of the first. Jon remembered the ancestor
stories about Saesen origins sung at every feast, and wondered if
his people had built it and then moved on.
“Why would anyone build up here in such an isolated place?”
he asked himself.
He jumped off the wall and quartered the ground thinking he
might find something that would give a clue about the residents
of that ruin, but except for two or three shards of black on white
pottery lying against one wall, he saw little else. He stuck the
largest shard in his belt purse and continued on his way.
Beyond the ruin Jon’s path led downhill slightly until he
crossed a small stream that wriggled its way through the grass
and sedges always seeking the lowest point of the valley
36
between the hills. Jon knelt and drank deeply from the clear
clean water. Behind him the valley stretched east and west
where it gradually narrowed between the two ridges he had
climbed. Saeland was beautiful anytime, but Full Summer
month in his opinion was the best time of the year.
Jon turned uphill once again and angled back to pick up the
trail nearly obscured by the year’s growth of heather. The
incline was steep enough to take his breath, but he would not be
deterred, he just bent his back and doggedly kept plodding until
he reached the summit of the second ridge. The bench land
beyond was forested with ancient weathered alders and maples;
a good place to get out of the sun for a while and find a bite to
eat in his pack.
Jon made his way toward the shade when his nose picked up
the faint scent of smoke. Jon froze in his tracks; Durban’s dark
comments earlier that morning flashed through his mind. With
his heart pounding in his chest, Jon hastily untied his bow,
strung it, and loosened his knife in its sheath at his side.
Then his brain began functioning again,
“Jon, you idiot, you’ve let all this talk of strangers and
raiders get to you. Be sensible. Pipe smoke’s as Saesen a thing
as could be.”
“Hallo!” he called. “Hallo!”
“Hallo yourself!” called a Saesen voice from the shadows.
“Come into the shade, it’s much cooler here than out in that
blazing sun.”
Whoever was calling to him stood in the shade a few dozen
yards away and waited for him to approach.
Jon moved toward the sound of the voice, much relieved
that a fellow Saesen was taking his ease in the shade and not
some dark Norman or something worse lurking in the shadows.
Once Jon stepped into the shade, he noticed an older
gentleman watching from the shade him teeth clenched on the
long thin stem of a white clay pipe.
“What a surprise you are,” the bemused man said. “Someone
else out exploring the wilds. Jon Ellis, it’s good to see a familiar
face.”
37
Until he had come out of the sun Jon couldn’t tell who had
been talking, but coming into the shade himself, his mouth
dropped open in surprise. “Egan Holman!” he cried out in
recognition.
“Right as rhubarb. Well done, my boy, well done. I have
just finished my dinner, and I’ll bet you have yet to eat yours. I
have been watching you since you reached the ruins down
below. I thought I would wait here in the shade to congratulate
you.”
“Congratulate me?”
“Why yes, I wish more young men were as adventuresome as
you are. Sit down and take off that heavy pack.” Egan turned
and led the way back to where he had set his own gear against a
fallen log.
Jon slipped his pack first off one shoulder and then the other
and propped it against the log and sat down beside it.
“Now tell me what you are doing up here all the way from
Redding, Jon. Your mother would keel over in a dead faint if
you knew you had ventured so far on your own.”
Jon had a ready answer for such conversations, to explain to
nosy people why he was traipsing around the countryside.
“I’m on holiday, Master Holman.”
“Holiday!” laughed Egan. “My word! I’m not sure most
people in Redding would think wandering around in the wilds is
much of a holiday. But I am glad to see you. You’re still
working for Ralph Warren at the mill?”
“Yes, sir, Master Holman, at least until I can find something
else.”
“What did you have in mind?” Holman asked with a twinkle
in his eye.
Jon thought for a moment, “Not sure, I guess that’s why I’m
still at the mill,” he grinned. “I know I want to join the Guard.”
“Don’t recall anyone in the Guard in Redding any more.
But it’s as good an excuse as any to go for a long walk in the
unsettled parts of Saeland as any.” He looked at Jon
appraisingly. “Going on circuit on occasion may be work, but
not enough to call it employment. Working at Warren’s mill
38
isn’t agreeing with you much, then?”
“The mill’s kept a roof over our heads since Dad died, but
it’s not what I was cut out to be, at least that’s what I’ve been
thinking lately,” Jon concluded.
“I’m sure Dean would have agreed as well,” replied the older
man.
“You and he knew each other, didn’t you?” remembered Jon.
“Enough to know he didn’t think much of Ralph Warren,”
answered Holman.
The unspoken criticism hung between them and Jon, unsure
how to deal with the comment, changed the subject.
“May I ask you, sir, what you are doing out here?”
“I like nothing better than a fine walk on a summer’s day.
Been doing this for forty years more or less. Seen most of
Saeland, I have, and a good distance beyond.” He fell into his
own thoughts. Jon hadn’t noticed before, but Holman had a
hard-to-place accent.
Jon took out two or three other things he had stuffed away in
his pack to tide him over until dinner feeling a little
ucomfortable in the silence. Egan gazed at Jon without
comment as if he had something else on the tip of his tongue
and then decided to hold back. He pulled the pipe out of his
mouth by the white ceramic bowl and pointed the stem at Jon.
“Where are you going, if you don’t mind me asking? This is
fairly remote country.”
“To stand on the edge of Saeland, and see the mountains if I
can. I have a few days off to get there and home again.
Holman looked hard at Jon as though startled. “Several
places worth seeing in those hills on the way up, if you ask me,
but hard hiking for my money. If I may, I’d like to make a
suggestion.”
Jon nodded, his curiosity engaged in a single beat of his
heart.
“Come out into the open, and I think I can show you,” Egan
declared. “I doubt you want the company of an old man, and in
any case I am bound for home today.”
They moved out of the shade into the mid-day sun and faced
39
north. “When you reach the top of that high ridge there, you’ll
come upon the remains of the East Road which used to run
down to the river. Not much left of it up there, but in its day, as
used as any road in this part of Saeland by people long ago. But
now only the Guard utilizes it on their circuits. If you follow it,
it will bring you by easy stages closer to the Border Hills. The
lands gets rougher beyond that ridge and the East Road makes
easy travel as opposed to going across country. Brooks and
streams rush down and the road winds a bit. If you keep going
you will come to one of the ruined towns from the days when
the Saesen lived farther north.”
“The men of the Guard have made camps in several places
along the road, each near a clear stream or reliable spring. You
are welcome to stay in them if they suit you. I use them
whenever I come this way, sometimes camped right alongside
men from Ribble or Holbourne. If you meet any of them, you’ll
have trouble getting away from them. They’ll be glad of your
company and be wanting to show you the whole country and
pointing out things you might otherwise miss, and talking your
ear off until you go on your way. And if you tell them that
you’ve an interest in joining the Guard, why you’ll probably be
deputized on the spot!”
Egan stuck his pipe into mouth and drew several more puffs,
and his face grew serious. “Well, I’m off, but I want to tell you
a couple of things you ought to know if you’re going any
farther. And there’s no gentle way to say it, Jon. These wild
lands have a kind of beauty we don’t find down home, but we
mustn’t be taken in by it,” he lectured, waving his pipe toward
the north. “There are waterfalls, and crags and tree-filled
valleys that will fill your heart with wonder, but with all of that,
there are…” and he paused, now eye to eye with Jon.
“Now listen my boy, this could save your life. North of us is
mean country in foul weather. Rain and fog in summer; deep,
deep snow in winter can trap you in lonely places where there is
no aid. You must be watchful, Jon. Never ignore your eyes or
your ears, or your heart when they send a warning. Fire is a
friend, and so is silence. The Normen are there, stern men, and
40
more watchful on their side than we are on ours. If you meet
them, speak when spoken to. They have little time for fools.”
“Beyond the North Hills lie the lands of the Normen. Great
cities and fertile valleys peopled with our distant but kindred
neighbors. Rising above the valleys, the Dragonsback
Mountains cradle the lands around the shores of wondrous Long
Fjord. The Norsk militia and the Guard keep an eye on the
borderlands to fulfill their part of the ancient pledge that they
and the Saesen would ever protect each other. The northerners
who watch the border are interesting fellows.”
“Can you tell me anything more about them?” asked Jon.
“The Normen?” Egan stared at Jon thoughtfully.
“Hmmmm,” he paused as he drew once again on his pipe.
“Norsk soldiers stay on their side of the North Hills unless
need brings them farther south. Once in a while a militiaman or
traveler may see them. If you meet them, they will speak to you,
a little hard to understand until you get used to it, but our
languages are brothers, not cousins. They are staid and hardy
men, not given to much speech. I have been among them a time
or two. Arnegil Juransen is their chief, and never in all my
travels have I met anyone to match him.”
“But also know this, Jon Ellis, if you see them in Saeland,
then they track something that does not belong here. Many
small groups of wanderers never settled after the great
migrations brought our people to the lands against the sea. Most
are harmless hunters or farmers who pause for a time and move
on. But others there are who love nothing and care for little but
themselves, and those the Normen hunt. They are alarmed now,
a large band of raiders has come west, been raiding towns on the
far side of the Selwyn, as I understand it. But enough of that,
young Jon, do not fear, just keep your wits about you and enjoy
your walk. I must get going, and so must you. It is a long march
to a good bed from here.”
He picked up his bag and staff from the shadows and led Jon
back into the bright sunshine of mid-day. Holman turned back to
Jon, “Why don’t you come to see me at Quarry Hill when you
know you have two or three days, maybe we could go together
41
and explore a little. What do you say to that?”
“I’d like that, Master Holman.”
“Then it will happen. Harvestmonth, that’s when we ought
to go, it’s good time for setting out to see the world and saves
me walking in the heat.”
“Harvestmonth it is, Master Holman, thank you!”
“Good bye, Jon, I’m pleased to have seen you again. You’ve
restored my faith in your generation.” He took a few steps then
turned back a last time.
“When you get tired of working at the mill or of Ralph
Warren, come up and see me, I have an idea about what you
might do if you are looking for work that would allow you to go
‘circuitin’, I believe they call it.” He waved his hat and set off
down the hill.
Jon shook his head in wonder. That was a meeting indeed.
Egan Holman had a reputation for being odd, but he
remembered his father had valued Holman’s calm wisdom on
more than one occasion. After talking with Holman, Jon realized
that he might have found a kindred spirit. As for the talk about
the lands ahead of him, Egan had misread Jon’s reaction. The
talk of Norsk fighters, and ancient cities, and wanderers had not
dissuaded Jon; it had reaffirmed his desire to see the north
country. He was so excited that he stuffed everything back into
his pack and set off; it was all he could do to keep from running
to the base of the next ridge.
Once again he crossed a small watercourse and made his way
upwards. Just as Egan had indicated, he found the old road
running along the crest of the ridge that disappeared into the
clefts between the hills to the west only to reappear higher
farther on. The road was three or four paces across in most
places and paved with fitted stones, a very wide road for
Saeland. Tufts of grass and low brush grew to the sides of it,
but the center was cleared between a matched set of span-wide
grooves two paces apart running down each side of the road
sometimes for hundreds of yards at a time. He realized that
these were wagon tracks that had been ground into solid rock.
Saesen roads were notoriously dusty in summer and became
42
quagmires in wet weather. Jon could see in his mind’s eye long
vanished wagons and carts bumping this direction for
generations to create such ruts in the stones of the road. No one
in Redding had ever seen anything like it, he was sure of that, no
one except Holman of course.
Jon found himself singing and whistling, but after many
hours of walking for the most part uphill in the afternoon heat,
sweat poured out of his hair into his eyes, and his tunic was
soaked under his arms, down his chest, and beneath his pack.
Heat waves danced in the distance even as the sun drew down
toward the northwest. Realizing he’d expended about as much
energy as he could in a single day, Jon watched for signs of one
of the Guard camps Meg’s father had described. He searched in
vain for one at the top of the last ridge he intended to climb.
But he managed to find his own campsite in the shade near a
spring. He spread out his gear and made a supper fire. Once the
chores were out of the way, he could settle back and stare up
through the branches and look out across the valley to the ridge
he would tackle the next morning.
Just before dawn Jon woke with the first of the birds and
boiled some gruel as he tried to work out the aches from a night
on hard ground. He was determined to get as much ground
covered as he could before the heat of the afternoon sapped all
the energy out of him.
Scattered patches of forest grew larger and closer together as
he tramped over the next ridges tempting him to turn aside into
the shade. The country grew rougher as if the backbones of the
hills became more and more exposed the farther north he went.
Between the ridges lay narrow glens, choked with water-loving
trees and shrubs along brooks that splashed their way from the
highlands and down across the road toward the Selwyn
somewhere off in the sun-hazy east. Ancient road builders had
made provision for crossing the streams by placing long slabs of
rock between carefully shaped buttress boulders. How many
men, he wondered, had it taken to place such colossal stones
with such precision? It was more than he could guess. It was
wild, beautiful country by any standard. All day long he
43
tramped the broken road, stopping to eat and rest in the shade
when he could.
The sun hung halfway between its zenith and the horizon,
boring down as hard as it would all that day. Jon was sweat-
soaked from front to back, so when he topped the next long
ridge, he gratefully shed his pack in the shade of an enormous
stiple-barked sycamore that stood near the road. A breeze tried
to get from one valley to the next without much success, and Jon
felt like he was being roasted.
Looking ahead down into the wooded valley he noticed that
the tilted layers of stone had dammed a brook that rushed down
from the rocky terraces above the road and created a pool in the
shade of an enormous oak. In a flash Jon had shouldered his
pack, grabbed his walking stick, and practically ran down the
hill. He scrambled up several wide stony ledges above the road
until he stood at the edge of the pool fed by a narrow cascade
from above. Water like green crystal beckoned from the shallow
pool that had been sculpted into a thick layer of polished smooth
bluestone. The stream glided and swirled through channels
sculpted into the living rock near the oak that shaded the bottom
half of the pool. Jon shrugged off his pack, tugged off his boots,
and tested the water with his toes. The pool appeared to be three
or four feet deep with a mostly sandy bottom. For a heat-
fatigued young man there was no hesitation. Jon stripped off his
belt and tunic and stepped gratefully into the deepest part of the
pool. The contrast between his overheated condition and the
blissful chill of the water was beyond price. Taking a great
breath Jon submerged once again. Coming back to the surface,
he lay back into the water and floated lazily across the pool and
felt the heat and weariness drawn out of him. When he was
chilled at last, he pulled himself up out of the water on the far
side and lay face down on the smooth warm stone.
Despite his aching feet, he felt wonderful. After warming up
in the sun, Jon slipped into the pool and waded over to the
waterfall, stuck his head underneath the torrent, and spread his
arms wide allowing the water to sluice away two days of grime
and stink. The pool at its deepest only came up to his shoulders,
44
but the water was so clear he watched tiny fish flash out of
danger as he moved his feet across the gritty bottom. Jon
recrossed the pool to where his clothes lay and snatched his long
shirt and rinsed it in the water, wrung it out, and spread it on the
stone at the edge of the pool to dry. When he began to shiver,
Jon hauled himself out of the water and lay once again face
down beside his pack to rest before moving on. The mist from
the waterfall drifted down onto him from the beating of stream
on the surface of the pool, just enough to cool his skin from the
heat of the afternoon. Jon put his arms under his head and
listened to the water’s soft speech.
When the sun warmed his backside a little too much, he
turned his clothing over in a new spot to finish drying and
pulled his pack over to shade his head from the sun and lay
down again. And in less time than it takes to tell it, he fell
asleep.
Sometime later, he was never sure how long, between
dozing and waking; Jon became aware that something or
someone was moving toward him. With that awareness Jon’s
eyes popped open and he jerked upright scrambling for his
knife.
The first thing he saw was the face of a startled woman,
whose dark eyes sparkled in gentle humor. “Arrrghh!” he
screamed and threw himself backwards. He lost his balance
tipped over backwards, arms and legs flailing for balance into
the pool as he tried to distance himself from the woman. Jon
came up sputtering and coughing, wiping the water from his
eyes. He scanned quickly to see if the woman was alone; she
was not. Two men who appeared to be about her age, maybe
fifty or so, carried eight foot, leaf-pointed spears. A girl about
Jon’s own age, and another young man sat astride horses a few
paces away caught in the instant between alarm and laughter.
“Who are you?” he shouted and began casting about for some
sort of weapon to defend himself, his heart thumping. The
woman laughed, low and pleasant. Jon relaxed a fraction since
none of the strangers seemed to present an immediate threat.
Then one of the men called something and chuckled, and the
45
laughter broke the tension. The woman addressed him in heavily
accented Saesen.
“Young man, I have not laughed like that in many days.” Jon
was at a complete loss for words.
The woman picked up his tunic and moved to the edge of the
pool.
“Do not be afraid. I will not harm you. I am sorry I startled you.
I see you sleeping, and I wonder if you are hurt or ill. I should
have known that you would not sleep long or deeply in the sun.”
“Who are you?” Jon blurted.
“Yes, excuse me, replied the woman. I introduce myself. I
am called Ezmet. You are called?”
Jon’s sense of dignity reasserted itself, and he was suddenly
very conscious that he stood there without a stitch of clothes on,
making polite conversation with a strange woman while her
companions gazed on in open-mouthed humor.
“I am Jon Ellis,” he stammered. “I’m afraid you have me at a
disadvantage, Ezmet. I am not used to conversing with nothing
on.”
“I thought it strange that you not put this on, but you run
across the pool so fast,” she chuckled again. “I am at fault.”
The woman held out his tunic again. “We will not harm you.
Come, take the tunic, then we will talk.”
Jon took a deep breath and moved back toward his gear,
accepting his half-damp shirt from the woman and in an instant
pulled it over his head. He felt much more inclined to talk once
his dignity was again intact. He put on his best manners while
he tugged his boots on.
“May I ask who the others are?” He lifted his eyes in the
direction of the silent observers behind Ezmet who strained to
hear the conversation.
“This is my brother Tobai and my sister’s man, Buris. That
is my daughter, Marta, and Guri, a kinsman from another
steading. We are of the Sogon. This is our place. I ask you,
what are you doing here?”
“I am a Saesen traveler headed north through the
Borderlands,” Jon offered. “I went for a swim.”
46
Ezmet’s reply was filled with laughter as she regarded him.
“Do not worry, Jon Ellis. We have seen a few of your people on
this road before, and the Normen have passed this way over the
years, but never one so polite.”
Jon bowed again. “I am sorry to have troubled you, and I
think I should be on my way.” He knew little of the Sogon, the
wanderers. They sometimes came through the towns of
Saeland. Their reputation as forest hunters was unsurpassed.
But more importantly was the common understanding that some
among the Sogon had the gift of second sight. They could tell
the future, heal wounds, and bring luck, good or bad. Whenever
the Sogon came through Redding, they were treated with
courtesy and always the amulets and fetishes they sold were
hidden away in secret places to bring health, wealth, and luck.
So it was with serious misgiving that Jon stood talking with the
woman. He hoped he’d not offended them. Wouldn’t want to
be struck blind or face any of a hundred curses attributed to the
Sogon, he worried.
“Oh, do not run away, Jon Ellis, you have nothing to fear
from us. In fact, we turned out of our way to talk with you. Are
you hungry?”
“Yes,” he answered cautiously.
“Our steading and my house lie not far from here in the
forest. Many times the men of the south have stopped to eat
with us.” Jon stared at the woman. Her hair was streaked with
gray, tied loosely in the back; she wore a simple dress made of
soft skins which fell below her knees held with bronze pins at
the shoulders and a belt at her waist. She had the look of
someone who was older than she appeared, a lifetime of
experience behind those brown eyes. The men wore tanned deer
hide leggings tied with a thong at the waist. Their bare torsos
were tanned and muscled; their shoulder-length hair tied back
by a leather strap. The older men had blue-black designs
tattooed on their chins and arms, the younger man only on his
arms. The girl’s raven black hair hung free, but two small
braids framed her face.
His natural caution vanished, replaced by intense curiosity,
47
and he agreed to accompany the Sogon. Jon belted his tunic,
gathered his pack and staff while Ezmet waited. The older man,
Tobai, beckoned Jon toward his mount and offered a hand up
onto the back of his horse. Jon, who had little experience
around horses, took a deep breath and with Tobai’s help jumped
onto the wool blanket saddle behind the Sogon’s broad back.
“This way,” Ezmet gestured toward the forest above the
waterfall, her other companions having already disappeared into
the forest shadows. “Until you get used to sitting the horse,
hold onto Tobai’s belt.”
Ezmet guided her horse next to Tobai’s.
“May I ask you a few questions?” asked Jon as they rode.
“Ask whatever you wish.”
“How is it you speak Saesen?”
She laughed. “Many times we visit the Southerners to
trade and work. To get what we want we must learn your
language. My father taught me. He spent three years working on
a farm in the Great Glen when he was young. But he grew tired
of living among strangers and joined my mother’s steading.”
“How many other Sogon live up here?”
“Not many, there are five steadings in all.” She turned to
glance at him. “You know steadings?” Jon didn’t, but he
guessed it was their word for village or settlement.
“Most Sogon steadings lie on the other side of the river,” she
continued, waving to the east. “Long, long ago, when I was a
young Sogonal, my grandmother and grandfather and others
crossed the river. The Normen do not come here, and
Southerners seldom come so far. The game is plentiful here and
the earth gives us grain. Once only our steading was here. Now
five steadings lie this side of the river.”
“Does this place have a name?”
Ezmet thought for a moment. “We call it “Secret Steading,
Hidden Steading”. You understand?”
The little party of travelers continued to move steadily west
passing in and out of forest as the path moved up a rocky ridge,
becoming stonier and rougher as they ascended. Jon’s tentative
grip on Tobai’s leather belt tightened as the horses clattered up
48
the inclines. He noticed the young man looking back at him
several times his expression unreadable.
“Over that hill is our place.” The forest had deepened
around them; boles of great maple, elm, alder and chestnut trees,
older than any living being, rose to immense heights casting
cool dense shade on the Sogon and Jon as the horses climbed
the path beneath them. The air smelled of deep earth and
decaying wood.
When they reached the ridge top, Jon gazed out over the
leafy canopy and down into a wide valley. Perhaps fifteen
circular wattle and daub houses with conical, thatched roofs
bracketed the banks of a wide stream that bisected the valley.
Whoever had roofed the houses had extended the thatch almost
to the ground and piled it at least three feet thick reminding Jon
of overlarge hats. Smoke from the outside cooking fires
spiraled into the summer sky. Jon’s sense of unease grew as he
approached the little hamlet, where twenty or thirty people
waited for the approaching riders.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” he muttered to
himself. Hadn’t Durban warned him of being careful up here?
But his curiosity and Ezmet’s gentle persuasion swept caution
aside.
“Welcome to my home,” Ezmet cried and waved to the
gathering Sogon. Some of the children cheered and ran toward
the riders calling out names and greetings in a language
incomprehensible to Jon. When the two groups met, the younger
children stood back silent and abashed when they discovered the
presence of a young stranger jumping lightly down from the
back of Tobai’s horse.
“These are my nieces and nephew,” Ezmet declared. “They
do not speak your language and are shy of outsiders; we do not
see many others in this place between the two lands. Come, rest
with us and eat. If you wish, you may stay the night and go on
your way in the morning.”
Jon hesitated, unsure whether he would stay. But a cooked
meal sounded very appetizing after eating out of his pack for the
last two days.
49
Fields of barley and oats ringed the settlement and gardens
were scattered among the houses protected by willow fences.
Farther from the town a small herd of horses grazed. The Sogon
houses, upon closer inspection, were larger than Jon first
thought, and he wondered at the reason for the three or four foot
thick thatch piled high atop of the sturdy earthen walls. The
villagers met Ezmet with eyes filled with unspoken questions.
They remained guardedly cautious when introduced, and
seemed hesitant to use Saesen. Once Jon was introduced to the
group, Ezmet led him to what she called a guest house.
“Here is a place for visitors,” explained Ezmet. “Put your
things there and rest. You will join me for the evening meal?”
He thanked her, and she hurried back to her house a hundred
yards or so away. Jon bent to enter the house and stood erect
once he passed under the low eave of the house. The house
smelled of wood smoke and pounded earth and people, familiar
smells, not unlike his own home. He tossed his gear down onto
a raised earthen bench that hugged the perimeter of the single
room. He sat for a time and then felt silly waiting there waiting
to be fed, so he wandered outside to study the settlement before
supper. He soon had a following of wide-eyed children who
shadowed him at a polite distance chattering among themselves.
Jon passed several garden plots and noticed that they were
better kept than his garden at home and yet the gardens were not
planted in the neat even rows that were the pride of every
Saesen gardener. The plants were intermingled without any
order that Jon could detect and yet the produce was every bit as
good as his own. Probably better, he thought. He knew back
home his garden was being conquered by bindweed as surely as
he stood there. The children tracked him on his amble around
the village like little hawks. He tried making faces at them to
get them to laugh, at first they retreated a step or two, eyes large
in alarm. A voice from the one of houses called out for the
children, and their eyes lit up and turned to the young woman,
Marta, that Jon had been introduced to at the pool. Jon felt his
face color at the memory of standing in the pool dripping naked
in front of her. He really had only seen her from behind as they
50
rode to the Sogon village; she was strikingly beautiful. Jon
smiled at her as she gathered the children to her and turned back
to the village. She beckoned to Jon and asked in simple Saesen,
“You come?” and motioned him back to the house where Ezmet
cooked over an outdoor fire. The smell of the meat stew made
Jon’s mouth water.
Marta pointed the house, “Have you seen such a dwelling
before?”
He realized the doorway was purposefully built low so that
visitors had to bend double to enter through the deer hide. The
thick thatch he guessed was probably a result of the deep winter
snows Egan Holman had alluded to. Ezmet waved him inside,
“Go inside we will eat there.”
When Jon straightened up inside, he found it much cooler
than his own house at the end of a long summer day. Furs and
hides had been thrown over the wide earthen bench to make a
place to sit or sleep. The floor was covered by a layer of hard-
pounded clay, like his own floor at home, not the loose dirt at
every step he had expected. The room was heated by a central
hearth with the hazy blue eye of a smoke hole above it. Smoke
from a hundred winter fires had blackened the beams and
underside of the thatch over his head. Neatly arranged around
the room were the hand mill, house tools, and belongings that a
farm family might need. He half anticipated such an enclosed,
occupied space might stink, but it did not. It smelled of wood
smoke and hanging herbs, and smoked meat. The only furniture
were several three-legged hide stools. Wooden shelves had been
secured to the wall where the bowls and platters were stored.
A shadow darkened the doorway as Ezmet stooped to enter
carrying a steaming pot and smiled up at Jon, followed by her
daughter.
“Sit down Jon,” directed Ezmet. “I’ll share out the food.”
Marta knelt with her knees modestly to the side and indicated
that Jon should sit down on the floor. She set out three wooden
bowls and waited for her mother. Ezmet set the pot in the
middle and handed several flat breads to Marta before she knelt
as well. Ezmet dished a ladle of stew into his bowl, and Marta
51
handed him a hot, thick barley bread easily as big as his bowl
and made eating motions. She then set three smaller shallow
bowls on the table and poured milk into them from a pitcher.
Jon was unsure exactly how to proceed; he was accustomed to
eating with spoons and knives. He watched Marta use the
fingers of her right hand to scoop up the stew with a piece of
oatcake and transfer it to her mouth without spilling a drop. She
gestured for him to do the same. After he got the hang of it, Jon
found it a very satisfactory way to eat. The last of the bread was
used to sop up the last of the stew.
“When we are finished, I will take you to my brother, he
wishes to talk with you.”
“What about?” wondered Jon aloud.
“We hear news, bad news about Olani people coming over
the river. Is this true?”
Jon shrugged. “I do not know about that, but there are
raiders across the river. We’ve heard stories about them all
spring. But it is far to the north of us.”
Ezmet smiled, “But that is not so far north for us. My
brother will talk more of this.”
Jon bobbed his head as he scooped another mouthful from
his bowl. He then picked up the shallow bowl to take a drink of
milk. He lifted it to drink and wrinkled his nose, it smelled
sour. Not wanting to offend, yet unwilling to drink sour milk,
he hesitated, but the other two had already downed theirs. Jon
gulped it down trying to avoid making a face, which was surely
what he wanted to do. Ezmet held out the pitcher.
“Drink all you want, we call it tumiss, mare’s milk.”
“Thank you, no more,” Jon blurted. The last thing he wanted
was another serving of milk piss or whatever Ezmet called it.
The milky sourness left a tang in his mouth he hoped would go
away soon. It reminded him all too well of the clabbered milk
and old bread his mother used to insist that he spoon down for
supper when he was a child. He quickly reached for another
oatcake hoping the chewing of it would scrape away the taste of
the sour milk.
“Tell me about your family, Ezmet,” Jon invited, hoping to
52
change the subject.
“My man, he died two winters ago. He had the coughing
sickness. I have a son who lives in another steading with his
wife and three grandchildren. Marta is to be wed soon.”
“Congratulations,” Jon said to Marta. She blushed, but did
not smile and gave her mother a slight shake of her head. Ezmet
chose to ignore it.
“No young men live here,” Ezmet said candidly. “She must
go to another steading soon. I will be alone, and I feel sad about
that. But it is you we wish to learn about. Tell us about your
life in the south.”
Jon wasn’t sure what to say, so he told them about his family
and his work at the mill. The look on the two faces before him
showed they tried to understand, but he could tell they did not.
They had nothing to compare it to.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room, which
Ezmet broke by suggesting he might want to go back to the
guesthouse.
“My brother, Tobai, the chief of our steading, asks that you
come and speak with him. I will come to speak for you.”
“Perhaps you will rest?” she suggested as they exited the
house. “I will come to get you when the others are ready.”
Jon thanked her for her hospitality and went back to the
guesthouse. He lay down on the pile of furs which had appeared
to cover the clay bench bed and found it reasonably
comfortable. Jon stared at the ceiling while outside the muffled
sounds from the village rose up all about him, but it was too
warm, and he was too curious to lie there, so he ducked outside
with one of the leather stools and surveyed the Sogon at the end
of the day.
An hour later Jon found himself seated across from Tobai,
chief of the Sogon village. His house was built in the same
pattern as Ezmet’s, but was at least twice its size, and filled to
overflowing with every adult in the village with children
jammed into any available space.
Ezmet served as interpreter while Tobai made his
introductory speech.
53
“Welcome, Jon Ellis, to our steading. We have many
questions.”
“I’ll answer if I can,” Jon offered. As Ezmet’s voice
repeated Jon’s words in Sogon, heads bobbed.
“The Olani have crossed the Selwyn River?” Every eye
riveted on Jon’s face.
Jon shrugged. “If they have, I do not know it,” Jon
answered. “We too have heard these rumors. Raiders from the
east have come into Norsk lands,” he continued, “but if they
have crossed the river we haven’t heard it down our way.”
The tension in the room relaxed visibly. Smiles broke out
where none had been before.
“When we saw you today, we were returning from a visit to
our kinsmen nearer the river. They have heard the Normen say
the Olani are camped on the wide plains east of the Norheim.
Fighting there has frightened some of our people across the
great river. We fear Olani people will cross the river and attack
the Normen.”
The conversation among the Sogon swelled until Tobai
called for quiet.
“This is bad news, Jon Ellis. Bad for Sogon, bad for
Normen, bad for you Southerners.”
“Why is that?” Jon asked.
“In my grandfather’s father’s time, we Sogon once lived in
the first light lands, far to the east. The Olani came to the Sogon
steadings and demanded we pay grain and livestock for tribute.
This the Sogon never have done. Olani people came and fought
us, killed many Sogon. Sogon people must give up those lands
or do what the Olani order. Many Sogon they stay, but our
father’s fathers, they leave those lands and moved from place to
place. Most places have not good land, rain is too little, or there
is no room. My grandfather’s people, they came across the
great river and find this place. Ours is good growing land, no
people are here to say do this or do that. It is good here. Other
Sogon come and now there are five steadings. Now we fear the
Olani will come, and once again we shall lose our place. We are
not so many to fight the Olani now. We wonder if these lands
54
are safe. Perhaps it is time to move again.”
“I cannot answer that,” Jon began. “We call this area the
Borderlands. None of our people live here now, but we claim it;
the Norheim border is farther north. The Saesen will not let the
Olani or anyone come and cause trouble for us. We will fight.”
Tobai regarded Jon in wonder. “Southerners will fight the
Olani?
“The Southerners you see walking through this land, they are
always watching. They will bring news to Earl Osric, and we
will fight.
Tobai and the others broke into broad smiles as Ezmet’s
voice brought hope into the room. “Then we will help the
Southerners and the Normen. We are few, and have no love for
the Olani. We can track and hunt and watch the paths the
Normen and the Southerners do not know.”
Tobai gave an order to a woman Jon guessed was his wife,
and she and several other women left the room briefly and
returned carrying bowls and large container.
Ezmet smiled, “This is kumiss; we make it from tumiss.
You may find it strong.”
“Drink with us,” cried Tobai holding out a large wooden
bowl after taking a great gulp from the edge. Jon accepted the
bowl with a bow and sipped from the edge, steeling himself for
the sourness. His tongue let him know something was different
about kumiss. Jon passed the bowl to the man to his right, who
slurped the kumiss and smacked his lips loudly in appreciation
as the others had done. The bowl passed from person to person,
and Tobai’s wife refilled it until everyone had a drink. Jon
hoped that would be the end of the foul stuff. Unfortunately, the
custom was that as long as the talking continued the bowl of
kumiss was passed again and again. After the fourth passing of
the bowl, Jon decided it wasn’t really that bad, and by the sixth
passing, he was thinking kumiss wasn’t bad at all, drinking
deeply and slurping as loudly as any Sogon, well on his way to
being intoxicated.
Tobai asked about his family and town, and he told them an
abbreviated version, an audience in a tavern back home would
55
never let him get away with so little detail, Ezmet all the while
served as his patient translator.
After a lull in the conversation, Ezmet launched into the
telling of her own story once Jon had concluded his. The
bottomless kumiss bowl passed from hearer to hearer and smiles
and knowing glances revealed which story Ezmet was telling.
By the end they all were howling in laughter at Jon’s expense,
Jon belatedly realized that she was retelling their encounter from
earlier in the day and nodded to assure her hearers that what she
said was true. The kumiss had taken away his embarrassment,
and he laughed as hard and as long as they did. Tobai laughed
until tears ran down his cheeks. Several suggestive comments
were made, which Ezmet tactfully chose not to translate. The
meeting ended on very friendly terms after the drinking bowl
had been refilled too many times. Jon was decidedly not
inclined or capable of further travel than to the guesthouse.
“Better you stay here in the guest house tonight,” Ezmet
ordered. Then tomorrow you go on your way.” Tobai and the
young man, whose name Jon couldn’t remember, formed a
wobbly escort into the guesthouse. Jon didn’t remember
undressing for bed, and thoroughly drunk, he barely heard the
sounds of the village settling in for the night.
The dream was so pleasant that he willed himself not to do
anything that would wake him from it. Meg had come to his bed
but something was not right, the dream was no dream at all.
Meg’s form was replaced by Marta just settling beneath the
cover beside him. With a start he sprang back, fully alarmed by
the girl among the furs. Among the Saesen such an act led to
sudden marriages, debt payments, or feuds.
What are you doing here, Marta?” Jon whispered hoarsely.
“You must go, go quickly!”
“No, stranger, I will give myself to you.”
