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Threads of Destiny
Book I of the Bloodstone Amulet
Larry Perkins

Copyright © 2009

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the author.

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
4
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.

Ralph Warren was acting even more strangely than usual

that particular morning. Poking his head in as if to check up on
Jon’s work, he started to say something for which Jon waited,
but instead Master Warren shook his head and turned away.
Just before it was time to go home for dinner, the main meal of
the day, Warren stepped to the doorway of the mill room again
as Jon carried another fifty-weight sack of grain over to the
hopper.
“Jon, my boy,” he shouted trying to make himself heard
above the rolling, thundering noise the millstones made as they
ground against each other. Jon brushed off the accumulation of
flour dust from the morning’s grind, and followed him out into
the outer room where customers usually waited or talked to
Master Warren while Jon worked in the back.
“I am going to visit my brother all the way down at
Wimbourne in South March. I’ve decided to close the mill
after today until I get back next week just before Midsummer’s
Day.” He handed Jon his week’s wages of five silver pennies.
“I’m sure you can use the time to your advantage.”
Now if most people were told they weren’t wanted at work,
and it would cost them a week’s wages, they might be inclined
to complain, but not Jon. He smiled trying to keep the
excitement out of his voice.
“Do you want to shut down now?”
“Finish what you’ve set out and slip the gate in the millrace.
I’ll lock up.”
Sacking and stacking the flour against the rough plastered
wall didn’t take long at all. Jon stepped out onto the weathered
stone platform next to the river and stomped the millrace sluice
gate into place to stop the flow of water to the mill wheel. The
wheel slowly creaked and groaned itself to a stop, and the day’s
work was done. Jon swept out the mill room and the outer
16
office, and sent a cloud of dust off the stone porch into River
Street in front of the mill. He stepped out onto the dusty street
sloping down to the river’s edge and slapped as much flour dust
from his tunic as he could and made a few token swipes of the
broom across the rest of the porch.
“All done then, Jon?” inquired Master Warren as Jon came
back through the door.
“Yes, sir,” Jon replied, untying his dusty blue apron and
hanging it in its place near the door; the broom propped beside
it.
“Good day, then Master Warren,” Jon called. “I’ll see you
next week.”
“Enjoy your time off and don’t go wandering into a bog or
getting yourself lost!” Warren called after him, shaking his
head. He could not for the life of him imagine what interest a
young man could possibly have in traveling into uncivilized
places. That particular conversation had occurred several
times, and Warren had grudgingly come to realize it was just the
way Jon was, and nothing he could do or say would change that.

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.”

Jon was elated. The unexpected holiday finally gave him a

18
chance to go up to Ribble and see Meg. Jon had repeatedly
promised to visit the Mortons since Eastermonth, but either Meg
was working away from home or Jon never had two days off
work in a row. If Meg wasn’t home, he’d go on north of Ribble,
he’d never been up that way, and it was his first opportunity to
see the country north to the border. Jon practically ran home,
something which the staid residents of Redding seldom did.
Once inside he quickly threw together his usual trail food
consisting of salt pork, dried peas, barley flour, and a vegetable
or two from the garden, cooking implements, and a bedroll. He
weighed the odds and ends he thought he might need for a day
or two in the wild. Jon made a circuit of the house shuttering
the windows and closing doors, enclosing the stifling heat inside
the cottage. He grabbed his hiking stick from behind the door,
and stepped out onto the street leading to the ford. Going by
way of Holbourne it was twelve leagues to Ribble, but he could
cut almost three leagues off the walk and make it before supper
if he kept up a good pace into the long summer evening and
took the shortcut through Overton.
When making deliveries for the mill, Jon always drove to
Holbourne and crossed the bridge there onto the Ribble Road.
The river road north cut across country whenever the river
wound a little too far out of the way, but still it usually took him
most of a day to get there making deliveries or picking up grain
to be ground from farmers and householders along the way.
But to get to Ribble in time, that day, Jon took the street
down to the ford and waded the river to Overton with his gear
held on his shoulders before taking the less-used path on the
north side of the river. The track shrank to a footpath as the rye
and barley fields thinned and gave way to the common grazing
area and then deep woodlands. Jon liked that route, because he
imagined it was how the land appeared when his ancestors had
first arrived. The oaks were broad of girth and timeless; their
massive branches like so many arms reaching for the sun. The
forest floor beneath the trees was a leaf-decked, mossy carpet
which absorbed most sounds. Here and there ivy and woodbine
twined about the trunks and saplings, clothing some in verdant
19
skirts. The south breeze seldom reached the massive trunks of
the giant oaks, making a cool, shady walk, compared to the
heavy heat in the sun on the Holbourne Road. Jon’s path
crossed several small streams rushing down from the forested
hills to the Holbourne below. The best part of that trail was that
it cut leagues off the journey to Ribble.
Few travelers took that track because there wasn’t a single
town or even a farmhouse once they left the Overton town lands
behind. People from Redding were generally very cautious
when it came to going into the ancient forested wild lands north
and west of the town. Many of the deep glens and coombes had
their resident huldrefolk, the forest keepers, who were no friends
of human beings. No road crossed the Forest, and very few but
an occasional hunter or woodsman ventured there. Hushed tales
of mewlings, the spirits of lost children, waiting in the shadows
for the unwary, kept all but the foolhardy out of the deep forest.
Jon had hiked the cutoff on many occasions, and his inbred fears
about such things had long since faded. In fact, his excitement
grew as he passed the now familiar landmarks. The weather was
warm, and Jon had worked up an appetite and a sweat in his
haste to reach Ribble by nightfall. Full Summermonth and
Haymonth were normally dry preceding Weedmonth rains.
Despite the heat, Full Summermonth was a good time to go
walking in the countryside.
After Overton’s last few houses and small farms disappeared
behind him, Jon settled into his usual walking pace. He felt good
and eagerly anticipated seeing Meg. Several months had
passed since Jon had seen her, and from the tone of the single
letter she’d had someone write, she missed him as much as he
missed her.
The bright green leaves of summer scattered the clear
sunshine of the afternoon on the walking path as it wound
through the forest that crept down from the hilltops. A slight
breeze from the west caused the leafy shadows to dance
endlessly on the path at his feet. Jon trekked for the most part in
shade all afternoon, and that was good. He didn’t want to arrive
at the Turner’s all in a sweat. Hours later the forest thinned as
20
he approached the long farm strips which had been cleared from
the forest on the west side of the valley down to the Ribble. The
village itself lay nestled against the river at the edge of a wide
valley. Without a mill the town’s people were forced to bring
their grain all the way to Warren’s mill to have it ground.
Warren’s family had bought or bribed the millage rights from
the Thane and as a result owned the only legal grist mill in the
area. When grain was to be picked up or flour delivered in
Ribble, Jon always made a point of being the carter after he met
Meg.
Just at supper time, Jon stepped through the door of the
sturdy, two-story stone building, shrugged off his pack and set
his walking stick beside it against an oaken bench.
“Hallo? Durban? Meg?”
Durban Turner stuck his head around the corner of the
kitchen door, and his face broadened into a wide smile. “Jon,
how are you?” He strode across the room wiping his hands on a
cloth he had tucked into the apron tied around his substantial
waist, grabbed Jon’s forearms and shook him welcome.
“Any chance of supper?” Jon asked with a knowing grin.
“Couldn’t have timed it better,” replied Durban. “Edlyn has
just taken a magnificent steak pie from the oven and we are
about to sit down to eat. Come on into the kitchen!”
Jon followed Durban into the large kitchen with its broad
stone hearth; pots and pans hung in a row along the timber
frame wall. Edlyn Turner was setting shallow wooden bowls
onto a hand-crafted trestle table. A large oval pan topped with
still-steaming golden crust sat in front of Durban’s bowl and
gave off the most delicious smell imaginable to a hungry hiker.
Bowls of peas and beet greens fresh from the back garden sat
side by side with a mound of butter and a loaf of barley bread
waiting to be cut. Edlyn called out a welcome to Jon. She met
him and rubbed his arm, “She’s missed you, Jon. We all have.
I’m so glad you’ve come.” She went past him with a
conspiratorial grin to the other end of the kitchen and shouted up
the back stairs. “Meg! Tristan! Dinner’s ready! We’ve
company down here! Wash your hands!” The hurrying of feet
21
on the floorboards above showed a lively interest in supper.
“I’d like to clean up a little too, if I may,” said Jon.
“Right through to the back,” reminded Durban. “You know
where it is.” He waved toward a washroom where clothes could
be laundered even on rainy days. Jon stripped off and poured
water from the wooden water bucket into a basin, scrubbing
himself down after the day’s work at the mill and the afternoon
walk. Feeling positively starved and anxious to see Meg, he
dried himself and returned to the kitchen to find the family
talking quietly, waiting patiently for him.
“Sit down, Jon,” ordered Durban, indicating a chair next to
Tristan, Meg’s twelve year old brother, directly across the table
from Meg.
Meg, of an age with Jon, smiled radiantly at Jon and up at
her father as he explained, “Meg’s just off down Colby way
tomorrow looking after Edlyn’s aunt who’s fallen ill.”
Jon thought Meg was prettier every time he saw her and
found it hard to pay attention to what Durban was saying.
“How long will you be gone?” Jon interrupted, trying not to
show his disappointment at the news.
“I’ve promised to go tomorrow, but I should only be two or
three days at most. How long can you stay?”
“I was afraid of something like that,” Jon confessed. “I’m
not needed at the mill for a week or so. I came to spend some
time with you, but it sounds like it isn’t meant to be this time. I
think I’ll go on up north for a look around, and come back this
way in a couple of days and see you then.” Jon couldn’t tell if
Meg was disappointed about the timing of his visit, but he was.
At least they would have a chance to talk after dinner.
“Let’s eat!” Durban invited and everyone did just that. The
food was delicious; Jon ate until he could not lift another
spoonful.
“That’s the best meal I’ve had since Mother moved to
Camber,” said Jon.
“I have to confess that I didn’t make it, Jon. Meg made the
steak pie herself. She’s getting to be a very good cook.”
Jon smiled across the table, but Meg, who didn’t like the
22
attention, found a sudden interest in the wood grain of the table
top. When she did glance up, it was directly into Jon’s eyes, and
he smiled broadly and lifted his eyebrows to say he enjoyed it.
Durban glanced over at his wife and gave her an approving
nod. Mistress Turner shook her head and held Durban’s eye
indicating he wasn’t to say anything. Durban missed the
meaning of that glance and took a deep breath to speak. Edlyn
kicked him under the table before he embarrassed either of the
young people. Durban winced and glared.
When it was clear everyone had all they wanted of the main
course, Meg cleared the table of plates and bowls. Jon handed
his plate up to her and let his fingers brush Meg’s; she noticed.
Mistress Turner set a bowl of scarlet strawberries, plump and
ripe, and a pitcher of cream on the table. Jon groaned. He had
eaten far too much, but to turn down fresh strawberries was not
in his nature.
“I knew you’d like these,” Mistress Turner said. “I remember
you saying something about strawberries. Go on, take as many
as you’d like. We’ll soon be tired of them; there are that many
in the garden this year.”
Jon helped himself and handed the bowl to Tristan. He felt
something he couldn’t quite describe in words as he surveyed
the faces around the table. He’d liked living on his own, but at
the same time he felt he was missing something. It had been
missing for a long time. His sister had died when she was only
six summers old, then his father, and after that his mother had
gone to Camber. Except for a few cousins in Redding, he was
spent far too much time alone. These good people had taken him
into their home and into their lives. He felt he belonged there
and for that hour he was content.
The conversation turned to Jon’s plans.
“I’ve always wanted to travel north to the borderlands.
Maybe I can catch a glimpse of the Northern Mountains,
anyway I’d like to. Durban, you’ve been with the Guard up that
way, haven’t you? What’s it like?”
Durban launched into a lengthy description of the lands
north of Ribble including the paths and roads Jon would find
23
there. Tristan listened raptly to the conversation, but Mistress
Turner fidgeted the whole time, finally leaving the table to clear
up after supper. Jon glanced over at Meg and saw her gazing at
him, and he became suddenly conscious that he and Durban had
been excluding everyone else from the conversation. Meg’s blue
eyes drew his to hers as if under a spell.
Tristan nudged Jon to hand over the strawberries again
which he spooned out and half covered in cream.
“That’s wild country up where you are going,” Durban
continued. We hear there’s been some kind of trouble up north
of the border. The Guard gets up that far, but not many others.
A few of our boys are out this week, but you never know who’ll
you meet up there.” As Durban continued, Jon’s attention
wandered, he wanted to hear Durban out, he really did, but Meg
was much more interesting. Durban let the subject drop when
Mistress Turner gave him a ‘that’s enough, you’re rambling on’
look.
At the lull in the conversation, Jon said, “I’d like a chance to
talk to Meg before I go. Would you mind if we go outside for a
walk after we clean up in here?”
“You two go on. Tristan and I will help, won’t we, Tristan?”
Durban volunteered.
Tristan opened his mouth to protest but a glance from his
father strangled the complaint before he could utter it.
Jon patted Tristan sympathetically on the shoulder which
Tristan shrugged off with a frown.
“Go on, Meg,” smiled her mother, “we’ll clean up in here.”
Meg escorted Jon out into the inn’s common room off the
kitchen. Meg was about a span shorter than Jon with hair the
color of good earth after a rain, tied back with a strip of
embroidered cloth. Her gentle blue eyes and face radiated
kindness and intelligence. Where Jon was hard, muscular, and
angular, she was lithe and rounded, and used to hard work
herself. “How long will you be up north?” she asked.
“Just two or three days, if that’s how long you’ll be with
your aunt. I’ll come back here and spend a day before I go
home. Do you think you’ll be back by then? If not, I could
24
come down to Colby to see you.”
“No, my aunt wouldn’t like that. She’s bad tempered
anyway and that would make it unbearable,” she giggled. “I
think she’s been feeling better, despite what she says. I’ll come
home, if you are coming back this way. You’ll be careful up
there, no doing anything foolish!”
“You are beautiful,” he murmured and caressed her cheek
with his callused fingers. Meg brushed the hair from the side of
his face up over his ear devouring every detail, every angle of
his face. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
“What are you smiling about?” Meg asked him.
“Looking at you makes me smile,” he replied, “I can’t help
it. Let’s go for a walk.” Meg led the way out onto the wide
porch of the inn. The heat of the day had yet to dissipate but the
sinking sun was losing its strength. They ambled down the
main road arm in arm to the river bridge and stood leaning
against the ancient stone and kissed. They continued past the
bridge and scrambled and slipped down the grassy bank to the
edge of the river. Jon kicked off his boots, sat on the bank and
put his hot, tired feet into the river. He lay back into the grass
and groaned with pleasure, his eyes closed.
“It’s a long ways up here from Redding,” he complained.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been up sooner. I just can’t seem to get
away from the mill. And if I did, you’d be down at Colby
anyway.”
Meg sat beside him and plucked a long stem of grass topped
by a soft green seed head and twirled it in her fingers and looked
from it to Jon and back. She opened her mouth as if to say
something but then thought better of it. She tickled his ear with
the seeded end of the grass which brought him upright and
grabbing for her. She resisted briefly, giggling until Jon
wrestled her to his side and pulled her down over him, and they
spent a pleasant half hour with the sounds of the river keeping
them company. Meg snuggled into his shoulder waving off the
occasional insect; Jon felt as happy at that moment as he ever
had.
“What are we going to do Meg? We’re stuck aren’t we?
25
Me down there and you up here; I hate not seeing you. Say the
word and I’ll quit Warren’s and move up here.”
“What would you do up here? There’s no mill. I don’t see
you hiring out as a field hand; we couldn’t live on that, Jon.”
“Then come with me to Redding,” he pleaded. “I have the
house and hythe, and we could be happy there. I’m lonely,
Meg,” and left his plea unfinished, realizing it sounded like
whining. She had cried the last time they had talked about that.
Jon had felt so badly about how the discussion ended, he didn’t
press the point then, and he was hesitant to press it now. It had
been an old tension between them, and each time it ended with
Meg saying something to the effect that she was still needed at
home. Tonight she was silent.
Jon waited, nearly holding his breath.
“All right,” she surrendered, so quietly that Jon almost
didn’t hear it.
He rose up on his elbow and looked down at her dear face.
Slow tears slid out of the corner of her eyes and edged their way
into her hair.
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes, Jon, I’m lonely too,” she sighed. She gazed up into
his face searching for understanding. “I go through the motions
each day, but I don’t want to feel that way anymore. So, yes,
Jon, I’ll come to Redding with you. Though I don’t know what
my mother will say.”
Jon’s eyes met hers, and they both understood a bridge had
been crossed, and everything changed. He wiped her slow tears
with his finger tips and traced the outline of her ear and cheek.
“I love you,” Jon whispered. He was so overcome, he
wasn’t sure he had words to express his feelings. Meg smiled
and pulled his head down and kissed him hard and searchingly.
The twilight gradually enfolded them there lying side by side on
the bank.
“I thought you were going to head north tonight,” Meg
teased.
“Something important came up,” Jon teased. “I’ll leave
tomorrow morning.”
26
 They returned to the inn hand in hand talking about the plan
to set up a household in Redding sometime later that summer.
They also agreed not to say anything just yet. Jon wanted a
chance to talk with his mother and gather enough courage to ask
Durban Turner for his daughter.
Meg led Jon upstairs to one of the guest rooms.
“Do you want a fire lit?” she asked
“No thanks,” gasped Jon, “it’s too hot up here already. I’m
going to leave the window and the door open.”
“I’ll be gone early, so I won’t see you until you come back,
Jon. You be careful up there,” she warned sternly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jon clowned. “I’ll be up early too.”
She bent to kiss him again, and then she was gone, closing the
door behind her. Jon was truly tired, but long he lay thinking on
top of the bed covers in the heat, before the cool night air stole
into the room and sent him off to sleep.

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.
60
 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.
61
 “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
62
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.”
69
 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
70
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
71
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.
73
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
74
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.

Jon woke with the predawn chittering of chickadees in the

boughs above the camp. The Norman’s blankets and packs
were still in place but all of the others including Guri were
missing. Jon wasn’t particularly alarmed and assumed that the
others would return soon. He relieved himself away from the
camp and moved out towards the path where he heard hushed
voices. Through the branches he glimpsed Erlend and his
companions standing in the middle of the path talking with what
appeared to be another tall Norsk soldier wearing a long sword
strapped to his back. Guri stood to one side listening to the
rapid-fire conversation looking anxious. When they noticed Jon
approaching, the Normen acknowledged him and began walking
toward camp, still speaking earnestly. Jon turned back to the
camp ahead of them and knelt to see if he could revive the fire
from the ashes of the previous night. The Normen continued
talking until he finally coaxed a tiny flame from the embers and
fed it until he had a cook fire going.
“Jon Ellis, this is my kinsman, Arnegil, son of Juran
Juransen,” Erlend began. The stranger grinned at Jon with a
twinkle in his eye.
“So, Jon Ellis,” the stranger said, “what brings you so far
from home?” The voice was kind, and the tall man smiled. He
was about the same height as Erlend, and Jon sensed the same
nobility about Arnegil’s presence, as he had with Erlend and yet
they sat down on the ground and sorted out what they had to eat
with Jon and Guri like old comrades.
Guri had already fetched Jon’ pot full of water from the
spring and put it on to boil. Jon threw several handfuls of barley
into it. The Normen ate the same kind of porridge only made
75
with oatmeal. While they ate their mush, Arnegil turned the
conversation to Jon’s experiences since leaving Ribble.

“You talked with Egan then?” Arnegil asked.

“Yes, I met him three days ago, and we talked. He
mentioned you, by the way.”
“A good man, Egan Holman. Did he explain why he was up
here?”
“Not really, for the same reason I’m here, I guess.”
A flash of emotion crossed Arnegil’s face, disappointment
or was it disapproval, Jon couldn’t tell, but the chief changed the
subject abruptly, his tone not revealing his thoughts. “Erlend
tells me you are going home today. Is that still your plan?”
“I’m heading home by way of Ribble as soon as I break
camp,” Jon replied.
“Yes, I think that is best. I bring word that we are all needed
away to the north urgently, and I would that you were safely on
your way. We will take Guri with us and see that he reaches his
people across the river.”
“Erlend tells me you hope to join the Guard soon. They will
have need of many sturdy men and wood wise before long, I
fear.”
Jon felt something akin to pride kindle inside as he sat here
with these Normen who talked with him as if he was an equal.
In no time breakfast was cleared away; Jon and Guri packed
their gear and brought the horses up from the meadow.
Arnegil fell into step with Jon as they walked out to the path
with Erlend, Guri, and the others trailing behind.
“Jon, I have an errand I wish you to undertake,” Arnegil
began. He handed Jon a folded parchment addressed to the Earl
of Saeland.
“This message warns of a large band of armed raiders who
have crossed into the southern part of our country some
hundreds strong. My people have been drawn off to meet them,
and my hope is that we will soon send them back where they
came from. If we fail to stop them, they may turn west or south.
The Saesen Guard will need to be called up. I have also
76
suggested that you and others like you, be given guardsman
status immediately upon your return. Carry my message to your
Thane Giffard for me. Will you do that?”
“Of course,” Jon responded, his eyes fixed on the sealed
letter and the future Arnegil had placed in his hands.
“You have much to learn, but if I am any judge of character,
you will make a difference in our work, Jon. We are destined to
meet again, you and I. Perhaps the long estrangement between
our peoples is ending. Our vigil has kept both our lands safe
until now, but the Guard must be redoubled. Warn the Guard in
Ribble, they will send word west to put all the northern towns
on alert. Three or four day’s march could bring these foes to
Saeland. Tell them to be ready, Jon, be watchful. We will send
word once we know if the raiders threaten Saeland. Fare you
well.”
“Goodbye,” called Jon. “I will not fail.”
“And I look forward to our next meeting, Jon,” added Erlend
and grinned at him as an older brother might at the sudden
realization that a younger sibling has come of age. Jon turned to
Guri and thanked him. As Ezmet had foreseen, Guri asked
Erlend to explain that the horse was a gift. Jon smiled and
shook his head.
“Tell him I am honored, but I have no use for a horse; my
legs are good enough.”
Guri nodded when Erlend explained.
“Steset,” said Jon hoping he’d remembered it right.
Guri smiled broadly and stuck out his hand for Jon to shake.
With a wave the Normen turned and disappeared into the forest;
Guri and his spare horse riding along behind them.
Jon could hardly believe his luck. Guardsman Jon Ellis, that
and the thought of his errand carried him swiftly homeward.
The already overcast sky grew darker as low rain clouds
marched south into the face of the steady southern breeze.
Since much of the path was more down than up hill, Jon reached
the pool where he had first met Ezmet by late afternoon. Jon
hoped that Tobai and the men of Ezmet’s steading weren’t
waiting for him. He hurried past the place where he had
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climbed up the rock ledges, chuckling to himself as he viewed
in his mind again and again the embarrassing incident at the
pool. But then his thoughts darkened. Jon knew that if Marta’s
visit had become known or Tobai refused to give up the bride
price horses, they would hunt him down and exact a promise of
immediate marriage or beat him senseless or worse. But Jon
passed the pool without seeing anyone; for that he was grateful.
Clouds had spread above him all day and he knew that rain
could not be too far off. Jon hiked the next ridge and valley
before stopping for the night, going long past the point where
his feet and shoulders burned.
What a strange series of events had come of a seemingly
trivial decision to spend a day or two exploring the borderlands.
Jon, like all the Saesen, believed that one’s ultimate fate was a
constantly unfolding series of events based on choice and
coincidence, circumstances and challenges overcome. The three
goddess weavers were constantly at their loom connecting
everything in life into a pattern of warp and weft that could only
be discerned later.
Jon felt like he had just been introduced into the web of
events around him like a single new color thread appearing
behind the shuttle for the first time.
Evening came quickly under a dismal sky, the wind blustery.
Jon’s thoughts were filled with Normen and raiders. His
enjoyment of seeing the mountains faded in importance, and his
thoughts turned homeward. Excitement about the prospects of
joining the Guard was tempered by knowing he wouldn’t be
able to spend any time at all with Meg.
The gnarled arms of the oaks broke the force of the wind and
little but the sound above him told of its passing. Jon had little
food left in his pack but with the help of his little iron pot soon
had a poor supper. He lay against a log listening to the fire
crackle, the alder trunks standing stiffly on guard. Too late Jon
realized he reclined against a log swarming with large black
wood ants that had him dancing wildly around the clearing
trying to brush them off. He was forced to relocate all his gear,
bedroll and pack away from the fire and the ants, still plagued
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by the sensation that one or two of the insects had crawled
beneath his tunic. The wind rushed through the tops of the
trees like the sound of a waterfall. He finally settled down
again, although he swore the ants had hunted him to his new
location. Twice during the night he woke to the tapping of rain
drops on leaves and gear. He pulled his hood over his head and
willed the rain away. He started awake in a sweat fresh from
being hunted by the faceless hulk he somehow knew was Baba
Janas. The image was slow to fade.
The first tentative birds rustled and peeped above him,
unwilling to leave the shelter of the wood, waking Jon to the
cool moist breath from the north which foretold a long, muddy
walk. After a hurried breakfast, Jon set off in a rush to get as far
as he could towards Ribble before the heavy rain came. Jon’s
feet were sore, and he found himself wishing he still had Guri’s
horse. When he reached the alder grove where he had talked
with Egan Holman, he dropped his pack to rest beneath the
branches. From the ridge crests he had seen rainfall around him
and occasionally heard the mutter of distant thunder. He hoped
the weather would hold off, but it wouldn’t be the first time he
hoped in vain. From the top of the ridge to his left he could
already begin to trace the line of the coombe the Ribble had
carved for itself over years beyond count. The wind was cold,
and the sky lowering and gray. A few showers drifted overhead,
spattering him with rain, enough for Jon to pull his hooded
cloak over his head and pack. He pushed on, anxious to reach
any kind of shelter before the rain became a steady downpour.
In early afternoon, Jon lost the race. The rain, steady and cold,
began in earnest; he was wet through and shivering. After hours
in the downpour, Jon spied a path leading off to one side that
looked like it might have been used by the Guard and found a
stone outcrop which had been used as a shelter for generations.
Several great limestone boulders created a cave large enough for
several men to sit upright in and build a fire. He was grateful the
last Guardsmen had taken time to replenish the stack of
firewood. The rock shelter was enclosed enough to hold out the
wind and rain, and he soon had a small fire going to warm him.
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He figured it would take most of another day to get to Ribble, if
the rain stopped, but it continued to pour as if to spite him. Jon
fell asleep to the steady, splashy beat of the rain and wind on
stone.
He awoke at dusk when a gust of wind swirled cold and
damp into the shelter. He poked his head turtle-like outside and
found the rain had slackened, but he could tell from the pendant,
blue-black clouds the rain would return soon. Sure that the cave
was the last shelter he would find before Ribble, he relieved
himself and crawled back inside for the night.
Jon woke several times during the night when thunder shook
the very ground upon which he lay and the opening to the
shelter was illuminated by the brilliant flash of lightning. He
woke when gray day light brought him from a dreamless sleep.
He was hungry and nothing left to eat. The sky promised rain
for hours, but Jon decided it was then or never, a dry room at the
Turner’s and a solid meal waited, and wasn’t getting any closer
by sitting under a rock. So he set off at a fast pace, retracing his
route of several days ago. The brooks and rivulets were rushing
torrents each time he crossed, and the rain returned; only his
steady pace kept his teeth from chattering. Upon reaching the
track along the Ribble, he found the Ribble in full spate, running
bank to bank and spilling over at the bends. It seemed to him
that his already sodden clothing absorbed more moisture from
the wet brush and grass crowding the path; breath wisps trailing
behind. A steady drizzle fell quietly, the rushing of the river and
the tap of the rain on every surface drowned out all other sound.
Shivering and shaking he came at last to the farmsteads of
Ribble Valley, just as the rain increased once again to a heavy
downpour. Jon just hunched his shoulders and pulled his cloak
down farther over his face against the driving rain and sloshed
his way down the muddy track which had become a stream
itself. In time the deeply muddy road brought him down to the
bridge in Ribble covered in mud from his waist to his boots.

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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
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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
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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.

Jon dragged himself over to the washroom dragging the

83
borrowed shirt and stood over the sluice opening and doused
himself from the bucket of warm water Tristan had left him and
scrubbed himself from head to foot with a rag. Jon was glad he
hadn’t seen Meg yet, he didn’t want her to see him looking like
a vagabond. He raised the bucket and poured a steady stream of
the warm water over his head when the door behind him
opened. He turned thinking Tristan was bringing more hot water
and heard a gasp and a high pitched squeak.
Shaking hair and water from his eyes, Jon saw Meg standing
in the door with her hands to her face, her mouth open in
complete, embarrassed surprise. Jon, bucket still poised over
his head, grinned and straightened up.
“Hello, Meg, welcome home!”
She gasped and slammed the door shut with a bang.
After his initial surprise, Jon laughed out loud. Dinner across
the table from Meg would prove very interesting. He finished
washing himself and squatted on the stool and rinsed his
clothing. Jon was glad for the borrowed tunic which smelled
like it had been folded in cedar storage for ages. With his
clothing wrung out and hung by the fireplace in his room, he
congratulated himself on deciding to make the trek to Ribble in
the rain. By the time Durban called up the stairs for supper, the
entire room was festooned with Jon’s wet clothing and gear. He
tousled his hair to get it to lie down, and took the stairs two at
time down to the kitchen bare-footed, looking and smelling
much better than when he had first arrived, or so he thought.
The warmth of the kitchen and smell of Mistress Turner’s
dinner preparations were beyond praise.
“Hello, Jon. That’s your place there next to Tristan if you
will.” Tristan looked up at him barely containing his laughter,
the story of Meg’s surprise glimpse of Jon already having
spread at least that far. Meg had her back to him, purposefully
Jon thought, stirring something in an iron skillet on the hearth.
Jon crossed the kitchen and took his place just as Master Turner
came into the kitchen and slapped Jon on the back. “Welcome,
my lad, glad you’re here. Looks like that tunic fits you fine.
Looks good on you.” Meg suppressed a giggle as she scraped
84
whatever she was cooking into a large bowl. She carried the
bowl to the table, and set it down beside her mother’s place, and
sat in her place opposite Jon; eyes down and the tips of her ears
as pink as they could be peeking through her hair. She glanced
up at Jon who smiled knowingly at her from ear to ear. She
ducked her head instantly, but he could see she could barely
contain her embarrassed giggle; she tried to kick him under the
table.
Dinner progressed rapidly and before he knew it, Jon was so
full he couldn’t eat another bite. He didn’t have room for the
huge serving of apple bread pudding that he was offered.
Mistress Turner looked surprised, then assured Jon it would be
in his room later.
After a little coaxing, Jon gave an almost complete
recounting of his adventures in the wild to a spell-bound
audience. When one of the customers in the common room
called loudly for Durban, he made Jon wait until he sat down
again before continuing. Jon had to tell the story about Ezmet
twice. All of their faces were rapt listening to him. Parts of the
story were left out, and it was his turn squirm under Meg’s
glance. Jon also withheld a few pieces of information about his
meeting with the Normen because he didn’t want to alarm
Mistress Turner or Meg. He would explain all of it later to
Durban.
Jon was most interested in Meg’s reaction, and from all the
signs he had suitably impressed her. He watched carefully to
see if she could tell he wasn’t telling the whole story, but he saw
so sign of misgiving, and that made Jon feel more confident, but
he knew it was based on a half-truth. Meg’s eyes shone in the
hearth light, and he found himself talking more to her than to
Durban. Master Turner remembered meeting Arnegil once or at
least someone very like him, and remembered Erlend well.
After dinner Jon tried to volunteer to help with the dishes,
but Edlyn shooed him out of the kitchen with Durban. Turner
led him into the common room and introduced him to several of
the guests. They spent a quarter of an hour trying to establish
connections to friends and relatives in Redding and Camber or
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even as far as North March without a great deal of success, a
customary thing to do when meeting strangers. With the fire in
the great hearth dying down, the other guests drifted off to their
rooms. Durban sat in a great stuffed chair pulling on his pipe.
Jon had settled into a matching chair beside him facing the fire.
Durban’s eyes focused on Jon.
“So are you as determined to join the Guard?”
“More than ever,” replied Jon. Hardly able to contain his
excitement, he blurted out the full import of the message he
carried from the Normen. “Listen, Master Turner, I was sent
with a message from the Normen, but I didn’t want the others to
hear it, not yet anyway.”
Durban’s face grew serious, “Well, out with it. What’d
they have to say?”
Jon recounted the Olani threat and told him about the
letter to Thane Giffard.
“That is a surprise,” Turner said, “and not a little worrying.
If the chief Norsk borderer says we need to draft underage men,
then maybe all of the Guard should be called up. I’ll get on it in
the morning. We’ll send someone west to Gamble and some of
the boys up north to keep an eye on things. Congratulations,
Jon, and welcome to the Guard.” Durban had a way of putting
people at their ease, and since he had come to know Master
Turner better, Jon felt as if he had gained a second father. A
comfortable silence fell between them, and only the cracking of
the fire and the tap of rain on the shutters broke it. Jon cleared
his throat and explained what he had been thinking about more
than anything else since the beginning of his outing.
“I know this won’t come as much of a surprise to you Master
Turner, but I’d like to visit Meg and the family more often.”
Durban studied Jon for long moment and grinned a broad
contented smile.
“We couldn’t be more pleased to see you as often as you’d
like, Jon. Edlyn and I talked about it after you left the other day.
We’d be pleased if you called as often as you can get up here.
But it’s more’n a couple of leagues to walk. How’ll you
manage?”
86
 “I’m not exactly sure,” said Jon honestly, “but I’ll find a
way.”
“I’m sure you will,” Durban acknowledged with a
chuckle.
Meg came into the room, and took Jon’s hand and led him to
a table at the bay window with a day time view to the river, and
they talked for some time. He asked her about her days in
Colby.
“My aunt looked a little better, if you ask me. She says she
thinks she is dying, but I think she’s just lonely. I do like her,
but that house is too quiet for me. I’m used to the comings and
goings at the inn.”
Jon told her about the message he was carrying.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I’m not quite sure, but something’s up, and I know I don’t
want to be left out of it.” He took her hand, “And because of
that, I have to go back to Redding tomorrow.”
“That’s too soon!” Meg cried indignantly. “We haven’t
spent any time together! I came back because you said you
would stay! You don’t even have to get back to the mill! It’s
not good enough, Jon.
“I know, Meg, but that’s going to change. I’ll come up more
often, I promise I will.”
Meg frowned. “You’ve said that for months, and now we
have a chance to spend a day or two together you run off to
Camber on some errand from an outlander. When are you going
to come to visit me, for my sake and not because you’re on an
errand for the mill and now for the Guard?”
It was a hard question, and one that Jon had no good answer
for.
“I will come more often,” Jon placated. “This message is
important to us all. There’s real danger up north of us, Meg. I
can’t set this aside until it suits me. Nothing else would tear me
away from you.
“Nothing?” Meg asked, relenting just a bit.
“Nothing,” Jon reiterated. “Come now, let’s be friends
again. Don’t be sad.” They held hands across the table and
87
talked for a while. Jon couldn’t resist reminding her of their
encounter in the washroom; she blushed as deeply as she had
then and told him she was sorry. He told her he wasn’t. They
talked until the only light in the room was the glow of the fitful
flames licking the last of the life from the wood of the fire. Jon
stretched and yawned.
“Off to bed you two,” called Durban on a trip through the
common room, “I’ll close up down here.” He took a seat in his
chair by the hearth, lit and began pulling on his pipe, staring into
the fire. Jon pulled Meg to her feet, and they walked towards
the stairs. Jon stuck his head into the kitchen, the banked embers
casting light over Tristan asleep on his cot, crumbs from
something in the larder scattered over his blanket. Jon followed
Meg up the stairs to his room hand in hand, and kissed her good
night at his door. Jon found the pudding Mistress Turner had
promised on the table by the bed. He lay a few sticks onto the
fire and turned his damp clothing, hoping they would be dry by
morning. He pulled off the borrowed over tunic and crawled
into bed to the sound of the rain drumming on the inn’s slate
roof above him.
Jon slept without dreaming, at least none that he could
recall. He woke to the mumble of voices downstairs in the
kitchen or the common room. He belted the borrowed over
tunic leaving his own shirt, still half damp, to dry a little longer.
He popped his head into the kitchen to say hello and found Meg
and her mother busily engaged in cooking mounds of barley
cakes, ham, and eggs for the guests. Meg glanced his way and
bid him a cheerful good morning.
“Go on into the great room, Jon. We’ll serve breakfast in
there. You can get to know those three from up north, they are
going to Holbourne.”
Jon went around the corner into the common room and
greeted the men sitting at the small tables waiting for breakfast
to be served. He crossed to the front door and looked out on a
sodden, gray landscape, but the clouds were breaking up in the
north and west and promising sunshine later in the day. The
Ribble was running bank to bank after the heavy overnight rain.
88
Eddies and swirls gurgled happily, but then again maybe that
was just his mood. The town was squeezed against the first of a
series of long steep ridges rising between the Ribble and the
Great Glen. The Turner’s inn stood alone on a low rise a few
yards from the bridge. He turned back when Edlyn Turner came
into the common room bearing a great wooden tray covered
with steaming bowls and plates. Meg followed with another
large tray. Jon closed the door and took a seat at one of the
tables with three men who were passing through Ribble on their
way to Holbourne. As they all tucked into their breakfasts and
got a little better acquainted, they encouraged Jon to travel with
them since they were headed in the same direction. Jon was
anxious to get going, the message he carried needed to make its
way quickly to Camber. He agreed to join them, since he was
traveling that way anyway, parts of the short cut by way of
Overton would be impassable. Jon always appreciated good
company, and going with them ensured that he would arrive
home in good time.
Durban came in from the yard bearing an armload of
firewood which he began stacking near the wide stone hearth
against the wall. He visited each table and greeted the guests.
He clapped Jon on the shoulder as he spoke giving it a squeeze
before moving on to the next table. Meg came by twice to refill
any empty space on the plates. Jon had thought he might have
time to talk with Meg a little longer, but the Holbourne-bound
men were itching to leave, so he raced upstairs to pack his
things. Tristan peeked in, and Jon told him he could have his
room back and thanked him. Thinking he should do something
for the boy, Jon pulled his knife off his belt.
“Here you go,” Tristan.
Tristan’s eyes widened and his face broke into a huge smile,
“For me? Can I keep it?”
“Of course you can, Tristan. You and I’ll become good
friends I think!” Tristan face was alight, unable to take his eyes
away from the knife.
“Now mind you, there’s places where knives belong and
places they don’t.” Jon gave him a kindly slap on the back and
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told him goodbye.
He slung his pack onto his shoulder and headed down the
stairs just as Meg started up; she stopped, hesitating, and Jon
saw his chance.
“Meg?” She looked up expectantly. He set his gear down
and took her in his arms drew her to him to feel the warmth and
form of her and kissed her deeply. Meg put her hands on his
chest and tilted her head up to look at him. “I’ve missed you so
much,” she breathed and lay the side of her head on his chest.
He kissed the top of her hair and whispered softly, “I’ll be
back as soon as I can.”
“Jon, you haven’t been here, not really, since Eastermonth,”
she complained. “I want to see you more often than that.”
Meg’s eyes filled with tears.
Three months had been too long, Jon thought to himself.
“You are right,” he confessed.
“Listen,” he continued, lifting her chin with his fingers,
“I’ve got to go all the way to Camber to see Thane Giffard. So I
can’t come back this week, but look for me at the end of next.
I’ll come and stay a couple of days anyway. I’ll make up some
story to tell the miller.”
He smiled down at her, and she up at him, and they kissed
again. Meg smiled tearfully at him and his heart melted; Meg
blushed from head to toe, or so he supposed.
If it had been the wettest day to walk in all the history of
Saeland, it wouldn’t have made the slightest bit of difference to
Jon Ellis; he was that happy. And you can imagine, if you will,
that a certain young woman felt about him no less than he felt
about her.
Their hands drifted apart and Meg helped him carry his gear
down the stairs. Jon poked his head into the kitchen, thanked
Mistress Turner, and went out back looking for Durban, who
was putting kindling from the woodshed into a box which he
could carry into the kitchen. He straightened as Jon came out of
the back door and smiled.
“You are off then, my boy? We’ll look forward until your
next visit. You can tell Thane Giffard I’ve sent word by way of
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Gamble and two more men from this section are leaving this
morning to watch for any sign of trouble north of us and warn
the others already up in the borderlands.”
“Thank you, Master Turner, I’m going to work on my skill
with that bow, maybe find someone who can show me how to
improve.”
“You’ll find no one better than them over at Camber, but
there’s a few of us around as could give good account of
ourselves these days if we had to. Now you go along. Them
Saxford fellows are chafing to be off. Come see us soon,” he
called.
“I will, sir, you are a good friend.” But what he thought was
that Durban Turner was as close to having a father around as he
could remember.
Jon waved and set off around the side of the inn. He joined
the three men from Saxford on the porch, and with them headed
off down the road. The mud was a foot deep if it was an inch in
places, so they tried to walk on the grassy berm on the sides of
the road wherever possible, but within a league they were
muddied from toes to knees. Jon didn’t mind, the mud would
always come off. The sun came out after an hour or so, at first
weak but quickly gained its mid-summer strength, raising steam
from their cloaks and tunics.
One of the younger of the men by the name of Garret, who
looked to be about Jon’s age, fell into step and introduced
himself again and struck up a conversation.
“You folks live up way up at Saxford ?” Jon asked
politely.
“Me and Kevyn up there with the green pack and Master
Ridley are all from Saxford.” Jon enjoyed listening to the way
Garret talked, the dialect difference from North March
unmistakable.
“What takes you to Holbourne; it seems a long way from
home?”
“Master Ridley is a stone mason, and me and Kevyn are his
apprentices. We are going down to Holbourne where there’s
working waiting for us. No work up our way just now. We’ll
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try our luck down south for a while. And you?”
“I work at the grist mill in Redding.”
Garret nodded appreciatively. “Good indoors work if you
can get it. How long have you worked there?”
“For the last five years off and on, but right regular now that
Master Warren doesn’t do his own grinding.”
They trudged along each trying to think of something to talk
about without appearing too nosy. Being nosy wasn’t good
manners in Saeland, unless you weren’t found out of course,
then it was called ‘keeping your ear to the ground’ which was
certainly quite all right.
“You have many in the Guard up your way?” Jon asked.
Garret turned to stare at him. “Why do you ask?”
The subject of the Guard was dear to Jon’s heart, and they
talked for at least the next two leagues of little else.
“You could say up north we all are guardsmen in one way or
another.”
“You are in the Guard already?” Jon gasped.
“Not sworn in and all that, but I’ve been circuitin’ with Dad
and my uncles more times'n I can tell.”
Jon stared at Garret with new-found respect. “Don’t you
have to be of age to go off into the hills with the Guard? What
do you do out there?”
“I just turned twenty last month; many of us have been
going on circuit for two or three years mostly with dads or
uncles. We keep an eye on the wild lands up north.” Jon’s
mouth dropped open so noticeably that Garret chuckled. “Don’t
look so surprised, Jon, if we’d waited for the Guard from
Camber to show up every time an alarm sounded, we’d be
waiting a long time. Boy and man some of us can handle a bow
and can track over hard ground as easy as you can in mud.”
Jon thought about that. The Guard which Jon had always
thought to be a single trained fighting force was better described
as several independent militias which looked and acted quite
differently from each other, as Jon was discovering. Saeland,
the Marches, and the Dales had organized locally according to
long held traditions. Having seen a bit of northern Saeland, it
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made sense to Jon that people in less settled, more dangerous
places would be more involved in the Guard than his
unflappable neighbors in Redding.
“Did you ever encounter the Normen in the wild?”
“One or two,” Garret replied, “what do you know of them?”
“I met four of them just a couple of days ago north of
Ribble. One by the name Arnegil and one called Erlend. Said
there was trouble up their way and hurried off to see about it.”
“I do not recognize the name of the first, but Erlend is a
name I recall. Twice I have seen him, tall isn’t he? Dark hair?
But four Normen, I’ve never heard of so many together at once,
something must be going on up there.”
“Arnegil said something about them being needed away
north to fight an Olani raiding party up there, and they headed
off that way when we parted company two days ago.”
“That’s a fair distance to cover in three days, Jon, worthy of
a guardsman if you ask me,” he commended.
The morning sun grew stronger, reminding each of the small
party that it was nearly mid summer’s day, and the still damp
cloaks were soon shoved into packs.
“So you have found work in Holbourne?” Jon asked.
“Since there isn’t much work up our way, Master Ridley
came down last fall and found a man who had some stone work
needed done east of there. So here we are.”
“I live over in Redding,” declared Jon, “if you have a
chance, you ought to come over and visit. I’ve got my dad’s
place to myself; you could stay if you had a day or two to
yourself. I’d show you around if you’d like.”
“That’s kind of you, Jon. Me and Kevyn’ll take you up on it
for sure, if we can. And you say you work in a mill there?”
Garret asked.
“I work in Ralph Warren’s mill most days and take care of
the holding at my place in Redding.”
“You ought to come and learn the stone trade with Kevyn
and me. Pay’s good and with more and more people living
around here all the time there’s bound to be lots of work for a
mason.”
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 “Sounds like a lot of lifting; all that rock and slathering
mortar into place,” countered Jon.
“Oh it is, make no mistake,” Garret continued, “but anyone
with half a brain can do that. Master Ridley is more than a slab
fitter, none better, but he can carve stone as others might carve
wood. I’m not learning to be a quarryman, Jon; I’m going to be
a stone carver myself.” Jon thought that stone carving seemed a
rather exotic occupation since most people he knew were small
farmers with some side occupation to bring in a little silver. But
it did give Jon something to think about. If he was thinking
seriously about setting up household with Meg Turner, he would
have to be able to support her and a family in time. Being in the
Guard wasn’t a paid job at all, and Jon couldn’t envision himself
still working at the grist mill in middle age.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Garret, how did the people at
Saxford end up so far north of the rest of us?”
Garret chuckled to himself. “We get asked that every time
we leave home. The answer is simple enough, when our people,
yours included, wandered south out of the borderlands, Saxford
was the first place anyone settled down. Mostly Gilling and
Loriser clans at first, the Holders came a little later. Everyone
has all intermarried long since. My family was Gillings long
ago, don’t exactly know how we became Fletchers.”
The conversation between the two ranged widely. Garret
had a quick wit and laughed often; Kevyn was older and kept to
himself listening with unmistakable disdain to the chattering of
the younger men. Master Ridley said little, listening absently to
the young men’s conversation. They stopped for dinner under
the new-washed leaves of a beech tree glittering and
shimmering in the midday sunshine. At the crossroads in
Holbourne Jon bid them farewell and repeated his invitation for
a visit. They promised to walk to Redding if they could.
Jon trudged the last leagues home in the heat of the
afternoon passed only by an occasional cart or wagon. The
extra moisture in the air and the heat of the day had the sweat
running off him by the time he reached his own door. Inside he
threw off the pack and looked at the place with a critical eye.
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What needed to be done if Meg was coming there to live? He
looked out through the open back door to the over-grown
garden, trying to summon enough energy to work in it. He sat
in great contentment on the bench in the shade of the house.
The weeds grew so fast that time of year, he decided he had no
choice but to go out into the sun and try to prevent the weeds
from taking over completely. But before he did that, he decided
to go down to the mill see if Warren had returned and if there
was any work.
Jon took the note from the chief and examined it. He knew
it needed to get to the Armory as soon as possible, and he
wasn’t sure about work the next couple of days. He tapped the
letter debating whether he should wait and take it himself or
send it with someone else. He decided it would get to Camber
faster if he could find someone who was going that way in the
next day or two. He went to the alehouse to see if anyone knew
someone headed for Camber. He was in luck, for he found a
carter, just finishing off a large ale, who had stopped in Redding
on his way to Camber. Jon impressed him with the urgency of
the message and the man agreed to deliver it directly into the
hands of the Thane himself. Jon felt somewhat relieved that the
message would reach Camber later that day. He would stop at
the Armory when he visited his mother and grandmother in
Camber on Marketday.
Jon finished his meal and strode through the quiet streets
down to the mill. He greeted one or two people he knew, but as
he turned onto River Street, he noticed a saddled horse tied to
the overgrown lilac bush at the far end of the mill. That was
odd; no one Jon knew rode a horse. Everyone used the perfectly
good hitching post in front of the mill to tie up draft animals that
brought their masters to the mill. Garret passed the open door
and turned aside to inspect the horse that nibbled at the long
grass that had grown unchecked since the end of winter. Jon
thought he might find someone fishing in the river beyond the
mill, but saw no one. People kept horses and used them to pull
carts and wagons, but one just didn’t sit down on a horse; not in
Saeland, it wasn’t done. No one traveled long distances, so
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horses were seen simply as draft animals, and it was deemed
low class indeed for any self-respecting Saesen to ride in public.
The only thing Jon could figure was the rider must not have
wanted to be seen from the street. Jon retraced his steps to the
porch and entered the mill puzzled.
Master Warren was talking to a man who sat with his back
toward the door. Both men stopped talking when Jon came in.
Warren’s face for an instant assumed the look Jon had seen so
many times over the years, like Warren had been caught doing
something he shouldn’t, and then his expression became a too
friendly smile. Warren waved to Jon and told him he needed to
shift twenty grain sacks over to the hopper right away. For some
reason Jon’s unexpected appearance had agitated Warren. He
recalled the time he discovered that Warren had sent an entire
wagon load of short-weighted meal down to South March.
Ralph Warren became too nice as a cover for when he said one
thing and did another. The other man observed Jon as calmly
and detached as if he were watching a bug on a wall then turned
his attention back to Master Warren.
Jon acknowledged Warren’s order and went into the mill
proper to see that everything was as he’d left it. The mill had
been shut down for the better part of a week; nothing had been
touched. Twenty grain sacks were far too much wheat to be
ground that time of the year. They already had a large supply of
flour and meal on hand. Jon failed to see the sense in grinding
so much grain all at once. Who would buy it? But grinding
grain was what he was paid to do. Jon took his apron from the
wooden peg where it hung and tied it around his waist. He went
out the water door and opened the sluice gate for the water
wheel. The force of the water set the great wooden wheel
groaning and complaining. Jon began shifting the fifty weight
grain sacks into the mill room and dumped them one at a time
into the upper box as if he had never left the mill.