Jon’s voice carried his sense of panic. “No, Marta,” he hissed
emphatically. “Go away. It is too dangerous.”
Marta sat up, her face confused and incredulous. “I am not
to your liking?”
“No… no, I mean yes, you are to my liking. It’s just that… ”
56
he growled to himself. The kumiss still made it difficult to think
clearly. It’s just what? His mouth could not make an answer.
“If you take me, I am your woman; that is our custom.”
Marta whispered.
“It’s our custom, too,” Jon replied, but not this, not you!”
“Not?” Marta hissed and drew back, and before Jon could
utter anything intelligible Marta disappeared as silently as she
had come. Jon knelt there in the dark utterly confused and
vaguely alarmed. The encounter created questions he could
only answer in the light of morning. What did it mean? He
could not clear his head enough of the kumiss to answer any of
his own questions. Jon rolled onto the furs, completely
confused, but still too drunk to do anything else.
He rewoke to the morning sounds of the people moving
about the village, opening one eye before he cried out at the
stabbing headache which gouged the inside of his skull behind
his eyes. Wishing it away and knowing that for the next few
hours he would be miserable; he lay back on the furs and shut
his eyes tight against the light. Worse than any night at the
Swan, he thought to himself.
Remembering enough about where he was, Jon sat up and
waited for the world to stop whirling wildly around him. He felt
nauseated and dragged his shirt over his head and bent to exit
the door. He made it to the side of the house, before he lost the
contents of his stomach and heaved several times beyond that.
He spat and spat again and again to clear his mouth, and wonder
about his night visitor.
Jon glanced over towards Ezmet’s house but couldn’t see
her and walked down to the stream to bathe and clear his
thinking. The cool water startled him awake, and he tried to sort
out what had passed in the night. He kept looking back over his
shoulder to Ezmet’s house, expecting Marta to appear, but she
did not. Jon returned to the hut and packed his things. He set
them down outside and went toward the cooking fire where
Ezmet stirred a pot of oat porridge. She peered up at him and
smiled.
“You slept well?”
57
“Very well,” he mumbled.
“You are hungry?” she asked.
“Not really,” Jon muttered, thinking that kumiss had
probably ruined his appetite for days.
Ezmet laughed which threatened the break Jon’s ear drums.
“Kumiss,” she chuckled, “a little of it, is good, too much…” and
she hit the side of her head and looked to see if Jon understood.
He nodded, and winced as he did so.
“Go in and sit you down.”
Jon did as he was told and collapsed onto one of the stools.
He put his head in his hands realizing that if anyone had seen
Marta leaving the guesthouse he would be accused of an awful
violation of the laws of hospitality. If Ezmet was a woman with
otherworldly power, as he feared she was, then he knew he
would be lucky to escape from the village with his life. He felt
wretched and anxious, and his head was about to split open and
that still kept him from thinking clearly or even focusing his
eyes.
Ezmet followed him inside and handed him a bowl. She
lifted the steaming pot to and scooped up an enormous helping
of oatmeal and dropped the thick steaming goo into the bottom
of the bowl with a splat and topped it with an enormous gob of
butter. Jon recoiled in disbelief and his stomach roiled at the
thought of eating the thick, glutinous mush. As a final insult to
his tender stomach, Ezmet retrieved a pitcher of soured milk,
poured a bowl of it for Jon and set it on the floor beside him.
Ezmet retreated outside, and Jon taxed his brain trying to figure
out how to avoid offending her, but he could hardly look at the
oatmeal let alone eat it. He set it beside the milk went to lie on
the bench. Ezmet found him there, when she came to see if he
had finished. Seeing the food untouched she understood at once
and took it away; she would give it to one of the children.
Jon hardly noticed. When he lifted his head and saw it gone,
he took a few deep breaths and stood up first to apologize to
Ezmet, for his bad manners, and then to find Marta.
With a pounding headache he bowed out into the morning
and went over to Ezmet. He was afraid he’d face Ezmet, the
58
Sogon sorceress, wondering if she could read his thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Ezmet,” he apologized, “I just can’t eat anything
this morning; that kumiss is still pounding away at my skull.”
She chuckled, “Kumiss looks so harmless, what could a little
mare’s milk do, eh? But it has the bite of the snake, we say.”
Jon nodded ruefully, wishing someone had told him that
before he’d drunk a whole bowl of it. Hearing voices
approaching, Jon turned to see Tobai and Guri walking toward
Ezmet’s house.
Wondering if they had come to demand redress for an
imagined trespass against Marta, Jon stood his ground, but his
knees nearly gave out.
“Good morning, Jon Ellis,” Tobai began, Ezmet again
translating. “You remember Guri?”
Jon hesitantly extended his hand to Guri who was himself a
little unsure about what to do with Jon’s proffered hand. He
took Jon’s in a feather-light grip, releasing it instantly.
“We will send Guri with you to the Normen and tell them the
Sogon will help. He does not speak your language, but he
knows a little of the Norsk tongue. He will go north until he
meets the soldiers of the Norsk people.”
Jon was so relieved that Tobai hadn’t mentioned Marta that
he had a hard time focusing on the conversation. Then it
dawned on him that Tobai knew nothing of what had transpired
in the guest house just hours before.
Jon’s mind shifted back to the discussion at hand. He wasn’t
sure he liked the idea of going north with Guri, especially if he
couldn’t understand him, but right at that moment all Jon
wanted to do was get as far away from the Sogon village as
possible, even if it meant taking a Sogon with him.
“Fine with me,” Jon said without meaning it, and forced a
smile as Guri anxiously looked from face to face trying to figure
out if he was to go or stay.
Once Ezmet explained, Guri relaxed. “We will leave you to
your breakfast, and Guri will return when preparations have
been made. Guri said something looking expectantly at Garret.
“Guri offers you the loan of a horse until the two of you part
59
company.”
“What is your word for ‘thank you’,” Jon inquired.
“Say, ‘umet’,” counseled Ezmet.
Jon turned to Guri and repeated the Sogon word. Guri
nodded as if it was of no consequence, but from his demeanor
Jon knew that accepting the horse meant more to the young man
than he was trying to show.
“Thank you, Jon Ellis, may you find good shelter in winter,”
Tobai said and turned to leave. Jon bowed, and Guri stuck out
his hand for Jon to shake and followed Tobai into the steading.
“Guri has shown you a great courtesy, Jon. Our horses are
our brothers and sisters. He is not a wealthy man. He takes his
two horses to the Sogon across the river. When you go your
own way, he will offer the horse to you.”
“I don’t even know him, why would he do that?”
Ezmet thought about it a moment. “It is our way,” she
shrugged. “I have been to your country, I know that you do not
ride horses like we do. If you have no use for the horse, then
when he motions for you to take it, you must say ‘steset’, he will
understand, but it creates a debt between you. We always pay
our debts, Jon.”
The seriousness of her statement jerked Jon back into his
current predicament.
“I was hoping to see Marta,” Jon finally blurted. “Is she
awake?”
“She is awake long ago; she has her work to do.”
“Ah,” sighed Jon, disappointed, then concluded, “I guess I’ll
get ready to go. I am sorry about breakfast. Thank you for your
kindness.”
He returned to the guesthouse to check over his gear before
Guri returned. He heard movement inside the house and when
he peered through the door, he saw Marta, who had been crying.
She motioned for him to sit down.
“I want to speak to you before you go away,” she began
haltingly. He moved to touch her, but she backed away
searching his face.
“You will take me with you?” she implored.
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Jon was speechless. “Take you where?”
“You sit,” demanded Marta, “I will tell you.” Jon sat.
“My people are few, and there is no young man for me, only
old men. My uncle, Tobai, has offered me to an old man, Baba
Janas, from one of the other steadings. I am to be his new wife.
My uncle he says I must marry. I do not like it; I will not go
there. You will help me?” she pleaded.
Jon hesitated. What are you thinking? his brain shrieked.
You are going to get yourself killed over this! Is this how you
repay their kindness? Meg is waiting in Ribble!”
Jon shook his head. “Marta, I cannot take you with me. I
am already promised to another.”
“You are promised to another woman?” she asked
incredulously, “but….”
Jon’s face burned. “So that is why you came to my bed?”
Her eyes narrowed and her voice changed. “I will not marry
the old one. I think if I give myself to you, you will take me
with you.” She cried again softly.
Jon thought a moment. “What about Guri? He seems young
and strong enough to make a fine husband.”
Marta glared at him, “Guri is of my own steading, we are
forbidden to marry a close relative.” Jon paused, then
brightened.
“If there are no young men in the steadings this side of the
river, there are bound to be young men on the far side of the
river among the Sogon villages there.” Marta frowned,
concentrating on what Jon was saying; a glimmer of hope
brought a slight smile.
“I do not know what my uncle will say to this. He has
arranged the marriage, and he will lose face among the
steadings.” Marta bowed her head. “I must go back.” Jon
trailed behind.
Ezmet glanced up from her fire and studied the two young
people coming toward her with a growing sense of unease. She
could tell that Marta had been crying. Ezmet ushered them into
the house.
“What has happened?” she demanded.
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“Marta asked me to take her away,” Jon began lamely,
trying to avoid what had nearly happened between them in the
night. “I could not do that after your kindness to me. We have
come to talk to you.” Ezmet sat down waiting for the young
outlander to finish.
“Marta tells me she will not marry the man from the other
steading.”
Ezmet turned to face her daughter. Marta hung her head,
afraid to look her mother in the eye. Ezmet’s face paled.
“You must marry him!” Ezmet gasped. “The bride price has
been paid!”
Marta wept, tears spilling down her doe skin dress. When
she raised her eyes Jon was surprised at their fierceness.
“I will not marry Baba Janas,” she wailed. Last night I went
to the bed of this man. I will not marry the old one.”
Ezmet’s eyes glinted as they rose to meet Jon’s. He
sputtered an explanation “I could not do what she asked. I sent
her away.”
Ezmet sat down hard, tears starting to her eyes. The
unhappiness in the room only added to the screaming headache
Jon had from Tobai’s kumiss. Jon waited for the first of the
curses to fall.
Glaring at the stupidity of her daughter, Ezmet wondered
even then how she could persuade her brother to try to talk the
old man out of the betrothal. She knew the merest suggestion
that the bride had been with another man would be reason
enough to prevent the marriage, but if the bride price was
rejected, it would mean being ostracized. Not only Marta, but
Ezmet would lose her place in the steading, everything she and
her husband had built over a lifetime. Marta’s whim came at
high cost.
Being a practical woman, she clucked her tongue as Marta in
a flood of Sogon told her mother how she felt. Jon could only
watch the interplay on the faces between mother and daughter
and wonder how soon he was to be cursed with what? A
lifetime of bad luck, accidents, illness? Would she shrivel his
manhood in revenge for what hadn’t happened with Marta in the
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dark? There were wise folk even in Saeland with reputations
that would cause any sensible person to think twice before
crossing them, Eofa, the seidwoman for a start.
Ezmet turned to Jon. “This thing my daughter has done is
foolish,” she said flatly. “Is it true you have a woman in the
south?” Jon nodded, rising fear in his gut. The silence in the
house was broken only by the sounds of dogs barking and
children playing somewhere in the village.
“I cannot take Marta. The kumiss…” faltered Jon.
“Among my people,” Ezmet began, “there is a price paid to
the family of the bride. On the day of the wedding the bride’s
family provides her with a dowry. We are poor and the old one
Marta is to marry has already paid for her in horses. If it is
known my daughter visited the guest house last night, even if
you didn’t finish what she started, it is reason enough for no
marriage. But when it is known, Marta cannot remain here, the
people, they will talk; they will be unkind, they will blame you,
I fear. If Marta does not wed Baba Janas, the horses must be
returned and no man will take Marta in the five steadings, we
will be outcast.”
“Mama, I cannot marry him,” Marta wept. “I want to cross
the river.”
Ezmet thought hard once again and sighed. “My mind tells
me that you should stay and marry Baba Janas. But something
else whispers that you must go. But you cannot go alone. I will
ask Tobai to return the horses and explain that I have decided to
leave the steading and cross the river to our people and the far
side. We will gather what we can, and go to the Sogon villages
there. Perhaps there is one who will make you happy, Marta.”
Marta had stopped crying and looked hopefully at her
mother. “You would do this? You would leave the steading
and come with me?”
Ezmet took a deep breath. “I will go with you. Who knows,
perhaps there will be a man there to comfort me when you are
gone.” She turned back to Jon.
“If, as you say, you have a woman in your country, she
should count herself a lucky woman. You are an honorable
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young man, Jon Ellis. A man must be true to himself first and
second to the ones he loves. Mischief has nearly been done
here. The stars have woven our paths together, Saesen, and since
I do not see all ends from where we stand now, I shall wait to
see if this be good or bad. You are young and have much to
learn. Go now,” she said. “Speak to no one of this,” she
ordered. “I hear Guri coming; you go out to meet him.”
Jon mumbled his thanks and cast a last glance at Marta
before stooping to leave the house, mother and daughter
speaking in low urgent tones. Jon called to Guri who was
approaching the guesthouse leading two strong, fine horses, a
sorrel and a bay. Jon hurried to reach the guesthouse before
him, struggled into the straps his own pack, picked up his other
gear and greeted Guri as he approached the guesthouse. Jon
stepped into the stirrup easy enough, but instantly realized a
pack slung over a shoulder or carried on one’s back didn’t
exactly work on horseback. He’d have to rig another way to
carry his gear, but not there, not in front of Guri. Jon motioned
to Guri to take the lead on the narrow trail; Guri smiled and
instantly assumed the role of scout.
Jon glanced back a couple of times at the steading, feeling a
little dazed about how he had left Marta and Ezmet. He found
himself trying to piece together events of the previous evening
again and again, and no matter how he tried, he came to the
conclusion that there was little he could do about Marta’s
appearance in his bed, but even as he rode, he warmed at the
thought of her. What did that mean? All the way down to the
road Jon wrestled with the uncomfortable mix of emotions that
swirled inside him. In the end he resolved that he would not
wait any longer to ask Durban Turner for his daughter. When
he got back to Ribble, he’d convince Meg that sooner was better
than later. Somehow making that decision eased a burden he’d
been wrestling with for months.
Guri set a strong pace that Jon appreciated once the pain
behind his eyes subsided. After they regained the old road, the
forest thinned and by noon had receded from the road to the east
and west. They traveled north wordlessly side by side. Crossing
64
one more set of hills after noon; they gazed out over a wide
valley that extended east and west for a great distance. Jon
gained a new appreciation of travel by horseback. It was easier
than walking; no burden to carry at all, but the pain of sitting
astride the broad back of the horse for hour after hour became
an endurance test. If he had read the maps at the Armory
correctly, then he had at last reached the edge of Saeland.
Halfway across the next valley, on the banks of a good-sized
stream, they came to what appeared to be the ruins of a large
village. Jon turned off the road and dropped gratefully off his
mount to walk among the ruins which clustered on either side of
the road, many not more than piles of stone overgrown with
nettles and smothered in sunset-hued woodbine or eaten by
lichens. He kicked around the ruins to see if anything might give
him a clue as to who had lived here. Guri rode clear of the
rubble gazing with alarm at Jon’s examination of the ruins. Jon
wondered if any of his own ancestors had lived or fought or died
there. In the near distance he saw a large stone structure near
the road, but when they approached it, he saw that it wasn’t a
ruin.
Jon dismounted again and walked around the monument,
which stood more than twice his height and was twenty paces
across. On reaching the west side he realized it was some kind
of burial chamber. Like an open mouth the enormous portal
stones yawned open into the darkness beyond. From the interior
a coldness whispered; dry and sunless it felt. He shuddered and
hurried past; glad it was broad daylight. The barrow would be a
lonely, mournful, ghostly place at night; perhaps a dangerous
place as well. He walked the rest of the way around it. The
mound rose in courses, largest stones on the bottom and smallest
on the top. Once again Guri sat in the road keeping his distance
from the mound, steadfastly refusing to come closer. In his
forced grin Jon detected his desire to be well away from such a
place before evening.
The ancient road began a slow curve toward the east,
heading for the Selwyn River. Jon watched for the track that
Egan had described leading north to the border. He was hungry
65
and decided to use his bow and see if he could find something
for his supper. Jon pulled out his bow and motioned to Guri to
do the same. When Guri understood they were to hunt, he
smiled and eagerly strung his own. Jon had seen plenty of holes
where rabbits might live, but there were none to be seen. Guri
dismounted and moved off the road to the east and flitted from
cover to cover as silent as a shadow. Jon hunted the other side
of the road until he came upon a path heading due north. He
paused until Guri reappeared, and signaled that he would follow
the trail north. Guri waved his understanding and continued
stalking.
The afternoon was hot once again, but a breeze from the
steep hills swept down past him and cooled him off. Jon saw
little sign of anything big enough to make a meal out of. He
looked for Guri but couldn’t see him. The trail ahead was in full
sun, and so he found a place in the shade to tie up his mount and
waited to see if Guri’s movements drove any game his way. But
he had no luck, and neither did Guri, for he came out of the
timber across from Jon and shrugged indicating that he had
found nothing. The horses plodded up the trail in the blazing
afternoon heat toward the boundary ridges. Once again his shirt
stuck his back, and the water in his bottle grew warm and stale.
Looking ahead he saw that not too far from the base of the
ridge, a copse of maples arched over the trail, and he determined
to rest there in the shade for a time.
Guri disappeared off to his right again, then reappeared
empty handed leading his mount. He came and sat down across
from Jon in the shade, grateful for the respite from the heat. As
soon as Jon stood up, Guri went off again to hunt. That meant
that Jon got farther and farther ahead as the overheated horse
stumbled up the steep slope of the ridge. He came upon an east
flowing brook deep enough so that he could douse his head and
shoulders and then sat down to wait for Guri. He was listless
and tired. Even the prospect of a meatless supper wasn’t
enough to get him to move out into the sun again. When Guri
rode up grinning, he carried a fat grouse. Jon smiled and
pounded him on the back for his efforts, thinking already how
66
good it would taste after roasting over the coals of the evening
cook fire.
The track they followed from that point forward meandered, but
not enough that Jon felt like cutting across country. The land
rose steadily to meet the hills, and the ground became rockier
with every step. A rabbit that had frozen in place to avoid being
seen, darted from his path and stopped when it felt safe enough
to study the two. Jon slipped from his horse knocked an arrow,
drew back, and released, but his shot flew wide. Guri released
his arrow before the rabbit could react; his arrow sped true, and
Guri retrieved the rabbit with a victory shout. Guri slung the
grouse by its feet and the rabbit by its ears over his horse’s neck
as the sun inched its way down the sky onto the horizon.
Jon’s thighs and buttocks were so sore he could hardly sit
the horse any longer. The trail doubled back on itself to allow
weary riders to go up through the forest, taking the steep incline
a piece at a time. They finally reached the ridge crest to find the
snowy tops of the great mountains in the hazy distance. “The
Dragonsback,” he murmured. “I have actually seen beyond
Saeland into foreign lands!” he exulted. “I have made it.” He
had done what he set out to do. Except for the mountain peaks,
the distant vista was cast in shadow as the sun moved closer to
setting. Guri sat his horse impassively taking in the scene. The
forest had crowded in on the path once again, and Jon spoke to
Guri and by signs tried make known his desire to camp. Guri
nodded his head vigorously, and they looked for a decent
location. Jon wanted a place where he would be out of the wind
and his fire not visible from a distance. Not more than a
hundred yards down the trail he saw a path leading off through
the evergreens to his left. He dismounted and followed it for
perhaps a fifty paces or so leading his horse and found an
established campsite at the foot of a high stone ledge. The
natural wearing of the stone had created an overhang where
several people could sit out of the rain. A ring of blackened
stones had been constructed and firewood was stored carefully
under the alcove. Dried bracken had been piled for a bed.
“Perfect,” Jon said out loud, “exactly what I had in mind.”
67
He shouted for Guri and untied his pack and tethered his horse
to a tree branch. Guri seemed pleased with the campsite as soon
as he saw it and lay out the bird and rabbit for gutting. He led
the horses to a small spring-watered meadow a few score paces
down the slope and used two short lengths of rope to hobble
both horses. Jon walked out of camp a few paces and started to
pluck the bird, while Guri skinned and butchered the rabbit. Jon
took out the lidded pot he carried with him and went to the
spring to fill it. By the time he returned, Guri had coaxed a
small flame into the kindling and soon had a cook fire going.
Into the pot with the two carrots and a small onion Jon had
carried in his pack all the way from Redding went the rabbit and
several fists full of barley. The rabbit stew simmered and the
smell of food made hungry mouths water. He had been looking
forward to a good meal all afternoon. Guri set up a skewer for
the bird and after raking coals flat, began the slow process of
roasting it. While the stew boiled, Jon pulled his bed roll apart
and laid it out on half of the bracken and stretched out flat, legs
crossed at the ankles. The aroma of the food made their
stomachs growl long before the food was ready.
When the rabbit was judged to be cooked, Jon set the pot to
one side for the stew to cool. He turned his pack around and
lay back on it, so he could gaze through a clearing to the purple-
blue mountains in the distance still wearing last winter’s cap of
snow. The sunset breeze blew through the tops of the firs and
alders under which they lay, but did not so much as stir the
ashes at the edges of their fire. He’d tried all day to say things
to Guri, but they hadn’t really been able to do more than sign
and gesture. It was apparent the mountains impressed him as
well. Guri turned the bird patiently knowing from experience
that the outside would be blackened before the inside was
cooked beyond raw. Jon offered the rabbit stew to Guri who
dipped a serving into the small wooden bowl he carried with
him and ate with great satisfaction, slurping and blowing the hot
pieces of meat and vegetable, as Jon did. The cooking was
second rate by Redding standards, but given the present
circumstances, it was wonderful. Jon scooped the last few
68
spoonfuls of stew from the pot and set it to one side. Sometime
later the bird was roasted, and they ate it in silence except for
the good food sounds that transcend language. Guri pulled a
gourd flask from his pack and took a long swig. Wiping the lip
of the bottle he handed it to Jon indicating he should drink. Jon
lifted and caught the unmistakable odor of kumiss. He made a
wry face and deprecating gestures to indicate he didn’t want any
of the vile, soured brew. Guri laughed out loud and said
something Jon was sure was insulting, but if it meant never
drinking kumiss again, he’d suffer more than insults.
Jon lay back full and content not paying attention to
anything, almost on the verge of falling asleep, when he heard
the horses whinny. Guri leaped to his feet grasping the handle
of his knife. The hair on Jon’s arms and the back of his neck
jerked erect and from one instant to the next his heart was
exploding rhythmically in his chest as if it was trying to escape.
Guri’s reaction more than anything else told him they were in
danger. Someone or something had alarmed the horses in that
wild place. Jon’s hand stole to his own knife hilt easing it from
its sheath.
“You need not those knives,” a disembodied voice called
from the shadows. Jon’s hand froze. He motioned to Guri to
hold. Their eyes tried to pierce the veil of foliage, but they
could make out no image.
On some invisible, silent signal the forms of four men
emerged from the trees to their right, bows strung and arrows
knocked, not aimed, but Jon knew they could be in an instant.
Jon wasn’t afraid, at least he didn’t think he was, the voice was
calm, definitely not someone from Saeland. Norman? Jon’s
mind flashed to the conversation with Egan yesterday.
Trying to sound bluff, Jon looked directly at the intruders.
“Come into camp, you are welcome!” Jon called.
The tallest of the men nodded almost imperceptibly, studying
the two young strangers.
“Come over to the fire if you please. My name is Jon Ellis,
from Saeland,” Jon invited much more easily than he felt. “My
friend here is Guri of the Sogon.”
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The strangers approached cautiously. Jon stood up and
removed his hand from his knife hilt. Guri was still tensed for
fight, but Jon again signaled the danger had passed. The four
men moved into the late afternoon light, and Jon could finally
see their faces for the first time. They were approximately the
same size as Jon, tall, compared to most Saesen anyway. Their
broad, square frames, dressed in open-throated tunics and a
belted blanket in different multi-colored checked patterns
thrown over their left shoulders. Their faces were angular, keen
of eye, and dark-haired. The one who spoke was older by
perhaps ten years.
“You need not fear us,” the leader began in accented but
passable Saesen. “I am Erlend Billund, keeper of the southern
border. These are my companions: Torkil, Loni, and Einar.
What is your name and your purpose here,” he demanded.
“I am Jon Ellis, a traveler, from Redding in Saeland. And
this is Guri of the Sogon. I was told he speaks a little Norsk, we
haven’t been able to say much to each other.” Erlend spoke to
Guri directly, and Guri’s face brightened when Erlend spoke to
him in the flat, guttural sounds of Norsk.
“Why have you come so far from settled lands, Jon Ellis?”
Erlend asked as he turned back to Jon. “This is a wild and
dangerous place. Those there are which love not Saesen or
Norman for that matter, who trample our land not far from here.
They would slay you if they found you.”
Jon felt thoroughly chastised. He knew he deserved it, but
he had been telling himself he was practicing to be in the Guard
for so long, he’d convinced himself it was reason enough. His
own experiences of the past two days revealed his customary
explanation as a tissue of self-deception and overconfidence.
He was walking blithely through places where he ought not to
be, not yet anyway, and certainly not alone.
“I have learned for myself, Erlend, the truth of what you say.
I will camp here tonight and return south tomorrow. We would
be glad of your company. Egan Holman told me I might
encounter Normen near the border. He spoke darkly of what it
is you and the Guard protect us from. I would hear more from
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you, since I intend to join the Guard this fall.”
Erlend appeared to be considering his words. “We would be
glad of your fire.” With a simple lifting of his chin, three of the
men left. Jon blew out his breath after the three Normen
disappeared.
You are a nitwit, you muddle-brained fool, Jon berated
himself. Coming out here as if it were a walk to Holbourne.
Just as well you didn’t meet up with anything wild, you would
have been of no use to anyone including yourself.
Although Jon tried to convince himself otherwise, he’d been
nearly unmanned by Ezmet. Home and the comfort of a good
bed sounded infinitely better than hiking around the borderlands
at that moment.
Two of the Norsk soldiers returned with four packs and set
them down across the fire from Jon. “I see that you have
already eaten, but we have not,” explained Erlend. “If you don’t
object, we’ll share your fire?”
“Be our guest,” Jon offered, remembering to his manners.
From a leather bag one of the men drew the carcasses of three
fat grouse like the one Jon and Guri had eaten. Erlend carefully
built up the fire with the firewood the third man in Erlend’s
company carried into camp, while the other two worked to spit
the birds and used Guri’s stones and sticks to roast them.
The silence among them was filled by the cracking and
snapping of the fire. Jon knew he was under close scrutiny and
tried to get the Normen to talk.
“Erlend, Guri here has news that you will want to hear. The
Sogon hate the Olani and want to help. I stayed in a Sogon
village last night, some of them just returned from talking with
their people near the river. The Olani are moving west toward
Norheim on the far side of the river.”
Erlend didn’t look surprised. He turned to Guri who
affirmed what Ezmet had told Jon. The hitherto impassive faces
of the men showed real concern. Perhaps Guri’s coming meant
more important than he had thought. The questions flew back
and forth several times, before Erlend had extracted everything
he could from Guri and Jon. Then only the crackling of the fire
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in the night and whirring of cicadas broke the silence.
“We’ve heard rumors of trouble up your way, and Egan
Holman told me as much again yesterday,” Jon said.
Erlend thought a moment considering how best to answer.
“Like your Guard, I am under orders myself. Word has come
that Olani raiders have crossed the great river and have attacked
towns in Visberg not many leagues north of us. We were sent
this way to be sure they did not come up the old road from the
river. If they had come this way, perhaps we would have found
you skewered like this bird, or your throat cut from ear to ear.
They are merciless. Long ago we agreed to watch these lands
that lie between our peoples. Towns were built and land cleared
for farms and fields. The road you followed today was but one
of many that crisscrossed the border lands in every direction.
Villages sprang up for a time under the lordship of my people,
and there was peace and prosperity. But the soil is thin here,
much richer to the south. Over time the Saesen moved out of
the hills and the long separation of our two peoples began.
Since then our only common venture, except for a few boats a
season going up or down river, is to thwart those who would
hurt or threaten the common peace. Our sworn duty is to defend
Saeland as we protect and defend Norheim.”
“How many of there are you?”
“Of soldiers? Some hundreds all told,” Erlend declared.
“Do you know a man by the name of Arnegil?”
Erlend smiled. “Yes, Jon, I know him; he is our chief and
my kinsman. You know Egan Holman then, do you?”
Not really, my father knew him well. Holman lives in
Redding where I live. I talked to him yesterday on the trail
north, he was heading home, I think.”
Erlend regarded Jon with interest.
“He and I visited for a time not two days since,” Erlend
admitted.
The fire popped and snapped when Jon threw three or four
sticks onto the fire ring. Erlend stretched and spoke to the other
men who shook their heads seeming more interested in the
roasting than any conversation with an outlander. Guri offered
72
his milk poison to the Normen who had the same reaction to it
Jon did. Guri insulted them cheerfully in Norsk, and it brought
the first full laughter Jon had heard from any of the Normen.
The talking went easier among them after that until Erlend
strode to the edge of the little dell to listen to the night and its
sounds. Whatever he was listening to, he appeared satisfied
when he turned back to the little campfire.
After dark, the smell of wood smoke hovered around the
little encampment, Jon felt increasingly comfortable around
these strangers. The Normen unbelted their brychans, the
patterned wool blanket each of them wore over their shoulder.
They wrapped themselves in the cloaks and lay down. Jon
rested against his head against the pack behind him gazing up
into the night sky. The proximity of the strangers around the
fire comforted him after all the talk of raiders. There was
something about the leader of the Normen that he couldn’t quite
put his finger on; it was as if there was some virtue or keenness
about Erlend that set him apart from any other person Jon had
ever met.
Erlend turned his head in Jon’s direction.
“And you, Jon, what is it that brings you to the border?”
“I have always wanted to see the great mountains of the
North. I have hiked far and wide in Saeland, and had a few days
off work at the mill. So here I am.”
“And what do you think of them, now that you have seen
them?”
“They are beautiful,” Jon said knowing that the word was
insufficient.
“Perhaps one day you will come farther north. They are
indeed beautiful, more so if you see them close up.”
Jon’s mind had spun to another topic, the Sogon.
“Do you know anything of the Sogon?”
“Very little, why do you ask?”
Jon described his visit with Ezmet and her people and
related the events of the previous afternoon and evening leaving
aside Marta’s night time visit.
“They treated you well. You seem none the worse for it.
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The Sogon are among those we call the wanderers,” Erlend
explained. “Most of them come and go without much trouble,
mostly small bands of farmers or herders who keep to
themselves.”
“What of the others?”
“I am not sure that the dark of a summer night in the wild is
the place to name the dangers you and I face in such a place as
this,” he began hesitantly, but seeing Jon’s expectant face, but
he relented. “Wanderers there are a plenty in the world, Jon.
As you saw, most are simple people who follow their horses or
cattle or sheep from valley to valley pausing but long enough to
wear away the grass and then they are gone. Others flee settled
lands to escape punishment for crimes they commit in their
greed or their rage. They bring their evil with them. Highway
men and thieves at times lie in wait to catch the unwary traveler.
Upon all of these we have kept watch. But I fear the days of
easy watching are coming to a close.”
“Because of the Sogon?” Jon asked.
“Not because of them, but what they represent. The lands to
the east are troubled, we’ve been told. The Olani have crowded
the Sogon, or what is left of them, west out of their own lands, I
think, because the Olani are under pressure from tribes east of
them. No, Jon, I do not fear the Sogon, but they are the first of
many who seek lands free from turmoil. Both our peoples will
be forced to work more closely together or alone, I think, we
will be overcome.” The Normen had been listening to Erlend’s
voice and staring into the dying fire. Jon shivered, but not from
being cold. It came to him like a sharp pain in his chest, just
how close Ribble was to the Olani threat. And if Ribble, then…
“But come,” said Erlend in a lighter tone, “enough of such
talk in the gloom.
“Tell me of your meeting with Egan Holman. “
“How is it you know him?” inquired Jon.
“From meetings not much different than this encounter with
you,” Erlend replied. “We have spoken many times.”
Jon recounted his talk with Holman and wondered why
Erlend would be interested, but he was so tired that he yawned
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widely. The Normen who could not understand him had rolled
themselves in their blankets and fallen asleep. Conversation
lagged and after wishing the others good night, silence
descended. Guri already snored softly on his half of the bracken
bed. The guttering russet glow of the dying fire lit Erlend’s
profile looking off into the distance, his eyes closed. Jon pulled
his own blanket about him and rolled onto his side.
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3
Weighing Options
Jon gratefully dropped his pack near the door beneath the
wide porch on the front of the Ribble Inn and leaned his bow
against the wall. He tried to scrape his boots free of the clinging
mud with a stick but gave up leaving them on the porch beside
his gear. Stepping to the corner of the porch Jon used the
shower of icy water pouring off the eaves to sluice the mud
from his legs and shirt.
Shivering and soaking wet he lifted the latch and stepped
inside the inn. The fire in the main hearth burned brightly and
several men turned to regard him and nodded in friendly
acknowledgment and just as quickly went back to their pipes,
drinks, food and conversations. Durban Turner was serving
steaming bowls and plates of food from a wooden tray without
glancing at Jon who stood dripping on the plank floor.
“I’ll be with you in a moment sir,” he called absently and
busied himself around one of the tables clattering the dishes,
bowls, plates, and cups.
Jon was too cold to wait for an invitation and moved to
stand in front of the fireplace.
“You are soaked to the skin, you are,” commented one of the
men. “Been out in it all day?”
“Yes sir,” Jon answered. “Come down along Ribble since
yesterday.”
“Jon!” exclaimed Durban Turner at the sound of Jon’s voice,
“why didn’t you say something? You look half drowned.” He
81
set the tray down and dragged a bench over to the hearth and
ordered Jon to sit next to the fire.
“So you made it back, did you? How far did you get?”
Durban asked with a spark in his eye.
“Made it all the way to the border ridge, met some Normen
up there. Even camped one night with them,” said Jon, feeling
rather important.
“I’ll bring you some warm cider, that will cut the chill,”
Turner offered when Jon shuddered involuntarily. “And then
we’ll all want to hear about what happened.”
Jon turned his back to the fire, steam curling and rippling off
his tunic. He spoke briefly with the other guests, but they were
busy eating, and Jon was cold and tired and didn’t feel much
like telling stories just then. Not at least until he had changed
clothes and eaten something himself.
Durban returned with a mug brimming with hot hard cider
that he handed to Jon, who cupped it in both hands to warm
them. The smell reminded him of Yule and twelve warm nights
of feasting around the hearth fires. It was delicious.
“Master Turner, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like
to stay the night,” Jon asked.
“Of course, of course, Jon, we’ve got a full inn tonight, but
I’ll turn Tristan out of his room, and you can stay there.”
Jon protested, but Turner wouldn’t hear anything against it.
“No use fussin’, Jon, it’s already decided. Edlyn and Meg’d
like it if you would join us in the kitchen for something to eat.
Now you’ll be wanting to change, I’m sure.”
“Yes, please,” replied Jon, “although everything I own is
soaking wet.”
“I can help you there,” offered Durban, “my nephew stayed
with us a couple of summers ago and left a few of his things
here, and I’ve never got round to sending them on. He’s about
your size. Get your things, and I’ll take you up.”
Jon retrieved his pack, cloak, left his boots outside and
followed Durban up the stairs in bare feet.