The stranger leaned over to Ralph Warren. “You are sure

you can deliver enough flour and meal? I need it consistently,”
he emphasized in an accented voice. “That’s what we’re paying
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you for.”
Sweat ran out of Ralph Warren’s hair and down across the
sides of his forehead which he dabbed with a large handkerchief
trying to focus on what the foreigner was saying. He was
having second thoughts about the agreement he’d made several
months ago. But all that was forgotten as the man pulled a
money sack from his belt and scattered the strange silver coins
across the desk. Warrens’ eyes lit up. The prospect of
becoming one of the wealthiest men in Saeland took away the
sting of any inconvenience.
Warren had been down in Wimbourne visiting his brother
over a year ago when a man by the name of Waleran Mowbray
knocked at his brother’s door inquiring after Ralph Warren, the
miller. Mowbray was of medium height, with red-blonde hair
that was thinning rapidly on top. He was otherwise
unremarkable except for his eyes. They were a light grey with
blue edges. The effect was not unlike looking at the eye of a
day old fish at market, cold, emotionless, even pitiless in his
case.
“I’d like a word with you, if you have the time, Warren,” he
said, after introducing himself. “I have a proposal to benefit
both of us.”
Warren had almost refused, the man was unknown to him
and had an abrasive way of speaking that irked him, but then
Warren thought, “What could it hurt? Talk doesn’t cost much.”
After a few minutes of conversation, Mowbray explained a plan
he had for making substantial amount money and wanted to
know if Warren was interested.
“The venture is not without some risk,” Mowbray added.
“But you will find that other like-minded men of standing here
in South March have already committed themselves.”
“What is it you want me to do?” asked Warren.
“All I want right now is for you to stand ready to deliver
flour and meal to Selwyn for transport north into Norheim for
which you will be paid more than its value in silver.”
The proposal seemed straightforward enough to the miller.
“That’s what I do for a living. I can grind as much flour and
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meal as you could wish for. And you’re sending it up into
Norsk lands?”
Mowbray’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Just get the flour and
meal, what happens to it, doesn’t concern you.”
Warren didn’t particularly like Mowbray’s tone, but many
more slights could be tolerated for the amount of silver he’d
been promised. “Of course, of course, as you say,” soothed the
miller. Mowbray explained what he wanted and Warren
explained what it would take to provide the amounts Mowbray
was asking for. In the end they agreed it could be done
satisfactorily. Mowbray changed the subject.
“How do you feel about the Earl and the Council over at
Camber?” Mowbray demanded.
“I’m not interested in what goes on over there,” Warren said
dismissively. “I have a mill to run.”
“With a little help from those who want to change the order
of things around here, I intend to force the Council to reduce the
tax levies laid on towns and commerce in Saeland. Right-
thinking merchants like yourself are being cheated out of hard-
earned money by the Earl and the Council. If we can find a way
to take the Earl down a notch or two, and perhaps reduce the
taxes you have to pay, wouldn’t you be interested?” Without
waiting for a response, Mowbray continued. “The men and
women who work together to oust the Earl and his cronies stand
to gain the most from such an arrangement.”
The thought of so much gleaming silver filling his strong
box was tempting beyond endurance. But there was something
in Mowbray’s tone or manner which hinted that he was holding
something back. Being a friend to a man like Mowbray could
prove very useful, but Warren was astute enough to recognize
potential trouble when he saw it.
Cautious at first, Warren became convinced that he would
come out ahead by going along with Mowbray’s plan, at least as
far as the grain shipments were concerned. “All right,” Warren
agreed. “I’ll help you.”
“It’s not such a great thing I’m asking you to do,” Mowbray
assured him with a practiced, honeyed voice. “We just need to
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make sure that flour and meal gets delivered to Selwyn when
it’s needed. I’ll see you are paid double its current value in
solid silver. Things are going to happen around here, and if you
want a share in the spoils, keep your eyes and ears open for
anything that might indicate that the Earl or Giffard have come
to hear of our little arrangement, you send word to me right
away.” Mowbray’s cold eyes transfixed Warren. Warren
wavered briefly, then threw his suspicions aside and nodded.
“Perhaps you can assist us in other ways in the future, but
the flour and meal for now are enough. I will send word when it
will be needed. Keep an eye out for others who could be of
service in our little venture.”
“I may send someone to see you soon; watch for a Norman
named Ibsen. In time we may be able to provide you with a
chance to step up in the world.”
The name Ibsen set something niggling at Warren’s mind.
He remembered another Norman named Ibsen. Came knocking
on the door late at night, asking about Dean Ellis a few years
ago. Could that be the same man? Probably not, he dismissed
the thought, Norsk names all sounded the same anyway.
Mowbray’s broad hints sounded harmless enough, distant
enough at the time to chase away any doubt Warren may have
had initially. He had not heard from Mowbray in the intervening
months. Frankly, he had nearly forgotten about Mowbray until
just after dinner Knud Ibsen, looking immeasurably older and
flint hard, stepped through the mill door and fixed Warren with
an emotionless, calculating stare that froze the miller where
stood, as if he gazed upon some poisonous reptile.
“Mowbray sent me,” the man growled in heavily accented
Saesen. “I will speak with you about the agreement you made
with Mowbray.” Warren checked first to see that no one was
coming toward the mill. He didn’t want his inquisitive wife or
neighbors to inquire into this affair. Once inside, the man
introduced himself as Knud Ibsen as if he had never been in
Redding before. Ibsen explained that the time had come to
deliver on his promise of five wagon of flour and meal to be
carted over to Selwyn every week. The wagons were to arrive in
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Selwyn in time for a boat to be loaded at the end of each week.
Warren’s stomach lurched; he wasn’t sure how he would get so
much meal and flour ground. Jon would have to work longer
hours; that was certain; maybe hire extra help. Locating the
grain shouldn’t be too hard. The other part of what the Norman
demanded; Warren wasn’t too keen on.
“I am told you have a militia here in Saeland,” said the
foreigner easily.
“We call it the Guard,” offered Warren. “But it isn’t
organized around here, mostly up nearer the borders.”
The stranger gazed at him unblinking. “That is good.
Having them here might complicate things for us. You will
listen for information about this Guard, as you call it. We want
to know if you hear anything about movements of men ordered
from Camber. Send a message with the grain shipment. We
must also dissuade anyone from paying too much attention to
our affairs and worrying your neighbors.” He pulled a second
bag of coins from his belt. “This is to buy your silence, and
anyone else you think can aid us. Most people are glad of a
little extra silver from time to time. They can be encouraged?”
Warren’s eyes grew large as the coins rustled inside the bag as
he hefted the weight of it, and he caught the cynical sneer on the
lips of the Norman across the table.
Warren was already thinking about Anson Gessing, the
Thane of Redding. Anson sat in on most Council sessions, of
which Warren was a leading member. Others might be
interested in changing the way things were run in Saeland, for a
price. The outlander left the mill and disappeared on his horse.
Warren felt a weight lifted from his shoulders when the
foreigner rode past the window. One part of the conversation
set him on edge.
“The boy,” queried the foreigner jerking his head in the
direction of the mill room.
“What of him? He’s worked for me for years now,” Warren
explained. “A good boy he is; no trouble there.”
“He can be trusted?” the stranger’s eyes narrowed.
“He’s got a strong back, but he’s not that bright,” Warren
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chuckled. “Worked all that time for half of what I’d pay anyone
else.”
Ibsen’s eyebrows knotted as if he was trying to remember
something.
“You say his name is Ellis?
“Warren nodded, his curiosity piqued. “Why, do you know
him?”
“There are perhaps many by that name in this town?”
“Not any more, just Dean, er… well that was Jon’s dad, he
died in a quarry accident five years ago.”
The look of consternation was unmistakable on the
Norman’s face. “But Mowbray, he said…”, then realizing he
was thinking out loud, Ibsen stopped mid sentence, his
imperturbable mask back firmly in place.
“I leave now,” the man declared abruptly. “We expect
delivery at Selwyn each week. Do not fail us,” in a tone that
was at once an order and a threat.
“No, no... I won’t,” promised Warren, a shudder ran up his
spine involuntarily. Without another word Ibsen strode out,
untied his horse, and rode up River Street without a backward
glance.
Warren gazed out the window, a sense of foreboding
gnawed at his gut, and he wished that he had never heard the
name Waleran Mowbray and cursed himself for agreeing to this
damnable business in the first place.
After Jon had hefted the tenth or eleventh sack, Ralph
Warren came in positively grinning and rubbing his hands.
“Jon, I have some good news. I’ve been waiting for you to
get back, there’s a lot to do.” Jon dashed the sweat from his
forehead and raised his eyebrows waiting for an explanation.
“You won’t believe your ears when you hear what I’ve
done.” Without stopping, Jon dropped the heavy wheat sack in
a puff of grain dust and bent to fetch another.
“You saw the man outside; he wants to buy wagon loads of
flour and meal every week. I’ve never had an order like that.
He wants five wagon loads of flour and meal sent over to
Selwyn and loaded on a boat by the end of the week.” Jon could
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hardly believe his ears. Before that, a large order might be a
single load of flour delivered somewhere a few times a year.
Warren’s eyes fairly danced with excitement.
“He wasn’t a Norman was he?” asked Jon.
“Come to think of it, he probably was, the boats are going
upstream. I guess you must be right. Imagine it,” he murmured,
“Normen down here to have flour ground. Five wagons a week!
Must be all that trouble we’ve been hearing about.” He left the
mill room already stacking the pennies in his head.
Jon made sure the grain hopper was full and flour continued
to filter down into the flour box beneath the millstones.
Endless hours of filling the hopper and emptying the flour box
into gunnysacks had given Jon plenty of time to think. His mind
kept coming back to one question, who in the world could need
five wagon loads of grain ground a week! Surely the Normen
had their own mills.
After a long hot afternoon, Jon cleaned up at the usual
closing time. Warren came in and scolded him for quitting too
soon.
“We’ve an order to fill, and we can’t stop now, we ought to
grind another dozen sacks before you go home to supper. Don’t
you stop!”
For an hour and a half Jon kept at it, angry at Warren’s
imperious tone, and the implication that Warren was doing
something to help. Jon told himself it was foolish to think
Warren would start working again; he had not lifted a finger to
help except when he was short weighting flour sacks. Jon
stomped home hungry and fuming, trying to talk himself out of
being frustrated.
Jon was weary, but as soon as he saw the garden in full
weed riot, he realized that if he wanted to see his mother and
Granny for Mid-Summers Day, Lythe Day in the old reckoning,
he would have to get the garden weeded or lose complete
control of it. It could mean a hungry winter, if he wasn’t more
careful. Jon fixed himself a quick supper, and until it was too
dark to see any longer, Jon worked carefully through the garden
taking out his frustrations. After the rain it was easy to work the
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soil, but the humidity and late day heat had him sweating
profusely. He straightened his aching back and tramped through
the piles of weeds he had thrown out onto the garden paths. He
worked each rectangular plot pulling or digging the weeds and
thinning the vegetables where it was needed. He had been
careful to pull every bindweed plant he could and threw them on
the rubbish pile with all the purslane and any other weedy
invaders that spread from the bits of stem if left in the garden.
Jon loved working the rich dark brown soil. He could never
think of gardening without smelling his father’s pipe and
hearing his calm advice. Jon’s father had been accounted a fine
gardener in a land of gardeners. He and Jon had shared the love
of the holding together. He felt good to be working in it again
and as the sun moved to set he had worked out his anger, and his
thoughts turned to the events of the past few days which were
already shaping his near future in new directions; he surprised
himself to hear that he was humming and whistling all the way
into the house.
The next morning when Jon arrived at the mill, he was
surprised to hear the sound of the mill wheel sloshing and the
steady growl of the millstones. He opened the door and peered
into the mill room. Ralph Warren was watching the stones
turning and hadn’t heard Jon come in. He hadn’t seen Master
Warren do any millwork for more than two years. Something
was up.
“Good morning, Master Warren,” Jon said loudly.
“Jon,” he grinned. “Morning, Jon, glad you’re early.
Surprised to see me in here are you?” Warren asked.
“Er… Yes, sir,” Jon replied. “What’s going on?”
“I thought I’d get a head start on that five wagon loads of
flour due next week.”
Who’s it all for anyway?” Jon asked.
Warren hesitated, trying to decide how much information to
give away.
“Someone over at Selwyn.”
Jon shrugged. Selwyn was sixty leagues away and that
meant a lot of cartage. What worried him even more was the
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time it would take to grind that amount of wheat. Warren had
already stacked six sacks of flour against the wall of the mill
room. Something told Jon his back would be sore before the day
was out.
“I’m not used to that lifting any more, I can tell you, Jon.
I’m off for breakfast at home, I’ll leave you to it,” Warren
concluded.
Jon tied on his apron and went out the water door to check
the millrace to be sure nothing would lodge against the great
wooden wheel and jam it. He pulled the long handled rake he
had made to remove any river debris from the clear water
running towards the mill wheel. Jon spent the entire day
dumping bag after bag of wheat into the hopper and listening to
the grinding of the great grooved millstones against one another,
then shaking the four into clean sacks and tying them off once
the scale tipped fifty weight.
By dinner time his shirt was sweat-stained and gritty, so he
went for a swim in the river to cool off, part of Jon’s
summertime routine. After dinner as Jon filled the flour sacks,
he realized that Warren had done something to the scale again to
make it appear that the sacks were a full five bar weight of flour,
but Jon knew they were not. Warren sold underweight sacks of
flour so often Jon didn’t even get angry any more. Warren
cheated his customers regularly, not a lot, but Jon guessed two
or three small weights a bag. So as he had done many times
before, he added flour to each bag so that it more nearly
matched the agreed upon weight. Running the mill was fairly
easy enough, but Jon was curious how long it would take to
grind five wagon loads of grain. He didn’t know how long the
contract would last, there would be more than enough work for
sure, enough to keep a house with Meg. Those thoughts
continued swirl around in Jon’s head all day. He surveyed the
stack of thirty flour bags leaning against the wall in the storage
part of the mill and realized it was only a little more than one
wagon load. Warren came back to check on how much flour
Jon had ground before noon and frowned and shook his head
while counting to himself on his fingers. Jon was tired and hot,
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dusted from crown to foot in flour. A day like that was as busy
as ever the mill got, and the prospect of doing that from dawn
until dusk every day put Jon in a foul mood. Just as Jon was
thinking it was time to quit, Warren returned and counted the
bags. Still frowning he turned to Jon.
“I am afraid your regular hours aren’t going to be enough to
grind the flour I’ve got to have for Selwyn, Jon. I’d like you to
stay a while longer. I figure we’ll need twenty to thirty bags a
wagon load and we’ll have to do that every day. When folks
around here start coming to have their own grain ground this
fall, we’ll have to keep the mill going all week. I’ll have to see
how long it takes, and I’ll pay you a little extra for your time.
Just wish I could get the wheel to go faster. I’m off,” he
explained, “errands to run. I’ll stop back by later and lock up,”
he tossed over his shoulder as he went out the door.
Jon was livid, to grind as much as Warren wanted would
take easily another two and half or three hours. Jon had been on
the receiving end of Warren’s “little bit extra” before and
always felt he’d gotten the bad end of a bargain. His back ached
and his shoulders were sore from hauling grain around. When
he shoved the gate into the millrace and slammed the door on
his way out of the mill; it was nearly dark.
Even after his walk home, Jon was angry. How could the
mill produce a hundred or more bags of flour for Selwyn a week
and enough for people from the area around Redding, too? He
went straight out the back door and threw off his tunic, stood
next to the water barrel and poured a bucket full of cool water
over his head. If he had it figured out correctly, the mill would
have to run every day, all day to keep up with the demand.
They’d never be able to grind grain fast enough to take care of
people around Redding and fill the Norsk contract. Jon had been
feeling all year that it was time for a change, and he was fed up
with Warren. The prospect Warren had hinted at that afternoon
of endless drudgery at the mill had brought Jon closer than ever
to telling Warren what he really thought. His level-headed
nature tried to counter his grousing with the idea that a steady
income could be had from it all. He’d be able to support Meg
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well with the hours he’d spend at the mill.
After supper Jon planned to restore the garden to its proper
state for mid summer and use up his pent up anger. Instead he
ate a poor supper and dropped onto his pallet. Warren had
commanded an early start the next morning.
On his way to the mill the next morning, far too early in
Jon’s opinion, Edmund Candle, one of Jon’s neighbors, called
him over to his front gate.
“Hey, Jon, are you going over to Camber for Mid-Summer
Fair?”
“Yes, sir,” Jon responded smiling. “Wouldn’t want to miss
the fair, and I haven’t been over to see Mother for over a month.
She had someone write this week reminding me of that fact.”
“I thought you might be heading over that way,” Candle said.
“I am going to visit my sister who lives just east of Camber. If
you’d like a ride, I’d welcome the company.”
“Yes, please,” Jon said.”
“Then that’s set. I’ll stop by after breakfast?”
“That’ll save me a long walk, Master Candle, thank you.”
Jon waved and continued his on his way to the mill.
Candle watched Jon continue down the street thinking that
Dean Ellis would have been proud of his boy if he had lived to
see Jon grown.
Jon got to the porch of the mill and found the door already
open again.
“Master Warren?” he called out.
“Ah, Jon,” came Warren’s voice from the mill room, “I’m in
here.”
Jon could hear that Warren had already lifted the sluice gate
and set the mill wheel splashing.
Warren’s eager face and animated state showed that he’d
done something of which he was very proud. Jon waited
irritably.
“Come back here,” Warren ordered. “I’ve got something I
need to talk to you about.”
Jon trailed warily after Warren. Ralph Warren’s great ideas
usually required more work and little extra pay, almost always
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some task that he thought Jon could do while he waited for the
millstones to work on the wheat.
“I spent all of last night figuring what we’ll need to do to fill
that new order. If yesterday was any measure, then we’ll have
to keep the mill going longer hours. We have plenty of daylight
this time of year, so you’ll have to start earlier and work later.
You’ll be making so much money; you won’t know where to
spend it all!” He didn’t even glance at Jon. Even as the miller
spoke, all Jon’s rage from the previous afternoon returned.
Every time Warren said we, he really meant Jon. Yesterday’s
early start was the first time Jon had seen Warren lift a finger to
help in two years.
“I figure it will take us most of the week to grind the order
for Selwyn. We can grind what folks around here bring in
between the big order. While the day’s grinding is being done,
you can load the wagons. I’ll have to find someone who’ll drive
them the three days over to Selwyn and back.” As Warren
babbled on about his plan, it began to sink in that Jon would be
penned up in the mill working at the same backbreaking job
everyday of the week from morning till night. At least until
now, he was sent out occasionally to pick up and deliver. Now a
carter was to be hired, and it was the only part of Jon’s job he
really enjoyed.
Warren had begun to count up the profits to be made, and
Jon grew angrier. The profits were good for Warren; Jon had
not had a raise in his pay since he began working for the miller,
but had let it slide, because he didn’t worry about it, he had what
he needed. But now there was Meg and a household to
consider.
“Master Warren, I don’t want to work every day like that,”
Jon finally interrupted.
“What do you mean, Jon? I thought you’d be pleased to
have more work.”
“More work is all right, but I’d be getting up before sunup
and home after sundown every day!”
“Sure it will mean a few more hours, but once we get in to
the routine of it all, you’ll settle in, I’m sure. Maybe it will be
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difficult at first, but you are young, and you’ll get used to it.
Think of the money you’d make. Your father would be proud
I’m sure.”
Jon hated it when people, especially Ralph Warren, used his
father’s memory to persuade him to do something; his mother’s
favorite ploy.
“I’m just saying it looks like too many hours in here. Why
don’t you hire someone else to help, we could divide out the
time you’ll need someone here working the mill and …”
“I’m already hiring drivers. No, no, Jon, You’ll do well
enough. The plan will work, I know it will.”
Jon knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue with Warren.
He just shrugged.
“Trust me, Jon, it will work out.”
Jon bit his lip and willed himself to be still to keep from
shouting at Warren. He turned away seething. Maybe he’d work
through the summer, but he vowed he’d find something else by
fall. Jon spent the morning hefting grain sacks and emptying
them into the hopper endlessly, mindlessly repetitive. Each
flour sack had to be tied off and loaded onto Warren’s empty
wagon, then unloaded and stacked against the wall. The
millwheel jammed on a tree branch that had worked its way
down the millrace. Jon spent half an hour putting in the head
gate, waiting for the pressure against the millwheel to slacken so
he could pry it back and remove the debris and start the wheel
again. The only good thing about that was jumping into the
river to cool off. Warren happened to stop in just as Jon had
stomped the head gate down. Red-faced and shouting he yelled
at the top of his lungs.
“What did you stop the wheel for? There’s grain to be
ground. What are you playing at?”
“Master Warren,” Jon began, “the mill wheel jammed tight.
I had to…”
“I don’t want to hear it, Jon. Your job is to grind that grain,
if you were doing your job, you’d be checking the millrace more
often. You spend half your time daydreaming. Wake up, boy,
there’s work to be done!” He spun on his heel and stalked out,
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leaving Jon gaping open-mouthed unable to think of an answer
fast enough, though plenty came into mind afterward. Jon was
so furious that he spent the rest of the morning hurling things
and cursing everything related to Ralph Warren.
Jon stomped home for dinner and more garden work,
leaving the millstones going at full speed. When he returned, he
found the door standing open and Master Warren, barely able to
contain his rage. Jon knew the signs. It was going to be a very
long afternoon.
The instant Warren noticed Jon at the door, he bellowed.
“Jon, get in here!”
Jon had seen Ralph Warren angry on countless occasions, it
was a permanent state of being for him, but never had he been
so angry with Jon.
“What is it?” asked Jon thinking the mill wheel had jammed
again or the millstone had cracked while he was eating his
dinner. But as he came farther into the mill room he saw
Warren lightly dusted in flour with five or six of the sacks
Garret had already filled sitting around the scale.
Jon’s stomach twisted in knots. He guessed what would
follow.
“Jon, I just reweighed these sacks to give me an idea about
how we were doing. And what do you suppose I found?”
Jon held his tongue, but it took tremendous effort. He
waited for Warren to finish.
“These sacks weigh more than five bar weights. Why aren’t
you using the scale?”
“Because the scale’s been tampered with,” Jon answered
coolly.
“What?” shouted Warren spittle flying out of his mouth in all
directions.
“Who says it’s been tampered with?”
“I do, Master Warren, Everybody does. Half of Saeland
knows you short weigh if given half a chance. I won’t do it for
you; I haven’t been doing it for you for years.”
“What do you mean?” Warren shouted, heaving his bulky
frame closer to Jon.
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 “That should be obvious; I just replace the missing flour or
meal.”
“You what? How dare you!” Warren screeched an octave
above his speaking voice. “How dare you!”
“It’s true, Master Warren, and you know it. And I won’t go
along with it. I’m the one that’d be blamed for it, I do the
weighing around here, and I do the carrying and stacking and
everything else. You sit on your fat ass and watch me work my
fingers raw and then hand me the same wage I earned when I
started. I won’t help you cheat good folks around here, Master
Warren.”
Now that it was out, the coldness of the rage in his own
voice surprised even Jon. Normally unable to speak coherently
when he was angry, the thoughts in his head flew so fast than
his tongue couldn’t catch them.
Warren drew closer, his sagging jowls just inches from Jon’s
face.
“Don’t forget who you are talking to, young man, I gave you
a job when your father died, and you were glad for it. Is this
how I am repaid? Accused of being a cheat in my own mill?
Who do you think you are?”
Garret drew himself up straight.
“I’m the son of Dean Ellis, and I’ll not be a cheat for you or
any man, Master Warren. I’m not going to go along with that
work plan of yours either.”
Warren drew even closer, menacing, “I won’t stand here and
be insulted in my own mill by a shiftless ingrate like you. If
that’s how you feel then get out! Get out!” So forcefully did he
scream that flecks of spit sprayed into Jon’s face.
Jon drew back, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and
looked Warren in the eye, exercising extraordinary control. Jon
said nothing, just clenched and unclenched his hands wanting to
hit that fat face just once, just one time. But he did not, though
he was sorely tempted. Instead he shouldered his way past the
miller threw the apron to the flagstone floor and emerged into
the hot summer sunshine angry and smarting from the shouting
match, but absolutely convinced that he had done the right
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thing.
Jon slammed the door to his house so hard plaster dust and
bits of thatch rained onto the floor. He hurled off his tunic,
threw on a pair of summer trews, and strode out into the garden
looking for something savage to do. He picked up his father’s
ax and after shouting a warning to the land wight, began hacked
away at a stump left from a winter-killed pear tree he’d never
gotten around to taking down. Chips and blocklets of wood
exploded from the stump as he worked himself until his
shoulders ached, and gradually transformed his fury in to a
successful attack on the stump. Sweat dripped from his hair and
down into his eyes, until the stump lay hewn down, and Jon was
calmer. He dumped another bucket of water over his head to
cool off and then another. The rest of the afternoon he threw
himself into work about his small holding, hewing the soil;
venting his frustration and pent up anger on hapless weeds. He
surprised himself after hours of work how much had been
accomplished. Once the anger had drained away, he even
smiled to himself. He’d done it; he’d really done it. He’d quit
the mill as he’d so often thought about doing. The doubts came
later. Apricots by the basket waited to be picked to take to his
mother and Granny Stalling in Camber the next morning. Then
as an after thought, he picked another basket for Master Candle.
By the time dinner time came around, Jon had begun to see that
quitting the mill, if anything, opened up his options; he liked
thinking about those.
After supper Jon didn’t feel like spending the evening by
himself; he needed to talk to someone. But as he went around to
visit his friends or kinsmen, he found that not one of them was
home. They had all gone off visiting for Mid-Summer. He
ended his outing at the Quarry Alehouse with a drink of very
fine ale. He joined a group of men and older boys who made
room for him on the hearth benches.
“As I was sayin’,” continued a man whose face Jon
recognized, but whose name escaped him. “My brother-in-
law’s over Selwyn way and has been talking to a couple of
boatmen from up in Norheim. Guess there’s been a real set to
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up there. Hundreds of foreign raiders swooped down on
villages and towns burning and killing. Scared half the country
to death. People kilt dead in their fields.”
Eyes in the room grew wider at the telling and questions
flew back and forth.
Another had heard the 'Lani' or some such outlandish named
folk had taken hundreds of slaves and killed anyone they
couldn’t sell off. Others shook their heads in disbelief.
“Sounds like stories told to scare bad children to me,”
groused one elderly Reddingite, wreathed in smoke.
“I report to Thane Giffard in Camber tomorrow,” Jon said.
“The Guard’s going to be called up and sent to the northern
borders.”
Every eye turned to Jon as if he had suddenly sprouted two
heads.
“What?” laughed one of the men.
“Well, out with it, man,” cried another. “What’s going on?”
“Just what you’ve been talking about,” replied Jon. “I was
up above Ribble last week and met several Norsk soldiers on the
border. They were called away the day I came home because of
the attacks you’ve just told us about. The Normen sent word to
Camber about the threat of attack. I carried the message back
myself.” The room was silent except for the murmur of low
conversation at tables on the other side of the darkened common
room.
Jon answered a flurry of questions, and he could tell there
were still doubters in the crowd, and several men wondered
aloud why the Guard wasn’t organized in Redding.
“I don’t honestly know,” responded Jon. “I just assumed it
was because there was no call for it. But now it seems, the
situation has changed.” More heads were nodding. He’d given
them something to talk about for a day or two, that was for sure.
Upon his return home he sat down and started a letter to
Meg when he heard a knock at the door. When he opened it, he
wished he hadn’t. Ralph Warren stood there looking slightly
embarrassed, apologetic, and hopeful all at the same time; it
wasn’t a good combination.
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 “Jon, I wonder if I might come in; I won’t take long.”
Jon motioned him in with a jerk of his head. Not sure he
could speak civilly to him just yet.
“I am sorry for what happened down at the mill this
afternoon; I didn’t mean anything I said. I was just…” he
paused, “just surprised by what I’d found. I hope you won’t let
a little disagreement come between us, will you? I’ve enjoyed
your company down there Jon, honestly I have. I’d hate to lose
you over such a silly thing. Won’t you reconsider? I don’t know
how I’ll ever get anyone to fill your place. I know we can work
this out, if you will give it a chance.”
Jon was so astonished by what he was hearing that he found
himself starting to say the appropriate things to make Warren
happy. For once he realized just in time it was just plain wrong.
Jon stopped himself and took a deep breath.
“I need to think things over and talk with my mother over in
Camber. I’m going there for the next couple of days. I’ll come
and talk to you about my decision after I get back to Redding.”
“But I was hoping you’d consider coming to work
tomorrow, Jon. If we take two days off, we’ll never catch up
this week.”
“Sorry, Master Warren, I’ve promised to visit for the holiday,
and I can’t disappoint her. As I said, I’ll talk it over and let you
know when I get back.”
He could tell he’d disappointed the miller, but that would
have to be too bad. It was as far as Jon was willing to go just
then.
“I can’t ask better than that, Jon,” Warren admitted, with a
face that had turned sour. “Come and see me as soon as you get
back, that’s a huge order and the sacks won’t fill themselves.
But in light of our long association I’m hoping you’ll come back
to work after the holiday. I’ll raise your pay, if that what this is
all about.”
Jon stood tight-lipped and said nothing.
“I’ll be off then,” said Warren, “Flora will have dinner
ready.” Jon closed the door after him resisting the impulse to
slam it again.
113
4
Camber

Early on Marketday Edmund Candle stopped his cart in

front of Jon’s place. They loaded Jon’s baskets of apricots and
pack. Edmund was pleased with his share of the fruit, and they
talked about the usual things: weather, gardens, the comings,
goings, and doings of various friends and relations. The time
passed pleasantly and by late afternoon they came to the
outskirts of Camber. Without question it was the largest town in
Saeland, and its erstwhile capital if there was such a thing for a
country of quiet farmers, who for the most part mind their own
business. Most of Jon’s neighbors, however, didn’t mind
minding their neighbor’s business too, on occasion, if the truth
were known. Saeland proper was the central part of the country
where the majority of the first settlers had tamed the forest and
farmed the land. The Earl of Saeland ruled Saeland, the
Marches, and the Dales. The Great Glen had been more recently
settled and was considered part of East March for the time
being.
Over time, the people of Saeland had spread far enough
apart that the surrounding lands had been divided into four
‘marches’ and the Dales each with its own council. Members of
those councils were part of the larger Saeland Council which
met at Camber each summer with the Earl to discuss and
propose laws and direct the work of the few council officials,
namely the Reeves, the Thane of the Guard, and the Court. Each
‘march’ was divided into several ‘hundreds’. A ‘hundred’
consisted of a town or village and the farm land, marsh, and
forest adjacent to it, though as the towns grew so did the amount
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of land in each hundred. The men and boys who lived in each
hundred were, in times past, the backbone of the Guard which
could be called out at moment’s notice. ‘Hundreds’ were
divided into relatively narrow ‘hythes’ or small land holdings
that were enough to feed a man and his family. The earliest
hythes ran from forest to stream so as to provide access to
woodland, farmland, pasture, and stream. But over the centuries
the hythes had been broken up, so that in Jon’s farm ran in a
narrow strip from the forest to the Camber Road.
To the west of Saeland, were the Dales, a series of deep
isolated valleys separated by high stony fells and rough
plateaus. Beyond them rose a series of ever-taller ridges and
mountains, little visited except for an occasional hunter.
East March straddled the Selwyn River whose deep, wide,
unbridged waters had protected Saeland from outsiders. A few
intrepid Saesen settlers had moved east across the river seeking
wider lands and over the years had built a scattering of villages
across the river. Many who lived on the river made part of their
living by water transport between the East March and South
March, a few going north as far as the Norsk towns on occasion.
This side of the Selwyn lay the Great Glen with villages strung
along the River Tarrant like beads on a necklace. After its
narrowest raging passage through the Gates, the Selwyn slowed
and meandered for a hundred leagues to embrace the sea with its
many arms.
South March was known for its fine farms that could grow
anything that was planted there according to those who know
about such things. South March also faced the sea and people
were as likely to take a boat where they wanted to go, as they
were to hitch up the wagon. Wide fields and orderly farms
spread out over the rolling hills like a gigantic patchwork quilt.
Cattle lazed in the common meadows, and on the higher hills fat
flocks of sheep grazed head down in the grass.
Jon’s own Saeland was the most heavily populated part of
the earldom. Large towns and many villages spread among the
wide plains and fertile hillsides. Saeland was becoming so
crowded that many younger sons, who were looking to start a
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family, were forced to look to the villages of the north or west
where there was room to grow.
North March was wholly unlike the other parts of Saeland.
Hilly and forested, sparsely populated and backward according
to people in Saeland, wild forests and a series of deep glens on
the east where Saesen scratched out a hard living from the rocky
soil made it a least visited part of Saeland.
For the most part the Saesen, as they called themselves,
were a happy, contented lot, industrious and generous to friends
and strangers. Trusting people they were, ‘not a locked door in
the village’ was a common description given to places where
mischief was rare. Their lives revolved around family, food,
and work, and they felt they had enough. Education was not
especially valued among them. A few children were tutored
long enough to become adequate readers and writers, and able to
do sums, and that was about as much formal education as
anyone needed. The learning of a useful craft, trade, or skill, on
the other hand, was the highest mark of an educated man or
woman. Jon’s neighbors and kinsmen were almost all
gardeners or farmers to some extent because they grew most of
the food they ate and sold the excess to buy things they needed
or wanted. Most families earned a few pennies a month by
selling something they produced at home in the long winter
evenings or longer summer afternoons.
The currency for the earldom was the silver penny minted in
Camber and used throughout Saeland. For items costing less
than a penny, the Saesen used bits, which at one time were
pennies cloven into eight pieces. In Jon’s day bits had become
small stamped beads of silver. Prices were generally negotiated
between neighbors or shopkeepers. All in all it was a quiet sort
of place to live happily and well.
Farmsteads and fields of rye, barley, wheat and oats
alternating with fallow pasture land stretched out in all
directions at least five leagues from Camber, a green, fertile, and
very tame landscape. While Redding had a couple hundred
houses or so, nearly four hundred stone and half-timbered
houses lined the streets and byways of Camber. Redding Road
116
led across narrow lanes to a large open green at the foot of
Earl’s Hill.
Across the Camber River bridge the stood the Bailey. The
first wooden fortress had long since disappeared, replaced by
the only inhabited fort in Saeland. Its squat, severe stone
exterior, rough hewn and nearly windowless, overlooked the
town and served as the Earl’s residence. In times past the Bailey
had served as a protective fortress for the people of the fledgling
town. The residence and attendant buildings had been
constructed out of the local limestone, roughly in the shape of
an oval. It squatted on the crown of Earl’s Hill as a reminder of
less settled, more war-like times. The Bailey’s outer palisade
had been built of timber, but had long since been taken down
and reused in sensible fashion to build other buildings, so that
when Jon looked up at the Bailey, it was fortified only by a high
grass-grown berm behind a deep ditch where once the palisade
had stood
Harrow Road skirted the base of Earl’s Hill and wiggled its
way up to the top of Harrow Hill. On its nearly level summit,
overlooked only by the Bailey, stood the Great Harrow, the
single most imposing religious structure in Saeland. The central
shrine surrounded a small lake, a pond really, which like the
spring at Redding moved from time to time. The waters
bubbled almost continually from the bottom, but several times a
year the middle of the lake appeared to boil and steam. At such
times the sick and injured from all over Saeland rushed into the
lake or were carried by kinsmen or friends to be healed by the
mysterious waters. Around the lake massive stones had been
erected for the gods and were named for them, though no
Saesen ever raised such stones as those. Each had its altar on
which supplicants placed the favorite offerings the gods
demanded. Sacrifices were made there as well, especially in
Slaughtermonth in late autumn and at the solstices. From the
lake shore lines of standing stones ran toward each of the
cardinal directions. Most tilted one way or another, but the lines
were clear. At the end of each line stood a stone gateway, pairs
of stones raised to support massive lintels. It was said that the
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sun itself knew where to rise at Mid-summer by the set of those
ancient doors, their bases blackened by the blood of countless
sacrifices throughout the year. No iron was permitted there, no
steel, no weapon defiled that holy place. Such was its reputation
that visitors put off their boots and shoes and walked barefoot
through the unshorn grass. A row of low stone cells was located
near the entrance where seidwomen and augurs lived, making
their living from the gifts of those who came to worship there
and importune the gods for favor.
The market square at Camber was bounded on the north by
the old half-timbered Hall where the Earl and Council met. Next
to it was the Armory where Jon would report his encounter with
the Normen. A smaller east-facing stone building from the same
period as the Armory housed the Mint. There craftsmen
laboriously manufactured the silver pennies used throughout
Saeland. The rest of the square was fronted by the river and a
mixture of plastered stone houses or timber-frame buildings.
Jon’s arrival coincided with Camber’s famous Mid-Summer
Fair, which was well underway. The market square was filled
with row upon row of stalls, and booths and tables, each under a
colorful awning. Like bees to honey, people had come from all
over Saeland to buy, sell, and trade. Colored flags and banners
flew above the stalls, and the air filled with lengthy, civilized
bargaining between people young and old.
Jon’s neighbor turned the cart onto Stockwell Road leading
away from the square and stopped in front of a thatched cottage
much like Jon’s own in Redding. Jon jumped off the cart and
lifted his bag over the side and set it in front of the front gate of
Granny Stalling’s house. He slid one of the baskets of apricots
to the end of the cart and set them down beside of his
belongings.
“Thanks,” called Jon. “I appreciate the ride.”
“No trouble, Jon. When are you going back?”
“I’m not really sure, a couple of days anyway. Don’t worry
about me. I’m used to a good day’s hike.”
Edmund chuckled, “That you are, Jon. I’m off then. Have a
good holiday and say hello to your mother for me.” Edmund
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snapped the reins across the pony’s rump, waved to Jon and set
off own the road leading toward Lynch. Jon slung his bag on
one shoulder and the basket against his hip and maneuvered
through the rickety wooden gate, up the flagstone walkway and
set the basket down on the stone porch. Jon lifted the latch and
called into the house.
“Hallo, is anybody here?”
With a happy cry Jon’s mother charged from the inside dim
and threw her arms around her boy and pulled him into the
house looking him up and down critically.
“Thin as a willow, Gytha,” observed Granny from the hall
with a smile. “Come over here, boy, and let me look at you.”
Granny Stalling began tsking.
“You should either bring Jon to live with us or get back to
Redding, Gytha, the boy is starving, as plain as day to me,”
Granny criticized, with a partially toothed grin. She seemed
weaker than the last time he had been to visit just a couple of
months ago. Frail, but a sparkle in her eyes, and she clasped his
hand with a firm grip that belied her appearance as he leaned
down to plant a kiss on her cheek.
“Look what he’s brought, Mother,” Gytha said.
“Apricots?” Granny squinted at the overflowing orange
gold in the basket she held up. “That’s thoughtful of you, Jon,
but what will we ever do with all of them?”
“Now, Mother, you know we can always make preserves or
dry them.”
“A lot of work for two old women,” Granny muttered to Jon
with a wink.
Jon liked Granny Stalling, most people did. She made a
point of talking to him like an equal, which Jon had always
appreciated. She spoke her mind, and Jon always enjoyed the
disconcerting effect it had on people.
“Are you going over to the market?” Jon asked hopefully.
“Just been waiting for you to show up, Jon!” cried Granny.
Gytha Ellis looked perplexed, “Mother, just last night you
said…”
“Now, now, my dear, my handsome grandson and I are
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going to walk over to the market, are you going to mope around
here all afternoon or do you want to come with us?” she
scolded.
Gytha gave up with a laugh, and the three of them went out
the door, Granny Stalling leaning on her short black cane in the
middle, Gytha and Jon flanking her on either side.
Market days in Camber brought people from all over
Saeland. Not only was it Mid-Summer Market, but the Court
Sessions were in progress where disputes and court cases were
settled. As they made their way up into the square, Granny
steered them to the empty benches under the magnificent red
oaks in front of the Hall where they could watch the market with
trade goods of every sort and description. They enjoyed the
mix of smells from the flowers, fruit, vegetable stands each
beneath some sort of canopy to keep the sun from the
merchandise and cool their customers.
“You go on Jon,” Granny encouraged. “We’ll rest here in
the shade a little and then do a little marketing.” Jon took
advantage of the offer and wandered through the little lanes and
streets the vendors had made out of their stalls and carts
overloaded with items for sale. Several of the stall keepers he
knew by sight, and they called to him to come over and inspect
a bargain they had ‘selected just for him’. He obliged, politely
examined the merchandise and commented, but then moved on.
He enjoyed being part of the huge holiday crowd, but what he
had really come to the market for was to buy something for
Meg. He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to give her, but if
something caught his eye he would know it when he saw it.
Jon’s favorite stalls were the ones with odds and ends that
were brought from all over Saeland and sometimes even farther
away. He looked carefully through the trinkets for Meg’s
present, and felt a little daunted by the array, until at a rather
scruffy looking stall Jon finally saw something that caught his
eye among the piles of old jewelry on the table, a ring made of
fine worked silver around a scarlet-stained green stone that
immediately caught his interest. In an instant he had made up
his mind.
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 “What are you asking for the ring?” Jon asked politely.
“Now which one would that be young master?” asked the
unkempt vendor.
“That one, the green stone with the red in it,” Jon pointed.
“Ah,” sighed the seller, “a fine ring, bloodstone if I am not
mistaken. Very powerful, I’m sure. It has the sun’s own
blessing, and the blood of dragons colors the stone, I’m told”
He looked to the horizon thoughtfully. “I’m sure I couldn’t part
with it for anything less than ten silver pennies.”
“Ten seems too much to me,” countered Jon. “I might be
minded to offer three silver pennies for that fine used ring.”
“Three pennies is it? Hmmmm,” the vendor paused,
“seeing as how there aren’t more than a few folks come by my
stall today, and it’s getting over late, I might, just might, mind
you, be persuaded to lower my price to eight pennies.”
“A fair offer,” replied Jon, enjoying the bargaining.
“Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my appraisal; I might be convinced
to raise my offer to five pennies.”
“Five pennies is a better offer, but I couldn’t let it go for
anything less than seven pennies.”
“A most generous concession, sir,” said Jon contented. “I’d
be pleased to offer six pennies and four bits.” The man
appeared to be pained at the prospect of letting such a fine piece
go at such a low price.
“Six pennies and six bits and we have a deal?” the dealer
proposed.
Jon hesitated briefly as custom demanded, rubbing his jaw
as if reconsidering his too generous offer, but at last the deal
was struck. The trader lifted the ring from the table and handed
it to Jon with a smile as Jon handed over the money from his
belt purse. Jon felt a warm glow when he thought of the look on
Meg’s face when he’d give it to her on his next trip to Ribble.
He shoved it safely into his belt purse very pleased with himself.
He squinted into the sun looking to find his mother and
grandmother, who had left the bench and were were hidden by
the crowds, so he sat on the granite curbstone and watched the
people.
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 A drummer and a piper had struck up a lively dance tune
and many of the younger people and even a few older ones
joined in a ring dance or sat and clapped and cheered when a
wizened man at least in his seventies leaped higher than anyone
expected.
All around him the crowds talked and laughed while
hawkers called out the fine quality of their wares. Even better
than the day market was the night market lit by flickering stall
lamps. The night market at Camber drew more people than any
other single event of the entire year. Great bonfires would light
the night sky and people danced around them for hours, too bad
Meg wasn’t here to see it. He resolved that next year he would
bring her. He was absolutely sure there was nothing like that in
Ribble or indeed anywhere in Saeland to match it.
He was still thinking about that when he heard his name
called and saw none other than Thane Giffard marching toward
him. Jon stood up and greeted Giffard politely.
“How are you, Jon? Here to visit your mother? Good boy!”
His face was smiling. “I got the message from Arnegil. Mind if
I sit down?”
Jon could have hardly been more surprised if the Earl himself
had asked to sit down.
Thane Giffard sat down on the curb stone next to Jon.
“Good market today,” commented Giffard. “Look, Jon, I
don’t mean to interrupt your holiday, but I’ve got a few
questions. When exactly did you see Arnegil?”
“I was up north of Ribble earlier this week and met him and
another Norsk militia man named Erlend. He gave me that
message to give to you.” Jon held his breath with anticipation
because of the recommendation he knew it contained.
“Jon, I want you to come with me to meet Earl Osric.”
“The Earl!” he gasped, “What for?”
Thane Giffard smiled, “Now, don’t worry, Jon, Saeland’s
newest guardsman will have to get used to such meetings.”
Jon’s mouth hung open. “Yes, sir, of course, Thane Giffard.
I’ve left my mother and Granny on the other side of the square. I
need to tell them where I am so they don’t fret.”
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 “I’ll meet you inside the Hall shortly then.” Giffard marched
straight back towards the Hall. Jon started looking for his
mother and grandmother, hardly able to understand what had
just happened. After all his waiting and worrying about
becoming a guardsman, it was already done! It had been so
simple, he could hardly believe what the than had said. If it had
been respectable, he would have shouted for joy, but it wasn’t,
so he didn’t. His smile drew questioning glances from his
mother and Granny who had seen him from between the stalls
and stepped over to meet him.
“You seem pleased with yourself,” his mother observed.
“What happened?”
“I’ve just been talking with Thane Giffard. He has asked me
to meet the Earl.”
“The Earl! What have you done?”
“This probably is the worst time to tell you, but I’ve just
been made a guardsman. I suppose it has something to do with
that, but I have no idea why he wants me to meet with Osric,
though.” Gytha Ellis’ mouth fell open in shock, and Granny
clapped her hands.
“Good boy! What a grand thing for you. Now you run off,
you have things to do.” She shooed him on his way, while
Gytha could only sputter.
“But, but…” Jon had already jogged off in the direction of
the Hall.
“Don’t fret, Gytha,” Granny said, “let’s finish our marketing
if we’re going to. Jon will be along when he can and tell us all
about this.” Gytha took her arm, and they disappeared again into
the maze of stalls.

Jon entered the Hall hesitantly, unsure exactly where to go.

In front of him the summer court was in session. Twice a year
people from all over Saeland crowded into the Hall to petition
the court to settle disputes, assess fines for lawlessness not
covered by the local hundred courts. Several people turned to
see who had come through the door. He located the door to the
Council chamber to the left and moved around the press of
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litigants and on-lookers toward it. He could hear voices inside
and rapped his knuckles on the age-darkened oak. The voices
stopped abruptly, and the door opened onto a large meeting
room with several windows overlooking the square toward the
river.
“Come in, Jon,” said Thane Giffard and drew him by the arm
into the room. At an ornately carved wooden table sat Osric,
Earl of Saeland. He rose as Jon came into the room. “Sit down,
Jon. I understand you have quite a story to tell.”
Jon took a seat across the table from the Earl. Thane
Giffard sat beside him.
“Just tell the Earl what you were telling me,” Giffard
encouraged.
And Jon did, everything about his encounter with the
Normen. Arnegil’s letter lay open on the table.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard anything more, but word has it
in Redding that the Olani have crossed the river and attacked the
Norsk towns. Sounds bad.”
After a couple of questions to clarify fine points, the Earl and
the Thane of the Guard regarded each other.
“Jon, I want to confirm what Thane Giffard told you. You
are appointed guardsman. Thane Giffard will have the
necessary documents prepared for you and witnesses to sign
tomorrow. Do you accept the responsibility to protect Saeland,
its people, and ancient bounds from our enemies seen and
unseen?”
“Yes, sir,” Jon said with great feeling.
“Then I want you to know about the contents of the letter
from Arnegil. The Normen have for many years been more
helpful than we knew in guarding our northern boundaries. But
a threat has been growing on our northern neighbors that we
would not have been aware of otherwise. For many years
people have been moving this way out of the East, some
harmless passing wanderers, others less friendly. The Olani, as
the Normen call the raiders, have struck the southern part of
Osmark and across the river into Visberg, wherever that is.
They are moving west and may, if they keep going, come over
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the borders and down on us. This letter urges us to get men
moving north to the border to stop the Olani raiders if they come
so far.”
“Because of the holiday week, I am sending you on your first
assignment to deliver messages from myself and Thane Giffard
to the local Watch captains between here and Saxford. Jon, I
can hardly stress the importance of what you are about to do for
Saeland. We have no time for training, or to send for someone
else to do this. You have proved you have the making of a
Guardsman; now we want you to go as our messenger. Thane
Giffard will leave tomorrow for South March to turn out the
Guard. This has caught us by surprise; make no mistake. The
Normen on their side and the Guard on our side must buy us a
little time, but we must be at full strength on the border as soon
as we can.”
“There are a few things you ought to know. First, we do not
want everyone to go into a panic. We have a little time to get
the Guard up on the border. You are on you honor not to talk
about this matter except with other Guardsmen. Any questions
about that?”
“No, sir,” said Jon.
“Now I’m going to tell you something that few people
know, but you need to.” He cast a side glance at the Thane.
“We believe there is a group of our own people who are
planning some sort of trouble here to coincide with this news
from up north. What they intend to do, we do not know. We’ve
had several incidents that we suppose are designed to start
trouble down here. If they were to learn of your mission, they
would no doubt do whatever it takes to stop you. I tell you this
so that you know before you accept. Such a mission is
dangerous, not so much from any raiders, but because of a few
of our own people.” He paused, waiting for Jon’s reply.
“How soon do you want me to go?”
The Earl smiled and breathed sigh of relief. “Good, very
good, Jon. You sound like your grandfather, you know. How
long has it been since his funeral?”
“Two years ago next month, sir.”
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 “If you turn out to be half the man your grandfather was,
young Ellis, then you are a young men we shall follow with
great interest.”
Jon raised his eyes to Thane Giffard, who nodded approval
and agreement.
“When were you planning to leave for Redding?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. I was supposed to be at the mill on
Monday.” Thane Giffard and Garret exchanged a knowing
glance. “Is that at Warren’s mill?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we’d prefer that Ralph knew nothing about this,”
Earl Osric concluded. Jon opened his mouth but no sounds
came out. His life was accelerating into his future faster than he
had planned. He felt exhilarated beyond belief and nodded, and
yet in his gut uncertainty clutched at him.
“I want you to go with Thane Giffard over to the Armory so
he can help you understand how to do what needs to be done
and where you need to go, all the other details. Jon, I’ve known
your grandmother and grandfather Stalling all my life. You
come from good stock,” Osric said. “Your Grandfather would
be especially proud of you. Good luck!”
Jon followed Giffard out of the Hall and over to the Armory
into a large room with a long table and an mismatched benches.
Through the open window Jon could hear the crowds at the
market and the musicians playing cheerily, but in a few short
moments life for Jon had changed forever. Jon took in the
whole room which he been in several times before. On the far
wall was the detailed map of Saeland he’d always admired and
tried to improve upon.
“Sit down Jon and let me tell you about the Guard. You
probably already know our people moved from place to place in
the world until the King at Erenby gave this land to us as long as
we could hold it. And hold it we have at some cost in lives and
treasure in the distant past. From time to time we have had to
take up our bows and pikes and go off to the north or west to
defend our lands. Sometimes from wanderers, other times it has
been bands of raiders who think to sweep into the border lands
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and take them. If we don’t watch carefully, they would soon
crowd in upon us. That must never happen, Jon. That is what
the Guard does. Around here the Guard has all but disappeared,
but in the north and over across the Selwyn the Guard is
organized, though few in number. Most towns have a few
Guardsmen. Some go out on circuit once in a while or at least
that is what they are supposed to do. If we get a warning such
as you brought, then we shift a few good militiamen to the
troubles for a time. All my days we have been safe, Jon, but it
appears that once again a threat has risen, and the Guard must
do its duty.”
“Rumors came down the river last spring that a threat from
the east had risen out of the grassy plains. The message you
brought confirms our worst fears. I’m afraid the raiders that
crossed the Selwyn are but the vanguard of many others to
follow. The Earl is calling the Reeves together, and they will
begin to organize recruits like yourself to aid the Guard in North
and East Marches. Galvanizing them into action won’t take
much; they have always been more exposed to trouble. But
South March, and sleepy Camber, Redding, Holbourne and the
Dales men hear little outside news unless it is tavern talk. They
will take some convincing, but that is work for others.”
“Here is what I want you to do. Go home tomorrow as you
had planned. Make up an excuse about work that Warren will
believe. I’ll make up a list of the places and captains you’ll need
to contact. It will take more than a week to get as far as Saxford,
but remember you are on official Guard business, and so you
needn’t worry about food or shelter. You will be welcomed for
the most part wherever you go. If you can convince a
companion to go with you, do so. The west country is a lonely
place unless you like wide open places. Go over to Pendleton
and the farm towns near there and then take the road north as far
as Saxford. Ridley will be more than pleased to have additional
help if those raiders show up on the North Road.”
“Excuse me, but did you say Ridley?
“Yes, Devin Ridley, he’s the Guard captain up there.”
“But Master Ridley isn’t in Saxford ,” Jon interrupted.
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“He’s in Holbourne!” exclaimed Jon.
“Holbourne, what’s he doing in Holbourne?”
Jon briefly explained about the walk from Ribble. “That’s
not good. Did you tell Master Ridley about your meeting with
the Normen?”
“No, sir, Sir,” I told his apprentice, Garret Fletcher, but it
never came up in the conversation. Probably knows now.”
“Most likely. Listen, Jon, before you set off for
Pendleton, I want you to take a note from me to Master Ridley.
I’ll give it to you tomorrow when you come for your swearing
in, and we sign the parchments to make all this official. Go to
Holbourne first, there’s good lads down there as can head north
through Ribble and warn them over in East March. Will you do
it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jon straightening up from the table. It was
more than he could ever have hoped. Not just part of the Guard,
but doing something the Earl and the Thane viewed as
important.
“If there’s one thing I can do, it is follow orders; I’ve lots of
practice at that.”
Giffard smiled, “With a few hundred lads like you Saeland
will be a lot safer place come fall.”
He waved toward the map. “Jon, here’s a task for today. I
want you to study this map and make one like it to take with
you, you have a good hand for that; I’ve seen it. Get this one in
your head. The trails in black are the ones we use. We also use
the old ones too, the faint ones in faded red ink. They are the
ones the Guard uses when they want to get somewhere quick.
The Old Ones were magicians, I think, to build roads the way
they did. Sounds like you followed part of the East Road, the
least of the roads in the north. You will have your eyes opened
when you see what they built up past Saxford. Be sure to
include the town names; there are not many landmarks out that
way, mostly rolling hills and forest unless someone has cleared
it. I need to find a few things before you go. Work on that map
while I’m gone.”
Jon gazed up at the map to decipher the writing that had
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been carefully penned by many different hands over the years.
As he worked quickly to get the names down on the parchment
the Thane had given him, he could hear Giffard rummaging
around in the Armory hall.
Everything Jon had heard was roiling around inside his head
so fast, that he had to concentrate to keep his hand steady. He
decided he would make a rough sketch then and make a much
better map once he had more time. The distance between the
towns and villages grew the farther north he looked. He
wondered when the map had been made. Surely there would be
more towns than the map showed, but perhaps not. From within
the Armory he heard a bang as the lid of a great trunk fell shut
and Giffard’s footsteps approached the door.
“You’ll need these, Jon, and lay down a long knife, a
sleeveless leather jacket that he had Jon stand up and try on.
The leather jerkin was heavy and well oiled. It hung down
halfway down Jon’s thighs and tied across the front. Lastly
Giffard lay down a long bow, an exact copy of his father’s bow
that stood in a corner of Jon’s house in Redding.
“This is the worst weapon you’ve got,” Thane Giffard said
as he handed over the bow.
“Worst?” questioned Jon, thinking the Thane was teasing.
“The best weapons you have already: your eyes, your ears,
and sometimes your nose. And inside here,” he said pointing to
his head. “You’ve got common sense; and when your mind says
do something, then do it. If your heart says no, then wait and
watch. Your feet and hands are nimble, quick, and quiet, or if
they are not, they will soon learn to be. No time for proper
training at all. But you will learn quickly, I have no doubt.”
Lastly Giffard handed Jon a leather-capped quiver of keen-
pointed arrows. “How’s your shooting, Jon?
Jon grimaced, “Not all that good, sir.”
Thane Giffard’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “This tour
I’m sending you on will put you in touch with the best bow men
in all of Saeland. No time for training here, but ask and watch,
and listen, then practice until your fingers are raw. That bow
will save your life, if you have made a friend of it instead of an
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acquaintance.” Then he smiled.
Jon returned the smile, looking the Thane in the eye.
“Now off you go, Jon, be here tomorrow morning after the
Mid-Summer Sacrifices, and bring your mother and
grandmother. We’ll ask them to be the witnesses.” Jon drew his
jerkin over his shirt, and loaded down with his other new gear,
thanked Thane Giffard, who escorted him out of the Armory
into the afternoon sunshine.
The market had shriveled a little during the afternoon heat.
Many of the stalls were shuttered, but here and there people
bargained, laughed, and rested in the heat for the evening
market to come. As Jon passed through the market, he heard
comments from several people when he passed by. A couple of
young women made a point of going out of their way and into
Jon’s, so that he would have to say hello. Being a member of the
Guard had its benefits as well as responsibilities. Jon walked,
some might have said swaggered, back down to his
grandmother’s house and called out from the open front door.
“I’m home.” His mother rushed from the kitchen into the
hall facing the front door and held her hands to her face upon
seeing Jon in his gear.
“Oh, Jon, what are you wearing?”
“Don’t you recognize a guardsman’s gear?” announced Jon
trying to sound nonchalant about it. She swept down the hall
toward him, her face all tangled with emotions, pride was there,
a little fear, and some doubt, he thought, but mostly worry. He
gave her a prolonged hug. “Mother, you know this is something
I’ve been waiting for years and at last the day arrived, sooner
than I had hoped. Now sit down, and let’s talk about it.”
“Talk about what?” said a shaky voice from down the
doorway.
“In here, Granny.” A strange smile crossed Granny’s face
when she looked at Jon that swept away the wrinkles for just a
moment.
“Stand up and let me take a look at you. Why you look as
handsome as your grandfather did the day he came to show me
his new gear. A fine young man he looked that day and for
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many a year after too. Good, boy. I’m proud of you,” and she
hobbled over to him and patted his arm.
“What’s done is done,” Gytha said. “No sense crying about
flour on the floor. Come into the kitchen, Jon, I’ve got your
dinner all set out. Now come and eat before it gets cold.”
And indeed she had. More food than he had eaten at one
sitting in the past several months. He determined to make the
effort to come more often. When Jon had finished, he threw
everything he had brought onto the bench under the window
where he usually slept when he visited. Looking down at the
gear he wore, Jon felt that he had all he needed to be the
guardsman he’d always wanted to be. But how was he to get
everything home tomorrow? Jon took off all his hardware and
then remembered the present he had bought for Meg. He lifted it
out of his belt purse and examined it again. The ring was as
finely wrought as he remembered, and the colors of the stone
like blood splashed on green leaves. He hoped Meg would be
pleased with it. He lay it next to his pack and fell back onto the
straw tick thinking about what had happened. His only regret
was that Meg was so far away, he would write to her and tell her
about everything later.
He awoke to the late afternoon sun through the open shutter
and the clatter of dishes and the fine smell of his mother’s
cooking from the kitchen. Gytha poked her head through the
door and asked if he had a good nap.
“Yes, I did,” he yawned and stretched from head to toe. The
glint of the ring caught her eye, and she picked it up holding it
up into the light from the half open window.
“Why that’s a lovely thing. Did you get it at the market
today?”
“I did. Now sit down here I have some news to tell you.”
His grin made Gytha wonder and after explaining what he and
Meg had talked about, Gytha was the happiest mother in all of
Camber. Jon had found a wife, and she had agreed to be his.
That she was from all the way up at Ribble was a little
distressing, but once Meg moved to more settled places, she
would become Gytha’s great project. At least that’s how Jon’s
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mother thought that day. She gave Jon’s hand a hard squeeze.
“Now tell me about her parents,” which he did. Inn keepers
ranked about the same as alehouse owners and were somewhat
suspect in Gytha’s view, but the family had treated Jon well, and
if Jon liked the girl, then that was good enough for Gytha. But
deep down inside, it saddened her too. This signaled a change
in her life, and that was something she would have learn to live
with as time went on.
“Come on then, let’s go tell Mother.” They went off to the
kitchen where Granny was just taking biscuits from the oven
that were all but flying off the pan with the shaking of her
hands. The smell was so good that Jon’s mouth watered
instantly. He wasn’t hungry at all, but young men have the
ability to tuck away any food whenever it is offered. So the
three of them sat down while Jon told his grandmother about the
girl he had met at the inn in Ribble. When he described her,
Granny’s eyes crinkled at the corners, reliving a long ago
summer evening.
“Just watching your face tells me everything I need to know.
Wonderful,” she said wiping her eyes. “Your grandfather and I
had that feeling for each other, and I know your mother did for
Dean. Jon’s mother had begun to cry.
“Now Gytha, let’s not all three of us start fussing,” Granny
laughed as a tear slipped unheeded down her own furrowed
cheek.
Jon told them about his trek north of Ribble, including the
story about meeting the Sogon at the pool.
“Why Jon,” Granny said, “you’d best keep your trews on
when swimming in other folk’s ponds,” laughing so heartily she
nearly fell off her chair. They listened in rapt attention as he
tried to describe Ezmet and the Sogon hamlet and his encounter
with the Normen.
“You mean you went into the outlander’s village just like
that! Out in the wild? Why, anything could have happened!”
“Well, I’m here aren’t I? But I was glad to leave the next
morning,” though he didn’t tell them why.
Gytha shook her head.
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 “Don’t like this talk of outlanders,” Gytha warned.
“Enough about that,” complained Granny, giving Gytha an
eye message to let the subject drop. “Now tell us what
happened when you got to the inn?” she urged.
Jon was only too happy to talk about that, and after he
finished both women sighed. Jon pulled the ring out of his
small leather belt purse and showed it to Granny. She held it
away from her at arms length and drew it in trying to see it
better.
“Where in the world did you get this?” She regarded him
with astonishment and then the ring. Jon explained how he had
bargained it at the market. She lay it down on the table and
stood up.
“Wait here just a moment,” she said. “I have something that
you should see.” She hobbled off to her room and was gone
long enough that Gytha cleared away the dishes. Granny
hobbled at length into the kitchen with a wood inlay box in her
other hand. She set in on the table and sat down. Curiosity took
tickled Jon, who had never seen that box before.
“I haven’t seen this for years,” Gytha said. “I’ve seen it
sitting on the shelf for years, but I’ve never seen you open it.”
With an enigmatic smile Granny took a small key from her
surcoat and turned it in the lock.
“I should have done this many years ago, instead of
hoarding these like some half-starved old thing.” She lifted the
lid, and Jon understood it was a jewelry box with two short
boxes stacked on top of a one long one.
“Gytha this is all to be yours when I’m gone.”
Gytha started to protest, but Granny shushed her with a
dismissive wave. “But when I saw that ring, it reminded me of
something from a long time ago.” She fished in the longer box
and turned it to the window to see easier.
“I know it is in here somewhere…”
“Ah, here it is,” and drew out a silver amulet, a masterful
work by some forgotten craftsman. Centered in the amulet was a
bloodstone that appeared to be made of the same polished jade-
colored stone in the ring. The sanguine inclusions glistened like
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flecks of gore after a sacrifice.
“Jon,” she said, “I want you to have this. And I want you to
hear the story behind it. After our wedding Kell’s father sat me
down and showed me this amulet. He told me it came all the
way from Norheim above the Northern Mountains.
“I want you to have it. ‘The amulet belonged to Elna,’
Father said. I asked him who Elna was, and he just smiled,
sadly, I thought, and closed my fingers around it. ‘All I have left
of home,’ he said. He never spoke of it again. I have kept it all
these years and worn it on occasion, but now it is yours, Jon, for
Meg, Elna’s amulet. I wonder where this ring could have come
from. The workmanship appears to be a very close match, could
the same hand have made it? It is certainly the same kind of
stone. No one in Saeland does work like that. Not that I’ve
seen. I don’t suppose many know much about that, certainly not
the stall keeper this morning and cackled to herself at the
thought of the stall keeper practically giving the ring away.”
“Take it, Jon. And when you ask Meg to be yours, then I
think this amulet will be a wonderful present to her through
someone Kell and I both love.” She laid the amulet with
trembling fingers in his hand and another tear tracked down the
care creases in he face. Jon hardly dared breathe.
“Bless you, boy,” she whispered with shining eyes framed
by wisps of thin white hair, a moment he would remember all
the days of his life. He held the amulet outstretched in his hand
and laid the ring beside it. The stones were so alike, that they
could only have come from a single source.
“I don’t know what to say,” Jon said softly. He lifted his
eyes to hers. He realized that once again someone he loved
would not be with him for long. In her way the amulet was a
parting gift from her to him to Meg. The generations were
complete; a last piece fitted to finish the puzzle. She was
content. Gytha sensed it too and for a few moments it was
sniffles and tears all round.
“Enough of that,” Granny sighed. She closed the box and
turned the lock and was about to slip the key into her surcoat
once more, but then she stopped and took it out. With shining
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eyes Granny held the key out toward Gytha and pushed the box
toward her on the table with her other hand.
“Here, my dear, take this, a little present, for all the joy I
have had of you.” Gytha’s face crumpled and nothing but the
whole end of her surcoat could absorb the flood of tears. Jon
had never seen his mother so happy and so sad. Gytha threw
her arms around her mother and sobbed on her shoulder.
There, there,” Granny said, “don’t you be getting yourself all
worked up. I’ve changed my mind, I intend to see the bonfires
and dancing tonight. Now let’s get this mess cleaned up and out
to the square. I’m thinking I’d like to see the fires lit and
something of the celebration.” Gytha stared at her in wonder.
Her mother hadn’t been to Mid-Summer Eve celebrations for
years and complained loudly and long about the public
drunkenness that always followed.
So at Granny’s insistence they left the little cottage on the
Stockwell Road and walked down to the square where the
musicians were already playing again. Bonfires, twice the
height of a man, had been lit, and the dancing commenced by
young and old. Jon found himself shoved out into the crowd of
dancers by his mother, and he was swept into the ring dances by
laughing men, women and children. The bonfires collapsed in
explosions of sparks and cascades of embers fell from the sky.
Dancers wound ‘round and ‘round the fires and snaked into and
out of the firelight. Shadows jumped and leaped as if they had,
on that night, a life of their own.

Gytha glanced over at her mother’s face, which was drawn

and pale. “I’m afraid we’ve tired you out, Mother. Wouldn’t
you like to go home?”
“Yes,” she replied faintly. “I have enjoyed the day, but I am
worn out.”
So as the music and dancers celebrated, the three of them
returned to Granny’s house arm in arm humming the tunes still
audible from the music in the square. Jon gave his mother a hug
and thanked her, and then squeezed Granny’s frail shoulders and
she held on a little longer than usual and whispered, “Thank
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you, my boy, bless you.”
Jon lay in the dark and warmth of the house listening to the
sound of the music in square, and marveled at what had
transpired that day. And deep, deep in his heart, he knew that
was what he was meant to protect, it was worth protecting, his
life in Saeland. Jon had truly come of age.

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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.

Jon had always felt important in the limited circle of family

and friends, but that day something felt different. He discerned,
but could not yet name a new sense of his own worth as he set
his hand to the old brass handle in the center of his
grandmother’s green enameled door.
“Hello, Jon,” his mother called from the kitchen as he
ducked his head under the low, hand-hewn wooden lintel,
“we’re in here”. Jon found Granny finishing several packets of
food he already had told them he would need as soon as he
returned. Before breakfast Jon had packed everything he needed
including his new gear which weighed at least fifty pounds.
Now he added the food to the already overfilled pack. He was
sure the seams would give out half way to Redding. He cinched
down the ties, checked to make sure the bow and quiver were
secure and heaved it onto his back and added the dispatch case
and groaned at the cumulative weight. Granny and his mother
waited for him at the door. They each gave him a prolonged
hug and a quick kiss on the cheek and followed him outside.
“You write us more often, Jon. And don’t let that skinflint
Warren take advantage of you much longer! Jon didn’t
remember Granny ever saying a word about Ralph Warren
before, but he could tell she thought little of him.
“Now, Mother, Ralph Warren’s been mighty good to Jon.
You oughtn't go on about him. Jon, you write us like she says,
and I want a long letter when you give her that ring. We want
all the details. And you bring her over here to meet us!”
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 “Yes, Mam,” Jon responded automatically, and almost burst
out laughing. He was nearly of age and still doing exactly what
his mother told him to do. “Not for much longer,” he thought
as he returned their gaze. “If you knew where I was headed,
Thane Giffard would hear it all the way down at the Armory.”
He smiled at that and them.
“Goodbye then. I will write.”
“Off with you then,” said Granny and waved with her cane.
“Goodbye, Jon.” She waved, and Jon waved, turned the
corner and was off at last.

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5

Urgent Dispatches

Jon started his trek to Redding in high spirits. He received

nods of approval from several people he met on the street, each
time walking a little straighter and squarer of shoulder. He
settled into his usual steady pace as Camber disappeared behind
him and soon realized that the heavy jerkin might attract the
attentions of the young women he met, but it trapped the heat
from above and within. He untied the front lacings so the jerkin
swung open as he wiped the sweat from his face neck and chest
with his large blue handkerchief so many times it was sodden.
Jon had hoped he might find someone going his direction and
catch a ride in a wagon or cart at least for part of the way, but
the road was virtually empty because most people were home
being visited by dozens of relatives and friends or off visiting
their own relatives and friends. His hope of cajoling a ride from
a kindly traveler to Redding evaporated. So despite the sun
basting him alive, Jon kept going steadily, trying not stop too
long in the shade when he found some.
“Slow down, Jon,” he said aloud, “it’s going to take time to
get from place to place. You can’t do everything at the dead
run.” He forced himself to take a deep breath and calm down.
His heart was beating fast with the exertion, while his feet
plodded along the dusty road in the absolute hottest part of a
muggy mid-summer’s day.
His mind turned to what the Earl had said about Ralph
Warren. The miller had given him a job to help the family, but
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Jon knew Warren had a vicious streak, he’d seen it often enough
and again just two days ago. Jon always knew that he would
one day quit the mill to do something else, but that’s all he’d
done, just thought about it. The Earl’s comments about Warren
disturbed Jon. If Ralph Warren couldn’t be trusted by men who
governed Saeland, then Jon didn’t want to be working for him
either. He weighed his limited options as his boots sent up little
puffs of dust at every step, making a mental list of reasons why
he should stay and why he should quit the mill. When it came
right down to it, the only reason he was staying was because he
hadn’t decided to do something else. That decision had in part
been taken from him by events, and he was not sorry about that
at all. His only worry about quitting was what Durban Turner
would say when he asked for Meg. Jon had no way to support
himself and his bride. That was something he would need to do
something about. But in the end, Jon’s sense of his impending
future led him to make up his mind to quit Warren’s Mill, and it
had best be done sooner than later. He’d go home, clean up, and
go directly to Warren’s house and tell him straight out he wasn’t
going to change his mind; he’d worked his last day at Warren’s
mill. The thought of telling Master Warren he was quitting
churned Jon’s stomach, but having made his decision to act, his
anxiety subsided a little. He mulled over the adjustment; he
wasn’t going to work at the mill even one day longer. That
prospect more than any other kept him going at his unflagging
pace for most of the afternoon.
Jon was tired, blazing hot, and thirsty as he marched down
the long hill to Wescombe Ford just over half way home. He
had swallowed the last lukewarm water he had in his water
bottle an hour ago and been unable to refill it because the
streams in the settled parts of Saeland weren’t fit to drink. If no
well or spring was at hand, everyone drank ale or beer from the
oldest gamling to just-weaned babes; not so much that everyone
staggered through the day, but there was little else to drink. For
important occasions mead was made from honey and allowed to
ferment gently.
The landscape was hilly and sparsely settled as he
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approached Wescombe Brook. He hadn’t passed a farm in
leagues to ask for water. Jon surveyed the ruins of the harrow
across the ford where he knew there was a cool spring in the
welcome shade of the narrow, heavily forested bottom of the
Coombe. He stood a moment before crossing the brook
enjoying the breeze. The usually deep brook widened there and
someone long ago had placed large stones that permitted foot
traffic to cross in good weather. The spring Jon had been
anticipating coursed from its cleft in the hill through a deeply
worn stone trough and into a pool a few dozen rods from the
ford before it joined the brook. The tumbled ruins of age-old
buildings screened the pool from the road.
Jon threw off his heavy pack and boots and stepped into the
pool in his trews. He lifted the water up and splashed his face
and head again and again. Taking his water bottle from around
his neck, he rinsed and filled it with the pure water pouring from
the lip of the stone trough. With his thirst quenched, a ducking
in the pond to cool the rest of him rejuvenated Jon in no time.
He waded across the pool laughing as he remembered his
encounter with Ezmet at the pool above Ribble and lay on the
grass in the shade with his feet in the water realizing he was
hungry and waving off an occasional curious fly. He dragged
his pack closer and felt blindly for one of the food packages
filled with thick slices of smoked-ham and barley bread straight
from Granny’s hearth and a couple of his own apricots. For a
weary, newly-sworn guardsman on his first errand, he felt much
better. He enjoyed every bite, but even as hungry as he was, he
had no room for everything his mother had wrapped. He would
eat the rest when he got home.
The ruins of a water shrine at Wescombe had been a place of
offering even before the Saesen came down from the north. A
tiny howe had been built at the site just after the Saesen arrived,
and it had grown in fits and starts. Eventually a seidwoman and
her attendants with help from travelers had expanded the small
harrow around the spring. A raging flashflood on Wescombe
Brook had knocked down or swept away the entire harrow
generations ago. The legend was that attendants had all been
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drowned in the flood as punishment. The seidwoman
disappeared soon after, and legend had it that she had slain
herself in her madness and grief. Not for any amount of silver
would Jon visit such a place at night. But in the broad daylight
of that hot Lithe Day, only sections of the wall that still enclosed
the spring sluice remained, and it held no fear for him.
He waded through the pool to the spring and drank again
savoring the cool, almost cold water on his feet and legs.
Splashing himself one last time, he filled the water bottle to the
top and stopped it up. As he sat there in the shade, looking at
what was left of the shrine around him, he made another
decision. He would visit the Harrow and hear what Eofa, the
seidwoman might say about his future. She had the gift of
second sight; her reputation for foretelling was unequalled in
Saeland. But the decision was not without with trepidation, for
she frightened Jon more than any other person he knew.
“Time to get moving,” he told himself. With great effort he
pulled his heavy pack on and noticed with disgust that the worn
part of his right boot, which had been threatening to open into a
hole, had finally given out. Jon set off diagonally from where
he was until he met the road a third of the way up the ridge.
From the low divide above the ford, the land sloped gradually
down toward the Holbourne River and Redding, but that would
take another three and a half hours. The sun was well past its
zenith, though, and a light breeze against his wet shirt kept him
cooler than he had been before. The landscape in time grew
settled again as farm houses and barns, fields and pastures came
into view. The golden light and shadows painted the scene with
colors he could never name. It was the home he had known
since he was a boy. It was a good place to live, with good
people, and no one or anything was going to wreck or change it
if Jon had anything to say about it.
By the time Jon reached his house in Redding he was
completely footsore, weary, and too hot to even think. He
carried his gear across the threshold and dropped it with a thud.
His fingers fumbled the laces and buckles of his jerkin and belt
undone, and he hastened to open the shutters to let out the
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stifling heat of the day. Shrugging off his travel stained trews,
Jon limped to the water barrel and poured a bucket of water
directly over his head and lay on the bench in the shade of the
house, but the longer he lay there the harder it was to think
about getting up and going to see Ralph Warren. Just a quick
rest, thought Jon, but he slept long.
Jon woke with a jerk, heart and mind racing from an
interview with Ralph Warren that had gone horribly wrong; the
events so confused that he woke heart pounding until the reality
of the bench beneath him reminded him it had been a dream. He
sat up wiping his brow as he tried to decide how best to
approach Warren without arousing his curiosity or anger. Jon’s
home was in Redding, at least for the time being, and he didn’t
want to make an enemy of Ralph Warren if he could help it. In
the end, telling the truth made a lot of sense, but he’d been
ordered not to say anything to Warren about matters relating to
Guard business. So he concocted what sounded like a plausible
lie and hoped Warren would believe him. Once he had steeled
himself to tell Warren what he thought, Jon nearly ran out the
door less tired than he had been telling himself he was. Then he
stopped himself and peered into his small bronze mirror. Jon
was appalled at the disheveled face he saw there. He rubbed his
dirt-streaked face with a cloth and pulled a clean tunic on
cinched his belt, and after one last peep at himself, Jon trekked
up the hill to Warren’s house beyond the mill.
He knocked politely at the polished wooden door and could
hear voices inside laughing. The door was opened by Mistress
Warren, a stern and sour looking woman if ever there was one.
Jon had always had as little to do with her as possible.
“Why Jon,” she said with a distasteful tone in her voice,
“what are you doing here?”
“Mistress Warren, I am sorry to bother you, but I need to
talk to Master Warren if I could.”
She scowled suspiciously, “What is this about? This is Lithe
Day, you know, and we have important guests.”
“I am sorry, Mistress Warren, but I need to talk to him.”
“Not a problem at the mill is there?” she asked sharply,
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 “No, Ma’am,” Jon said, “the mill’s all closed up.”
Curious and put out at the same time, she waited for an
explanation. When none was forth coming, she gave a little
sniff of disapproval.
“You wait right here, I don’t want you tracking dirt into the
house. I’ll go see if he wants to talk to you.” She turned on her
heels and hurried away to find her husband, the staccato rapping
of her wood-soled shoes on the oak plank floors turned left into
a side room.
Jon waited outside the door as he had been ordered, his calm
façade wavered, as he rehearsed the little speech he intended to
give. Voices from the sitting room hushed. Ralph came out of
the sitting room away from his guests and shouted a good
natured greeting when he saw Jon standing by the door.
“Come in, Jon. Glad you’ve come. Here, come back this
way,” and waved Jon down the hall and into a room where they
could speak without being overheard by the guests. The small
room was filled from floor to ceiling with parchments and
accounts hanging from boxes and bins, not too different than his
table at the mill.
“Now, Jon, you’ve come to tell me you are coming back to
work for me, right?” he beamed. “Speak up, boy, I have guests
waiting.”
“Well, sir, Master Warren, it’s like this. I’ve been up
visiting with my mother and Granny the past two days and well,
sir, I’ve come to tell you that I’ve found a different sort of
employment, and I’m to start tomorrow.”
Ralph’s jaw dropped open. “What?”
Jon stammered out his reason for leaving again. “You’ve
been good to me, Master Warren, but I’m not cut out to be a
miller, sir. I’ve found something that I want to do, at least I
think have…”
Ralph’s face reddened, “Let’s talk about this.” he choked,
trying not to lose his temper. “You’re being rash, Jon. You
aren’t making any sense. You’ve left me out among the wolves.
We’ve got a contract and deadlines to meet. How am I going to
be able to fill it? What are you thinking, you idiot?”
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 Jon related his conversation with Thane Giffard, and waited
calmly for Warren’s protests, convinced then that he and the
miller would not part on good terms.
Ralph was quiet a moment, his thick eyebrows drawn
together and his face set in a scowl. “What about the mill,
who’s going to help me get all that work done? Come back at
least until I can find someone to take over,” he pleaded. “I’ve
got orders to fill! I’ll never get anyone to work for what…”
He stopped himself. “Er... ah..., no one knows the mill like
you do, Jon. You are causing me all kinds of trouble just as I
get ready to do something important down there. Don’t you see,
Jon, you have a future at the mill. There will be more work for
you, more than you can do; more than either of us can do. If
you go now, what am I supposed to do?”
Jon saw at once that if he could provide answers to Ralph’s
whining entreaties, Ralph would let him go without another
thought. Maybe Granny wasn’t as off the mark about Ralph as
his mother thought.
“Master Warren, there are many young fellows around town
who’d jump at the chance to work at the mill. Please, sir, I
don’t want you to be angry, you have been kind to me and my
family all these years, and I do appreciate it. But I met someone
that I want to marry, and I have got to learn a trade, a real trade
so I can support her and me. I want to do this; I need to,” Jon
implored.
“That’s what I call gratitude!” Warren hissed. “After all
I’ve done for you, this is how you thank me? Walking out on
me the first chance I have to make some money! Desertion
that’s what it is!” he thundered. “Desertion!” A stack of
parchments avalanched from the table leaving a few stragglers
floating lightly to the floor. Jon waited to see what else Warren
would say. He was puffing and angrier than Jon had ever seen
him. His face looked as if he had sat too long in the sun.
“I am sorry about the way I’ve handled it,” Jon said, trying
to appease him.
“Mishandled, more like,” Warren shouted. “Clear off, Ellis,
get out!” Ralph stepped to the door and threw it open so hard
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that it swung open, bounced back from the wall outside and
slammed closed again with a bang. Muttering under his breath
Warren grabbed the latch and held it open while Jon slipped by
into the front hall where Mistress Warren was standing with her
hands on her bony hips with a face looking like she had just
swallowed a mouthful of kumiss.
“Jon, what have you done?” she whispered as loud as any
shout. “Master Warren’s shouting and carrying on! What will
our guests think?” Warren came rushing up behind Jon.
“You’re through, Jon, and don’t think you can come slinking
in to work next week and think I’ll give you the time of day.
Giffard and his crew are no friends to anyone but themselves.
You’ll wish you’d stuck with me before long; mark my words.
Now clear off, you’ve no job at the mill!” he growled hoarsely.
Mistress Warren’s mouth was frozen open in shock. Jon
unlatched the front door himself and stepped out onto the large
covered porch into the warm mid-summer night. The door
crashed into the door posts behind him sending a puff of air into
his back and neck. Jon stepped off the porch and took the stairs
two at a time down to the cobbled street.
“That’s wasn’t so bad!” he cried aloud and burst out
laughing on the spot. Jon chuckled all the way to his front door,
smiling and greeting people he met on the street. Jon had never
felt so free. The future had always seemed far away, the mill a
safe place to be until ... until when? Jon’s future had already
begun, and it was only the first day! He could hardly believe
what had happened in just one week. Things were definitely
looking up.
Jon ate the rest of the food his mother had sent clearly
stalling while he worked himself up enough to go visit with the
seidwoman. He took a deep breath and turned his footsteps
toward the Harrow.
The Harrow was separated from the rest of the village by a
tumbled-down stone wall to keep the livestock outside. Jon
fingered the coins he had stuffed into his belt purse, hoping that
they would be sufficient to evoke a blessing rather than a curse
from the seidwoman. He hesitated as he crossed beneath the
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open the gate. Outside the shrine keeper’s hovel a cook fire
smoked its way to embers. From the house a tuneless humming
raised the hair on the back of Jon’s neck. He nearly faltered, but
his desire to know what Eofa would say about his future
steadied his resolve.
“I would speak with Eofa, the seidwoman!” he called.
The humming stopped and the silence in the Harrow
descended like a pall. His gaze was fixed on the entrance to the
seidwoman’s house, waiting for her to appear. His eyes caught
the kick of toe on hem from her long blue kirtle before here
ageless face appeared at the door.
She stared at him with one bright blue eye and one opaque,
blue-white and terrifying. Jon felt his knees shaking under that
even gaze.
“So Gytha’s son comes at last, does he,” she said flatly. “He
has a need to know what lies ahead?
Jon nodded brainlessly, already caught in the web of her
voice.
“Go over under the oak tree, and sit you down. I shall bring
the oracle to you.”
She disappeared into the hovel, and Jon found a seat on a
low stone bench in the shade of the sacred tree, wondering if he
had made a mistake.
He turned as he heard Eofa speaking quietly with a young
girl, perhaps ten or eleven years old upon whom the old woman
leaned. For the first time Jon saw the seidwoman as a human
being. She was old, and she was frail. The memory Jon had of
her slaying an ox offering and hewing it in pieces as strong as
any man had been an enduring one. The form was diminished,
but the power of her voice was as strong as ever it was.
She sank heavily onto the stone bench opposite Jon’s and
eyed him until he began to sweat. His old fear rose up, and his
feet wanted to run, but then he was reminded that it was he who
had come seeking; it was for him to speak. He cleared his
throat.
“As you have said, I have come to hear what you can tell me
of my future. I have brought money, I can pay you.”
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 “As is customary,” Eofa responded. She held out a hand
trembling slightly, another sign that she was very, very old.
Jon pulled the coins out of his purse and placed them in her
hand. She passed the coins to her assistant without so much as a
glance.
Jon’s gaze was fixated on that pale white eye. His nose
pulled in the smell of her, old, unwashed, earth-like. Her hair
was an odd mixture of ancient red, grey and white, and the skin
of her face so wrinkled and so thin that it hung almost mask-like
on her skull. But she was smiling. And in that smile his fear
receded and did not return.
“I am told that your mother has gone home to Camber and
that you are the miller’s lackey. What is it you want to know?
Jon took a deep breath. “I quit the mill this afternoon. I
have joined the Guard and am going off on an errand for them.
I feel that I am on the threshold of something new. I have come
to hear what you see.”
“You set a soft trap for a seidwoman, young Ellis, but no
different than many others that have come seeking the same
thing. I will use my little craft in your behalf, but you must first
answer a question.”
Jon had not expected a test and his face must have shown it.
“What is it you want most, Gytha’s son?”
There were so many things he wanted: a good life, land,
Meg to say yes when he asked her to marry him, a way to make
a living, to succeed on his errand for the Guard; the list was
quite long. What should he tell Eofa?
Sweat beaded his brow as his mind tried to guess what he
should say out loud. The seidwoman waited patiently, her
assistant looking up into the leafy shade above their heads as she
was alone in all the world.
“First among others is the love of Meghan Turner; for her to
come and be my wife,” Jon said evenly knowing as he said it; it
was true.
Eofa’s smile returned. “A better answer than most, young
man,” she commented. “Sit you still, and think on that while I
cast the oracle for you.” She took the leather cover off the
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ceramic pot her assistant carried and spread it out on the stone
beside her. Then leaning over the pot she breathed onto its
contents and sang into it. A tuneless chant using words that
conveyed no meaning to Jon. The half-demented ramblings of
an oldling or some forgotten language of ritual, he wondered.
The seidwoman held the pot in both hands and swirled the
contents causing the items in the pot to scrape over the sides, a
grating sound. The pace of her chant quickened as did the
motion of her hands. Tumbling and rasping, whatever the pot
held circled faster. Moving into a trance the woman’s voice and
hands seemed to strengthen and the speed of the items in the pot
rose in pitch making a slight, but unmistakable whirring sound.
The woman’s hand on the pot was so light that it began or
whatever lay inside began to sing with a peculiar ringing sound
that Jon was certain he had never heard before in his life.
With a cry the pot was thrown to the stone, smashing it into
a hundreds shards which flew in all directions. Jon was so
startled that he leapt to his feet.
“Do not be in such a hurry to leave us,” Eofa said. “Now we
will see what the oracle will say.” Her gaze turned from Jon to
the leather on the stone at her side. On it were strewn an
assortment of bones, beads, three small carved stones, a sea
shell, and a small lump of silver.
Eofa stared at the arrangement, at once oblivious to
everything around her, the tuneless humming from deep within
her rose like candle smoke around them, weaving fate and
yearning; youth and age together in a primal, ancient spell.
The seidwoman began talking with the items as if she were
the seeker and they were the sages; she listened and nodded as
speaking with old friends, and then she waved her hands over
the oracle and sat back with a smile.
“It was a good day to come to consult the oracle, Gytha’s
son. As is usually the case, some of what you came to hear will
be plain and some obscured, and much has been withheld. Do
you still wish to hear what the oracle says?”
“Yes,” Jon said. “That is what I came for; say on.”
Listen carefully then, Gytha’s son.” Eofa paused as if
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thinking and then in a gravel-voiced chant began.

“The wife you seek will be your own

Whose gift you bear of mighty stone.
‘Ware the servants, counsel keep;
Ware the master’s hatred deep.
Bear your friends in their pain,
They will bring you home again.
Searching for a king uncrowned,
Your own fortune’s to him bound.
Northward then your steps must bend,
And find a home at journey’s end.”

Caught up in the singsong, Jon waited for more and when

silence fell once again he looked up into Eofa’s smiling eyes,
expectant.
“What does it mean?” Jon asked in wonder.
Eofa’s eye laughed. “It is not for me to say, Gytha’s son.
Remember the sayings, and you will judge whether what I have
said is of the gods or the ramblings of some half-demented
oldling.”
Jon started at that last phrase. He said that in his thoughts
only moments ago. Had she the power to read the minds of
those about her? Surely not, but…!
With consternation on his face, Eofa asked him to help her
stand, and they walked back to the gate.
In parting she looked on him. “Seldom have I seen ahead
for one with so many threads woven into the warp and weft of a
single life. Either great destiny or great disappointment lie in
your path, son of Gytha. Consider well the choices you make.”
Jon was confused and amazed at the seidwoman’s counsel.
No wonder people came from all over Saeland to hear from her.
Never again would he avoid passing the Harrow; he understood
that the sacred was among them, to be seen and heard, for those
who would listen.
The walk home was unusual as he contemplated the multiple
meanings of the oracle. How could his destiny be tied to that of
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a king. There were no kings, not in Saeland anyway. Would it
mean seeing far-flung places, at least it sounded that way, and
that was perfectly fine with Jon. One thing that the visit to the
Harrow had done was completely remove the fear to move
ahead. He realized that in stepping into the future, he was
taking his destiny into his own hands.
Upon reaching his house, Jon shoved the iron hook holding
the water pot over the low fire in the hearth, filled his washtub
with cold water and dumped the clothes he had stuffed into his
pack when he left Camber onto the floor. When the water was
just right for bathing, faster than you can say it, Jon had rinsed
the dust and sweat of the day’s walk away. He turned to the pile
of laundry and washed, rinsed, and wrung out everything. Then
he carried everything outside and hung it to dry on the
clothesline behind the house. He was hungry and grateful he
didn’t have to cook anything, he devoured what was left of his
somewhat limp and squashed bread and ham. One of the other
packages contained a small crock of Granny’s strawberry
preserves which he put on the shelf in the pantry. One odd-
shaped package he opened thinking it was something else to eat,
but when he pulled away the parchment, he found a long thin
box.
Strange, he thought, no one said anything about it before he
left Camber. He untied the twine that held the lid on and opened
it. The oblong object, whatever it was, was wrapped in cloth.
Jon lifted it out of the box, heavier for its size than he would
have expected. As the fold of cloth came away, he stared down
at a heavy black key and hefted it in the palm of his hand,
weighing it, and smiled. He had known the house would come
to him, but the key signaled something new about the way his
mother thought of him, no longer a child. She trusted him with
his own future and hers. Jon carried it to the peg his father had
pounded into the wall of the house near the front door and
slipped the ring of the key back into the place where it had hung
all of his life.
Jon had much to accomplish before he left for Holbourne in
the foredawn. The house was still too warm to go to sleep
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anyway. He reviewed his work in the garden critically to see if
there was anything pressing, but his thorough job earlier in the
week had paid off. The garden could wait. He would lose most
of the apricots, but his neighbors, Mistress Endicot and the
Atherton family would be only too happy to help themselves to
them in return for looking after the house and garden. The
house was still tidy except for his Guard gear strung about the
place. He packed light; taking only things he might need for the
day. The rest of what he’d take on the journey to Pendleton, he
would pack when he returned home. Everything he decided to
do sprouted two or three related tasks which positively had to be
done before he fell blissfully asleep without even disturbing his
blanket.
When he awoke, the sun was nearly up, and warblers were
singing for all they were worth; a little breeze was up, blowing
the smoke from the breakfast fires away instead of sitting pall-
like on the village all morning. Jon pulled his laundry off the
line and folded and stacked the few things he was taking with
him. He cooked a small breakfast and by sun up was ready for
another sunny day’s hike. ‘You’ll be brown as a nut,’ Granny
would say, before his adventure came to an end.
He stopped by the neighbors and explained about the
apricots, and they were only too happy to oblige. Jon set off
down the Holbourne Road while most folks were still sitting
down to breakfast. He hiked for about an hour when a passing
wagon driven by one of Redding’s oldest farmers, Thored
Morris, heading in his direction asked if he wanted a ride, Jon
jumped at the chance. The next two hours he lay on a stack of
new cut hay and talked with Thored about events and gossip in
town. The problem with talking with Thored was that he was
extremely hard of hearing and so for him to hear anything Jon
said, he had to shout at the top of his lungs. That caused several
smiles when they passed other carts or travelers. When the
conversation lagged, Jon fell asleep to Morris’s tuneless whistle.
He felt himself being shaken by the foot.
“Jon, Jon,” Morris was saying in a voice to wake the dead,
“Get up, you sleepyhead! I’ve gone as far as I can on this road.”
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 Jon sat up and stretched.
“Thank you,” he shouted, “it was kind of you to let me
sleep, I didn’t get much last night.”
“So it’d seem, youngster. I’m turning off here. Out ye
come.” He stretched out a hand as hard and gnarled as an old
tree root. Jon took it and pulled himself up and out and reached
back inside the cart for his pack.
“Nice to visit with you,” Morris boomed, and climbed back
into the seat of the cart, gave a shake of the reins to get the
horses moving and turned off onto a side road headed south.
Jon found himself already on the outskirts of Holbourne. He
wanted to find out where Master Ridley was and the local Guard
section Captain, Rafe Turpin, to whom he was to give a message
from the dispatch case. Just ahead Jon saw the sign for an inn
which lay across the road from Holbourne Pond. The pond was
in fact a lake that had been formed by placing a low dam across
the Holbourne many years ago. He stepped into the cool interior
of the inn smelling of pipe smoke and food hoping the innkeeper
could tell him where he could find the section Captain.
“Good morning,” called a heavyset man wearing a long dark
blue apron. “What can I do for you?”
“A pot of your best ale,” Jon replied.
“Coming right up, young sir, have a seat anywhere. Not
much of crowd this early,” then he disappeared. Jon sat at a
table near the window at the front of the inn looking at the street
and lake across the way. A couple of swans and a duck with a
line of ducklings paddled through the reeds in the shallows. A
boy drove a flock of geese across the road and down into the
water.
The innkeeper brought out the ale on a tray and set it down
in front of him. “Will there be anything else?” Jon set his two
bits down on the tray.
“Yes, in fact, there is something you could help me with,”
Jon began. “My name is Jon Ellis from over at Redding.”
“Yes, I thought I’d seen you ‘fore now, but never a name to
put in its place. I knew your Da’ though. He stopped by every
once in while, think he was a ginger beer man himself, if I
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remember right. Sorry to hear ‘bout his passing, Jon. I’m the
innkeeper, Aiken Turpin. Glad to make your acquaintance.
Now what can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for the Guard Captain who lives somewhere
around here. Do you know a Rafe Turpin?”
“Rafe?” the innkeeper let out a hearty laugh, “Why of course
I know him. He’s my own brother and lives not two streets
down and a bit south of here. He’s probably out working at the
forge. If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll walk you down there
myself.” Jon breathed a sigh of relief.
“I also am trying to locate three workmen from Saxford
who came down last week to work somewhere around here. An
older man called Ridley and two apprentices. You wouldn’t
know where I can find them would you?” inquired Jon.
The innkeeper scratched his head.
“Hmmm, don’t recall anyone with that name around here.
You know who they were going to work for?”
“I’m not sure. Master Ridley and the others came down
here last week to do stone work for someone, but it wasn’t in
Holbourne; I would have remembered that.”
Master Turpin shook his head, “Can’t say I’ve heard about
them. But I’m not the only inn in Holbourne. You finish your
drink and when you’re ready, we’ll go see Rafe. Not much goes
on around here that one of us won’t know about.” Turpin
retreated into the kitchen. Jon’s drank the cellar-cooled beer
and sighed. His gaze returned to the window. He could hear
the innkeeper talking to someone, and then he came out untying
his apron. He smiled at Jon and asked if he had finished.
“Let’s go then,” and waved Jon to the door. Aiken Turpin
kept up his one sided conversation as they moved two streets
east and turned south two more. They came to a farmstead with
a large outbuilding to the south from which a massive brick
smokestack. A wisp of smoke curled up and out of it into a line
of elms which formed a line between the forge and the wheat
and oat fields beyond.
A young boy was making a feeble attempt at pulling ash
weed from the vegetable garden of the large stone house. Jon
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smiled remembering working with the same disinterest clearing
the endless variety of weeds his father’s garden produced when
he was a boy.
“Hallo, you young pirate!” Turpin called.
“Hey, Uncle,” responded the youngster smiling, glad of the
interruption.
“Your dad about is he?”
“Yes, Uncle, he’s over at the forge.”
“Looks like you’ve got a big job in front of you, Remick.”
The boy nodded soberly and sighed and pretended to go back to
work, lost in his own thoughts.
“Smart boy that'n,” remarked Aiken and led the way past the
homestead and into the gate of the forge that lay open to the
breeze. The remains of a charcoal pyre stood toward the back of
the property. The forge’s movable wicker doors could be pulled
this way or that to take advantage of a breeze from any
direction. Inside he saw a large man in front of a pile of
glowing coals heaped on a wide stone platform. A great oval
bellows made of wood and hide hung to one side from chains
that ran up to the ceiling.
“Rafe!” shouted the inn keeper. “I’ve brought you a visitor.”
Rafe Turpin turned around and stepped to the edge of the
forge’s flagstone floor squinting into the sunshine waiting for
them to approach. Jon couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone taller,
as close to a giant as anyone he’d ever met. A long leather
apron covered Turpin from neck to knees. His broad shoulders
and powerful arms showed the effects of years of hard work as a
smith.
“How are you, Aiken?”
“Well enough, Rafe. I brought you a young visitor by the
name of Jon Ellis, Dean’s boy, from up Redding way.” Jon
stepped up and stuck out his hand.
“Much as I’d take your hand, Jon, yours’d soon look like
mine,” Turpin said ruefully; his hands were coal-blackened
except for his fingernails.
“But pleased to meet you just the same,” Rafe grinned.
“What can I do for you?”
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 “I’ve brought you a dispatch from Thane Giffard over at
Camber,” Jon said, glancing at Aiken.
Rafe’s eyes widened. “Guard business is it?” Seeing Jon’s
wary glance at his brother, he explained,
“It’s all right, Jon. Me and Aiken have been in the Guard
most our adult lives; anything you got to say, you can say in
front of him. We mostly call it the Watch around here.”
Jon relaxed. “Thank you sir, I was to be careful who I talked
to is all. I have a couple of letters for you from Thane Giffard
over at the Armory. I’ve hidden them away in my pack, let me
just…” and he started to remove the rucksack from his back.
“Whoa, hold on there, Jon. I’m just headed inside for
dinner, why don’t you join us, and we’ll talk about this indoors
after I’ve cleaned up a little.”
“I’m off then, Rafe, said Aiken , “see you later!”
“Thank you, Master Turpin!” Jon said.
“Call me Aiken, will you,” the burly innkeeper replied, “and
we’ll be good friends.”
Jon followed Captain towards the house. “Dean Ellis’ son
are you?”
“Yes, I am, sir.”
“Not hard to guess, Jon, you look a lot like him. He was a
friend of Aiken’s and mine when we were younger. He never
came through town without saying hello at least. I’ve even seen
you when you were only a bit of a lad. You’re all grown up
now, of course. Dean Ellis was a fine man, I was sorry to hear
about that accident.”
“Thanks,” said Jon quietly. Turpin’s was the usual response.
Many people had known and admired Jon’s father. They were
often ready to transfer that liking to Jon, a legacy that his father
never gave a thought to, and yet more times than Jon could
count, people had been kind to him because of it.
“What do you do over there?”
“Until last night I worked at Ralph Warren’s mill.
Turpin laughed. “That Warren’s an odd duck. Until last
night you say? What’s changed?”
“I quit,” responded Jon simply, “I’ve had enough.” Rafe
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raised his eyebrows but kept silent. A man’s choices were his to
make, so the old saying went.
As they crossed through an old wooden fence which leaned
back and forth drunkenly, a great shaggy hound came bounding
up to greet the smith. He ruffled the hair on the dog’s head and
scratched him behind the ears. Jon was cautiously alert; farm
dogs had a mean reputation, and Jon had been chased often
enough that he hesitated. The dog was as big as a small pony!
“Digger, this is Jon Ellis,” Master Turpin spoke to the dog,
“now you treat him good,” he said as if he were speaking to a
small child in a warning tone. The dog tilted is head and
listened to Turpin seeming to understood every word. Digger’s
tail never stopped wagging, and he followed them all the way to
the back of the house. Turpin’s home and byre were larger than
most., and the heavy walls bowed or sagged in comfortable old
age.
“Come on inside, Jon, I’ll introduce you to my family.
Remick’s out front somewhere; my wife will be in the kitchen.
Aline!” he called, “we’ve got company!”
“Coming!” Jon heard a voice call from somewhere inside.
Mistress Turpin appeared wiping her hands on her apron.
“Hello there,” she said looking up at Jon and then to her
husband for introductions.
“This is Jon Ellis. He’s here on business for the Watch from
over at Camber. I asked him to eat with us.”
“One more, why that’s no bother. Come in, Jon. Set your
gear there by that bench. Are you hungry?” She slipped her arm
through his crooked elbow and led him from the rear entry
towards the kitchen.
“Rafe,” she called over her shoulder, “you go get cleaned up
outside, you’re blacker'n the forge itself today.” The back door
slapped shut as Rafe set off to follow orders.
Jon was deposited on a bench at a large table in the kitchen.
The aromas that rose above a couple of pots and something else
still sitting on the hearth made Jon’s mouth water. “Dinner’ll be
ready anytime, Jon, just the three, er... four of us now. Nothing
fancy you know, just plain farm fare.”
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 “Smells wonderful,” said Jon, “I didn’t eat much of a
breakfast, and I am starving!” Mistress Turpin beamed at him.
“We can fix that. We’ll eat as soon as the Rafe and Remick
get in here.
“Let me help you with that,” Mistress Turpin said as he
passed, whisking a piece of straw out of Jon’s hair that
apparently been sticking upright from the back of his head ever
since he had stepped down from Farmer Morris’s wagon;
instantly deflating the grand image of a messenger of the Guard
Jon had of himself since leaving Redding.
He patted the rest of his hair to make sure no more straw or
hay was to be seen, noticing his hair was getting a little
“unpruned” as Granny called it. Jon took a drink from the water
bucket and noticing that it was nearly empty, he offered to fill it
for her.
“That’s good of you, but Remick can do it when he comes
in.”
“Oh I don’t mind, Jon replied. “Just tell me where it is, and
I’ll fill it for you. Save Remick time cleaning up.”
“All right, Jon, it’s ‘round back and then on towards them
sheds out there. Can’t miss it.” She hurried to the front of the
house calling loudly for the third time for Remick to come in
and clean up. The threat of dinner being cold by the time he got
to table had the desired effect. Cold food was a threat any self-
respecting young Saesen heard three times a day for most of his
young life; Jon had. He smiled and carried the bucket out the
back door and filled it in no time under the close supervision of
the huge dog which watched him hopeful of some attention. Jon
ruffled the shaggy neck of the dog and hauled the bucket inside
careful to avoid spilling on the wood plank floors. As he set the
bucket in its place and turned to leave, he collided with Remick,
who had come charging down the hall at last following his
mother’s instructions.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Jon Ellis. I came with your uncle a while ago.”
“Oh,” said Remick, “glad to meet you.” He stuck out his
hand just as any adult would, and Jon shook it once, the
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preferred shake between grown ups in Saeland.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Jon said and drifted toward the
smells and sounds from the kitchen.
The table had been laid, and Jon sat where Mistress Turpin
indicated he should. Rafe came in next and sat down. He had
put on a clean tunic and scrubbed his knuckles until they were
raw, but the forge black would never come off, the forge’s
permanent tattoo on the smith’s hands.
“Glad to have you here, Jon, where is Remick?”
“Will you get him?” Mistress Turpin begged. “He’s being
awfully slow today.” Rafe rose and walked down the back hall.
Remick soon came charging down the hall pursued by Master
Turpin who was still laughing as he entered the kitchen.
“Beat you,” Remick crowed.
“Sure did,” replied Turpin chuckling. “Let’s eat!” he cried,
and the food appeared on the table as if by magic, gravy-thick
soup with carrots, onions, and pieces of pork. A plate of fat
barley bread followed the soup around.
The conversation turned all on Jon and his family and
connections. He even mentioned Meg’s family up at Ribble.
“Jon’s got Guard business to discuss,” Turpin announced
when everyone had finished. Jon thanked Mistress Turpin and
followed Rafe to a sitting room up in the front of the house after
picking up his pack. He set it down and pawed down to the
middle where the dispatch case lay hidden.
“Now what’s this all about, Jon?”
“Here’s a letter of introduction about me, and there’s a letter
for you from Thane Giffard, Master Turpin.”
Turpin’s eyebrows rose like two great shaggy hedges. Jon
handed both letters into Turpin’s large calloused hands.
Turpin checked and broke the waxen seals and leaned over
his elbows to read. He glanced up at Jon twice as he scanned
through the letter, either slowly or twice. He then checked the
contents of the dispatch case looking at each letter and the
addressee. He shoved them inside again and left the first letter
open on top.
“Says here you’re a newly-sworn guardsman yourself, Jon.
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Also says there’s summat goin’ on up north, but little enough
else, can you tell me anything more?”
“I think so, sir,” he said and recounted the discussion at the
Armory with Thane Giffard and the Earl.
Rafe’s scowl deepened the farther he read. “Nothing like
that’s happened since I’ve been swore in,” he said half to
himself.
“Anything else?”
Jon paused and told him about his own encounter with the
Norsk borderers.
“Now that is some news, who else knows about this?” Rafe
asked.
“Durban Turner up at Ribble, I told him when I passed
through there on the way home.
“I know Durban Turner well enough,” said Turpin. “A
good man to have on your side in a fight. Level-headed sort.
Anybody else?”
I told Garret Fletcher, he’s an apprentice to Master Ridley; I
traveled part of the way home with them. I don’t know if he
told Devin Ridley or not, but I’ve got a letter for Captain Ridley
as well. He’s working around here somewhere. He’s a mason.”
“I’ll bet they are the ones doing the stone work over at
Chandler’s place,” Turpin said.
“I don’t exactly know where he is, but I need to find him
quick.”
“I’m fairly sure they are working over at Rory Chandler’s.
It’s not that far from here. Jon, this will set the cat among the
mice,” said Turpin tapping the letter with his finger. “Sounds
like the beginning of troubles to me. So we’re to warn the lads
to be ready if we’re needed?”
“Yes, sir, Master Turpin, and the sooner the better.”
Where're you goin’ from here?”
“I’m off to Pendleton and then up to Saxford to pass along
the warnings.”
Rafe’s face showed his surprise. “By yourself? That’s a
lonely road if you ask me.”
“The Thane gave me a letter authorizing me to take someone
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else if I can find someone who can accompany me from either
here or some other place along the way.”
“Let me think about a little, Jon. I’ll take you out to
Chandler’s place and maybe we can find Ridley and the others.
Doubling the Guard, now that’s going to take some doing!”
Turpin shook his head.
“Jon, let me tell Aline I’m leaving, and we’ll walk out to
Chandler’s if you don’t mind the heat. We should be back here
in time for you to head home if you’re still of a mind to do that,
or if you’d rather stay the night with us, we’d be pleased to have
you.”
While Master Turpin went off to find his wife and tell her
where he was going, Jon stretched. Several long knives hung on
the far wall as if on display. Jon stepped over to examine them
more carefully. Never in all his life had he seen such
workmanship in steel. The knives shone; the edges razor sharp
and deadly, truly works of art. That’s where Rafe found him.
“Looking at the knives are you?”
“Yes,” said Jon in awe. “They are beautiful.”
“When I was apprenticed to old Reginald Engman, whose
place this was, he taught me that a smith isn’t all hammerin’
horseshoes. Working metal is a craft, and he taught me how to
make the knives. Sometimes when work is slow I’ll make up a
few and sell ‘em here and there.”
“These are masterpieces, Master Turpin, you ought to sell
them. They are that good.”
“Well,” said Rafe coloring a little, “maybe. Are you ready?
Just take what you think you’ll need for a few hours. Your
gear’ll be safe enough here.” Jon removed a few bulkier items
from his pack and went out the front door just ahead of Captain
Turpin.
The sun was stronger and the breeze from the morning had
died away leaving the air heavy and hot. The two men returned
to the main road, turned east and followed it towards Colby for
about a half a league and then turned south on the road to Seven
Wells which lay eight or ten leagues farther on. Several types of
grain ripening in the fields spread out in all directions between
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piled stone fences, but the farther they went, the more scattered
and smaller the small holdings became. It took years of hard
labor to clear new crofts out of the forest.
They walked for more than an hour talking about the
Holbourne Watch. ‘Sleepy’ was the word Rafe used for most of
the guardsmen around Holbourne, and observed that the Guard
in the surrounding hundreds was in the same state. They
approached a rather large house and outbuildings enclosed by a
stone wall. The farm buildings were arranged in a rectangle,
almost like a fort. “That’s Chandler’s place, good sort he is.
Let’s hope your Master Ridley is still here.”
Even before they got through the open gate, Jon knew
Ridley and his apprentices were there by the clinking sound of
hammers and chisels tapping and chipping away on stone. Rory
Chandler hobbled down the steps from his iron-banded front
door smiling.
“Rafe Turpin, what’s brought you all the way out here on
such a hot afternoon?”
“That it is,” Turpin acknowledged. “I want you to meet Jon
Ellis. He’s here looking for Devin Ridley, the stone mason. Is
that him I can hear?”
“That’d be the ‘prentices he’s got with him,” the elderly
Chandler replied. “Ridley’s had an accident I’m afraid.”
“Those boys have been breakin’ and settin’ rock like I’ve
never seen. Problem with these old places is the stonework
needs fixin’ every now and then, and I’m too old to do it any
more. But them boys can really make the stone fly. Like to
blind folks as are not payin’ attention, “ Chandler exclaimed.
“Pleased to meet you, Jon,” he said and bowed his sparsely
haired head in Jon’s direction. “Why don’t you go ‘round and
talk with them, and I’ll see if I can get Adela to find us
something to drink.”
“That’d be appreciated, Rory, thank you,” said Turpin.
Rory waved them on around and Rafe led the way. Scattered
over the ground around the east wall of the main house lay piles
of tan limestone in every stage of being worked. Kevyn and
Garret stared at the visitors, and then Garret recognized Jon.
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 “Hey, Jon, what are you doing here?” he called cheerfully.
“Hello, Garret, Kevyn,” Jon said. “This is Rafe Turpin from
Holbourne. He’s the section chief for the Guard down here.
We need to talk to Master Ridley. I have a letter for him from
Thane Giffard over at Camber.”
Kevyn made a wry face, “Master’s in a bad way, his leg’s
been crushed. An accident I’m afraid. He’s in his room over
there and jerked his thumb in the direction of an outbuilding set
against the far wall of the compound. “Come on over, and I’ll
see if he’s awake.”
The four men tramped across the yard while Kevyn and
Garret told about the accident. “The long shot of it is that he’s
bed-ridden until the healer says otherwise,” said Garret. “It
don’t look good,’” he said in a lowered voice.
Kevyn went inside and after a muffled conversation inside
he returned to the door and beckoned them inside.
The room was dark and smelled of medicine and the stale
unhealthy odor of close confinement. Kevyn lifted Ridley’s
head and propped him up so he could see and speak to his
visitors, but not without wrenching pain that paled him.
Turpin made the introductions, and Ridley remembered Jon
well enough.
“So what’s brought you all the way down here?”
“Master Ridley, I have a letter for you from Thane Giffard at
the Armory,” and held it out to him.
“What this is all about?” Ridley said as he took the letter.
Jon observed that Ridley’s leg was bandaged in a blood-stained
cloth from below his knee to his ankle.
Ridley broke the seal and read, but after just a moment he
rubbed his eyes and asked if someone would read it aloud. So
there in the half light Jon read the entire letter. “I’ve got a letter
of introduction for me,” said Jon, “if you want to see it.”
“Ridley forced a wan smile. “No, that’s all right, Jon. I
don’t know you well, but if Giffard has sent you, then I’m
satisfied.” Then he closed his eyes. The faces of both the
younger men paled at the letter’s content.
“He’s not well at all and can’t be moved. What are we
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going to do? Our folks have got to be warned,” Garret cried.
“Either of you know anything more about this?” Ridley said
in an exhausted voice.
“Jon knows more than I do,” replied Rafe. “I’m to relay
word to East March with instructions similar to yours as I
understand it.”
Ridley eyes sought out Jon’s face. “You weren’t a
guardsman when we traveled with us last week were you?”
“No sir. I wasn’t. I was just sworn in yesterday in
Camber.”
“And already a messenger?”
“Well, I happen to be at loose ends just now, sir.”
“Do you know anything of the road you will take?”
“I’ve studied the map at the armory and drawn one of my
own to help.”
The mason shrugged a little. “That is better than I would
have thought. How soon can you leave for Pendleton?”
“I’m to leave Holbourne for Redding today if at all
possible, sir.”
Ridley thought a moment gazing back at Garret and Kevyn.
“You can see I’m in no condition to start back. I had an
unfortunate run in with a large block of limestone two days ago
and smashed everything down there.” He arched up as the pain
overcame him for the third or fourth time since they had come
into the room.
Ridley continued in a few moments, but gasping. “I’ve got
two good seconds up there who’ll know what to do. Durban
Turner will have sent word over that way, I hope. You do what
Giffard has asked. Go to Pendleton and send us some men to
help fight, but you shouldn’t be going alone.”
Thane Giffard said I’m to ask for someone who does know
the road better than I do to go with me; if I can find someone
that is.”
“I’ve told Jon, I’ll ask around Holbourne,” said Turpin, “but
it will take a day or two to get around to them all. I just don’t
think anyone here knows the west country. We end up going
north or east on long circuits.” The room fell silent.
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 “Master Chandler will be most unhappy with us I think, but
first things first, I say,” concluded Ridley.
He turned to Jon. “You and Garret parted on friendly terms
the other day didn’t you? How would you feel about taking him
with you? He knows the country up toward Saxford. He’s not
swore in, but he’s been on more circuits with his dad and
brothers than most of the Guardsmen I know. He’s a marksman
like his brothers and wood wise for his age.
Jon felt infinitely relieved, “I’d like that fine, Master
Ridley.” Jon welcomed the idea of taking someone closer to his
age. “Will it be problem with his not being sworn in?”
Master Ridley smiled. “I don’t think half my section ever
came within thirty leagues of the Armory, and we’ve been
keeping watch for ages and ages.” He winced again at the pain
from his leg, and when he continued, it was in a voice short of
breath.
“I’ll keep Kevyn here with me, he’s the more skilled mason
of the two and then when the tender lets me travel, we’ll get a
cart and join you up at Saxford. You said you have a list of
section chiefs and seconds?”
“Seconds?” Jon asked
“Seconds are the under captains in each section. If you can’t
find the Captain, you’ll have to find out who the second is.”
“Oh,” shrugged Jon, “I remember Thane Giffard saying
something about a list, but I left it in my things at Turpin’s.”
Then I think Garret should go with you. Garret, what do
you say?”
Garret’s face showed a mixture of excitement and concern.
“What about you and Kevyn? He can’t do all this work by
himself. We need to get you home. You’re never going to get
well down here. We just don’t know how to take care of you.”
“Don’t fret, Garret. Kevyn and me’ll be fine. You are
needed up north and Jon here could use someone to show him
around. Don’t fuss about me; I’ll come north as soon as I can.”
“What do you think?” said Ridley looking up at Rafe
Turpin.
“In the little time I’ve known Jon, I’d say he’s a lot like his
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dad, and I’d have trusted Dean Turpin with my life.”
For Jon it was another completely new experience. Adults
looking for him to make a decision which affected them. He felt
self-conscious, but he spoke up.
“Then Garret it is, if he is agreeable,” said Jon.
“Oh, I don’t think it will be a difficult choice for him at
all,” chuckled the old stone mason. I’m afraid it’s been all work
in the heat so far. He’s a hard worker and learns fast. But a
chance to go larkin’ about the country being a guide will suit
him just fine.”
“One thing,” Jon said hesitantly, “if we’re supposed to be
doubling the Guard, can we begin with swearing Garret in?”
“I think the doubling of the Guard began with you
yesterday,” laughed Rafe. “We’ll swear him in today. Then
you’ll want to get started?”
“I’d like to leave my place in Redding tonight, if I…,if we
can get home in time.”
“Do you have something in writing from the Thane, so you
can get a place to stay and something to eat as you go?”
“I’ve got it in the dispatch case.”
“Good, that will save any trouble on the road. We can’t
expect folks to just give things away.”
“Now, Garret, Jon don’t know the country, and he shouldn’t
be wanderin’ up there all by himself anyway. This is official
Guard business, my boy. Serious business.”
Garret’s white teeth gleamed through the stone dust on his
face and his nod was all that was needed.
“I’m going to deputize you as a guardsmen, official-like
until you can be swore in proper.”
“Me too,” grumbled Kevyn.
Ridley looked each of them in the eye. “Do you swear
before these witnesses to serve and protect the land and people
of Saeland?”
“Yes,” they each answered.
“Then as Captain of the Saxford Hundred of North March, I
deputize you, Kevyn Collier, and you, Garret Fletcher,
Guardsmen of that section.” Ridley slumped back visibly
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weaker than when they had come.
“What about Master Chandler? asked Garret. “We’ve said
we’d do all this stone work for him.”
“You leave old Rory to me,” said Rafe. “He was a
guardsman in his day, and he’ll understand. Let’s go outside I
think we’ve worn Master Ridley right down.”
“Garret,” came a whispered voice from the bed, “we’re
depending on you to get us help, don’t fail us, will you?”
“No, Master Ridley, I give you my word.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Ridley sighed.
Leaving Ridley inside, Turpin led the young men outside.
“Garret, pack your gear. We’ll wait here.” Garret took off at a
dead run despite the heat.
“Maybe you should come here when all this blows over and
help me recruit a few lads from Holbourne and Colby,” kidded
Rafe. Jon just blushed a little, not sure how to respond.
“Here comes Master Chandler,” said Kevyn. And indeed
Master Chandler was attempting to carry a tray of wooden
beakers and came perilously close to dumping the lot into the
dirt. Rafe rushed to take the tray and help him come the rest of
the way, talking to him as he made his slow shaky way down
the stairs. By the time they reached a bench in the shade of a
fine tall beech tree, Rafe winked at Jon and the others to let
them know everything was settled.
“Too bad about everything happenin’ at once round here,”
said Rory. “But Watch duty comes first if we’re to sleep safe in
our beds. Nothing round here that can’t wait until fall or even
next year. Those boys are good workers; it’s too bad about
Ridley. The mid-wife who has been helping him doesn’t think
he’s got any chance of leaving his bed. Either the pain or the
fever will kill him. At least that’s what she said this morning.
The men stood silent, not knowing exactly how to deal with
the news.
Turpin said at last. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Not really, I’ll see that he’s looked after. You’ll need to
send word to his family in Saxford, though.”
“Garret is going that way with Jon,” explained Turpin.
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 “Jon, Jon who?” Rory fussed.
“This is Jon,” called Rafe, clapping Jon on the shoulder,
“he’s on Watch business.”
Rafe handed the drinks around and drank a sip from his
own. “Watch out!” he murmured under his breath. Kevyn and
Jon caught him making a wry face. The ale was cellar cool, but
without question in Jon’s mind it was the bitterest beer he had
ever drunk. Apparently Rory liked it that way because he drank
his straight down without a pause. Everyone else sipped very
slowly or not at all.
“Drink up, drink up, you can’t have old folks standing out in
the sun in the heat of the day,” the old man encouraged.
“You go on in, Rory; I’ll bring in the beakers when we
finish our business here.”
“Suit yourself then,” Rory replied and tottered back across
the yard to the house on Rafe’s arm. Rafe helped him get up the
stairs and then returned.
Garret came running toward them, tunic loose-belted, his
pack slamming against his back, his hair still wet and flying
around his face, bow in one hand and quiver in the other.
“Ready,” he gasped out of breath. His face had a grin that
wouldn’t quit.
“Here,” Kevyn said, “have some ale.” Garret took the cup
and drank a great swallow to catch up with the others and
shuddered involuntarily and grimaced which brought howls of
laughter from everyone else.
“What is that?” Garret shuddered. He set it down on the tray
with the rest of the cups, most only partially finished.
Rafe collected the rest and set off for the house with the tray.
“Off you go, Garret. You be sure and tell my folks hello,”
Kevyn said. “I’ll come as soon as …” words failed him, his face
a mix of sorrow and helplessness. “When you get home, you
take Jon straight to see Rob Forman, he’ll know what to do until
help arrives.” He turned to Jon.
“Pleasure to meet you, Jon, you be careful and keep an eye
on Garret for us. Good boy, but a bit unkempt even by North
March standards,” nodding at his appearance.”
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 “Take care of Master Ridley,” Garret said. “I’ll see you up
home soon.”
“I hope so,” replied Kevyn in a voice that had no confidence
that what he said was true.