“So Meg is back, then?”
“Got home ‘round noon today,” Durban replied. Jon began
82
warming just fine.
Above the kitchen Durban opened a bedroom door just as
Tristan lifted the latch from the other side. His face broke into a
grin when he saw Jon.
“Hullo, Jon, you been out in the rain?”
Jon grinned and waited for Turner to deliver his speech.
“Tristan, we’re going to put Jon in here tonight,” Turner
explained. “You can sleep down in the kitchen, all right?”
Tristan smiled and bowed Jon into the room.
“Sorry to put you out,” Jon apologized after Durban went
back downstairs. “Your father insisted.”
“Don’t worry, Jon. Dad will put a pallet in the kitchen by the
fire. On a night like tonight I’ll be warmer there than in here.
Besides,” he whispered conspiratorially, “there’s always food in
the larder.” Jon smiled and thanked him again remembering
similar night-time raids on his mother’s pantry.
“Will you be needing anything else?”
“Any water in the wash room?” Jon inquired.
“Probably gone stone cold by now,” Tristan answered. “I’ll
bring some from the kitchen. They’ll call us for supper soon,”
Tristan predicted as he pulled a few things from a cupboard and
threw a few sticks into the small fireplace from the wood box.
“I’ll fetch up the bucket and see you at dinner,” he called and
pulled the door closed behind him.
Jon spread his cloak over two wall pegs to dry since it
already was leaving a small puddle on the floor planks. He
emptied the rest of his kit and found that everything in it was
wet through except for the message Erlend had written which
he’d put into his cooking pot with the lid on. Tristan knocked on
the door a few moments later holding out a deep blue woolen
overtunic with crimson embroidered cuffs and collar. “Dad says
it’s the best of the lot.” Jon took it and held it up and thought it
would fit passably well; Tristan disappeared back downstairs.
Jon struggled out of his tunic and felt the cold air of the room
sting his wet skin; he was cold and footsore.
The time set for his formal induction into the Guard seemed
to come achingly slow for Jon. He felt an odd sense that he was
observing himself becoming enmeshed in events which were
already in motion, like swimming in the river, he found himself
moving faster than he’d intended. To sit quietly in Granny’s
over-warm house was out of the question. He volunteered to
work in the garden, which he found sadly unkempt. What he
thought would be light gardening turned out to be a chore.
Luckily, Granny’s garden wasn’t as big as his own, and by the
forenoon he had made significant headway against the tide of
planty thugs threatening to engulf the whole thing.
Gytha called him to come in for a late breakfast and get
ready for the swearing in. Jon put on his guardsman’s gear and
packed up so he could leave just after the ceremony. He had
purposely failed to say anything about that until breakfast and
his mother had expressed her deep disapproval of sending him
off on his first assignment with no more notice, but between
Jon’s assurances and her mother’s encouragement, they
managed to calm Gytha enough for the day to proceed without
much more trouble.
The three of them left the house on their way to the Armory
where Jon’s swearing in was to take place. The market had
swollen since the day before. Jon held open the heavy wooden
door to the Armory, and they were greeted by Thane Giffard
and the Earl himself. The Clerk for the Council, Geoffrey
Sutton and another hawk-eyed figure whom the Earl introduced
as First Reeve Devlyn Telford stood at the long table, below the
great map of Saeland on the wall Jon knew so well.
Earl Osric, still spattered with the blood of the morning’s
sacrifice, called Jon by his given name and invited Jon’s
136
grandmother and mother to sit in the benches on either side of
the table, and asked Jon to sit at the end between them. In front
of him were three documents written in fine clear script
complete with swirls and curlicues added by the clerk, Sutton, to
the formal document.
“We have met today for the express purpose of swearing in
Jon Ellis of Redding, son of the late Dean Ellis and Mistress
Gytha Stalling, now resident of this town, as a member of the
Guard.” The Earl asked Jon to stand and swore him in.
The Earl moved down the length of the table and shook Jon’s
outstretched hand and then the others in the room.
“Jon, if you would please take your seat, the clerk is poised
to do his duty.” Jon sat down with all the others looking on.
“Will you sign your name on this copy for the archives?”
“Thank you. Mistress Ellis, will you be the first witness?”
Gytha blushed, thoroughly approving of the formalities. The
clerk handed her the document indicating the correct place for
her to make her mark as first witness. After Gytha had
laboriously drawn her boxed Thorun’s sign mark, Granny
Stalling made her mark, a simple shaky crossing of two lines as
second witness. Thane Giffard signed for the Guard, and lastly
the clerk signed his own name in the corner in tiny letters
adding the word “clerk”.
“That concludes the swearing in,” the Earl announced. I
understand you already have an assignment that will take you
home this afternoon,” the Earl said calmly.
“Yes, sir,” Jon responded.
“Perhaps if you’ll allow me, ladies, I will escort you home.
I believe Jon has some business here. May I?”
Gytha and Granny smiled while Granny took the Earl’s arm,
and they swept out the door and across the square towards
Stockwell Road.
The clerk packed up his materials and certificates and wished
the others good day. Jon waited for instructions.
“Come up here” instructed the Thane waving Jon and Reeve
Telford into a bench as he pulled out a thin leather bag with a
long shoulder strap. It was the same bag as those council riders
137
carried from town to town imprinted with the unmistakable
runes for Saeland Council surrounded by a circle stamped into
the leather.
“Jon, this is the dispatch case for the Council. They will
identify you to the Guard wherever you go. They must not leave
your possession at any time until you surrender the contents to
the Guard captains. You may carry messages between sections
of the Guard or all the way back here.” He opened the case and
took out several parchments. He handed the first to Jon. “This
is a list of towns that you should visit on the northern circuit
beginning with Holbourne. You will notice the names of the
men and the houses or farms upon which they live. Anyone in
the town should be able to tell you where you can find them or
who the second is if the Captain isn’t there when you arrive.”
“This one, he held out a short parchment to which a thin
scarlet ribbon and a wax seal was affixed, is a letter of about
you, an introduction , if you will. If anyone questions you,
simply ask them to read this letter, or have it read to them. It is
signed by the Earl and myself, it has his seal.
The rest are letters addressed to each section advising them
what they need to do to get the Guard moving north and
indicating that help is being organized from here. I have asked
that they provide you with any assistance they can.”
“Do you have any questions about what is in the dispatch
case?” Jon shook his head.
“I remind you that there are a few men, who don’t feel about
Saeland the way the rest of us do. They want to change it and
us. Some are just wrong headed and stubborn, but others, Jon,
are mean and if they could get their way, they don’t much care
who gets hurt or the cost to the rest of us. A few are known to
be trouble makers; others have plans of their own that haven’t
come to light yet. Ralph Warren, for one, must not know about
your assignment.” Jon wanted to ask why, but he realized after
the confrontation the other day, he understood, or thought he did
anyway.
“Understood, sir.”
“Now, one thing more,” he paused. “I don’t like you going
138
off on your own like this, isn’t right and isn’t safe. With the
holiday the two or three good lads in Camber I thought I could
send are visiting relatives and won’t be back until next week. I
want you to find someone in Holbourne or Pendleton, a member
of the Guard, to go with you. Here is a letter authorizing you to
take a companion with you that any member of the Guard will
recognize.”
Jon’s gaze rose to the wall map. “Is there anything I should
watch out for?”
“I wish I knew,” Thane Giffard sighed. “In addition to the
letter to Rafe Turpin, I want you to give this letter to Devin
Ridley if you can find him. You think you can manage all
that?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll get my things and set off at once.”
“We are counting on you. And we won’t forget this, Jon.
When you have finished your circuit, rest up a few days in
Redding and send me a note that you’ve arrived home. Sounds
like you are looking for work. Perhaps there are other things
you can do for us.”
“Thank you, Thane,” said Jon and stood up. Thane Giffard
handed the cases over to him and shook his hand. The Reeve
also stood having studied Jon’s reaction to all of Giffard’
instruction all the while.
“Mind how you go, we’ll expect a full report when you
return.” Jon shook his hand. “Off you go and good luck!”
“Thank you sir, “Jon called, and was out the door and off to
Granny’s almost at a run.
“Interesting choice,” Reeve Telford commented. “He’s
young for this, are you sure he’s up to it?”
“No one else I can send on short
notice. I’ve known him since he was a tyke; he’s a sturdy young
man, as good as they get, these days. He’ll do fine when he
teams up with a veteran from Holbourne. My problem is how to
raise recruits without causing a fuss. I know a few lads down in
Stockwell but not near enough. Perhaps we should split up and
go off on a circuit of our own. We could send the boys here for
a couple of days to train before we put them on the borders.
139
Why don’t you come over to the house and you and I can figure
out the details. My wife will be glad of the company and has
planned a fine Midsummer’s dinner.”
“I’d be pleased. I meet you there in half an hour.” Thane
Giffard waited for Telford to leave and locked the door behind
him.
Good luck, Jon, he thought as he turned and crossed the
square ignoring the crowd who unwittingly danced while their
fate was about to be decided by a handful of men a hundred
leagues north they knew nothing about.
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5
Urgent Dispatches
Garret and Jon chattered all the way to Rafe Turpin’s place.
Mistress Turpin had set out bread and cheese, and some smoked
ham. When they had eaten all they cared to, Rafe asked Jon and
Garret to come with him into the sitting room.
“I want to have a word with you both before you set off, and
I need to go get something for you. Wait here.”
Jon repacked the items he’d left at Turpin’s rapidly and
waited for Rafe to come back.
“Did you see those knives he makes?” said Jon lifting his
chin to the end of the room.
Garret stood up and examined the knives, hands clasped
behind his back. “Those are real beauties. Have you ever seen
anything like them?
“Not me,” said Jon. “The intricate designs along the top are
wonderful, like something out of old stories.” They were still
gazing at the knives when Rafe returned with something in his
hand.
“Garret, you come take a seat. I want you both to hear
this.”
“Jon, I want you to tell Garret what the thane told you about
the dispatch case.” Jon repeated Giffard’s instructions as clearly
as he could recall.
“As of this moment that responsibility is a shared one.
Garret, this errand is important, more important than any errand
for the Guard in many years. The lives and safety of your own
people may depend on raising the Guard. I feel easier about
such young folks entrusted to such an important task when I
look at the two of you together. Stick to each other, depend on
each other, and I have every confidence you will succeed. Now,
one last piece of advice. Parts of Saeland don’t think much of
the Watch. A more active Watch might mean curtailing some of
their, shall we say, less honorable ways of making a living. Just
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keep your eyes and ears open and your wits about you. The
information you carry is for those who need to know. Tell what
you know, and keep it simple, it’s easy to make things sound
worse than they are in these situations. We’ll meet again, I have
a feeling.”
“Here,” Captain Turpin said, “I’d like you to have these.”
He held out to each of them a long object wrapped loosely in a
thin piece of cloth.
“They might come in handy. Take them, go on,” he encouraged.
Together they unwrapped the presents. They were long
knives in plain black leather sheaths. Jon pulled the handle and
found one of Rafe’s exquisitely hand-crafted blades, delicate
tracery down the top of the blade curving around to the haft of
the blade which shone like silver. Garret pulled his out of its
sheath and found a similar blade with a slightly different pattern
but the same wonderful balance and design.
Garret murmured, “Thank you Master Turpin.” And then
looking up at him with eyes alight said, “I will treasure this all
of my life and my children after me,” then added “well, if I ever
get so lucky.”
“I can only say the same, Jon said. “They are wonderful!”
Rafe leaned back and smiled at the two young men about to
begin an adventure. “Wish I was going with you, boys. Now
off you go. Stop by Aiken’s place and tell him you found
Master Ridley. He’ll want to know. Come back this way when
it’s all said and done. I’d like to hear about it,” Rafe called from
the step.
“I will, you can count on it,” Jon promised. “Master
Turpin, one more thing. Will you send someone up to Ribble to
let Durban Turner know? If the raiders came south through the
hills, Ribble’d be in trouble first.”
“Don’t worry about that Jon. I’ll go up myself, not that far
up there anyway, and we’d ought to get men up on the border
right away. Now go on, don’t worry about them; I’ll take good
care of all that.”
Turpin waved from the porch, as Jon and Garret walked side
by side into Holbourne.
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All the way to the inn the two young men could hardly keep
their eyes off the knives turning them to catch the sun and sky in
the blades. They stopped at the inn to tell Aiken how things had
gone. Jon introduced Garret to him and thanked him for his
help.
“Oh, Jon, say nothing of it. You’ll be thirsty on the road
home; it’s that hot out there.” He disappeared and returned with
two pots of very good, cool beer.
“Whenever I come through this way, Master Turpin, I will
be stopping by for one of these,” Jon commented.
Aiken smiled, “That’s what your Dad thought, too, young
Jon. Keeps the customers coming any way, and that’s good for
business.” They finished their ale and slammed their cups down
in appreciation.
“What do I owe you for those, Master Turpin?”
“No, no my lad,” tapping his finger to the side of his nose,
“Guard business!” Jon laughed and thanked him again.
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6
Hazardous Beginnings
One of the men in the tavern went to the window to see what
direction the two young men headed. He was joined by a
second.
“Suppose he’s the one?” the first asked.
“Fit’s the description close enough, but there’s two of ‘em.
Big lads they are, and did you see the size of their knives? What
are you going to do?”
The first man rubbed the back of his neck. “Orders from
Camber were to rough him up good and get the dispatch case.
Let’s get a couple of the others and then we’ll track them.
They’ll be no match for four of us, will they?”
The second said nothing.
Jon and Garret began the long, steep trek up side of the
plateau. Thankfully the sun had fallen behind the ridge; they
walked in the cool shade of early twilight. A tangle of oak
brush grew up along both sides of the track, crowding the path
forward.
“Good place for an ambush,” Garret said quietly.
“Perfect,” answered Jon now tense. They had already
loosened their knives, and Garret strung his bow.
The incline was too steep to jog any faster, so they
continued at a strong pace hoping that Garn’s warning was an
over-active imagination.
Two men leapt from brush on the north side of the road with
knives drawn.
“Hold it you two,” ordered a fellow with three days beard
growth on his face.
Jon and Garret stopped and swiveled round to see the other
two men Garn had mentioned move up from behind.
“You’ve got something we want,” growled the spokesman.
“Drop you packs and turn ‘em out.”
“You’ll have to fight us for them,” replied Garret
menacingly. In one motion he drew an arrow deftly from his
quiver and knocked it.
The face of the second bandit showed open alarm. None of
the would-be robbers had a bow.
“Stand at my back,” hissed Garret, and Jon moved to do just
that, but before he took a second step something caught his
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peripheral vision before it struck the side of his head, and he
dropped to the ground with a terrible groan. Garret fired his
arrow and struck the bandit who had spoken full the chest. The
man looked down at the fletching in disbelief before he fell back
gurgling and coughing blood from his mouth and nose. Garret
had no time to pull another arrow from his quiver before the
other three were on him. He tried to stand across Jon’s inert
form to protect him but was driven back by the three assailants.
They weren’t particularly courageous, but they were furious that
one of the young men had managed to bring down one of their
comrades.
The three men talked to each other, and Garret as they
circled, feinting and weaving trying catch him off guard.
“I’m goin’ to gut you, boy,” one promised.
“Slit his throat,” called another.
“Too easy,” threatened another, “get him down, he’ll wish
he’d been brained by a rock as well.”
They eyed the knife Garret wielded that could easily
eviscerate anyone who got too close. They’d certainly take him
down given time, and Garret knew it. He took a deep breath and
attacked the smallest of the men, slashing his knife arm when it
came close enough and then grasped him by his long greasy hair
and swift as lightning held Rafe Turpin’s knife to the man’s
throat, barely stopping the other two in their headlong attack.
He’d simply moved too fast for them.
“Stand back!” ordered Garret. “If you move one step closer,
I’ll cut his throat.”
The other two froze and glanced at each other confused at
the sudden turn of events. Then one grinned.
“It’s a stand off, isn’t it, boy,” one of the men taunted. “You
can’t let go of him, and we aren’t going without him and that
dispatch case.”
“You,” the bandit ordered, “get his friend; two can play at
that game.”
Garret’s plan was failing, and he’d put Jon in more danger
now than he’d been in just moments before. The confrontation
was turning out badly, but he couldn’t let Jon be taken. With
198
only a heartbeat’s hesitation, he tightened his grip on the handle
and jerked it across his captive’s throat and hurled him into the
bandit reaching for Jon. Once again Garret’s speed saved Jon,
as the two outlaws crashed to the ground. The last man
standing, now thoroughly frightened, veered away several yards
screaming back at his companion.
The second bandit pulled away from his dying companion
and scrambled to his comrade’s side only to watch their
companion writhe and struggle to catch a breath that would
never come, bleeding out his life in the dirt at the side of the
road. They stood stock still as if trying to decide what to do
next, watching the point of Garret’s knife as though hypnotized.
Their plan had gone worse than badly.
“I’m out of it,” cried the third bandit. “I didn’t come up here
to get my throat cut, nothin’s worth that,” he shouted and turned
and ran down the road checking and rechecking to see that
Garret hadn’t come after him; nothing seemed out of the reach
of possibility. By the time Garret had bent to retrieve his bow,
the other bandit raced headlong back toward Ashby.
Garret stood long, listening intently for the slightest sound
that would indicate whether the attackers were hiding or if they
really had run off.
He felt nauseated at the thought of what he’d done to protect
Jon, trying to think of another way he could have responded that
would have spared the bandit’s life, but he could not. Once he
was sure his attackers were gone, he stooped down to see about
Jon’s condition. He had a gash above his right eye that had bled
so profusely that Garret couldn’t tell how badly he was hurt.
Jon was breathing evenly, which Garret imagined was a good
sign. Garret hoped Jon had just been cold-cocked, and it would
take a while for him to regain consciousness in the half dark.
Garret dared not do anything but wait there in the dust of the
track until Jon regained his senses.
Every nerve and muscle was as taut as his bowstring when
in the half light he heard voices of several men coming his way.
Garret stood in front of Jon determined to defend him with his
own life. He was an excellent marksman and was determined to
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strike at least one if not two of them down before he was
overcome. Garret tossed the dispatch case into the brush, so that
if he was taken, the dispatches would not be found too easily.
He crouched down to make as small a target as he could, just
then able to make out four or five figures approaching, talking
quietly among themselves. Garret took a deep breath and
prepared to shoot.
The men had also seen him and stopped to plan their
strategy. Garret’s heart beat so hard he felt it pounding in his
ears.
“Hallo!” called a voice from the dusk. “We see you are
armed. We mean you no harm. It’s Captain Wells from Ashby.
Is that the two young men from Redding?”
Garret stood up more relieved than he could explain. “We
were set on by four bandits!” he shouted. “My friend has been
struck down. I’ve driven the others off.”
The men hurried forward, Garret still vigilant until he
recognized Wells and Garn among them.
In a hurried conversation Garret explained what had
happened. One of the men went over to the two still figures, one
in the road and the other at the side.
“Both dead, he reported with alarm. One’s bowshot, the
other’s throat’s been cut.”
Captain Wells, who had been attending to Jon, stood as if
not comprehending what he’d heard. “Two men killed outright,
here in Ashby? I’ve never heard of the like. Explanations need
to be made, young man. You come back to Ashby with us;
we’ll take turns carrying your friend. In the meantime I’ll have
to ask you to surrender your weapons.” Garret paused just long
enough that the other men tensed.
Wells stepped closer.
“Young man, listen to me. Yours is serious business, and we
don’t want any more trouble. Let’s get this young man back to
my place and see to him. Then we’ll decide what needs to be
done about them,” waving to the corpses on the road.”
Garret handed his bow to one of the men and then undid his
belt with his knife to another. The enormity of what he’d just
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done pierced him for the first time. There was no sense of
exhilaration as he’d always anticipated, just a sick, empty
feeling he’d not expected. He straightened up, “I need to get the
dispatch case, Captain Wells. I hid it when I heard you; I
thought, more of them were coming.” Wells nodded, keeping a
close eye on him. Garret retrieved the case and slung it over his
shoulder.
“I’ll carry him,” Garret said, looking down at Jon’s battered
face. “Help me get him onto my back.”
Garret carried Jon for half the distance, but at last
acknowledged he needed help and another broad back bore Jon
the rest of the way to Well’s place.
Garret watched Jon moan and move on the bed, but realized
there was nothing he could do until Jon woke. Mistress Wells
had cleaned and dressed the wound. At first Garret couldn’t
watch, but was greatly relieved to see that all the blood came
from a deep cut above Jon’s eye, which she sewed shut with
calm dispatch as if she did it every day. Once Jon’s head was
bandaged, Captain Wells asked Garret to come into the sitting
room.
Five men and Garn were talking among themselves until
Garret came into the room.
“I’d like you to tell me about what happened out there
tonight.” Wells ordered.
Garret explained everything he could remember. He was
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worried now that he’d end up in the cells at Camber for murder,
or some other charge. Wells asked several questions trying to
get at the exact circumstances of the attack. Two of the others
asked similar questions but Garret could feel the tension in the
room relaxing. Garn told them about the four men he had
warned Jon and Garret about.
“When Garn here stopped by to tell me about those men
following you, I got a few of the men in town to come with me,
if those bandits were going to cause trouble, we guessed it
would be before you reached the top of the fell.”
Garret smiled at Garn, “You saved us both. We both are
indebted to you.” The boy ducked his head, not used to such
attention.
“What’s going to happen then,” said Garret with misgiving.
“You know the message we carry, we have to get on to
Pendleton and then turn north. The Guard needs raising.”
“That’s what we’re meeting here for,” Wells explained.
“We needed to understand the circumstances, so we can decide
what should happen next. Two men lie dead on the road up there
and that’s never happened around here. There’s the question of
whether blood debt is owed for the two dead men on the road.”
“Garret, you go sit with Jon, and let us consider this. I’ll
come and get you when we have something to say.”
Garret stood up, nodded at Garn. “Thanks again, Garn, if
you come to Saxford, you find me. I’ll find a way to repay you,
mark my words.”
Garret found Jon as he’d left him, but his breathing was
deeper now, hopefully just asleep. He put his head in his hands
wearily and considered what the next days might bring. He’d
killed two men, in self-defense, he reminded himself. Part of
him realized there was no other way to have saved Jon, but
another part began to list all the “what ifs”. If Wells and the
others decided that the deaths were not self-defense then Garret
and his family could be forced to pay blood money for the loss
of life. Garret knew his family could never pay the three
hundred penny debt for each of the men. He would have ruined
and impoverished his entire family. Garret and other members
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of his family could be forced into debt labor for the families of
the men he’d killed. Jon felt sick.
That was how Jon woke to find him only able to see out of
one eye.
He moaned which brought Garret’s face up hopeful and then
beamed as he saw Jon looking at him.
“What happened?” Jon asked.
“They knocked you in the head in with a rock the size of my
fist. Did a good job of it, too. But I’m told you have an
extraordinarily hard head and will live to a ripe old age though
with a scar to mark the fight on your face.”
“But I can’t open my right eye,” Jon complained.
“It’s bandaged, you ox! Your eye is swollen half shut, and
you’ll have a fine black eye to show for it, but it’s naught worse
than a bandage over the cut above your eye.”
Garret explained briefly what had happened after Jon had
fallen.
“You shot one of the bandits and slit the throat on the
second!” Jon was incredulous. Then he realized why Garret had
done what he’d done. “You saved my life, Garret!” he
murmured in awe. “Meghan will be glad about that too.” He
smiled wanly trying to lighten Garret’s mood. “Are you all
right?
“I’m fine,” Garret answered, though at that moment he was
not. The fight and killing had shaken him more than he could
say. It was as if he could feel the steel in his fingers pass
nightmarishly across the throat of the second bandit over and
over again.
Garret explained that Captain Wells was deciding at that
very moment their fate.
Jon tried to sit up beginning to protest, and then sank back
down groaning.
“So it looks like we are in a mess, right now,” Garret
concluded, “And nothing much we can do about it. Why don’t
you try to get some rest? I’ll be here. Mistress Wells has taken
very good care of you.” He leaned back on his stool and
answered questions until the door opened.
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Wells beckoned him with his fingers; Garret went out to
face his tribunal. The faces of the men were somber and
communicated nothing of their discussion. Wells began by
clearing his throat.
“Garret, this has disturbed us all, I can tell you.” Garret’s
heart sank as he waited for the announcement of his arrest. “But
we can find no reason for you to face an additional hearing. If
yours had been the first instance of trouble on the road between
Selby and Pendleton it might be different, but we believe the
men who attacked you have been responsible for other attacks in
the past, usually victims are assaulted and robbed. Perhaps these
are the wrong men, but we are giving you the benefit of the
doubt. Certainly you were defending yourself and your
companion. I’ll send word to the Dales Court at Pendleton once
this call up is settled, we’ve agreed to stand as your witnesses if
ever this comes up on court. In fact, we think you did extremely
well in a tight spot.” The faces of the men broke into smiles and
relief washed over Garret like a welcome breeze on a hot
afternoon.
“Thank you,” Garret said, feeling weak in the knees. “I
won’t lie to you, I was afraid I’d be locked up and leave
someone else to carry our warning. Jon woke for a while when
I was in there. He sounded like there’s no long lasting damage.”
“That’s that,” Wells said. “Let’s go check on him. You
other men get on home to your families once the bodies have
been brought off the road; we’ll meet again early enough.
We’ve got Guard to call up tomorrow.”
Garret shook each of their hands. By the time Garret lay
down on a spare pallet at Wells’, less than half the night
remained.
The next morning Jon was forced to eat breakfast in bed
complaining the whole time that he was fit to walk out to the
kitchen, but Mistress Wells would have none of it. Captain
Wells was already off gathering men for the march north, so
they couldn’t appeal to him. After several attempts to convince
Mistress Wells Jon was not suffering more than a headache and
swollen eye, she finally relented. When Wells did arrive back
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home, both Jon and Garret insisted they needed to get going.
Over Mistress Wells’ objections, he finally agreed they could
leave as long as Jon promised to take it easy.
“A day’s walk never killed anyone,” Wells reasoned. “By
the way we’ve carted off those two men and buried them. They
were indeed rough looking characters in the light of morning,
but they aren’t from around here. If you stick around here,
you’ll find you’ve become overnight heroes. People around
here think you’ve ended a threat that has been hanging over us
for months. I hope it has. In any case, we wish you well.”
They thanked him effusively and started off much later than
they had anticipated.
Once they reached the top of the fell passing the stained
earth where the bandits had fallen, Jon and Garret stooped to
catch their breath, they saw the grassy plateaus to the west. The
hard limestone bones of the plateau stretched like a smooth
pavement for leagues north and south of the track. Jon’s head
felt like it was about to split open, and Garret suggested they
rest at the cabin Wells had told them about.
“I’ll do that, but I can’t stand this bandage over my eye.
Can’t you just tie it over the cut?”
“Mistress Wells would have my hide if she saw me taking
this off.”
“I won’t say anything,” laughed Jon.
“There,” said Garret, “that’s about as good as I can do. You
have somewhat the look of a bandit yourself now,” he laughed,
but the joke fell flat.
They plodded on until they saw a sunken area south of the
track that was filled by a small lake surrounded by thin-needled
larches. They followed the track over and found a rubble-stone
shelter with a dilapidated slate roof standing among the pines at
the edge of the small pristine lake. The door creaked open
revealing the dusty interior’s stone floor and fireplace. A raised
platform bed in surprisingly good condition with a large rolled
straw pallet on it stood against one wall.
“Why don’t we eat and then you lie down for a while.
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We’ve got hours to walk and plenty of daylight left.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Jon. He rolled out the pallet
raising a shower of dust before he kicked his boots off. They
pulled out some of the biscuit and dried fruit they had brought
and ate it on the spot. Jon dug down into his bag feeling for his
notebook. He pulled the stopper from the small inkbottle he
carried and crafted a map of the dales they had passed. Garret
watched him for a moment intrigued at the sketching that
appeared so quickly on the page.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m making a map of the Dales with a few notes about
where we’ve been.”
Jon drew miniatures of the chalk sculptures they’d seen
under Garret’s approving gaze. When he had finished, Jon lay
back and sighed. Garret could see he was tired.
“I’m going down to look at the lake. You stay here and rest
if you can,” Garret said.
The path to the water’s edge led across polished limestone
bedrock. Garret sat down on a large flat rock to enjoy the view
of lake and sky when his eye caught something a few feet away
on the rock and he sat up. The slanted light brought into relief
carvings of what looked to be ravens, in the stone. They had the
same simple artistic quality he had seen in the horses on the
hillside. He supposed the same people had left the carvings and
wondered about their significance to the people who left little
other sign of their passing. Garret’s feet were sore, and he took
off his boots and felt the warm air pull the soreness from them.
On an impulse he tiptoed across the smooth stone pavement to
the lake’s edge and stuck in his foot. The clear water was cool,
but not anywhere as cold as he expected.
“That is a piece of good luck,” he said out loud. He’d not
bathed for several days. He definitely needed a swim. He
stripped off his shirt and trews then eased into the water. The
rocky shelves, each a few inches high brought him into deeper
water. Careful not to slip from a sudden drop off, Garret was
able to walk out several yards, trying not to muddy the water.
The water turned from clear to dark blue where it deepened just
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past the ledge on which he stood. He lowered himself into the
deeper water and swam a few yards. It was glorious; the cool
water gliding over him drew the day’s heat and tiredness away.
When he was chilled, he returned to the warm stone pavement
and lay down, head on arms to dry off and rest. Perhaps an hour
passed between the swim and the sun when Garret stood up and
called back to the cabin.
“Jon!” he shouted. “Jon, wake up. You ought to come and
try this!”
Jon stepped from the door of the cabin and squinted at
Garret who was floating in the lake. The bandage had half
slipped from Jon’s head, and he pulled the last loop of it off as
he stepped onto the natural paving leading into the water. He
sat down on the edge as Garret had done and hesitantly stuck his
toes into the water.
“Come on in, Jon, no one in Pendleton’ll invite you inside
after sweatin’ like a horse for two days,” Garret shouted
mimicking the Dale’s speech. “It feels great.”
“All right, all right,” Jon called back, “give me a bit to get
used to it.” He sat on the edge dangling his feet. Garret swam
to the underwater ledge and asked Jon to throw him his tunic
and trews. Jon rolled them into a ball.
“In the water?”
“Yeah,” called Garret, “I’m going to rinse ‘em out.”
“Good idea, I’ll do the same.”
He tossed Garret the bundled shirt which fell a few feet from
the edge of the deep water. Garret had to pull himself into the
shallows to retrieve it. Jon tiptoed gingerly over to where
Garret was and then stood at the edge of the shallows pulling his
tunic over his head a little unsteadily on his feet.
On an impulse, Garret wadded up his waterlogged shirt and
hurled it at Jon as he tottered on the edge of the deep water
striking him full in the chest. Jon couldn’t help but tip heel over
backwards into the lake pulling free of his tunic just as he hit the
water. He came up sputtering and laughing.
“No fair,” he protested grinning. “I’ll get you for that.”
Garret upon seeing Jon’s swollen black and blue eye and
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forehead immediately wished he’d not done it.
“You can swim?” Garret asked belatedly.
Jon took the ducking in good stride and submerged and
came out treading water easily. Summer’s spent in the
Holbourne as a lad had made Jon an exceptional swimmer.
Garret didn’t know how good a swimmer Jon was, or he’d have
understood his peril. If Jon’s head hadn’t felt like it did, Garret
would have paid the price then and there.
After Jon had a chance to swim, Garret suggested they get
going; it was still a long walk to Pendleton. They swam to the
shelving ledge wrung out their wet shirts and returned to the
little cottage trying to stay on flagstones the whole way.
Before long, they were repacked and on the track to
Pendleton. The high tablelands stretched out in all directions,
and it took them almost two hours to cross the last half of it.
Jon had honestly thought that they would be looking at
Pendleton nestled in its valley when they reached the edge of the
fell, but they were disappointed. The dale below was
uninhabited. The wind continued to blow as it had all day
yesterday, but so far only high wispy clouds had made their
appearance from the west. The higher elevation kept the
temperature from being as hot as it had been yesterday, and so
the middle part of the day passed descending the long, long
slope to the valley bottom and the climbing the opposite side
and onto the fell above the next dale.
When they came to the edge of the second great plateau, the
largest of the dales they had seen spread out below them with its
familiar pattern of multi-colored fields. A small river flowed
through the valley sparkling and glinting silver in the mid-
morning sun. They also searched for another chalk carving but
saw none. A large village lay directly below them and several
small ones strung along the Swale River both north and south of
Pendleton.
“Looks like a soft bed tonight!” exclaimed Garret. Hours
later the footsore travelers walked down the main road of
Pendleton, glad to be in civil places again. The afternoon was
passing quickly, and they wanted to find the section captain as
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soon as possible.
“Good afternoon,” called a plump woman in the accent of a
life-long Dale's woman. She stood in the doorway of a tavern
inn called ‘Old Bridge’ next to the bridge over the Swale.
Jon cleared his throat, “I am Jon Ellis, and this is Garret
Fletcher. We are looking for Crispin Watson. Can you tell us
where we might find him?”
She studied them carefully. “What happened to you?” she
pried. “Been fightin’?”
“No!” they both said in unison too quickly. She grinned at
them. “You sound like Saeland folk to me. Crispin’s probably
up at the quarry, he’s the foreman, you know. If you’re of a
mind to, you can walk up the quarry road and find him there, or
I can direct you to his house at the upper end of town, or you
can wait here till he comes down.”
“The quarry, I think,” Jon said. “Could we get a drink of
water?”
“Of course you can, boys, there’s a bucket and dipper beside
the well just to the side of the house. Help yourselves.”
“How do we get to the quarry?” Jon asked.
“Just turn left after the bridge and follow the track, can’t be
more than a few furlongs up there.”
“Thank you,” said Jon, “we’ll go see if we can find him.”
“If you’re staying the night in town, I’ve got a couple of
empty beds, boys. Come on back if you need ‘em.”
“A lot will depend on what Master Watson says,” Garret
replied, “but thank you.”
Slipping their packs from their backs they took turns pouring
water over their heads and then drank from the dipper set there
for anyone to use. The water was cool and clean. They groaned
as they tugged their packs on and crossed the ancient stone
bridge. Turning left they followed the cart track that the led
away from the village, curving away from the river toward the
great long ridge rising west of Pendleton. The track was well-
worn and spread with gray gravel with red flecks in it to keep
the track passable on rainy days. The river Swale on their left
was a lively stream that rushed over a rocky bed. Spray flung
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itself up here and there as it hurried away to the south. Insects
hovered above the quieter pools and once in while a fish would
rise lazily to snap at them.
Jon and Garret heard the quarry before they saw it, the
clinking and pounding of many hammers. “Sounds like a
hundred of ‘em up there,” Garret observed.
“Make you homesick for working with Master Ridley?”
kidded Jon.
“Not at all. If I never pick up a hammer and stone chisel
again it will be too soon!” Garret laughed.
Tall maples masked the entrance to the quarry; the road
littered with glittering rose-hued rubble, made the road
unmistakable. Emerging from the forest canopy they the quarry
spread out before them through a cleft at the edge of the plateau.
“It’s like a great rose-colored staircase!” shouted Garret in
wonder.
“Extraordinary!” Jon agreed, thinking Redding’s quarry hill
paled in comparison to the magnificent one above Pendleton.