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.

Jon and Garret stepped into the nearly deserted, summer-

baked road outside the inn. Garret had all kinds of questions
about Jon’s visit to Camber, so Jon told him everything he could
remember and then asked about the work at Chandler’s which
Garret described in less than glowing terms. The leagues
between Holbourne and Redding passed much quicker for the
conversation, and Jon was glad of it. They explored each
other’s families and stories about growing up, describing homes
and likes and dislikes in two different parts of Saeland. They
soon found, however, that despite growing up where they had,
they had many things in common. Jon asked many questions
about the places they were going, and the ones Garret could
answer he described as well as he could.
Garret couldn’t get over the fact that Jon had a whole house
to himself. With five brothers and a sister, two of his brothers
and himself in a single room, Garret could hardly believe that
such a luxury of space existed. The closer they came to
Redding, the more Garret realized that it was the largest
concentration of people he had ever seen.
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 He was intrigued to learn how so many people could live so
“crowded up”, as he put it. He was dumbstruck when Jon told
him that Redding was only half the size of Camber. Garret
shook his head. He had heard about these places all his life, but
until then he had only heard about the large towns of Saeland.
As the late afternoon sun dove toward the horizon, they arrived
at Jon’s cottage. When Jon reached his front door, he found a
letter which someone had stuck between the planks . “Come in
Garret; set your things down, the place is yours,” said Jon. He
dropped his pack where he stood and broke the wax seal to find
a terse note written in Thane Giffard’s strong hand.
“Received news last night that the Normen believe the
raiders have suffered a defeat up north, but a raiding party may
be headed across the borderlands. Perhaps down the old North
Road towards Saxford. Send every man who’ll listen; the safety
of Saxford and the other towns is at stake. I’ll send word north
directly and meet you there myself. Make them understand it’s
not just a Norsk problem now, it’s ours. Giffard”. Jon raised his
eyes to Garret.
“It’s from Giffard,” Jon explained, and read the letter aloud.
Garret’s face showed his alarm. “I’ve got to get back home,”
he gasped. “They’ll need every man to protect Saxford.”
Jon agreed, but he also had the Earl’s charge to carry the
warning westward first.
“I’m sure your natural reaction is to race up there right
away, Garret, but we’ve been asked to help raise the Guard all
over Saeland and the Dales. It seems to me we could do more
good raising the Guard for a few days than by hurrying up
tonight.”
Garret looked at Jon narrowly, considering what he’d said,
from his expression, Garret had yet to be to be won over.
“I’ll fix your supper while you think about it,” Jon offered.
You can help me decide what I need to take and what I should
leave home.”
“I won’t say I’m not starved,” said Garret with a grin. “Mind
if I clean off the dust from the road?” Garret asked. “Not much
chance of that for the next few days.”
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 “Of course,” Jon replied. “I’ll get the fire going and heat up
the water.”
“Oh, no thanks Jon, cool water’s what I’ve been thinking of
all day.”
“Well’s out back then, Garret. I’ll find something to eat.”
Jon busied himself fixing supper for the two of them and
thought it was pleasant to have company in the house. Garret’s
splashing and humming in the back made Jon think about how
nice it would be to have Meg there, to hear her about the house.
Garret came back through the back door, combing his wet hair
with his fingers.
“Now that was a needed wash, I’d stone dust in every
crevice.”
“What do you think of becoming a mason now?” asked Jon.
“Don’t know what to think,” Garret answered. “Lots of
work for sure, but I learned nothing about carving stone. My
arms’ll be big as Rafe Turpin’s if I stick it through.” He flexed
his biceps and then winced. “Can’t say I’m unhappy about going
on circuit, though. Can you believe they asked us to go?” His
wonder echoed Jon’s.
“There hasn’t been enough time to sink in yet.” They sat
down and ate without much talking. Garret was thoughtful.
“What have you decided about going west, Garret?” Jon
asked at length, hoping for one answer, dreading the effects of
the other.
“The way I see it, Jon, is if I go off now, I’d be just one, but
if we go west and can convince others to help defend the border,
there might dozens or more. So I’ll stick to the plan. We’re off
in the morning?”
“We are,” smiled Jon. “In fact, come into the other room and
tell me what I ought to be taking,” said Jon. “Here’s the stacks
of things I thought I might need.”
Garret shook his head, “Go light, Jon. Spare tunic, bedroll,
pot, pan, circuit gear.”
“Circuit gear?” asked Jon.
“Your knife, bow, quiver, a little food maybe. We’ll stay in
small towns, most have inns, if not we’ll stay in houses, folk are
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hospitable up our way. We can get what we need as we go.”
“What about my jerkin?” Jon asked. “Do you wear one?”
“Nope, don’t know anyone that does. It might prove useful
in a fight, if you’re minded to wear it everywhere, but it looks
heavy and hot to me.”
“Then I’ll leave it here. I don’t want to carry any more than
I have to. We’re supposed to hurry along after all.” Jon was
more relieved than he let on. He could put everything Garret had
mentioned in his pack and it would not be much heavier than the
one he carried from Camber yesterday. The walk from
Holbourne had taken longer than Jon had anticipated. He had
hoped to leave after supper, but it was already getting dark, and
the heat had sapped every bit of his energy; he was bone weary.
After discussing it, they decided they should stay the night
and go see the Thane and tell him what needed to be done.
Even if the Guard wasn’t organized at Redding, common sense
dictated that men would head north to protect Saeland. At least
that is what Jon and Garret thought as they approached the large
compound where Thane Gessing lived. Dogs barked and a
weary servant inquired as to their business. But this was not the
Earl’s house. The thane’s place could scarcely be distinguished
from many of the larger farms around Redding.
“What all this about?” demanded the Thane when he
emerged into the early evening.
Jon recounted what happened, explaining that the Earl
wanted men up on the borders as soon as they could muster a
unit.
“That is worrisome,” said the Thane as he scratched his
stubbled cheek. “How many men need to go?”
Jon shrugged. “No one ever said anything about numbers,
that I heard. But It seems like everyone you can get to go,
should leave soon.”
Anson Gessing hesitated and smiled. “Well, thank you
boys. You go on west tomorrow and leave this to me. I’ll take
care of everything.”
Jon and Garret smiled in relief as they left the Thane’s place,
excited that they had started to fulfill their commission from the
177
Earl. To celebrate they stopped by the tavern and drank two
pots of cool ale. They shared their errand with the few others in
the tavern and then went home to Jon’s place.
Jon went back to sorting through what he should take with
him. Garret made recommendations while he put his own pack
in order.
“Are there any places we’ll be forced to camp between here
and the Dales? Garret asked.
“Between Redding and Pendleton I doubt it,” Jon replied.
“The first day or so is all fields set off by hedgerows and
pastures, so we’ll put the Earl’s letter to work for us and stay
inside and dry.”
To Garret it sounded like luxury, hardly the circuitin’ he’d
described to Jon.
“We ought to start before sunrise, there’s a lot of country
between here and Saxford.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jon agreed. “Let me show you where
you can sleep.”
Garret laughed, “My own room and a bed to myself. Never
slept in my own room before, this will be a treat.”
“Enjoy it tonight, Garret. Because from tomorrow on we’ll
be sleeping in strange beds or no beds at all until we end up
wherever we end up.”
Jon checked the house one last time in the half light from the
windows to determine if everything was in relative order. He lit
a lamp and set it on the bench in his room and opened the
window shutters onto the garden. The room was overheated
from being closed up all day, even with the window wide open
to allow any passing breeze to creep inside, and that only if he
left his door wide open. He lay back against his pillow, his
mind in a whirl. But uppermost on his mind was what he should
do about the promised visit to Meg.
He couldn’t just fail show up without a word on Marketday.
He kicked himself for not writing earlier. As late as it was, he
moved to the bench up and wrote to let Meg know he would be
delayed. He owed it to her; she’d already expressed how she
was feeling about the long stretch between visits. Jon was not a
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good correspondent, more than once his mother had given him a
good talking to about it, to no avail. She made sure he’d learned
to read and write, and she expected him to put those skills to
good use every chance he got. Jon picked up the lamp and found
a scrap of parchment and opened the ink bottle and set the quill
on the bench in the lamplight. He ended up telling the Turners
that he was now a sworn member of the Guard, Durban would
like that. He told them about most of the visit to Camber to see
his mother and Granny. Edlyn and Meg would like that. He
explained his errand for Thane Giffard saying that he was
leaving on a circuit for the Guard west to Pendleton and then up
through North March and promised would stop by Ribble on his
way back. He hesitated about writing why, but decided they
would soon know about what Normen had said anyway. He
wanted Meg to understand why he wasn’t going to make it up to
Ribble as he had promised. Jon explained he wasn’t sure how
many days it would be, but he did tell them that Garret was
accompanying him, so they weren’t to worry.
He wrote a last and longest section to Meg that told her how
he was feeling, hoping she would understand and how much he
looked forward to seeing her again, and that he loved her. He
closed by telling her he had a present for her whenever he could
get to Ribble. His hand was cramped from writing by the time
he finished. He folded and sealed it with thick drops of hot wax
and addressed the letter to Meg. He hoped to find someone
going towards Ribble before leaving town to carry it. When he
had finished the note to Meg, Jon wrote a message to Thane
Giffard, to let him know about Garret and that they had received
his urgent message.
“Garret,” he called, “you still awake?”
“Yes,” came the sleepy reply.
“Here’s what I’ve written to the Thane, do you want to look
it over?”
Jon walked Giffard’s note into Garret’s room carrying his
lamp.
Garret took the note and turned it this way and that, glanced up
at Jon sheepishly.
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 “Sorry, Jon, I never learned to read much. What does it
say?”
Jon took the note back and read it aloud without comment.
It was not that unusual for people not to read. His own mother
could barely make out her own name on parchment.
“I guess it’s not a holiday any more is it?”
“Nope,” Jon replied. “Not any more.”
“We’ll get going early?”
“Sounds good to me, Garret said. “I worry about my folks,
up there in the way.”
Thane Giffard said he’s sent word directly, so they’ll not be
caught off guard.
“No,” laughed Garret. “Da’ and the men up there’ll make
sure no raiders get within fifty leagues of Saxford. But I worry
about Mam and my brothers and sister; they’ll be frightened,
that’s for sure.”
“Get what sleep you can. Goodnight, Garret,” Jon said and
went back to his room.
He stuck some parchment into his bag as an after thought He
could hear Garret breathing heavily in the next room. He pulled
out the bandana-wrapped package and held the ring and amulet
in his hand. On the spur of the moment he unclasped the silver
chain fastened the bloodstone about his neck and clambered
under the sheet and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

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6
Hazardous Beginnings

Jon woke to the smell of breakfast cooking. Stumbling

outside to the wash bucket, he splashed his head and face with
water and found himself whistling as he went into the summer
kitchen.
“Good morning, lie a bed!” called Garret. “The sun’ll be up
and we’re still sitting around here as if we had all the time in the
world!”
Jon grinned, but was more interested in Garret’s culinary
skills. Then again what can he do to porridge and a couple of
eggs? he wondered. He devoured everything Garret had fixed.
“I’ll clear away the dishes,” offered Jon, and Garret went
outside to gather his tunic from the clothesline. While they
finished packing, Jon pulled out the map he’d made at the
Armory and showed it to Garret. According to the map they
would go west through Selby and through the West Dales to
Pendleton in about two days. Then they would turn north
through Fulham, another day and a half. From Fulham they
would head north to Saxford. After that Jon would retrace his
steps through Whitburn and Gamble, Ribble and back to
Redding.
“So we’ll camp rough tonight then?” said Garret.
“Maybe, weather looks all right.”
“A bit of a breeze this morning, maybe there’s rough
weather out there, but not for a day or two is my guess,” said
Garret.
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 “Then let’s get going.”
“Yes, sir,” said Garret mockingly, and they both laughed.
Jon topped off his pack with the last must-have items he’d
talked himself into taking since last night’s repacking. He took
one last tour around the house to close the shutters and make
sure the back door was shut tight. The last thing he added was
the package he’d made containing the ring he’d bought for Meg
and put it into his blue handkerchief and shoved it as far down
into his pack as he could.
Garret was sitting on the bench with his well-worn boots up
on his pack humming. “All ready then?”
“I think so,” said Jon. “I still feel like I’ve forgotten
something.”
Garret laughed, “You’ve fussed with that pack three times.
You have all the important gear, the rest you won’t need or
we’ll get later.”
Jon shrugged, “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
Garret led the way out of the front door, and Jon pulled it
shut after him, his letter to Meg in his hand. “I need to find
someone to take this letter for Meg before I go.”
Meg?” asked Garret.
“I guess I haven’t told you much about her yet, have I?” As
they marched, Jon told Garret about Meg Turner, perhaps more
than Garret really wanted to know.
Garret listened and thought about Rowan Woodard up home.
Not that she pays me much attention, he thought wistfully, as
Jon rattled on. Jon led Garret to the house of one of his cousins
who agreed to find someone to take the message to Holbourne.
On the short way back onto the Selby Road Jon asked Garret if
he had anyone he was interested in. Garret told him about
Rowan, and the frustration he had because she thought of him as
an old friend and nothing more.
“Now that you’re sworn in, how could she not pay
attention?” laughed Jon.
“That’s no help to me, everyone our age is in the Guard or
going to be in it up there, Jon.”
“Here in Redding I don’t know one man, young or old who
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is in the Guard. My grandfather was in it, but he lived over in
Camber. I’m sorry, Garret, I was just joking,” Jon apologized
Garret grinned, “ I know.”
They passed the mill, and Jon regaled Garret with the best
stories about his former employer. Jon saw the millwheel
turning, water flashing in the morning sun and felt not a whit of
doubt or guilt about not going to work. Jon waved to a few
neighbors and friends working in front gardens or walking
errands.
Garret still couldn’t get over the number of people in one
place. He just couldn’t see what they all did to support their
families. Jon explained the skills or crafts that some of his
neighbors used to bring in enough additional income so that
they could live comfortably. Garret thought it strange, up home
everyone farmed. A few people had skills like Jon was
describing, and at best those jobs were sometime work, not
enough to keep a household going. But if there was enough
work to go around, then it made sense, just different than North
March, that was all.
The two finally left the streets of Redding proper and passed
into the powerfully fertile lands around it. Tilled fields became
larger and the farmsteads spread out on all sides into the
distance on what everyone called the West Downs that stretched
all the way to Selby. The farther west they went the less settled
the land became. It was sheep country, and all the way to Selby
they passed flock after flock of them grazing on the hillsides.
Garret was fundamentally a cheerful person, Jon decided.
He didn’t take himself too seriously, and spoke his mind openly,
all of those qualities appealed to Jon.
Jon’s upbringing stressed politeness, behaving like everyone
else, doing nothing to excess or that might cause the neighbors
to start talking. It was an upbringing typical for most young
people around Redding with rather stiff, formal interaction
between close-living neighbors. Jon wasn’t sure if it was just the
way Garret was, or if it was the way Northerners were, but he
enjoyed Garret’s complete lack of pretense.
Garret on the other hand didn’t know what to make of Jon.
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His speech was so formal; it was like trying talk with a foreigner
all the time. Jon also talked too much, blathering on about
things, but he was likable and pleasant enough. Garret had been
a little concerned that Jon might lord it over him what with him
having the dispatch case and everything the Thane had said, but
he was relieved that so far they had struck up an easy friendship.
Garret was prepared to like Jon if he turned out to be a good
sort. He would watch and listen.
The south breeze was stronger that morning, and Jon agreed
with Garret’s assessment about the weather. Full Summermonth
was usually one of the wetter months in Saeland. They were on
an important errand, but no rain would hinder them from calling
out the Guard.
They kept up a good pace, but the silences stretched out a
little too long, which was uncomfortable for Jon. He wondered
if something was wrong, or if he’d said something to offend
Garret. He realized he had been pestering Garret with
questions. Garret wasn’t saying much, and Jon felt like he was
about to run out of topics for polite conversation. At last he
strode alongside Garret without talking, just the sound of their
footfalls, the wind, and a kestrel in the distance.
Jon said nothing, but was becoming alarmed because Garret
still wasn’t saying anything.
“Ah, thank you,” sighed Garret at last.
“Thank me, for what?”
“For not asking me any more questions. I thought you were
going to talk all the way to Selby. Do all Redding folk talk so
much?” asked Garret.
“What?” said Jon. “Talk so much?”
“Do you realize that since we left your house this morning it
is the first real quiet we’ve had?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Garret thought for a moment and then turned toward Jon as
they kept moving. “We are going on circuit. I know that you
want to get to know me, and I want to get to know you too. But
circuitin’ is time for looking and listening. That’s how we do
our job. Now, Jon, I like you fine. I think we’re going to be
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good friends, but there are times between friends when quiet is
good. We will get to know each better in the next few days, but
out on circuit we need four eyes and four ears to keep us out of
trouble, and Saeland well watched.”
Garret was relieved that Jon wasn’t upset; he was trying to
teach Jon something important about being a militiaman. Jon
realized at once if he listened more and talked less, he would
learn things that couldn’t be taught in words.
A little humbled, Jon said, “You’ll remind me if I’m talking
too much?” Garret smiled.
By early afternoon they reached the Selby crossroads on the
road into the West Dales where it intersected the road north to
Whitburn. They both had to listen carefully to what people said
in order to understand them. Dale folk used a clipped dialect as
if conversation was wasted breath. The two young travelers
stopped at one of the two inns in Selby. The Barley Stook’s
faded sign board hung above the door. They stepped into the
darkened common room where three or four men were eating.
All of them turned to see who had come in, but no one said a
word or nodded the customary greeting. The innkeeper came
out, a greasy-haired, unkempt fellow.
“What you want?” he demanded in a surly tone and
grudgingly moved off to get them the ales they asked for. They
sat at a table and waited while the keeper was gone. He
returned and planted the wooden cups on the table sloshing the
drinks onto the surface of the table.
“At’ll be four bits, boys,” he said. Jon put the money on the
table and the keeper swept it off and turned on his heel and
disappeared.
“Friendly lot ‘round here,” said Garret into his mug quietly.
Despite the unfriendly reception, they enjoyed the cool interior.
The day had grown hot outside. When the innkeeper came
back, Jon asked him what the road was like between Selby and
Pendleton. The innkeeper grinned.
“Have you ever been up to Fulham, young sir?”
“No,” replied Jon, “can’t say that I have.”
“Well, it’s kind of like that,” the innkeeper shot back and
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went about his business.
Garret tried so hard not to laugh that he ended up coughing
when some of his drink leaked down the wrong throat as they
say. Jon pounded him on the back, and they chuckled about that
and then having finished their drinks left the inn and went back
out into the windy sunshine.

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 tried to persuade Garret that the innkeeper was short on

intelligence, and Garret, just as certain, tried to convince Jon
that the man was giving them a bad time. They came to the
crossroads and laughed out loud at the sign someone had
knocked about a bit and left permanently leaning north; the arms
pointing distinctly not to Pendleton, Whitburn, and someplace
called Barnstead.
“Not too informative around here are they?” said Jon
“Not if they can help it,” Garret chuckled.
“Let’s see if we can find someone who can tell us where to
find Nick Kendall.” Jon noticed an older gentleman working in
his front garden just a few steps from the crossroads sign, and
decided to ask him. He didn’t have to catch his attention; the
man who held his hand above his brow had been watching them.
“Good afternoon,” Jon opened.
“Afternoon,” the man responded cautiously.
“I am Jon Ellis from Redding, and this is a friend of mine,
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Garret Fletcher from up at Saxford.”
“Don’t get many folks down ‘ere from up that way. You got
family down ‘ere?” the older gentleman asked.
“No, sir,” answered Garret, “Guard business.” Jon’s jaw
dropped open. Garret hadn’t heard the sense of urgent
discretion that Thane Giffard had charged Jon with. Jon hadn’t
explained that to Garret, and so he could only blame himself,
but at the first opportunity to foul things up, he had managed to
let it happen. He hadn’t liked the look of those men at the inn
and didn’t think it prudent to bring up the reason for their visit.
Jon’s shock communicated itself to Garret who began
stammering out something to cover his mistake. The old
gentleman stared hard at them.
“Well, that isn’t hard to see. No one but Guardsmen’d walk
‘round these days with bows on their backs and long knives in
their belts!” Then he laughed, low and pleasant. “Don’t worry
yourselves. You saved yourselves a little trouble anyway.
There’s some folk hereabouts would trip up a couple of young
travelers if they get a chance, but with that kit you’ve got on,
they’ll think twice ‘fore they come after you.”
“Now,” he said changing the subject. “What do Guardsmen
want ‘round ‘ere?”
“We’re looking for Nick Kendall. We have a message for
him from Thane Giffard.”
The older man raised his eyebrows. “You two have come to
the right man then. I’m Hal Wicker, and Nick holds the hythe
strip next to mine. Why don’t you come in. Nick isn’t home and
won’t be for about a week. Went off to his folks down towards
Barnstead for the Midsummer. He won’t be back for a day or
so.”
“How about his second?” Garret asked.
“Fraid he’s gone too. This time of year’s slow on the farms
and lots of folks take a few days or so ‘round Midsummer if
they can.”
“What should we do?” Jon asked Garret. He shrugged.
Jon thought for a second and then turned to the elder Master
Kendall. “I don’t suppose you know anyone else in the Guard?”
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 The man straightened up a little and said proudly, “Been in
the Guard since your age, young man. Was Captain of this ‘ere
section for many years. Nick took my place once I couldn’t get
about as well as I used to. What’s wrong?”
Jon explained the situation and handed Master Kendall the
letter which he opened and read.
“This is real trouble I think, more than just havin’ few
ruffians around here. I suppose you’re off to Ashby and
Pendleton next?”
“Yes, sir, the militia needs to head north as soon as they can.
We don’t know when the trouble’s coming, but the Normen say
those raiders could come down the North Road within the week.
We need every man you can muster headed to Saxford.”
Kendall thought another moment. “You boys go on; I’ll go
to work on this. I’ll send a message down to Nick to hurry on
home, and there’s several of us as are here will muster this
section. Says here we should take the older boys too?”
“As you think best, Master Kendall.”
“Why don’t you come in for a drink and something to eat;
it’s awful hot out there.”
“No, thank you,” said Jon, “we’ve got to keep moving. We
hope to see your section up north as soon as they can get there.”
“You leave it to me, if I could roust ‘em once, I can roust
‘em again,” he called after them. Both Jon and Garret had the
sense that Master Kendall enjoyed being at the center of things
once more.
“Good luck to you!” Kendall called as they left his front
garden.
“Don’t you worry yourselves, you’ll see some us from Selby
in the north before you know it.”

“That didn’t turn out too badly,” commented Jon as they

tramped past Selby’s last house.
“I’m sorry about speaking out of turn,” Garret apologized.
“Didn’t know we were to keep quiet about this. Up home
everyone I know is in the Guard and everyone knows everyone
else’s business.”
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 “Little different down here,” Jon explained. “Most people in
Redding think the whole idea of the Guard is old fashioned and
silly.” But Thane Giffard was more worried about someone who
might try to stop us. We’ve got to keep our eyes open, because
I didn’t like the stares we got from those men back at the Barley
Stook.
“Fortunately for us, it sounds like the Guard around here
runs about the same as your people at Saxford , Garret, so we’ll
just do as Thane suggested. Don’t know if Thane Giffard had it
in mind to call up old folks and scare them half to death, but
what’s done is done. No harm done, to my way of thinking.”
Beyond Selby the road narrowed and rose into the hills west
of town. The hay harvest wasn’t far off and the seas of gold and
brown ebbed away rapidly once they left the downs and climbed
the first ridge above Selby. The dusty road became white chalk
and shards of flint glinted from the roadway. Grass grew a foot
high on the slopes of the treeless ridge. Ponies grazed in the
distance, but not a farmhouse or barn was to be seen anywhere.
The equally treeless fell reached as far as either one of them
could see north or south and rose higher to the west; it was wide
and lonely country. The wind swept across them from the south
stronger than ever causing the grass to billow like waves on the
sea that Jon had heard about but never seen. Cart tracks headed
off in one direction or another, and stacked-stone sheep folds
stood shoulder high, half hidden by the tough wire grass. Since
leaving Selby they hadn’t seen anyone at all. As they reached
the far edge of the stony plateau, Garret gasped.
“Look at that, Jon!” pointing to the crest of the hill on the far
side of the deep coombe lying across their path. Garret
followed Garret’s pointing finger and his mouth, too, gaped
open in astonishment.
About half way up the long ridge in front of them was the
giant figure of a horse, somewhat stylized, but easily
recognizable as if caught in mid-stride.
“It must be a hundred feet high, and twice that long!”
exclaimed Garret, and they stood stock still at the wonder of it.
“Another one!” cried Jon pointing, look at that! Another
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horse caught between steps, mane swept back and the tail flying
had been carved into the white chalk half a furlong north of the
first.
“They are incredible!” murmured Jon in awe. The white
chalk in the bright afternoon sun reflected from the second
figure which was easily as large as the first, created in the same
stylized manner capturing the grace and flowing movement of
the horses.
“How were they made? Garret wondered aloud.
“Let’s get a closer look,” suggested Jon. “I’d like to know
the answer to that myself.”
The two travelers recovered themselves enough to continue
walking down the hill. They took a long drink and splashed
water over their heads to cool off as they crossed the stream in
the bottom of the dale. Making their way north along a cart
track running along the bottom of the valley, they came to stand
below the first figure. The turf had been removed from above
the underlying chalk layers to create the figures and the lines
that had looked so crisp across the valley were less distinct the
closer they approached. When they gazed back across the
valley to the hill they had just come down, they saw two more
figures, a great mare running with a colt at her side. Of the
three it was the most spectacular of all. Through the red
birches lining the stream, Garret spied what was on first glance,
a stone tower, half-screened by the willows near the brook.
“What is that? gestured Jon.
Let’s take a look,” suggested Garret. “It looks like a broch
to me.”
“Broch? Jon questioned.
“You know, an old tower fort. Don’t you have them around
Redding?
No, replied Jon, I’d remember something like this.”
“It’s not like I’ve seen many of them, you understand.
There’s a huge one up the valley above Saxford at Highbury.
We don’t go near the thing after dark if it can be helped. I’ve
heard there’s a bogle lives up there. This looks like a perfect
place for one. I don’t want any trouble, Jon,” Garret said as he
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cast his eyes nervously toward the stream.”
“Oh, come on, Garret, it’s broad daylight. Dark wights only
have power at night, don’t they?”
Grudgingly Garret trailed after Jon, who was keen to see the
ruin up close. The lowest courses were made of giant monolithic
stones that must have taken many people to move any distance
at all. Above those the courses were piled on top of each other
so carefully that the wall was nearly smooth farther than either
Garret or Jon could reach. A gaping doorway protected by an
enormous lintel of worn red stone beckoned to them, and they
bent nearly double to get through. Fifteen feet of solid rock
enclosed them creating a cool, cave-like entrance admitting
them into the courtyard in the center of the broch. The ground
was littered with stones that had fallen from the upper stories of
the building.
“This is older than any building I’ve ever seen,” Jon
whispered. The ruin’s enormous oval stood the height of tall six
or seven men. There were deep holes in the stone where once
great beams fitted into notches in the walls to support the floors.
The fine stone work on such a monstrous scale defied
description, and they marveled that the inner walls were even
smoother than the outer ones with curious whorls and spirals
spidering across the surface of many stones. It reminded Jon of
Woden’s stone at the Harrow back in Redding. Here and there a
shaped stone suggesting a face peeked down at them from
sightless sockets. The courtyard lay half in shade where
emerald moss covered entire stones in a living green cloak.
Amazed at the amount of effort and number of people it must
have taken to build such a structure, they sat on a large stone
block in the shade listening to water dripping somewhere into a
tiny pool. The wind rushed through different sized openings in
the stone and sounded like soft sad notes played by a gigantic
piper. Jon who had entered full of bravado in daylight glanced
at Garret who stood poised for flight.
“That was odd,” Jon said, “almost like music.”
“Right, then, this is no place for living men,” whispered
Garret and ducked back through the passage. Jon looked around
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again, less confident than before and when next the soft wind
music sounded, he too shuddered at the haunting quality of the
sound as if some unseen touched the back of his neck. He
sprang back through the entrance and out into the living
sunshine to Garret’s great relief.
Jon turned back to fix the broken tower-like broch and the
mare and foal across the vale in his mind. What they had seen
was undoubtedly the work of a people, ancient beyond knowing,
who left the imprint of their dreams in the waking world.
They trudged their way to the top of the next fell ahead of
them. Reluctantly they turned away as the ridge they climbed
obscured the chalk horses. The wind blew steadily across the
higher fell which was even more barren than the last. The road
in many places was so old that six inch wide grooves had been
worn into the chalk bedrock. How long had it taken to mark the
very landscape with the passage of so many vehicles and leave
so little behind, Jon wondered? They passed several tumbled
down stone piles which might have been ruins, but were so
overgrown with grass that it was hard to tell. From the top of
the fell they saw that that a series of plateaus stood between
them and the rugged mountains in the far distance.
“West Dales?” asked Garret.
“Must be,” replied Jon. “I was hoping there’d be a small
village or town in this one; Ashby must be farther west.”
“Do you suppose we’ll get there before nightfall? asked
Garret.
Jon shook his head. “I’ve never been over here before, so I
don’t know. We have plenty of daylight left.”
They spent the next two and a half hours crossing the top of
the next rocky tableland in the heat of the afternoon. Looking
past the edge of the treeless fell into a wide dale with a fair sized
stream running through it, they saw the green checkerboard of
farms and at least three small villages scattered along the dale to
the south. On the side hills to the north they saw the tips from
the silver mines and below them the smoke from the smelter
chimneys.
“If there’s an inn at Ashby I’d like to stop and eat, I’m half
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starved.”
“Anything we’d fix would be a poor supper indeed,” Garret
said. “Nothing they could serve would be worse than what I
would.”
“Then it’s settled,” laughed Jon. “Ashby it is.”
Two tired, footsore young men made their way into the
central village of the dale, the familiar smell of cook fires filled
their senses. The contrast between the empty lands where they
had been walking since Selby and the richness of the dale made
it hard to believe that they were in the same part of Saeland. The
road led past a tiny inn, the Eagle by its signboard at the end of
the stone bridge across the stream, not much more than a two
story house. The doorway was low, and they had to bend down
to enter. No one else sat in the common room, but as soon as
they entered, a young man perhaps fourteen or fifteen came out
of the kitchen and cheerfully invited them to sit down.
“What can I get fer you’?” he asked.
“We’ve been walking all day from Redding and are starved.
May we get some supper.”
“Aye, sir, you can,” the boy answered brightly. “Will you
be stayin’ the night?” he asked in the clipped dialect of the
Dales.
“No, we are off again as soon as we’ve finished,” Jon said
after he’d worked out what the young man had said.
“Sit yourselves down. Can I get you somethin’ to drink?”
“Best ale, for me,” said Jon
“Make that two,” added Garret.
“Comin’ right up, sirs. Ma’s made pork pasties fresh this
mornin’ if that’ll suit you?”
Garret’s mouth was already watering. “That sounds fine to
me. What’s your name?
“My name’s Garn; this is Ma’s place.”
“Good to meet you, Garn. I’m Garret, and this is Jon We
are on our way to Pendleton. Can you tell us how far it is over
there?”
“You have about a four hour walk o'er Windy Top, then
another five or six down to Pendleton. A good day’s walk
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anyway. If there’s nothing else sirs, I’ll be right out with your
supper.”
Garn brought out the ale and then returned to the kitchen.
“I hear what you meant by clipped speech, Jon. I thought
we was bad up home, but nothing like this,” said Garret.
“Just takes a little getting used to, I guess,” Jon surmised.
Garn came out with a large tray and set down two large
plates each with its enormous meat pastry, a bowl of boiled
carrots and half a loaf of fresh bread still steaming from the
oven. They ate ravenously. Garn hung around wiping tables
and to see if they needed anything else. Garret had him bring
another beaker of ale, and they asked him about the chalk
carvings on the hill.
“Don’t know who carved ‘em. Older'n the town for sure.
Not but few folk come o’er from the rest of Saeland to see ‘em.
I think they’re grand!”
“Any more of them?” asked Jon.
“You’ll have seen them horses in the last dale, right?” Garret
and Jon nodded vigorously. “We got some geese north of here
and there’s more up dale above the lake near Alton, just little
ones.”
When they had finished eating, Garn brought his mother out
and introduced them. He was an intelligent boy and very
informative as it turned out.
Jon finally got around to his business, “I’ve a letter I’m
supposed to deliver to a man by the name of Wells. You know
him?”
“Aye, sir I do. About ten doors down that way,” he said,
thumbing to the west. “Has a blue door on his house. Can’t
miss it.”
“Thank you, Garn, how much do we owe you?”
“Six bits each, sir.”
“Worth it,” said Garret and flipped him a penny.
“Thank you kindly,” said the boy. Jon, too, handed him a
penny, and the boy bowed and began clearing up after them.
Picking up their packs, Garret and Jon went out into the late
afternoon sun.
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 They found the house with the only blue door on any house
lining the road and knocked at it. A plump, smiling woman
answered the door and asked them inside.
“Sit yourselves down,” she invited. “I’ll go get my husband;
he’s out in the yard somewhere.” They stood politely and
waited. Jon pulled the letter addressed to Wells out of the
dispatch case and held ready. Mistress Wells came back and sat
with them while her husband made his way into the house. She
asked them about where they came from and about their
families. Wells came in, and they introduced themselves.
“Master Wells, said Jon, I have a letter from Thane Giffard
at the Armory.”
Wells raised his eyebrows. “What’s this all about?” He took
the letter and holding it slightly farther away, read it, glanced at
them and read it again. “The Guard all the way up to Saxford is
it? Never happened in my time or my dad’s neither. It’ll take
me a day or two round ‘em up, but we’ll head north the day after
tomorrow. Says here we should take anyone who’ll go, that
right?”
“Yes, sir, Master Wells. The Normen say trouble is coming.
We’ll need every man we can muster.”
Wells shook his head suddenly remembering his duty as
host. “Where’ll you boys be staying tonight?”
“We’d hoped to be in Pendleton today, but it looks like it
won’t be until tomorrow now. We thought we’d push on until it
gets dark.
“With a message like this you can’t dawdle, but it’s to be a
hard bed tonight for you.” He thought a moment. “Windy
Top’s wider than the fell you crossed today, and it’ll be cold
sleeping I’m afraid. If you get going now, you can get up onto
the fell while it’s still light. Once you come up on top, you’ll
see there’s a dell off to the south. Has a grove of larches and a
small lake in the middle. If you take the path over there, you’ll
find a travelers shelter. You can stay there if you like. At least
you’ll be out of the wind and there’s a fireplace if you get too
cold.”
That sounded better than wrapping up in a hooded cloak and
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sleeping on the ground to Jon. They thanked Wells and said
they’d see him in a few days in Saxford. Mistress Wells asked
them to stay to supper, but they told her they had just eaten at
the Eagle.
When they were just even with the last house in Ashby
proper, Garret saw Garn, the young man from the inn, jogging
after them carrying Jon’s walking stick.
“I just noticed that you forgot your walking stick,” Garn
said, holding it out to Jon, who took it and thanked him. He’d
lost more walking sticks than he could count.
Garn turned to leave and then turned back, as if he suddenly
remembered something he meant to say before. “You weren’t
traveling with anyone were you?”
“No,” Jon replied. “Just the two of us.”
Garn scratched his head, looking perplexed. “Hardly my
business, you’ll pardon me,” he said, “but not long after you
left, four men stuck their heads in and asked if I’d seen two
young men pass through town. I told them you had, then
wished I hadn’t. They were rough looking men, if you know
what I mean. I’d not want to meet them on the fell. Maybe I’m
interfering where it’s not wanted, but if those four were
following me, I’d want to know about it. Anyway, there’s your
stick. Good luck!”
“Thanks Garn, we appreciate it.” Garret turned to look at
Jon. “Suppose it’s them from Selby?”
“Can’t think who else it’d be, unless the Guard in Selby is
on someone else’s side.”
“What do you mean?” Garret asked perplexed.
Jon quickly explained Thane Giffard’s warning that a few
Saesen were plotting trouble.
Garret scoffed, “You’re crazy, who’d do anything like that?
Doesn’t sound like people I know.”
“Nor I,” said Jon. “But Giffard and the Earl think there are
some. Anyway we’ve been warned. Keep your knife loose, and
your eyes open.”
Garn had listened to the exchange with wide eyes. “You’re
still going up on the fell?”
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 “Have to,” replied Jon, “unless there’s another way over to
Pendleton.”
Garn shook his head. “You could get there, but it would be
days, the brush is just too thick. The fell tops are clear, but
getting up and down through the brush would be terrible hard
work.”
“Then we haven’t much choice; we’re on an errand for the
Guard, and we have to get to Pendleton by tomorrow.”
Garn nodded. “Well, good luck to you,” he called and
ambled back the way he’d come.

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
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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.

The first thing Jon knew was that he had a monstrous

headache, the kind that come at night and the sleeper can’t
decide if it is real or a dream. Unfortunately for Jon, it was the
former. The headache was grinding. He groaned from
somewhere deep inside his chest.
A voice he thought he should recognize asked him how he
was, but he couldn’t quite formulate the response. All he could
manage was another groan.
He could hear other voices, too, who were talking about him
as if he was not there, but they faded.

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.

The track they were to follow showed little evidence of

being part of any Great North Road as Jon insisted it was called.
Thick layers of rain clouds rolled toward them from the north
which guaranteed that they would be soaked before the day was
out. The valley with its ordered crofts and holdings grew
narrower as the day dragged by. A friendly farmer gave them a
ride in a wagon with the second cutting of hay he was taking to
a farm two or three leagues up the valley, and the two intrepid
militiamen lay in the hay or talked with the farmer until he
turned off the main road going over to Weston Ford. By
afternoon they had eaten most of what Mistress Watson gave
them and stuffed the rest in their bags. They talked to another
farmer during the early afternoon and had been invited to stop
for a rest and a drink. The forest crept down from the hills
toward the road as it turned northeast. They passed the last
house and were into the wilds once more before the first icy
raindrops from an advance shower stung their faces.
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 They kept up a strong pace because they needed to find
shelter before the full force of the storm hit. By late afternoon
the road had wiggled its way up into the hills which formed the
rim of the dale behind them. Trees drew in about them tall and
dark, so that they could not see the approaching rain, but they
smelled it. Cold and hollow the voice of the wind sighed and
muttering thunder heralded the approach of a vicious
thunderstorm. The road wound its way higher into the hills, and
they watched for the track Captain Watson had described.
Garret spied a trail going off to the left, hoping it was the right
one. The wind thrashed tree branches wildly, first one direction
and then another. Blue-black clouds seethed and roiled
overhead, lit occasionally by flashes of lightning. The wind
raked a flower-decked meadow sending petal confetti swirling
into the mix of maples and alders where Garret made out the
lines of large structure.
“Looks like we found the fort just in time,” Garret called
back over his shoulder.
Most of the once imposing building lay in grass-grown
ruins. The stump of a small corner tower had been partially
rebuilt and patched up, a conical roof of dark gray slate perched
on top.
Garret marched up to the weathered plank door with rusted
ironwork fittings and lifted the latch. The interior was nearly
pitch dark, so he stepped inside cautiously. The light from the
door revealed a clean dry place to get out of the rain that had
begun to fall steadily outside.
Jon pushed his way inside and then smiled.
“Fool's luck!” he cried. “It’s raining hard out there.”
The tower room was round with thick, stone walls and a dry
flagstone floor. A small narrow slit provided what little light
there was inside, but the roof had not sprung any leaks. Except
for the sound of the wind and thunder, the storm stayed outside.
A fireplace had been added to the inside of the room with a
waist-high pile of split wood at the side. A crude table and two
short benches sat in front of the hearth and two low rope beds
stood on opposite sides of the room. A brilliant stroke of
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lightning followed by and ear-splitting crack of thunder shook
the walls and made them both jump. It was as if the millrace
gates had been opened and the rain fell straight and hard. Jon
unrolled a thin straw pallet over the ropes and set his gear beside
it. Garret did the same on the other and then stood at the open
door and watched the heavy rain mixed with small pea-sized
hail pelt down all around.
“Why don’t we make up the fire,” said Garret. “I’m hungry,
aren’t you?”
“I’m always hungry,” Jon shot back. “I’ll be glad of a fire to
dry my shirt and cloak; I’m soaked.” He took his pack off the
bed and lay down to test it. The ropes sagged down all the way
to the flagstones folding Jon in the middle of the straw pallet
before he could escape.
“Help!” cried Jon, convulsed with laughter. Garret hadn’t
seen the mattress sink and at Jon’s cry turned back to see Jon’s
head, feet, and arms waving impotently from the middle of the
bed.
“It just tried to make a meal of me,” laughed Jon. Garret
grabbed Jon’s hand and pulled him from the jaws of the man-
eating bed.
“That’s the second time I’ve had to rescue you from on this
circuit,” said Garret chuckling to himself. “I’ll bet the last man
to sleep here did that on purpose and laughed about it all the
way home!”
Garret worked to get a fire going while Jon threw the
mattress off the wooden frame to see about tightening the ropes
underneath. It wasn’t going to be easy; they were worn and
frayed, tied and retied so many times there were more knots
than cord in many places.
Because of the down draft of the storm, smoke began to fill
the room, Garret coughed and moved away from the fire.
“What are you doing?” choked Jon into the blue haze.
“The flue isn’t warmed up, be patient.” Garret opened the
door again to create more of a draft. The rain fell unabated but
the draft from the door forced more smoke up the chimney, until
the smoke lifted and the fire brightened.
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 Garret pulled a bench up to the hearth, hanging his cloak on
a peg beside it to dry. He wasn’t all that cold, the summer had
been hot and humid, but having the fire going while the rain and
hail pounded the roof brightened the tower room considerably.
Jon attempted to tighten the ropes on his bed, but it was
proving to be a chore. Outside the wind blasted the stone tower
and the rain crashed onto the roof, but had no effect on the two
young men inside. The fire burned down a little, and Garret
pulled out the small pot he had brought and simply held it
outside the door in the runoff from the roof to fill it. He
checked to make sure he’d collected nothing but water. With
the lid in place he set it by the fire to warm. Jon managed to
retie the ropes through the framework tight enough so he could
lie down on the thin straw mattress.
“Here goes nothing!” he said. “We’ll see if the bed is still
hungry and eased down onto the straw tick mattress almost
afraid to put his full weight on it, he grinned when it held. The
ropes protested but held. Jon lay there looking at the fire
listening to the rain.
“Good thing you spotted that path, or we’d be drenched,
hungry and cold by now huddled under some rock for cover.”
Garret didn’t say anything to Jon, but once again he enjoyed
the feeling of being the knowledgeable guide Master Ridley had
asked him to be. They ate the rest of the dried fruit, cheese and
ham Mistress Watson had packed for them that morning and
drank the concoction Garret brewed from dried clover blossoms
he kept in his bag for tea.
The wind had subsided except for fitful gusts, but the rain
fell straight and hard for a long time. Jon checked periodically
to see if the storm showed any signs of slacking, and late in the
day, about an hour before sunset, the worst of the storm passed,
black and threatening, to the south. He stood outside at the door
and breathed deeply the cold, rain-washed air. Water ran
everywhere, dripping from every leaf and stone, and ominous
clouds north of them indicated there was more rain to come.
Jon’s curiosity drove him to walk around the walls of the fort
with its view of the green dales to the north. Perhaps the heavy
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reddish stone had been quarried back at Pendleton long, long
ago; it looked like the same rock to him. Some of the stones had
been carved, here and there a flower or leaf pattern had escaped
the weathering of the elements. The walls rose only rose four
or five feet high above the rubble from the collapse of the upper
stories, and all of it overgrown with star-decked moss and frilly
black and yellow lichens. On the down-slope sides saplings
grew up to and into the stones. A square courtyard in the center
of the structure had been cleared of rubble leaving a stone
pavement polished by generations of hurrying feet. In the
dimming light, it seemed a lonely place and sad. The view into
the dale on the east side of the hills was like looking out upon a
sea of restless grass washing the roots of the forest at his feet.
Garret came outside, and Jon called for him to come and take a
look. They climbed up onto the highest part of the ruin, perhaps
once a central tower. From there they gazed ahead into the
dales where Fulham lay and back towards the far side of the
Swale through the gap in the hills.
“A fine site for a watchtower,” said Garret. “It reminds me
of Highbury up home. The farther north we go, the more ruins
like this we’ll see.” By the time they had climbed down, twilight
quickened by the looming storm veiled the horizon. They talked
for a while by the fire; there wasn’t anything else to do. Garret
threw several quarter-split logs on the fire to keep the chill out.
He started humming, and Jon joined in singing the words.
Before long they were singing together songs they had learned
in the taverns at the top of their lungs. After Garret’s especially
comical rendition of ‘A Man Went Down to Pilking’, they both
fell back laughing. The silence between them lengthened.
“You haven’t told me much about your family, Garret.”
“Dad’s a farmer on a small freehold he got from his dad in
Saxford. We grow wheat and barley of course; we have a few
pigs, three or four sheep, geese, and three cows. Dad keeps bees
too, I don’t like them one bit, but my brother Corbin, he helps
Dad with them, and we all lend a hand to the chores around the
farm. Since there’s so many of us, we hire out to other farmers
round us. They’re glad for the help and pay us a few pennies or
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in supplies. The farm land round Saxford is all taken up.
That’s why Dad was so keen on me being apprentice to Master
Ridley. I don’t think I’m cut out for being a mason, though. I’ll
give it another go because Dad will say I should, when this
raider scare settles down. Corbin’s the eldest, the stockman of
the family. Cole’s my next oldest brother, and he’s a good hand
on anyone’s farm. I’ve got two brothers younger than me
named Ian and Lee. I think Ian’s got the brains in our family;
maybe he’ll make something of himself. Lee’s the youngest
boy, and he and I have a good time traipsin’ round in the forest
huntin’ and fishin’ when we can. Then there’s the baby of the
family, her name is Elspeth and is the sweetest thing you ever
saw. Mam’s a good cook and keeps us all goin’. We get along
well and talkin’ about home has made me miss ‘em. It’ll be
good to see them when we get there.”
Jon had listened to Garret and couldn’t help compare how
differently he had been brought up in Redding. He had grown
up a single child with doting parents and grandparents, but he
had always felt somewhat as if in the middle of the hustle and
bustle of life in Redding he was alone, that feeling had only
increased since Eastermonth. One of the reasons Meg made him
feel so happy and to a lesser extent his time with Garret, was
that the loneliness was greatly reduced. Meg loved him and if
things worked out, she’d soon join him at his place in Redding;
he wouldn’t be alone any more. That was a comforting thought.
He could hardly wait to see her face when he presented the ring
and amulet to her. Both of them fell into their own thoughts, the
only sound was rain and the dying fire.
The following morning was cool and blustery after a long,
uncomfortable night. Storm clouds to the northwest portended a
wet walk to Fulham. After an early breakfast, they packed up
and pulled on their damp hooded cloaks. Wisps of fog drifted
through the boles of the trees like formless ghosts and floated
through the courtyard of the fort. Looking back Jon wondered if
they’d disturbed a wight, the place made him shudder as they
hurried down the track into the fog.
Garret and Jon made their muddy way back to the road and
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continued their progress north. Watson assured them they would
reach Fulham by noon of the second day. The stony track
wiggled through the forest descending to the floor of the dale
they had seen from the pass the previous evening. The valley
was a twin of the dale where Pendleton was located. They were
glad to be out of the forest which showered them every time a
wind gust shook a branch. Jon guessed that when they reached
the valley floor they would be up to their knees in mud. They
were both surprised to find that the track had been raised up on a
stone causeway perhaps two or three feet above the land on
either side.
“This looks like the old East Road I followed up above
Ribble. I wonder who made this one?” Though broken and
uneven, someone long ago had spent a lot of energy to make the
road straight as an arrow through the heart of the dale, but like
the fort at the pass, it had long ago gone to ruin.
The rain returned and fell cold, straight down and steadily.
Their breath escaped their lips swirling wraith-like behind them,
disappearing into the rain. So it was with some relief that they
first saw signs of habitation around Fulham through curtains of
mist and drizzle. The farms were double the size of those found
around Redding.
“This reminds me of Saxford,” commented Garret. “The
way the houses are built and how the farms are laid out.”
They were both shivering non-stop when they saw the
cluster of buildings they hoped was Fulham. A good sized, but
unnamed stream rushed down from the heights above them
swollen bank to bank from a day of heavy rainfall. The track
widened as they approached the town, and squared cobblestones
appeared at the surface which was much better than slipping and
sloshing through the mud which covered the remnants of the
North Road. Through the wind-blown curtains of rain and fog
they saw that the ridge above Fulham had another huge chalk
carving. Although obscured partly by the rain, it was easy to
pick out the form of a giant sun with lines radiating in every
direction. The sun disk didn’t have the stylized grace of the
horse carvings, but the size of it was awe-inspiring in its own
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right. Garret had to lean back to estimate the full height of it.
The carving was easily two hundred feet high including the rays
like spokes on a cart wheel stretched out on all sides.
“That must be an awesome thing to see in sunlight,” said
Jon. “Maybe we’ll get a better look at it tomorrow, but right
now all I want is a place out of the rain with a roaring fire.”
Across the river lay the half overgrown ruins of a large broch
easily as tall as the one they had seen two days ago in the Vale
of the Horses and in much better shape. Fulham had at most
fifty or sixty houses and other buildings strung out along the
river and east on the forest road to Whitburn.
They found shelter under the porch of a small, two story inn
called the Stag hoping to find a dry place in the storm. They had
seen no one on the road all day and happily stepped under the
wide porch beneath the sign board and stamped their feet and
shook off their cloaks to avoid making a mess inside. Garret
opened the door and Jon followed him into the small common
room. A low fire guttered in the hearth and the warm smell of
wood smoke and old pipe smoke was a pleasant change from the
walk all morning in the rain. Both of them were chilled and
completely wet through.
A girl perhaps twelve or thirteen years old came out to see
who had come in.
“Oh, sirs,” she said, “you’re soaked! Take off your wet
things and hang ‘em here by the fire.” Garret smiled both at the
broad Dales accent and her phrasing.
“If I took off everything wet as she suggested,” quipped
Garret, “I’d have nothing left to stand up in.” Jon laughed.
“What’s your name?” Garret asked.
“Gwen Lindell, sir.”
“We are on our way from Pendleton. We’d like to dry off
and get something to eat.”
“’Course, sir.”
“We’ll take whatever we can get,” said Garret. “And two
pints of…,” Garret paused. “Whatever drink the Stag's known
for.”
“That’d be our hard cider. Warmed?”
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 “Then cider it is,” said Garret, “and warm!” Jon agreed
instantly.
The serving girl walked into the kitchen where she talked to
someone else.
“Who are we supposed to talk to here?” asked Garret.
“A man by the name of Merrill Tanner.” Garret put his feet
up on one bench and leaned back on his own. Wisps of steam
rippled off their clothes and disappeared into the air. Jon studied
the plain brick walls of common room with its wainscot of wood
paneling. The young server returned with two steaming pints of
cider smelling faintly of spices.
“Be right back with your dinner,” she said genially and
returned to the kitchen. They both warmed their hands on the
heavy mugs. They were too hot to be drunk straight away, but
just right for sipping and slurping which Garret did with gusto.
When dinner appeared, it was two great plates piled with
vegetables and potatoes, a thick slice of roast pork with a
crusted rind, a stack of fresh dark bread, butter, and preserves.
“Will there be anything else sirs?”
“We have come a long way to find Merrill Tanner. Can you
tell me where he lives?”
She thought for a moment. “He lives out on the road east of
here. About half a league or so,” she guessed. Jon thanked her
and devoured the food in moments. As they ate, the proprietress
introduced herself as Emma Lindell, who wanted to see the two
customers for herself. Garret and Jon both complimented her on
her excellent cooking and the cider. She seemed to ignore the
compliment, a look of motherly concern fixed as she peered at
Jon’s injured face.
“Is there anything I can get you, young man? You’ll pardon
me if I tell you I don’t think you should be traveling until you
have a chance to heal. Has anyone seen to that cut lately?”
“No, Ma’am”, Jon answered feeling slightly childish. The
rain will have cleaned it a bit, but really I’m fine. We’re on
Guard business, and it won’t wait.”
The woman cast a disapproving glance at Jon, “Gwen told
me you asked about how to get to Tanner’s place.”
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 “That’s right,” said Garret. “We have an urgent message for
him.”
“Then it’s Merrill you’ll want to talk to all right. He’s the
Captain of this section. My husband, Rees, is his second. Will
you be wanting to stay here? We’ve no one upstairs, and you
are welcome to the room. When we have guardsmen through,
they either stay here or out at Tanner’s.” Garret and Jon
exchanged glances.
“We’d like to stay here, if we could,” Jon proposed. “We’ll
dry off a little and then go out to Master Tanner’s later when the
rain lets up.”
“I like that idea,” Garret echoed.
“I’d send John out to Tanner’s with you, but he’s out on
circuit now, due back the day after tomorrow. When you’re
finished eating, I’ll show you upstairs to the room, and you can
dry off, looks like you’ve been travelin’ rough.”
“Yes, we have,” Garret admitted. “Come from Pendleton
yesterday morning.”
“You’ve probably caught your death out in weather like
this,” she worried. “I’ll go upstairs and make up the fire in the
room to take the chill off.” She left them to eat in the quiet of
the common room the only sound was the steady rain outside
and Gwen humming somewhere in the kitchen.
Having eaten their fill, an observant Gwen came to clear
away the dishes leaving them to finish their pints by the fire,
warmed at last from the inside out. They already felt better
drying off in front of the fire.
Mistress Lindell came downstairs and conducted them up to
a room with a fire going in the fireplace. She returned with a
wooden clothes rack and set it near the fire.
“Now you boys get out of those wet clothes. There’s a small
washroom towards the back, and you’ll find a basin and bucket
standing ready. You’re a sight; that’s for sure.”
That was the first time Garret noticed how mud spattered
and dirty they were. Jon’s mud smeared forehead and his
bruised face in a rainbow of painful colors would have been
enough to frighten adults. What must little Gwen have thought?
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 “Thank you!” they said exactly at the same time and meant
it.
As soon as Mistress Lindell left, they stripped off the still
damp clothes they had worn for two days then tried to dig
something out of their packs they could wear in the meantime,
though they were disappointed that the packs hadn’t provided
more protection from the rain. Everything was downright
sodden.
“You go ahead,” Garret said. “I’m going to spread out my
gear to get it dry.” Jon grabbed his mud-spattered clothes and
headed off to clean up.
Garret spread his clean shirt on the rack and built up the fire
so he and his clothing could dry. He gazed through the rain-
beaded window onto the flooded landscape. Rain still poured
steadily, dripping jerkily down even inside the shutters. Jon
whistled into the room and spread his clean, damp shirts over
the drying rack. He checked the dispatch case to see that its
contents were undamaged; the letters inside the case were
completely dry, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He, too, gazed
out at the rain and stood by the fire to warm up again, hoping
that the rain would slow down the Olani. Jon dragged one of
the two pallets shoved against opposite walls of the room closer
to the fire and pulled the blankets over him. For the first time
since the rain began, he felt truly warm. The mattress last night
was so thin that he could still feel the rope prints in his back.
The damp air had caused the retied ropes to sag more and more
through the night, making for miserable sleeping.
He woke halfway when Garret came back in and crawled
onto the other bed and groaned in the pleasure of clean bedding
and plump mattress.
“What’s the plan Jon? When are we going to see Captain
Tanner?”
“We probably should go, but it’s so nice right here. Is it still
raining?” Jon yawned.
“Yeah,” Garret said.
“We should get up and go…,” Jon paused, yawned again
and never finished the sentence.
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 Garret had every intention of getting up, but he was content
where he was and fell asleep not long after.
They awoke sometime later in the afternoon feeling much
better than they had. Garret rolled over and stretched.
“Wake up, Jon. You’ve snored the day away!”
“Me snore?” said Jon rolling over onto his stomach.
“I think the floor shook, it was so loud Mistress Lindell will
throw us out of here for sure.”
Jon swiveled to a sitting position and then with great effort
stepped to the window.
“It’s let up a little, just dribbling.”
“Nothing for it, then,” Garret said. “Let’s get going.” They
each donned their still damp shirts and hooded cloaks and
ambled downstairs and looking more closely at the inn.
Mistress Lindell came out of the kitchen when she heard them
on the stairs.
“Can you give us direction to Master Tanner’s place?” Jon
asked.
“Course I can,” she said and explained. The directions
seemed easy enough to follow. They drew their wet hooded
cloaks over their heads.
“You’ll be here for supper?”
“Yes, we will, Ma’am. Looking forward to it.”
“Right then,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen.
The two young men drew up their hoods and stepped out
onto the porch a couple of feet above the half-flooded street.
Several villagers took advantage of the break in the heavy rain
to run an errand or take care of chores that wouldn’t wait.
Garret and Jon followed the sign pointing the way to
Whitburn that followed the brook now running a little above its
banks and spreading out onto the grassy meadows on each side
several yards. The muddy road was only passable because of the
grass-grown berm rising on either side above the road. They
soon found themselves in the open countryside east of town,
dark forest rising ahead of them. After several furlongs walking
in the soft rain, just as they had been told, they came to a long
stone fence running along the left hand side of the road with the
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courses on the bottom laid horizontally and a final course on top
stacked diagonally, leaning east. They came to a high gate and
followed the muddy lane into a large courtyard before a half-
timbered house with a wood-shingled roof. The compound with
its outbuildings was arranged in a large u-shape facing the gate.
Two farmyard dogs came barking up to them wagging their
tales furiously.
“Loud, but friendly,” Garret observed and held out his hand
for them to sniff. Satisfied that neither of them posed a threat,
the dogs padded along behind Garret and Jon as they
approached the front steps.
When they reached the third step, the door opened and a
large cheerful-looking man stepped outside.
“Hello there, what can I do for you on such a fine rainy
day?”
Garret rolled his eyes, and the farmer laughed. Jon stepped
forward and told Master Tanner who they were and what their
business was.
“Come in, come in boys. It’s too wet to stand out on the
porch for long.” He led them into the entry and had them take
off their boots and wet cloaks and hang them on wooden pegs.
Then he led them into a large sitting room filled with so many
pieces of furniture that there was hardly room to get around.
Master Tanner stepped into the rear of the house and talked with
someone and then returned.
“Just in time for something to eat, boys,” he said.
“Eleanor’ll bring it out in no time. Now tell me what’s on your
minds.”
Jon opened the dispatch case and handed Tanner the letter
without comment, who tried to read it by holding it away from
him at arms length, but the light was bad.
“You read the letter to me and then we’ll see what to do
about it.”
When Jon had read the entire note, Tanner said nothing. He
stared out the window thinking.
Then he stood up, “Well, well, Jon, that is news. Sounds
rather ominous to me. I’ve got my second and one other out on
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circuit this week. They’ll be here day after tomorrow, we’ll
have to call a meeting, I guess. You’re telling me there is a real
chance Saeland will be attacked?”
“Jon nodded.
“How many men have you got up here,” asked Garret?
“Oh, there’s not but seventeen or eighteen all told. Haven’t
swore in a young man for ages. Didn’t seem to be no need. But
this,” he said picking up the letter Jon had set on the table,
“changes everything. Going to call up all the lads round here,
and when they see the Dale's in danger, they’ll do what the
Thane wants.” I imagine we can put thirty or forty men on the
road in the next day or two. He turned to Jon, “Did Thane
Giffard say anything else.”
Jon explained Arnegil’s warning.
“Met one of them Normen once,” remembered Tanner.
“Didn’t say much. Wouldn’t want to be in the forest if they was
hunting me! That’s for sure. Are you all right, Jon? Looks like
you got kicked by a cow.”
“It’s a long story. But I’m fine, just worried about making
the circuit in time.”
“Of course you’ll stay with me won’t you?”
Garret was a little abashed, “We’ve already stowed our gear
at the Stag in town and told Mistress Lindell we’d be there for
supper.”
“Then that’s settled, whatever you decide. Lindells are good
folks, and she cooks a great supper, he’s my second, the one out
on circuit. No, no you go right ahead after we finish up here.
Can you wait a day or so until my second returns?”
“We’ve got several more letters to deliver as soon as we
can,” replied Jon. We’ve only just started four days ago at
Selby, then over through Ashby and Pendleton day before
yesterday.”
“Met Watson did you? Fine man he is. Where did you
sleep last night in the rain?”
“We stayed in the tower just as we crossed the pass coming
this way.”
“Good shelter isn’t it,” said Tanner. “Between the two
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sections we keep it in repair.
Just then Mistress Tanner brought in a tray with fresh cut
barley bread, cheese and some steaming tea, peppermint. Garret
sniffed it with a smile. Jon tried to put on a brave face.
Peppermint tea reminded him that his mother made him drink it
as a youngster when he was ill. Captain Tanner had a lively
sense of humor and had Garret and Jon laughing at stories about
the gentle people who lived in Fulham. Tanner asked them
about their families and thought he remembered meeting
Garret’s father. Jon asked about the road toward Saxford.
“Oh, it’s much the same as you’ve seen, but there’s one
section gets boggy, bugs are bad this time of year, I’m afraid,
just hurry on through. Then the edge of the Great Wood comes
up on your right as it runs up against them hills and then on and
down into Tyndale, no more’n a wide place in the road. From
there its a few hours north to Saxford; Garret knows more’n me
about that country. One more rough night camping for you, but
it looks to me like this rainstorm's about blown itself out.”
“You two had better be off. Supper’ll be cold at the Stag if
you don’t get back there soon. Been a pleasure meeting you.”
He walked them to the entry way, and they pulled on their
sodden traveling cloaks and trudged out into the light rain that
continued to fall. Waving goodbye to Master Tanner at his
door, they splashed their way across the yard and onto the road.
Jon and Garret hurried along to keep from getting
completely soaked again, and when they stepped into the inn,
they were met with the delightful smell of their own supper
nearly done. They raced upstairs to shed their damp cloaks,
built up the fire again so the room would stay warm and then
clattered downstairs. Emma stuck her head out of the kitchen
announcing supper would be right out.
They sat by the fire to warm up and waited. Gwen set the
table in front of them and then Emma brought out two steak and
kidney pies golden brown crust still steaming from the oven.
Garret almost clapped his hands at the sight of the pies,
steaming piles of peas and carrots, and another pint of cider.
“This is a feast,” he exclaimed! Gwen smiled and left them
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to it.
They ate ravenously and finished with a great slice of
strawberry pie with half a pint of cream on the top.
“Now that’s a pie!” gasped Jon and devoured his down to
the crumbs.
They sat for while by the fire sipping the cider as Garret
described the land between Fulham and Saxford in greater detail
to Jon as he remembered it traveling with his dad.
“What exactly do you do on a circuit?” asked Jon.
“I guess you might call it looking for things that don’t
belong,” explained Garret. “Border's way north of us and no
one lives up that way, not our folks anyway. So we watch for
campfires, smoke off in the distance or firelight at night. We
keep an eye on the roads and ask questions of travelers;
challenge any we don’t like. If we spot trouble, one of us is
supposed to go for help and the other tracks the trouble. We
leave signs that tell other militiamen where we are going, in
what direction, even when we were there. I don’t suppose you
have learned any of them, have you?”
Garret shook his head, “No matter. If we get a chance they
are easy enough to learn. But anyway that’s what we do out on
circuit. At least,” said Garret, “that’s what we’re supposed to do.
I’ve never been with Dad when we met anyone. He and the
others have a few good stories about people that they’ve met out
there. Strange folks, some lost, others looking for a place to be
left alone. They’ve met Norsk soldiers of course. Old stories
talk of wolves in winter, and huldrefolk in forest and moor
where no one ought to be, though if anyone’s seen them lately,
they aren’t saying anything.”
Heavy cloud cover brought dusk earlier than usual, but the
rain tapered off. They stuck their heads outside trying to predict
the weather for their walk the next day and were relieved to see
breaks in the clouds off to the northwest, that was good news,
but it would be a chilly start. Mistress Lindell came out and
carried away the dishes and asked them if they had any
preference for breakfast.
“Hard for me to say as full as I am,” groaned Garret. “But
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I’m sure we’ll eat whatever you fix.”
She laughed. “We’ll see you get something, and then I’ll
make up a dinner as you’ll be out in the wilds tomorrow. Do
you need anything else?”
“No ma’am” answered Jon, “it’s been kind of you to let us
stay.”
“Nonsense,” she countered. “That’s how we make our
living here in Fulham. I’ll say good night then,” and disappeared
into the back of the house. Jon asked if Garret would mind
guiding his shooting practice before dark since the rain had let
up.
“I’m not tired, let’s go get our gear.”
Until it was too dark to see, they practiced shooting. Jon
was amazed at his improved accuracy using Garret’s pointers.
He was still not great marksman, by any means, but he felt he
was at least twice as good as when he had left home, and that
was saying something.
They clomped up the stairs after dark. The fire had burned
down to embers, and Garret set about coaxing it into life again.
“I’m not sure these cloaks will dry out in a week,”
complained Garret.
“Oh, you wait until tomorrow afternoon in the sun, we’ll
both be wishing it would rain again,” laughed Jon.
Jon dragged a stool to the table and wrote two letters: one to
his mother and one to Meghan. Garret puttered around with his
bow and repacked his dry tunic and gear. Garret finished the
letters by the light of a single candle, and then following
Garret’s example packed almost everything for the morning.
Garret had already been in bed for a while by the time Jon
finished writing and packing. He banked the fire in the hearth,
undressed and crawled into bed. The clean bedding smelled like
sunshine in the cool air of the room. He stared at the ceiling
thinking about Meg, glad he was dry and warm in the upstairs
room of the Stag.

Garret woke in the dark, someone was shaking his shoulder.

“Wake up, you two, Wake up!”
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 Garret half raised himself dashing the sleep from his eyes.
A middle-aged, unshaven man stood peering down at him. Jon’s
first reaction was to reach for his knife.
“Tanner said that you and your friend here are Guardsmen,
is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Garret. “What is it?”
“Trouble I’m afraid. Get dressed and come downstairs?
The others are gathering here too.” The man set a lighted lamp
on the fireplace mantle and closed the door behind him.
Garret shook Jon who just moaned.
“Jon, wake up! Something’s up. We need to get dressed
and go downstairs! Captain Tanner’s called a meeting here at
the inn.” Jon rolled over and then sat up.
“Trouble? Suppose the raiders have come?”
“Don’t know, but I’m thinking the same thing. Lets get
down there.” They both stumbled out of bed, shivering and
goose-fleshed in the cold. They threw on their shirts, belts, and
boots, then wrapped themselves in a blanket, and raced
downstairs. The fire had been made up so the common room
was warming and a few lamps had been lit. Three men sat near
the fire talking in quiet voices. As soon as the man who woke
Garret saw the two of them come in, he stood up and came over.
“Hello,” he said sticking out his hand, “I’m Rees Lindell,
Emma’s husband. I’ve been out circuit until late tonight. The
Normen sent a message to Saxford. A mob of raiders broke
through up north somewhere and is headed towards Saeland
‘long the North Road. The entire Guard’s been called up from
Saxford over to Whitburn and down this way to fend them off.
Tanner and the other Guardsmen here in Fulham and several
lads as are eager to go with us. They’ll be here shortly. The
long and the short of it is, we’ll leave as soon we can assemble
everyone. How long will it take the two of you to be ready?”
“We’re nearly packed now,” replied Garret.
“Thought as much,” he said. “Good lads. You have your
bows with you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jon.
“Tanner tells me you’ve been down south raising the Guard.
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Any luck?”
“Should already be twenty or thirty on the way from Selby
and Ashby, maybe more. The captains were not sure how many
they could raise. Watson and about fifty Pendleton men should
have left this morning.”
“That is good news!” Lindell said. “Better’n you know.
Sounds like serious trouble up north.” Jon was in the process of
telling him about his meeting with Erlend and Arnegil when the
door to the common room opened and Tanner and two others
came in out of the fog.
“Oswyn Tiller and Corwin Dalton and three of their boys
will be ‘round soon,” Tanner called. “Fifteen more are coming
as soon as they can. What do we need to do?”
“Jon here’s just telling us about his meeting up with one of
them Normen.”
The door opened again and five men joined the crowd. Rees
in the meantime had set out a tray of tankards of ale and began
introductions. Groups of two or three trickled in for half an
hour, and several men and older boys came singly so that the
common room filled rapidly. Lastly came three younger men,
perhaps a year or two younger even than Garret and Jon. They
seemed a little hesitant at the door, but they were welcomed and
found seats in the back.
Captain Tanner called the meeting to order and asked Rees
to tell what had happened while he had been up on circuit.
“Me’n Corwin here were just about to settle in for the night,
when we heard voices on the path. It was the second from
Saxford; he come up to the shelter and said the Guard was being
turned out. A warning had been sent that a large gang of raiders,
he called them, had broke through somewhere up north and we
needed every man up north of Saxford to keep ‘em out of
Saeland. We were slowed by that rain yesterday afternoon and
today. He said they didn’t know how many raiders to expect, so
every section from here to Ribble’s been called up.”
“Thank you, Rees. I think we should leave as soon as we can
and make straight for Saxford.” Jon watched the other young
men nodding.
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 “This is urgent, so we’ll deputize you lads,” said Master
Tanner nodding in their direction. “You understand, boys, that
this could be dangerous, but we have a duty to protect our
homes. Them ruffians aren’t going to come in here lootin’ and
burnin’ if we can stop them. It’ll take us the better part of three
days to get up there, bring your camp gear, no telling how long
we’ll be.” Jon felt as excited as the younger men from Fulham
were. The talk turned to details, and then the meeting broke up.
Jon waited for a chance to speak to Captain Tanner again.
“Master Tanner, I’d like your advice on something. We
were supposed to deliver these other letters to Whitburn
tomorrow. What do you think we should do?”
“I’ve already sent off one of the older men over that way in
a cart, Jon. The word is already out. I think the news tonight
changes everything. You come with us. The alarm is already
being spread to every town and village from here over to Ribble
by others. We’ll need every man on the North Road if there’s
trouble. Don’t worry about it. Thane Giffard is a practical man.
You’ve done your duty well, and if those men from the South
Dales are already moving this way, you have helped a great
deal. I’ll send word toward Pendleton to hurry those men along.
You get yourselves packed up. We’ll take you on as part of our
section until we get to Saxford, and then we’ll see what happens
from there.” Tanner and all of the others left to get their gear
together.
Jon and Garret raced upstairs to pack. They heard Mistress
Lindell clattering in the kitchen to cook breakfast before they
left. Jon yawned hugely and shivered in the cool air of the room.
Ready at last, they set their gear near the door front door.
Mistress Lindell, who was a little sleepy herself, smiled as they
came downstairs and had them sit down to a simple porridge
breakfast, joined by a cleaned-shaven Rees.
In less than an hour the stamping on the porch announced
the re-arrival of the first of the Guard. The common room soon
filled to overflowing with the men, young and old answering the
call for the Guard in the dead of night. Tanner inspected the
gear the younger men brought, and Garret checked over his own
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kit to see if his measured up to the others. He thought he had
done fairly well on his own.
“Right then,” said Captain Tanner, “let’s get going.”
Twenty-three men from Fulham set out quietly in the dark of the
night. The moon played peek-a-boo with them as it hid and
shone from behind the clouds and fog. Their boots sank ankle
deep in the clinging mud. Jon and Garret fell naturally into the
company of the younger men, and they soon were talking back
and forth as comfortably as old friends. They determined they
had no common relatives or acquaintances.
The countryside began rise as they neared the steep-sided
hills at north end of the dale. Sunrise found them still winding
through the narrow coombes at the north end of the dale. Rags
of clouds scudded above their heads; the weather definitely
improving. They ate a second breakfast sitting beside of the
track each chewing thoughtfully what they brought from home.
Jon and Garret ate from the packets of food, Emma Lindell had
sent with them. Twice a short rain shower drifted over them and
lasted long enough to cause Jon hope they could find shelter
before nightfall. Knowing that the safety of others and perhaps
their own was a stake they trudged on through the rain steadily,
uncomplaining. Ahead of them a line of tree-covered hills rose
higher than any they had seen, and Garret tried to recall the
landmarks from the last time he’d come this way with his father.
The sun finally broke through late in the day just as they
reached the crest of the highest ridge and camp. Wrapped in
their cloaks and sitting around several small fires, the talk was
all of the dangers to be faced in the days ahead. Before long the
hushed conversations gave way to snores from dozens of
throats.
The Guardsmen woke early, a combination of damp and
hard ground brought groans from nearly everyone. The forced
march resumed with little conversation. The last of the storm
clouds passed harmlessly overhead during the night, and the sun
rose in full summer strength by mid-morning. By noon the men
were hot and weary and sat in the shade at the side of the road to
eat a meager dinner.
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 Jon and Garret joined the other young men who clustered
together talking while lying on their backs looking up through
the branches, heads leaning against packs. Jon and Garret had
learned all their names and what they did. They were excited
about being asked to go north, and Garret felt right at home with
them. Jon on the other hand felt like the outsider. He had less in
common with them, but they were friendly, and the sense of
being comrades in arms helped weaken the barriers between
them. The heat and humidity of the day drained all the talk and
the men marched almost silently until the light dimmed the road
before them. The length and pace of the march and the early
start made it easier than normal for them to sleep.
All too soon Tanner’s gravelly voice called them to
consciousness. “All right then, let’s be up and on our way!”
The other men were already on the road, and the younger ones
hurried out onto the track in pairs and threes. Jon and Garret fell
in a little way behind Master Tanner who kept up a remarkably
steady pace for a person of his age to their way of thinking.
The road descended by a winding path through shady stands
of oak and beech held apart by aster-studded meadows. The
rain created the world anew; everything was as fresh and
verdant as it would be anytime that summer. But the beauty of it
was soon lost on all of them; increasingly, hordes of minute
black gnats flew at their faces, arms, or any exposed flesh.
“Put your cloaks on and put your hood up,” the men around
them counseled, “they’re only going to get worse.”
“Cloaks? In this heat? You must be mad,” exclaimed Jon.
“Have it your own way,” said one of the younger men, “but
you’ll be eaten alive,” and pulled his cowl as far down over his
face as far as he could, clutching his long cloak tight around
him.
Jon thought they might be over-reacting; he’d seen gnats
before, anyone who lived along the river had. Then he watched
the others up ahead doing the same thing. After reaching the
crest of the rise, the weary walkers descended into the wide
shallow basin of Blackwater Bog. The sulfury scent of decay
settled around them. Water sat mirror-like here and there on top
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of the green-slime fen. Gnats hovered in dense clouds around
the men as they walked, and Jon soon had his hood wrapped as
tightly around him as the others despite the stifling heat. He’d
pulled his cowl down to a slit in a vain attempt to keep out the
maddening insects. Gnats flew at them so thick it became hard
to breathe without inhaling those with suicidal tendencies.
Again and again they bit into Jon’s exposed hands and legs.
They had the ability to locate any crevice and then to bite hard
into the unprotected flesh raising itchy, maddening, red welts
out of all proportion to the size of the bite. Jon found himself
walking faster as hot and as tired as he was. Getting away of the
bog was worth any effort. He wished for wind, or rain or
anything to clear away the bugs, but there was no relief.
“Let’s move faster!” called Garret’s muffled voice.
“All right by me,” agreed Jon and they set off at a steady
jog. Garret dashed the sweat from his eyes again and again
inside the cloak despite the sun beating down on the men, but
not for any reason would he or the others stop or slow down.
Others ahead of them were also jogging along the track which
skirted the aptly named bog. Where the road drew near to the
bog, it was raised up on a rubble causeway like they had
traveled on before. If they had been forced to walk in deep
mud, they would have been sucked dry as husks before reaching
the far side. They were out of breath and tired, but still they
jogged on, packs banging against their backs. At last they
reached the gentle slope on the far side of the valley out of
breath and drenched with sweat. The constant high pitched
whine of millions of gnats diminished slightly and by the time
they reached the top of the ridge Garret peeped out from under
his hood without having a thousand flies swarm into his eyes,
nose and mouth.
“What an awful place,” Garret shouted breathlessly.
“Never knew anything like existed in the world!” gasped
Jon. “Keep going, that whine is still in my ears, and I must have
been bitten a hundred times, the dirty little beggars.”
Almost magically, however, as soon as they crossed the
divide and with the help of a steady north breeze, the gnats
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disappeared altogether. Sweaty and exhausted, itching and
scratching themselves savagely, the men dragged themselves
out of the hills toward Tyndale.

“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
260
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.

Garret led the way up a couple of streets and then turned

onto a road leading into the hills that overlooked the town to the
east. Then they walked down a long tree-lined lane to a
farmstead with an large stone house with a thatched roof backed
up against the forested hills towering behind. The door was
wide and heavy with two sets of windows on either side. Jon
had half expected something a little more run down from
Garret’s too modest descriptions. The farm was in as good of
shape as any he knew of. The farmhouse was surrounded by a
well-tended front and back garden.
“Hello!” shouted Garret as soon as he got within hailing
distance, “Hello!”
“Who is it?” came the reply from the farm yard. The face of
a little dark eyed girl peeped out into the yard to see who was
coming up the lane. She didn’t cry out, just giggled and
disappeared. Soon there were cries and shouts as the family
swooped from all sides down upon their missing son and
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brother. A hundred questions on the line of, What are you
doing here? chorused from all sides.
“How are you all?” laughed Garret on the receiving end of
so many hugs at once that he almost toppled over. By that time
the house was emptied as the whole Fletcher clan made clear
how glad they were to see Garret home. His mother stood
happily on the wide stone porch to the house. Garret tugged the
crowd up to her and gave her a peck on the cheek, and she threw
her arms around him and gave him prolonged squeeze. Jon
watched Garret’s happy reunion, glad that he was safely
reunited with his family. He couldn’t help thinking about Meg
and his own family. Garret ran down the steps and dragged Jon
up to meet his mother who grabbed him and hugged him too.
Jon was caught off guard by that, but hugged her back and
smiled awkwardly not a little embarrassed at the attention.
Everyone chatted their way into the house clamoring for
information. Until supper time Garret and then Jon told about
the remarkable set of circumstances that brought the two of
them together and both of them to Saxford. Garret’s mother
shooed the two tow-headed children off to their chores when the
matter of the Guard arriving in Saxford over the past two days
was brought up.
“What do you think I should do?” she asked. “Most the
town’s packed up, the other half don’t know what to do! Your
dad's gone off north with Corbin and Cole and this talk of
raiders has me scared, I’ll tell you that!”
“If the Guard comes up in numbers like we’ve been told, we
can handle the outlanders. But if anything goes wrong, Saxford
wouldn’t be safe for anyone. Why don’t we pack the cart with
what you might need for a few days? That way you can take
Elspeth, Lee, and Ian and head up to Highbury tomorrow with
everyone else. If the raiders do get through, they’re not in
enough numbers to come after anyone there. They’ll take what
they can and run is my guess. We’re leaving with the Guard
tomorrow morning. Ian and Lee can handle the cart and I’d feel
better with you out of harms way.”
Mistress Fletcher paled, “You really think it’ll come to a
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fight?”
“Rob Forman thinks it will.”
Instead of resignation that he expected, he saw Mistress
Fletcher draw herself up.
“Well then, you lot, we have our work cut out for us today,”
she said looking more resolute than frightened.
“You two look frightful!” she declared peering at Jon’s
bruised and bug-bit face. “I’ll bet you are dead on your feet.
What have you gotten into?” she wondered, inspecting the bites
on Garret’s face and arms.
“I don’t know what they are called,” he complained, “tiny
black flies, midges, or no-seeums up in the bog above Tyndale.
They’re worse than flea bites!”
“You two get your things; we’ll bump the rest of the boys
out of your old room and put you in there. Get yourselves
cleaned up, and I’ll find that salve for those bites.” She turned
to Ian, who was, if Jon remembered correctly, just sixteen.
“If we’re going to go up to Highbury, we’ll need to get
started packing right away. Ian, you and Lee clean out the
heavy cart and bring it up to the house. I’ll have to decide what
we need to take later. The farm will have to fend for itself for a
few days.” Then she followed Garret and Jon down the hall to
the boy’s room where they had dropped their gear.
“Garret, what about Devin Ridley and your apprenticeship?”
she asked, reminded that Garret shouldn’t be there at all. Garret
explained about Kevyn dropping the stone and breaking Master
Ridley’s leg and that they would both return as soon as Master
Ridley could travel. He didn’t tell her about how he felt; that
was best saved for another day. Everything was all too
unsettled anyway.
“When your Da’ gets home, we’ll have to sort that all out.
But now you two need a wash and food. Those clothes are
filthy!”
Jon smiled. He’d become independent in the past few
months, but right at that moment to be ordered around made him
feel entirely at home.
Garret and Jon spent the next hour washing and eating while
264
their clothes hung out on the line to dry in the warm late
summer afternoon. Mistress Fletcher cooked an enormous
supper early, and the entire family sat down to eat it with gusto.
Garret caught up on all the latest gossip, and then retold their
story again adding the details that had everyone gaping in
wonder. Jon talked about his family, and the younger Fletchers
looked askance at him when he told them that he had a whole
house all to himself. Little Elspeth who at first was too shy to
even look at Jon without holding onto another family member's
hand, by the end of supper had grown bold enough to come and
stand beside Jon’s knee with her finger in her mouth, then she
backed up to him, and he set her on his lap; soon were they were
fast friends.
After supper Garret showed Jon around the farm, and he
found it much better than Garret had described it. The farm
stretched west from the hill in three sections, one of pasture a
barley field and one of wheat. It was as perfectly situated a
house as there could be in Jon’s opinion. A place like that of his
own was at that moment exactly what he wanted with space to
grow and stretch his legs. He imagined Meghan and himself
living on a farm with hills around it like that and content to live
there rest of his days. What Jon had seen of the more remote
parts of Saeland appealed to him. If he sold his house at
Redding, he would have enough to buy a freehold such as that
anywhere he wanted. That would be in the future no doubt, but
it seemed the germ of a good plan, because it was his.
The rest of the long decline of the day was spent in sorting
and carrying household goods to the cart. Mistress Fletcher was
being brave to avoid upsetting the younger children and made it
sound like a summer outing, but Garret could tell she was
frightened herself and deciding what should stay and what
should go was wrenching for her. When at last the cart was
stacked with what she felt they would need, she sent everyone
off to bed.
Jon fell into the bliss of one good bed with Garret in the
other.
“You’re sure your brothers won’t mind being crowded out
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of their room?”
Garret laughed, “In this weather we sleep easier in the barn
than in the house anyway. They’ll thank you for being their
excuse! Don’t worry about it, Jon.” The shutters were open and
a slight breath of cool evening air stole into the overheated
room. Part of him was eager to get going north, but right at that
moment he found great pleasure in the soft bed and a full
stomach.

266
8
Raiders!

At a simple, quick breakfast the next morning amid the

bustle of a well-used kitchen, Garret and Jon listened to Garret’s
younger brother, Ian relate everything that had happened on the
farm since Garret had gone off with Master Ridley. There came
a knock on the open half of the kitchen door. Garret went to see
who it was and after a hurried conversation, he came back and
gave Jon an eye sign indicating he should meet him in the
bedroom.
“What is it?” Mistress Fletcher asked.
“Bryan Kendric,” answered Garret, “message from the
Guard, we’re to report as soon as we can get to town.”
Jon followed him into the hall, “What did he say?”
“We’re leaving right away. The gang of raiders has crossed
the border. They are headed this way just over a day away.
We’re off to put a stop to them. Good news is the Guard from
Pendleton came on and arrived last night, also the men from
Ashby and over at Whitburn came. We’ve over hundred men
here and more coming. Get your things together, leave the extra
clothes; we’ll take more food than anything.” Jon’s heart beat
faster and a fierce joy swept over him, so it had come at last.
After a flurry of activity Jon and Garret with bows and
quivers on their backs, knives at their sides, presented
themselves to say goodbye. Mistress Fletcher insisted they stuff
several food packets she had made for them into their packs, and
others for Master Fletcher and Garret’s two older brothers.
267
 “Where am I supposed to put all this lot, then?” complained
Garret.
Mistress Fletcher was openly weeping, but her voice steady.
“Now you two be careful and hurry back once this is all over,”
completely ignoring the fact that Garret and Jon were trying to
figure out where to stuff the packets into their already bulging
packs.
“Well, that won’t do,” Mistress Fletcher admitted and
hurried into the kitchen and brought out a flour bag for Garret to
carry.
“There you go, Garret. That will do nicely.”
“Mam,” whined Garret. I’ll look the complete idiot!”
“Never you mind, Garret, you’ll be glad of it in time. Your
Da’ and the boys’ll be starved I’m sure by the time you all meet
up. Off you go now,” she urged. Garret shook his head
resigned to her persistence.
Garret checked the tie downs on the cart once again making
sure they were tight enough to hold up to the journey. Garret
slapped Ian and Lee on the back and told them to take good care
of their mother and Elspeth. Elspeth reached up to Garret and
he swung her around and set her up on the cart. With a hug she
planted a kiss firmly on his cheek and waved her little hand. Jon
and Garret shouted their good-byes and loped toward the center
of Saxford before Mistress Fletcher thought of something else
she might send north. Jon turned to look back; Garret never did.
The guardsmen were to meet at the little howe, the sacred
enclosure that had been built ages ago around a mighty oak tree
near the ford. Cooking fires had been going since before the
sacrifice of an ox at sunrise. Its blood had been spattered over
the wooden statues of the gods and over the men about to set out
to oppose the raiders. The meat had been boiling in three large
cauldrons specifically used for sacrifice celebrations. The crowd
of men spilled out around the low walls talking, and calling to
neighbors and friends they had not seen for a long time. Old
men and boys younger than Garret or Jon mixed together easily,
anticipating what might happen in the next few days. Several
older men used meat forks to lift gobbets of meat onto several
268
large wooden platters to distribute to the fighting men. Wooden
barrels of beer had been opened and the men drank and boasted
about how they would face the enemy. Others called upon Tiw,
Woden, and Fregr to witness how firm they would stand fast in
the face of the enemy. While the howeman sprinkled
worshippers with ox blood in the sign of the hammer, Jon and
Will spilled part of their beer onto the ground and called out the
names of the gods who would aid them in the fighting ahead.
As they jostled their way back out of the enclosure, Jon caught
sight of Captain Watson, who waved him over.
“Why, Jon, you certainly stirred up a whole bunch of folks.
Never saw anything like this in all my life. Sounds like
something out of the old stories. Did you ever see such a misfit
collection weapons in your life?”
Jon could only agree. Everyone sported some kind of long
knife. Here and there the sun caught the face of rust-spotted
war-axes and swords; several had brought out ancient shields,
spears with green-stained bronze blades. There was a sprinkling
of dented helmets with low hanging cheek plates or long nose
guards, and a few rusty byrnie-ring shirts looking much the
worse for wear. Heavy leathern jerkins to match the one sitting
at Jon’s home in Redding covered not a few. Every man and boy
had a bow and a quiver or two of arrows. And while the aging
weaponry might cause a chuckle or two, the fierceness of the
men’s faces left no doubt in Jon’s mind that he caught a glimpse
of his war-like ancestors.
The way Thane Giffard and the Earl had talked, they weren’t
sure the Guard was a force to be reckoned with any more, and
now Jon knew it was, and he was proud to be part of it. He was
troubled by the fact that not a single volunteer, apart from
himself had come from Redding, Holbourne, or Camber.
Watson told him that guardsmen from Gamble and as far away
as Ribble were headed north to protect the East Road. No one
had heard from anyone farther south; they would never reach
Saxford before the raiders arrived. While he wasn’t sure what
an army should look like, he was sure that this one was
determined enough to drive back the Olani.
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 Jon and Garret fell in with the militiamen from Saxford.
Men, Jon was sure, could never walk as far as twenty leagues or
up and down even one hill, had reported for duty. But everyone
of them was resolved that no one could violate the borders and
not pay for it. Despite their bluff shouting, the men were grim
or as grim as normally good-natured, generous people could
possibly be.
“Jon!” cried a voice from the crowd. “Garret!”
They both glanced around to see who had hailed them.
A cheerful young face appeared from the crowd.
“Garn?” asked Garret. “You are a little young aren’t you to
be mixed up in this?”
“Ain’t many of us down Ashby way. Captain said I could
come if Mam agreed. So here I am!” The young man’s face
beamed at his good fortune. They visited until Garn was called
back to his section by one of the other Ashby men.
After that, five or six men came out of the howe gate and
shouted for everyone to settle down and be quiet, among them
Captains Tanner, Watson, and Forman. Another of the chiefs
jumped up onto the wall of the enclosure, so he could be seen
and heard, and he began shouting for quiet.
“That’s Thane Redgar,” explained Garret.
“Men of the Guard, I thank you for coming from near and
far. It’s time to face the outlanders. As you already know, a
gang of over a hundred raiders is coming down the North Road.
They broke through the Norsk fighters up there somewhere and
are just over a day’s march north of us. Don’t know why they
are coming, but we’ve been warned that they’re dangerous. We
have some good lads up on the borders already, but they will
need help from us to prevent the Olani from coming into
Saeland proper. We won’t let ‘em do that will we?”
“No! No!” was shouted from more than a hundred voices.
“You’ve all seen the wagons headed south loaded with our
people scared half to death, old folks and young ones alike.
Women packing and running from a gang of looters and thieves!
We’re here to stop them dead in their tracks. Keep your wits
and use your common sense. Our plan is to break them up and
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then run them out and shoot ‘em down. We’re not takin’ no
prisoners, and I’m sure they are not either!” A deeper shout
rose, almost primal in its ferocity as men slammed knives on
shields and shook their weapons in the air.
“The Normen have sent word that help is coming from up
north, so we’re not alone in this, but we haven’t seen them yet.
We’ll go straight up the road until we get to Upper Crossing.
Each of you will take orders from your section chiefs or
seconds. Stick with them and do what they say! I don’t think I
need to tell you, that this is the most serious attack on Saeland in
our lifetime. I know we’re not used to warring, but it comes
down to them dead or us! We’re doin’ this to protect our homes
and farms, our wives and children! Tiw aid us!” he roared.
“Tiw, Tiw, Tiw!” roared from the assembled men who
raised their bows and shook their fists. “What are we waiting
for?!” Redgar shouted and jumped down off the wall.
Never in all Jon’s life had he seen such a gathering or heard
such bold talk from ordinary people. Jon felt proud to live
among them. He was excited and eager to meet any foe. Let the
Olani come, Jon prayed. Let them feel the edge of my knife and
the points of my arrows!
Pandemonium reigned as the chiefs called their men
together, and guardsmen struggled through the dusty crowd to
get where they needed to be. Garret was called over to Thane
Redgar’s company; part of the Saxford militia and Jon tagged
along behind him. Garret introduced Jon to the Thane who was
glad to have him as were the rest of Garret’s neighbors.
“Any good with a bow, Jon?” he asked pointedly.
“Getting better, sir.”
Redgar laughed, “Join the crowd, my boy.” Jon was relieved
that he would not have to beg for a place. He felt welcomed and
instantly part of the company. They set off as a group talking
loudly and laughing, more like a hunt, than an army about to
fight a battle, but he had felt with them the urgency of the call.
The Guard marched through the morning and actually gained
in numbers as men from outlying farms joined the Saxford
company when it passed their gates. Garret fell in with several
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of his friends who boasted in best Saesen tradition of their
prowess, foretelling how each would behave in the fight to
come. Jon smiled at their bravado, but it matched his mood
well. It was the way men of the Saesen had prepared for war for
generations out of mind. Almost as if the blood of the sacrifice
had set them apart from the rest of the world and on a direct
path toward their individual and collective destiny.
The high spirits of the early part of the day gave way to a
sober anticipation about what lay ahead. The sun bore down hot
and the air weighed heavy and humid over the increasingly
ragged column of marching men. With a great clanking and
banging the army moved through moor and grassland. Several
times Jon wanted to ask questions, but the men had spread out
and since no one else was talking, Jon didn’t either. To the left,
grasslands stretched unbroken to the horizon. The companies
walked parallel to the road, but often out of sight of it as they
attempted to avoid the dust cloud from the unit in front. Before
the Saxford section reached Upper Crossing, Thane Redgar led
his company off the main road and angled between two hills
overlooking the East Road late in the afternoon. Leaders had
already been briefed on what each section was to do. From that
point on there were to be no more herds of men traipsing around
the country. Each company was assigned a position in the hills
or on the plain along one of the roads to ensure that no enemy
was able to get past them farther into Saeland.
Judging by the quiet among the men, Jon wondered if they
were as unsettled as he was because never in anyone’s lifetime
had the men of Saeland been asked to fend off such an attack.
Murders were virtually unknown among the Saesen, violent acts
of any kind were seldom heard of unless someone was drunk.
When Thane Redgar had said, ‘it comes to this; them dead or
us’, it provided a justification that each man and boy could
understand. But hours of steady marching toward the real
prospect of maimage or death sobered everyone, and certainly
Jon and Garret.
Jon wondered about the prospect of killing another human
being. When it came down to it, he thought he could. Jon had
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asked Garret about how he felt about killing two men to save
their lives on the road above Ashby, Garret became very quiet
and shrugged off any discussion. Jon guessed the killings at
Ashby still weighed on Garret. Jon couldn’t help wondering if
he’d feel that same way a day or two from now. What Jon did
know was that the blinding anger that he felt against the raiders
had settled deeper, even more visceral than the rage against his
assailants at Ashby. Until then the killing of another man would
have been troubling to Jon, but weighed against the terror the
raiders were bringing, he was ready and eager to fight.
“What do you think about this fight we’re walking
towards?” Jon asked.
“As I see it,” Garret replied, “I think of Mam and the kids
loading up that wagon or those people we saw yesterday
frightened out of their homes. I will not allow that to go
unchallenged, not ever,” and his eyes glinted.
Jon visualized Meg and the Turners fleeing from wild-eyed,
skin-clad raiders and felt the same fear for them and rage rise in
him that he felt yesterday upon seeing the carts of women,
children, and oldlings fleeing for their lives. Jon fixed that
image in his mind and let the matter rest.
The Saxford company had been assigned to make sure no
bandits escaped up the hardly recognizable East Road into the
hills above Saeland to cause trouble over towards Whitburn,
Gamble or even Ribble. Jon was tired and hot; he didn’t think
his feet would recover in a month from the constant tramping of
the last two weeks. He was very pleased when the signal was
given to set up camp in a shaded dell overlooking the East Road
and shielded from the North Road by a tree-covered ridge. Two
of the men were sent to the ridge top to keep an eye on the
crossroads below. The rest of the men from Saxford scattered to
find level places to put their bedrolls and rest until supper.
Garret and Jon were sent up as lookouts for the two hours before
sunset with instructions to report any movement on the road at
the run. The setting sun, in a sky clear of any trace of cloud,
painted the landscape gold then fiery orange and red. Jon and
Garret were wondering if it was about time for their relief to
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show up when Garret jerked upright.
“What is it?” asked Jon, eyes scanning the road north.
Walking down the road at a fast clip was what appeared to be a
guardsman at that distance. “You watch him from here, I’ll
report. Don’t lose him,” Garret called over his shoulder and ran
down the hill.
Jon watched the man continue his steady pace on the road
south of the crossroad. As if by magic, four armed men rose out
of the long grass near the crossing, and the man stopped in his
tracks, startled. The archers moved forward quivering their
arrows. The newcomer shook hands all round and turned back
toward the ruin on with one of the bow men; the others vanished
into the grass as if they had never been.
Jon shouted after Garret, but either they didn’t hear or
ignored his cry that the lone walker was probably a messenger
from the Saxford scouts. Several men including the Thane
raced uphill toward the vantage point.
“What happened?” asked Redgar all but out of breath.
“Must be Saesen. Four archers stopped him, shook hands
and sent him on with an escort. You can see him talking to
several men at the crossing.”
They followed Jon’s pointing finger toward the small group
of men. Then the group broke up, the messenger headed up the
East Road and two new messengers continued south on the road
toward Saxford. The others disappeared into the ruins in the
gathering dark. The man on the East Road rounded the hill
where they stood. “He won’t find us easily, I’ll send one of the
boys down to get him,” Thane Redgar said. Jon and Garret
were relieved of their watch and returned to the campsite. They
waited with the others to hear what the messenger had to report.
Not long afterwards, a man Garret called Nate Fuller and his
escort came into camp, slightly winded from the uphill climb.
“Sit down, Nate, before you tip over,” called the Thane.
“What can you tell us?”
“The raiders are camped about six or seven leagues off.
Fletcher counted one hundred six men, maybe twenty of them
without horses. They are heavily armed and a bit jumpy.”
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 “Jumpy?” asked Redgar.
“Some of our boys've been picking off stragglers and no one
wants to be the tag end.” Everyone chuckled grimly at that.
“Aellan says to tell you they look mean. The orders for
tomorrow are that you are to spread out east on the road for the
best part of a league in twos or threes and keep picking away at
them with bows if at all possible. No hand to hand or close in
fighting if you can avoid it. Let the bows do our talking. The
raiders must not be allowed to get east of you. Watch for our
men coming this way, we don’t want to go shooting any of our
own. Fletcher’s men are going to try to drive off more of the
horses tonight if they can, but after last night, it may be difficult.
That’s about it.”
“Get something to eat,” commanded the Thane. “I’m sure
we can find a spare blanket. You’ve done well.”
“Yes, sir,” responded the man and wearily squatted down
among the others to get something to eat.
“You all heard him, are there any questions?” No one
stirred.
“Most of you are new to all this, and so I want you younger
men with someone with more experience.” He called out the
names of two or three young men and matched them with one of
the older men who’d been out on circuit. Garret and Jon were
assigned to Dunnan Cooper, a fifty-something veteran
guardsman with grizzled hair and a stern face. He shook his
head.
“Awfully young if you ask me,” he muttered looking at
them. “I know it will be hard, but try to get some sleep, you
two. Tomorrow could be a long day.”
Jon sat down beside Garret and the others and in hushed
conversations they ate. Jon had grown used to short rations, but
no cook fire heightened the sense that the mustering of the
Guard was no holiday. Garret went over to talk to the man who
had been with his father.
When he returned to Jon’s side, he explained that his father
and brothers were fine. “Having a good time of it, so Nate
says,” chuckled Garret. “That’s about what I’d expect to hear,
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too. He thinks they will be here mid-day tomorrow ‘feathering
their backsides all the way’ according to Da’.”
The men wrapped themselves in their cloaks, but sleep
didn’t come easily to the company. Garret and Jon talked quietly
with Garret’s friends eagerly anticipating their first chance at a
real fight. They wanted to hear what Garret had been up to since
he had gone south with Master Ridley and were eager for news.
Since Garret and Jon seemed to know more about what was
going on than anyone else they had talked to, they were
barraged with question after question to which they had precious
few answers. Yawns became contagious and quiet descended on
the little glade, but apparently not soon enough for a few of the
older men who found it difficult to fall asleep and blamed it on
the noise the younger men were making instead of the aches and
pains of lying out on the ground and having missed a couple of
decent meals. Their calls for quiet sent the younger men into
their blankets or cloaks.
Everyone was up before dawn, no signal, just the stirring of
others, woke the company and after a handful or two to eat from
their own stores, the men set off down the hill to the road behind
the Thane in the hour before dawn. A cool breeze flowed off the
hills toward the plain, and Jon wished he had brought his cloak.
But the walking warmed them soon enough. When they reached
the East Road, Thane Redgar sat the men down and explained
what he wanted them to do.
“Remember them raiders’ll hurt or kill if they are able, so
don’t you go getting close to ‘em unless you have to. Make your
bow shots count. You are used to long knives, but if they’ve got
long swords, they’ll outreach you. Bows first, knife work only if
you need to. You can see the brush thickets, hide there and wait
for them. Once you find a good place, sit down and take it easy.
We’ll have plenty of warning before they get here. I don’t want
you to go farther up the road than a league though. If they need
help down at the crossing, we want to be able to get down there
fast. I want you on both sides of the road, and make sure you
know where the men are opposite you, so you don’t hit each
other in a crossfire. Fill up your water bottles while you’ve got
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the chance; there’s good water in the stream. All right let’s
spread out. Anlaf, you and Ansgar head down to the road to
wait for any messages, and run like deer this way if you hear
anything. The rest of you don’t get excited every time you hear
someone on the road; there’s bound to be some coming and
going of our men before the raiders arrive. All right let’s get set.
Tiw lend you strength, and Thorun bring you luck!”
About an hour after the teams of fighters had picked out
what they thought to be the best places for an ambush, three
men jogged up the road talking loudly.
“That’s my brother, Corbin!” Garret crowed with a grin, he
leapt up and led Jon down to the road to talk to them. As they
got closer Jon could see a clear resemblance between them.
Corbin was taller and broader than his brother, same sandy hair
color as Garret.
Corbin did a double take upon seeing his younger brother,
and they clasped arms in greeting.
“Garret?” he blurted, “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you and Da’,” replied Garret. We’re going to put
a stop to those raiders.”
Corbin gave him a mistrustful look. “Da’ won’t like it that
you’re here, Garret.. We thought you were well out of it down
south.”
“Ridley sent me with Jon here as a guide to call up the
Guard in Saeland and the Dales. We just came north from
Fulham two days ago.”
“Did you stop down home? Where’s Mam and the others?”
“They were bound for Highbury yesterday forenoon. Jon
and I came north with Thane Redgar,” Garret reported.
“I thought you were down Holbourne way.”
Garret could tell the story wasn’t making sense to Corbin
yet, but time would not permit a better explanation. “No time to
explain it all now, Corbin. How’s Da’ and Cole?”
They’re fine, tired and dirty as you’d expect. They’ll be here
later today.”
“You keep your head down, Garret, do you hear me? Real
trouble is coming down the road. Where’s the Thane?”
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 “Just coming now,” Garret replied, lifting his chin to
indicate Redgar and several other men who had come to hear
what Corbin had to report.
“String your bows, men, the raiders are comin’ soon.
They’re alert now, we’ve taught them they are not wanted here.
But they’ve come on, just over a hundred or so, most on horses
and a couple dozen on foot.”
“That’s more afoot than your man reported last night.” the
Thane observed.
Corbin laughed quietly, “They lost several of their horses
last night. Dad and a few others sneaked right up to the camp
and cut the tethers and run a quarter of their horses off, six or
seven leagues above the crossroads. They were trying to gather
them up again this morning. Didn’t half succeed either. We’ve
led off ‘bout twenty head of horses. Hid ‘em real good. But
the raiders are on their way, maybe a span,” referring to the time
it took the sun to rise the width of four fingers.
“I’ve got to go back to report to Rob Forman on the North
Road. Da’ and the others are coming south, ‘herding’ Da’ calls
it.” Taking Garret by the shoulders Corbin locked his eyes on
Garret’s face.
“You promise me you’ll not do anything foolish up here.
Da’s going to rage when he hears you are involved in this. Three
of us from one family is enough.”
Garret gazed levelly back at his older brother.
“Corbin, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. If you see Da’
tell him we’re up this way. I’ll explain the rest when I see him.
You be careful yourself!”
Corbin nodded and clasped Garret to his chest and then
released him. “See you later today, if I can,” and loped off down
the road with his two companions.
Jon felt a surge of adrenaline as he realized that the fight
was going to happen. Jon and Garret reported back to Master
Cooper hidden in the copse of aspens and oak about twenty
yards uphill on the north side of the road, and there they waited.
The breeze had died down, and the air was still. The morning
was already warm, and it would get hotter by afternoon.
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Occasionally a wren sang, and they heard quiet laughter from
one of the other groups across the road.
Once or twice Garret saw someone across the way shifting
to a better location in the brush. In all there were at least thirty-
five men waiting for trouble between there and the crossroads.
The Saxford company waited quietly in the shade, which wasn’t
a bad way to spend a hot summer morning, but the tension was
palpable. Not long before noon they heard shouting from a
distance, a lot of it. The sound didn’t seem to get any closer, but
bows were tested, knives loosened in sheaths, and every muscle
tensed, their eyes fixed on the road, but the shouts faded.
The road from Upper Crossing rose at a gentle incline and
was mostly hidden from where Garret and Jon waited east of the
hill and across the road from where they’d camped the previous
night.
“If them bandits come this way,” Master Cooper instructed,
“We’re going to shoot and then shoot again. Should they come
up off the road, make your way quick as rabbits up hill and east
of here into the brush. Shoot when you settle on a target, don’t
waste arrows, and don’t let them get close. You run off fast if
they come up toward us. The hill will slow them down. Get in
the thickets and shoot them before they can get close enough for
knife work, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” they replied looking at each other anxiously.
Their thicket provided a clear view of the first section of the
road as it appeared around the base of the hill. The shouting
became more distinct.
“Get ready you two,” whispered Master Cooper. “Won’t be
long now.”
Many pairs of eyes were riveted on the curve in the road
where it rounded the second hill. A fitful breeze brought the
first sure sound of the raiders. They were shouting and yelling
again, moving east away from the crossroads calling back and
forth in what appeared to be a near panic. Then the first raiders
rode into view, twenty of them all on horseback, several leading
pack horses, swords at the ready, hurrying east. A flight of
arrows burst out of a thicket from the far side, Jon saw four men
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from Saxford break and run across a clearing into a patch of
forest to the south, just as they had been instructed to do. Two
of the raiders fell; one of them releasing a pack horse which
turned around and ran back the way it had come.
A chorus of shouts and curses rose from the raiders, but they
urged their horses on, not knowing exactly where their enemy
lay hidden. Jon wondered how many times the arrows would be
loosed before the bandits would counterattack. When the
raiders drew even with their position, another flight of arrows
came from a thicket across the road swept through the raiders
dropping one into the dust and wounding another. The raiders
leaned close to their mounts and their bows sang as they shot
blindly into the oak-clad hillsides hoping to hit their unseen
enemies. Garret, Jon, and Master Cooper each had an arrow
knocked, ready to fire. The raiders were rough looking men,
bearded, unshorn, dressed in dark wool and leather, some of
them looked ragged. Jon knew from their blood-curdling cries
they would show no mercy if any of their assailants were
caught. They appeared disorganized and fearful after whatever
had happened on the North Road.
“Won’t be long now,” breathed Master Cooper, “you be
ready to shoot twice and run.” Garret and Jon nodded. Jon’s
mind raced through the instructions Garret had given him about
archery. He stuck his second arrow into the dirt so he could
grab it quick. He wished there had been more time to practice.
The raiders reached the point the three of them had agreed
would send their arrows hissing toward the enemy.
“Pick your man,” whispered Cooper.
Garret sighted in on a large man holding the lead of a large
gray horse.
Jon aimed at the raider who shouted orders, directing the
others in their incomprehensible language.
“Now,” whispered Master Cooper hoarsely, “shoot now!”
All three of them let loose a first and then a second arrow. Jon
didn’t pause to see if his or anyone’s arrows had struck home,
he turned and ran uphill into a second thicket screened by the
one where they had been hiding. Three or four arrows flew
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above him. He heard a grunt of pain and saw Master Cooper
fall to the ground. Instinctively Jon and Garret ran back towards
him, Master Cooper tried to ward them off, but they ignored
him. Before they could reach him, three of the raiders broke
through the brush just below Master Cooper scanning for any
sign of their attackers. Garret knelt and drew his bow again and
shot. Jon followed suit too excited to take proper aim. His
arrows drifted wide, but Garret’s flew straight and true, before
the three had taken a single stride towards Master Cooper, one
of them lay wounded or dying on the ground.
The remaining two rode screaming toward Master Cooper
who lay defenseless. Only the uphill ride saved Cooper’s life.
Garret and Jon held their ground between the oncoming raiders
and Master Cooper. There was time enough for one more shot,
and Jon succeeded in wounding a second Olani in the shoulder,
who faltered and turned away. The last raider realized he was
alone, pulled back so hard on the reins that the horse stood
upright and then swerved back downhill to rejoin his comrades,
his sword clanking beside him. Jon’s stared down at his hands
which were shaking as if they belonged to someone else.
Garret’s eagle eyes scanned the road for any other raiders.
“I’ll keep watch, Jon, see how Master Cooper is,” Garret
ordered. Cooper lay on his side on the ground, an arrow sticking
out of the back of his calf. His face was gray with pain. “Go on
you two, I’ll be fine here. You’ve got a job to do.” Garret flatly
refused.
“We’re not going to leave you out here in plain sight for one
of these bandits to finish off. Grab his arm, Jon; we’ll drag him
back into that thicket up there.”
Cooper cursed both of them roundly when they took hold
and dragged him to safety behind a screen of branches. By the
time they had him hidden, Cooper had lost all color in his face.
They lay him on his side and made sure he had his pack and
water bottle and promised to return as soon as they could. Jon
and Garret retrieved their bows and ran east behind Cooper’s
hiding place to catch up to the running fight which they could
hear moving ahead of them more or less along the road. Jon
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jogged behind Garret who angled down closer to the road. He
finally caught his breath enough to ask Garret if they had hit
anything when they shot.
Garret was laughing, “I think I got mine, the horse ran off
anyway. I was so scared, I just kept shooting.”
“Better shooting than any of mine,” admitted Garret. “You
saved Cooper’s life.”
“Your arrow struck one of them, if I remember correctly.”
Jon just shrugged. “Got lucky, that’s all,” he mumbled.
Jon and Garret both heard something that shifted their focus
to the road. They couldn’t see more than a few hundred yards
west of them, but they were ready for another go if any raiders
came in range. Across the road Jon watched a squad of
Guardsmen running low and quick setting up for a shot. Raider
screams and curses seemed to be coming back toward them.
“Shoot low,” whispered Garret. “Now,” he hissed as the
leader and first raiders came into view. They both loosed their
bows twice. From across the way Saesen arrows assailed the
same remaining raiders, who had become a frantic mob. Jon
was poised to run; Garret’s command froze him in place wait,
“Down!” A flight of Olani arrows buzzed through the branches,
a few sticking into the tree trunks shoulder-high behind them.
Several raiders left the road, moving off the road toward them;
they were hunting. Jon couldn’t see anything on the road at all,
but he did see the Guardsmen across the road take off running
just as he and Jon had done.
“Look,” whispered Garret, “there in the trees.” Jon could
make out the shapes of two men in the shadows, bows ready,
moving stealthily through the undergrowth toward them.
“Shoot at them and then we go,” Garret breathed. They let
loose and one of the men fell to the ground howling, the other
fired an arrow in their general direction and pulled back waiting
for a better shot. Garret and Jon stayed where they were. The
fighting and shouting had slowed on either side of their hiding
place. They weren’t sure if the raiders were hiding in the groves
of aspen and maples or whether they had ridden farther east.
Jon’s nerves were as taut and twisted as his bowstring.
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 “Keep still,” mouthed Garret. “One’s hiding down there
somewhere.” He motioned Jon to move in a line from where
they were. Garret crouched down a little hoping to see the
hidden outlander. Jon stole along the edge of the aspens where
they had been hiding, arrow knocked, and ready to fire. Once he
thought he saw movement in the shadows, but couldn’t be sure.
He moved on a few more yards. Shouts rose just ahead of him
and distracted him long enough that he only caught the
movement in the brush from the corner of his eye.
The black-clad raider they were hunting sprang from his
hiding place just paces in front of Garret and slashed viciously
at him with a long sword. Garret saw him too late and was only
partially able to turn and fall back to avoid the worst of the
sword's downward chopping movement. It saved his life, but the
filthy blade caught his shoulder and arm with a savage slice.
The howling raider raised the long sword again for the killing
stroke just as Jon’s arrow, already pulled back to his ear, hurtled
toward the Olani raider, piercing the man’s neck, protruding a
hand span from the other side. The raider dropped the sword he
had been holding and began clawing at the arrow in his throat
making awful gurgling noises. Knocking another arrow was out
of the question; Jon’s hand was shaking too badly. Jon ripped
his long knife from its sheath and charged the man. The raider
staggered several heartbeats choking and groaning until Jon
blooded his keen blade to the hilt in the Olani’s chest.
Garret tried to raise himself on one knee holding his left
hand across the gaping wound in his arm and shoulder visible
through the rent in his shirt; blood bubbled through his fingers,
soaking his tunic. He sat down again hard.
“Garret, be still,” was all Jon managed to gasp.
Through clenched teeth Garret grunted and slumped back
trying to lie back but fell onto his back groaning. Jon caught him
and laid him flat on the dirt and grass.
“Lie still, Garret,” Jon whispered nearly panicked at the
sight of so much blood on Garret, on him and the ground
beneath the Olani. Garret’s moan snapped Jon back from panic.
“We’ve got to stop the bleeding,” breathed Jon, half to
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himself and half to Garret. Garret’s shoulder and upper arm
were laid open from the top of his shoulder down to his elbow.
Jon retrieved his bloody knife to cut through the arm of Garret’s
tunic and eased it away from his shoulder. He tore parts of the
sleeve into strips and bound the wound tightly three times. He
then cut two larger pieces to make pads and as carefully as he
could, pressed the bloody edges of the wound into place and
then lay the bandage over it to hold it together. Perspiration
burst from Garret’s forehead as Jon bound the arm again. Garret
groaned, a deep visceral sound that nearly threw Jon into
another panic. The pressure of the binding over the wound to
stop the bleeding caused Garret to turn pale; his eyes rolled back
into his head and lost consciousness. Keeping the pressure on
with one hand, Jon tried to tie additional strips around the
wound as tightly as he could.
The sounds of shouting receded up the road away from
them. Even so, Jon was terrified that another of the raiders
might be skulking in the brush. He strained to see or hear the
slightest hint of movement; ears alert to any sound.
“Hel’s jaws, that hurts,” hissed Garret.
Jon was so astonished at Garret’s return to his senses that he
nearly shouted out loud.
“That was a near miss,” Garret whispered trying to sound
brave. “Caught me off guard, didn’t he. But he didn’t finish me
off. Thanks Jon, that was a lucky shot; you must have had a
great teacher.” Garret tried to laugh but grimaced from the pain
it caused. “Shooting a bit high, weren’t you?
“A bit,” echoed Jon, still trying to bind the padding into
place. Garret was unable to lift his arm at all. Jon was greatly
relieved to see that the bleeding had slowed. His first fear had
been that Garret would bleed to death before he could do
anything to help.
“Mam’s going to kill me for that shirt, you know,” grumbled
Garret when Jon cut and tied longer strips of the blood-soaked
tunic together so he could bind Garret’s arm to his side and keep
it from moving.
Beyond them the air was punctuated occasionally by a shout
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or a call, but there was no movement nearby. Jon reached for
his bow when, moments later, he heard furtive movements
coming towards them and knocked an arrow. “Garret?” said a
hoarse voice just above a whisper. “Garret, is that you?
“Garret’s been hurt,” called Jon quietly. “Come on, I won’t
shoot you.”
Around the thicket came the faces of two men of the Saxford
company Jon had met, but right then couldn’t remember their
names. “We didn’t see you come out after we saw you run up
behind this thicket; we knew at least one of the raiders was in
here. What happened?”
“Three of the raiders came up the hill at us, and we got two
of them, one of them shot Master Cooper. We followed them
this way and one of the raiders surprised us. He swung at Garret
before we saw him. I managed to shoot him before he could
finish the job. What’s happened on the road?”
“A few of ‘em are skulking along the here trying to get back
down to the North Road. We came back this way to cut them
off. You stay here with Garret and don’t make a sound. You’ll
hear ‘em soon enough.”
“How bad is it?” Garret implored after the sounds of the
men in the brush had gone.
“Lots of blood, so it’s hard to tell, but your shoulder and arm
have been cut wide open from your shoulder to your elbow.
I’ve bandaged it as good as I can for now. I think it isn’t
bleeding as much anyway.” The bandage, the shirt and Jon
were soaked with the sticky blood; and he could taste the
coppery salt of it. Garret’s face was pale, his speech slurred and
thick.
“Now, you keep still, Garret. Those raiders are coming back
this way.” Jon took up his bow again and waited. He heard
noise in the brush again.
“Jon?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re coming back now, keep him quiet,” whispered the
guardians. “We’ll stay here to ward them off if they come this
way. We’ll come back for Garret with a litter after we finish off
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these last few. Hard and mean them raiders are, but heavy-
footed.” They could hear shouts in the near distance. The two
figures melted forward into the shadows as silently as they had
appeared.
“Who was that?” whispered Jon.
“Edric Holt and his brother Edwyn,” replied Garret.
“Lie quiet,” ordered Jon, “some of the raiders are coming
back toward us.”
“Can you see anything?” Garret asked sleepily.
“Nothing, Garret. Now be silent,” he hissed.
Just then a loud shout came from just a few dozen yards
below them near the road. Jon heard several horses pounding
down the dusty road, and he couldn’t resist creeping part way
through the thicket. He stopped when he was between where
Garret lay hidden and any of the raiders who might stumble on
them. Arrows flew from both sides of the road into a group of
five or six bandits galloping back down toward the North Road
shouting and screaming in rage and fear. Not twenty paces from
Jon, one raider rolled face first in the dust three arrows sticking
at odd angles out of his back; he writhed and was still. Jon stood
up to take a turn shooting at them. Arrows buzzed toward the
Olani from the far side of the thicket where Jon was standing.
Two more raiders crashed, screaming in the dirt. Three of the
Olani kept their horses, the hooves pounding past Jon. He
sighted the bow and let fly and struck one of the bandits in the
leg, the arrow protruding from his leather leggings. Bows
hummed again and again until the last two raiders fell from their
mounts. There was a lull in the noise almost as if everyone
drew a breath to prove that they still lived while others perished.
The quiet lasted only a moment and then shouts from the
Saxford guard rang out as they called out names to determine
who was missing, injured, or dead. A sorrel dragging its lead
trotted past Jon’s hiding place and stopped to graze on the long
grass at the edge of the track.
“Suppose that is the end of them?” wondered Jon aloud.
When he turned back, Garret lay quiet.
Jon knelt beside him. Garret’s eyes were closed but when
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he heard Jon, he opened them wearily. “Is it over?” he asked
with some difficulty.
“I think so. Here, Garret, take a drink.” Jon raised Garret’s
head in one arm and lifted him slightly so he could drink from
Jon’s water bottle. After several long sips, Garret relaxed and
closed his eyes. Jon was alarmed at the extent of Garret’s
lacerated arm and shoulder and begged Eir for Garret’s life.
The bandage was soaked through with fresh blood. Jon talked
to him about the end of the fight until the two Holt brothers
returned. With them came another man who knelt down and
talked to Garret.
“Let me take a look at that, my boy,” the tender said too
cheerfully. He adjusted the makeshift bandages Jon had made
and peered at the wound. The bleeding mostly stopped. “You
did this?” he queried.
Jon nodded.
“Well, you did fine,” as he gently lifted Garret’s arm.
“Edwyn, you and Edric go get a couple of stout tree limbs
six or seven feet long and we’ll make a litter. In fact if you see
any of the others tell them to get two more, we’ll need another
for Dunnan.” Garret started to protest, but the older man would
have none of it. “You just lie back there Garret. You’ve been
cut good, and you’d just fall over if you tried to walk any
distance at all and the shoulder’ll start bleedin’ again.” Garret
would have protested, but the look from the older man silenced
him.
“He had any water?” asked the older man.
“Yes, sir,” replied Jon. “Just before you got here.”
“Good, you keep him drinking water regularly till we get
him back to camp. Borrow bottles from the other men if you
run out or refill them in the brook.” Garret was hastily laid flat
on a cloak someone had taken from one of the raiders. The two
brothers returned with the poles they had cut and carefully lifted
Garret on the makeshift litter.
Jon gathered up both his and Garret’s packs and regarded
the raider he had killed. The man’s partially tattooed face
showed shock, surprise and pain, his eyes wide open. The Olani
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was the only person Jon had ever killed, and he didn’t like it
much. The man was dressed in a dark stinking woolen shirt and
leather leggings. Jon tasted acid in his throat, the smell of
blood, his own sweat, and the stench of the raider's loosened
bowels stank in the open air. Lying in the dirt half hidden by
the brush Jon saw the man’s long sword. He lifted it and found
it heavier than he had imagined. Jon hadn’t seen many swords in
his life, the Saesen didn’t carry them. Through the crusted
matter on the blade Jon recognized that the sword was a
masterpiece of fine workmanship, though marred by dried gore,
its surface was both beautiful and deadly. Jon stared down at the
raider's dark tattooed face. Somehow, the sword seemed ill-
fitted to the hand of the raider. It was as carefully crafted as the
long knife Master Turpin had given Jon in Holbourne.
“Where did you get this?” Jon asked the dead man. He tried
to clean the blade with little success, so he undid the intricately
worked leather scabbard from Olani’s bloody belt. Jon was sure
the sword and scabbard had been stolen from someone. He
looped the scabbard onto his own belt and slid it around to the
side so he could walk after the men carrying Garret.
A member of the company saw Jon and asked him to help
drag the raider’s body down to the road with the others. Jon
grabbed the dead man by one wrist and together they heaved the
raider down the hill to the road. The body was heavy, and Jon
was glad they didn’t have to drag him far. They dumped the
body at the edge of the road where the men of Redgar’s
company were gathering.
Thane Redgar came up and asked what had happened. Jon
pointed to the aspens where he and Garret had hidden Master
Cooper and explained what had occurred. Four of the men with
a second litter moved up to carry him down to the road.
Bodies of the raiders lay strewn as they had fallen here and
there on the road, the points of many arrows buried in them.
The weapons had been taken from the dead, and the horses of
the raiders tethered together. The men stood talking together
watching the four bearers carry Master Cooper down to the
road.
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 Jon’s glance at the face of a young Olani raider not too
much older than himself was more unsettling than gazing at the
face of the man who’d tried to kill Garret. The Thane had
already sent a runner to report their success to Upper Crossing,
and ask if they should expect any more trouble coming up the
road. The men shared their stories as a way of shrugging off the
killing that had been done. Jon followed the sound of water
down to the creek and filled their two water bottles with fresh
water. He tried to rub Garret’s blood from his hands, shirt, belt
and boots. The sun beat down on him, and he should have been
warm, but there was still a tremor in his hands; he felt like he
was going to vomit. Unable to rinse the blood away entirely, Jon
‘shirted, belted, and booted’, as the saying goes, returned to the
somber circle of Guardsmen. Jon in his turn recounted what had
happened to Master Cooper and then to Garret. He received
approving nods and commendations from many of the others.
All told, seventeen dead raiders lay beside the road, three
more farther toward the crossroads. Most of them appeared to
be grown men or so it appeared to Jon, but three of them were
not much older than Garret. The men from Saxford were
speculating what might happen next, when Corbin Fletcher
came running toward them.
“More of ‘em coming this way!” he shouted. “Thirty or
forty this time. Split up, split up. Help is coming behind, but
the raiders’ll get here first,” he blurted.
“Same plan as before string them out, don’t take chances,”
Redgar shouted tersely. “Go! Go!”
The men who had frozen in place at the news, scrambled off
the road. Several men strained to lead the skittish horses into
the white oak thickets.
Garret and Master Cooper were transported quickly into a
dense grove of stubby maples high on the south side well away
from the road. Master Cooper cursed the litter bearers for their
haste. Four men were assigned to protect them including Corbin.
Jon was told to go with two other men he didn’t know to a
separate thicket not far from the road. Once in place, Jon had a
good vantage point to aim at whatever came up the road. As
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before, Jon could hear them long before he could see them.
Shouting and cursing they came; more inclined to fight than to
run.
“Hold it,” cautioned a man the others called Ned. “Let them
come on.”
Jon could see the wary faces of raiders as they approached.
Farther behind them, small groups of men on foot made their
way eastward above the road as stealthily as they could. At first
Jon feared they were unhorsed raiders, but then one of his
companions recognized them as Saesen, the promised help was
already moving into place. Soon there would be many more
Saesen than raiders and that was a relief. The Olani saw the
bodies of the raiders who had been dumped beside the road and
howled in frustration that echoed among the hills. What
happened next shocked Jon and the men hiding with him. The
bandits fell on the bodies of the dead tearing off ornaments and
stripping purses and pouches, even taking knives to fingers or
ears to get at the jewelry not twenty yards from where Jon and
the others watched.
“Three good shots, then up the hill,” whispered Ned.
“Ready, now!” The three Saesen shot point blank into the
milling raiders, who still waved their grisly trophies. Three
raiders fell down killed or wounded. Jon shot a second and third
time. Not sure, he thought he hit one, at least, who fell
screaming to the ground. “Move!” growled Ned and they fled
uphill under cover. The remaining raiders roared and shrieked
so loudly that it made Jon shiver.
“What if folk like that ever got loose in Saeland?” breathed
one of the others. Jon and the remaining guardsman nodded at
the unspoken fear it kindled in each of them.
They couldn’t see the bandits from their new hiding place,
but they could certainly be heard. The heavily armed men
remounted and spurred the horses up the road waving swords
and hiding behind their wicker shields. Occasionally a group
trampled into the thickets in a futile attempt to catch their
tormentors. Jon determined never to be captured alive by them.
Another volley of ten or fifteen arrows spewed from the cover
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of the brush, and the gang was reduced by a third. The raiders
broke and raced eastward on the road; others slipped off their
horses and slunk into the woods on both sides of the road to
hide.
Jon and the others moved in front of the grove where Garret
and Master Cooper lay to prevent any raiders coming up to
them. Corbin moved to join them. He squatted next to Jon.
“They tell me I owe my brother’s life to you,” he whispered.
We’ve become good friends,” Jon replied. I was just in the
right place, that’s all.
Corbin nodded once in approval.
Ned, who had become the interim leader, whispered, “Let’s
move a hundred yards ahead. I think four or five of the raiders
have taken cover next to the road.” As silently as they could, the
five Guardsmen crept forward. They shot again almost at the
same time as another team of ambushers from across the way.
But there was no movement.
One of the men next to Jon rose from his kneeling position to
get a better view. Instantly there was a double thudding sound,
and the man sat heavily and fell backwards convulsing with the
shaft of long arrow protruding from his right eye socket and a
second from the center of his chest. Uttering a horrific mewling,
an almost cat-like sound, he kicked out his life and lay still. The
four others stared in horror; then riveted their eyes on the thicket
from which the arrows had come.
“Stay down!” hissed Ned, “or you’ll look like that too. Stay
still.”
Jon hardly dared breathe.
Another volley of Saxford arrows probed the thicket where
the arrows had come from and led to the shrieking of a wounded
man and sent three other raiders running from one thicket to the
next. They turned to see where their assailants were, and Jon
and the men around him let fly their arrows repeatedly. One of
the raiders screamed as he was hit and fell onto his back. The
other raiders turned and fled across the road but were shot
down. The last raider in hiding bolted up the hill running low to
avoid the score of arrows sent after him. The men of Saxford
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conducted their steady running attack as small groups of raiders
broke from the shadows trying to flee up the road only to be cut
down by the deadly aim of Saesen archers. A group of six Olani
raced up the south side of the hills into the brush where they had
seen arrows cast.
They roared into the thicket and before anyone could go to
their aid, three Saesen were hacked to death on the spot. Jon
witnessed the frenzied rising and falling of the bloody swords
and axe as he listened to the high-pitched screams of the dying,
powerless to stop the frenzied butchery. The victory shouts of
the raiders sent Jon’s group forward with terrible resolve. Low
to the ground, Jon, Corbin and the others raced toward the
raiders. They were spotted and with a grim shout the six raiders
charged on them howling like animals, smeared in blood. The
raiders had only their hand weapons left, not a bow among
them.
Arrows flew among the six from every side dropping a first
and then a second. Jon pulled his bow back and let fly toward
the foremost of the raiders willing it to strike him down. He
missed, but another shaft impaled the man’s midsection, sending
him stumbling. The leader came on running recklessly
downhill. Jon dropped his bow and drew Turpin’s long knife out
of its sheath prepared to stand against the howling raider. Then
as if the world suddenly slowed its spinning, Jon’s peripheral
vision caught motion of a volley of arrows float toward the
remaining raiders with terrific force. Like an invisible hand, the
arrow shafts cut the raiders to the ground. The leader stumbled
still bellowing like a bull intent on running Jon into the ground.
Jon sidestepped the man’s blow which went wild. Using his
own knife Jon slashed at the man’s exposed neck as he fell
groundward, opening a gash across the side of the raider’s
windpipe. The Olani squirmed out his life’s blood, at Jon’s feet;
the others pierced by many shafts. Jon sat down, his knees
unable to support him. Corbin’s voice sounded at once far
away, but his breath struck Jon’s face.
“Are you cut?” Corbin searched Jon for a wound, but could
detect nothing. “Jon?”
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 Still in shock, Jon shook his head dumbly. Corbin dragged
him to his feet.
“Go back over to Garret. There are still raiders about, and
we’ve left him without enough protection. You understand?”
Jon shook his head again trying to get the world back into
focus.
“I’m all right,” Jon said again. “I’m all right.” It was a
statement of belief more than fact. Corbin and the others raced
away to finish off any remaining raiders.
Jon picked up his bow, and tripped repeatedly on the sword
at his side as he jogged back to where he knew Garret lay,
calling out a warning, so he would not be hit by Saesen arrows.
He found Garret and Master Cooper as they had been left. Only
one man had stayed with them, and he was relieved to have an
additional arm to help.
“The last ten or twelve raiders I can see have formed a group
and are trying to move back down the road to the west,” the
guard hissed.
Jon crept around the thicket and peered out. The last raiders
attempted to force a passage, and met their bloody doom under a
storm of arrows from the Guardsmen who had joined the attack
from the North Road.
A mixture of the men from Saxford and the newcomers
walked back down the road soon after, talking and gesturing.
They called out to the hidden skirmishers that it was all over.
They began the work of dragging the dead down to the road.
Any surviving Olani were dispatched without mercy. The
Saesen had seen the butchery the Olani were capable of. Several
men of the Saxford Guard were detailed to take turns carrying
the litters with Garret, who had fallen asleep or unconscious,
and Master Cooper who loudly complained about the
insensitivity of his bearers most of the way back toward camp.
Others with staves and cloaks gathered the remains of the men
who had been hacked to death. The blood-soaked cloaks and
desperate faces of the men who helped with that gruesome task
silenced the walk back up to the hill camp trail.
Messengers sent up from the North Road related what had
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happened out there. The long and short of it was that of all but
four of the raiders had been killed. Three had been captured and
would be sacrificed in gratitude for the victory. A single raider
was being hunted south of them. The others were even now
being laid out in rows on the North Road. It was late afternoon,
Jon was weary and hungry, but he was deeply concerned about
Garret. Jon insisted both patients drink while Master Cooper
expressed loudly to anyone who would listen that Jon was the
only person to take an active interest in his well being all
afternoon.
Garret looked very pale, drifting in and out of consciousness
and wincing every time the movement of the litter jostled him.
Master Cooper sounded more inconvenienced than wounded,
but he could not walk. Two other men had been wounded, but
were able to make it up to the previous night’s camp under their
own power. Men sat the shade and talked quietly until Thane
Redgar returned about an hour later to report that four
Guardsmen had been killed outright in the fighting on the North
Road, and four others injured; one so badly that he wasn’t
expected to last the night. Exactly the same condition Jon felt
Garret was in.
One of the guardsmen asked what they would do with the
dead raiders.
“The ground is too stony to bury the raiders where they lie.
Carts have been sent for to carry all of the bodies somewhere
and bury them together in a single mass grave.”
“What about our dead and wounded,” Ned asked grimly.
“They’ve already sent back to Saxford for carts. A few of
our people will keep watch and see that the dead are brought
home. They’ll have a decent burial in Saxford, I guess.”
“Now,” he said trying to change the somber mood of the
men. “You’ve all fought hard and well today. We’ve had to do
something that none of us ever expected to do and a few of us
have paid dearly for it. But our homes and families are safe. I
want you all to get something to eat and try to get some rest.
The fire ban’s been lifted, so get something hot in your
stomachs. The entire Watch will meet at the crossroads in the
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morning. Then, unless we hear otherwise, most of us will head
home after that.”
The somber mood among the men lightened. The roaring
fire helped, and after a supper made from what everyone
contributed, the men gradually began to speak again, beginning
the process of healing from the wounds, both seen and unseen,
inflicted in the battle.