They could only see eight or ten men working, but every
hammer’s staccato blow echoed sharply at least five or six
times. Blocks of stone of every size were being worked on.
Four men were working on a piece that was easily as big as a
pony cart, squaring the edges while they sang. Garret and Jon
approached them and asked the stone-dusted men if they could
point out Crispin Watson. They pointed up the slope to the rock
face where three men stood talking to each other oblivious to the
din of the quarry.
“He’s up there talkin’ with Axel and Ned. Can’t miss him.
He’s got a green kerchief tied round his neck and wearin’ a hat.”
They thanked the men who took up their song and their
synchronized pounding. Jon had learned that same song in the
Flagon Tavern back home and smiled, the lyrics were just as
bawdy in the Dales as they were in Redding. They climbed up
the slope toward the three men who had seen them and had
already moved part way down to meet them. All three of them
wore hats, so that didn’t help, but a middle-aged man with a
friendly smile and a once bright green kerchief waited
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expectantly.
“Master Watson?” Jon asked.
The three men stood still and eyed the newcomers.
“Yes, I’m Crispin Watson,” said the man in the scarf. “Who
wants to know?”
“Er..., sorry sir, I am Jon Ellis, and this is Garret Fletcher.
Have you got a moment?”
Watson laughed, “Now that you’re here, won’t be much
work done until everyone knows what you’ve come for, so I
have as much time as you need lads. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve come on Guard business, Master Watson,” Jon
began. “I’ve a letter for you from Thane Giffard at the
Armory.” He held out the letters he’d taken from the dispatch
case.
“Axel, Ned,” Watson said to his companions, “you go on
now. I’ll talk to you a bit later.” The men crunched their way
down the hill toward the gang of men still pounding away at
their block and singing at the top of their lungs.
Watson took the letter addressed to him and checked the seal.
He opened it and read it quickly, eyes widening by the time he
got all the way through it. He fixed Garret and Jon with a stare.
Thinking to himself, he folded the letter carefully and stuck it
into his belt purse. “Let’s walk boys, looks like you already
started the fight for us,” Watson grinned at Jon’s swollen and
bruised face. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir. Garret and I had a misunderstanding with four men
from Selby last night. They got the worst of it.”
Watson grinned at the old joke, “No doubt, no doubt.”
Jon had expected some reaction to the contents, but Watson
said nothing. Jon was tempted to ask, but then remembered he
was ‘circuitin’ as Garret put it, and waited for Watson to speak
first. The loose stone beneath their feet crunched together and
squeaked as they went down to a cabin constructed of the rose-
colored stone with such precision, a belt knife blade would have
been difficult to shove into the joints. Watson opened the door,
and they followed him inside.
“Take a seat, will you? Now suppose you tell me what else
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you know about all this.”
Jon handed him the shorter letter of introduction from Thane
Giffard. Watson’s eyebrows rose as he read.
Jon told him what he knew and tried to communicate the
urgency of the message to Master Watson.
“This is bad news, no question, boys. A shock, really.”
They could tell that his mind was already moving. I don’t
suppose the altercation you had last night had anything to do
with your errand did it?
Garret and Jon exchanged glances; Jon nodded and Garret
explained the entire event. Watson’s eyes went wide, and then
he shook his head. Sounds like we’ve got our own troubles
right here at home. We’ve heard a few rumors, mind you, but
interfering with the Guard, nothing like that has ever happened
like that, as far as I know.
“Do you boys want to sleep out at my place? Cooking’s
better than at the Bridge, that’s for sure. We can talk more about
what needs to be done. That all right with you?”
“Yes, sir,” they echoed.
“Then that’s settled. I suppose you know what’s in here?”
he asked holding up the letters. “Goin’ to be tricky to rouse the
boys ‘round here on short notice, but given the situation we
need a good shake up.”
Jon relaxed as he listened to Watson’s reaction.
“I’ll start the word goin’ round this afternoon. My section’ll
do its duty”. I’ll have the quarrymen come in; they are all in the
Guard or sons of Guardsmen.”
Watson opened the door and waved his men into the stone
cottage, all twenty-three of them, some looking not much older
than Garret or Jon.
Watson introduced the two strangers and then read out the
letter from the Thane which sounded much more ominous now
that it did in Camber. The men appeared anxious, others
resolute, and the younger men’s excitement was evident in the
pitch and tone of voices and the agitated side conversations that
sprang up all around the room.
“Here’s what we need to do, boys,” said Watson when he
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regained their attention. “I’m closing the quarry and sending
you home early. Spread the word to the rest of the Guard or
anyone else who can draw a bow and walk to Saxford. We’ll
meet at the Bridge after supper. With only a day to get ready to
go, arranging chores with neighbors and family might be a
problem, but the consequences of failing to arrive in time could
mean disaster for Saxford now and the same for us later. The
day after tomorrow we’ll muster here in Pendleton and then
head north to Saxford as fast as we can.
Jon and Garret were impressed with the efficiency of it all.
The men were dismissed, and Jon and Garret walked back to
town with Master Watson.
“That sounded like you’d already planned this,” said Garret
matter-of- factly.
“We live on the edge of the Dales ourselves, and we need to
be ready. We muster a couple of times a year and send out the
men on circuit more’n most, I’d say. We had trouble in my
dad’s time with bandits attacking outlying farms, so we have
had more call than some to be prepared. I think we can put fifty
or sixty men on the road the day after tomorrow. What kind of
response have you had from Selby and Ashby?
“About what I expected,” he said when Jon explained what
had happened. You’ll have better luck the farther north you go.
Expecting a real fight, you think?”
“Thane Giffard seems to think we might, the problem is we
don’t know when.”
“That’s where the Normen come into it then. If they can
stop the Olani on their side of the border, we’re well out of it.”
The sun was sinking towards the high range of hills to the
west and the shade was a welcome relief to Jon and Garret who
were just beginning to realize how sunburned they were. They
were tired, but encouraged by the reaction in Pendleton. The
Guard was responding as they’d hoped, perhaps a little slower
than Thane Giffard would have liked. The quarrymen broke into
song on their way down the hill before they got to the village.
And nicely sung too, thought Jon. Never hear that in
Redding. Finally, they recrossed the bridge and walked down a
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long willow-lined lane that paralleled the banks of the Swale.
Master Watson turned into the front garden of a substantial
house made of weathered stone from the quarry. They both
noticed that every house incorporated the quarry stone into its
construction in one way or another giving the many stone
buildings a pleasant similarity. The houses hugged the ground
with thatched roofs or wide slate tiles, at least two feet across if
they were an inch.
Watson’s house had a deep, raised porch with two benches
facing south. Master Watson called into the house that he was
home and had brought company. Mistress Watson came out of
a steamy kitchen to be introduced and then vanished inside to
work on finding something for two guests to eat after assuring
herself that Jon’s injury wasn’t as bad as the swelling and
bruises made it look.
Watson led them upstairs to a large room where they could
put their gear down. “We’ll talk more about this after supper.
Put your feet up a while, I’ll call you when it’s ready.” He
clumped down the stairs.
“Well,” said Garret, “right side or left?”
“Doesn’t matter to me.”
“Good,” said Garret as he kicked off his boots stripped to
his trews pulled down the comforter and flopped onto the left
side of the raised plank bed and sighed in rapture.
Circuiting, Jon thought, is hard on the feet, and followed
Garret’s example. The thick straw pallet was indeed
comfortable, though noisy. Jon tried to relax, but his stomach
grumbled so loudly that Garret asked without opening his eyes
asked,
“Is that me or you?”
Jon laughed, “Hope it’s not too long until supper, I’m
famished.”
He lay there enjoying the good bed and then decided he needed
to visit with Watson more than he needed to lie down, so Jon
went down to find him. Watson was leaning back against the
sun-warm south wall of the house, pipe clenched in his teeth,
deep in thought. He heard Jon come out.
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“Sit down, Jon,” and indicated a bench a few feet away.
“I won’t say I was surprised at the news you brought. Can
you see the road through town that goes on west into the hills?”
Jon peered south and nodded.
“Do you know where it goes?”
Jon shook his head; he hadn’t paid attention to anything
beyond the Dales on the Saeland map in the Armory.
“If you were to keep going west for another twenty leagues
you would come to a range of hills that bounds Saeland on this
side. Not a house or farm between here and there. And if you
came travel west from there you would see the foothills of high
rugged mountains, and beyond them none of our people have
ever gone,” Watson’s voice faded away.
“They are lonely lands, Jon. In this section we have had little
to fear but ghosts these days.”
Watson tapped his pipe looking away for a moment. “But if
trouble comes this way; it’s fight if we must then, Jon; and
you’ll find us ready.”
“Thane Giffard, Earl Osric, and the reeves are trying to raise
Saeland and South March,” Jon added trying to sound
reassuring.
Watson appeared doubtful. “Fat and content we’ve all
become, it won’t be easy. But that’s all about tomorrow. How’s
your eye? It looks very sore, Jon.”
“I won’t lie to you, Master Watson, I can feel my heart
beating on the outside of my head, but I’ll have plenty of time to
think about that later.”
Jon heard Garret coming down the stairs
“Master Watson,” Jon said, “what can you tell me about the
hillside horses in the dales east of here?”
Watson’s eyes gleamed. “Now there’s a subject of great
interest to me, my boy. We have only guesses, no answers,
really. They are old, here long, long before the Saesen came
into this part of the world. Did you see the broch there in the
Vale of the Horses?”
“We looked around inside,” replied Jon. “Can’t imagine
how they built it.”
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“Each of the Dales has them. Two more lie above Ashby
near the river, but they’re in bad shape. We’ve got the two best
preserved ones down south of here between Hammel and
Neathford. They could still be used as forts if we needed them.
Solid as the hills they are. What did you think of the chalk
figures?”
They are amazing,” exclaimed Jon. “How many are there?”
“Each of the Dales has at least one of them, too. Our is down
at Neathford, we call him Tall Man, and he’s not as well
preserved as the ones you’ve seen. Faces the wind and storms
and so it’s ragged around the edges, but you can tell what it is.
You’ll see a couple more when you come into the dales north of
us. Lots of ruins in this country. Must have been more than a
few people around. We turn up pottery once in a while or a
rusty tool when folks plow. Kevyn Waymond found a box with
three or four gold coins in it several years ago. Wish we knew
more about who it was who lived here. You’ve seen the bridge
over the Swale and know it’s none of our work. Men built that
long ago when kings ruled from Erenby. They opened the
quarry and built the road, you’ll see when you go north
tomorrow. Faded now and useless in places, the North Road it
was called when our people were just wanderers. Yes, Jon, I
wish I knew more about how it all was.”
“Master Watson, you don’t sound as if you are from the
Dales.”
“No,” he laughed, “I’m from South March. Used to run a
quarry down there with my dad. Then me and Maud who is
from Hammel, we ended up here. Raised our family and been
here ever since.”
“Is this the biggest of the Dales?”
Watson nodded. “It is. We call it the Swale after the river
that flows down the length of it. South of us the farms extend
for another fifteen leagues or so until the valley flattens into a
great flat plain that spreads between the sea and us. The Swale
narrows north of us about fifteen leagues against the hills up that
way. Our folk live in smaller dales over the hills from here to
Fulham. Independent lot up that way, don’t like bein’ told what
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to do.”
Mistress Watson bustled in to tell them that supper was
ready and asked Jon if he would call the other young man to
come and eat. Watson tapped out his pipe and lay it on the table.
Jon went to call Garret who had come downstairs and gone
outside to the privy. Watson led the way into the kitchen. And
indicated that Jon should sit on the far side of the table.
Garret hurried into the kitchen, apologized for being late and
sat across from Jon. Mistress Watson set out bowls of pork with
dumplings, golden brown and steaming, a huge bowl of greens
and garden peas. Conversation was minimal at first as the two
younger men ate with enthusiasm. Mistress Watson smiled
grandly. When their stomachs were full, she asked them about
their families. Garret told a couple of stories about his large
family that were so funny that the house rang with laughter. He
was a natural story teller. Jon was just as entertained as anyone,
though he kept eating until he had ‘filled in all the corners’ as
they say.
“Saved room haven’t you?” asked Mistress Watson.
“For what?” said Garret instantly curious.
“Why of course, I’ve made a huge apricot crumble with
clotted cream.”
Garret gulped and rolled his eyes.
Everyone else laughed. “If you’re too full, you can eat
yours later,” she said trying to let him off the hook.
“I think I’d like that too,” said Jon because he was every bit
as full as Garret was.
“Well, then,” said Mistress Watson, “you go out and have
your talk.”
“Let us help with the dishes. I’m fairly good at it; so my
mother tells me,” offered Jon. Garret tried to convince her as
well, but to no avail.
“Wouldn’t hear of it, though I thank you for the offer. It’s
better than I’ve heard around here in a long while. Now, out
you go. I have my work to do; you go off and take care of your
business or whatever it is you came for!”
Master Watson led them out onto the porch indicating they
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should sit down. “I’ll write to Thane Giffard about what we are
going to do and send it with someone tomorrow, but here’s
where we stand. I’m sure I can put at least fifty men on the road
in two days. We’ll see what kind of response we have at the inn
later. You can pass that on as you go north, it might help you
recruit a few more.”
“Now tell me what happened to set this all in motion.”
Jon told him everything he knew including his own meeting
with Arnegil and Erlend.
“Can’t think of anyone round here ever seen one of them
Normen. We talk to the Guard out of Fulham once in a while,
and they seem to know all about them.
“My dad has met one or two of the Normen up on our end,”
added Garret. “He says they are stern and hard, not someone
you want for an enemy.”
Watson was surprised that the two young and rather green-
looking militiamen had already had experiences that he had not.
His feeling of impending trouble deepened. Things were
changing in the wide world, and he felt powerless to do
anything but try to protect his people from the worst of it.
“Now suppose you tell me what happened last night?”
Garret explained to a sobered Watson the whole story.
Watson could only shake his head. “Sounds to me like the
fighting’s already started and it’s not just raiders we need to
worry about.”
Shadows lengthened down the valley from side to side. The
Swale bubbled and foamed just beginning its long journey south
to join the Camber. A stiff breeze from the south stirred the air
and brought the familiar scent of wood burning and cooking
from the town. They sat silent for a while each in his own
thoughts. Jon resisted the temptation to fill the silence with
chatter.
“I’m going to go round and see if we can get a few more of
the boys together. Gilbert Marsh lives too far and Cap Naylor is
off visitin’ his folks up near Fulham. Why don’t you two rest
here for a while and then meet me at the tavern by dark. I’ll
have better luck getting’ them there than here.” He left them
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sitting on the porch and went in to talk to his wife.
“She says don’t forget there’s crumble that you’re to eat
before you go to bed.” He set off down the lane on the road into
town.
Jon relaxed in fading light. “What do you think so far,
Garret?”
“Master Watson’s nice enough, a bit on the gloomy side if
you ask me.”
“Do guardsmen up your way ever quit?”
“Some do,” Garret admitted after a moment or two. “The
majority just get fat until they can’t go on circuit without
huffing and puffing.”
Jon laughed, “If you eat the way you did tonight, that may
be next week for you!”
Garret colored instantly, embarrassed. “Seems like I’ve
been on short rations all my life. We never went hungry, but we
never got full either. Since I came south with Master Ridley
we’ve eat no better’n at home.”
Jon heard the defensive note in Garret’s voice. “ I was just
giving you a bad time. I’m glad you’re here. I was afraid they’d
send me off with some granddad in a cart, and I’d be laid out on
the road with my throat cut or worse if you hadn’t come. I’m
grateful.”
“Goes for me too,” responded Garret. “If you hadn’t asked,
I’d still be cracking and stacking rocks with Kevyn in the heat at
Holbourne. No, you rescued me is how I see it.”
“You’re a good shot with your bow, Garret. Can you
show me how to shoot better? I’m not as good a marksman as I
ought to be. Will you teach me what you know? If we’re
headed into danger, then I need to be better prepared.”
Garret heaved an obvious sigh of relief. “I’d be glad to.
Most of the time I feel like such a bumpkin. You townsfolk
have your own ways of doing things that are different from us,
and I am so afraid of doing something foolish and have it reflect
on you or what we are supposed to do. This is the most adult
thing anyone has ever asked me to do, and I like it, but I feel
completely out of my depth.”
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“That we have in common for sure. We’ve got ‘til dark,
why don’t we take the bows out, and you can show me what I
do wrong.”
“Now archery, I know something about,” said Garret.
In just the time it takes to tell it, they both retrieved their
bows and quivers and went into the field for practice. The long
summer twilight would give them an hour or so and Jon hoped it
would be time well spent.
“Let’s see what you can do,” said Garret.
Jon knocked an arrow as he had done a hundred times
before. “What am I aiming for?”
“Hold it,” he called. Garret had spied an old worn out gate
leaning against the road wall. He carried it out into the field a
few rods from Jon and propped up the gate with one of the
pieces that had fallen from it.
“Let’s try that,” he said as he came to stand beside Jon.
“Now let’s see what you can do.”
Jon drew back, self-conscious. He sighted as well as he
could, but the longer he aimed, the shakier his arm became.
Finally out of sheer exasperation more than anything else, he
released the arrow that skittered over the gate top and was lost
in the long grass behind. “Another,” said Garret.
Jon went through the same procedure again; his aim was as
unsteady as before.
“One more, Jon, try to forget about me, just think it
through.”
Think it through, Jon grumbled to himself. How many times
had his father said that to him, and Jon’s aim had never
improved at all. Think through what?
Jon released and the arrow struck the top of the target.
Garret scratched his head.
“This time, Jon, I want you to release your arrow after you
have sighted and release as you breathe out. Try that.”
Jon hadn’t ever thought about the release. That was
something he could do.
He sighted, and then as he breathed out, let the arrow fly.
Jon felt rather than saw that the arrow flew more where he
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wanted it to, a little perhaps.
“Try it again.” Jon went through the same motions, and he
felt like his arm was a little less wobbly than usual.
“You’ve got fine arm strength, Jon, that isn’t a problem.”
“One more thing; watch me.” Jon stood aside and watched
Garret.
He knocked his arrow and raised the bow. Jon studied what
Garret did to see what he had been doing wrong. On his release,
Garret breathed out just as he had shown Jon. “Watch me one
more time; notice where the apex of the bowstring is.”
Garret shot again and hit center of the gate dead on with a
thwak. “You aren’t holding the bow high enough, almost, but
not enough to take advantage of where you are sighting. Now
knock your arrow, draw, and hold.”
Straighten you bow arm out.” The bow came up of itself.
“Relax. Did you feel the difference?”
“I did,” said Jon, and meant it.
“Now try to do all of it. Think it through. Breathe in, lift,
straighten, tense and release as you exhale.”
“Breathe in! Straighten! Tension!” Garret called. “Farther,
eye height. That’s it, now release.” The arrow zipped into the
gate, a little off center.
“Try it again Jon, don’t wait so long to release.”
Jon tried it again and the arrow sped right where the other
did.
“Move your feet just a little Jon, you’re facing off to the side
of the target. Not too much. Try that.” Jon shot again, and that
time the arrow found the gate.
“That’s better,” said Garret. “Try it again.” Jon shot twice
more, coming closer each time.
“Hold it, Jon,” called Garret. “I’m going to move the target.”
He set it farther away and to the right of where it had been.
“You are farther from the gate, so you will have to raise the
bow just a hair.” Jon adjusted and shot. The arrow skipped off
the target.
“Try again.” He did; that time the arrow fell a little closer.
“That’s the hard part,” said Garret, “adjusting for distance. It
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just takes lots of practice. We’ll have a go at it until you feel
more confident.” He slapped Jon on the back. “You said you
weren’t any good! I must be a great teacher; perhaps I should
hire out and train all the new Guardsmen.”
“And perhaps your head is getting too big for that neck of
yours, Fletcher!” Jon chuckled.
“And who’s going to fix that, Ellis?” said Garret. “All right
come on you,” taunted Jon. “Wrestlin’s something I know more
about,” and dropped his bow and assumed a crouching stance
egging Garret on.
“I know something about wrestling myself, but you are sure
you want to match yourself against me? Seems to me like
you’ve had enough injury already.” responded Garret.
“Come on then!”
Jon rushed Garret and before he knew what had happened
Garret grabbed his outstretched right arm drawn it over his
shoulder and flipped Jon onto his back and fallen onto his chest
pinning Jon to the ground. They both burst out laughing; Jon
actually wheezing because most of the wind had been knocked
out of him. Blood began to trickle from the stitches above Jon’s
eye. He dabbed softly at it with his fingers.
“That’s a good trick Garret. Looks like there’s something
else you can teach me.”
“Maybe so, Jon,” Garret replied, “Maybe so. Lets get those
arrows before it gets any darker; don’t want those left out in the
dew.”
The arrows were soon retrieved, cleaned, and replaced in the
quivers, and in no time two bows stood next to their other gear.
“Going out for while, Mistress Watson!” they called and
walked back to the inn by the bridge, the glow of window lamps
shining out into the midsummer twilight. The moon would not
come up until much later. Master Watson stood with two other
men near the hearth of the common room where perhaps a total
of thirty-five men and young men sat on chairs, benches, or
leaned against walls. A low fire burned in the hearth, the room
was overheated and half filled with floating wisps of pipe
smoke.
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“Come in,” called Watson waving them over to him. The
room grew silent and every eye focused on the two strangers
who had brought the news.
After Watson’s introductions, he turned to the kitchen.
“Mina!” Watson roared. The woman they met earlier that
afternoon came round the corner and asked what he was
bellowing about.
“These are thirsty men, Mina. Will you bring us some of
your fine ale?”
She bobbed her head and disappeared. While she was gone,
Master Watson with showmanship that would make a market
stall keeper proud, drew out the Thane’s message from his belt
purse and unfolded it with a snap. He announced that the same
letter was being delivered to all the militias in the north and
west by Jon and Garret. The common room remained silent and
expectant.
“Now friends, I’ve asked them here to tell you what they
know about this and what they have been able to do so far.”
Garret jumped into his stories about the Norsk soldiers, he
and the Guard up north met with from time to time. Jon then
told about his evening with Erlend and the conversation with
Arnegil, Thane Giffard, and the Earl. Lastly they explained
what the reaction in Selby and Ashby had been. When they had
finished, the men didn’t say much waiting for Master Watson to
explain to them what he thought their response should be. He
encouraged the younger men present to take the opportunity to
be sworn in and help defend the Dales. Mina brought in tray
after tray of ale beakers and set them on the tables. Master
Watson let the men talk among themselves while they sipped
their drinks amid a steady rumble of voices in earnest
conversation.
Jon had been looking forward to the ale ever since it was
ordered, but after one gigantic gulp he wasn’t eager to try
another. It was quite possibly the nastiest brew he’d ever
swallowed. Worse even than his mother’s medicinal
concoctions or old Rory’s home brew. He noticed Garret had
been talking to the men around him and hadn’t had a chance to
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drink the froth off his ale yet. Jon saw a chance to get more
than even for the ducking at the lake. Catching Garret’s eye,
Jon glanced at Garret’s beaker and made ‘tastes-good’ motions
with his face and hands. Garret picked it up and took a great
swig, until his eyes bulged, and he choked it down. Coughing
and sputtering brought the usual communal response of
pounding on the back and asking if he was all right. Gasping
for breath, eyes watering, trying to regain his breath, Garret
cursed Jon under his breath. Which brought laughter from
anyone sitting near him.
“Thunor’s goat!” gasped Garret. “You said it was good.”
“I never said anything of the sort, Garret. Just think of it as
part payment for that ducking in the lake this morning. It was a
case of honor debt. I was obligated to do something. Wasn’t
I?” Jon laughed, “but Tiw knows I’ve had worse myself,”
laughed Jon thinking of tumiss.
Garret chuckled, “I assure you that your honor is intact again
because I’m sure I’m poisoned through and through.”
“Are we going to offend anyone if we don’t’ drink this?”
Garret wondered.
“No,” chortled one of the men into his cup, “We don’t drink
it by choice, but we have grown accustomed to it.” As if to test
his own statement the man took a huge drink and then coughed
and spat it into the floor rushes to the jeers of his companions.
“It tastes like dirty socks smell,” whispered Jon. “It doesn’t
seem to bother most of the others at all,” he said shaking his
head in disbelief.
Captain Watson stood again and took a few questions about
when they were to leave and what to take. Watson asked for a
show of willing hands and found every one in the air.
“Good boys,” he said loudly. “Drinks are on me.” Now if
that had been said in any other ale house or tavern in the whole
of Saeland, there would have been a great cheer. Here the offer
passed without so much as a ripple of applause. The
conversation turned to local matters and then it was agreed they
would spread the word and a second meeting would be held the
next night for those who had not attended the first meeting.
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“Drink up lads,” shouted Watson, “that there barley beer
will curl your hair.” The room burst into a great shout of
laughter.
“Just leave it, boys,” he said to Jon and Garret in a low
whisper. “The first time I tasted it, I choked too. Awful stuff
isn’t it.”
Watson went off to settle up with Mina, and then he and
Garret and Jon left the inn. The others called good night as they
went out into the dark. Garret and Jon walked on either side of
Master Watson, who chuckled at their discomfiture.
“I remember the first time I tried Mina’s ale, I about fell off
my bench coughing. Brews it herself, she does, and sometimes
gets heavy handed with something. She says it’s herbs from a
secret family recipe. We’re used to it here, but I have to tell you
that most of us brew our own beer at home. There’s one old
fellow who makes it out of parsnips. Awful stuff.”
“It tasted like the insides of my boots!” exclaimed Garret.
“Having been around your boots for several days now, I
couldn’t agree more,” said Jon with as straight a face as he
could manage.
“I can still taste it,” whined Garret. “That was poison, that
was!”
The sound of the Swale was amplified at night. Pleasant,
Jon was thinking as they followed the road which glittered and
sparkled in the starlight back to Watson’s place. Redding had
always been home, but not for the first time he thought he might
not mind living somewhere else in Saeland. It appeared that
folk moved around out here more than they did back at Redding.
Something to think about anyway.
Master Watson didn’t say anything, just hummed until the
lamplight shone between the cracks in the shutters of his home
glowed in the dark. True to her word, Mistress Watson had the
apricot crumble ready in large bowls the instant they came
through the door. They ate the fruit in its own sauce with the
crumble and cream layered above it in rapt silence until the
spoons scraped the bottoms of the bowls.
“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Mistress
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Watson reminded them.
“Thank you Ma’am,” said Garret, “but I’m so full I could
burst.”
“What’s your plan for tomorrow?”
“We’ll leave early and go as far as we can towards Fulham,”
Jon said.
“The farms’ll run out ‘fore you get to Fulham, and you
won’t get there until day after tomorrow. Looks like you’ll be
roughin’ it for a night, and there’s rain on the way, if I’m any
judge.”
“We’ve got our gear, Master Watson,” said Garret, “and
both of us like rough camping anyway.”
“You stop at any farmstead along the way and say Watson
sent you, they’ll help you on your way or take you in if you
want. People out that way don’t get much company, and they
are glad to talk to travelers. We’ll feed you a decent breakfast
and set you on your way tomorrow. I’ve left a drying cloth and
wash basin in your room.” Me and the Mistress are off to bed.
Goodnight!”
They found the room upstairs was too warm; it felt like the
heat from the whole house collected where they were to sleep.
Luckily there were windows on each side, and Jon opened the
shutters, but the outside air was slow to replace the stifling air of
the house.
Jon wrote to Thane Giffard about what happened in each
village they had visited so far.
Garret stripped to his trews and washed his face, neck, arms
and feet. He tossed the wash water out of the window onto the
garden below after he called out a warning to the land wight
who might or might not live in the vicinity. One had to be
careful about the land wights; they could cause no end of trouble
if anyone did something to annoy them. He fell back on to the
pallet with his arms under his head while Jon took a turn at the
wash basin.
“What have you written so far?”
“I just told the Thane what happened at each of the towns
and described what happened outside Ashby. Made you a hero,
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in fact. Anything I’ve left out?” asked Jon.
“I think so,” said Garret looking gravely at Jon.
“Well, what is it?”
“That nasty beer at the Bridge,” grimaced Garret. “The
Guard should be cautioned about that. If folk are coming from
Redding or anywhere else, they should be warned off!” Still
laughing Jon picked up his clipped quill, dipped it in the ink,
and wrote Garret’s description of Mina’s ale at the Bridge into
the report word for word.
Garret yawned so wide Jon could see his back teeth and
realized he was so tired he could hardly stand up. Jon blew out
the candle on the table and carefully edged his way through the
dark towards his side of the bed to avoid stubbing his toes and
then threw off the covers.
“Thanks, Garret,” said Jon into the dark.
“What for?” Garret mumbled sleepily.
“I owe you my life; I’d never have made it this far on my
own.”
“You make it sound like I had to be talked into it,” Garret
replied. “I was so tired of working that stone in the heat and
dust, I would have gone anywhere to get away from it. If you
want to know, Jon, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a mason.”
“That’s just grand! Two of us unemployed and off on a lark
in the country.”
“Yeah,” yawned Garret. “Can you believe it?”
Jon put his arms behind his head and listened to the sound of
the river through the open window.
“How is your head, Jon? It looks awful. But it may come in
handy.
“How so?” Jon asked.
“We’ll just put you in front of them raiders and scare the shit
out of them,” Garret joked.
“It would probably work,” chuckled Jon. “If I don’t think
about it, I’m all right. It’s a case of looking worse than I feel.”
The last time Jon could remember sharing a bed with anyone
was when his cousins came to stay for a couple of days at
Redding when he was ten or twelve. The pallet wasn’t all that
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wide and rustled every time either of them made the smallest
move.
“Garret?” asked Jon.
“What?” came Garret’s sleepy reply.
“I’m not used to sharing a bed with anyone. I’m afraid I’ll
smack you in the eye in the night or you’ll wake up black and
blue where I kicked you.”
Garret was quiet a moment. “You’re not kidding me are
you?”
“No,” answered Jon.
“Seriously, you’ve never shared a bed with anybody?”
“Not really,” Jon replied simply. “I did once when some
cousins came to visit, but never after.”
“You Redding folk,” said Garret in mock disgust. “Me’n
my brothers sleep two to a bed in summer and three in winter.
Here’s the rules: If you snore I’ll shove you, if I snore, shove
me. If I pull your covers, you pull ‘em back. Keep your feet on
your side of the bed, and no crowdin', them’s the rules.”
“I guess if you sleep in a herd, you’ve got to have a few
rules,” Jon laughed.
He started say something else, but then let the silence
lengthen. The deep even breathing and the rise and fall of
Garret’s chest provided a rhythmic background that drew Jon
closer and closer to sleep himself.
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7
Raising the Dales
Garret woke first and lay there enjoying the quiet of the
foredawn. Jon’s soft breathing next to him was oddly familiar
already. Ever since he went south with Kevyn and Master
Ridley to that awful job at Chandler’s, he had attempted to get
used to how different people behaved in the south. They were
all too formal for his liking. Had a high opinion of themselves
and theirs, and a low opinion of everyone else. But in the Dale
villages he felt like he was among people like himself. He
stared up at the ceiling thinking about Jon. Interesting fellow.
Chattering on and on about nothing, but likable. Garret felt that
he’d gained a good friend and something of an equal.
What Da’ will say when I come strolling into town a swore-
in guardsman with no job isn’t hard to guess, Garret thought.
He stared at the plastered ceiling. He’d have to be able to
explain himself when he got home and have an idea about what
he’d do instead. Da’ had hoped that he could learn a trade so he
could support himself. Being a third son of six children didn’t
leave any hope of staying on in Saxford, at least on the family’s
farm. Rowan wouldn’t give him the time of day, although her
father seemed to think well enough of him. But she had yet to
respond well to any of his well-rehearsed overtures, and that
frustrated Garret. In fact, he didn’t see much of any future in
front of him. He was at a loss as to what he should do.
That would have to sort itself out later. Right then he needed
to get out to the privy; his bladder wouldn’t hold any longer. He
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eased himself out of bed trying not to waken Jon and tiptoed
down the stairs. Garret didn’t hear anyone up in the house yet,
and tried to talk himself into going back to bed, but knew he
was awake for the day. Garret passed quietly through the house
to sit on the front porch and watch the sun break over the hills to
the east, day dreaming aimlessly.
He couldn’t believe his luck. Off on a mission that he could
have only dreamed of, doing something for the first time in his
life that was important, that made a difference. He stared at his
hands as if they belonged to someone else. Those recently
bloody hands had killed two men, and he lived it again and
again, same gut-wrenching fear for Jon and himself, the near-
blind panic that guided or misguided his actions, he still wasn’t
sure. That he had knowingly arrow shot one man he could deal
with, but he didn’t think the feel of the knife slashing through
living tissue would ever leave his fingers. As the ruddy light
he’d been waiting for spilled down the hills painting fields and
houses like an invisible brush, he tried to convince himself there
was no other way the fight above Ashby could have been
resolved.
Pans clanked in the kitchen indicating that Mistress Watson
was up and at work. Garret stuck his head into the kitchen and
offered to help.
“It’s all but done. It is good to see a young man who doesn’t
have to be coaxed from his bed in the morning. Have you been
gone long from home?” They chatted about his family and life
in Saxford while she worked on cooking breakfast. Garret liked
that, and realized he was more eager than he’d thought he would
be about seeing his parents and brothers and sister in a couple of
days. He hadn’t ever been away from home for any length of
time except when he went on circuit with his dad.
Master Watson came into the kitchen. “Hello, Garret, up
early I see. I’m going out to see to the stock and be back in for
breakfast.” He headed through the back door to do his early
morning chores.
“Breakfast is ready, Garret. Do you want to see if Jon’s up
yet? If he isn’t, don’t wake him. He needs his rest.”
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“I’ll go check on him,” said Garret.
Garret jogged up the squeaky wooden stairs thinking Jon
would already be awake. Full daylight had come and no self
respecting Guard messenger could be allowed to sleep the day
away. If it had been one of his brothers he would have dumped
him onto the floor planking, but he wasn’t sure how Jon might
take it. And there was the fact that Jon’s face, stitched together
and deeply bruised looked very sore. So he shook Jon’s
shoulder.
“Wake up, you lie-a-bed; your snoring would wake the
dead.”
Jon rolled over and peered up at Garret with bleary eyes
with a groan.
“How are you? Ready for a long walk?”
Jon took stock and grimaced. “Not bad.” My head feels
like someone is hammering on it inside and out.”
“That rock really got you good, Jon, it looks worse than
yesterday. You are sure you are all right?
“I’ll live,” sighed Jon, “is everyone else up?”
“It’s after sun up. and breakfast is ready. Mistress Watson
sent me to see how you are and see if you feel like coming down
any time soon.”
“Just enjoying this noisy bed, Garret. We won’t have it
tomorrow.”
“You have that right, Jon. Now up you get.” Garret stuck
out his hand, and Jon pulled himself upright. “I’ll start packin’.
Hurry up, you laggard.” While Jon threw on his shirt on his
way downstairs, Garret folded up the blankets and then folded
the few things he had taken out of his pack. Jon’s things were
spread out all over as if he planned to stay a week. Garret shook
his head, and returned to the kitchen.
Mistress Watson had fixed a full breakfast which they
enjoyed. She blushed when they thanked her. “I’m glad you
invited us here rather than staying at the inn,” Garret said to
Master Watson.
He chuckled, “Oh, Mina’s not such a bad cook; it’s just the
ale that takes a bit of getting used to.” Mistress Watson rolled
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her eyes.