Jon sat beside Garret talking to him in one of his lucid

moments, waiting for dinner when into camp strode four men
Jon did not recognize accompanied by Corbin Fletcher. Garret
caught sight of them and tried to sit up. He grimaced and
convulsed from the pain and lay back gasping.
“Da’, he whispered.
“Corbin, over here!” Jon cried.
Corbin located Jon among the others and led two of the men
directly to where Garret lay stretched out. The oldest of the
three with only the slightest likeness to Garret knelt beside him
and felt his forehead. Garret opened his eyes and tried to smile,
but it was a grimace.
“Hello Da’.”
“Oh, Garret, why did you come up here?” Aellan Fletcher
looked down at the blood soaked bandaging, then back to his
son’s face in great consternation.
“I’m sorry, Da,” Garret began,” I’m sorry about not sticking
it out with Master Ridley.”
Garret’s father seemed bewildered, then he understood.
“No, Garret,” he comforted. “I don’t care about that. What’s
happened to you?”
“Met one of them raiders face to face, and he nearly had me,
but Jon here paid him back... twice.”
“Good to meet you Jon, and I thank you. Don’t know how
we could go home to his mother, if we didn’t have Garret with
us.” Master Fletcher was trying to sound bluff and hearty, but
the strain in his voice hinted at the truth. Jon could tell Master
Fletcher didn’t want to talk about Garret’s condition with Garret
listening.
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 “Aelric took a look at him, Master Fletcher,” explained Jon.
“He can tell you about the wound. We dressed it the best we
could, but he lost a lot of blood.”
“Aelric’s coming this way now, replied Fletcher. “Thank
you, son, I mean that,” he said fixing Jon with a grateful eye.
“Well, how’s the patient, Aelric?” Fletcher asked too
cheerfully.
“We have to worry about infection and fever,” Hinton said.
The next two days will probably tell us how he’s going to fare.
I won’t lie to you,” he said. “Garret’s gravely wounded. If he
can get through the fever that’s sure to set in, he’ll recover. I
just don’t know about the use of his shoulder or arm. We need
to get him back to Saxford as soon as we can. You get hold of
Mistress Banks. She is better than anyone I know for tendin’
folks as is hurt bad.”
Aelric examined Garret once again. Garret sucked air in
through his teeth in a spasm of pain.
“We don’t want you moving around, Garret. Take deep
breaths. I’m going to go get some herbs for a tea that’ll quiet
your stomach and dull the pain. Someone should stay with him.
I’ll check back again.”
“I’m so sorry about this, Jon,” groaned Garret. “You
shouldn’t have to nurse me. I feel like an idiot.”
“It’s all right, Garret, Captain Wells told me that you stood
over me and fought off the attackers back at Ashby all alone; I
don’t mind. I owe you a life debt. We’ll get you home
tomorrow. Get you rested up, and you’ll be better in no time.”
Garret agreed to try to eat something, so they brought him a
bowl of the stew the men had thrown together. Master Fletcher
spoon fed his son, who ate more than Jon thought he would and
then slept.
Corbin and the other young man Jon guessed was another of
Garret’s brothers returned carrying gear for themselves and their
father. They dumped it on the ground near Garret.
“How’s he doing,” Corbin asked quietly.
Master Fletcher explained what the doctor had said. “Mam’s
going to have fit,” warned the other young man.
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 You must be Cole,” deduced Jon. “I’m Jon Ellis.”
Cole nodded in Jon’s direction, but his eyes remained on
Garret.
Have you eaten?” Jon asked.
“Nope,” replied Corbin, “haven’t been able to cook much of
anything since we went north last week. Smells good to me.”
“Help yourself, everyone put in what they had, and there’s
plenty.”
“Go ahead,” Jon urged, seeing their hesitance. “I’ll look
after the hero here.”
Cole gave Jon a strange look, then all three of the Fletchers
opened their kits and gratefully hurried away to find something
to eat at the cook fire..
While they were gone, Garret woke.
“Your Dad, Corbin, and Cole are in camp; they went over to
get something to eat,” Jon explained.
Garret’s wan face in the firelight didn’t look good at all.
Suddenly Garret’s face lost all it’s color. “Oh, Jon, I’m
going to be sick!” he cried.
Jon rolled him as easily as he could over on his good side,
but he could tell it hurt Garret a great deal. With a great
convulsive shudder, Garret wretched and wretched again and
again into the grass, groaning between each convulsion. Jon
watched the blood begin to well up from the bandages.
“Aelric! Aelric!” shouted Jon, “come quick!” Jon wiped
Garret’s face with his handkerchief and then eased him back
onto the litter.
Aelric knelt down and clicked his tongue. “ I was afraid of
that. Well, there’s nothing for it.” Garret had passed out. “Let’s
carry him back closer to the fire. He’s going to feel cold now.”
The three Fletchers and Jon carried Garret nearer the fire
where the men made a place for him and offered their own
blankets to make sure he’d be warm enough.
“You’ll still need to keep trying to get water down him”,
Aelric counseled. I’m afraid he’s already got a fever.” The
words flew like an unseen arrow into Jon’s chest. He knew well
enough that less serious wounds and infection had carried off
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stronger men than Garret. There was little any healer could do
to lessen the effects. The old Saesen saying, “Fever high, death
is nigh” proved true more often than not. The first tightening of
fear clamped Jon’s chest.
Master Fletcher sat down across the stretcher. “Jon,” he said
gently, “it’s going to be all right. You’ll see. We’ll get him
home, and he’ll be up wantin’ somethin’ to eat ‘fore you know
it.”
Jon smiled wearily. “That sounds like him.”
Master Fletcher squeezed Jon’s shoulder to strengthen him.
“Now, what do we need to do?”
“We have to keep liquids going in, so Aelric’s making up
some thin soup. And we have to keep him warm enough.
That’s all he’s said so far. We’ll take turns.“ Garret’s brothers
brought stew over in a wooden bowl, and Jon finally was able to
eat.
Nearer the fire they joined in the quiet conversation about
the day. Master Fletcher and the other Saxford men who had
gone north before everyone else, told about how they sent
messages back to keep everyone else apprised of the progress of
the raiders, shot down stragglers, and ran off dozens of the Olani
horses.
“Good thing them Norsk soldiers is on their toes is all I can
say,” commented Master Fletcher. “One named Erlend warned
us. Just strode into camp saying we ought to rouse the Guard,
them bandits had got clean through. Said the Normen were
coming this way to help, but I guess we won’t need them now.”
“I know him!” cried Jon. I met him up in the border country
in June.”
Fletcher looked surprised. “He is quite a fellow. Don’t think
I’ve ever met anyone quite like him. I’d not want to be on the
wrong side of him in a fight. That’s for certain!”
Fletcher then explained to the rest of the Saxford company
how the raiders had pressed on past the crossroads and been met
by a storm of arrows. The raiders had fought back but poorly; it
had been a rout. Those who weren’t killed outright split into
two groups. Some ran up the east road and met their end at the
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hands of the Saxford Guard. The others had tried to go north,
but were blocked and then ran east later. The others told their
stories of events as they saw it, faces shadow-cast by the
campfire light.
Cole leaned over to Jon as the others talked. “I thought you
were mocking Garret getting hurt a while ago,” he said. “I
understand better now. Thank you, we owe you his life,” and
clapped Jon on the back.
As the fire burned down, Master Fletcher asked Jon to tell
him about the rest of the Fletcher family.
“We helped them pack the cart; Ian and Lee were going to
drive it up to Highbury along with many of the others from town
yesterday morning.”
Master Fletcher turned to Corbin. “First thing tomorrow
morning I want you and Cole to head straight for home. We’ll
need to get your mother back to take care of Garret. I know
you’re about done in tonight, but we’ll have to get help to get
him home. This threat is over, and we can rest up as long as we
like once we get Garret back to Saxford.
“We could leave now Da’,” suggested Corbin; Cole bobbed
his head in agreement. “We could get several leagues down the
road before it gets so dark we can’t see. We can throw out the
bedrolls anywhere and be off long before you get going.”
“I can’t ask you to do that, boys; you’ve been on the run for
a week now!”
“Da’, you know Mam will be worrying herself sick up there.
We can keep going, I swear it!”
“I won’t ask it of you, but if you go, then you go with my
blessing,” responded Master Fletcher.
“Come on Cole,” called Corbin, “grab your gear.”
Master Fletcher pulled the two younger men into a hearty
embrace. “Fregr bless you,” he murmured. “One thing, though,
you’ll promise me; don’t make Garret’s wound sound worse
than it is. Your mother will imagine Garret’s wound bad
enough without any help from you. Off you go.”
“See you at home Da’,” they chorused and melted into the
summer twilight. Moments passed in silence.
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 “Now, Jon, I want you to tell me the whole story, not the
short version,” Master Fletcher requested. “I want to know
what you’ve been up to with my Garret here.”
Jon told Master Fletcher the long version of the story since
he and Garret had left Holbourne. Fletcher listened intently.
When Jon was finished, Master Fletcher fixed Jon with his eyes.
“Jon, I think you and Garret may have saved lives, here
today, and perhaps Saxford itself. If you hadn’t got the Guard
up and going, we might not have been able to hold them up long
enough to get help. The two of you have done something
remarkable.”
Jon was embarrassed, but inside he was gratified that what
he and Garret had done had made a difference.
“He’s worried you’ll be angry with him for leaving Master
Ridley. I don’t know if he will say it, but he hated it and didn’t
want to go back.”
Master Fletcher stared down at Garret’s bloodied arm.
“Doesn’t look like he has much of future as a mason does
he?”
Jon smiled, “No, sir, he doesn’t, not any time soon anyway.”
“Don’t worry, and he needn’t either. Something else will
come up.”
They spent the next couple of hours listening to the campaign
talk from the others. Garret finally inched back into
consciousness.
“Da’! he slurred looking up at his father, “you made it.”
“How are you, Garret?” asked Master Fletcher.
“I can’t move my shoulder or arm,” he complained.
“I’m sorry, son. Jon and I are going to get you home as
soon as we can. Are you hungry?” Garret shook his head.
“Thirsty?”
Garret croaked a reply, and Jon lifted his head slightly, just
enough to let the water go down, and eased him back to the
stretcher.
“Now, you lie back and rest,” Master Fletcher ordered.
“We’ll get you home tomorrow and let your mother get to
tendin’ you.” Garret shivered uncontrollably, and they covered
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him with blankets until he stopped. The conversation slowed,
and the fire died away revealing a black velvet sky behind a net
of shimmering stars. Quiet descended on the camp as the
exhausted men slept. Jon couldn’t tell whether Garret was
asleep or unconscious, his face and hands felt warmer to the
touch.

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9

Picking up the Pieces

After a fitful night, spent tending Garret and taking turns

sleeping, the Saxford guard carried the litters and all the gear
down to the crossroads where the rest of the Guard was
gathering. No carts had arrived yet, so it was decided that the
wounded would have to start back on the litters toward Saxford.
As Jon’s company came out of the hills and down the last
furlong of the East Road, they saw other groups of men
converging on the ruins at Upper Crossing. A few of the men
from Saxford came up to talk to Master Cooper and ask about
Garret who lay still under a shade frame Aelric had rigged to
protect his patients from the sun.
Among the ruins was a large open area like a common green
where more than a hundred and fifty Saesen stood or sat waiting
in small groups. Greetings were passed quietly as each new
section came to the square. The mood was plainly more somber
than outside the howe two days ago. Jon noticed a newly cut
timber post had been set into the ground near Thane Giffard was
talking with several men, mostly section chiefs and seconds.
With Thane Giffard were Reeve Telford and a tall stranger Jon
recognized as Erlend Billund.
“Jon, why don’t you come over with me? asked Master
Fletcher. “We should see the Thane.”
As they walked up Thane Giffard turned and called out to
Garret’s father, “Good to see you Aellan, your boys did
themselves proud in the past few days.”
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 “Jon?”
“Yes, sir.” Jon replied smartly, unsure whether Thane
Giffard would chide him for not making it all the way through
the villages with his warning.
“Looks like trouble found us before we got the word out.”
“We got as far as Fulham when the news came that the
raiders had broken through,” explained Jon. “Master Tanner
sent word on to Whitburn. We joined up with the men from
Fulham and came up here to help.”
“And rightly so, Jon, both you and Garret did well by all
accounts. We have some recruiting work to do back in Saeland,
but we’ll talk about that another time.” He turned back to
Master Fletcher and asked about Garret and Master Cooper’s
condition. Jon stood there for a moment or two but felt he was
an underling listening to the counsel of his elders when Erlend
caught his eye and motioned him over.
“It is good to see you again, Jon. I don’t think enough of
the Guard would have arrived if you hadn’t carried the message
back so quickly. You have my thanks.”
“We heard you had your own trouble up north with the
raiders,” Jon said.
The Norman’s face grew serious. “They came across the
river hundreds strong. We fought the main party west of
Torskilde and forced them back towards the river, but the Olani
you fought yesterday, we did not know about until it was too
late. Arnegil and I both took detachments of men to hunt for the
Olani your countrymen killed yesterday. I haven’t heard from
Arnegil or my own scouts for several days. I have a hundred
men camped three leagues up the road. Between us, a great evil
has been averted.”
Erlend’s gaze strayed down to the scabbard at Jon’s side.
He straightened up as if he had been struck, his face ashen. “I
see you have earned yourself a sword since last we met,” he
managed with a strained voice.”
Jon pulled the sword partially out of its scabbard. “I took it
from the raider I killed to protect Garret. It was too fine a
weapon to leave lying on the ground.”
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 “And in that you would not be mistaken,” agreed Erlend. “It
has its own history. May I see it?”
Jon pulled the sword free of its scabbard and handed it hilt
first to Erlend, wondering what he meant.
Erlend’s studied the sword and its markings without
betraying anything to Jon. His brow was creased by an
unspoken worry, but he returned the sword to Jon. “The
workmanship is Norsk, and I’ve never seen better. You took it
from one of the raiders?”
Jon recounted the incident briefly.
“It is a Norsk blade no doubt,” he said in an odd forced way.
Then his voice regained its normal timbre, although very
solemn. “This raid was not the last threat we will face together,
Jon. I have been asked to invite your Thane Giffard and the
Earl and others they choose to a council at Erenby. I have also
been ordered specifically to invite you to be among those who
come to represent the Saesen. Will you come to such a
council?”
Jon was stunned. “At Erenby? Why me?”
“That I cannot answer. I am just passing on the Council’s
request.”
“You’ll come won’t you? Erlend asked. “You will find
Norheim an interesting place.”
“Yes, of course I’ll come, Erlend, if the Thane agrees.”
“I think he will, since you have been asked for by name.”
Jon was confused, “Who could know my name, that I should
come and others not? “
“Arnegil for one, and bring that sword with you when you
come north next month will you? It will be of great interest to
the Council of Regents.” Erlend did not elaborate.
“I’d like to come, Erlend. But right now I’m worried about
Garret. Do you have any skill with wounds?”
“Some, “Erlend hesitated. “Ah, your friend. I will see if
there is anything I can do.”
Jon eagerly led Erlend to Garret’s litter. Erlend knelt on the
earth beside Garret and felt his face and neck, leaned over and
spoke to him. Garret’s eyes fluttered open, but
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uncomprehending. Erlend passed his hands over the wound site
with his eyes closed as Garret shivered under the blanket.
“Wait here; I will go get something that may help.” He
strode off purposefully and returned carrying a bag. He took out
a small wooden bowl and poured liquor from a stoppered bottle
into it, and then selected herbs from a posset sack. He stirred
the mixture together and let it steep several moments while he
and Jon talked. Then he strained the largest bits of leaf and stem
out through a small piece of cloth.
“You must do this for him when the fever gets bad. I don’t
have much, but perhaps it will last until you can take him to
your own healers.” He lifted Garret’s head enough and held the
bowl to his lips. Garret sipped until it was gone and lay Garret
gently back on the stretcher.
“That should reduce the fever,” advised Erlend. “Make the
herb infusion as you saw me do. I do not think the wound will
heal on its own; there must be something inside that is causing
the fever. Judging from the sword’s condition, I guess that is
the source of the trouble. I have done all I can here. If we try to
remove the bandages and probe the wound, he won’t be able to
be moved for days. He must be carried home, and a healer of
your people must see to it. The wound grows worse. You must
hurry. Well,” said Erlend as he stood, “I look forward to seeing
you again when you come north. I must speak with Thane
Giffard. Your friend will recover, Eir willing, but the damage to
his arm... I am not sure he will have the use of it.”
Erlend smiled encouragingly, and Jon saw in him what he
had seen in Arnegil, a touch of something lordly and good.
“I once thought to be a healer,” Erlend confessed. “It comes
in handy on occasion.” Jon expressed his thanks, and as they
stood among the crowd Jon felt a connection to the stranger he
could not explain. They watched the men milling around.
“Come to up to visit us, Jon,” urged Erlend. “You might
learn something of us and something of yourself.”
“I will,” stammered Jon, “if your have such herb lore.”
“Bring Garret along, if he heals in time,” Erlend added
touching Garret’s good shoulder, “the two of you have courage.
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So I hear from Giffard and others.”
Just then Thane Giffard, who had been looking for Erlend,
came toward them. Erlend moved to rejoin the leaders.
Jon glanced over at Garret and saw him open his eyes and
knelt beside him.
“Hey, Garret, how are you?”
“Not sure,” Garret mumbled. “How’d I get here?”
“We carried you down from camp this morning. Erlend has
given you a draft that will cut your fever a little.”
“The Normen came?”
Just Erlend.” Jon pointed to where Erlend and Thane Giffard
were talking.
“That’s him is it? Tall, isn’t he?” commented Garret. “So
that’s your Norsk soldier.”
“He said your wound is fevered because there is something
inside that we dare not probe for here. So we are going to set out
for home and hope that one of those carts turns up to save us
from carrying your wounded self back to Saxford.”
“Since everybody seems to be sitting around, I guess the
fighting is all over? Are the raiders gone?”
“All dead except for three prisoners sitting over on the far
side of the green here. Erlend told me they had a real battle up
north, and the raiders we fought were just a small group who got
away, didn’t know they got through until it was too late to do
anything but send a warning. He told me he thought you’d saved
Saxford.”
“I don’t want to think what might have happened if they had
come through Saxford at night without a warning.” Garret
shuddered involuntarily which made him wince.
“Don’t dwell on that, “Jon urged. “It’s over now, and your
family’s safe.”
“What are they talkin’ about over there?” Garret quizzed.
“Don’t know, they’ll say something when everyone gets
here.”
“How many can you see?”
“Not sure, Garret, more than two hundred or so anyway.
Don’t know many of these folks. They’re in a somber mood
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after yesterday.”
Thane Giffard took a reading on the sun, said something to
the others and they all turned to face the crowd which had
quieted and tightened around them.
“Gather ‘round; we have a few things to say!” Giffard cried
out with a great voice. The loose clumps of men shuffled closer
when Thane Giffard stepped to the top of a grass-grown rubble
pile around the wooden post and quieted the crowd with his
hands.
“Men of the Guard! It is good to be among you. I bring
greetings from Earl Osric and his thanks for your work here
yesterday. We also welcome Erlend Billund from the lands to
the north whose timely warning and your courage saved Saxford
and perhaps your own towns from the raiders.” The men
shouted and every neck craned to see the Norman. It wasn’t
hard since he stood at least a span taller than anyone else.
“On behalf of Earl Osric, the Council, and Reeve Telford, I
want to thank you for your courageous actions yesterday. I am
saddened by our losses; not in living memory has anything like
this occurred among us. But I promise you this; it will go hard
with anyone else to tries to attack Saeland!” Once again cheers
burst from almost two hundred throats. Giffard paused a bit
longer than he’d intended.
“Now, I know that you want to go back to your homes, but I
wanted to make an announcement about the Guard that will
concern you all. According to the Normen, these raiders are the
first of several groups moving toward Norheim. With our help
this first wave of Olani has been defeated. But we must look to
our own borders in the near future, the Guard must be
strengthened. The Normen will continue to protect their side of
the border, but there are many evils in the world and not all can
be so easily forestalled. Therefore the Guard will be organized
in each town or hundred. We must be out on circuit twice as
much as before with the support of the hundreds in Saeland, the
Dales, and the Marches that you have not had for many, many
years. We must be more vigilant than our fathers and
grandfathers before them were. Peril is growing in the world,
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and we must be ready to defend our homes. Now let us give
thanks for the victory yesterday!”
“The howeman from Saxford is here to make the thank
offerings on our behalf.” The priest came forward tugging one
of three Olani prisoners who had been stripped naked and
partially bound. The prisoner was shoved up against the new
post and his hands tied around it as the priest raised his hands
toward the sky and chanted a hymn naming each of the gods
who had lent them victory and bid Earth Mother accept the
offering for them all. A leather strap was looped around the
Olani’s neck and the ends wrapped around a short length of
wood. Still singing a song of triumph the priest twisted the
leather strap cinching it around the prisoner’s throat tight against
the post. The men began a shout of triumph as the captive
convulsed again and again and then died.
Jon was surprised how quickly the Olani ceased to struggle.
In quick succession, the other captives were strangled for the
honor of the gods, to the mighty cheering of the assembled
warriors. The last Olani surveyed the enemies about him with
contempt as he stepped over the bodies of his comrades. His
courage impressed the assembled men who cheered loudest
when he collapsed against the pole. His throat was cut and the
blood caught in a wooden basin by the howeman who solemnly
dipped a laurel branch into the basin and flung the blood over
the upturned faces of the men who bellowed and clashed their
weapons. It had a powerful effect on all the men, who saw the
sacrifice as necessary to honor and thank the gods who had
assisted in the battle. It was as if something of the captive’s
courage fell upon the upturned faces. Jon was caught up in the
fierce cheering, proud to have helped stave off the raiders.
Thane Giffard dismissed the men to begin the long trek
homeward. The bodies of the captives were dragged off still
bound to be weighted down and tossed into the nearby peat bog.