Garret asked Watson about the road ahead.
“Looks like rain sometime today, thundery I wouldn’t
doubt,” he warned. He described the road and told them they
would find a place to stay the night at the pass that joined the
Swale, with Fulham Dale to the north. “It is part of the old fort
up there. Just watch for the path off to the left as you reach the
crest of the ridge. Pretty lonely out there, no farmsteads, or
houses to speak of until you reach Fulham. The guard has fixed
a place to stay up there, kind of a way station, I guess you’d call
it.”
“I’ve put together some food packages to see you through
tomorrow,” said Mistress Watson as they stood up from the
table. She handed them each a package that would never fit into
the packs. They thanked her and Master Watson for their
kindness. Garret lay on the bed while Jon finished packing.
“If we get any more loaded down we’ll have to get a cart to
carry everything,” he joked. They creaked down the stairs
carrying their lunches in their hands.
“You can see there’s not much there,” explained Garret once
they had settled back into a steady pace behind the others. “Just
a few houses along the upper Whitburn River. Once we cross
the bridge, the road there turns off to Whitburn and Gamble,” he
said pointing off to the right. “From Tyndale it is about a three
hour walk up to Saxford. Who knows how far they want us to
walk beyond that. But we’ll be home tonight now, and I’m
hoping no rough camp for us!”
Jon was tired, the crop of welts on top of his bruises and
stitches itched and burned; one of the gnats had bitten him in the
crease of his bruised eyelid and it had swollen partly closed
again. Several of the worst bites in his hair were driving him
mad. His feet hurt, but in spite it all, he relished the thought that
he was doing his duty in the Guard at last. Now less than a
week after he had been sworn in, he was hurrying north to face a
threat to Saeland and all who lived in it.
The road left the hills by mid-afternoon, and the sun danced
and sparkled on the river Whitburn in the distance. The road
was better maintained along that stretch and in places Jon
noticed the stones that lay at the edges of the road had been
carved. The North Road had been raised two to three feet above
the surrounding landscape to avoid becoming flooded or muddy,
and considerably straighter than most roads in the rest of
Saeland. An ocean of grass spread out to the west in a heaving
green carpet. They had left the Dales and were hurrying north
between the Northern Plain and the upland ridges running
eastward toward the Selwyn. Every so often a dell or swale had
been worn into the plain and the road crossed a small tea-
colored stream over a stone bridge of ancient construction.
Many of the streams had flooded and turned the land around
them into a gigantic quagmire. The transit would have taken
them more than a day longer if the causeway had not been in
good repair.
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“Out there,” explained Garret, “are the Plains, unbroken
leagues of grass as far as anyone has ever traveled. The ledges
to the right are really the ends of long ridges that run east all the
way to the Selwyn. Saxford lies at the opening of one of the
narrow valleys where the Woodburn flows down out of the
hills.”
“I crossed the other end of these same hills on my walk up
beyond Ribble a couple of weeks ago. How far do you think it
is between here and there?”
“Thirty for forty leagues anyway,” guessed Garret. “Maybe
more.”
“Does anyone live out that way?” Jon gestured to the plain.
“Our people don’t. At least not these days. Da’ says that
some of our folks may have moved out there, or fled that way to
avoid trouble here, but no one really knows. He also says
people who set out west often don’t come back. No landmarks,
too easy to get lost, I guess. Many places are soggy and
windswept, it would be no good for farming,” offered Garret.
“But I guess the road, and ruins scattered through all this
country mean that people have lived in this part of the world a
long time. Who knows what’s out there?”
The exhausted men stumbled through Tyndale and threw
themselves under the shade of the along the gentle banks of the
river to rest and eat. Jon and Garret found shade beside the wall
of grass-covered ruin several feet high just over the bridge. Jon,
Garret and all the younger men hurled themselves into the river
which flowed three or four feet deep and so clear that they could
see fish swimming lazily in the water at least until the intruders
bounded joyfully into the water. Such splashing and throwing
of water there was until the chill in the water brought goose
bumps out where goose bumps oughtn’t be, and they climbed
stiffly out of the river and lay on the grass enjoying the warmth
of the sun. The older men talked quietly among themselves and
chuckled at the recklessness of the young. Garret actually fell
asleep, but Jon was too bug-bit to rest easy. He made his way
over to Captain Tanner who sat with several of the older men
talking quietly. He waited to break into the conversation at one
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of the silences that rest easy on tired men.
“Master Tanner, can you tell me anything about the ruins
we’ve seen in the Dales?
Tanner smiled. “Lots of speculation is about all you’ll get.
But I can tell you what people around here think. Our people
moved down from the north over three hundred years ago.
Several related tribes really. The Norsk kings allowed us to pass
through and gave us the lands to the south. They built the old
forts, like the one you stayed in. Most of Saeland was empty,
huge stretches of dense forest, especially in Saeland and South
March. When our folks started moving west to the Dales about
two hundred years ago, they saw the chalk figures and brochs
left by people long before we ever arrived. There’s tales about
strange folks in wild places out this way. West of the Swale we
met others whenever we went west over the Great Fell. Shy
people, scattered hunters who were shorter and dark haired they
called themselves the Cimri. There were even a few fights and
that’s how the west border was set. Few Saesen ever venture
west of Pendleton except the Guard and maybe a hunter or two.
I think maybe the Cimri are the descendants of the oldest. Who
knows?” he shrugged. “The ruins you see up this way are most
likely left by our own people long, long ago. Whether the
forgotten farmsteads and abandoned villages were Saesen or
Normen, it’s anyone’s guess.”
The other men nodded, agreeing with Captain Tanner's
assessment. “Legend has it that people live out in the plain so
far west that no one I know has ever seen them,” offered one the
men from Fulham. “I’ve been a ways west and the only sign I
ever saw was when a friend of mine and I came upon a path, as
well trodden as any in the dale coming out of the west and
curving around to the north about three days out. Somebody
lives out there, and I don’t mind telling you we were unnerved
by it. We lost no time in putting leagues between us and the
road leaving as little trace as we could. It’s eerie out there, only
the sound of the wind and the thought of meeting who knows
what sped us back home and never have I been that way again.”
“You’d think we were sitting around the fire trying to scare
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each other, Denny,” Tanner scoffed.” But Jon shared the frisson
that touched each of the men. Denny wasn’t the only one to
have good reason to be cautious of the North Plain. Two other
men shared stories with similar views about what lay out there.
“Enough of that,” Tanner said as he stretched his aching
back. “If we want to get on to Saxford, we ought to be moving
on. Let’s get the others moving north.”
The older men roused everyone else including Garret from
their rest and the Fulham Guard pressed on. Jon was eager to get
to Saxford for a decent meal and a tankard of ale after Garret’s
unbiased description the fine quality of the ale at the Ford
tavern.
“Saxford’s several hours farther on,” explained Garret.
“We’ll stay at my place if we can; at least you’ll find a good bed
for one more night. I’m so tired I think I could sleep anywhere,
except in the marsh,” he added pointedly.
“I’ll have nightmares about that for a long time,” groaned
Jon. “But I will be glad of a place to sleep.”
The road wiggled its way along the upper Whitburn. Jon
thought it interesting that the water in which he swam and
worked all his life, flowed all the way down from beyond
Saxford.
After an hour of walking, they saw several spires of dust
rising at intervals ahead of them apparently from the road. Eyes
peered north to determine if the threat they had been called to
meet was already upon them and every man touched his
weapons. Bows were strung, and three runners were dispatched
to scout ahead. Another half hour passed before one of the men
returned breathlessly announcing that the dust was from wagons
and carts carrying people fleeing from Saxford and at least one
other Guard detachment headed north. They met the first of the
carts which disturbed Garret more than by anything he had ever
seen in Saeland. The horse cart was loaded with a woman, two
young children, and an older woman tucked among the baggage
looking very uncomfortable. An older man walked along
leading two milk cows on ropes. Household goods, pots and
pans banged and clattered along the sides of the cart.
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“I know those people,” called out Garret in alarm. “Mark
Canfield's granddad and grandmam,” he exclaimed, unable to
believe what he was seeing. Jon and Garret clustered with the
others around the cart talking with the Canfields.
“Village's being evacuated,” Master Canfield announced.
“The raiders aren’t more than twenty leagues off. Most folks
are headed east to Highbury, but we’ve got family in Whitburn,
so we’re headed south.” Up until that moment, the idea of
chasing off raiders for every man among the Fulham Guard had
been an abstraction that held no real meaning. But the faces of
the people on the cart strengthened every man’s resolve. They
envisioned their own family in the same circumstances if the
raiders were not driven away.
Wishing the Guard luck, Master Canfield slapped the oxen
with the flat of his hand to get them going again, unwilling to
slow the pace of their move south. For the next two hours they
met families or groups of families traveling away from Saxford,
each of them with the same story to tell. The Fulham men were
greeted with cries of, “Good on you! Chase them raiders off
now!” The men of Fulham straightened and cheered the wagons
in return.
“Some are my cousins and families of friends,” muttered
Garret in anger.
No town of Saeland lay farther north than Saxford. Beyond
it lay the border. And now it would be the first to face the threat
from outside. Jon felt his earlier resolve to be a guardsman flare
into a sense of rage seeing that the threat of outlanders could
force his people out of the security of their homes. True to
custom, the men shouted about the deeds they would perform
against the raiders each encouraging the others to join them in
savaging anyone who invaded. In all they passed not less than
eleven more wagons and carts heading south.
When they finally arrived in Saxford in late afternoon, it was
larger than Jon had imagined it would be. At least as large as
Holbourne with two inns and many fine homes, Saxford was
built out of the cream-colored limestone that formed the bones
of the hills in the area. Jon and Garret accompanied the Fulham
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men who were to report to the Rob Forman, the acting captain
of the Saxford Guard. They marched directly to the Ford Inn
and found the street in front of it crowded with men and boys of
all ages visiting in the late afternoon sun. The common room
was filled to capacity. They were greeted cheerfully by those
already in the room, until Garret came in and a chorus of shouts
and laughter exploded when he was recognized by his neighbors
and friends. That warm welcome was extended to Jon the instant
he was introduced as Garret’s comrade. Garret’s relatives, fully
half the men in the room it seemed, instantly accepted Jon as
one of their own. He was also introduced to Rob Forman,
Master Ridley’s second in that section, at the same time as
Master Tanner.
“Thank you for coming up to help!” Forman cried, and
shook Tanner’s hand.
“You have a crowd already!” exclaimed Tanner. “What’s
happening?”
“A band of as many as a hundred raiders have broken
through from the north, most mounted, some on foot. They’ve
looted and burned their way across the borderlands north of us.
The Normen sent word that they’ve defeated most of the raiders
up in their country, but this bunch slipped by unseen. The
Norsk militia are on the way to help, but will arrive too late to
help us. We’ve sent about twenty men north already, including
your dad, Garret, and we’ve got another fifty leaving this
afternoon. We’ll let your section rest here and any others from
south of us and send you off early tomorrow. Do you know if
any others are coming?”
“Jon here or Garret could tell you more about that than I,”
said Tanner turning to the two young men.
“Captain Forman,” Jon began, “I have a message from
Thane Giffard that is probably out of date now, but you should
have it. Jon handed him the letter from the dispatch case.
He broke the seal and read it carefully and then folded it up
again.
“I see what you mean, Jon, but it’s good to know that the
rest of Saeland is mustering to help us. When can we expect
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them?”
“All I know is that Thane Giffard, the Earl and First Reeve
were going to go right to work recruiting. Garret and I have
talked to the section captains from Selby, Ashby, Pendleton, and
we came with the Fulham section. I think you can count on at
least another fifty men from Pendleton, but I can’t say how
many will come from the others perhaps twenty or thirty. The
Pendleton section will be here tomorrow.”
“Selby men are already here. How’d you get that lot to
come? Looks like a lot of rough characters to me!”
Garret grinned, “We thought so too, but they came!”
“We’ll have at least a hundred men on the borders by
tomorrow and another fifty the day after that. Gavin Baxter
brought word down from your Da’, Garret. They’d met up with
one of them Norsk soldiers who’d raced south to warn us.
Name of Erl something. Oh, I’ve forgotten, now what was that
name?”
“Erlend?” Jon suggested.
“That’s it,” he remembered. “You know him?”
“I met him just two weeks ago up north of Ribble and
carried a message from him and another called Arnegil to Thane
Giffard down in Camber. They swore me in and sent Garret and
I up through Pendleton and Fulham when we got your message.
I guess you’ve heard by now that Master Ridley is laid up near
Holbourne with a broken leg. He won’t be able to travel, at
least that is what they told us when we left.”
“Kevyn sent word about it; Ridley’s got bone fever. If he
lives, he won’t be here anytime soon. We’ll have to do the best
we can without him. He’d expect no less.”
“Glad you’ve come,” Forman said heartily. “You two may
well have made the difference between success and failure here.
Why don’t you and Garret get some rest if you can? Looks like
you’ve been at this longer than any of us. We’ve left it up to
each family here, but most are sending off the women and old
folks, most of them headed up to Highbury, they’ll be safe up
there. Many are packing up today and leaving when they can.
Corbin and Cole are already up north with your Da’, several of
261
the men in town are. You go home and make sure your mother
and the rest of your family are on their way to Highbury, too.
The Saxford section will set off tomorrow early. You can come
with us, or go on up to Highbury, we’ll need men there if we
can’t hold them off.”
Without a heartbeat of hesitation Garret, replied, “No,
Captain, Jon and me are coming with you.”
“Good lads, both of you. I’ll send someone up to your place
to tell you what the plan is. Now off you go, boys, you’ve
earned yourselves a night’s rest anyway.”
“Hal!” he called to the hurried innkeeper, “get these men a
drink!”
Jon and Garret smiled and worked their way through the
crush to get a pot of the ale Jon had heard about non-stop for
most of the mission, especially after the near ‘poisoning’ at
Pendleton as Garret referred it. After emptying the cool
draughts of what Jon had to agree was an excellent ale to the last
drop, they set off for the Fletcher farm which lay three furlongs
or so away.
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8
Raiders!
301
9
Jon told the family Garret was awake, hungry and thirsty.
Just as Jon had predicted Mistress Fletcher scurried in
straightway, checking him over to be sure he was really on the
328
mend. She was relieved about the fever and said so. She
brought the pain medicine with her, and Garret swallowed it
despite its vile taste, and his face screwed up involuntarily.
“Now, you lie here still,” Mistress Fletcher commanded,
“and we’ll get you something to eat. Just a little at first then as
much as you want a bite at a time. We’ll need to change the
bedding too, but that can wait until after you eat. Is there
anything else you want?”
“Nothing, Mam, just glad to be home.”
“That’s good, young man, because that’s where you’re
going to stay. I know you, Garret Fletcher, and you’re going to
be talkin’ Jon into helping you get up. I’m tellin’ you and him
that isn’t goin’ to happen until Mistress Banks has been back
here and gives the go ahead for it.”
“Yes, Mam,” Garret moaned dutifully, he had already
decided that he needed to get up and move around, lying on his
back in bed without moving was torture for an otherwise active
young man.
After he had eaten and drunk and let it settle, Mistress
Fletcher directed Garret’s brothers to roll Garret from one side
to the other, so the bedding could be changed, but the movement
aggravated his shoulder.
“Woden’s bones,” Garret groused, “I’m not a sack of
potatoes.”
“Sorry,” Corbin said sheepishly. “Mam says we’ve got to
give you a bath. You smell like a goat.”
“I’ll take care of that myself.”
“You can’t even sit up yet, Garret,” Corbin countered.
“Look,” he said, trying to sound a compromise. “Mam insists
you have a wash, and we agree, Garret, you smell like the barn
in winter. Either we help you, or she will.” Garret swore again.
“Get it over with,” he complained dejectedly, but then fixing
their eyes in a ferocious glare, “if any of you so much as smile,
I’ll get off this pallet and crack your skulls.”
“All right, all right,” yielded Cole. Garret turned his face to
the wall in utter chagrin.
They bathed him from a basin without a word or hint of
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smile. The bedding was changed, and they laid him back.
“I admit that I feel better,” Garret admitted after everyone
but Jon had left.
The day took on a rough routine. Garret slept until
afternoon when he heard a familiar voice coming down the hall
and Mistress Banks burst into the room all business.
“Well, well, my boy, sounds like you’re improving by the
hour. Let me take a look at you. She felt his forehead and neck.
Fever’s gone, that’s good.” Then she used her fingers to probe
for any swelling in his neck; she did the same thing digging into
Garret’s armpit with her bony fingers. “Any soreness there she
asked?”
“Just inside the shoulder and arm where you are poking,”
Garret grimaced as her fingernails probed. She pressed and
massaged the muscles around the wound asking where it was
sorest. The farther up the shoulder she kneaded, the stronger his
reaction.
“About what I expected,” she observed. “Most infestion
was up there, but swelling’s gone down a little since yesterday.
You been up at all?”
“No,” said Garret bitterly, “Mam won’t let me even sit up
and they’ve been rolling me around the bed like a log every half
hour.”
“Well, I don’t see any harm in you getting up a little. Get
one of your brothers or Jon to help you up. Don’t want you
falling down and ruining all my handiwork, though. Them
stitches are some of my best work, if I do say so myself.”
She carefully undid the bandages and eased the covering
cloth away from the stitches. “Still looks good,” she commented
peering closely at them. She sniffed the wound. “Smells clean,
or I am no judge.”
“Joan, I want you let that dry out today, it will itch him some
and feel like it’s pulling. Keep it covered tonight, just wrap it
dry and keep his arm strapped to his chest. “
“Garret,” she charged, “don’t move your shoulder at all if
you can help it. Time enough for that later. I won’t lie to you.
It is going to hurt bad for a few days, but it will start easing once
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the swelling goes down.”
She turned her eye on Mistress Fletcher.
“Joan, you keep an eye on him, the fever can come back in a
hurry. He needs to drink a lot. Small meals. Any questions?
Sorry I can’t stay to do more, but I’ve got six patients I’m
looking out for. Cooper’s been arrow shot, and there're four
here from other towns, but they’ll all come through. I haven’t
been this busy for years!” Mistress Banks was gone as quickly
as she had come.
“You got all that?” Garret laughed. His mother shrugged,
“I think so.”
“If Mistress Banks ever joined the Guard, Thane Giffard
would have to look for a new job!” declared Jon. They all burst
out laughing at that, and Garret cursed when the pain hit.
“No more jokes, Jon. Get out of here and let me sleep.”
Jon walked into the village center to the inn guided by Ian
where he left his letter to Meg hoping it would begin its slow
journey toward Ribble. He enjoyed Ian’s company and got him
to tell him stories about Garret. It became clearly evident that
Garret was loved and admired both by his younger brothers and
by people in general. Several times they were stopped by
people in their front gardens asking about Garret’s condition and
sending their best wishes.
By the time they got back, Mistress Fletcher had made a
supper for everyone and a host of talkative family members
surrounded the table, all clamoring to find out about the events
not only of the past four days, but since Garret had gone off
with Master Ridley to find work as an apprentice. Once the
eating slowed down, Master Fletcher, Cole and Corbin
explained how they had succeeded in stealing horses right from
under the noses of the Olani to the delight of the whole family
except Mistress Fletcher who shook her head and made
disapproving sounds. Jon was forced to retell what happened to
Garret, but with the younger children present, he left out
anything that might frighten them. Garret’s mother made up a
tray to take into Garret and ordered the other children to clean
up the dishes and make sure their other chores were done. Jon
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watched while she tried to coax Garret to eat a little more.
“I’m just not that hungry now, Mam.” She glared at him and
then grumped her way out of the room shutting the door.
Jon lay down on his straw tick. “How are you?”
“I’m all right,” Garret said to the ceiling, “a bit hot right
now.” Jon got up to check him, but the hot wasn’t from fever,
the room was all closed up, so he opened the window to catch a
sometime breeze. Mistress Fletcher came back in and sat down
in the stool near Garret and had brought a basket of socks and
proceeded to darn them, clucking her tongue at the wear and
tear on them.
“Suppose you tell me what happened out there with them
raiders, Jon,” fixing her eyes on his. “I want to hear it all.”
Jon began at the beginning and told her what had happened.
The story lasted longer than Jon thought it should, and Garret
appeared to have gone off to sleep. Mistress Fletcher just shook
her head.
“Got what they deserved then,” she concluded. “Come
down here raiding and threatening decent people.” They could
hear voices in the yard and Mistress Fletcher left to see who it
was.
Garret opened his eyes and glanced over at Jon. “That’s a
pretty good story Jon, only trouble is you downplay what you
did.”
“Didn’t do much,” said Jon. “Just ran around shot a few
arrows and felt confused most of the time. Everything I knew
just flew out of my head. About got myself and you killed.”
“That all may be true, but you kept me from having my head
hacked off and that’s for sure. Thank you, Jon. I am sorry you
have ended up being the nursemaid here. But to tell the truth, I’d
rather have you help than Corbin or Cole. I have to live with
them, I’ll never live down them having to bathe me.”
“You don’t understand, Garret. It’s not like that for me or
for them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know, I would be embarrassed about being nursed like
this,” Jon explained. “But we’ve seen what happened out there
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and the price you are paying for all of us. It is no burden, you
are a comrade and friend and their brother. We all see ourselves
in your place and hope there’d be someone who’d do the same if
we were lying on that mattress all bandaged up and helpless.”
“I don’t want to be pitied,” Garret groused with a trace of
bitterness in his voice.
“You can’t help that, Garret. In our case, it isn’t pity, its love
and concern. Gratitude is mixed in there somewhere, too. We
saw what happened to the men the raiders caught, Garret.
We’re just glad you’re here to tend rather than in a hero’s grave
somewhere else. I don’t know exactly how you feel. I guess it’s
only natural that you are frustrated and angry about this. It will
pass. Tomorrow we’ll get you up and outside for a while if you
want. You’ll get better. Erlend said it, Mistress Banks said it,
and I’m telling you, you’ll get better.”
Garret listened to Jon, and if anything felt foolish for
fussing.
“Don’t pay any attention to me,” he muttered. “Must be the
medicine.”
Mistress Fletcher came back in and asked him how he felt.
“My shoulder throbs, Mam,” sighed Garret in a resigned
voice.
“Of course it does,” she shot back. “If you insist on goin’
out shootin’ foreigners, they’ll probably try to slice you back
every time. Lie as still as you can,” she barked, tucking a pillow
on the side of his wounded shoulder. “And for Eir’s sake don’t
roll over on that side.” She brought back the medicine and
helped him drink it down.
“Don’t worry,” complained Garret, “I’m not going
anywhere.”
“If you have to get up, you wake Jon here and let him help
you get around until you’re a little steadier on your feet.”
“No problem there,” assured Jon. They talked for a time,
but the medicine took effect. Garret breathed more and more
deeply and soon fell asleep.
Jon wrote to his mother and told her some of what had been
going on the past week or so. He left out a lot of what happened
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as it might upset her, and promised he’d come to visit after he
had been to see Meg. It wasn’t anywhere near as long as the
letter to Meg, but he felt he needed to tell her part of what had
happened, but not enough to alarm her. But in time the heat of
the room and the lack of anything else to do, Jon lay back on the
pallet to rest.
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10
Interrupted Journey
The next day the sun was long up before either Garret or Jon
awoke. Jon rose and dressed, waking Garret in the process.
Garret felt much better even than the night before and was able
to get up on his own with just a steadying hand from Jon. They
ate with the family in the kitchen, and Mistress Fletcher packed
enough to eat to tide Jon over on his journey to Whitburn. He
bid each of the Fletchers good-bye, Mistress Fletcher was
tearfully grateful. Jon tried to breeze through his good bye to
Garret, but Garret caught his arm.
“I know you think we’re even now, Jon. But I’m telling
you, I am deeply in your debt, and so is my family. We won’t be
so easily parted if I have anything to say about it. You are as
much a brother to me as Cole or Corbin. I’ll see you next
month?”
Jon nodded. “You heal up so we both can go, a much more
leisurely trek than the last, I hope. You do what Mistress Banks
says,” Jon ordered in a mock serious tone, but he meant it, and
Garret knew he meant it.
Corbin held the halter for the sorrel horse until Jon was
safely mounted. With only two riding sessions under his belt
Jon still sat stiffly in the saddle as he walked the horse out of the
farmyard. He wasn’t carrying a backpack and that was a
pleasant change. After leaving Saxford, Jon tried to get the
horse to go faster, but the jerky, lurching motion of the horse
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nearly bounced him off. The day promised to be long and hot.
His route took him south to the bridge over the Holbourne at
Tyndale and east on the Whitburn Road. Beyond Tyndale grew
wilder and high hills deeply forested. The Great Forest stretched
all the way from there right across to the Selwyn. It was
uninhabited as far as Jon knew. Bits and pieces of forest could
still be found in Saeland and the Marches, but the vast tracts of
ancient forest stood so dense and covered such difficult terrain
that the Saesen had only ever cleared a single north-south
roadway through to Selby. Huge oaks, chestnut, beeches, elms
and birches blended together so tightly overhead that the forest
floor never saw direct sunlight. Jon found it forbidding and
dark; the fallen timber spongy from termites and dust-dry. In
stream-watered coombes, long strands of moss hung from the
branches like old rags, and fallen timber and rock alike were
carpeted in its velvet grasp. Underfoot cinquefoil and sweet
woodruff spiced the air.
The road followed the course of the Upper Holbourne, that
far north it was a clear, lazy trout stream or a rushing white
maelstrom as it tumbled over ledges and boulders; then it
vanished into the forest. The land began to rise a little at mid-
day and then down once again into the drainage of the
Whitburn. In the heat of the afternoon it felt good to climb off
the horse, soak his feet or splash his head in the cool crossing
streams he forded while the horse was content to graze quietly.
It had submitted resignedly to Jon’s inept bouncing up and
down in the saddle, and Jon felt as if he were about to split in
half from his crotch up. The bones of his hips were bruised
from the pounding his posterior had taken in the few hours since
he’d left the Fletchers. It hurt to walk, it hurt to ride, it hurt to
just stand still, and he wished the horse would gallop off and
leave him to walk the rest of the day. The road he followed saw
little foot or wagon traffic, but recent events were evidenced by
the trampled, ankle-high grass growing between the parallel
tracks of the road.
Occasionally Jon passed a house or farmstead wherever the
valley through which the road passed widened enough for a
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freehold. Twice Jon stopped to visit with a farmer working near
the road in a field and was invited inside for something to eat,
their faces showing surprise at his mode of travel, but their
ingrained good manners precluded any mention of it. Jon took a
drink at one of the farmsteads and declined the offer of a meal
due to the food Mistress Fletcher had sent along. As the
afternoon wore on, huge clouds billowed up out of the south.
Jon got off the horse and walked for a long time holding the
halter, the horse clopping behind him confused, but not unhappy
about the walker in front of him. It was taking longer to get to
Whitburn than Jon had thought it would. He also realized how
much he had come to enjoy Garret’s company on the road,
traveling alone wasn’t nearly as pleasant as with a blunt
speaking, apprentice stone mason, and ha actually found himself
talking to the horse. As the sun moved to set in a fiery orange
sky, Jon rode into Whitburn.
The town was larger than Jon figured it would be. Fields and
farms clustered around Whitburn and its several hundred
residents. On a rocky bluff above the town stood the ruins of
another large fort with windowless openings in the walls. The
valley tilted slightly south overlooking the dense forest. Jon
stopped at the first inn and inquired if they had a room and a
place to stable the horse, which they did not, not really. The
room wasn’t a problem there were plenty of those. All they
could do with the horse was put it in a paddock and throw a
little hay over the fence. That’s all Jon needed, so he took the
room.
Once he stowed his gear, he went down and ordered some
supper and a drink in the common room not so much for the
food, but for the company. Several local people asked about
him and his travels, and when he mentioned that he was coming
from Saxford, they pleaded with him to tell them what had
happened in the fight with the raiders on the east road. One of
the younger men, Eaden Soames, became Jon’s instant comrade.
He had been with another section on the North Road. As the
two were telling the others what had happened, the door opened
in a gust of wind and the familiar face Kevyn, Devin Ridley’s
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other apprentice came into the common room.
“Hey,” Jon called, “Kevyn! Over here!” The tired traveler
lightened with pleasure at seeing a familiar face. Kevyn
immediately pressed him for news about the skirmish above
Saxford. As quickly as gossip magnified other more mundane
events in Saeland, Jon was surprised that the fight up past
Saxford hadn’t become a pitched battle with hundreds of raiders
breaking down the borders. Jon started from the beginning and
told everything he knew.
“Garret should have stayed at Colby with us,” Kevyn joked
soberly.
“You’d have a hard time convincing him of that, I think,”
argued Jon. Kevyn asked several questions about the Saxford
section and was relieved they had given a good account of
themselves.
“Have you brought Master Ridley home with you? Where is
he?” Jon asked.
Kevyn’s face lost its color. “I’m sorry to say that we buried
Master Ridley three days ago at Chandler’s. I’m bringing his
things home to his family. He just got weaker and weaker, there
wasn’t anything we could do. It was a bad end. I just want to
get home.”
“I am sorry, Kevyn. Garret will be, too. Everything’s
upside down there as you can imagine. Rob Forman’s in
charge, and you ought to report to him as well.”
“I will,” Kevyn responded dully.
The next morning the skies were still leaden although not
nearly as dark as the previous day. Jon ate a fine breakfast, but
when Jon mentioned settling up to Master Cobb, the keeper
would take nothing.
“You showed your mettle yesterday, Jon, I won’t soon forget
that. You come back here anytime; you’ve made some good
friends here, though you don’t know it. Now you be careful out
riding today. Suppose it’ll rain again, but that flood yesterday,
don’t expect that again.”
Jon gathered up his gear and carried it to the barn behind the
inn and saddled his horse, and tied on the saddlebags. The horse
stared at him chewing impassively. Jon led him out into the
yard and rode down the still muddy street past the house with
the fallen chimney, already being repaired. Groups of men
stood, hands on hips, surveying the damage to the houses on
both sides of the brook that was running dirty but fordable. A
few other men were studying the bridge and discussing how best
to repair it. They waved to Jon as the horse waded across and
climbed the mud-greased bank. Everywhere water stood in the
fields at least a hand span deep. Grain that had only two days
ago stood high and green-gold in the Haymonth sun now lay
flattened in great swathes as if a giant rake had descended from
the sky and combed the grain this way in one field and that way
in another. If the rains continued it would be a hard winter for
some. Several houses had slate shingles blown off exposing the
wooden framework beneath. The whole area around Gamble
was a beehive of activity, everyone working together to get life
back on course. Once again Jon felt the sense of pride in the
ability of his people to respond to trouble by working together.
The farther from Gamble he got, the less wind damage there
was. Without houses or farms nearby, the flooded streams had
all passed unmarked through the forest. The wind came up, and
several times during the morning, rain showers like gray misty
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draperies swept across the countryside, but none of them lasted
very long. With his cloak over the top of him and his gear, he
was thankful for the horse after all. He had some food left from
Mistress Fletcher which he ate in the shelter of an abandoned
building during one particular heavy downpour. The insides of
his legs were so raw and sore he could hardly sit the saddle. It
felt so good to be off the horse, that Jon contemplated walking
the rest of the way to Ribble, while the horse grazed as if it
didn’t matter whether it was raining or not.
Dark clouds drove in from the north as the sun heated up the
moisture-laden air. Thunder murmured in the distance, and Jon
reluctantly remounted and sped up hoping to reach Turner’s Inn
before it got worse. He’d been told earlier it was about ten
leagues to Ribble, but the helpful alehouse crowd insisted it was
more like fifteen last evening. Jon was now sure it was more
than ten leagues or he would be snug and dry in Turner’s inn
already.
He yearned for a bath, just as long as Meg stayed out of the
room. He smiled at that memory. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a
bad thing if she came in after all. Getting ahead of yourself
aren’t you, Jon?” he chuckled. But it was a good thought and
warmed him up on that cool, wet morning. Dinner time passed
and then mid afternoon before he saw the first farmsteads which
signaled Ribble lay not too far distant. The widely scattered
farmhouses crowded closer, almost one on top of another the
closer he got to Ribble. When Jon thought he could not sit
another instant upon the horse, he finally spied the river and the
solid stone inn across the bridge.
He tied his horse out front, removed his saddlebags, and
walked aching and bow-legged up to the iron-banded front door
shaking water from himself and his cloak and lifted the latch.
“Hello?”
Mistress Turner turned from sweeping the floor of the
common room and cried out, “Jon! Come in, how are you?
Been a wet walk today hasn’t it? Will you stay the night or are
you off for home?”
“Oh, I’d like to stay please, if you have room,” Mistress
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Turner.
You’d be the only guest, not much traveling going on with
the kind of weather we’ve had the past two days. Let me show
you to a room upstairs, you can get out of that wet tunic.
Durban’s out back and Tristan’s around here somewhere.”
“Is Meghan here?”
“I expect her back later this afternoon. She’s gone over to
Dora Henage’s place to help with the children after she had that
baby last week.”
“Then I’ll get cleaned up,” Jon said, realizing in the
enclosed place that he stank of horse. “Mistress Turner, I’ve got
a horse do you think I can put it out back?”
“Wherever did you get a horse?” she blurted. “Suppose
there’s a good story behind that, isn’t there? Go on out back,
Durban’s there somewhere, and I’m sure there’s a place for the
horse.”
“Thanks,” he called and went back outside to lead his horse
around the side of the inn.
“Durban!” he shouted. “Durban!”
“Hello, Jon, how are you?” Durban hollered back, his head
poking out from behind a shed door.
“I’m fine,” Jon replied. “I’ve got a horse here, can I put it
somewhere?”
“A horse, you say? Where did you get a horse?”
Jon smiled, “It’s a long story, Guard business.”
“Why don’t you put it in the paddock back by the barn?”
Durban hollered. “Just set your tack inside.”
“I appreciate it, Master Turner!” Jon called as he passed by
the shed where Durban was sweeping.
He removed the halter and saddle and led the horse into the
small enclosure that had enough long grass in it for the horse to
eat. The rain had over-filled a stone watering trough, so Jon’s
horse chores were done. Durban was still sweeping out the
dusty shed. As Jon passed, he thanked him and returned to the
inn by the back door. Mistress Turner heard him come in and
finally got a good look at him.
She gave a little screech. “Jon, what happened to you?”
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“Been on Guard duty the last couple of weeks, it’s not as
easy as I thought it would be.”
“I should say not,” she scolded. “Sit down here and let me
take a look at that face of yours.” Jon did as ordered until
Mistress Turner was satisfied he was going to live after all.
“You come on upstairs.”
Jon followed with his gear. Down the hall past Tristan’s
room she opened the door to a room overlooking the river and
street below. “I’ll get Tristan to fetch you up a bucket of water
and make up the fire.”
“I can do that, Mistress Turner,” Jon volunteered.
“I know you can, but Tristan does little enough round here
as it is. You’re tired I’m sure. Now, you get cleaned up. I’ll
send Tristan up to see if you need anything else.”
Jon stripped off his sodden tunic and dumped the contents of
his pack out onto the floor. Tristan knocked on the open door a
moment or two later and came in to start the fire in the fireplace.
“Hullo, Jon,” he shouted cheerfully.
“Hullo, Tristan, how are you?”
“Just got busy,” he mumbled. “I’ll have that water up in no
time. Where have you been?”
“Been up at Saxford with the Guard.”
“You see any fighting up there?”
“Yeah, I did, Tristan, that’s where I got this.” Jon reached
toward his gear and pulled the sword in its scabbard from his
gear and held it out for inspection. Tristan’s face stared in
wonder first at the sword and then at the bruised part of Jon’s
face.
“Go ahead pull it out!” Jon urged. Tristan double-checked
with a glance for permission and pulled the sword about
halfway from the scabbard, his eyes alight.
“It’s heavy,” he said, surprised. “Where did you get it?”
“One of the raiders tried to use it to take the head off a
friend of mine.”
Tristan looked hard at Jon to see the truth of it.
Jon assured him it was so. Tristan’s eyes widened in delight.
“How did you stop him?” Tristan breathed.
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“Put an arrow in his throat.
Tristan’s face couldn’t contain his wonder. “Got a horse
from one of them raiders, too.”
“Really? Where is it?”
“In your paddock where I left him. Go see for yourself.”
“I will!” he exclaimed and set off at a dead run.
“Don’t forget my water!” Jon shouted after him.
His clothes had been sitting in his pack half wet for two days
and with everything else in there; they smelled dank and
unpleasant. He wanted to make a good impression given what
he wanted to ask Meg, so he wasn’t about to ask Mistress
Turner to wash his shirt. When Tristan came back, Jon told him
what he wanted and carried the bucket of warm water down to
the washroom. Jon scrubbed himself clean and after examining
the state of the inside of his thighs decided he was walking back
to Redding. Using the water and tub Tristan brought, he rinsed
his clothes and returned to his room and hung everything up to
dry. Jon lay down on the bed, far away from the horse for the
first time in three days. He realized he would fall asleep if he
stayed very long, and so he sat up and sorted through the items
he’d left on the floor.
He located the bloodstone ring and set it on the fireplace.
He wasn’t sure exactly how he would tell Meg what he had been
thinking and feeling. A hundred speeches flew through his
mind. One or two he tried out half aloud, but they sounded so
awkward that he convinced himself that none of them would
sound the way he wanted. Maybe if the two of them went out
for a walk, he would be able to find a way to say what he
wanted. The straw tick was comfortable and the fire kept the
cool damp air outside from sneaking into the room.
A knock at the door brought him up with a start.
“Jon,” called Tristan through the door. “Mam sent me to tell
you Meg is home.”
“Thanks, Tristan, I’ll be down.” The shirt hanging near the
fireplace had partially dried and he pulled it on. It didn’t look a
whole lot better, but at least it didn’t smell like the inside of his
pack or the horse. He combed his hair into place with his
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fingers and buckled his belt and stuck the ring into his purse and
whistled his way downstairs. He could hear voices from the
kitchen, one of them Meg’s and moved into the doorway.
“Jon!” she smiled, “How have you been?”
“All of Jon’s speech practice failed him and he stammered
his greeting.
Meg’s eyes widened when she saw the bruises on his face.
“You two go on out of here and give me some peace,”
ordered Mistress Turner laughing. “Go on!”
Meghan and Jon walked out into the common room and sat
at one of the trestle tables where a weak sun filtered though the
open window. For half an hour they talked about everything
that had happened. Meg sobered when he told her about the
incident above Ashby and inspected his face and eye to be sure
he was not just making light of his injury.
“It feels a lot better,” he said. “The bruises are starting fade
a little; I’m fine. What have you been doing the last couple of
weeks?”
Meg told about the family she was helping and the things the
children did that made her laugh. Jon related a short version of
the longer story that he would have to tell again until the family
knew everything that had happened up north. Meg was properly
awed when he described the events of the fight. He mentioned
the storm and flooding yesterday and the futile attempt to save
the houses there. Meg shook her head.
“We ought to tell Da’. A few of the families here have
relatives over that way, and they’ll be anxious to help if they
can.” She stood up. Jon, seeing his chance to talk with her
slipping away, asked her to wait.
“Would you go for a walk with me after supper?”
Meghan smiled at him coyly. “Of course, I will, unless it’s
pelting rain.” She gave him a quizzical glance, but Jon looked
away, and so she led the way out to the back to find her father
with Jon tagging along after. Out to the west the clouds were
ripped and torn, promising a burst of color at sunset. Durban
Turner was working in the huge garden that supplied most of the
fruit and vegetables for the family and for the guests at the inn.
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He had been weeding in the soft wet soil and was muddy hands
to knees. He stood up when he saw Meg and Jon.
“Hello, Meg, how’s that baby?”
“The baby is no trouble at all, keeping an eye on the older
ones, now that’s what keeps me busy over there.”
“And you, young man, I understand that you saw some of
the fighting up north? I heard several stories about it already
from one or two travelers passing through, but no one that was
there. I’ll want to hear all about it at supper.”
“Da’, Meg interrupted, “Jon just told me the storm yesterday
destroyed some of the houses below the bridge over at Gamble.
Does anyone around here need to know about it?”
“Really? No one’s come through from over there since
early yesterday. Let me think. I know Hugh Kimball’s from
over there, his voice trailed off as he thought hard about who
would want to know.”
“Jon, would you mind going with me to a couple of houses
here in town and tell them what you saw. That will be better
than me trying to tell them what I think you said.”
“Sure,” agreed Jon, “be glad to.”
“Let me clean up first, and we’ll see to that before supper.”
Master Turner left his tools, stood with a groan, and stretched.
“I’ll just step inside and tell your mother I’m going,” said
Turner.
Jon waited for him outside in the garden with Meghan.
“Everything is so green after the rain,” Jon commented
blandly.
“Dad loves that garden, and we all spend plenty of time
there when it’s time to weed and thin, which is all the time,” she
added.
For the second time since leaving home, Jon missed his own
house in Redding and realized he would have to get back to it.
Food didn’t grow there on its own. It would be a hungry winter
if the garden failed for want of care. He reached into his belt
purse and fingered the ring, tempted to bring it out then and
there, but he was afraid Master Turner would interrupt, so he
decided to stick with his original plan and wait until after
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supper.
They talked until Durban came back out ready to go visiting.
“I’ll see you at supper, Dad. Mam’ll need help in the
kitchen. Jon, you see that Da’s not too long,” she warned. “He
tends to talk way too much when he goes visiting.”
The two of them set off with Durban leading the way. Jon
described the flooding he’d seen yesterday as Turner listened
soberly. “We didn’t get more than a good steady shower out of
it. We could see the storm was worse over that way. I’ve
seldom seen such lightning. I would never have guessed the
storm was as far as Gamble. There are two families in town who
will want to hear the news you’ve brought, Jon, hope you don’t
mind. Now, tell me what happened up at Saxford.”
The short walk was just enough time to tell the abbreviated
version of the story. Turner ran out of time for his questions
when they reached a thatched house sitting askew to the road at
the front of a typical long narrow land holding across the river
bridge and down a side lane.
“This is Hugh Kimball’s place. He’ll want to hear about
what happened.”
Durban knocked loudly on the door. A young boy answered
the door and asked them to come in.
“No, Kyle, We’ve got muddy boots. Is your Dad about?”
“Dad’s ‘round the back working in the garden.”
“Never mind then, we’ll just go around if that’s all right.”
“Go on, Master Turner,” he invited and shut the door.
Jon followed Durban around the house and into the fenced
off garden about the same size as Master Turner’s. A middle-
aged man stood up straight from his hunched over position and
stretched.
“Hello, Durban,” he began. “What brings you this way?”
“Hugh, this is Jon Ellis, a young friend of mine from down
at Redding. He arrived from Gamble this afternoon and was
telling me that there was a terrible flood there yesterday.
Wrecked the bridge and several houses, drowned two people. I
brought him to explain what he saw since you have folks over
there, I thought you’d want to hear it from someone who saw
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it.”
Hugh stepped the shovel he had been holding midair into the
dirt and moved to meet them at the edge of the garden.
“My wife’ll want to hear what you’ve got to say, too, why
don’t you both come on in and tell what happened.” So they
followed him into the house removing their boots on the top
step.
Hugh called his wife from the bottom of the stairs, and they
all went into the sitting room towards the front of the house.
“Now tell us what happened,” Hugh urged.
Jon told them what he had experienced and seen. Mistress
Kimball became visibly upset. “Oh, no, if it’s the houses I think
it is. It’s a cousin of mine lost her house and my aunt next lives
next to her. Oh, Hugh, we’ll get the cart and drive straight over
there tomorrow!”
“I thought you should know,” concluded Durban. “Isn’t old
Dean Hatch or his wife from over that way?”
“I’m sure Dean Hatch will want to know.” Nate Barton as
well.”
“We’ll stop by the Hatch place on our way home,” said
Master Turner, “but if you’re driving to Gamble anyway, will
you tell Nate on your way tomorrow?”
The Kimballs thanked Durban and Jon several times as they
went out the back door into the yard.
Durban and Jon retraced their steps to the main road through
town and turned north up the track Jon had followed a couple of
weeks ago. Passing a couple of farmhouses up river, Durban
turned in at the gate of a small cottage almost hidden by a riot of
mid summer flowers of every color and sort. He pounded on the
door, and it was answered by an older man with gray hair, rather
stooped in appearance. Durban took a deep breath, startling Jon.
“Hello, Dean, how are you?” Durban roared.
“Fine, fine, and you?” the man replied in a quiet soft voice.
“Dean, is Ella home?”
“Yes, let me go get her,” the man said as he turned to leave.
“Dean is hard of hearing,” explained Durban. “You’ll have
to speak up loud when they come back. It’s awkward at first, but
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you’ll get used to it.” Hatch came back to the room with his
wife.
“Hello, Durban how are you?” smiled Mistress Hatch in a
normal conversational tone.
“Listen, Ella, there’s been a flood over at Gamble
yesterday.”
“What’s that?” asked Hatch.
Ella shouted, “There’s been a flood over at Gamble!”
“Oh my,” he responded in a shocked voice. “Anyone hurt?”
“This is Jon Ellis. He can tell you what he saw!”
“ Jon,” said Durban, “tell Dean what you told me.”
“Yesterday there was a terrible storm over at Gamble,” he
began in what he thought was a loud voice
“What’d he say?” said the old man. “Speak up, my lad, I’m
hard of hearing!”
“ Jon took an embarrassed deep breath himself. “There was
a flood over at Gamble yesterday, Mr. Hatch. It tore down
homes, flooded some folks out, and washed three homes away
on Gamble Brook!” Jon shouted.
“Oh my,” said the old man. “What part of town?”
Jon lowered his voice; it was an effort to shout everything.
“Both sides of the brook, near the bridge.”
“What was that?” Hatch said, cupping his hand behind his
ear.
“You’ll have to speak up,” his wife encouraged.
So Jon recounted the story once again at the top of his lungs.
By the time he finished, he was getting hoarse.
“Just thought you might want to know about it,” shouted
Durban.
“Thanks for stopping by,” murmured Dean. “I had a brother
over there, but he died last year. The rest of my family, what’s
left of them, live west of town, so it doesn’t sound like they
were threatened, I guess, but thanks for letting us know.”
“Well, we’ll be off then, Dean,” bellowed Durban. Jon
bowed and followed Durban out the door.
“Whew,” sighed Jon, “I don’t think I ever shouted so much
at one time in all my life.”
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“You did fine, Jon. Dean is deaf as a door, probably only
heard half of what you told him anyway. But at least they
know. Let’s get back to the inn; supper’ll be ready by the time
we arrive.”
As they walked, Jon took a deep breath, and told Durban he
had something he’d been wanting to talk to him about.
“You know I like Meg, and I think she likes me. Ever since
the fight up north I’ve been thinking I want to ask her to marry
me, but I wanted to talk to you about it first. I know I’m young,
but I care her more than anyone or anything else on earth. I’ve
got my own place over at Redding. I’m asking for your
permission to marry.”
“I won’t lie to you, Jon; me and Edlyn’s talked about this
some. Meghan loves you, has for some time, glad you finally
came round to recognize it. So if you’re askin’, then I’m sayin’
yes, Jon, you have our blessing. We’d be pleased to have you in
our family.” He gave Jon a friendly slap on the back. “My
Meg’s goin to get her wish,” he crowed happily.
Jon was so excited, he wanted to jump and shout out loud,
but he had to be honest with Turner. “I’ve quit the mill, Master
Turner. I just can’t work for Ralph Miller any longer. I won’t
cheat for him and he is doing business with someone that
doesn’t seem quite right to me. So I up and told him I’d not
work there any longer.
“I find no fault in that, Jon. Shows you have some
backbone. Ralph Miller’s reputation isn’t very high around here;
that I can tell you. So how are you going to support a
household?”
“Well, I have the farm from my father and it’ll feed and
clothe us fine. I’ve an offer of work from Egan Holman and
Thane Giffard wants me to try to organize the Guard there. So
I’d have some income from that. The trouble is I just don’t
know exactly how it’s going to all work out.”
“Turner walked a few paces before answering, and Jon’s
anxiety grew with each step. What if he changed his mind?
What if he out and out said no, not until you can show me how
you will take care of Meg. worried Jon. He was as nervous then
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as waiting for the Olani to come up the East Road.
“Sounds like you have prospects, Jon. And I’ve learned
long ago that if you wait for conditions to be just right to do
important things, you’ll wait your life away and come out the
sorrier for it. If you’re asking me, half the enjoyment for being
first married is working those kinds of things out together. It
isn’t pretty while you’re in the middle of it, but you and Meg’ll
be stronger for it. So don’t fret, you’ll have your Meg, and if we
can help out in the difficult stretches, then that’s what we are
here for. He smiled a very knowing smile and clapped Jon on
the back.
“So when are you going to ask her, Jon? If you are as
frightened of that as I was, I don’t know how I ever got the
words out.”
“I was planning to talk to her after supper. Thought we’d go
for a walk.”
“Excellent idea, Jon. But I’ll not let you off the hook about
tellin’ us what’s goin’ on up at Saxford with all the details.”
“I already told half the story, I just hope you don’t think I go
on too long.”
“Jon, it’s the half of the story you haven’t told I’ve been
waiting to hear!”
They walked along quietly for the last few yards to the inn.
“I’ll not say a word, you two tell Edlyn; it’s to be your
news.”
During a very fine supper he hardly paid any attention to,
Jon told them what had happened since he left home more than
two weeks ago. The four Turner’s listened intently, punctuated
by sounds of surprise and awe. When he finished his tale,
Durban sat back and rubbed his chin. “That is no mean tale, my
word it’s not, Jon.” Then forcing a change in the conversation
he stood up.
“Let’s get these dished cleaned up. You’d think we had the
night off!” Everyone carried their dishes from the table.
Mistress Turner put Meg to work washing, but her father
volunteered to take her place. “You and Jon go out for a walk
or something, I’ll take care of these. Tristan can help me and
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we’ll have them done in no time.” Mistress Turner regarded
Durban in utter amazement, shrugged, and began clearing the
rest of the table.
“Do you need a cloak or something?” asked Jon.
“No, I’m fine,” replied Meg. “It’s cool, but by tomorrow
afternoon we’ll be wishing it was cool and rainy again. Jon was
unsure where they should go after leaving the inn.
“Where would you like to go?” he inquired.
“I like the walk up along the river, let’s go that way.” So
they set off in that direction. They talked about each other, their
families, and their hopes and doubts walking arm in arm. Jon
spotted a small clearing with a long- fallen log and decided they
should stop there.
“Why don’t we sit here a while?” he suggested pointing to
the tree trunk.
He held her hand to steady her onto the log and sat beside
her. The setting sun painted a thousand variations of gold
across the sky. They sat a moment in the quiet, only the sound
of the river a short distance off intruding upon it. No better
place to ask her than this, thought Jon. He took a deep breath.
“Meghan, you know I love you. More than anyone I’ve ever
known.” She turned to him expectantly. “I don’t know if this is
the right time, but I’m lonely over in that house in Redding. I
don’t want to be alone any more. These last few days have
shown me that if you find something worth holding on to then
you do just that. What I am saying, well, asking is; Meg, will
you be my wife? With you I see a future worth living for.
You have to know that I don’t have much, not even a way to
make a living, just now. But if I have you beside me, we can
work all that out. What do you say?”
She fixed her eyes on him, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Jon, yes, yes, I will! It is the right time.” She threw
her arms about him and kissed him, tentatively at first and then
passionately. After a few breathless and very pleasant moments,
they parted and started to giggle, then burst out laughing. Jon
jumped down off the log and whooped joyfully into the
greenwood. Then he reached into his belt purse and found the a.
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“Meghan Turner I take you as my wife.”
“And I take you, Jon Ellis, as my husband,” Meg replied
solemnly. Jon dug into his purse and pulled out a silver penny
which he had chiseled in half and punched a hole in each of the
halves. He held the two halves out to her and she took one of
them with trembling hands.
“I already have a chain for it. Let me see your half. When I
was last at the market in Camber, I bought something for you
and have been saving it until now. Close your eyes, and don’t
look until I get this on you.” He undid the amulet chain from
his neck and added the half penny and then clumsily fastened
them about the smooth skin of her neck.
“All right, open them.”
She fingered the bloodstone. “Oh, Jon, it is beautiful.” She
lifted the setting to catch the light. Jon glanced between the
amulet and her eyes and was relieved she liked it.
“As soon as I saw it,” he told her, “I knew I had to have it
for you, it has power, of that I am sure. It kept me safe these
past days, though from my face you’d not believe it. It is old; I
was told it was made by a Norsk craftsman long ago.” She
raised her eyes to his and smiled. They kissed again and held
each other.
Jon wanted to talk to her about the move he had been
thinking about, but just at that moment, she was there and warm
and his, and he didn’t want to change the subject. Her cheek
was soft and wisps her light brown hair lifted in the evening
breeze coming down the river out of the coombe. Of all the
things that had occurred in the last couple of weeks that was the
best.
“Let’s go back and tell your mother.”
“Mother?” she asked.
Jon smiled, “I already talked about this with your father.”
“You did? And he didn’t say anything? No wonder he
offered to do the dishes and get me out of the house,” she
laughed. “Mam will never believe that he kept it from her!”
They walked back arms around each other’s waist. They talked
about when they should have the wedding. Jon was all for
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doing it as soon as they could, within days.
“Jon,” she laughed, “there’s far too much to do. Mam’ll
take a month to get ready at least.”
“A month!” exclaimed Jon
“Or more!” added Meg. At Jon’s look of dismay she
laughed out loud again. “I’m only joking,” she smiled. “Let’s
see what Mam says then we’ll have a better idea.”
“Where will you want to live?” asked Jon hesitantly.
“What do you mean?” responded Meg.
“Will you come to Redding and live at my place?”
“Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be. You don’t
want to live here in Ribble, do you?”
Jon avoided the question. “Before I answer, I have
something I want your opinion on, but I want you to hear me out
before you say anything. All right?”
“All right,” she agreed, her curiosity getting the better of
her.
“You know I quit the mill before I took off carrying
messages for the Guard. I don’t have any great skills although I
can farm. But somehow after seeing North March, I don’t see
myself staying in Redding , it’s growing too crowded. The
whole of lower Saeland is, to my way of thinking. I’ve got a job
if I want it in Redding setting up the Guard there for Thane
Giffard. I told him I’d take it at least until the start of
Eastermonth. I want someplace where I can stretch my legs if I
want. I am thinking of selling the house at Redding and buying
a place somewhere between here and Saxford . Maybe we
could open an inn or build a small mill or something else, I’m
not sure what. That’s what I meant when I asked where do you
want to live. Would you come and look around after we’re
married and help me find a place where we can settle down?”
They walked on as Meg mulled all of that over.
“Jon, I meant what I said. Where you are is where my home
will be. I won’t say that I’m disappointed about not living in
Redding either. Mam’ll take that news hard. She’s always
hoped I’d marry and settle around here somewhere. Let’s just
not bring it up tonight. I can see we’ll have to go to Redding
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anyway for a start, then you can show me what you have seen,
and we can decide together where we want to build our life
together.”
Jon sighed with relief. “I was afraid to ask for fear you had
your heart set on living here. This is too good to be true.
You’re sure?” He picked her up and swung her around. Meg
squealed and laughed and caressed his cheek.
“I hoped that you would ask, after your last letter. I knew I
wanted you to, but was afraid you were too shy. I was prepared
to be a little more plain spoken about us, if you waited around
much longer.” Jon’s eyes widened, surprised that she felt so
strongly. He had not been sure if she was ready to leave her
parents, and he had been afraid to hope that she felt like he did.
They walked arm in arm toward the inn, but before Jon opened
the door he had her sit on one of the benches outside the front
windows.
“Before we go inside there is one more thing that you should
know. Thane Giffard and the Earl want me to go with them to
Norheim at the end of Weedmonth. If Garret’s arm heals up,
he’ll go too.” He waited for her reaction.
“Erenby? Up in Norheim? How long will you be gone?”
“I’m not exactly sure, there’s a council to be held, no one
has told me how long, but what could it take? A couple of
weeks?”
“Why you?” she asked.
“I think it is something I’m supposed to do, Meg. I went to
see the seidwoman at Redding Howe. I asked her to look into
the future.” He then recited the words that even at the recitation
pulled his thoughts to the North. “I won’t know unless I go.
After the fight last week I saw Erlend again. He asked me to
travel north to the council. I feel badly that it comes so soon
after we marry, but there it is.”
“I can’t say that sending a new husband off into wild lands
feels right just now, Jon. But if you’re going with the others
then perhaps it can’t bee so dangerous, can it?
“I just know that somehow our futures are tied to my going
north. I need to go for both our sakes. And the worst of it is that
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we are traveling by horseback,” Jon said trying to lighten the
mood. “Thane Giffard gave me a horse, and I have been riding it
for three days, and I can hardly sit down.”
She laughed, “If you will meddle in things, you’ll get into
trouble every time. I don’t want to move to Redding and then
sit home for a fortnight by myself, waiting for you to get back
from foreign parts.”
“We could still have the wedding feast before I go, and you
could stay here with your parents while I’m gone.”
“It’s not exactly how I had pictured the first weeks of
married life.” Meg sounded disappointed, and Jon felt bad. He
should have told her sooner.
“We don’t have to decide right now, let’s think about it,” she
observed. “Come on I want to tell Mam.”
They kicked off their mud-covered footwear before stepping
on to the sanded and polished plank floor.
“Come into the kitchen,” urged Meg.” They walked into the
kitchen where they heard voices. Durban and Edlyn were sitting
at the table talking.
“Mam,” Meg began, “Jon and I have talked and thought
about something for the better part of a year, and he has just
asked me to be his wife.” She held up the amulet and her half of
the broken penny.
Mistress Turner stood up, uttered a cry of delight, and
engulfed first Meg and then Jon in a grand hug, and burst into
tears. Master Turner stood up,
“Now that wasn’t bad at all, was it, Jon?” He shook Jon’s
hand and gave his daughter a hug.
“You knew about this?” Edlyn gasped, “and didn’t say a
word?”
“Jon asked me if it would be all right this afternoon.”
“You didn’t even give me a hint!”
“Yep,” retorted Durban with a broad self-satisfied grin.
Edlyn smacked him on the arm, and growled.
She turned her attention back to Meghan and Jon. “Now
sit down here and let’s hear what you have planned.”
“We haven’t planned anything much, we haven’t had a lot
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of time to think through any details.”
“When is this going to happen?”
“If it was up to Jon, he would have us off together at the end
of the week.”
“The end of the week!” shrieked Edlyn. “How will we…”
Meg calmed her mother. “Don’t get all excited, Mam, I’ve
convinced him he’ll have to wait longer until we can arrange
things with you and with his family, too. He is going up north to
Norheim with the Earl and the Thane of the Guard at the end of
Weedmonth.”
Jon gave a sidelong glance, grateful she’d already accepted
what had to happen.
“Maybe we could hold the wedding feast the week before he
goes.”
“That isn’t much time,” Edlyn mused a little uneasily.
“What are you going to Norheim for?”
Jon explained as much as he knew about the Thane’s
purpose of the journey which was much too little information
for any of them. But then he told them what the oracle had said.
Meg’s parents’ eyes grew wide, and Edlyn made Thorun's sign
to avert bad luck.
Just then Durban heard someone stamping at the door of the
inn and went out to greet them. He came back into the kitchen to
say that they had a small party of travelers now that the weather
had improved. “You’ll have to see to them,” ordered Edlyn. “I
have important things to plan.” Durban bowed mockingly,
“Yes, your ladyship,” and backed his way out bowing again
and again.
“Now I suppose you’ll be living in Redding at Jon’s, is that
right?”
“That’s our plan,” explained Meg without batting an eyelid.
Jon sighed; they had passed a first hurdle. They spent the next
hour talking about feast plans that soon had Jon’s head spinning.
His attention focused only on Meg, and she kept giving him eye
signs telling him to pay attention, but he ignored them and
continued to stare at Meghan admiring every part of her from
the top of her head and face down to her nose and mouth, past
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her chin to her neck and shoulders to the curve of her breasts.
She was not inattentive and caught him looking at her. When he
raised his eyebrows suggestively she blushed and tried to kick
him under the table.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said have you?”
“What?” asked Jon absently.
“What about your side of the family?”
“Not many of us, I’m afraid. There’s Mother and Granny. I
have an aunt and uncle and a bunch of cousins down toward
Pilking, and on my Dad’s side I have two uncles and aunts and
their families down at Wimborne. That’s about it. I have
several friends we’ll need to invite, not more’n a hundred
anyway,” and laughed at Mistress Turner’s look of shocked
distress.
For the next two hours, Meg and her mother talked endlessly
about the wedding feast, punctuated by visits from Master
Turner who kept popping in for the latest. Jon began yawning.
It was all too much for him. Finally Edlyn had enough of a plan
in her mind that she was able to let the two young folks go.
“I forgot you’ve had a rough week or two,” she apologized.
If you only knew, he thought, but just smiled and yawned
again.
“You get off to bed, Jon. When do you need to get back?”
“Oh, I’m in no hurry,” he declared. “If I could stay a day or
two I’d like to do that.”
“I’m sure Meg won’t mind at all. Now off you go.” Jon
kissed Meg and bid her good night. He stopped by the common
room to say goodnight to Durban.
“Where’s Tristan been all night?”
“Oh, he’s off with one of his friends tonight, goin’ fishing in
the foredawn.” Durban took Jon’s arm and drew him farther into
the common room where four other men sat talking. He
introduced Jon to them and announced the betrothal and
upcoming wedding. They all congratulated Jon and insisted on
buying him a drink. Durban offered them all a refill on the
house, and they drank the health and happiness of the young
couple. Jon wanted to go to go upstairs, but the events on the
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north border were brought up when Durban told them some of
what Jon had told him earlier in the evening. They demanded
that Jon fill in the details, and they asked so many questions that
it was late before Jon finished retelling the story again. At last
the lodgers announced their intentions to go to bed and with that
Jon had his chance to go upstairs and get ready for bed himself.
Durban must have made up a fire to take the chill off the room
but it had burned down to a few embers in the grate. He
undressed and lay down with a blanket over him, his arms
crossed behind his head staring into the gathering dark. A soft
knock on Jon’s door brought a smile.
“Come in,” he called.
Meg opened the door and came over to the bed and sat
down. She lay a hand on his chest and leaned over and gave
him a long kiss. He responded, pulling her towards him
enjoying the smell and warmth of her. He put his arm around
her shoulders and Meg snuggled into his shoulder. Her fingers
traced lightly over his chest spiraling down brushing across his
stomach.
“Looks to me like you don’t wear much under those covers,
Jon.” Her fingers edged down playfully, pausing at the edge of
the blanket and raised her eyes, taunting. Jon who had been
enjoying Meg’s caress was increasingly aroused. He groaned
and leaned up to her and kissed her long and deeply. She
responded and laughing, pushed him back and stood up. Jon
held onto her hand trying to keep her close and then let go and
lay half upright on the pillows loving her with his eyes. “Why
don’t you stay?” he pleaded, voice thick with the wanting of her.
“Given your present state of mind, I…” She hesitated. “My
reputation’d be in peril!”
“You are right, Meghan, at present your reputation is not
only in serious jeopardy, it is in mortal danger!”
“Come back here over here!” Jon lunged toward her
outstretched hand.
“Not on your life,” she laughed, dancing just out of touch.
“I’m going off to the safety of my room.” To his great
disappointment she opened the door and turned back with a
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hard-to-read-smile before she left.
He lay back onto his straw-stuffed pillow smiling. Not too
much longer.
11
A Change in Status
They returned to the inn, and Jon went back to work in the
garden until he was called for supper. Tristan had returned and
immediately told Jon about the fish that his friend had caught
early that morning. Jon tried to catch a glimpse of Mistress
Turner’s face and found that she had been crying. Meg sneaked
him a signal that everything would be all right. Durban came in
and looked searchingly at Jon, and then they were all seated.
“Jon, it seems that things are going along faster than we had
anticipated between you and Meghan. We had hoped it’d be a
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while yet before you two set off, but you are of an age, and Meg
says that’s what she wants.” He paused and with his eyes
brimming with tears. “Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,”replied Jon, “we want your blessing.” Durban
stood up.
“Come up here you two.” Sliding off the bench, Jon deeply
aware of her hand firmly in his grasp, they approached Meg’s
father with hearts pounding and tense. “Take each other with
both hands,” he intoned, looking at the tears coursing down
Edlyn’s cheeks.
Durban lay his hand on top of theirs. “Meg and Jon, we give
our blessing, and this day acknowledge you our true son and
husband to my daughter Meg. May you prosper and find a life
as happy as we have!” He squeezed their hands. Jon, though
not quite sure of the exact formula for the response, made up
one on the spot. “As head of the Ellises at Redding I give my
blessing to this union. May our lives be long and well-lived.
Durban swept them both into an embrace. Edlyn hugged Meg
as if she would never let go.
“I have a present I’ve been saving for the wedding,” Jon
announced.
He reached into his belt purse and pulled the bloodstone ring
from his belt purse..
Taking Meg’s hand he placed it in her slender right hand.
Meg’s shining eyes said everything Jon hoped she would on the
day their hands were joined together. “If the amulet can protect
you, then may this ring make it doubly so.” I hope you will wear
it all the days of our lives together.”
“They are beautiful, Jon. It seems a little grand for the
daughter of an innkeeper, though.” Her eyes said otherwise.
Jon breathed a sigh of relief. “Meg. You are my amulet. As
long as I have you, I need no other.”
“Thank you,” she said and kissed her new husband and
instantly turned to show it to her parents.
“This calls for a drink,” cried Turner and he went off to
bring them beakers of ale so they could seal that bargain. Wet
bargains were always more binding that dry ones.
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Mistress Turner reminded them their food was getting cold.
“That mean he’s family?” asked Tristan.
“Yes,” smiled Durban, “it does.”
Tristan cheered and clapped Jon on the back.
Jon stepped over to Edlyn who finally released Meg and
dabbed her eyes with her apron before pulling Jon to her and
kissing him on the cheek.
“Now enough of that,” she ordered, “dinner’ll be spoiled,
and I’ve worked all morning on it. Sit down everybody let’s
eat.”
None of them needed to be told twice, and they ate until they
could eat no more while Jon told them what he knew of the
history of Elna’s amulet. Meg turned the amulet in the light
admiring it.
The conversation turned to deciding what Meg would need to
take. Plans were laid for packing lightly. Meg didn’t need to
take a lot of household goods since Jon’s house was already
established. She packed her clothing and personal things. They
arranged to borrow Durban’s cart to take everything down to
Redding. After dinner the packing commenced. Visitors to the
inn were treated to free ale all night, and soon the neighbors
joined the small celebration in the common room. It was nearly
midnight before the few things Meg decided to take had been
tied into bundles and set beside the front door. Everyone
wished them a good night and Meg and Jon went up to his room
and got ready for bed.
Meg noticed the raw skin on the inside of Jon’s thighs and
jumped off the bed and went out. She returned with a jar of
salve. “Let me help you with that,” she offered. “Lie back and
let me put this on.” Submitting with a laugh, Jon lay back and
felt her hands touch the salve to his legs which mercifully did
not sting as bad as he had anticipated. She gently worked in the
salve, but by the time she had moved to the inside of his other
leg, his chafed legs had been forgotten. There had been good
natured jests about that moment from the guests downstairs
earlier.
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The next morning after breakfast Jon went outside with
Tristan and Master Turner to hitch the cart. “Do you suppose
the horse will pull the cart?” Turner asked. Jon looked at the
horse and back to Turner.
“I don’t know, why?”
“They might have to get used to the idea. Is what I was
thinking. If them Olani never had the horse pull anything. It
might be a chore to get your things down to Redding.”
“ I hadn’t thought of that, Master Turner. Should we try him
on it?”
Jon led the way to the paddock and the horse looked up at
Jon and then back down to the grass it was eating just beyond
the paddock fence. “Let’s try it. I don’t want to have the thing
spill us on the side of the road somewhere.”
The three of them dragged the cart out of its storage place
over to the paddock. The horse looked at it and went on eating.
“Lead it out here and we’ll see if it will let us harness him.”
Turner suggested. Tristan waited wide-eyed to see what would
happen.
Jon talked to the horse as he got the animal to take the bit in
its teeth and led it out of the paddock. So far the horse was had
been completely broken. No hint of any skittishness except for
lighting and thunder that Jon had been able to see.
The horse looked around curiously as Jon and Master Turner
moved the cart so that the wooden traces lined up on either side.
Turner began the process of hitching the horse to the cart
without a problem. The horse stood patiently to see what would
happen next.
“So who’s going to volunteer to be first then?” Tristan
asked.
“I guess it should be me,” Jon answered and climbed
tentatively into the seat and lifted the reins. He gave the reins a
flick and the horse looked around at Jon as if to ask what he
thought he was doing. “Get on,” Jon cried and flicked the reins
harder. The horse just stood there not sure what to do.
“Maybe if you lead him a little with one of us in the cart,
he’ll get the idea,” suggested Turner. Jon dutifully got down
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and Turner climbed into the cart. Jon said “Get on” again and
tugged at the horse. The horse took a careful step and looked
back to see what was happening. Jon pulled again and the horse
began to walk. “See if he’ll go when you command,” Jon
called.
Turner shouted at the horse to get on and flicked the reins
once again, this time the horse moved forward on command.
“That’s a very smart horse you’ve got there, Jon,” Turner called
out and brought the cart still. In short order the cart was pulled
around to the front and filled with the bundles and goods Meg
had decided to take.
A distraught Edlyn stood by wiping her eyes while Meg’s
father and brother helped tie down the cart.
Mistress Turner wept openly, and Meg tried to comfort her
by saying she would be back in just three weeks for the feast
day they had spent so much time planning.
“I know,” she sobbed, “don’t pay me any attention. I’m so
happy for you and Jon. You’ll have Jon write? We’ll get Nolan
Weaver to read it out for us.”
“Of course. I will,” Meg assured her. Meg turned to her
father who swiped his own eyes with the back of his hand as Jon
helped her climb up into the cart. Jon shook hands all round and
gave Mistress Turner a hug. “Take good care of her, Jon,” she
repeated fiercely.
“I will, he promised,” and meant it.
Then with a flick of the reigns, the horse set off, pulling the
cart behind him.
Meg and Jon talked almost all the way to Holbourne. The
weather was flawless, and Jon was deeply grateful that he
wasn’t riding the horse. He stopped at Turpin’s inn when they
reached Holbourne and bought a meal. Aiken Turpin was
attentive, and asked about the fighting up at Saxford. Jon gave
him a quick version of the events to which Aiken whistled.