Guardsmen flowed down the road like a stream in full spate,

but burdened by the litters of the wounded; Thane Redgar’s
company fell gradually behind, in turns bearing Garret and
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Master Cooper homeward.
Men from Pendleton and Fulham, Ashby and Selby talked
and called back and forth as if they had known each other all
their lives. Jon waved Garn over, when he passed by.
“Glad to see you survived the fight yesterday, Garn.”
“It wasn’t pretty, Jon. I think I’ve had my fill of fighting for
quite some time. It’ll be good to get back home.”
“I agree, laughed Garret. I agree.” Tell your mother hello
from us.”
“That I will, Jon,” Garn called as he marched out of earshot.
Master Cooper attempted to get off the litter because,
according to him, it was bouncing too much.
“I can hobble along well enough on my own,” he insisted.
But when Cooper tried a few steps, he realized that bouncing
wasn’t all that bad compared to walking with a great hole in his
leg. He lay back down on the litter, pale faced and subdued for
the rest of the journey home.
“I hope those carts came soon,” was all he had to say.
“It’s hard to carry such a heavy load on a nearly empty
stomach!” Jon joked.
“If the bearers were more steady, I wouldn’t feel so sick,”
Garret responded, and then laughed.
More than anything else that had happened that laugh gave
Jon hope that Garret was going to mend.
Jon watched the backs of the many sturdy men talking,
singing and laughing. He felt good about the future of Saeland;
it was a good place to live. The part of Saeland Jon had grown
up in was too tame. Maybe long ago his people had been like
this, but by comparison, the people of Redding were soft, too
given to the pursuit of steady comfort and calm. These people in
the north knew challenge and had pulled together to meet it.
Family, friends, and neighbors counted. Jon had seen what
lands north and west of Redding were like and decided that his
future did not lie in Redding. He liked Ribble, maybe because
Meg was there, and he liked Saxford because Garret and his
family were there. Where would I go if I actually sold the house
at Redding? He wondered.
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 The litter carriers walked for a while without talking. Garret
asked Jon what he was thinking about.
“You know, Garret, I don’t feel like going back home to live
at Redding. I’ve quit Warren’s; do you think I could find a
place up this way if I sold my place in Redding? I can’t think of
a reason to go back there. I don’t want to move in with Granny
and Mother at Camber but …”
“You thinking of settling with Meg somewhere up here?”
Garret brightened. He turned his face to Jon and grinned.
“You’d leave Redding?”
“Yes, Garret, I would.” It was as if part of the weight of
Jon’s own future had been lifted from his shoulders. He knew
his mother would not be pleased, but in the end he hoped she
would come round to his way of thinking. Who knew, maybe
she and Granny would come, too, in time?
“When we get you home and settled, I’m going to Ribble
and talk with Meg and the Mortons. If they’ll agree, Meghan
and I will look for a place up here sometime before winter sets
in.”
“What kind of work will you do?”
“That’s the part that I’m having trouble with, Garret. I could
farm well enough, I think, but that’s not it. I could run a mill up
here somewhere, but I don’t want to become Saxford ’s Ralph
Warren either. We could open an inn, but I can’t think I’d be
content waiting on customers who wander in out of the rain.”
“Sounds to me like you are getting the cart around the
front,” argued Garret. “Can’t think Master Turner is goin’ to be
too pleased to let you drag his daughter away into the north
without knowing how you’ll take care of her.”
“You are right,” grumbled Jon, “as hard as it is to say it.
I’ve got to have a plan in place where the pieces all fit together.
I think there’s lots of young men our age who feel like I do.
Parts of Saeland are getting too crowded; good farmland is all
taken up. Lots of them would move up this way if they knew
what it was like.”
The more Jon thought about it, the more he felt leaving
Redding was right for him, and he began working out various
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scenarios in his head. Most of them turning out to be silly,
when he actually thought about the long-term consequences for
himself and for his future family. About the only thing that
really came of all of his thinking, however, was the realization
that he had a lot of people to speak to before he did anything.
Jon also came to understand something else. He felt different
about himself since coming north. The old worries about what
other people might think, what should he do to please them had
faded into the background. He had discovered that life could be
very short; it was uncertain. And that awakened in him an
urgency about his future that hadn’t been there before. He
wanted Meg now; not in some vague future, but then and there.
He awoke to the fact that in the back of his mind ever since he’s
quit the mill, he had been thinking he could always go back to
Ralph Warren and beg for work as a last resort. But he knew
now that could never happen, Jon had accepted the seidwoman’s
foretelling. He knew that his future lay somewhere there in the
north.
After walking for a couple of hours, the first of the carts met
the Guard column. Garret and Master Cooper were loaded into
one that was half filled with hay to make them as comfortable as
possible. The others continued on to the crossroads to help
dispose of the raiders and bring home the dead. The day was as
hot as any of the summer, so they stopped in the shade
periodically. It was decided that the cart and those who wished
would continue on toward Saxford through the night or at least
until they were so tired, they could go no farther. Jon walked
beside the cart until he was so exhausted he could hardly put
one foot in front of another. Late, late at night Master Fletcher
reluctantly called a halt. They made a fire and fixed something
to eat.
Jon was sleepy, but Garret’s fever had returned. He didn’t
seem aware of his surroundings and muttered in his semi-
conscious state. Jon used the last bit of the powder Erlend had
given him to little effect, and Master Fletcher and Jon took turn
turns dabbing Garret’s face, neck, and chest with cool water.
Garret responded to that by shivering so uncontrollably, that
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they had to cover him with their cloaks on a hot summer night.
If anything, the fever took firmer hold of Garret. To say that
Jon and the others were worried was mildly put. They dared not
wait longer. So as soon as they had eaten something, the men of
Saxford tramped on in the dark, passing the dying campfires
where men from the other sections slept without waking.
Eventually the moon came up and lit their way, and the only the
sounds were the grinding of the cartwheels, the tramp of feet
and the occasional skitterings of some nocturnal animal in the
underbrush ahead of them in the shadows.
Just before sunrise they came into sight of Saxford and the
men, one or two at a time, peeled off into their gates exhausted
but relieved to be home at last. Jon and Master Fletcher stayed
with the cart which finally reached the town just as the sun
broke over the village. They continued through Saxford until
they reached Master Cooper’s house which was dark and empty.
“Mistress Cooper’ll still be up at Highbury. I’ll stay until she
returns,” Rob Forman offered. Master Fletcher wished him
good luck. Cooper was already ordering people about from his
stretcher.
A neighbor came over to the cart to see if he could help.
“Hello, Cedric,” said Master Fletcher. “What’s been going
on while we’ve been away?”
“Fairly quiet here,” the old man replied. “Your boys come
through here carrying word that the threat had been dealt with.
They wouldn’t stop long. Said they had to hurry up to Highbury
to tell people up there it was safe to come home. I stayed here
to keep an eye on my place.”
Men over-weary from the long night march bid Master
Fletcher and Garret goodbye. The cart splashed through the
ford over the Woodburn and the driver turned onto the
Highbury Road and then down Fletcher’s lane to the farmstead,
pulling up at long last in front of the silent house. Master
Fletcher hurried inside to prepare a place for Garret to lie.
The driver, named Mosely, climbed off the cart stiffly and
stretched his aging back and legs.
“Pretty sick boy by the looks of it,” he observed. “You’ll
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want to be calling Mistress Banks, she’s the best tender ‘round
these parts. Seems to have the knack for healing folks. We’ll
get Garret moved inside, and I’ll stop by her place. She refused
to leave home when the others left, said she didn’t fear any
bandits. Said she had a good sharp stick to get after them if they
come botherin’ her place.” He smiled at the memory of it.
Master Fletcher came outside to the cart, “I’ve cleared a path
for us. Let’s get him inside on the litter.” With some difficulty
they were able to roll Garret back onto the improvised litter and
lifted him from the back of the cart. Master Mosely set their
gear from the cart onto the ground and told Garret’s father he
would go directly over to Mistress Banks and drive her back
before he drove home.
Master Fletcher thanked him again and again. They carried
Garret into the same room in which he and Jon had slept which
seemed like many nights ago, but Jon couldn’t remember just
then just how many. Garret looked awful, and his fever was
rising. The wound had bled again, the caked blood black on the
bandages. His whole upper arm and shoulder were swollen.
“Let’s get him out of that shirt,” suggested Fletcher. “I’ll
clean him up. We’ll let the arm go until Mistress Banks
comes.” Between the two of them they got him undressed. Jon
held Garret while his father wiped away the grime and dust of
the past four days. Garret was oblivious to it all. His head
lolled back as weak as a newborn’s in Jon crooked arm. Their
thought was to cool Garret off from the fire that was burning
him from within.
Jon hated to think what Garret’s condition would be like, if
Erlend had not given them the medicine. Erlend had saved
Garret’s life, Jon was sure of it, but the medicine Jon had given
him twice during the ride home had run out. They tried to get
Garret to drink, but it was little more than a sip or two at a time.
They sat at Garret’s bedside watching him shiver and
added covers until he stopped. It was too quiet in the house,
only the sounds of their breathing or a squeak from a stool or
bird song from outside to break it. Jon was so sleepy he kept
jerking his head trying to stay awake until they heard wheels in
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the lane.
“Here’s the cart.”
Fletcher guided Mistress Banks in from the front door. She
chattered all the way in asking Master Fletcher about Garret’s
condition. Once in the room Mistress Banks ignored Jon and
marched directly to the pallet and took Garret’s hand, then felt
his brow and cheek. Mistress Banks appeared to Jon to be about
Granny’s age, hair nearly white and very business-like.
“I need more light, Aellan, go get another lamp,” she
ordered and finally noticed Jon.
“Oh, I thought you were one of Aellan’s boys, What’s your
name?”
“Jon Ellis.”
“Jon,” she commanded, “I’m going to need some clean
cloths, and a couple of large bowls with warm water in them.
You go and help Aellan get that going, then come back here
both of you.”
“Yes, Mistress,” replied Jon and rushed to get what she’d
asked for, glad that he could do something. Fletcher located
another lamp and got a fire started in the huge kitchen hearth
and set a pot of water to boil. He found two large bowls and
handed them to Jon to carry into the room where Garret lay.
Mistress Banks was removing the bloodied strips cut from
Garret’s tunic two days ago which held his arm and shoulder
immobile clicking her tongue disapprovingly. Jon set the bowls
down on a bedside table and told her the water was heating. She
ignored him and probed with her fingers around the edges of
area where the bandages had been, sniffed the bandage itself and
mumbled to herself. Jon walked back to the kitchen trading
places with Master Fletcher and waited for the water to boil
which took forever. He carried the steaming pot into the
bedroom and set it on the floor out of the way and stood beside
Master Fletcher waiting for additional instructions.
“There is something in the wound which is causing this
infestion. I’m going to try to clean it. This is going to be messy
and hard to do on this mattress, Aellan. I need you and the
young man to move him onto the floor. Shove Garret’s pallet
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over against the other one out of the way and lay him on a
blanket. Lift him as gently as you can. Find two or three
candles to place around him so I can see into that wound; there’s
not enough sunlight.” She took a deep breath and looked
directly at them.
“This is goin’ to hurt him, Aellan. It will hurt him bad, but
we have to find whatever is causing the trouble and get it out.
You are going to have to hold him down and not let him move.
He’s going to thrash around if you don’t hold on. He’ll be
stronger than he looks. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” they gulped.
When they lifted Garret over to the blanket on the floor, he
groaned from deep inside his chest but remained unconscious.
They set the two lamps on either side of Garret’s inert form.
She soaked the rest of the old bandage off and bathed the
area around the wound. Garret stirred a little, and she had
Master Fletcher take hold of his loose arm and Jon his feet. She
was finally able to peel off the old bandage. Master Fletcher
sucked in his breath with a hiss when he saw the long, open
laceration. He wondered how Garret had withstood the move
without a word of complaint, and his eyes welled up with tears
as he saw his son lying there with the gaping wound blackened
on the edges, raw and swollen. Jon honestly couldn’t see how
Garret’s arm could ever heal from it. Mistress Banks continued
to cleanse the wound of the dried blood and matter in what
appeared to be a very rough manner. Garret was tensing more
and more often as she disturbed the wound, and they had to hold
on tighter to keep him from throwing his free arm and feet, even
his hurt arm tried to move.
“Aellan, you take hold of this hand, too. Hold it against his
chest if you can. I don’t want him to move it.” Fletcher
tightened his grip, sweat running down his face. With the
outside of the wound clean at last she peered closely and sniffed
it again.
“We’ve cleaned the outside, but the wound itself has to be
cleaned. This is goin’ to hurt him, but since he’s unconscious,
perhaps it won’t be so difficult for us to manage. I’ll be as
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gentle as I can, but I need to make sure the wound is completely
clean before we do anything else.”
Mistress Banks gave instructions to bring some clean water
and a wooden cup, and additional cloths. She crushed a yarrow,
marigold, and comfrey mixture in a cloth bag and steeped it into
the water until it turned the color of tea. The scent was strongly
medicinal and clean. They moved the lamps closer for her to see
into the irregular slash.
“We’ll soon have this done, she said half to them and half to
herself.” Garret’s eyes were closed; Jon hoped he wasn’t aware
of what Mistress Banks was doing. Garret’s legs and feet felt
hot and dry to Jon as he steeled himself for what might come,
his own shirt was completely sweat through, Garret’s father’s
the same.
Jon knew the instant Mistress Banks began probing the
wound because Garret’s feet jerked up at the knees, “Hold him
down!” the tender cried. “Aellan, don’t let him move!” Mistress
Banks carefully spread the sides of the wound open and with a
cloth began clean the inside of the wound first dripping the
warm infusion from the bowl. Jon turned away and saw Aellan
had done the same, tears once more in his eyes.
They held Garret tightly pressing him into the floor Garret
called out incoherently.
“Go ahead, Garret, my boy, shout all you want, it won’t be
long now,” declared Mistress Banks. Garret cried out again
wordlessly, then again and again. Jon’s face dripped with the
sweat Garret could not.
“There,” announced Mistress Banks at last, “that’s got it. If
there’s anything else I can’t see it.” She had pulled something
black and clotted out of the wound and dropped it in the bowl
with a thunk. She bathed the wound again and again in the
herbal mixture. Blood welled up from inside the wound. Garret
had been hissing through his teeth, tense the whole time it took
for her to clean the wound properly, but as she let the mixture
continue to drip and flood the wound, he relaxed a little.
“That’ll deaden it a little, she explained. “The next part will
be hardest on you. I have to sew him up.” Jon choked at the
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thought. “The worst is over. The wound is clean and whatever
was left in there is gone. He’s wandering, but he can still jerk,
so hold him down while I sew. If it makes you queasy, then
don’t watch. It’s going take a little while, but I’m a very good
seamstress,” she laughed grimly. The last Jon could bear to
look at was as she threaded a rather wicked looking curved
needle with a length of heavy thread that she soaked in the
herbal infusion.
“Here goes, she stated, hold him tight,” and started sewing
the skin at the top of Garret’s shoulder together. She drew the
skin together as evenly as she could and stitched the wound
closed. Mistress Banks squinted critically at her work. She
snipped the thread several times and rethreaded the needle.
Garret didn’t stir like he had before which made it much easier
on Jon and his father. Blood oozed up from between the
threads, bright red blood.
Seeing their faces she explained. “Don’t worry, a little
bleeding is a good sign. Jon, will you open the window? It is
too hot in here, we need some fresh air.”
Jon left his position at Garret’s feet and opened the window
shutters. He had been so intent on the operation that he hadn’t
even noticed it was broad daylight. Sparrows twittered and a
south breeze carried into the room. He turned back to see
Mistress Banks finish the last stitch on Garret’s shoulder,
beginning then to close the wound which extended down the
front of his arm more than two hand spans. The bedding
beneath him was smeared with pink and black with gore, and
stained with the yellow medicine she had been dripping onto the
wound.
“Jon, you and Aellan will need to scrub him down,” she
commanded as she clipped the last knot with her knife. “Then
I’ll bandage his arm and shoulder. You can put him back onto
his pallet. It looks good to me,” she added in a tired voice.
“He’ll have a scar that will turn any girl’s head that’s for sure!
I’m going to stretch these old legs and piss.”
Garret still felt hot to the touch, so they patted him with cool
water until the tender returned to the room.
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 “Let’s get him bandaged, and then I’ll give you some
medicine he’s to take and then we’ll wait and see how he does.
I am surprised your boy is doing as well as he is. Did you say
he was hurt three days ago, Aellan? I don’t understand why
he’s not worse. Folks can’t take that high a fever for more’n a
day without taking some hurt. Jon tried to explain the medicine
Erlend had given him, and she sniffed at the posset but couldn’t
tell exactly what had been used and mumbled something about
foreigners.
They watched her smear the bandage with a white salve so
that it wouldn’t stick to the stitches. Then she expertly bound
his shoulder and arm and then bound his arm to his chest with
the wide bandages she had made from the cloth Master Fletcher
had brought. Jon helped lift and turn Garret so she could wrap
the bandages tight enough to stay but not to cause discomfort.
“That’s done,” she mumbled to herself. “Jon, will you fetch
me some of the water from the kitchen? I need to give Garret
his first taste of my medicine.” She mixed up an infusion of
willow bark, mullein, and meadowsweet from her bag into a cup
of warm water and stirred it. The smell was not unpleasant, a
smell to clear the sinuses.
“Your job is to get this down him, every bit of it. Then
again at noon and again tonight. Give him broth to get liquids
into him. If the fever goes down, he will sleep most of the day,
he’ll come round late this afternoon I’d say, and he’s going to be
very sore. Then you can mix this up again.
“If he wants to eat, let him eat what he wants, just a little at a
time. Just don’t let him move his shoulder. He’ll have to have
constant help until he can get around, but there’s plenty of you
‘round here to do that. That’s about it. He’ll be down for a few
days.”
“Now, young man, let me take a look at you,” she said to
Jon. “You didn’t get that in the fighting two days ago. What
happened?”
“It’s nothing. I got hit in a fight several days ago. Mistress
Wells over in Ashby sewed me up the same night.”
The old woman peered closely at Jon’s forehead. “Did you
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think those stitches were going to stay in there forever? They
need to come out. Sit down and let me do it as long as I’m
here.”
Jon eyes widened, the memory of her stitching and
unconscious Garret too fresh. The thought of undoing stitches
caused his face to blanch.
Mistress Banks grinned. “I know what your are thinking,
Jon. But taking them out is never as bad as sewing them in.” She
pulled out her little knife and deftly cut the cross stitching and
then with a practiced hand pulled the stitches from Jon’s
forehead. He felt a momentary sting and uncomfortable tug and
she announced she was finished. She dribbled the last of her
astringent solution over the holes. “You’ll have a fine scar to
remember this adventure of yours, but it will shrink in time. You
can thank Mistress Wells; she is a fine seamstress. Keep the
wound clean and you’ll be fine. The swelling is already down
and the bruises will fade to a lovely green before they disappear.
“You must have a hard head, young man.” She chuckled to
herself and packed her things.
“Thank you, Mistress, I can pay you,” Jon stammered.
“No, young man, it is for me to thank you. If you hadn’t
fought off them foreigners, I’d have had more trouble than this.
No fee today. Not for Garret either. I’ll check back tomorrow
on him unless you see a problem. If the fever doesn’t go down
by afternoon, come and get me. I’m off home.” She felt
Garret’s still-warm forehead, “Glad it’s no worse than it is. I
really think he’s going to recover.”
She picked up her bag.
“I’ll hitch up the cart and take you home Mistress Banks, I
can’t tell you how much we appreciate your coming this
morning. You are wonderful!” Master Fletcher said.
“Nonsense,” she replied, “glad I could help. You stay here
with your boy. You two look awful, try to rest. I know my way
‘round here, the walk will do me good, it’s not that far.
Goodbye.”
Master Fletcher escorted her to the door and came back into
the room and stared at Garret.
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 “She’s good, isn’t she?”
“A remarkable woman,” Jon agreed. They mixed up the
medicine and Master Fletcher spooned it into Garret. Garret had
started to shiver so they lowered him onto his bed on a soft old
blanket and covered him.
The two of them have left us quite a mess,” said Fletcher.
“I’ll clear this up in no time. You go get cleaned up, Jon. My
wife will have my hide if she thinks I haven’t been taking care
of you. Thanks for your help; I don’t know how we would have
managed.”
“It’s nothing, Master Fletcher,” but in his heart Jon knew it
was something; he had repaid a debt.
Jon carried in the gear that still sat outside and asked if he
should stay in the room with Garret. “That’s your bed for as
long as you want,” announced Fletcher indicating the other
pallet they had shoved into the corner. “Go on and clean up.
You’ve still got blood all over your shirt.” Jon set his things
down and went out into the sun to scrub away the sweat and dirt
and terror of the past few days. It would take longer to come to
terms with what he’d experienced in the last week. Somehow in
a way he couldn’t quite explain, his view of the world had
changed. Wrapped in a drying cloth, he hung his clothes out on
the line in the back of the house. Master Fletcher sat on a
milking stool with the empty medicine cup about to fall from his
hand when Jon returned to Garret’s room. Jon took the cup, and
Master Fletcher started awake.
“You go on Master Fletcher. I’ll watch him while you clean
up. Mistress Fletcher’d be more upset seeing you this way than
if she had seen me.” Fletcher complied, tired to his core.
“You lie down and try to sleep, Jon, we’ve done everything
we can for him right now. Mistress Fletcher’ll be home this
afternoon like a windstorm, and none of us will know peace for
hours. Go lie down and rest while you can, I will too.”
Jon felt Garret’s forehead and neck and thought perhaps he
was slightly cooler, and for the first time since they arrived, he
began let the fear that they had done too little, too late, slip
away. He lay down of the far bed and slept without dreaming.
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 The room came gradually back into focus, but he was hot.
The room was enclosed and over heated by the blazing summer
sun. In that first instant of full waking Jon failed to understand
where he was, but a slight movement across the room reminded
him. Jon looked over to see Garret looking back at him. “How
long have I been here?” he asked simply.
“Just since this morning, Garret. We got you home and
Mistress Banks came to help. She dug something out of the
wound that was causing your fever, then she sewed you up like
she was repairing an old shirt. How do you feel?”
“Tired,” Garret groaned thickly, “and it burns, and I can’t
move my arm.”
“She gave us medicine for the pain, but I have to mix it with
water. I’ll be right back.” Jon pulled off his sweat dampened
long shirt and pulled on his summer trews. He carefully
prepared a cup of medicine, stirring as he returned to Garret’s
side; his face pale beneath his summer tan.
“How bad is it?”
“It’s bad, Jon, I can feel my heart beating in my shoulder.
What’s that you’ve got?”
“Something for pain. You have to drink it all. You can’t sit
up just yet, just take little sips. Jon pushed a rolled blanket under
Garret’s head to hold it up and held the cup to Garret’s mouth.
Despite the fact that is was an effort for him to swallow, Garret
made good progress. And his fever was down much to Jon’s
relief, but he wasn’t sweating and Jon knew that the fever still
lurked in the wound.
“Jon,” begged Garret, “I’m sorry to ask this, but my bladder
is so full, I can’t wait to piss any longer, can you help me up?”
“Don’t worry about it, Garret, it won’t be the first time,”
replied Jon. “It’ll be a little trickier here, but the chamber pot’ll
work well enough. The chamber pot idea worked fine, and so
did Garret. That, too, was a good sign they should expect
according to Mistress Banks. Jon emptied and rinsed it and put
it back beside the bed. Garret had fallen asleep.
Outside he heard the unmistakable sounds of people in the
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lane. From the open front door John saw the Fletcher’s cart
loaded with a great pile of baggage topped by two young
children driven by Mistress Fletcher. Two cows tied to the cart
walked along behind with Cole and Corbin Fletcher alongside.
A dog raced around the entourage barking. As soon as Jon
stepped out onto the porch a shout rose from the cart, and
Corbin and Cole raced toward him shouting a hundred
questions. Jon smiled.
“Shhh,” he hushed. “Shhh!” making downward motions
with his hands. “Garret’s asleep. The rest of the family quieted
immediately. When the cart pulled up to the porch, Corbin
helped his mother down off the cart. She looked frightened, and
she advanced with a singleness of purpose that would have
frightened most people.
“How is he?” she implored, searching Jon’s eyes for any
hint of holding back the truth,
“Mistress Banks came early this morning and cleaned
something from the wound that was causing a fever and then
sewed him up. His fever is down a little right now, and she left
us medicine for that and some for pain when he wakes up.
Master Fletcher is asleep upstairs.
She turned to the rest of the kids. “You lot start unloading
the cart out here. We don’t want any noise to disturb your
father or Garret. Corbin, you and Cole come with us!”
She marched into the bedroom and straight to Garret’s side
and felt his face. “He is fevered,” she confirmed.” She checked
the bandage. “How bad was it?” Jon’s face told all that she
needed to know. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my boy.”
She patted Garret’s hand and sighed. She stood up and came
back to Jon and embraced him giving him a motherly peck on
his cheek. “Thank you Jon,” and drew Corbin and Cole into her
ample embrace. “Thank you boys. Jon, come into the kitchen
and tell us what happened.”
As she put the water on to boil, Jon told her and Garret’s
brothers what happened since Corbin and Cole left to fetch the
family down from Highbury.
“He should have the fever medicine again, Mistress
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Fletcher, both of us fell asleep.”
“No wonder,” she commented. “I’ll go see that he gets it
down.”
“What happened with the two of you?” Jon asked Corbin
and Cole.
“We walked all night to get here. We stopped to eat and rest
a few hours. Then we walked up to Highbury yesterday
afternoon. It’s about six or seven leagues up into the hills east
of us. There’s an old fort up there from the old days that has
been kept more or less in repair. The place was filled with all
sorts of people from around Saxford. Lots of old men and
women, kids and mothers terrified of what we had to say. We
walked up towards the gate, and they ran to meet us asking what
had happened. We were heroes! They clapped and cheered
madly. Mam nearly hugged us out of breath. It was too late to
start back last night in the dark, so everyone stayed until this
morning. We left early on account of Garret. Everyone else
will be coming back today or tomorrow.”
“Maybe you should go up to your Dad,” said Jon, “he was
anxious about you two and your mother.”
“Good idea, thanks, Jon.” They slapped him on the back and
vanished up the squeaky stairs. Jon returned to Garret’s room.
Mistress Fletcher was spooning the last sips of liquid into his
mouth, and Garret swallowed, eyes closed.
What do you think? Jon whispered.
“He knows I’m here.” She sat back and for the first time in
days lay aside her other cares. “What did Mistress Banks say
we should look for? she asked.
“She thinks he’ll recover, as long as we can keep the fever
down and the wound doesn’t fester. You should have seen her,
Mistress Fletcher, she is amazing. She told us he’ll have a scar.
I think he already looks better than he did in the forenoon. If the
fever doesn’t break, we’re to go get Mistress Banks again.”
“I don’t think Garret’s been sick a day in his life,” Mistress
Fletcher sighed and shook her head. To think one of those wild
raiders tried to cut him open with a great sword is more than I
can bear.”
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 “Try not to think about that part of it, Ma’am. He’s alive,
and you’re all back together under one roof. Garret’s paid the
price for all of that, we’ll come to see that in time.”
“I can’t sit here all day, I’ve got a house to put back
together, and we all could use something to eat.” Jon got up to
go with her. “No, Jon, you lay down on that bed and take it
easy. We’ve got lots of willin’ hands around here. We’ll call
you when we’ve put dinner together.” Jon felt a little silly, but
did as she ordered. He lay back and listened to the sounds of the
house and drifted off to sleep feeling like he was home.
He woke late in the afternoon. He had been hag-ridden by
the rapid-fire mix of events all shoved together with people
playing different parts than they had in the daylight, and he
woke frustrated and confused. His first reaction on waking was
a great sense of relief that the confusion and frustration were
part of the dreaming, and he left it behind with a sigh of relief.
He also felt hungry; hungry for the first time in days. When Jon
stretched and groaned, Garret opened his eyes.
“Welcome back,” said Jon quietly, “how is the arm?”
“Groggy, like everything is moving too slow. I can’t see it,
Jon, how does my arm look?”
“It’s a bad cut, Garret, I won’t lie. You are going to be laid
up for a time, I think, but it looks much better than before,
you’re all sewn up. Do you remember anything?”
“It’s like a bad dream you can’t quite recall, but I can’t
move my arm.”
“It’s because you are taking pain medicine, and the arm is
bound tightly so you won’t move it at all.”
“That’s a relief. I thought it might not be there.” Jon hadn’t
thought about that. Amputation was a common enough solution
to severe injuries in Saeland. Garret was lucky to still be in one
piece.
“No, you still have two arms and hands; you may wish you
didn’t before this is all over with.” Jon stepped over to him to
feel Garret’s forehead and face. He was warm, but not
anywhere near as hot, that was a sign of improvement, and he
told Garret that.
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 “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m so thirsty my mouth feels
like dust.”
“What would you like?”
“I suppose ale from the tavern is out of question?”
“No chance of that my friend!” Jon laughed. “I’m afraid
it’s going to be broth of one type or another.” Garret made a
face.
“I’ll go tell your mother, she’ll want to do the nursing; from
now on, I think.”
Jon found a place set for him in the kitchen, the others
apparently having already eaten. Master and Mistress Fletcher
were sitting at the table talking and holding each other’s hands.
“Mistress Fletcher, Garret’s awake and is thirsty; he wanted
you to go in.” Both Fletchers stood up.
“Supper’s on the table, Jon, everyone else has eaten. Eat as
much as you’d like. The others are outside, we wanted to keep
the house quiet, and so you could rest. They’ll have a thousand
questions for you I’m sure.” They left Jon to the quiet of the
kitchen.
He ate something of everything they had left for him, thick,
hearty soup, biscuits, boiled vegetables which he ate hungrily.
After he had finished and rinsed off the dishes, he could hear
voices talking and laughing quietly and decided to go outside.
Elspeth, Lee and Ian were jumping from a high hay stack to a
lower one giggling, their hair full of grass. They saw Jon and
jumped down off the stacks and ran over to him leaving a trail
of grass across the yard.
“How’s Garret?” they asked. “He’s awake and if you’ll
clean up a little, I think you could go see him. He’s been hurt,
but he’s getting better now.” He picked the grass out of
Elspeth’s hair, and she patted off her calf-length dress and over-
apron to get the dust off. Lee and Ian pounded the dust from
themselves and then each other.
“Have you seen, Corbin and Cole?”
“They are out in the barn milking the cows and seeing to the
animals. They’ll be a little while,” explained Ian.
“Come on then, let’s go see how Garret is doing!” Elspeth
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held Jon’s finger as they walked, he slowed his pace to match
hers.
They stepped into the house as the sun dipped below the
horizon. The lamps were already lit in the room, and Jon
knocked at the open door to be sure it was all right if the
younger family members came in. Once inside they were
unsure what to make of their brother who was usually much
livelier. He lay still on the pallet wrapped in bandages from
shoulder to waist. Garret turned his head to see them and told
them to come and sit on the bed beside him. They asked him a
few questions, some of which Jon had to answer about the fight
because Garret’s memory of that whole time was still foggy.
Corbin and Cole came in sometime later and sat on the other
mattress. The family talked for a while, then Mistress Fletcher
determined that they had tired Garret out and sent everyone off
to bed. Garret was sleepy and after another dose of his
medicines and some vegetable broth which his mother spoon fed
him; he slept.
Jon wasn’t at all tired, his whole system was out of kilter
and decided he would write to Meg and tell her and her family
everything had happened. He finished by telling her how he felt
about her and what he was thinking about the future for him and
them. By the time the tale was told, the lamp was guttering,
almost out of fat. Garret woke briefly and had to use the
chamber pot again. Then Jon gave him several long swallows
of the cold broth his mother had left, and they talked until they
both fell asleep.

Garret woke first with his shoulder screaming and throbbing,

his head was clear for the first time in several days, the past four
a sleepy blur. Sweat poured off him, the bedding wet with it.
He pulled off the covers with his good hand, learning by painful
experience that any flexing of muscles in his chest would tear
into the muscles of his shoulder and arm. Garret closed his eyes
trying to remember what day it was. He thought back to last
night when the family had come in, but before that he didn’t
remember much of anything. Maybe it would come back later.
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He glanced over at Jon who appeared to be sleeping. When
Garret tried to sit up, he gasped and lay back. The sharp intake
of breath was enough to wake Jon, who stretched mightily and
yawned.
“Hey, Garret, you lost your covers,” he was up in an instant.
“Are you all right?
“I think so,” responded Garret, “I’m soaking wet and my
shoulder’s throbbing so hard I swear the house must be
moving.”
“The fever’s broken, and you, my friend, are on the road to
getting better,” crowed Jon. He took a dry cloth and wiped
Garret’s face and neck, the blanket beneath him was clammy
with sweat. He helped Garret use the piss pot, and then studied
the bandage. There was no fresh blood on the outside which he
took for a good sign.
“Wait,” complained Garret, “Mother will be in here the
second you open that door, let me keep what little dignity I have
left.” Jon chuckled and pulled the blanket up to Garret’s waist.
“How does my arm look. Honestly, Jon? Is it bad?” Garret
begged.
“To be honest I wasn’t sure it could ever heal, but that
Mistress Banks worked on you while your dad and I held you
down on the floor. You don’t remember any of that at all?”
Garret shook his head trying to remember. “I seem to
remember the light all around me, but little else.”
“That was when she sewed you together. The cut was fiery
and swollen, and now it looks like the hem on a shirt to me,
except it’s your arm. She says it will scar, but you’ll have the
use of your arm if we can keep it from getting more infected.”
Garret was relieved beyond words. Ever since his head had
cleared he was afraid of the answers to those questions. A one
armed man would have a hard time on a farm or much else for
that matter.
“What happened up on the East Road after I was knocked
down?”
“Are you sure you want to hear all that?
“Just go slow.”
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 Jon recounted the main events, but left out most of the
details, he didn’t want to tire Garret out the first morning he was
awake.
Garret tried hard to remember, but he could not, events after
he was wounded were as if his mind held pictures but the order
and context were all missing.
“Sorry, Jon, I don’t remember any of it; it’s all a jumble
right now. So I met Erlend?”
“You did and will again.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you get better, we have been invited to Norheim to
attend a council.”
“Norheim!” Garret cried out and immediately gasped from
the pain he had caused himself.
“I’ll explain if you promise to remain calm. Just listen.”
“A council is going to be held at Erenby at the end of
Weedmonth. We’ve been invited to travel up there with Thane
Giffard and the Earl and whoever else they choose. I don’t know
anything more about what is going on. If Erlend says I should
go, then I’m not going to turn down a chance to see Norheim,
and I’d like you to go if you will. But anyway, you’ve got to get
healed up, so you can travel.”
“So you want me to go on another trek with you?” joked
Garret. “ I barely survived this one!”
“One thing, though,” cautioned Jon. “I don’t think your
mother would be too pleased to hear what we have planned, at
least not yet.”
“No, Jon, you are right there. Not a word to Da’ either.
He’s already kicking the plow because I was in the middle of
the fighting at the East Road. He’ll say I was too young and
should have gone off to take care of Mam.”
“All right then,” concluded Jon, “I’ll keep shut about that.
Let me go tell them you are awake. You hungry?”

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
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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
333
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.

Garret woke to the sounds of his brothers and sister outside.

He tried to sit up and then realized he was so wrapped up it
would take help to get him up. He looked over at Jon who
appeared to be asleep. He hated to wake him, and was thankful
when he heard footsteps coming toward the closed door. Mam
poked her head in.
“Hello, Garret,” she whispered. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better!”
She smiled at him. “That’s good to hear. Are you hungry?”
“I’m starved!” he said in a loud whisper.
“Me too,” yawned Jon and chuckled, “been wondering when
you would wake up!”
“I’m going to try to get up, but I need your help.”
Jon jumped up to help Garret rise to a sitting position. With
Jon’s arm around Garret’s midsection to steady him, Garret
stood up for the first time in several days. He swayed, looking
suddenly pale and sat back down on the bed abruptly dragging
Jon with him. “That wasn’t too smart,” he moaned.
“Give it time,” Jon cautioned. “You’ve been down for
several days; get used to sitting up, and we’ll try it again in a
bit.”
Garret managed to stand up through sheer force of will, long
enough to use the piss pot, which was as long as he could stay
upright. Master Fletcher spent an hour or so talking with Garret
while Jon ate breakfast in the kitchen.
Jon wanted to find someone to take the letters he had written
to Meg and his mother and told Mistress Fletcher he wanted to
walk into town for a while. He stopped by the ale house at the
ford for a drink. Several of the men who had been up north
wanted to talk over events at the crossroads, so he dragged a
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stool into their circle and they bought him a tankard. They were
concerned about Garret, and Jon was pleased to report that
Garret was awake, and had been up for a little while. He was
invited to every one of their homes for something to eat or
drink, but he declined pleading that the Fletchers were taking
good care of him. He asked for directions to Master Cooper’s
house and visited with him. Cooper was being ornery about
being an invalid. But his wife bore his grousing with cheerful
fortitude. After a short visit and Master Cooper’s many thanks,
Jon walked back past the Ford just as Thane Giffard was about
to step over the threshold. Giffard waved him over.
“Jon!” he called out cheerily, “how’s the patient?”
“Doing much better today according to Mistress Banks. We
still have to see what kind of use he’ll have with that arm and
shoulder.”
“That is good news, Jon. Better than I had hoped. I’ll try to
come out and see him tomorrow morning before I go. Have you
got a moment?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Jon curious about what the Thane of
the Guard could want with him.
Jon followed him up to the room where he was staying.
Gesturing to a chair near the small fireplace, he said, “Sit down,
Jon, I have a couple of things I want to talk to you about.”
“I’ve heard from Redgar and others, but I’d like to hear what
happened on the East Road from someone else’s point of view.”
Jon complied trying to tell everything quickly, but the Thane
slowed him down and asked questions as Jon talked. Thane
Giffard’s face became pensive as Jon concluded his account of
the battle.
“For being inexperienced you and Garret and the others did
well, we are grateful, all of us, though the sleepy people down
south will only hear of this as a rumor. The Reeve and I had
just begun to recruit some old and newer members for the Guard
when news came that the outlanders were headed south. We’re
not having much success in convincing folks down that way that
there is much need for increasing the size of the Guard. I think
that the opposition to the Guard is more than just complaisance.
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Almost as if someone has convinced people not to join up.
Something is going on down south, and I don’t like it.”
“That’s not all,” Jon said.
“What do you mean?” asked Giffard.
“The night Garret and I left Ashby we were set upon by four
men we think we saw in a tavern at Selby. They were after the
dispatch case. Garret shot one and killed another to save my
life.” He touched his blue and yellow forehead. “I was
unconscious at the time from a rock one of them hit me with. I
think they must have been tipped off, or were watching for us.
But I don’t think it was any accident. Captain Wells held a
hearing for Garret and concluded there was no blood debt owed
since the attack was unprovoked.”
Giffard had grown pensive while Jon related the story. “I
can’t think of another explanation for it. We’re going to have to
get to the bottom of this. We’re not only threatened from the
outside, but someone is working on us from within. That angers
me more than any threat from raiders.” He shook his head.
“I saw that you had a chance to talk with Erlend. Did he tell
you about the council at Erenby next month?
“Yes, sir, he did. Didn’t say much about it, just told me I
was to go with you and the Earl.”
“Would you be willing to go?”
“Yes,” Jon responded. “Don’t know why they’d want me,
but I like to see new country, so yes, I’d like to go.”
“Yes, that is what Erlend thought.”
“There is one thing, Thane Giffard. A favor really.”
“What is it?”
“I’d like to take Garret, if he’s recovered enough. We’ve
become good friends, he travels well, if you don’t mind.”
Giffard paused, “I don’t think it would be a problem.
Probably make the trip more enjoyable for you. It must be a
serious business, I fear, that brings us to Erenby. Do you know
why the council has asked for you by name?”
Jon shook his head and shrugged. “He told me to bring the
sword I took from the raider who tried to kill Garret. He
seemed very interested in it.”
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 “I suppose you and Garret have already planned this all
out?”
“Yes, sir, Master Giffard,” admitted Jon sheepishly. “He is
excited about going, but it will be hard to convince his parents.”
Thane Giffard countered, “Don’t worry about that; leave that
part up to me.
“Who else is going?”
“The Earl, Reeve Telford, you and Garret, and a
representative from each of the marches and West Dales, and
myself, ten all told. We are going to go by horseback which
should make it faster and easier to carry what we need. Garret
could never carry a pack so soon. Can you ride?”
“I have ridden on a horse, but I’m no rider,” Jon confessed.
“Let me put it this way. You have a month to get used to
riding. All of us will. I am giving you and Garret each one of
the horses we captured from the raiders.”
Jon was completely taken back. It made perfect sense, but
few people in Saeland rode horses. Small ponies pulled horse
carts, and the great dray horses were used everywhere for farm
work, but to sit down and ride a horse was a comparatively rare
thing to see, around Redding anyway. He’d seen how much
easier it was to travel on horseback, especially the amount of
gear that could be carried, but he also still remembered the
aching in his legs and buttocks from just a single day on
horseback with Guri.
“I will bring your horses up to Fletcher’s tomorrow. I know
you are going over to Ribble on your way home, so take one of
them and get used to riding it. It will be uncomfortable at first, I
can tell you, but you are young and can learn fast. Older folks
like me are going to have a harder time of it.”
“Now, the other thing I wanted to talk to you about is an
idea I have about working for the Guard, part of the time, at
least. What are your plans once you get back to Redding?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Jon confided. “I’ve talked to Egan
Holman who told me to come and see him. But I honestly don’t
know.”
“I have a suggestion that you ought to think about. I need
337
help getting young men to join the Guard from Redding and the
towns over that way. You’d work for me and Saeland Council
just getting the word out and holding village meetings
explaining the idea of the Guard, then mustering them
occasionally. It’s died out over there and down south. You are
Redding born and bred, and well-thought of at home. They
might listen to you. While this event up north is fresh on
everyone’s mind, we might be able to get organized in towns
where there hasn’t been any support for the Guard. Would you
be interested? “
“I think I’ve told you, Thane Giffard, that I’ve quit
Warren’s. So I’m at loose ends. Durban Turner’s daughter and
I are thinking about setting up a household somewhere up this
way. I plan to sell off the house at Redding and get established
up here.”
“I was hoping you’d be the Guard Captain for Redding.
Help it get established.”
“I’d like to do that, Thane, I do know young men and maybe
a few older who’d join up right away if they thought there was a
chance to do something more than go for an extended hike
looking at the scenery. I do need the work, so I’ll help you
recruit, but Meghan and I will want to sell up and move north
next year, so it would only be for a few months.”
“I can’t ask better than that, Jon. I won’t keep you. Think
about what we’ve talked about, we’ll visit again. I’ll tell your
Mam and Grandmother hello from you?”
“Yes, please, in fact, I’ve got a letter, one I was hoping
someone would carry to Camber. Would you mind sending
them on?”
“Not at all, Jon. Be glad to. Then I’ll see you or hear from
you soon?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, your honor, I’ll think about it.”
Jon walked back to Fletcher’s in the dead heat of the early
evening. His thoughts whirled in all directions. The family was
talking and laughing on the porch. They had made a bed for
Garret to lay on and brought him out of the stifling house. They
played games and talked until it got dark. Garret looked so
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much more like himself that Jon could hardly believe it. Jon
repeated what he and Thane Giffard had talked about.
“Ride a horse around town? Garret exclaimed when they
were back in the room alone, “I’ll be the laughing stock.
Actually sit down on horseback?”
“That’s what he said. I know you won’t be able to do that
until Mistress Banks says you can, but you have got to if you
want to go off to Norheim.”
Garret seemed doubtful, “If he insists. You say he’s going to
bring horses up here tomorrow?”
“That’s what he said.” They talked excitedly about where
their travels would take them. No one, no one they had ever
heard of, had been to Erenby, hidden in a great valley behind the
Northern Mountains.
Later that evening Jon remembered it had been days since he
had put anything into his book and flipped through the pages as
Garret’s even breathing signaled he had fallen asleep. Jon drew
in the hills and rivers they’d passed and added a set of tiny
houses outlining the shape of Saxford. He drew in the North
Road intersecting the East Road and the site of the battle. Jon
drew a small-scale diagram of his sword to mark where the
battle took place. By the time he had gone back and recorded
everything he’d added including the sun burst chalk sculpture
above Fulham, he was yawning prodigiously. He leafed back
through the pages enjoying the memories of what he’d done
since he had started keeping the maps. But it wasn’t enough to
keep him awake a moment longer; he wetted his fingers and
pinched out the candle.

Garret woke feeling positively sore not only in his shoulder

but from the top of his head and down his back. Even his heels
were sore from being laid up for so long. As soon as Jon
opened his eyes, he asked Jon to help him up. Jon pulled a shirt
over Garret’s head, bandaged arm inside.
But when he stood with Jon’s help, Garret grumbled, “I’m
still dizzy,” and sat back down. “Give me an instant, Jon,” he
pleaded. “I can’t stay in that bed any longer.”
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 “All right, Garret, just go slow, we have all day.” Garret
stood up again and with Jon to steady him, they made their way
out of the bedroom and past the kitchen to the washroom.
Garret sat on the end of a wooden bench and washed as much of
himself as he could reach with a cloth. His hair hadn’t been
combed or washed since before he was wounded, but he
couldn’t manage it on his own. Jon ladled rinse water over
Garret’s head trying not to wet the bandages on Garret’s
damaged shoulder. Garret covered himself with a drying cloth
and ordered Jon to take off the bandages so he could examine
the wound himself. The stitches were drying and puckering the
edges of the wound; it was sore and itched at the same time.
The injury ran like a hideous purple and black centipede down
his shoulder and upper arm. According to Mistress Banks that
was a good sign. The constant throbbing and piercing pain when
he moved the wrong way made him wince no matter which way
he turned. He felt unsteady on his feet, but was determined not
to stay in bed.
“I think I’d like some breakfast!” he announced to Jon. His
long shirt wasn’t practical for the location of his wound, so Jon
went back to fetch a pair of summer trews. Garret walked
unaided into the kitchen to the quiet cheers of his little sister and
Lee who were finishing their breakfast and sat at the table for
breakfast.
Mistress Fletcher eyed him doubtfully but set a plate in front
of him counting the bites he took. Garret talked to the younger
children; and they stared at their older mangled brother with
wide eyes.
“If you’re finished, let’s get you back to bed.”
“Mam, I’ve only just got up. It took too much work to get
out here to go back just yet.”
“That’s nice Garret, but you don’t want to overdo a good
thing. Jon, will you take him back?”
Mistress Fletcher refused to take no for answer. “Garret, go
back to bed. Nothing will heal if you don’t let it rest. Every
time you move you open the thing up. Look!”
Just as she had said the bandaged armshowed spots of
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crimson. Garret sighed.
“Jon help him up and take him back,” she commanded.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Jon replied and escorted Garret down the
hall.
“I’ll keep a look out for Thane Giffard,” Jon promised as
Garret leaned back on the pillows looking a little pale despite
his protestations that he was fine.
“What do you think your mother is going to say when Thane
Giffard asks for you to go with us up north?”
“I’m not so sure today is a good day to ask,” commented
Garret. “But she’ll come round, he’s a Thane, after all.”
“Given your mother’s force of will and Mistress Banks, I’m
not sure the Thane will get his way today,” joked Jon.
Mid-morning Thane Giffard’s awaited knock sounded at the
front door. He strode into the house and paused to visit in the
kitchen with Garret’s mother and father and then came into the
room beaming. “Hello, Jon,” he cried.
“Hello, your honor.”
“How are the heroes of the East Road!” Jon had nothing to
say, just averted his eyes and blushed.
“We are proud of you, Jon, saved Garret’s life here and
helped this section get the job done. Well done.”
He turned to Garret. “How are you doing, Garret?”
“Much better today, sir. “
“Good to hear it. The other wounded are also doing better
too. Master Cooper is hobbling around and complaining loudly
to anyone who’ll listen. So he must be improving.” The
conversation bounced back and forth about trivial things.
Master Fletcher stood in the door listening. At a break in the
conversation, Giffard changed the subject.
“I wonder if I might have a word with you, and Mistress
Fletcher, and Jon, just outside?” requested Master Giffard.
“Of course, sir.”
“You get well soon, Garret, we have another assignment for
you, and you need to be ready by next month.” He winked.
“Well, I’ll say good day!”
Jon glanced at Garret and then followed the two older men and
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Mistress Fletcher out onto the porch.
“Goods news about Garret, Aellan. Dunnan Cooper’s going
to be fine as well. That Mistress Banks is the best tender I’ve
ever heard of. You are lucky to have her here.”
Mistress Fletcher sat on a bench and Aellan sat beside her.
Thane Giffard pulled a stool over closer to them, and Jon sat on
the massive tan stone that formed the floor of the porch. They
discussed what it would take to double the Guard in his section.
Jon, though interested in Guard business, soon felt like he was
eavesdropping. He paid attention, however, because one never
knew when the information might come in handy, and because
he knew that Master Fletcher was keenly interested in the three
horses tethered in the farmyard across from them, a sorrel, two
bays, and a dun.
“Aellan, he began, I am here officially on an errand from the
Earl. We have decided to accept an invitation of the Norheim
Council of Regents to visit Erenby late next month to discuss
how we can meet the growing threat that is coming from the
East. We are sending several members of the council and the
Earl. Erlend Billund had instructions that we were also to bring
Jon Ellis, here, and he has asked that your son, Garret, go with
us.”
“Garret, go up north?” The Fletcher’s objected in unison.
“I know, given his condition,” Thane Giffard hastened to
add, “we’ll have to see how Garret is then, but we aren’t leaving
until the end of Weedmonth, hopefully he’ll be healed enough to
be able to travel with us. And that brings me to these horses.
We have decided that we will travel on horseback, not carts or
on foot. Garret and Jon here will need to learn to ride the horses
by then. I am also giving you another horse, and I want you to
use it for Guard business.”
Aellan stared at the chief in complete bewilderment. “Ride
horses? You mean around here?”
“Yes, Aellan, that is exactly what I mean. I know it isn’t
done much, but I can’t help but think if we had used horses
earlier, we might have saved ourselves a whole lot of trouble.
Erlend tells me the Olani are superb horsemen, if we have to
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fight them, then we need our people to get used to moving about
on horses. We have to start with someone, and I want the
section leaders to begin to use them if they will. I’m giving
these horses to you and the others to Thane Redgar from among
those we captured at the crossroads. Horses have gone to each
of the companies like this. I know Garret is just getting back on
his feet, but as strong as he is, he should be able to ride with us
to Erenby in a month.”
“I’m off. Saeland is astir with this incident up here. May be
just what was needed to wake folks up down there. Take good
care of that boy in there, Aellan, he’s done us good service as
has Jon, here, who tells me he’s thinking of moving up this way
from Redding. See if you can help him find a place, if that is
what he wants.” He stood up. “See you again, Jon! Aellan!
Mistress Fletcher,” he bowed politely and strode out into the
yard followed closely by the others.
Giffard untied one of the large bays and swung himself up
into a saddle which was little more than a wooden framework on
a horse blanket with another folded blanket over the wooden
cross pieces. He waved and set off down the lane bouncing up
and down in the saddle like a puppet on a short string.
“Looks like a difficult and painful way to travel,” observed
Master Fletcher watching Giffard disappear. He shook his head,
and sat back down. “Sit down here, Jon. What’s this all about?”
“You know about as much as I do,” declared Jon. “When I
spoke to Erlend at Upper Crossing, he told me I was to come to
the council at Erenby. Garret and I have gotten along so well, I
asked if he could go as well. I’d feel out of place with the Earl
and the rest. Other than that, I don’t know anything else about
the journey, and I have no idea what to do with a horse.”
Master Fletcher smiled. “I think I can work that out, but to
start riding one around here or on Guard business will cause a
lot of talk. I just hope we don’t have any more trouble with the
Olani. The Thane’s right, if they showed up with a thousand
men on horses, we’d be helpless. Corbin will be jumping up and
down; he’s the stockman around here. We’ll figure out how to
make use of them, I guess.”
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 “What’s this I heard about you moving up here and finding a
place?” Mistress Fletcher asked. Jon told the Fletchers about
deciding to set up household with Meg. He explained his
interest in finding some place to settle in the north.
“What have you been doing down there in Redding?”
“I worked in Ralph Warren’s gristmill since my father died.
Mam has gone over to Camber to live with Granny who is ill.
She left me to keep the house just before I headed off with
Garret as messenger for Thane Giffard. I can turn a good hand
at gardening. But as I told Thane Giffard, I like the people up
this way and there seems to be room where I can stretch my legs
if I want. The Guard is active up here and that’s what I’ve
wanted for a long time.”
Aellan scratched his head. “Who is it you’re planning on
marrying?”
“Meg Turner from over at Ribble.”
“Jon, if the two of you are interested in moving up this way,
there are several places up here you might want to look at. Old
folks gone and young ones moved off, could be had for little
enough. Problem up here is what can newcomers do for a living
except farm? The land’ll feed you, but figuring out some way to
get a few pennies here and there to buy the rest, that is the hard
part. We had a mill here, but the miller died sometime ago. We
could use a miller. Grain has to hauled all the way down to
Whitburn. If Meg and you decide you want to find a place in
Saxford , you’d find no one happier about it that me and the
family. I know Garret would like it fine. When you’ve decided
what you want to do, you send word or better yet, come up and
visit. I’ll help you find a place of your own, if that’s what you
want.”
Jon thanked him, he liked the Fletchers. They were open,
honest and kind, yet tough and hard when it came to it, he was
sure of that. It was good to talk to someone a bit older about
personal things, he missed his father.
“You’ve been more’n a good friend to Garret, taking good
care of him and all. We won’t never forget that, Mistress
Fletcher nor me.” He patted Jon on the shoulder.
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 “You hungry?” Jon wasn’t really, but he had learned long
ago never to turn down good food when offered.
“I am,” he replied, and they set to work to find something to
tide them over until dinner.
He worked in Fletcher’s garden for several hours. In the
middle of dinner, Mistress Fletcher chided, “Jon’s done more in
the garden before noon than this whole tribe of Fletcher’s had
done in the last month. Anyone not working at their own chores
is to be out with Jon the instant he sets his foot inside the gate.”
The rest of them including Master Fletcher kept their noses in
their plates trying not to show a hint of smile. Jon was just
happy he had found something to do while Garret slept.
While Garret was napping, Corbin cajoled Jon into
horseback riding through the town. People stopped and stared
and then waved at the boys. Never in a hundred years had so
many people ridden horses around like that. The Fletchers took
Jon with them down to a place on the river where generations of
boys swam and played in the river on hot summer afternoons.
Jon laughed at the antics of the boys and remembered his own
swimming hole hours on the Holbourne with his friends back
home. The afternoon was so hot that there was no staying out of
the water, and he spent a couple of hours taking his turn on the
rope swing and cooling off in the river.
When they returned, Corbin asked Jon to take a look at
something. He stopped at one of the sheds near the barn and
held up a canvas contraption for his inspection. “What is this
for?” Corbin smiled.
“If you hadn’t thought about it, Jon, you can’t go carrying
your pack and bedroll on your back and ride that horse. I made
these so you can put everything in the bags and tie the bedroll
behind you.” Jon stared at it and instantly saw the usefulness of
it. He held it out and turned it admiringly.
“This is outstanding! I hadn’t even thought how I’d carry
anything riding the horse. How clever you are!” Corbin smiled.
“It was nothing,” he murmured. “Take it,” Corbin urged,
“see how it works. When you come back, you can tell me if
anything needs changing.” Jon threw it over his shoulder and
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took it back to the room he shared with Garret.
Mistress Banks came to check on Garret and declared that
he was healing nicely. For the first time his arm was unbound
from his chest. She lifted the cloth covering the gash and peered
and sniffed at the wound running over Garret’s shoulder and
down his arm almost to the inside of his elbow. Where the pad
held in moisture, the wound was puckered and bruised. She
cleaned around the wound which she pronounced was knitting
together nicely.
She had Garret try to use it and found that with pain he was
able to grasp things in his hand, but struggled to lift his arm
without it hurting him more. “You just keep using your hand but
avoid straining or lifting at the shoulder. You will need to move
your arm a little at a time to keep that arm useful. If it hurts too
much, then try something easier. You are going to want to do
too much too soon,” she warned. “The rest of you see that he
doesn’t,” she ordered, “or all my good work will be ruined.”
Garret promised solemnly that he would be careful.

Word traveled fast about Garret’s improved condition, and

that afternoon neighbors called round to see one of the wounded
heroes of the fight up on the East Road. Garret was propped up
in the bed and stools were brought in for visitors. Mistress
Fletcher was clearly pleased that people came. Jon had long
since stopped trying to remember who was who. They were
friendly open men and women who were at once concerned and
proud of Garret, Aellan, Cole, and Corbin for their part in
protecting the village. Jon was happy to be included although
felt like each time the story was told, it became more dramatic.
A few of Garret’s friends came as a group, some who had
been at the fight up north. They compared stories for an hour;
Jon joined in the conversation that was so lively that Mistress
Fletcher came in and shooed them away. The last visit was
most enlightening. A family by the name Woodard came to say
hello and at first declined to come in, but Mistress Fletcher
wouldn’t hear of their going without saying hello to Garret.
They came down the hall and entered the room hesitantly, but
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when the parents saw Garret sitting up and looking much more
like himself than they had thought he might be. They were
persuaded to take a seat on a bench that had been brought in for
visitors. A girl about Garret’s age, introduced as Rowan, who
seemed even more hesitant to enter than her parents, finally
stood at the door looking shy and radiant at the same time.
The best part of the whole visit was Garret’s reaction, at
least that’s what Jon thought. Garret had been at ease around
those in the room all afternoon, but as soon as Rowan came in,
Garret blushed and since he was wearing only his trews, he was
flushed from the top of his head to his waist. He kept the
conversation going with the parents while stealing glances and
smiles at Rowan two or three times during the Woodard’s short
visit. When Rowan’s parents stood to exit after her parents left
the room, she leaned across to Garret and squeezed his good
hand and said she hoped he’d get better soon. Garret,
completely flustered, choked on his thanks. She ducked out of
the room and was gone.
Jon didn’t want to pry, but curiosity is a ravenous thing once
awakened.
Garret simply beamed. “Rowan’s the one I told you
wouldn’t give me the time of day.” His smile, a great relief to
Jon, whose curiosity was almost satisfied, and with little
prompting, Garret expounded on Rowan Woodard’s best
qualities.
The heat of the day had warmed the house again and even
the open windows didn’t help much.
“I have to get outside, Jon, it’s too hot in here. Will you
help me up?” Jon watched Garret’s face to be sure he didn’t go
pale as Garret shuffled through the house and sat on the porch
bench enjoying the afternoon from the shade.
“Have you talked to your dad about not going back to work
for Master Ridley when you’re healed up?” Jon asked.
“To tell you the truth Jon, I didn’t much like it. I would
have stuck with it, but I know that I’m not cut out to be a
mason.” He laughed. “Don’t think Kevyn is either. We were
both pretty bad. But to answer your question, not directly.”
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 “You have the perfect excuse to get you out of it now.”
“The problem is what do I do then? I’m like you Jon, I’d
like to set up on my own, but I can’t do that without a way to
make a living.”
“Have you decided what you are going to do?” Garret
countered.
“Thane Giffard asked me to set up the Guard in Redding, at
least until Meg and I figure out where we want to live. Egan
Holman told me to see him about work as well. So I think I
have a couple of prospects in the short term, but I am like you.
What do we do next year?”
The silence lingered as they watched the horses graze in the
pasture beyond the barn and small sheds.
After a supper ‘fit for the reeve’, as Master Fletcher
described it, they returned to the porch with the family and
watched Corbin bring one of the horses up to the house and
showed everyone how to ride it. The saddle that had come with
it had a high front and back on it. The horse had not minded the
sudden change of masters at all and responded to the bridle
calmly. Corbin rode around the yard taking turns carrying Lee
or Elspeth. Ian and Cole took their turns, too. Nothing to it, Jon
thought, I can do this. Corbin was without question the best
rider, and Jon asked him how to sit the horse better, thinking
only of his discomfort riding Guri’s horse. Corbin gave him a
few pointers that made sense, no one except Corbin had any
experience in riding. It would be something else that Jon would
have to figure out for himself.
While the others took turns riding, Garret, who was envious
of everyone taking a turn, began talking with his parents and
brothers about what had happened in Saxford since Garret had
left with Master Ridley. Jon listened but didn’t know anyone
they were talking about. In the back of his mind he knew that
he needed to be moving on. Garret was in good hands, and the
family had its own routine, and Jon felt that he was in the way,
he was certainly crowding Cole and Corbin out of the house.
Garret would be able to take care of himself without much
assistance in the next few days, and Jon desperately wanted to
348
get back to Ribble and spend some time with Meghan. It was
time to go.
Jon announced that he was leaving for Ribble the following
morning at breakfast. Master and Mistress Fletcher, protested
but ended by saying that they understood, and wished him well,
but only after eliciting a promise that Jon would come back to
see them when Garret was better.
“I thought you’d stay on here a few more days, Jon,” Garret
fretted once they were back in the room. “You’ve been a great
help.”
“You won’t need me much longer,” explained Jon. “I want
to get down to Ribble and talk to Meg. I’m already over late
getting there.”
“Do as you like, Jon, but there will always be a place for you
here.”
Garret quizzed Jon about the near future, while Jon packed
his things into the bags Corbin had rigged up which were more
than large enough to hold all of Jon’s gear. With the journey to
the council at Erenby coming up at the end of the next month,
they could put any important decisions off for a few weeks
anyway. Jon lay awake long after Garret’s deep even breathing
indicated he was fast asleep, turning Thane Giffard’s job offer
over in his mind. It would partially solve the problem of
supporting Meg, but it really meant putting off making a
decision about what direction he should be heading. He knew
the letter he had written to his mother would be the cause of
some dismay when she opened it. But she would trust him to do
what he knew was right and best. Granny would help her see
that. The fact that there might be a daughter-in-law and
grandchildren in time he knew would bring her around even
quicker. He hadn’t mentioned moving farther away, however.
No sense stirring up the ashes, if one didn’t need to. All in all it
had been an unsettling day.

Waleran Mowbray listened to the report brought by his

heavily cloaked informant from Camber. His carefully laid
plans to destabilize Saeland had fallen apart. If that idiot Ibsen
349
had told him what the Olani were doing up north, he might have
done more to prevent the call up of the Guard, and now it was
too late. Months of subtle work wasted. He slammed his fist on
the table, and his agent straightened as if he’d been struck.
“What are we going to do?”
Mowbray rapped his fingertips on the table thinking.
“No use fussing over what can’t be helped, but I think it’s
time to strike closer to home. It will take a few weeks, but we
have until the end of Weedmonth to prepare. With the Earl and
Giffard out of Saeland, we should be able to take the Hall and
convince these fools, it’s for their own good. This invitation to
go north to the Normen couldn’t have been timed better if we’d
thought about it all day. You go back and play along. Send me
any information that might be of use to us. Leave the rest of this
to me and the others. Come Harvestmonth when the Earl and
his friends wander back from Norheim, they will find a
reception down here they did not expect.”
“By the way, what came of that young messenger you were
supposed to intercept?” queried Mowbray.
The informant’s forehead beaded with sweat, and he rubbed
his wet palms on his cloak. “I received a message from the
Guard Captain over at Ashby yesterday. Two of our men killed
outright, the others slunk off; haven’t heard a word from them.”
“What?” roared Mowbray. “You let him get away? What
kind of morons did you send after him? Didn’t you tell me he
was only a boy?”
“Actually, sir, there were two young men. They got lucky,
that’s all.”
“Can you make anything of the killings? Send the reeves
after a couple of murderers, something like that? Go after blood
debt?”
“I don’t think so, it was self-defense according to the Ashby
guard captain.”
Mowbray controlled his rage, but his tone turned vicious.
“Your hirelings have cost us a fine opportunity to weaken the
Earl and Giffard. Find those other two men and silence them.
They could jeopardize everything we’re trying to do if they
350
were questioned.” Mowbray leaned over the table into the
frightened face of his informant. “I won’t tolerate another
mistake like that one,” he hissed. “Fortunately for you we have
enough time to recover; we have time.”
“I’m fairly sure I’m to go to Erenby. “Should I accept?” the
traitor asked.
“Make up some plausible excuse, you’re much more
valuable here if they are riding, as you say, all over the north.”
“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, I won’t fail you again,”
Mowbray’s accomplice announced wanting the interview
brought to an end.
“Get going then. I was harsh a moment ago,” Mowbray
soothed. “I can’t tell you how good it is to know every move
our friends plan before they make it. You have my thanks and a
plentiful reward in time.”
Hiding his face once again, the cloaked informer slunk into
the dark, grateful his interview hadn’t gone any worse.
Mowbray closed the door and leaned against it chuckling to
himself. They were fools all of them. And when he took
power, things ere going to change. If it took the Olani to tear
things up, well, that was regrettable but necessary.

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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.