“Now that would have been something to see.” he
exclaimed. “We got a letter from the Earl and the Thane about
recruiting’ for the Guard. We’ve had two or three inquiries, but
nothing like they was hoping.”
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“That’s going to be my job through the winter, Aiken. I’m
going to organize the Guard in Redding. Do you mind if I ask
how you and your brother run it around here?” They spent the
better part of an hour talking about what Jon might do when he
was ready to establish the Redding Watch.
Meg liked Master Turpin’s house ale as much as Jon did.
When they had eaten their fill, they climbed back into the cart
and continued their journey to Redding on Holbourne Road.
Redding finally came into view and Jon pointed out the houses
of people he knew or places where he had spent time as a
youngster until they pulled up to Jon’s door. Jon handed Meg
the reins and opened the gate to the back garden and Meg drove
the cart inside. They spent the next hour touring the house and
carrying the assortment of boxes, luggage and bundles that Meg
had brought from home into the house and trying to figure out
where things should go. Outside Jon tethered the horse to one
of the apricot trees in the orchard where he would have plenty to
eat and dragged and rolled a barrel over which he filled with
water for the horse. He whistled long and low as he scrutinized
the garden, as he had predicted, it was hard to tell where the
weeds ended and the garden began.
You’ll have to spend a week going through it, Jon told
himself, but it would be good for him to be out of the house
while Meg rearranged the inside anyway.
Meg appreciated that Jon kept house better than his room at
the inn in Ribble. He truly hadn’t done anything with the house
since his mother left except keep it picked up, and her mind was
already making plans about what needed to be done, at least in
the short term. After supper, they dragged the other straw pallet
into Jon’s room and shoved them together. He didn’t have any
bedding for a double bed, but Meg promised she would set that
to rights.
There came a knock at the door. It opened on Master and
Mistress Light, one of Jon’s neighbors who had come to say
hello. They had stopped over to see where Jon had gone off to
and were pleased and surprised that Jon had brought home a
wife. They welcomed her warmly.
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“You know that visit will cause more disruption to our lives
than you can imagine,” Jon laughed.
“What do you mean?” asked Meg.
“The news will be all over this part of town by tomorrow
morning, and everyone will want to meet Jon Ellis’ wife.
They’ll like her, I think, I know I do.”
She smiled, “I’ll try to make a good impression.”
The rest of the evening they spent unpacking boxes and
cleaning things that had been left to gather dust too long. They
tried to store everything out of the hearth room because Jon
insisted that the next day they would see a constant flow of his
cousins, friends and neighbors to meet Meg.
Days work done, Jon discovered another pleasant aspect to
life as a householder as the evening bath turned into more than
just helping each other wash that unreachable spot between the
shoulder blades. They put out the candles and met on the
pallets, but found it was unsuitable, Meg kept slipping into the
crack at inopportune times. Improving the sleeping
arrangements was the first task on Jon’s agenda for the next day.
As soon as breakfast dishes were cleared away, Meg
plunged into the house work that needed to be done on the
inside, and Jon pledged to work the entire day in the garden and
field unless she needed a hand. But first he measured and cut
the wood for the frame for a double raised bed. He pegged
together a raised frame and lay enough rough planks across to
make a sturdy platform for the pallets. Jon led Meghan proudly
into their sleeping room to show her the finished bedstead.
There was nothing to do but try it out on the spot.
Meg went back to work in the house, and Jon spent the rest
of the day cutting barley with his sickle and tying the sheaves
together to stand in the field to dry. He enjoyed the sun on his
back and the simple rhythm involved in cutting grain. The rains
had kept the garden green including the weeds that had grown
so well, that Jon only wished there were some prize awarded for
weed growing, he would be sure to win it. The sound of Meg
calling him inside for dinner brought a huge grin to his face; he
felt the gods had smiled on him at last. Meg came out to help
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with the grain harvest and they worked side by side in the
golden field all afternoon.
After supper, as Jon had predicted, a steady stream of Jon’s
cousins and neighbors stopped by to offer their best wishes and
add to the small pile of gifts on the table beside the hearth. Jon
purchased small barrel of ale and dispensed it freely to everyone
who came to visit.
The next week was lost in a routine that suited Jon well. He
enjoyed being home with Meg’s company anytime he wanted.
Meg enjoyed her newfound independence as well and set to
work to make a single large mattress cover from the two single
covers in the house. By late afternoon the field was finished, and
they found themselves exhausted, but word had circulated
farther around town and all evening Jon’s friends and neighbors
brought wedding gifts, and drank the ale barrel to the dregs.
Once the door shut on the last of the company, they fell into bed
exhausted. Meg suggested that they take two days and go visit
his mother once the grain was cut and standing to dry. Jon
grinned and added, “As long as we’re away, why don’t we go
up to Saxford and look around like we talked about.”
Meg’s eyes lit up. “I’d like that a lot, Jon. Ever since you
described the place, I’ve wondered what it would be like. Yes,
let’s go.”
So the following day they rose early and packed what they
would need for a few days away from home into the cart.
They set out that glorious morning and arrived at Camber
before supper. It was hot, but under the canvas cover of the cart
they stayed much cooler than if they had been walking.
Arriving at Grandmother Stalling’s house without notice,
they shocked Jon’s mother when he appeared with a new wife in
tow. But the thrill that Jon had found someone swept away all of
her concerns.
“How’s Granny,” he asked looking around for her.
“She’s not been well, Jon. But a visit from you and Meghan
will cheer her up; I’m sure of it. Let me go see if she’s awake.”
She paused to fix the image of her son and his new wife in her
mind and hurried down the hall.
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Mistress Ellis reappeared and beckoned to them. “She is
awake and wants to see you both, go on in.”
Jon led the way; Meg trailed along behind him shyly.
“Granny?” Jon called softly.
“Jon, you rascal come in. Gytha said you were here and
have a surprise for me.
“I, do, Granny, this is Meghan, Durban Turner’s daughter
from Ribble. She and I married several days ago at her parent’s
place; she’s come to live with me at Redding.” Meg peeked out
from behind him, and Granny held out her hands.
“Come and let me look at you my dear.” Granny’s eyes still
twinkled mischievously in her ever-thinner features.
Then she made a swipe at Jon’s arm, “Your mother and I
knew you had met someone up there, I think. Why did you go
keeping her from us? Meghan, I just hope you thought carefully
before hitching yourself to this young scallion.”
Meg was blushing, “I thought about it a lot Mistress
Stalling, and I think I can handle him.”
“Good for you, young lady, you keep him in line. And
please call me Granny.” He held onto Meg’s hand with her frail
fingers. “Ah, Jon you have got yourself a good one. I am happy
for you.” Tears started to her eyes, and she shoved them away
with her sleeve. Her eye caught sight of the bloodstone ring. “It
looks good on your hand, Meghan.”
“It is beautiful and I understand I have you to thank for it
and the amulet, too.”
“They are where they should be; that’s certain.”
The conversation turned to events of the recent weeks which
both impressed and frightened the two older women. Jon could
see he had tired his grandmother and when he mentioned it, to
his surprise, she agreed and lay back on the pillow with her eyes
closed, the merest hint of a smile on her lips. “You sound just
like your grandfather,” she said. “Just like him.”
Mistress Ellis bustled around the kitchen arranging
something to eat, and Meg pitched in to help her.
“I’m going to go over to see Thane Giffard if I can,”
explained Jon. “I won’t be too long.”
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All the way over to headquarters Jon contrasted how he felt
then with how he had felt just a month ago. He enjoyed the
sense of confidence he’d gained in the time he’d been away.
The doors of the Armory had been propped open to let in the
south breeze.
“Hallo,” he called out. “Thane Giffard?” He heard voices
in the hall and checked there first.
Thane Giffard was sitting at the table deep in conversation
with another man he did not recognize.
“Thane Giffard?”
Giffard swung around prepared to send the intruder away,
but when he caught sight of Jon, he smiled and excused himself
from his guest. He strode down the length of the room and put
out his hand and pressed Jon’s hand in his own.
“Good to see you, Jon. How are you doing? Glad you’ve
come.”
He turned to the other man and introduced Jon.
“Jon, this is Bert Logan from down at Stockwell. Sit down
and tell me how Garret is doing.”
“He’s going to be fine, they say. Time will tell how much use
he’ll have of his arm. I came home by way of Ribble and got
married in the mean time.”
“Married,” laughed Giffard, “who to?”
“Meghan Turner, I think I told you about her.”
I remember something vaguely,” the Thane replied. “Well,
congratulations. I hope you are good enough for her. You came
to see your mother?”
“Yes, sir. And how are you?”
“Well enough, but I confess I’m none the better for taking to
riding a horse around. It’s taking longer to get used to it than I
thought.” “How’s your horsemanship?”
“I’m so sore I can hardly walk, if you want to know, sir. Not
to mention the strange looks I get wherever I go.”
“Let ‘em say whatever they want,” retorted Thane Giffard.
“I have a feeling it will just take time. Most of us are lazy, and
letting horses do the work will catch on in no time, I’m sure of
it.”
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“On that we both agree,” chuckled Jon.
“Now listen, my boy, you couldn’t have timed your visit
better. Bert and I were having the same conversation I want to
have with you. Why don’t you join us?” Jon sat down.
“Bert has taken the job of organizing the Guard in South
March around Stockwell. Hasn’t been much activity down there.
Since the fight above Saxford, we’ve had some success in
getting a few towns to organize if there should be a problem.
Not many of the older men see any need to join, but the young
men your age or thereabouts seem eager. I hope you can do the
same thing over at Redding. Young people over there might join
up, especially if you’re the one doing the talking.
Jon turned to Bert Logan. “How did you go about
convincing folks to join up? What did you tell them?
“It wasn’t hard, most of the young men have heard a little
about your fight up there and after explaining it could have been
us, a few signed up without my having to say much of anything.
I told them about horses and sharpening their archery skills.
We’ve tried to hold one muster in Stockwell, but even the young
men seemed hesitant about coming out. Not quite sure why or
what to do about it. That’s why I came up here, to get the
Thane’s advice.”
“You’re sure you want to take the job at Redding?” Giffard
asked. Nodding to Bert, “It isn’t as easy as I thought it would
be.”
“Yes, sir. Like I said I’ll stay on through the winter, but then
I think we’ll be moving, maybe up near Saxford .”
“Fair is fair,” conceded Giffard. “I’ll see that your name is
placed on the Council agenda, they have to approve all
appointments like that. Doesn’t pay much, but it might help.
Didn’t you say that Egan Holman had a job for you too?”
“That’s what he said, I haven’t been home long enough to
talk to him.”
“Be sure that you do,” counseled Giffard.
“If there’s nothing else, sir, Mother will be fussing that I
haven’t spent enough time with her yet.”
“I understand, Jon.”
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“Good day, Master Logan. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
“I hope you’ll have an easier time of it than Bert did.
Something strange going on down that way, alarming actually.
He was smart to talk with young people first. Any change tends
to frighten most people, but the young feel they’ve got nothing
to lose and everything to gain. If you need help, you can always
send me a note, I’ll come if I can. You are still planning to
travel with us to Erenby next month?”
“Yes, sir, Thane Giffard, I wouldn’t miss it.”
“I’ll write you when we decide the details. There’s no sense
in your riding all the way down here just to ride back north.
Please tell your mother and grandmother hello from me. Good
luck, Jon.”
Jon walked back out into the hot Haymonth sunshine and
wondered who he might approach back home. The idea of
organizing seemed straight forward enough, but Giffard’s
comments made him wonder.
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12
Future Prospects
After a quick once round the house and a final hour’s work
in the garden early the next morning, Jon loaded the cart with
the items they thought they might need, and the two of them set
off after breakfast for Saxford.
Fields fallow or in some state of harvest gave way to pasture
land as they drove across the broad downs that lay west of
Redding. At Selby Jon turned north toward Whitburn without
stopping at the inn, a little apprehensive when he thought about
the ambush outside Ashby. The cart with two travelers passed
without incident but not unnoticed through the small town. Flax
and grain fields ended abruptly as Meg and Jon neared the tree-
clad hills north of Selby. Jon had passed through the northern
edge of the Great Forest when he returned from Saxford after
tending Garret, but this road took them through the forest’s
heart. Giant oaks with far-flung branches and magnificent elms
seemed to spring up at once all around them, part of a deep
verdant curtain that soon shut off all sight of the horizon.
Beneath the crowns of the tallest oaks rose an understory of
young saplings, leather-leafed virburnum, currants, and sharp-
thorned raspberries which prevented any sight of what lay
beyond the road. Here and there a clearing in the forest opened
upon flowery meadows of green and gold where squirrels
scurried to find winter food and butterflies flitted in the sun.
Whether the forest clearings had been opened by men or by
nature they could not tell. Several times they crossed streams
that lazed their way toward the Sink, which collected almost all
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the water flowing from the streams out of the Dales into a wide,
swampy basin before emptying into the Lower Holbourne.
Insects drifted above the water as if inviting themselves to
be taken by the fish that rippled the surface from time to time.
The water was clear but tea-tinted by the leaves through which
every drop of water sieved through to get to the brooks. Even
the sound of the horse’s hooves was deadened by the verdant
growth beneath hoof and cart wheel. The shady track made for
a pleasant drive compared to the hot sun of the downs. They
stopped at the ford across the Holbourne, and Garret swam off
the heat of the afternoon while Meg sat on a rock with her feet
in the water listening to the high pitched trill of tree frogs. They
had seen no other travelers and remarked on it several times.
The horse drank and grazed its fill. Off in the distance a
woodpecker tapped out its secret code on the bole of an unseen
tree. Jon scrambled out of the water and lay dripping beside
Meg to dry. He tried to sleep but two or three large flies kept
trying to use his face to sun themselves and gave him no peace.
The flies were too stupid to stay away, and Jon grew tired of
swatting at them.
“Does anyone live out here?” asked Meg.
“I honestly don’t know,” replied Jon. “Seems like it would
take a lot of work to clear a section of this forest to do any
farming. I guess it’s not impossible. Why do you ask?”
“I feel like someone is watching us,” she whispered, and
shivered.
Jon sat up. “Why do you say that?”
“I can’t explain it, Jon, it’s just that the farther we’ve come
into the forest, I’ve had this uncomfortable feeling that we are
being watched I don’t like it in here. I think we should go.”
Jon raised his eyebrows asking for more information, but
Meg said nothing more. He read real concern on her face. His
first thought was to laugh it off, but as a dutiful new husband, he
decided it much more politic to do as she had asked.
Of course,” he said, and lifted her off the rock. He pulled his
trews and shirt back on, scanning the forest fringe and listened,
alert to anything unusual. Something wasn’t like it should have
411
been, no birds sang or called any more. The breeze stirred the
leaves but even insects had quieted. “That is odd,” he
commented quietly, “we should hear all kinds of birds in here.”
They both knew the old winter hearth stories about huldrefolk
who tempted unsuspecting people off into the forest never to be
seen again. Every stream and river had its mournful nix trying
to lure the incautious into the water. River and forest hags
waited flesh-hungry in the deep woods and shady pools. Jon
made the hammer sign against such thoughts as he led the horse
back to the cart and harnessed it securely. Whether there was
any truth to the stories, no one knew, because no one Jon was
acquainted with had ever had enough courage to venture much
beyond the road to find out anything differently
Jon helped Meghan up onto the cart and climbed up into his
seat and bumped the cart back to the track. The horse seemed
unconcerned, but then nothing but tunder bothered the horse,
ever. Whatever the Olani did to tame their horses had broken his
sorrel completely. After crossing the stony ford, Jon kept his
eyes open for any movement in the undergrowth, but if anything
moved, it was so brief that his eyes couldn’t catch it, but Meg’s
unease infected Jon.
He knew grown men, rough hunters, men skilled in
woodlore, who swore that they themselves had heard unearthly
howls and sudden noises in the undergrowth that had frightened
them out of the forest never to return. He’d been warned more
than once before setting out on one of his walks to avoid the
Forest, though it seldom crossed his mind. Jon warily loosened
his knife in its sheath and strung his bow as the cart moved
deeper into the trees. His stomach twisted at the thought that
he’d placed Meg in danger by coming that way. Could someone
from Selby have followed them?
“Jon?” Meg said quietly, “What is it?”
“If I had half a head on my shoulders we probably shouldn’t
have come this way.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jon replied. It’s nothing.”
“I don’t think stringing your bow or handling the hilt of your
412
knife again and again is very comforting,” Meg shot back.
“I’m sorry,” Garret apologized. “Just want to be ready for
trouble, that’s all. If you feel like someone is watching, then I’d
be a fool to ignore it.”
Meg laughed nervously, “Sounds like a guardsman talking.
Can that horse of yours move any faster?”
Jon slapped the reins over the rump of the horse which
grudgingly added a step for every five. The cart sounds masked
the silence around them, but Jon’s eyes never stopped scanning
the forest edge for any sign of trouble. Two or three times he
caught at the periphery of his sight, more feeling than
perception, movement among the trees. The sudden swaying of
a branch, the flitting of shadow in shadow, a soft shuffle of
leaves wound Jon spring-tight. It was not lost on Meg, who
searched the cart for something she could use as a weapon. An
hour passed without incident and then another. The sense of
being observed gradually left Meg, or as she admitted, perhaps
they had just gotten used to being watched. The afternoon
dragged on. Jon’s plan had been to camp in the Forest that night.
It was too far to drive all the way to Whitburn in a single day
even if they kept going after dark.
“I’m sorry, Meghan. No matter what we do, we’re going to
have to spend a night in here. It’s too far to turn back now.”
“Let’s just not stop here,” Meg said. “We can go a long
ways yet before we have to camp. Whatever it is I’m feeling,
surely will go away before long. It’s all my imagination
anyway.”
“I agree that we should keep moving, Meg, as long as
there’s light left. I guess if worse comes to worse we could
drive all night.”
“Hope it doesn’t come to that,” she said. ‘We’ll just have to
wait and see.”
They kept the cart on the road until early dusk was about to
drive them from the road. Meg suddenly sat upright.
“Do you smell that? It’s a cooking fire.”
“Now that you say it, I do,” Jon replied. “Do you want to
stop?”
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“A fire’s a good thing isn’t it, if you’re out in the woods
alone?”
“Normally, I’d agree,” Jon said. “But who knows whose
fire it might be? We can’t just sit here, though. Let’s go on up
the track and see what we can see. What could there be in
Saeland that would hurt us out here?” he added bravely, though
in his heart he knew that things weren’t as they always seemed.
Jon slapped the reins again, and the cart lurched forward. They
had gone perhaps another three furlongs when the forest receded
on either side of the road, and they came into view of a sturdy
cottage and outbuildings. Firelight flickered through the
shutters and two large dogs set up a racket when they heard the
cart approach. Despite the fearsome noise, the dogs didn’t seem
to be inclined to attack, and Jon urged the horse into the lane
and shouted.
“Hallo, the house!”
A moment later the door opened a crack and a face appeared
beside a high-held lamp.
“Who would be shoutin’ this time of day?” came a cautious
voice.
“My name’s Jon Ellis and this is my wife Meghan. We’re on
our way to Whitburn.”
The man came out onto his porch and looked them over.
“You’ll not make it there before tomorrow afternoon, you
know.”
“Yes, I know, but we’re uneasy about the woods tonight.
Would you mind if we stayed here in the yard? We don’t want
to cause you any trouble. We’d be on our way early.”
The man paused as if weighing the risk and then relented.
“You bring your wife and come over here, so I can see you both.
We have to be a little careful, as you’d expect. Come on here
into the light.”
The voice wasn’t gruff, but it was firm, and they either had
to go on their way or do as he said. “Yes, sir,” Jon called.
“We’re coming now.” He helped Meg down from the wagon
and felt for his knife before turning to approach the house.
The man held the lamp up high enough to illuminate their
414
faces, and Jon saw him relax when he caught sight of Meg.
Jon’s tension eased a little too; the man was in his forties, he
guessed, and except for the knobbed cudgel leaning against the
door frame, which was prudent given the circumstances, he
seemed kindly enough.
“Jon, my name is Edwin, Edwin Corbett or “at the woods”,
to some. Come inside if you want to. We’ve just set supper on
the table, and you’re welcome to join us if you will.”
“We really didn’t mean to bother you, sir. We’ve food in
the cart and just wanted to be off the road tonight.”
“You must suit yourself, but my wife’s whisperin’ just as
hard in my other ear that you should come in and visit a while, if
you’re of a mind to.”
Jon glanced at Meg who nodded her approval, and they
stepped past Corbett into the cottage. A woman smiled
encouragingly as they came over the threshold.
“Come in,” she said in a heavily accented voice. Join us.”
She gestured to the table where three children sat as if petrified
at the appearance of the strangers out of the dark. The oldest
boy looked to be about thirteen or fourteen, a girl perhaps two or
three years younger, and a little boy with great dark eyes that
stared at Jon and Meg with outright alarm.
Jon was still wary himself, though he doubted very much
that a householder, even in the middle of the forest, presented
much danger, but more caution rather than less made sense.
Corbett left the lantern on the porch and followed them
inside. “Now tell me about yourselves. We seldom see
strangers passing this time of night.”
Jon explained who they were and saw everyone become
more at ease. Corbett introduced his family.
“This is my wife, Sybil, my next oldest son, Jonas, his sister,
Angharad, and my youngest, Colban. You are welcome, come
sit down and join us.”
At first the conversation started and stopped as among
strangers, the children absolutely silent, taking in the adult’s
discussion wide-eyed. The food was simple stew and fresh
bread, but as Meg commented, it was better than the cold supper
415
they would have eaten on their own.
“What brought you to our place at such an hour?” Edwin
asked. “You sounded a bit nervous when you first called out.”
“Not so much nervous as suspicious,” Jon grinned. “We had
an odd experience in the forest this afternoon. We’d planned to
camp in the forest and then go on our way to Whitburn
tomorrow.”
“What happened?”
“We stopped near the ford over the Holbourne and suddenly
the birds went silent. No insect buzzed, and Meg here, felt like
someone was watching us. That feeling as if we were being
watched or followed stayed with us until dusk. It would have
been a miserable night after that. We were determined to keep
driving through the night if we had to. We hoped your place
might offer refuge. Have you ever experienced anything like
that in the Forest?”
Edwin looked at his wife; a silent exchange was made. The
children, whose interest had waned, were now fixed on their
supper.
“If we hadn’t had the same things happen to us, we’d
probably think you were just a couple of town folk not used to
the country. But as you’ve described it, I’m fairly certain you
have had your first encounter with the Cimri.”
“Cimri?” Meg asked. “Who or what is a Cimri?”
“They are the old ones who live here since before we Saesen
wandered into this country,” glancing at Sybil he grinned.
“What do you mean, live here?” gasped Jon. Surely they
were gone long before our ancestors came down out of
Norheim.”
“The Cimri once ranged all over this part of the world. They
built here, farmed, lived and died here long before our ancestors
came down out of the north hills, but now most Cimri live in the
hills and plains west of Saeland.”
“How do you know this?” Meg asked.
“Because, my young friends, I’m married to one of them!”
With a single motion, Jon and Meg turned to Sybil who
blushed and nodded.
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“What my husband says is true,” she began. My people,
they live here in the Forest. Out of the sight of you Saesen.
They are shy and do not want to be bothered by you. Others
live wild in the west. We call ourselves the Cimri, ‘the people’.”
“Your people built the brochs and made the hill pictures?”
Jon asked incredulously. She nodded.
“Yes, in my language each has a name, though we have not
build them for many ages.”
Jon sat back in wonder. This was completely new to him
and presented in such a matter of fact way that he could hardly
believe it. Meg cleared her throat.
“Then how did you meet, if your people want no contact
with ours?”
Edwin laughed out loud. “Sybil will tell you I chased her
down, but I think she let herself be caught. My dad cleared this
place when I was in my early twenties. We had some of the
same things happen to us as you’ve described. It drove my
parents and two brothers away, but I was loathe to leave this
place to the forest. So I stayed on. Sybil came with two of her
brothers to spy on the stranger in the forest to see if I posed
some kind of threat.”
“What he tells you is true, Sybil continued. “We came to
watch him. I found this man interesting enough and crept
closer. I like his face, he treated the animals well, so I am
thinking he is no danger to us. My brothers went back to get the
elders, and I stay to watch him again. The dog it smells me and
runs out, I have no choice but to run. Edwin, he sees me and
runs after me. Then he catches me, but I fight him.”
“Yes, indeed, she did. She had fallen and couldn’t run
farther. I helped her back to the house and bandaged her foot
and gave her something to eat. When she was able to get up, she
knocked me to the floor with a stool. She was still standing over
me when one of her brothers came at the run ready to cut my
throat. She stopped him and explained that I meant no harm and
had helped her. The brother was suspicious of me, I still think
he is, but after some discussion it was decided that I should be
spared. They went off into the forest, and I began to think that
417
was the end of it. But several days later, Sybil, showed up with
gifts and her whole family, grandparents, parents, brothers and
two sisters. At first I thought I was a dead man. But she made
me understand that they were there to show appreciation, they
were in my debt. It took about a year, but Sybil chose me above
any of the young men among the Cimri. So here we are. My
children are half Saesen and half Cimri, they are at home here or
with their grandparents and uncles in the forest. My oldest son is
among them now.”
Jon and Meg were both stunned. Nothing had prepared
them for Corbett’s tale. “So the feeling we were being watched,
wasn’t just our imaginations? We were being watched?”
“I’m fairly sure you were. You were not in danger, though,
unless you threatened them, they would not harm you. They are
most curious about the things we have, tools and such. They are
ever on the lookout for something they can use.”
“Then we are most indebted to you, Master Edwin, Sybil.
We were afraid of being attacked.”
“Never that,” Edwin assured them. “If anything, they would
chase away anything that might threaten you.”
Jon couldn’t believe how relieved he was. “Then we thank
you and your people. We can rest easy tonight.”
“Please stay with us then. You can be on your way
tomorrow.”
Jon and Meghan stood and were preparing to go back
outside, when everyone heard a harsh caw, like a crow. Sybil’s
eyes started, and she hissed that everyone should remain where
they were. She opened the door and stepped onto the front porch
after blowing out the lamp.
Meg’s fear rose to choke her, afraid that they had been
duped into the house only to be attacked. She turned to Jon
open mouthed, but before she could utter a syllable, Sybil
returned with a man dressed unlike anyone she had ever seen.
He was the same height as Sybil, shorter than Meg. He was
shirtless with leather leggings held up by a drawstring. His feet
were bare and his black hair worn long tied back with a leather
strap. Most remarkable was his face and upper body which had
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been tattooed in blue or black, it was hard to tell which in the
firelight. It was as if he had been cast in shadow. No wonder
they hadn’t been seen. The lines and whorls broke up his visage
even there in the room. He flashed a white-toothed smile to the
children and in a language Jon and Meg did not understand, held
a tense conversation. Jon could tell part of it was about them.
Sybil turned to Jon and made the introductions. “Jon, this is
my brother, Iorweth. He has asked me a question for you. Have
you seen anyone else on the road today?”
“No,” Jon replied. “We haven’t seen anyone at all. Why?”
“Iorweth has come to say that there are three men, armed
men, who are tracking you. They have camped less than a
league from here.”
Jon’s face showed his alarm. “Then I have placed my wife
and myself in great danger. Will you help us? Just a few weeks
ago men from Selby attacked a friend and me in the West Dales.
I still have the scar to prove it. I am afraid we were seen when
we went through town today. They will kill if they can. My
friend struck down two of the bandits in self defense.” Sybill
hastily translated what Jon had told them with new anxiety in
her face.
There followed another swift exchange in Cimri. Iorweth
glared thoughtfully at the two Saesen then cast a command at
Edwin’s son and went outside with Jonas at his heels.
“My brother says they will drive the others away, you need
have no fear tonight. But you must go ‘fore dawn, none of the
three will be allowed to pass.”
“I have a good knife, and will defend myself. Let me go
with them.”
“There is no need, Jon of Redding. Your weapon is not
needed.”
“Once again we are in your debt, Sybil. Please thank your
brother.”
“They are poor people, perhaps you will leave a small gift
for them when you go,” Sybil suggested.
“Whatever we have is theirs,” offered Jon. “Name it, and
they may have it.”
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“You choose, Jon. It is not the amount or size of the gift.
It is the family debt, the dyled, you repay. Now enough of that.
Meghan, you will stay here inside with us?” It was phrased as a
question, but would brook no denial.
“Thank you, Sybil. I shall.” Jon hurried out into the
darkness to bring in bedding for Meg. Once he saw that she was
safe inside. He took his hooded cloak and a blanket and sat out
on the porch, his long knife in hand. The house settled down,
and Edwin stepped outside.
“You are welcome inside, Jon. I do not think you need to
keep watch. Iorweth, Jonas and doubtless others are preparing
even now to drive those men away.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Jon agreed, “but I won’t be able to sleep
anyway.”
“Do as you please,” he said. “You’re as safe here as
anywhere tonight,” and left the door unlatched.
About an hour after he sat down, Jon heard faint cries in the
distance, shouting which receded into the dark. Two owls
hooted back and forth; the night sounds resumed. Long he
listened for the sound of anyone’s approach, but in time the
sound of a breeze in the tree tops lulled Jon down into the folds
of his blanket.
Before dawn when the gaps between the tree trunks first
become visible, Jon started awake at the sound of footsteps and
quiet voices on the road. He leapt to his feet pulling the dagger
from his belt, prepared to strike first. But he saw that it was
Jonas and Iorweth returning from their night-time foray
accompanied by another taller youth, he guessed was Edwin and
Sybil’s oldest son. Jonas looked tired, but his eyes lit up when
he saw Jon waiting. Jon sheathed his knife and greeted the boy
and his uncle, and was introduced to Bedwyn.
“You’ve had a long night of it, Jonas. Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, yawning. “We scared those men out
of half their years. They left everything except the clothes they
stood up in. We followed them on the road to make sure they
did not come back. My uncles carried several valuable things
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back to my grandfather’s village. Everyone is asleep?”
“I think so. Jonas, will you tell your uncle what I am going
to say?”
Jonas lifted his chin to get Iorweth’s attention. “Tell your
uncle that my wife and I are in his debt, and I want to present
him with a gift to repay our family debt, the dyled.”
At this last word, Iorweth’s attention riveted on Jon. Jon drew
Turpin’s knife from its sheath, loathe to let it go, but realizing
the debt must be paid, and offered it to Iorweth.
Iorweth’s face showed great surprise and he took the knife,
turning it over and over and commented on it.
“My uncle says this is the finest blade he has ever seen. He
did not know your people were able to create such a beautiful
sharpness.” Iorweth made a small speech to the boy while
glancing at Jon and extended the knife back again.
“Uncle says that the gift is too great for the debt, it would
create a dyled on his side he could not repay. He asks for
nothing. The things they took from the camp of the others was
payment enough.”
Jon smiled. “Tell him I understand, but the lack of a gift still
leaves a debt between us.”
“What should I give?” Jon asked the boy. Jonas shrugged
and looked past Jon to the porch. “Give him the blanket. They
do not weave like we do. He will like it.”
Hesitantly Jon extended the blanket hoping the boy was
right. Iorweth smiled and took the blanket when Jon took back
the knife. Iorweth nodded again and said something to the boy
and disappeared around the corner of the house.
“You think he was satisfied?” Jon asked.
“That’s what he said,” answered Jonas. The voices brought
Sybil and Edwin to the door. In a flood of whispers Jonas began
the tale of the night while Bedwyn stood nodding to affirm the
details.
Just as the first sun filtered through the canopy Jon and Meg
waved goodbye and rolled out of sight through the trees; the
welcome smell of their cooking fire on the wind.
“Would you really have given up your knife?” Meg asked
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doubtfully.
“If it meant protecting you, I’d give up anything, Meg. He
couldn’t have asked for anything I wouldn’t have handed over.”
Meg studied Jon and thought about that. Somehow it added
a depth to her understanding of Jon she wasn’t sure she had
before. Her husband had strength of character she’d only
wondered at.
The forest was more alive somehow that morning. The fear
of yesterday was utterly gone. They were in no hurry now and
enjoyed the time together on the road. They stopped once again
to eat from the provisions they had brought along. Jon pulled
Meg down beside him and fumbled at her dress fastenings, but
Meg would have none of it.
“Not on your life, Jon Ellis. Who knows how many Cimri
are watching us this very moment. You keep your hands to
yourself until we get to civilized places,” she scolded
mockingly. Jon tried once again, and she slapped his hands
away, and he gave up.
“All right, you are safe for the time being. Get up then or
we’ll never get to Whitburn.” They made better progress after
noon. With great relief they passed the first farm house on the
road that led straight into Whitburn. The householder waved
cheerfully as they passed.
Jon stopped at the Whitburn Inn where he had stayed a few
weeks before. The keeper greeted him warmly when Jon
reminded him of the evening of story swapping in the common
room on his previous visit. When the keeper brought them their
dinners, still piping hot from the kitchen, Jon asked him about
the Forest. The keeper studied them, decided something and
then drew closer.
“Don’t want to go alarming folks, you understand. But
there’s some strange tales told about the Great Forest. No one I
know would camp in there. Folks who do, have found things
missing. There are those who say there are huldrefolk among
the trees and in the streams. I don’t hold with that. I’ve been in
the forest on occasion, and there is something or someone in
there that moves in the night. Seen trails myself with human
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footprints, barefoot mind you. People live in the forest. We
don’t talk about it much, and never had any trouble here in
Whitburn, but folks as live near the forest keep their doors
barred at night and their stock in barns and that’s not common in
North March.”
Jon’s mind went back to the ruins of the brochs he’d seen
in the Vale of the Horses out west, and he wondered how it was
possible that those ancient people still lived in the vast expanse
of forest and rugged hills so close to his own people, and they
not know. People from Redding seldom went more than six or
seven leagues up the Holbourne to fish, and he’d certainly heard
stories about things going missing, strange noises, or
disappearances by those who had ventured into that country. To
hear the frightened tone of the innkeeper and knowing about the
Cimri made it hard not laugh outright. Meg managed to keep her
face straight, and Jon did too, just barely.
It was still light outside, and Jon decided he would take
Meg to see the ruins at Whitburn Fort. It was famous
throughout Saeland for its size and excellent state of
preservation. He guessed it was of an age with the other ruins
Jon had seen on his travels through the west country with
Garret. The roofless hall with its many empty and ruined
windows open to the sky was as interesting as he had been told,
but it was sad in a way that he could not explain. The entire
complex of buildings was laid out roughly in a square, but most
of the smaller buildings had long since fallen into complete ruin.
The three story ruin of the central hall glowed in red and gold,
the natural hue of the stone brought out by the sun’s west-
slanting rays and the long shadows emphasized all the openings
and nooks. Worn stone carvings peered down on them from
high above. Set in the enclosing forest, it was indeed a most
imposing building even in its ruined state. Nothing else was
quite like it in Saeland. The carved and etched stone they saw
bore traces of writing, but nothing that that could be read. They
sat on a large stone that had fallen or been dragged out of the
ruins to look back on that lovely tumbled down fort.
“Someone way back in my family helped build this place,”
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said Meg. It is strange to think that all these years later, I’m
sitting here looking at something they built. I’m sort of proud of
it.”
“I wonder if we’ll see anything like this up in Erenby next
month,” he wondered aloud.
Meg shook her head, “If you do, then it would be a truly
magnificent place with buildings like these.”
They passed a pleasant night at the inn and left the next
morning after a fine breakfast of eggs and ham. Meg was quick
to point out the deficiencies between the Whitburn Inn and the
one her father ran in Ribble. Jon kidded her about it, but Meg
was serious, she understood how an inn should be run and
wasn’t overly impressed with the Whitburn.
Mid-morning found them moving up the river to Tyndale
and on to Saxford . The country which Jon was passing for
third time, still afforded him a few surprises. The ridges were
more sharply eroded at that end than he remembered. It was as if
thick layers of rock had been tilted up on their sides. It was a
lonely road for the most part, and few travelers other than
themselves passed during all that day. Meg took turns sharing
the driving, they both were able to catch a nap during the course
of the afternoon.
Outlying farms and pastures appeared once they got closer
to Saxford, and they were both thoroughly tired of riding in the
cart. Jon actually found himself wishing he could just ride
without the jarring and creaking that filled the air around them
as they drove. Jon had written to Garret explaining that they
were coming to see him, but as slow as messages were passed
from hand to hand, they would probably be in Saxford before
the message arrived.
Two weary travelers bounced up the lane to the Fletcher
farm in late afternoon, and Jon’s eagerness to see Garret again
grew. Before the cart even reached Fletcher’s farmyard,
delighted cries rose from several voices as the younger Fletchers
mobbed Jon and Meghan. As he helped Meg down from the
cart, Garret joined his brothers and his parents under the porch
out of the hot summer sun.
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Garret was bare-chested, his arm bandaged lightly and
carried in a sling. His face was one great grin, and he stepped to
hug Garret with his good arm and turned to be introduced to
Meg. There followed a flurry of introductions that sent Meg’s
head spinning. Mistress Fletcher recognized the signs and
shooed the older children away to their chores and invited
everyone else to sit in the shade of the porch.
“The house is far too hot to sit inside right now. There’s
breath of wind out here in the evenings which makes it bearable
for us.” Jon and Meg begged to stand for a while; their
posteriors still ached from the three day ride.
“How are you doing, Garret?” asked Jon. “Looks like you
are able to fend for yourself.”
Garret blushed a little, “I’ve only just put the sling on this
afternoon again; I’m supposed to give the muscles time to knit
together, at least that’s what they tell me. Otherwise, I’m not
good for much around here. It’s a two handed world we live in,
but I have learned to ride better than ever I thought I would.
Got my brothers riding as well. It has caught on up here. Never
saw so many horses being ridden around in all my life,” laughed
Garret. “Corbin has bought several and has decided he’s going
to raise them. Says there’s a future in the horse trade.”
“I think he’s on to something,” agreed Master Fletcher.
“More horses are wanted than can be supplied. The boys may
just make a business out of it at that.” Mistress Fletcher
disappeared into the kitchen as soon as she heard they had come
straight from Whitburn, without any inns on that stretch of road,
she knew they would be hungry. The younger children drifted
away after the initial excitement of guests wore off and the
adults continued to talk.
“So how’s that arm doing?” Jon asked.
“I’m told it’s healing well, but it is taking longer than I
thought it would to get back to normal.” Jon peered at the
puckered purple scar running across Garret’s shoulder and upper
arm. Other than that, it was obvious that Garret had not been
idle. He was as tan as any of his brothers and his cheerful
nature was once again evident as he coaxed all the details about
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Meg and Jon’s wedding out of them. Despite the good-natured
teasing, Jon could tell Garret was happy for him, but his own
happiness highlighted Garret’s lack of involvement with anyone
in particular.
“So has Rowan been around? Jon asked.
“Yes and no,” replied Garret glumly. She’s made it clear,
she was visiting a sick friend and there was no more than that.
I’ve heard since she’s seeing Hen Crowther, one of my friends
here in town. So I guess I’d been hoping for something that just
can’t be.” Garret’s humor kept it from being uncomfortable, but
Jon could tell Rowan’s rejection had stung Garret. Meg took an
instant liking to Garret and soon the three of them were talking
as if they had all been friends for ages.
Not too much later Mistress Fletcher called them in for
supper. The talk turned to the purpose of Jon and Meg’s visit.
“We’ve come to see if Saxford is where we’d like to live,”
Jon explained.
“Several places we can show you if you like,” offered
Master Fletcher.
“Have you given any thought to what you might do?”
“Meg’s family runs an inn over in Ribble, and she knows all
about that, but I know I don’t want to be running after other
people’s barley beer. I’ve been appointed a section captain for
the Guard in Redding, and I’m to be Egan Holman’s gardener.
The only other thing I do know is mill work. Is there a mill
around here?”
“Until a couple of years ago,” remembered Garret. “Old
Willehad, the miller, died and none of his family kept it going
when he passed on. We all take our grain down to Whitburn.
His sons still own the place on the river, but it has sat vacant
since their father died. You want to go see it?”
Meg assented with a nod. “Can’t hurt to take a look.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any places up here by the hills for
sale?”
“Don’t really know,” confessed Fletcher, “nothing this side
of the Woodburn, at least that I’m aware of. If you like, we can
go down to the inn or the ale house and ask around. Someone’s
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sure to have heard if anything is for sale.”
“We’re not looking to come right away,” Jon explained.
“Do you want to go down to look at the mill?” Master
Fletcher asked. “We’ve got a good two hours of light left.”
“As long as I don’t have to ride in a cart,” moaned Meg.
And Jon heartily agreed. Leaving Mistress Fletcher in the
kitchen, Garret and his father led the way down the dusty road
that paralleled the river.
Jon’s critical eye took in the mill’s overall appearance. The
building itself was solid enough, but on closer inspection it
would take weeks to get it working again, and he said so.
“You wouldn’t have to do this all by yourself, Jon. The
entire town would turn out to help you fix up. It’d be a lot
easier to grind grain here than hauling everything down to
Whitburn every few months. If you fixed it up and got it going
again, everyone in this part of Saeland would bring their grain to
you. You’d have a lot of custom from the start.”
“Do you think the owners would mind if we took a closer
look?”
“I’m sure it would be fine. The sons have had a hard time
deciding what they want to do with it. A house and garden
adjoin the property, and I don’t think they want to sell them.”
“Forwin’s living there,” explained Garret, “I know him well
enough. He’s been married just a few years and lives there until
he can get a place of his own. The family uses it as a place for
young folks to get a start.”
They crossed the bridge a few hundred yards above the mill
and followed the stairs to the door of the mill house. Spindly
saplings had grown up about it, and the place was completely
overgrown with nettles and woodbine. Jon’s main concern was
the condition of the mill wheel, dam, and millrace. His fears
were allayed. The wheel was in fairly good condition, the mill
race was overgrown but could be cleaned easily enough, and the
dam and gates appeared to be in reasonably good working order.
Garret returned with a tall thin fellow a few years older than
Jon who was introduced as Forwin.
“I told him you were interested in seeing the place, and he’s
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brought the key if you’d like to walk around inside.”
“Why not,” shrugged Jon. “Let’s take a look.”
Forwin, who had worked with his father for many years,
knew exactly what would be needed for repairs. “The upper
grinding stone needs to be replaced. The lower millstone isn’t
that old. The gears and pulleys are all in working order. The
roof needs work and most of the boards on the water wheel will
need replacing over time.
The emptied interior was dusty, and spider webs hung loose
between the beams and rafters. The smell of flour dust still
hung about the place, as familiar as wood smoke to Jon.
“Any idea what the family’s asking for it?” Jon asked.
Forwin smiled, “My brother Edward looks after all those
things for the family. I honestly don’t know that we’ve ever sat
down and settled on a price. If you’d like to stop over and see
him, he’d be able to tell you. They don’t tell me much. If
there’s nothing else, I’m off for home. Garret, you can drop the
key by when you’ve finished up in here.” With a wry smile he
left the door open.
It was smaller than the mill in Ribble, but Jon felt it had
potential. His doubts were not about the mill, but he questioned
whether he wanted to be a miller all his life.
“Do you want to talk to Forwin’s brother,” asked Fletcher,
his house is down towards town. “I don’t want you to think we
are rushing you.”
“No harm in asking,” breezed Jon. “Let’s go see if he’s
home.”
Jon had never stopped to really look at Saxford . Basically it
had about three hundred people and was spread out a little more
than Ribble. Meg was carefully appraising the place and
decided in her own mind that the small size was a good thing.
“I’ll introduce you to Edward, he’s an honest man, if you
ask me. Then I’ll be on my way back home. Leave you to talk
things over with him,” said Fletcher as they turned into the front
gate. “Garret, why don’t you come back with me and let these
two talk on the way home.” Master Fletcher knocked on the
door, made his introductions and departed with Garret.
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“Come in,” invited Edward, “and take a seat. I’d be happy to
talk with you about the mill. Have you seen it?”
“Yes,” answered Jon, “we talked to Forwin who let us inside
to take a look.”
“Any questions?”
“I’ve been working at a mill down in Redding, and my wife
and I are thinking of moving up this way. Master Fletcher was
telling me that your father was the miller here and everyone now
goes all the way to Whitburn. I’d like to know your asking
price for the mill and contents.”
“Your intent would be to open the mill?” Edward asked
incredulously. “It wouldn’t be to tear it down?”
“No, from what I was able to see, the mill is in fairly good
condition, not the best, you understand, but I think with some
hard work, I could make a go of it up here.”
“That turns it a bit,” acknowledged Edward, “everyone else
likes the mill’s location on the river, but they want to turn the
mill into a house. We’ve kept the price high because we were
hoping someone would reopen the mill, but as you can see, it
hasn’t sold. Dad would be pleased that someone would open
the mill again; he spent his whole life there. I’d be willing to
come down in price if you were to agree in writing to open the
mill.”
“I’d only buy the property to repair and run the mill,” Jon
replied.
“Tell you what, I’ll speak to my two brothers and sister and
name a firm price. Come back late tomorrow and we can
discuss it again.
“I appreciate it,” Jon said. “Until tomorrow then.”
Meg and Jon walked hand in hand each deep in their own
thoughts. The river, chuckled and gurgled is way west, children
played in the distance, somewhere a dog barked, and a door
slapped and then tapped itself shut.
“What do you think?” asked Meg.
“It would be a good mill, and ready made customers. I like
Saxford, it’s small and quiet, there’s lots of room to stretch my
legs if I want. Sounds like the price might be affordable, if we
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can sell up at Redding. What do you think?”
Meg thought another few moments. “I like the town, too. If
I close my eyes, it isn’t that much different from Ribble. I agree
the mill sounds like it might be a success.” Her voice drifted
off.
“What?” asked Jon, “There’s something you’re not saying.”
“It’s just that I’m not convinced that you are cut out to be a
miller here or anywhere. I want us and you to be happy.
Jumping into another mill job because you haven’t given
anything else some thought feels like we’re rushing into
something I’m not sure you want.”
“But I’ve got to find a way to support us,” Jon shot back.
“You already are, Jon. You’re going to start work for the
Council and for Egan Holman. We are going to be fine. The last
thing I want for you to do is become the miller of Saxford
because you thought it is what I wanted. I want you to choose
your occupation, not just fall into something because you
haven’t thought about what else you might do. Whatever you
choose, Jon, I’ll be beside you, just see that whatever you
choose is what you want to do. There is one more thing,” she
hesitated, “and then I’ll say nothing more.”
“Jon, why are you thinking about settling in Saxford ?”
“I think Redding is too crowded. We’re toe to toe wherever
I go. I like it up here. The air is clear, people area friendly, and
there’s room to roam if I want. I like the Fletchers.”
“All right, what if Garret settles somewhere else or meets
someone and moves away. Would you feel as strongly about
Saxford then?”
“No,” Jon admitted.
“And yet you would have sunk your entire savings in a mill
in Saxford that no one else wants. You could lose everything.”
Jon became very quiet. Just when he’d begun to picture
himself as a miller there, Meg’s insight brought to the fore the
doubts which had been flitting at the edge of his consciousness
like a moth at night. He felt like something he had been
grasping for had been snatched away from him, and he didn’t
know how to respond.
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They hadn’t lived together long enough for either them to
know for certain what the other was feeling yet. Meg realized
that she’d shaken Jon’s resolve to move and waited for him to
tell her that. She offered her opinion and that was that as far as
she was willing to go.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Jon,” she asked softly.
Jon stumbled through an explanation, but even as he spoke,
the germ of a decision came to him. Meg’s advice had been the
catalyst for it.
“Maybe coming up here was a silly idea,” he admitted.
“Not silly,” countered Meg, “seeing the place helped you
make up your mind didn’t it? Then it was the best thing that
could have happened. We’ve had a nice time together, Garret’s
improving, and you just said that being the miller of Saxford
isn’t what you want. This was time well spent,” she concluded.
“It didn’t help me decide what I should do for a living,
though.”
“No,” agreed Meg, “I see that. But you’ve narrowed it
down, didn’t you?”
Jon grudgingly agreed that he had.
“I don’t think it will be the last time we’ll talk about this,
Jon. I could be very happy in a place like Saxford or anywhere
else as long as you were there too. Let’s not decide anything just
now. We have a few months before we have to make any big
decisions. Who knows, maybe something else will come along.”
The next day Jon walked back down to Edward, the miller’s
son, to explain his change of mind about the mill. The family
was willing to lower the price if he’d open the mill, but Jon
declined and left feeling better about his decision not to move to
Saxford.
They spent another enjoyable day with the Fletchers, most
of it with Garret. Jon had serious doubts that Garret would be
ready to travel. He decided to be direct with Garret about it
when the two of them took a walk around the farm in the
afternoon.
“Are you going to be able to ride to Norheim next month?”
asked Jon. “Your shoulder seems to be healing well enough.”
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Garret knew his answer might cost him the trip, so he gave
the most positive answer he could think up on the spot.
“Mistress Banks says I’m going to be fine, it just takes time
to heal up. Don’t you worry about me Jon, I’ll be fit as I need to
be. You meet me here as we planned, and we’ll go together to
see Norheim.”
Not convinced, Jon smiled and stared out at the pasture with
the Olani horses in it.
“You going to go into the horse breeding business?” Jon
asked, wanting to change the subject.
“That’s Corbin. I’ve no interest in it, Cole does, too, and
they have great plans for raising herds and herds of horses. I
have to admit I’m having a hard time getting used to riding.
Feels like I’m split right up the middle after I get off.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” commiserated Garret.
Jon told Garret about his decision not to come up to Saxford
after all and explained why.
“I doubt I’ll settle here either, Jon. The farm will go to
Corbin. I’ll have to find something else outside Saxford. Looks
to me like both us will have to seek our fortunes away from
home.”
“Well, that is that, then. What would you like to do while
you are here?”
“Just be in one place for a couple of days would be nice.
We’ve been so busy fixing up my place and then coming up
here, that we are just plain tired.”
“Then we’ll see to it you get your rest,” Garret offered.
“Stay as long as you wish.”
Two days passed before Jon became antsy again and after
talking to Meg decided they would leave the next morning. At
supper Jon announced, “Meg and I are going home tomorrow.”
“Don’t rush off,” argued Garret. You’ve only just got here.”
“Need to,” answered Jon, “I’ve got a family to support, not
much money, and two new jobs to start. In fact I have my first
Guard meeting later this week. So anyway we thank you for
letting us stay. It is good to see you up and around again. I
won’t lie to you, there was a time when I didn’t think you were
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going to make it. Why don’t you come to Redding and visit us?
We’d love to have you stay with us, any of you.”
Garret smiled, “I’d like that, but it’ll probably have to wait
until after we get back from Erenby,”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Jon and Meghan packed the cart the next morning and after
one of Mistress Fletcher’s solid breakfasts, they thanked
everyone and waved them goodbye. Both of them had enjoyed
their short stay, and Jon came away reassured that Garret would
be traveling with him to visit the Normen. He really didn’t find
the prospect of tagging along behind the Earl and Thane Giffard
by himself very desirable.
The road over to Ribble took two days, and by the time they
reached the little inn by the bridge they were very tired of riding
in the cart. Durban and Edlyn Turner flew out of the inn to
greet Meg and Jon, and they were treated like royalty. The
wedding feast was planned for the twenty-second day of
Weedmonth, the double elevens considered to be a very
fortunate day. Jon informed them that his mother and Granny
would be unable to attend due to Granny’s health. The news put
a damper on the plans for a while, but it couldn’t be helped
That evening Jon sat down and talked with Durban about his
dilemma as far as work was concerned. Durban listened
carefully and asked a few questions to clarify in his mind what
the problem was.
“I think you’ve made a wise choice as far as the move out to
Saxford is concerned. You’ve got time on your side. Two jobs
and a council errand north will keep you busy into the end of
summer. Keep your eyes open. Two things matter,” Durban
offered philosophically. “Whatever you choose, make sure you
can feed a growing family and make a conscious choice to do
whatever you end up doing; then work your fingers off to make
it happen. Anyway that’s my two pence worth,” he concluded.
Jon worked through the garden through mid-morning. Later
Jon and Meg agreed to let Tristan take them fishing in the
Ribble, though without success, much to Tristan’s disgust.
The following morning Jon and Meg packed their things into
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the cart and left for Redding. Until Jon was finally on the road
back to Redding, the new jobs lay in the somehow distant
future, but the future started the next morning, and Jon was
anxious about it. After a quick stop at Turpin’s Inn in
Holbourne, they clattered home by mid afternoon.
Meg began her ordering of the house with enthusiasm. Jon
tackled the garden, which was beginning to look like it might
amount to something despite his long absences. He managed to
clear about a quarter the garden before it was too dark to see,
and he had just enough energy for supper, and bed.
The next day he walked up to Quarry Lane early with the
sword strapped to his back. When no one answered, Jon walked
round back and called out for Master Holman who called back.
“Good to see you Jon, ready to go to work?”
“I am, sir,” replied Jon. I’ve brought the sword with me.
Did you want to see it?”
“Holman’s face lit up. “Yes, I would.”
“Jon unwrapped the sword and laid it out for Holman. He
had cleaned it, of course, and oiled it well, so the blade shone in
the morning sun.
“It is beautiful, Jon. And as Erlend suggested it is from
Norheim, though it is no ordinary blade. Can you read the
runes?”
“No, sir. Not a one.”
“It says this sword was made for Arne. If I remember right,
he was one of the early kings of Norheim.” He turned to Jon.
“How on earth could this sword have been in the possession of
one of those foul raiders?” Jon had no answer and waited for
Holman’s. But he didn’t either and simply shook his head.
“Yes, Jon, you must carry the sword back. to Erenby for that it
where it belongs. There is some mystery in this that I do not
understand. But it bodes ill for Norheim. Of that I am certain.”
Holman was lost in his own thoughts for a few moments leaving
Jon to feel uncomfortable, shifting form one foot to another.
“I’m ready to start work today, if that pleases your honor,”
Jon said. “What would you like me to do first?”
“Weeding and thinning this time of the year I should think.”
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Holman led Jon to a large shed set out of sight of the main
house where the tools and equipment were kept. Holman
walked him through the gardens which were set off from and
different from each other. The gardens and fields had been
laboriously built by the previous owners and a younger Master
Holman in the abandoned part of the old quarry. The walls of
the honeystone quarry sheltered some of the garden from the
fierce midsummer sun.
The rest of the farm sloped down toward the river. Jon
marveled at the meticulous attention to detail as he explored the
quarry garden. Perhaps the most interesting part was what Egan
had done with unfamiliar plants. Parts of the garden had been
planted with masses of native flowers, trees, shrubs, and edibles.
But scattered about the place Jon saw plants that he’d never seen
anywhere in Saeland before. Tall ferns, plants with leaves so
large that they could be used as umbrellas in a rain storm,
flowers with unusual colors and forms that Jon stood stock still
in amazement. The names tumbling out of Holman’s mouth
were as exotic as their appearance. Jon’s anxiety about working
at Holman’s disappeared; he couldn’t wait to know more about
the keeping of Holman’s manor.
“I think the best way to get you going is for you to go to
work where you see a need, and I’ll leave you to it. I’ll pay you
three pence a day to start, if everything works out, I’ll double it.
Jon could hardly believe he’d heard right. The daily wage
around Redding was one or two pennies a day, Holman’s
proposal that would make him among the highest paid workers
in the town. The offer was interesting; he guessed it had
something to do with his father’s friendship with Holman. At
any rate, it was an astounding wage. It wasn’t until later that
Jon wondered why and if there was some hidden requirement
that had yet to be named.
Jon hurled himself into the weeding, digging and trimming
in the hot Haymonth sun. The part of the garden Jon came to
appreciate most was a stream that splashed off the hill above the
garden over a series of short waterfalls into the water-filled
lower parts of the quarry. A forest glade surrounded it which
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had been designed so skillfully that Jon thought at first it must
have always been there. When he was so hot he couldn’t stand
it any longer, Jon stripped out of his shirt and slipped into the
cool clean water. By the time mid afternoon had rolled around,
Jon surveyed what he’d been able to do in the garden with a
good deal of satisfaction. He enjoyed the work and the setting.
“How was it?” Meg asked as she met him at the door.
“You won’t believe what Holman’s got up there!” he
exclaimed and went on to explain the pay which caused Meg to
raise her eyebrows. “Why such an extravagant wage?”
Jon shook his head, and his obvious enthusiasm for Holman
caused Meg to doubt, but not wanting to cast a cloud over Jon’s
excitement, she held her tongue. She would wait and see what
Holman had in the hand behind his back.
The house had been cleaned as Jon hadn’t seen it in the
months since his mother had moved to Camber. He whistled to
work in his own garden until Meg called him for supper. They
sat on the bench in the shade of the house waiting for the heat of
the day to escape from the bedroom, so they could sleep and fell
onto the pallets so exhausted they could hardly talk. In the days
that followed they found a routine that allowed them to get their
work done and still have time to themselves. Jon introduced
Meg to the nearest neighbors, and soon Meg struck up
friendships with several of the women in the surrounding
streets. Jon took Meg up Quarry Hill to meet Master Holman
and show her the gardens. Holman and Meg formed an instant
liking for each other, and he made her forever free of the
garden.
Jon spent the following day worrying about and planning
what he should talk about at the town meeting in Redding Hall
which Holman had arranged for that evening. Jon expected a
few dozen people at the most, but as he and Meg walked toward
the Hall after supper, they saw that there was an overflow crowd
who’d come to hear him. Jon instantly felt a twist in his gut
about addressing so many people, but was pleased that there was
more interest than he’d imagined. Jon waved to several friends
who greeted him with a small cheer. Egan Holman had saved a
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seat for Meg up towards the front, and Jon was invited to sit on
one of the benches in the front of the large hall next to Thane
Anson Gessing.
The Thane called the meeting to order when it appeared that
anyone who was coming had already arrived.
“At the request of Egan Holman,” he began, “I’ve allowed
this meeting to be called. We apologize for the inconvenience;
we didn’t plan on such a large gathering. Egan tells me that Jon
Ellis, whom you all know, has come back from Camber with the
idea that we all should join the Guard and run off into the hills.”
He paused waiting for laughter, the crowd just stared, either not
really listening, or thinking the Thane’s comment not
particularly funny. He cleared his throat. “Well, come on then,
Jon, don’t keep us in suspense.” He waved Jon toward the front
with his hand. Thane Gessing didn’t know Jon well, and his
comments left no doubt in anyone’s mind that he thought the
meeting was a complete waste of time.
Jon only hoped that Gessing’s comments hadn’t soured the
crowd before he’d had a chance to talk.
“I thank you for coming to listen to me. I was recently
sworn in as a member of the Guard over in Camber, and have
been asked to recruit some of you for a Guard unit here in
Redding. I’d like to tell you what happened a few weeks ago up
in North March.” As briefly as he could, Jon then recounted the
rousing of the Guard and referred to fight on the East Road
north of Saxford.
“Now the reason for calling this meeting wasn’t just so I
could tell a long story. For months now, you may have heard
rumors about these Olani raiders, and the threat they might pose
to us. Thane Giffard and the Earl believe that the Olani are a
real threat, and one we should prepare to meet if they should do
to us what they tried to do up north. The Guard hasn’t been
organized in Redding for over a generation. I’ve been ordered to
organize men here and in the towns around us into a unit of the
Guard. We have many people in Saeland, and if we are
organized, we will be better prepared to meet any threat that
might arise. I’d like to talk with any of you who might be
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interested in joining the Guard after this meeting. That is about
all I have to say.”
“Tell us what really happened up past Saxford , Jon,” called
a voice from one of his friends standing against the back wall.
“All right, he laughed, and launched into an explanation of
what had happened from his point of view.
He gazed anxiously at the crowd of over a hundred people
for their reaction and found a few heads nodding. But for the
most part there was no indication whether he’d swayed anyone
at all; only Meg and Egan Holman apparently on his side. Jon’s
attention snapped back as the all too familiar voice of Ralph
Warren spoke from his seat on the council.
“That’s all well and good, young man,” he said in a voice
that dripped sarcasm, “but why should the people of Redding
listen to you? You, by your own admission have been in the
Guard only a few weeks, is it? If they wanted us to organize,
why send you? Where’s Thane Giffard and his cronies from
Camber. Are they too busy being important to come
themselves?”
Before Jon could formulate a reply, Warren continued.
“I, for one, think this is a lot of foolishness. So what if the
raiders made it to the border, the Normen took care of them,
didn’t they? No raiders about now are there? Sounds expensive
and a waste of time and I want nothing to do with it.”
“Perhaps I didn’t explain carefully enough, Master Warren,”
Jon responded. “The Normen came too late. It was men from
Saxford and the West Dales and Whitburn who stopped the
raiders. Eight of our men died protecting all of us! Others were
wounded. The Normen came after it was all over.”
“In other words the Normen left us to handle things on our
own? Still no cause for us to get all excited,” came the
comment from the back of the room. “Them raiders are no
bother to anyone any more, are they?” one laughed. Several
heads nodded their agreement.
“Thane Giffard, Earl Osric, and the Reeves are doing exactly
what I’m doing in South March as we speak. If you want
someone from Camber to come, they will gladly come and talk
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to you. I was asked to explain what happened above Saxford, so
you would understand the need to be organized in the event of a
crisis. Our hundred has fielded the militia in the past. The Earl
wants the Guard organized again to fight if trouble finds us.”
Gessing coughed for attention. “Jon, we have heard rumors
about raiders and the like for months now. Every time it turns
out to be just that, a rumor or now a single attack somewhere so
far away we hardly know the names of the place. The sources of
information unreliable…” the Thane paused.
“Unreliable!” Jon interrupted angrily. “What about the
attack at Saxford just weeks ago. It wasn’t Normen who fought
the Olani. I was there! The men of Saxford and Fulham, and
Pendleton…”
“I beg your pardon, young man,” interjected a large woman
from the front row. “The Thane was speaking.” Jon fell silent.
“As I was saying,” the Thane continued pompously. “The
information so far has been sketchy, you show up here all
excited by your adventures up north and want to upset everyone
over a vanished threat, a minor skirmish in North March, which,
if we accept what you say at face value, ended with minimal
loss of life and no property damage. Now you want us to rush
off into this Guard business. It will cost us money and time, and
someone’ll have to pay for all of it. Who knows how many men
and boys taking time away from families and harvest, for what?
A bunch of poor cottars run around and play warrior, when no
warrior has been needed in Saeland for more than a hundred
years. I am the Thane of Redding, and I say this is folly!”
Thane Gessing, who had stood to address the crowd, sat
down shaking his head. A murmur of muted conversations
spread among neighbors.
Jon didn’t know what to say. He’d anticipated that there
might be some initial opposition, but the Thane’s smooth,
condescending tone, and the town’s influential miller
denouncing the Guard was frustrating.
“But you don’t understand,” complained Jon, “I saw what
the raiders were like. These are not some street ruffians after
one too many at an alehouse. I saw six of them hack to death
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three men from Saxford, one of them a year younger than me.
We need men who will protect us if we are called upon. What if
the raiders had come down Holbourne Road?”
“They haven’t, and they won’t,” declared Ralph Warren.
“That’s what I’ve been talking about. You are trying to scare
people into forming the Guard. Young people are bound to get
excited at news like this, but wiser heads should prevail. It’s a
shame good hard working people are being asked to waste time
to play at soldier. We have grain fields to cut and gardens to
harvest, fields to plow for fall sowing. We don’t have time to
jump at the whim of Thane Giffard or anyone else at Camber.
It’s another example of people from over there telling us what
we should or shouldn’t do. One day we’ll have enough guts to
tell them to butt out and leave us alone. A chorus of agreement
met the mayor’s comments. “Reasonable people don’t need to
go into the wilds watching for a phantom threat,” was the
miller’s parting comment.
The crowd waited for Jon’s reply, enjoying the unexpected
exchange.
“I know your mind is already made up, Ralph Warren, and I
don’t expect to change it, you’re only interested in making more
money than anyone else, so I don’t expect you to understand.
And maybe Thane Gessing won’t listen,” Jon declared turning
his back on him and faced the people of Redding, “but surely
some of you realize that we must be ready to face a threat if it
appears over the horizon, next time not at Saxford but coming
down Holbourne Road.”
Jon had tried hard not say anything about Warren’s business
dealings with the foreigners, but in the heat of the moment he
could not hold back.
“Why are you so dead set against the Guard, Master
Warren? Why can’t you allow people to make up their own
minds. No one is being forced to join up. It’s almost as if you
want us to remain unprepared. What is it you really want,
Master Warren? Do you think we might interfere with your
little arrangement to sell all that grain to outlanders? Where is
all that wheat and barley going you ship out of here?”
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The crowd’s noise became thunderous, Jon had openly
asked a question many people wanted to hear answered. The
shortage of flour in Redding had driven up the price of barley
bread at the baker’s and flour from the mill by half in just the
past three weeks.
Ralph’s face was the color of beet roots, and he shouted into
the hubbub that his business was nobody’s but his own. No one
paid him the least attention.
The Thane pounded on the table with his wooden block
calling for quiet, and gradually he got it.
“If there are no more questions for Jon, then I call for a vote
of the council on the matter.” People were on their feet in an
instant.
“Answer! Answer! shouted several incensed citizens. Thane
Gessing banged the block for silence again and again. Once a
reasonable amount of order was restored and everyone had
taken their seats, the mayor took a deep breath.
“This meeting is about organizing the Guard,” growled
Gessing. “Nothing else is under consideration. Have any of the
council anything they wish to ask or say about establishing the
Guard here in Redding?” Not one of them said anything. They
looked decidedly uncomfortable under the gaze of so many
townspeople.
“Those members of the council in favor of organizing the
Guard in Redding raise your hands.” Five members of the
council sat stonily, others uncomfortably so, two went up.
“Those opposed.” Five hands went immediately up, another
reluctantly.
“The ‘no’s’ have it,” announced the Thane triumphantly to a
mixture of cheers and jeers.
That was it, the hallmeet had voted down Jon’s proposal and
there was no denying that he had failed, and he felt it. The
meeting broke up with everyone talking at once. Several people
came up to Jon and told him he’d done a good job or patted him
on the back. Holman was too angry to say much, and said he’d
talk to Jon later before stalking outside. Ralph Warren
congratulated the Thane on his handling of the meeting rather
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loudly making sure Jon heard it and left. Thane Gessing came
over to Jon who cringed at the confrontation ahead.
“Your outburst, young man, was disrespectful, most
unseemly. I remind you now that the town council has voiced its
opinion on this matter and you are bound by that decision. You
will apologize to Master Warren,” he ordered.
Jon said nothing, afraid he’d say something he’d be sorry for
until the Thane walked away. He walked Meg home dejectedly,
aware that many people refused to look him in the face. Jon
remained silent all the way home. When they closed the door,
Jon threw himself onto a bench and put up his feet.
“I made a mess of that, all right. Ralph Warren’s still
insufferable, and I let him get the best of me. The vote might
have gone differently if I’d held my temper.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” soothed Meg. “Right or
wrong it was decided tonight,” Jon fumed. “If I go against the
vote, I’ll have no end of trouble from Warren, the thane and
their supporters,” Garret mumbled half to himself.
Meg realized Jon was too busy feeling sorry for himself to
talk about it objectively and offered to fix something to eat.
“Thanks,” he replied, “then I’m going to bed.”
She moved to the kitchen while Jon kept reliving the worst
moments of the meeting and shuddering at the idiot he felt he’d
made of himself in front of the most respected members of the
community. In one hour he’d managed to make life very
difficult for the both of them.
Meg could tell Jon was still stewing over the outcome of the
hallmeet. She set down the tray, and took his hand and
squeezed.
“You stood up to Warren and the thane, and I’m proud of
you for it.”
“It’s going to cause trouble, Meg. People in Redding expect
everyone to do just go along with the way things have always
been. Anyone who doesn’t follow the thane’s lead is going to
find it hard to live around here.”
“We’ll just have to see how it goes,” suggested Meg.
“You’re trying to change minds that were already made up, or
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just don’t care. If it gets too bad, neither one of us has much of a
tie to Redding any more, do we?”
“You’re right,” admitted Jon, recognizing that Meg had been
right about a lot of things lately. He smiled at her, calmer.
“You don’t know how good you are for me, Meg,” Jon
laughed. She smiled back and walked into the back of the
house.
A heavy pounding on the door with calls for Jon to open up
broke the quiet of the house.
A little early for the recriminations to begin, Jon thought.
Standing at the door were two of his cousins, Geoff and
Colin.
“We need to talk to you, Jon.” Geoff said.
“Come in,” Jon invited, unsure why they would choose just
that moment to appear on his doorstep.
“I heard you at the meeting, Jon, and told Colin here about
it, we’ve decided we want to join the Guard.”
Jon was taken aback by that. “But the town council voted
not to organize the Guard here, Geoff, you heard the vote.”
“Doesn’t change anything for me,” replied Geoff. “If there’s
a real threat to me or my family, I’m not going to sit and talk
while fighting’s going on. Both of us want to join. What do we
need to do?”
Thane Giffard had been right, Jon concluded. Some people
would be hard to convince, maybe young ones might be more
willing to listen. These two were living proof of that.
Jon thought fast. “The Redding Council voted that I must
not organize the Guard, but it doesn’t mean I can’t invite a few
friends over to talk does it?”
“Not that we can see,” replied the two with a grin. “There’s
others too, Jon. We’ll ask around, see if anyone else is
interested in ‘visiting’.” They winked and were gone.
“Who was that?” Meg asked when they had gone.
“Two friends, kinsmen actually. Wanting to join the Guard.
Can you believe that?”
“Yes, I can,” Meg replied. “And I’ll bet you’ll have more
than three of them in it before you finish here.” Jon sincerely
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hoped so.
The next morning Jon reported for work at Holman’s at the
usual time, but before he could even get the tools out, Holman
came out of the house to speak to him about the previous
evening.
“Disgraceful,” he commented in his slight accent, a little
more noticeable when he was worked up. Jon had never been
able to figure out where he’d come from. “Shouldn’t have been
allowed.”
“It’s all right, Master Holman, I’ve already had two lads ask
to join.”
“What?” Holman laughed, “to join?”
The Thane made it clear that he doesn’t want the Guard
organized here, which seems to fly in the face of common sense,
but it doesn’t mean old friends can’t gather and talk about
whatever we want, if you take my meaning.”
Holman laughed out loud again. “I do take your meaning,
Jon. If you have a friendly gathering, I’d like to be invited, too,
and I’m sure there are others who might like to visit as well.”
Holman chuckled, and Jon felt vindicated.
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13
A Change in Plans
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