Eaden Soames was in the middle of recounting his

experience again without too much coaxing to the enjoyment of
the small audience. But Jon had lost his interest in hearing
more. Even though he didn’t know Master Ridley, he knew that
Saeland could ill afford to lose leaders of the Guard when
trouble seemed to be on the increase. The men talked late into
the night before the boarders headed upstairs, and the local men
staggered home.
Once he was back in his room and not feeling particularly
tired, except of riding, Jon pulled out the bloodstone amulet
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from beneath his shirt and dug the ring out of his pack. The
excitement of seeing Meghan grew until he could hardly keep
from shouting right out loud. He’d be in Ribble tomorrow, and
he and Meg would talk. He’d decided that things couldn’t go on
as before. He was lonely, and knew Meg felt the same. If she’d
have him, Jon meant to ask her to marry him. Mixed with that
was the apprehension that Durban and Edlyn Turner, who had
never been anything but kind to him, might not view the match
with much favor when they learned he was without work.
Those thoughts and others crowded around the bed and kept him
awake for a long time.
The next morning the skies had grown sullen, clouds blacker
than any of the summer.
“A thundery day for walking or riding,” commented the
proprietor of the inn when he set a bowl of barley porridge and
some thick-sliced bacon in front of Jon. He ate quickly wanting
to get going, but Kevyn sat down across from him quet and
mournful.
“Tell me what happened at Chandler’s.”
After admitting he was responsible for the accident which
cost Master Ridley his life, Kevyn hung his head, there was no
doubt that he was going home to serious trouble. “The death
debt will be so high I’ll end up indentured to the family for
years,” he predicted. “If I try to sneak off, it will become a
blood debt that some kinsman will be sure to claim.”
Jon could not deny it. In law if Kevyn caused Ridley’s
death, he was responsible to pay for the loss. It was standard,
one hundred pennies for a life. If a person fled to escape
payment, the kinsmen of the dead would never give up the
search; they would have the debt paid or revenge. Kevyn was in
a worse situation than Jon found himself, and Jon did not know
what he should say. “Is there any chance the family won’t
require the debt payment?”
“I’ll find out when I get home. As I said, my fate has
already been spun out and there is nothing I can do about it.”
An awkward silence fell between them. Jon had difficulty
knowing what he could say to a young man whose life lay in
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ruins, without hope for years.
“It’s not your concern,” Kevyn said at last as he rose to go.
“I’ll go home and do what I need to. It’s a doom that’s been set
for me,” Kevyn said. “I wish you better fortune than mine,
Jon.”
Jon finished eating and after paying the innkeeper from his
dwindling store of pennies, as he counted out the remainder, Jon
on a whim decided Kevyn had more need of them than he. It
was a good thing he was on his way home, albeit the long way.
Jon held back five for the rest of his journey home and then
sought out Kevyn and handed him the entire contents of his belt
purse, the sum of seventeen pennies.
“It might help.” Jon said. “Take it, in memory of a good
man.”
Kevyn’s eyes sought for any trace of pity in Jon’s face and
found only honest concern.
“I am in your debt, Jon Ellis. By my honor, I will repay
you.”
“There are no debts between friends, Kevyn. Take it freely
as it has been offered.”
Kevyn nodded, and they clasped hands in parting.
Jon fetched his things from the room and set off into the
approaching storm. Perhaps it was the growl of thunder in the
distance, but the horse was definitely uneasy. Jon rode head
down into the dust the wind kicked up from the road thinking
mostly about his backside being so tender he could hardly sit the
horse. The woodlands closed around the road once again as he
crossed a low range of hills and out of sight of Whitburn and the
farms around it. As the monstrous storm drew nearer, the wind
crashed through the forest thrashing limbs and swaying even the
thickest of trunks back and forth. Jon rode steadily toward
Gamble which he had been told lay many leagues away to the
east. The smell of rain grew stronger, and Jon wished he knew
the country better because there were no houses or barns or
shelter of any kind to be seen. He decided that unless the storm
grew worse, he had no choice but to keep the horse moving until
he reached Gamble.
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 Hardly noticeable at first, the wind from the south slackened
and then died off altogether. Jon couldn’t see the horizon to the
north, but the clouds weighing down upon it were an ominous
blue-black. He pulled out his hooded cloak, draped it over his
saddlebags, and urged the horse on a little quicker. He felt the
first faint, cool breath on his cheek as the wind changed
direction then doubled and doubled again until a full gale
buffeted him almost sideways across the road. Thunder
rumbled and thumped again and again, each time a little closer.
A spattering of icy rain stung him, but Jon resigned himself to
ride on as long as he could. He only had a few leagues, as he
figured it, to go before reaching shelter at Gamble, so he kept
the horse walking even when the rain slammed into him almost
horizontally. Buckets and barrels of water hurled themselves
out of the leaden skies onto the roadway. Lightning flickered
overhead again and again, twice sending the horse into a skittish
dance that almost cost Jon his seat. Small streams washed over
the road at every dell and glen then plunged into the Whitburn
which was now rain pocked and muddy and had begun to flow
faster.
As the rain continued unabated, the minor streams that
crossed the road spilled over their banks. Jon was wet through
and through, and shivered when the shifting winds penetrated
his cloak. Jon was relieved when field stone walls rose up on
either side of the road indicating that he was drawing closer to
Gamble. The wind dropped by half, but the rain continued
harder than ever. He came in sight of Gamble with tremendous
relief. He stepped under the welcome relief of the porch of an
inn where he could hardly make himself heard above the rattle
of rain on the slate roof.
“Come in, come in, young sir, called the keeper. You’d be
half drowned out in that blast. Put your things by the fire and
dry yourself off. Sit down, sit down,” he commanded with a
smile.
“I have a horse tied up outside, is there a place where I can
put him?” Jon asked.
“I’ve got an empty barn out the back where you’re welcome
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to put the poor beast. Just round the back if you please.” Jon
hurried back out into the storm and led the horse round to the
back of the inn and found the barn dry. He unsaddled the horse
and tossed a fork of hay into the stall and closed the gate behind
the horse only to race through the downpour a last time. He
stomped and shook himself before reentering the inn where the
keeper was waiting.
“I’ve heard from a friend that this inn has the best ale for
leagues, I’d like to find out for myself,” Jon announced.
The keeper smiled a gap-toothed smile. “Right you are sir,
coming right up.” Jon stood gratefully by the fire and warmed
first one side and then the other. His cloak hung on a peg, but
the rest of his clothes were so wet that he left puddles on the
floor where he stood.
The keeper returned with a wooden mug of ale. “Anything
else sir?”
“I could use something to eat if you’ve anything,” pleaded
Jon, knowing it was too early. But the keeper laughed.
“I’ll fetch you as good a dinner as you could wish for. You
sit down and dry yourself out, young sir and leave the dinner to
me.”
It felt good to be inside and drying out. It was hard to
imagine that the heavy heat of mid summer could be so quickly
erased by a single storm. Jon wasn’t looking forward to riding
on to Ribble, another twelve leagues farther in the storm. But
the summer days were long and there was plenty of late light to
ride in. Jon made up his mind to dry off and head onward
unless the storm got worse. While he was eating a satisfying
dinner and enjoying a second tankard of ale, the drumming of
the rain on the roof increased in tempo, rain ran off the eaves of
the thatched inn in a thousand streams and washed out into the
road.
“We’ve sprung a few leaks,” lamented the innkeeper on one
of his trips through the common room. “I need that roof
mended sooner than later.”
Long after the dinner was eaten, the rain continued without
let up. Rain fell so heavily that the houses just across the street
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were a blur. A drip and then another and another came through
the thatch in the common room and pooled on the floor. The
inn keeper with the unlikely name of Bannon Cobb, scurried
around placing pots and pans under the worst ones adding the
sound of so many drips, drops, plinks and plunks that Jon
laughed out loud.
“Keeps pourin’ like this, some folk going to get flooded
out,” the innkeeper worried with an eye on the window. “We’re
not used to such heavy rains.” Just then a particularly terrific
clap of thunder shook the inn and everything in it.
“Woden save us’!” exclaimed Master Cobb. “That was a
close one. Hope it didn’t strike no place round here!” The
chorus of drips became a choir. Looking through the window,
Jon perceived that there was no longer a road but a swirling
muddy stream headed downhill to Gamble Brook. Twice more
thunder shook the town, as if the storm were stuck overhead.
The clouds swirled above unleashing torrents of water on every
surface.
“No sense goin’ on to Ribble until this blows over, Jon,”
urged the keeper. “Why don’t you go on upstairs and have a lie
down. Roads’ll be nigh on impossible till this runs off.” Jon
thanked him and gathered up his things, and climbed upstairs to
a room where the innkeeper had a smoky fire burning in the
grate and only two drip pans. The rain thrummed steadily on
the thatch above him. Jon dumped his pack on the floor to see if
anything was still dry. The clothes he had on were damp, but
everything on the floor was a soggy mess. Using furniture,
wooden pegs and the four low posts on the rope bed he hung out
every stitch of clothing he had including the shirt he had on. He
lay on the bed and wrapped himself in a blanket thinking he
wasn’t all that sleepy, but he was wrong.
He awoke to a crash of thunder that shook the inn to its
foundations. Seconds later came the sound of shouts in the
street and running feet and the slamming of doors. Something
had happened. He peered out the window trying to see. The
rain was still falling heavily, but people were out in it and that
could only mean trouble.
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 Jon threw on his still clammy tunic, boots, and hooded cloak
and ran outside to see what had happened. People hurried
through the mud and running water towards the center of the
village to the east. A small crowd had gathered around a house
not far from the bridge over the brook and commented on the
broken remains of a chimney which had collapsed onto the roof,
burn marks reached out from it into the neatly trimmed thatch.
Catching up to a group of three men ahead of him Jon asked,
“What’s the trouble?”
“Why it’s been hit by lightning,” observed the first. “You
hear that awful bang? Near shook the glazing out of the frames
it did.”
“Where is everyone going?” Jon asked to no one in
particular.
“Oh, it’s this rain, folks being flooded out right now down
along Gamble Brook. Everyone’s going down to see if they can
help. Niles Croton’s house has been flooded right through.
Never should have built down that close to the bank; everyone
told him, but would he listen?” said the second.
“But that was his dad’s doing,” joined the third. Jon moved
on when he heard cries from near the stone bridge in the middle
of the village. The raging brown floodwaters had washed around
both ends of the bridge and the wooden bridge posts at the far
end of the bridge had collapsed into the raging torrent and made
it impossible to get to the other side. Three or four houses stood
half-submerged in the floodwaters, while men on the far side
carried furniture out of the front door even as water surged into
the back. On the near bank the houses were slightly higher on
the bank but just as close to the stream.
Floodwaters churned and boiled against the bank from
which chunks were toppling into the water several feet at a time
and splashing and churning down the bed of the stream. The
mud-thickened floodwaters had undercut a wide section of the
bank and as they all stood there a great crack yawned open and a
twenty foot wide slab of the upper bank broke off and slumped
into the stream. Cries of dismay rose from the fifty or sixty
people gathered. The houses which had just moments ago
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appeared safe, were now perched dangerously close to the flood.
The group Jon had been standing with finally galvanized
into action. They ran towards the threatened houses and began
carrying furniture and household goods from inside out into the
rain. Jon joined in the effort and with many others carried out
everything that wasn’t nailed down. Some furniture was too
heavy to move quickly and so the drawers and even cupboards
were emptied. Watchers who were keeping an eye on any
further threat from the flood began shouting and running away
from another section of the stream bank that had begun to slip
down toward the roiling water.
“Get out!” the lookout screamed, terrified that someone
would slip into the water and a watery death.
Jon was among the last of the men to run from the first
house carrying a great armload of clothing he had thrown onto a
blanket and tied in a bundle. As he turned to watch, the back
half of the house simply crumpled outward and threw itself into
the water. The wave caused by the collapse of the back wall
sent a surge of water into a house across the stream three or four
feet high almost catching two men who were standing too close
to the edge of the stream. If they had been pulled into the flood,
there was nothing anyone could have done to save them.
Two more houses were emptied of everything that could be
moved. Jon worked desperately alongside men and women he
didn’t know at all. The second house split apart as the rubble
foundation saturated by the flood failed and the cottage walls
split and tumbled the basement stones into the flood one after
another. Across the swollen brook five houses were flooded up
to the windows; water washing all the way through the houses
and into the street in front of them. All the people on the far
side could do was shout warnings and encouragement to those
on the other side. Mothers sat huddled with their children under
blankets to ward off the rain and watched as the floodwaters
clawed away the stream banks threatening house after house.
The cottages on Jon’s side of the stream appeared to be out
of danger for the moment and the townsfolk began the task of
taking in stricken families. Parents and a baby here, two or three
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children there. Carts had been fetched and the belongings of a
lifetime were piled high and taken towards barns to be sorted
out and put to dry. The rain lessened somewhat as the rescue
efforts continued, but the flood raged as high as ever. Villagers
could do little more than watch helplessly. The flashflood
continued to rip away great sections of bank, but it was not
rising any more, and that was the first hope anyone had that the
flood might have done its worst. The villagers stared in stunned
amazement, Jon with them. He had heard about floods like
these, but for the first time saw what the flashfloods could really
do. The only thing that would save Holbourne and Redding
was that all of the streams up that way fed into the great marsh
called the Sink. All the flood waters would only raise the water
level of the huge hill-bound basin taming the Holbourne and
spare towns farther downstream from the flooding Jon had just
witnessed.
After another hour of worrying, the water fell noticeably,
and sighs of relief were heard all round. It was early evening,
and Jon realized it would be too late to start for Ribble even if
he could cross the flooded brook, which at present was
impossible. Jon resolved to stay and help out. So he moved
along with the villagers and helped unload carts into someone’s
barn and carried sodden clothing and belongings into someone
else’s shed to dry. While helping to carry a large kitchen table
into a barn he saw Bannon Cobb who waved and smiled at him.
Several of the men he met introduced themselves and were
pleased that a stranger would bother to help out in the crisis.
Everyone was wet through and shivering, but as long as anyone
needed help, they stayed out in the rain. It appeared to Jon that
the same things had happened on the other side of the brook.
There was the same camaraderie that he’d found among the
guard at Upper Crossing, the rain and cold didn’t seem to matter
quite as much when he was engaged in helping others. About
dusk Jon dragged himself back to the inn which was jammed
full of people. Master Cobb came over and shook Jon’s hand.
“Don’t know you at all, Jon, but I’m proud to have you stay
at my place. You go get into some dry clothes and come back
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down for supper.” Jon shuffled up the steps one at a time. He
was so tired and sore he could hardly move. The fire in his
room had long since gone cold, so he shed his sodden tunic and
shivered into a drier shirt. The rain was still falling outside, but
the worst of the storm had passed on to the south.
Jon dressed and stumbled down to get something to eat. The
inn was full and Master Cobb rushed about with trays of food.
Steam and smoke filled the common room. News came that two
of the would-be rescuers on the far side of the flood were
standing on a section of bank which gave way suddenly, and
they were swept away. There was nothing anyone could do
except stand in shock hoping against hope the men had been
able to cling to something in the torrent to save their lives. The
search had already begun, but no one held out much hope.
Cobb made a point of finding Jon a place at a table among
several other young men who had come in out of the rain. They
introduced themselves and continued their lively tales about the
events of the afternoon. One of them recognized Jon as having
helped his cousin empty her house and thanked him on behalf of
the family. The innkeeper put bowls of stew, bread, cheese,
preserves, and ale on the table, and everyone ate hungrily. Jon
received three invitations to eat with various families in town
the next day, but he declined them all telling them he was
supposed to be in Ribble and was already a day late. Word got
around that Jon had been up at the fight past Saxford and he
started talking, somewhat embarrassed by the attention, but as
he warmed to his subject, he enthusiastically recounted what the
Guard had done up there. The Guard from Gamble had been
ordered to go straight north to patrol in the hills, but they
returned without incident, hearing only that there had been a
fight north of Saxford. By the time the common room cleared,
Jon was warmed up, partly by the ale and partly by the
company. They wished him a good night and pleasant journey.
He offered to help Master Cobb clean up, but he wouldn’t hear
of it and wished Jon a good night.
Upstairs Jon built up the fire again to warm up the small
room. The rain still fell sporadically. He couldn’t remember
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being so exhausted since the night he’d watched over Garret
after the battle. With a sense of warmth and well-being he
pulled the covers around him and slept.

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

Jon tumbled out of bed when he heard the family stirring

about the house. His room was strewn with clothing and the
mostly dry contents of his pack, so he picked up and looked out
the window to check the weather. The day had dawned nearly
cloudless, Jon certainly hoped it would stay that way, if he was
to go home tomorrow, he wanted the roads passable. Having set
everything in some semblance of order, Jon followed his nose to
the smell and sound of Mistress Turner’s cooking. She was
busy in the kitchen and refused even the hint of help. She
shooed him out,
“Not quite ready yet, I’ll call you when I am.” He went out
the back to see where Durban was working, but he couldn’t see
him anywhere.
“That garden could use some work,” he commented to
himself. “I can lend a hand there as good as anywhere.” So he
began working through the rows of beans, beets, onions, carrots,
and cabbage methodically. He couldn’t help but think that his
own garden at home would be so over grown he’d never get it
cleared. Two days of rain had loosened everything, and he had
to take care not to dislodge the younger plants by pulling out the
weedy thugs beside them. He managed to weed the pole beans
before Mistress Turner came to the back door and called him to
breakfast.
“Jon, you get cleaned up. Hurry in here or breakfast will be
cold.”
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 Jon did as he was told and sat down at the table next to Meg,
who was radiant with the amulet on her breast. Mistress Turner
pulled off the hearth hook a pot that filled the room with the
moist heavy taste of oatmeal and warm pork sausage.
The subject of the marriage and celebration to follow were
the topics of the meal. Marriage in those days was a straight
forward affair. Saesen tradition held that marriage was a matter
settled between families. The couple troth-plighted themselves
once the groom had won the parents permission, as Jon had
done.
Sometime later the wedding was a simple matter of the
bride’s parents saying the words of blessing over the couple,
acknowledging a change of status for their daughter. Carrying
off a bride had been outlawed long ago, having led to feuds and
murder. Once the family ceremony was concluded a date was
set for a feast day to which all the relatives and friends, and
neighbors of the bride and groom were invited. At the public
wedding feast the bride price and dowry were exchanged, and
guests brought gifts of household goods, tools, and even a few
extra pennies to get the couple on their feet.
A wedding feast required a substantial outlay of money,
goods, and work before all the preparations were complete. Jon
was little concerned about the plans because he didn’t have a
say at all. Every time Mistress Turner asked what he thought, he
must have given the wrong answer because there was a pause in
the conversation as if she couldn’t believe that Jon would
express such a foolish idea, even Meg gave him stern looks.
When he teased a little bit too much about all the fuss over a
little party, he was lectured sternly about the importance of the
traditions surrounding the wedding and summarily dismissed
from the room. “I know one tradition I can’t wait to try,” he
leaned over and whispered into Meg’s ear what he had been
thinking about; she promptly slugged his arm.
“Not-so-loud,” she shot back in a whisper.
Jon was glad to escape the planning session and went
happily outside to work his way through the weeding and
thinning in the garden. All the rain had made the air muggy,
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and the summer sun shone down hot. Jon shed his shirt and
worked in his trews, dashing the sweat from his eyes almost
continuously, hoping a breeze would come up. Meg came
outside and brought him a drink, and they sat in the shade and
talked while he held her hand. She went back into help clean
and get dinner ready for the lodgers. Jon worked steadily
through rows and patches until mid day, making excellent
progress if he did say so himself.
“Come in for dinner,” called Meg from the back door. Jon
dropped his mattock, retrieved his shirt after ladling dipper after
dipper over his head and shoulders enjoying the cool, cleansing
water. He pulled his shirt back over his trews trying to look
presentable. Durban came in through the front as Jon walked
into the kitchen.
After dinner was a slow time, and Jon asked Meg if she
would go for another walk.
“Once the dishes are cleared up, I’d like that,” Meg agreed.
“Where do you want to go?” asked Jon.
“I like to go up into the hills east of the village. I’ll show
you one of my favorite places,” she told Jon. “But dishes first.”
Thinking to get back into Mistress Turner’s good graces, Jon
volunteered to help Meghan. And later in the full heat of the
afternoon they started up the steep slopes east of Ribble.
Meg and Jon were out of breath and perspiring long before
they got to the top of the forested hills lying east of the inn. Jon
wasn’t as winded as Meg was, but it was a long steep climb. As
they made their way up onto the top of the hill, Jon saw for the
first time the ruin of a large manor house which commanded a
wide view of the entire valley. Some of its empty windows still
framed the sky and the fields and pastures to the west. Meg led
him into the ruin to find shade to cool them after their exertions.
The stones were overgrown with verdigris and mustard yellow
lichens and weathered by ages of wind and rain.
“This is why I brought you all the way up here to see, Jon. I
love to look out over the valley.”
“No wonder,” Jon commented, “it’s as pretty a view of
Ribble as you could ask for. Most of the area around Redding is
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flat, the only hills to speak of are much lower than this one.”
They stood arms around each other gazing at pasture land and
field, forest and river spread below them.
“Sunsets are best,” Meg said gazing out on the vista, then
dragged her eyes to Jon. “But I brought you up here to talk.”
Jon stepped back to see her face better.
“As I was sitting there this morning talking about wedding
plans it struck me that I haven’t met any of your family. I’ve
never been to your place in Redding. If I’m to live there at least
through the winter, then I want to take a look and see what I
need to do to make it livable.”
Jon smiled at her. “Meghan, you may do whatever you like
with the house. I haven’t done anything since Mother left a few
months ago. It needs your touch. Do whatever you like, it’s
clean enough, well, for me anyway,” he grinned.
Meg said nothing but was relieved. In the ruins of that
ancient abandoned house they kissed long and searchingly. Meg
led him hand in hand through the forest to the edge of a pool
and stream just down the long meadow behind the house. A
stream lazed its way through the clearing and a pool formed
behind a low dam built long ago. Jon suggested they go for a
swim.
“You go ahead,” she giggled. “I’ll sit in the shade and
watch.”
Jon drew off one boot while he hopped first on one and then
on the other foot to keep his balance while he removed the
other. He stuck his foot into the pool and sighed.
“It’s not cold at all. Come in with me,” he coaxed.
“You first,” she dared.
Jon didn’t hesitate a moment. He dropped his belt and
pulled his tunic over his head, thought a moment and dropped
his trews as well and tossed them aside on the grass and walked
into the cool water. He was used to swimming naked, he’d
done it all his life as had every young man in Redding. But to be
undressed in front of Meg was, for lack of a better word,
unsettling.
She laughed when he dove under the surface and came up
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sweeping the water from his eyes and hair and faced her, safely
waist deep in the pool.
“Come in,” he shouted. “It’s not cold at all,” he cajoled as
he floated backwards, sculling his hands to keep his head and
chest above water. The cool water helped Jon regain his
composure.
Meg had watched him walk into the water and felt herself
aroused at the sight of his broad shoulders and muscled torso.
She loved this man looking back at her from the pool. She
wanted more than anything to go to him. Still she hesitated.
“Meg,” Jon called, “come in, it is too hot out there.” Meg
resisted.
“I am not so slow, so as to not know what you are trying to
do, Jon. I’ll not come a step nearer that pond until you are back
here with your trews on. We are not wed yet; you’ll get no
nearer me than you are now. I’ll not be taken before we’re
wed.”
Jon laughed and tried again to get her to come to the water’s
edge, but to no avail. So he gave up and threw himself down on
his back once he’d grudgingly tied on his trews and made sure
Meg was wet by holding her close. They lay in the shade, Jon
cradling Meg in his arms. They talked of their future as the
afternoon wind dried and cooled them. The thrill of the near
future sweeping away all obstacles and cautions.
“What will all those fine people in Redding think of me?”
worried Meg. “I’m from a little tiny place half of them will
never have heard of before.”
Jon smiled, he knew on the contrary they would be eager to
meet her.
“They’ll think exactly like I do,” said Jon. “They’ll say,
why that Jon Ellis has married above himself. She’s beautiful
and clever. Good thing he’s got her around to keep him out of
mischief. Don’t fret about it, Meghan, it will take a few days to
settle in, but there are good people in Redding.”
Meg wasn’t as confident about it as Jon was, but she was
willing to take his word for it that she would not be an outsider
too long.
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 “Do you have to go back so soon? I don’t want to wait
another month before I see you again.”
“Listen,” said Jon, “I’ve got to go see Mother and Granny
and tell them about you, and I have to see about the job Thane
Giffard has for me. If I am going to be a householder, I have to
have work.” Then an idea flashed through his mind.
“Why don’t you come with me,” Jon blurted out. He sat up
and gazed down at Meg looking up at him. We’ll ask for your
parents blessing today. I am the head of my house, so the
agreement can be settled this afternoon, if we want. There’s no
point in waiting any longer. We’re both miserable without each
other anyway. We can stay at the house in Redding for a day or
two, and then I’ll take you over to meet Mother and Granny.
They will think you are the best thing that ever happened to
me.” Jon spent the next half hour combating all the reasons why
Meghan shouldn’t go with him. But at last he won her over, she
agreed to marry and go to Redding.
“Let me do the talking,” Meg said, as they walked back
down the hill. “I’ll bring it up before supper. Da’ will be sad,
but he knew this day would come, just not so soon, I think.”
She squeezed Jon’s hand and kissed him on the cheek. Now that
the decision was made, Meg warmed to the idea.
“Let’s go tomorrow, Jon. We can figure out what we want
to do about the house, about the future, about everything.”
Jon was so relieved to find that she was as excited about the
prospect of going off to Redding with him as he was, that he
could have shouted out loud right then and there.

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.”
394
 “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.
395
 “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
396
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.”
399
 “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.

The smell of good food permeated Granny’s house, and Jon

ate ravenously. Meg and Jon spent the early afternoon getting
better acquainted with Jon’s mother and grandmother and
recounting his adventures although he glossed over parts that he
felt might upset anyone. He had the feeling that Granny
understood what he was trying to do, but she said little. Jon’s
mother required a detailed description of the wedding feast
plans which brought Jon to the brink of an afternoon nap. He
excused himself and stepped out into the heat of the garden.
Granny had always been a meticulous gardener, but her failing
health meant that the garden was overgrown, worse even than
his own at Redding had been. He made an honest effort to clear
as much as he could before he was called for supper. After the
dishes were done, he and Meg walked around Camber and he
showed her the buildings around the great square.
“We can visit the buildings tomorrow if you like. I’ll
introduce you to the Thane.”
“I’d like that,” Meg said. “I don’t suppose there is a market
tomorrow as well?”
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 “The weekly market is rather tame compared to the mid-
summer’s market, but I think you’ll like it.
Jon’s mother and Granny had long since fallen into the
pattern of going to bed early, so Jon and Meg settled into the
bench bed early. Despite Jon’s serious invitation to spend time
in intimate pursuits, Meg could not overcome her reticence
fearing that they might be overheard.
“We’re not what you would call quiet, you must admit, Jon.”
Jon feigned disappointment, but Meg saw through him.
“Don’t play that game with me, Jon Ellis. We’ve had hardly
anytime to just rest since you rode down from Saxford.” She
kissed him and sank back into the straw tick with a sigh. They
both got a good night’s sleep.
Meg and Jon worked together in the garden the next morning,
but when it got too hot to work outside, they made their way to
the Armory and the Hall. A few dozen stalls had been set up in
the square, not very energetic in the heat of the hour before
noon.
Jon introduced Meg to Thane Giffard who Meg found very
kind. Jon had always seen him as very business-like and aloof.
But Meg concluded that Thane Giffard was a fine person and
one to be trusted.
“Can you tell us anything about this council you are all
going to attend?” Meg asked.
“Not much,” replied Thane Giffard, the rest of us were
invited because of our positions; Jon was asked for by name. So
what that is all about, I can’t say. But it is the first time we’ve
had such direct contact with the Normen in generations. If we
face a continuing threat from raiders, then it is only right that we
should be talking and planning together. I’m certain that’s what
I intend to bring up. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Jon took Meg to the Hall but found only a clerk anywhere in
the building. The market was still sleepy, so Meg made Jon
promise he would bring her back when it cooled down.
“Let’s walk up to the Bailey and then I’ll show you the
Great Harrow.”
The river was up perhaps because of the recent rains as they
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crossed the Camber Bridge. “Where are all the windows?” Meg
asked. It seems a gloomy place to me. I bet it’s freezing in
winter.”
“Can’t say said Jon. I’ve never been inside. I guess it
wasn’t built for comfort, though. It reminds me of the fort
above Whitburn. Same kind of windows anyway. He went on
the explain how it was once surrounded by a high palisade that
had long since been taken down. The climb up to the Great
Harrow beyond the Bailey had them in a sweat, but there was a
breeze up on the hill that made it bearable to be in the sun on the
humid afternoon.
Meghan moved to Jon’s side as they stood outside the wall
and looked over the standing stones and the sacred lake. Smoke
rose from two of the massive altar stones following a sacrifice
of some type or another. Voices keened out of sight in the stone
cells that lined most of the east wall of the enclosure. Meg’s
eyes widened. “What is that?” she whispered.
“Just the seidwomen or priests at work. Do you want to walk
through it?”
“No!” she answered sharply. We have no business here. I’m
glad you showed it to me; I’ve only heard about it. But I would
be terrified to enter. No, I’ve seen enough.”
Though Jon thought they might have entered without
trouble, in his heart he felt the same awe that Meg did. It didn’t
do to bother the gods. The less they were involved in one’s life
for the most part the better off they would be. There was an old
saying ‘there is always a price to be paid for the favor of the
gods’.
The rest of the afternoon passed in quiet conversations with
Granny, his mother listening in. As they spoke, Jon became
aware that Granny wasn’t just having a ‘bad turn’ as his mother
called it. She was failing a little every day, and he understood
with deep sadness that they were going to lose her, and there
was nothing any of them could do about it. When the older
women lay down to rest, Jon sighed quietly.
“What is it?” Meg asked.
“I thought having you meet Mother and Granny would be
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more enjoyable, but seeing her this afternoon has been hard. I
don’t think she’s going to be here very long, Meg. I’m going to
miss her.”
“I fear you are right, Jon. She looks so frail, but she’s
managed to keep a sense of humor about it all and does better
than many others I could name. Don’t bury her before her time,
though. Just enjoy the days she has left, there’ll be time enough
for mourning when she’s gone.” Jon put his arm around her and
kissed her hand. It was sound, gentle advice.
After dinner Meg was eager to visit the market again. Jon
was torn between his duty to stay with Granny and his desire to
go with Meg. After his mother reminded Jon they would be fine
whether he was there or not, he agreed to go with Meg. The
mid-week market was larger than Jon remembered, and Meg,
who had only attended such a large market one other time, was
intrigued by all the goods and produce for sale in the hundred or
so stalls. She bought some muslin she liked and sampled the
food from the stalls. She was especially interested in the way
cattle, sheep, geese, and pigs were sold. Bids were exchanged
by covert hand signals followed by nods and shrugs. It was all
very arcane; Jon was at a loss to explain how it worked. He just
knew that it did. After wandering among the stalls but failing to
find anything else to tempt her, Meg allowed Jon to walk her
back to the house on Stockwell Road. They spent another hour
talking with Granny and then sat out in the garden until the heat
inside the house dissipated. The hearth room was too hot to
sleep in, even with the shutter wide open, so they returned to the
garden and worked as the cricket chorus sang around them.
The Stalling clan dropped by in two’s and three’s over the
next two days to wish Jon and Meg good fortune and a small
mountain of household goods, food, and a few silver pennies
were added to Jon’s savings. But the time came when Jon said
that they could stay no longer, they had other things to get on
with. The following morning they bid their farewells. As the
cart pulled away from the cottage door framing his
grandmother, Jon felt sure that he wouldn’t see Granny again in
this life. They traveled the first two leagues without a word.
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Meg sensed his sadness and put her arm through his and leaned
against him, the touch a comfort in itself.
The cart sat long beside Wescombe Ford as Jon and Meg
cooled themselves off feet dangling in the pool there. The
humid day was blistering hot, heat waves shimmered off the
road in front of them all the way back to Redding. The instant
the horse was cared for, Jon stripped down to his trews and
dumped buckets of water over his head to cool off and sat
beside Meg in the shade of the cottage through the afternoon too
listless to do anything.
As the sun fell westward, and the terrible heat loosened its
grip on the land, Jon announced that he was going to go see,
Egan Holman. “Do you want to come with me?”
“I probably should,” sighed Meg, but I’m tired. And what
you need to discuss is between you. You go on, it’s you he
wants to talk to anyway. I’ll fix something for us to eat.”
“Fair enough,” Jon agreed. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
Jon wound his way through the heat-prostrated town and up
Quarry Lane where Holman lived with a few tenants, in one of
the finest houses in Redding, a manor would be a better
description. Jon’s footsteps crunched up the graveled path that
stretched from the house down to the lane through the fields and
knocked at the heavy wooden door. He didn’t hear any
footsteps, so he knocked a little louder. Hearing no response,
Garret turned to go back down the hill disappointed.
“Who’s there?” came a voice from the north side of the
house where Holman stood studying him.
“Yes, sir, Master Holman, it’s me, Jon Ellis, I’ve come to
see if you still have any work for me.”
“Of course you have! Come on around, and we’ll talk. Are
you thirsty? I’ve got some ale in the cellar.” Jon cringed at the
mention of home-brewed ale, thinking of the nasty concoction
back at Pendleton, and grinned.
Jon followed Holman around the side of the house to the
back porch which overlooking the various fields, pastures, and
an enormous garden that partially filled much of the space up
against the old quarry, an imposing backdrop for the shrubs and
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trees Holman had planted or had found a place in the years since
the quarry had been abandoned.
“Take a seat, Jon, I won’t be long,” called Holman and
hurried away to play servant.
Jon stood looking at the garden unaware that anything so
grand was found in Redding and was surprised that he knew so
little about it despite living in Redding all his life.
The rattling of wooden beakers brought Jon back from his
thoughts as Holman set the tray down on the small table.
Holman held out a mug of beer, and Jon sat on the edge of
the proffered bench. He took an experimental sip of the drink,
but the beer tasted fine on a hot afternoon.
Once the pleasantries were dispensed with, Egan asked for a
report on the fight up north. Jon spoke for almost an hour, but
Holman showed no signs of becoming inattentive, quite the
contrary, he beamed as explained how the whole affair turned
out. He asked many questions and was particularly interested in
his conversation with Erlend Billund.
“So you’re going to Erenby,” he said in wonder. “It is
astounding! Now tell me about the sword.”
Jon described it to him. Holman’s eyebrows knit together as
if disturbed, not unlike Erlend’s reaction.
“So what does it mean? Why was I asked to accompany the
Earl and the others. I’m a nobody.”
“That I can’t tell you, Jon. But it is a high honor. You still
have the sword?”
“Yes, sir. If you’d like I’ll bring it up here, so you can take a
look at it.”
“I’d like that,” confessed Holman. “But let’s talk about what
your work here”.
“I do have a job to offer you, Jon, and you are looking at it.
My joints have stiffened up on me, and I can’t manage all there
is to do around here any more. The tenants take care of their
plots and do service on mine, but I’d like some help with all of
it. I dare say you could spend the rest of your life here and never
run out of things to do.”
Jon’s interest was piqued. “I love to work the soil, Master
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Holman.”
Holman turned to look at Jon. “I want a man who will work
whether I’m here or not. I just want the land to be productive.
What do you say?”
“I’d like to work here,” Jon began, “but you should know I
am also working for Saeland Council recruiting for the Guard. I
don’t know exactly how that will turn out, but I might need to
travel around Saeland a bit, at least until things get going. Will
that be a problem?”
“I don’t think there’s much can hurt a farm in a day or two,
Jon. No, I think doing both jobs need doing.”
“One more thing, Master Holman, I just got married a few
days ago, and I’d like to go up to Saxford for a few days and
commence work after we get back, it won’t be more than a
week.”
Holman smiled. “Who did you marry? No one from around
here I’ll warrant. Who is the lucky young woman?”
Her name is Meghan Turner from up at Ribble. He dad’s
keeps the inn at the bridge.”
“I can’t say that I know the family. Of course I’ve been
through Ribble many times, even eaten at the inn on occasion.
I’ll have to make my acquaintance the next time I go up that
way.” His eyes bore in on Jon. Are you happy, lad? Is it what
you really want?”
“Yes, sir, Master Holman. I’ve been waiting for her for
nearly two years. I am the happiest man in Redding.”
Holman broke into a smile; relief seemed to be there as well.
“Then I will have to see about a wedding gift. When is the
feast?”
Jon told him and then tried to steer back around to the
question of the work he’d been promised and his desire to see
Garret before he started work.
“That’s no problem, another week or even two won’t make
much difference to the weeds. Good, that’s settled,” Holman
said with a wink. “You have the job as long as you want it. I’ll
pay you fifteen pennies a week.”
Jon nearly fell off the bench. What Holman was offering was
407
three times the wage he’d made at the mill. His face must have
registered his consternation.
“That’s not satisfactory, Jon?”
“Oh, no, sir, Master Holman, it’s more than fair. More than
I ever made at the mill.”
“Don’t get me started on Ralph Warren; it’ll bother me the
rest of the evening. Now tell me if you don’t mind, Jon, how do
you intend to get people around here ruffled enough to want to
form a Guard unit?”
Jon laughed, “I’ve been warned so many times about it that I
feel half defeated before I start. I thought I’d begin by holding a
meeting and just explain what happened up above Saxford this
summer. After that I will talk about the threat Saeland might
face if the raiders come this way. Thane Giffard suggested the
younger men nearer my own age might be more interested in the
Guard than most older men. Then I’ll have to see how its goes.
What do you think?”
“Sounds like a fair start and a meeting not to miss. When
will it be?”
“I’m taking Meghan up to Saxford either tomorrow or the
next day to see how Garret is doing and look a round a little.
We’ll come back some time next week.”
“Tell you what I’ll do,” proffered Holman, “I’ll get the
Thane to call a hallmeet for an evening late next week. You’ll
be back by then, and it will give folks a little time to decide if
they want to come.”
“I appreciate your help, Master Holman.”
“Think nothing of it young man, I knew your father well,
and miss him. I expect great things of you, Jon. You have a fine
heritage.” There was an awkward pause, and Jon fidgeted
uncomfortably under the steady gaze of the older man. Holman
realized he had been staring and heaved himself to his feet.
“Let me show you what you’ll be doing.”
After the better part of an hour looking over the fields and
gardens, Jon thanked Holman, excused himself and whistled all
the way home.
“I got the job from Holman,” he called out as he came into
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the house. Meg’s happy face appeared in the kitchen doorway
wreathed in a smile.
“When do you start? What are you going to be doing? How
much does it pay?”
“Hold on,” Jon laughed, “One question at a time!”
Jon then explained everything to Meg, who could scarcely
believe Jon’s good fortune.
“You’re sure he said, fifteen pennies a week? You’re sure
he meant it?”
“No reason to doubt him. I think he is a man of his word. I
told him about going up to Saxford and working for the Council;
he didn’t even blink.”
“That’s better than we dared hope,” Meg laughed. “And
after all that worry about how we were going to support
ourselves.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you marry such a talented
and lucky man. I’m thinking that between you and the amulet
my fortunes are looking up. Why don’t we leave for Saxford
tomorrow morning? I’d just as soon see it now and get back
here to start work.”
Meg loved seeing Jon excited and so filled with purpose; he
looked happier than any time since they’d come to Redding. His
smile and easy confidence caused her almost to catch her breath,
and she felt herself aroused by the nearness of him.
As he talked she drew him down to her on the bench and
undid his belt letting it fall onto the floor.
“What are you up to?” Jon laughed knowingly.
“We haven’t had a lot of time to ourselves these past three
days and I thought…” she left the rest of her thought unfinished.
“You thought what?”
“It’s not something I can say out loud,” she teased.
“All right he chuckled, any instructions?”

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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
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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
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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
426
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
427
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.

The days blended together in an endless round of work at

Holman’s and work at home. Once a week he met with several
friends and members of his extended family from in and around
Redding. Jon explained what he knew about the Guard and the
need for it. One evening, Colin asked a question that everyone
in Redding had been asking themselves since the town meeting.
“Why is it,” Colin asked, “that old Warren will only parcel
out ten pounds of flour at a time? What’s going on? My wife
was down to buy flour, and Warren told her she could only get
ten pounds, a shortage was what miller said.”
“Shortage?” queried one of the others, “why is that?
Harvest was good last year.
There’s no shortage,” Jon said, his mind slipping back to
the stranger at Warren’s looking to buy flour and meal, and
Warren rubbing his hands with glee.
“Here’s what I know,” offered Jon, and told them about
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Warren’s meeting with the outlander.
“Ean, you and Rob live close to the mill. Keep an eye on it
without letting on you’re paying attention. Wagons are going
out of town with the grain nearly every day. I know he made
deal to sell flour and meal then haul it off to Selwyn. I’d like to
know how much is really going out of here. Rob grinned from
ear to ear. Is this our first assignment, Jon?”
“It is,” Jon confirmed. “See what you can find out. We’ll
have something to report to Thane Giffard.”
It took a few days of watching, but Jon was able to write to
Thane Giffard that five wagon loads of wheat, barley, and oats a
week were indeed going out of Redding to be shipped north on
the river and posed the question, Why?
Seventeen people pressed Jon to hold a meeting to explain
what they were supposed to do if and when the Guard was
allowed to organize. Jon wrote to Thane Giffard for his advice
on how to handle the conflict between obeying the Thane and
making sure Redding contributed its share to the protection of
Saeland.
He also passed along his and other’s concerns about the
amount of grain and flour leaving Redding on wagons bound for
somewhere in the east. Warren was wrong to sell so much flour
that supplies in Redding were short. “It’s going to foreigners,”
Jon explained. He told Holman about the flour and meal
shipments, and Holman immediately became agitated.
“Why ever would he sell so much grain out of Saeland?
Who’s buying it up there?” Then he stopped and stared at Jon.
“The Normen produce plenty of grain for themselves.” Jon
told him about the visit of the outlander before he left the mill.
Holman fell into deep thought.
At last he shook himself. “Who else knows of this?”
“I’ve written to Thane Giffard about it.”
“Good, it’s time we do something. There is another hallmeet
next market day. I’m going to bring it up again,” declared
Holman. “I think a lot of people want an explanation. Ralph
Warren’s on the council, and we’ll make him squirm, if I have
anything to say about it.”
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 The days could not pass quickly enough for Jon. With half
of the rest of Redding, Meg and Jon arrived just before the start
of the hallmeet and sat next to Colin and Geoff. Jon had
proposed that the unofficial Guard members ought to attend the
meeting if they could. The first part of the meeting was usual
council business, fairly ho-hum matters that the council dealt
with on a regular basis. Then the floor was opened for public
discussion, and Egan Holman stood up.
“I have a question for Ralph Warren.”
“Go ahead,” the Thane said, unaware of Egan’s intent.
“Would you explain to the good people of Redding, Master
Warren, why five wagon loads of flour, meal and grain are
being sent east of Redding on a weekly basis, and why we are
short on flour and meal here because of it?
Ralph Warren’s mouth worked like a fish out of water for a
few seconds, and his face reddened to an unhealthy shade of
violet. The room took a collective breath and not a few sly
smiles and raised eyebrows waited eagerly for Warren’s certain-
to-be discomfort.
“Who I sell to, or how much I sell is my business, Holman.
I won’t answer.”
The crowd gasped for breath and conversations sprang up all
over the room. Every head swiveled to see how Holman would
respond.
“Come now, Warren, surely people have a right to know
why we should pay double prices and our meal doled out
piecemeal according to your whim. There is no such shortage in
other parts of Saeland.”
“As I said, Holman, it’s none of your business or anyone
else either. How do you know so much about my private affairs
anyway?” demanded Warren suspiciously.
“You might say there are some observant people around
town. Why is it that the wagons are loaded and driven east of
here to Selwyn late at night?”
Ralph Warren was speechless with rage at the discovery of
his quiet manipulation of the town’s grain supply. He glared at
Holman amid a hundred conversations that sprang up across the
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hall.
“Go on, Warren, tell us why?” echoed an elderly woman
near the front, holding a black ear trumpet to enable her to hear
every syllable. “I had to pay half again the usual price for ten
pounds of flour yesterday, and I want to know what you have to
say.”
“Your Honor,” pleaded Holman to the Thane, “can’t you see
this is an issue for you to resolve. Higher prices, shortage of
flour and meal, furtive shipments out of town, you have the
power to stop this nonsense. Help us!”
The Thane’s eyes questioned Warren who gave him a hard
look. Its purpose was obvious. Shut down debate.
“I think we will take this matter under advisement. The
Council will discuss this further, and we’ll report our findings
back to you at the next meeting. Now if there is no other
business, I’ll …”
Holman was still on his feet, “Your honor, what could study
of the issue do? I think the question is straight forward. Let him
answer!”
Thane Gessing, who was not used to being contradicted,
drew a long breath and ended the meeting without further
discussion to the dismay of many in attendance. Thane Gessing
gave Holman a glance that could only be called poisonous. The
response was an instant uproar as people realized that the miller
had manipulated the meeting to a close without hearing from the
people of Redding as they felt was their right. To the outraged
cries of “Shame, shame!” Jon attempted to move forward and
then caught Holman’s eye. He waited for Jon to reach him.
“It’s beginning to make sense,” concluded Jon. “The Thane
is in Warren’s corner.”
“Very cozy,” said Holman, “very cozy indeed. I wonder
what benefit the Thane gets to ensure his support.”
“Have you sent your report to Thane Giffard yet?”
“The initial findings,” Jon answered.
“I think you ought to write again and be sure to include what
happened here tonight. Earl Osric will be very interested to
know what we’ve heard.
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 “I’ll do it before I take Meghan up to Ribble,” Jon replied.
“Excellent. You’re off to Erenby soon?”
“I’m a little unsure about that, but yes, that’s the plan.”
“Don’t you worry about it, you’ll have the Earl and the
others with you. You’ll enjoy yourself I’m sure.”
“Well, I’ll say goodnight, Jon,” Holman said and strode out
the door.
Jon turned to see if his friends had left yet and happened to
see the Thane and Ralph Warren staring at him and muttering
between them speaking with someone with his back toward Jon.
Their conversation was clearly in earnest, and they both glanced
away when they saw Jon looking their direction. Jon followed
Holman out of the door and felt the hair rise on the back of his
exposed neck.

The stranger turned to gaze after Jon coolly as if taking his

measure and turned back to the whispered discussions between
Thane Gessing and Ralph Warren, their expressions cold and
menacing.
“The two of them have caused us enough trouble,” grumbled
Warren. “We can’t risk them interfering any more. We’ll teach
Holman and the upstart not to meddle in our affairs.”
“Are you sure that’s wise,” wondered Gessing. “People will
forget about this in time; I don’t want to stir up any more trouble
than we have to.”
“Too late for that,” snapped Warren, “we either shut them
up or we find ourselves answering a lot of questions in Saeland
Court with an audience of hundreds. Trust me, I’ll take care of
this for the both of us.”
“Don’t bother,” growled the Norman, “I’ll handle it. I left a
job unfinished, some years back, I guess.”
“What do you mean?” queried Warren.
“When you told me the boy’s name was Ellis, I remembered
a few years ago I had business with another Ellis here. He
caught the attention of someone up north and I was hired to
.…,” he paused searching for the right phrase, “solve the
problem. I forget his name; any relation?”
448
 “His son,” offered Gessing.
The Norman shrugged.
Warren, as angry as he was at Jon Ellis, abruptly realized
what the Norman had just implied. Dean Ellis’ death was no
accident. Gessing’s face mirrored his own.
“Shocked?” the stranger sneered. “I suppose someone found
him up at the quarry. Thought he’d fallen did you?” He laughed
lightly. “Can’t really tell the difference between a fall and
having the back of your head smashed in with a rock can you?”
He leaned closer. “You two have an agreement with certain
parties I represent, no one backs out of it, no new terms. Sadly
accidents will happen,” he hissed and disappeared into the dusk.
Aside from a couple of unofficial Guard meetings, the end
of Haymonth rolled into Weedmonth in a daily routine of work
as grain harvest came and went. Jon began to think that maybe
life in Redding wouldn’t be so bad after all. Meg had found a
few friends, and Jon’s stand against the miller made him popular
among the most vocal critics of the higher flour and meal costs
they were all paying. The approaching wedding feast and the
anticipation of his travel north with the Earl caused Jon more
than one sleepless night.
The eighteenth day of Weedmonth came, and Jon dutifully
drove Meg to Ribble, so she could help her mother with the
wedding feast preparations and came home a bachelor for four
days.
The empty house was depressing enough, but he also found
a hand-written summons from the Thane and Council to appear
before them the next evening. Jon showed the letter to Holman,
who was incensed enough that when he read it, he vowed he’d
be there when Jon stood up to them. Jon was sure it was
concerning his meeting with people about the Guard. He wasn’t
afraid to go, but he was anxious about the outcome, and glad
when Holman offered to stand with him. Master Holman invited
Jon to stay for supper with the understanding that they’d go to
the meeting afterward.
“We might as well go down together, Jon,” chuckled
Holman as they waited in the sitting room after they had eaten
449
and cleaned the dishes. “You’re as nervous as cat with kittens.
Come along, we might as well sit there, as here.
Jon paced anxiously outside the Hall where he’d been told to
wait by an officious clerk until someone came to summon him.
Holman began to pace back and forth until the same clerk stood
in the open door and jerked his head toward the room where the
aldermen sat waiting.
“This way,” was all he said.
Holman pushed into the room over the hushed objections of
the clerk and planted himself on a bench as an observer. The
clerk continued to pester Holman.
“Master Holman, you are not invited, you’ll have to leave.
Master Holman?”
Holman waved at the clerk as he might absently whisk off a
bothersome fly, and the commotion was abruptly cut off by the
Thane.
“Jon Ellis was summoned here and not you, Egan Holman,”
the Thane observed.
“I believe council meetings are open to the public,” was
Holman’s only comment.
“This is not a meeting of the council,” the Thane began.
“Are you gentlemen not the Council of Aldermen for
Redding?” asked Holman.
“Yes, of course we are,” snapped the Thane.
“Then it is a council meeting and therefore open to all,”
declared Holman and folded his arms.
Without resorting to calling a town bailiff to remove
Holman by force, which was exactly the kind of publicity the
council did not want, Thane Gessing waved the clerk away,
choosing to ignore Holman’s presence.
“Jon Ellis,” the Thane began, “after the meeting about the
organization of the Guard in Redding. Did you or did you not
receive explicit instructions from me prohibiting you, from
organizing the Guard here?”
“I did, sir,” answered Jon.
“Then our question to you is why have those instructions not
been followed?”
450
 “They have been,” countered Jon. “No Guard has been
organized in Redding; not by me anyway.”
“It has come to our attention,” reported the Thane, “that
meetings have been held at your home on several occasions
where you and others discussed organizing the Guard here.
What do you say to that?”
“I repeat, the Guard has not been organized in the Redding. I
have written about your decision to refuse me permission to
organize here and your actions of the last council meeting to
Thane Giffard and Earl Osric, they advised me not to organize
the Guard, so I haven’t.”
The Thane’s face tried to mask his unease at the mention of
the Earl, but casting a glance at Ralph Warren who sat several
seats away, the Thane took his cue once again. “What about
those meetings? You are telling me that the meetings are not
about the Guard?”
“Who I invite to my home and what we talk about is none of
the Council’s business, if you don’t mind my speaking plainly.
What I discuss with my friends is of no concern to you or
anyone else in Redding,” said Jon defiantly.
“You have been specifically enjoined from organizing the
Guard. The Council forbids any meeting for that purpose. Do
you understand?”
Jon stood up, his eyes calmly looking each of the Council
members in the eye.
“I have kept my word to you and the Earl, Thane, I have not
organized the Guard in Redding. It appears to me that you and
other members of the Council have begun to subvert not only
law in Redding, but common sense itself. What else will you
forbid? What will you do next? Send ruffians after me to teach
me a lesson? If that is what the Council of Redding has
become, we don’t need Olani raiders to threaten us; our own
people have already done what the Olani have only
contemplated.”
Jon turned to leave, and Egan Holman stood, his eyes
glittering. He raised his voice and pointed at the Thane.
“You may have thought you could call one man here tonight
451
and threaten him into doing what you want for your own selfish
reasons. I will not rest until each one of you is unmasked for the
cowards and influence peddlers you are. I call you corrupt and
will see that each of you either resigns or is removed from office
once the Earl investigates your recent actions. Shame on you!”
he thundered, “Shame!” Together he and Jon stalked out the
door without bothering to close it behind them.
“You did well in there,” complimented Holman as they
made their way up the street. “The storm isn’t over yet. You’re
off to Ribble for the wedding feast in a couple of days, aren’t
you?”
“Yes, sir,” mumbled Jon.
“Why don’t you take a couple of extra days and help with
the preparations as well. I’m off to Camber tomorrow to make
good on my threat. I wouldn’t put it past those men in there to
cause you more trouble. They haven’t heard the last of this, I
guarantee you.”
Jon spent an hour completing the letter he’d written to
Thane Giffard, explaining the outcome of the latest summons.
Folding it carefully he addressed it and sealed it. He wasn’t sure
he trusted anyone connected with the Council in Redding to
carry his report.

452
13

A Change in Plans

It was a relief to go to Ribble the next morning, and Jon was

welcomed joyfully, although it was tempered when he told Meg
what had happened at the Council meeting the previous evening.
Jon was just glad to put it behind him until after the wedding
celebration. Jon pitched in with hearty good will to speed the
wedding feast preparations along.
The day of the wedding feast Meg was radiant in her best
russet kirtle and blue over- mantle and a circlet of flowers on
her brow. She was worried about the day, but the moment she
saw Jon, much of the anxiety vanished. Jon thought her the
most beautiful woman he had ever seen and counted himself a
lucky man. Jon felt overdressed in his full-length trews, tunic,
red over-tunic and short mantle fastened at his shoulder with his
father’s bronze wolf’s head brooch. Under the gaze of all
assembled family friends, and neighbors Jon set a leather bag of
coins in front of Meghan, the morning gift, consisting of every
penny on earth that he owned. He then produced his half of the
broken silver penny and lay it in the palm of Meg’s hand next to
her half. She dropped both pieces into the bag as the crowd
cheered and shouted congratulations. Jon felt a curious mix of
confidence, anticipation, and anxiety as he sat at last beside his
bride at table. Meg’s relatives of the furthest degree had
descended on Ribble en masse, and Jon gave up trying to
remember how anyone was related to anyone else.
Mistress Turner was exhausted. For days she and her
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neighbors and relatives had been cooking and baking
continually in preparation for the feast. But she was happy, too.
She had thought for many years about that day and now that it
had come, she couldn’t have been more satisfied. She tried to
hide her pleasure at the comments she received about the dowry
gifts displayed for the company. Durban Turner couldn’t help
but beam proudly in the beauty of his daughter and the match
she had made for herself. He was weary as well, for he had sat
up all the previous night keeping a watch on the roasting fire
he’d set up in the yard to cook the bullock he’d butchered to
feed the wedding guests.
The feast day was by all measures a success: the food
endless in quantity and fine quality; the drink ample, and the
dancing and singing lasted from the forenoon till late. Mistress
Turner broke the shortbread cake above Meg and Jon’s heads,
and they laughed at the mad scramble by the young unmarried
friends and relatives battled with each other to get hold of a
piece of it. The drunken crowd escorted Jon and Meg upstairs
with the usual bawdy songs that were sung at every wedding
ever held in Saeland. Jon and Meg fell blissfully into bed.
After the next lazy day at Ribble, Jon and Meg packed up
everything for their return to Redding the following morning.
The cart was loaded down with piles of household gifts,
everything from pots of preserves, to bedding and furniture.
Promising to return when Jon headed north, they waved
goodbye to Meg’s family and headed for Redding. They talked
all the way home reminiscing about the wedding in part, so as
not to think too much about Jon’s running fight with the Ralph
Warren, most of the aldermen of Redding, and Thane Gessing.
Jon half expected another summons to appear before the
Council when they arrived home. But the only letter was from
Thane Giffard, which in part told Jon again to comply with the
instructions he had been given by the Thane. Earl Osric was
sending Reeve Telford to investigate, and he wanted to
interview Jon, along with several people in Redding to get a feel
for the dispute, so he could make recommendations to the Earl
as to how to settle it. Giffard also asked Jon to write him in
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more detail what he knew of Ralph Warren’s business dealings
particularly the flour and meal going upriver from Selwyn. Then
came the last part which brought complete shock. “Listen to
this, Meg!” shouted Jon.
“Giffard sayss that there has been a change in plans about
going north at the end of the next week!”
“What happened?” Meg asked.
“The Earl and Council received a letter from the Council of
Regents at Erenby postponing their visit indefinitely. But the
same letter specifically asks that I appear in person before the
Erenby council to tell what I know about the sword I took from
that dead Olani.” Jon almost dropped the letter. Tiw’s eyes!
Why earth would the Normen want him to appear before them
without the others? Thane Giffard went on to say that he
strongly encouraged Jon to take Garret with him and the two of
them would become official representatives of the Earl and
Council of Saeland. They were instructed to do everything they
could to encourage direct talks with the Earl as soon as possible
and assure the Normen that Saeland was ready to do its duty in
protecting the two lands from any outsiders. Jon reread the letter
to be sure he had understood it correctly. Going north in the
company of the Earl and Thane Giffard made perfect sense, but
to go without them was something else entirely. He read it all to
Meg, and she was as confounded as Jon was. Not one of their
questions was answered in the letter.
“What am I supposed to do now?” whined Jon. Despite his
reservations about going without the Earl and Thane Giffard,
some sense of adventure inside him and not a little sense of
destiny nibbled away at his objections. By bedtime, he’d talked
about it enough that going to Erenby didn’t seem so intimidating
a journey as he had first imagined it to be.
“So what did you decide?” asked Meg as he lay down beside
her.
“I’ll go, if Garret goes. We’ll leave as before. Is that all
right with you?
Assuming Meg would agree with him was a mistake.
“I wondered when you were going to consult me on this
455
little journey of yours, Jon. And since you ask, no, I don’t want
you to go. It didn’t seem so bad when you were going with the
others, but going off just you and Garret like that. I don’t like
the sound of it at all.”
Jon gaped like a fish out of water. Taken back by Meg’s
candid response. “I thought you wouldn’t mind,” he began.
“You’ve not said anything before now. What’s different?”
Meg smiled. “Everything’s different, Jon. Before you were
your own man, but now you’ve gone and married me. As your
wife, I’m telling you Erenby’s a bad idea. I don’t want you to
go.”
Jon’s first reaction was a rising sense of anger at being
denied something he wanted. He was a grown man; he’d been
making decisions on his own for a long time. What right did
she have to put up a fuss then?
Meg could tell he was angry, and she wisely said nothing
just lay quietly. Jon couldn’t keep quiet, she told herself, just
had to wait. It would all come spilling out sooner or later. She
knew in the end she would relent, but like her mother had told
her, it never hurts to pull the reins a little to remind the husband
who really runs the house. She smiled into the dark and
wondered how long it would take for him to figure out how to
say what he wanted diplomatically.
“Meghan, I’ve given my word. I can’t go back on it. The
Earl and Thane Giffard believe we need to improve relations
between the Normen and the Saesen. If I can start that process,
then I’ll really have done something. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know anything about all that, Jon, but we’ve been
married less than a week, and you’re talking about going off
into the wild for who knows how long. I’d have thought you’d
want to spend these first weeks together.”
“I do, Meghan, but can’t you see this could be important?”
Meg thought carefully. How she answered could provoke
an outright clash, the first serious one of the marriage. Or she
could choose her battles. She felt this one had been decided
back in Full Summer, and she had little real power to make it
otherwise. But she’d succeeded in tightening the lead on Jon’s
456
independent nature. He’d think twice before he did anything
like that again. Meg felt she’d made her point.
“I’ve said what I’m going to say on this, Jon. I don’t want
you to go off north on your own with or without Garret, but if
that’s what you want to do, I’ll be fine in Ribble until you get
back.” Already she imagined what going back home would be,
even for a short time, and she didn’t like the feel of it.
Jon should have been relieved, he really wanted to see the
north country, but he could tell Meg was very unhappy about it.
She had left him an out; the question was whether it was wise to
take it. The room was silent, neither of them the least bit sleepy.
After he’d thought about it, he took a deep breath.
“Meg, I don’t know exactly why, but I must go north.
Maybe it’s stupid curiosity, but I told Erlend I’d go. I mean to
keep my word. Remember what Eofa told me? My path lies
north, but not just for me, but for my family, for us. I won’t be
gone for long, you’ll see,” Jon pleaded.
“Do what you will, I’ve had my say,” snapped Meg. She
turned on her side away from Jon. Jon, who had always been a
fair persuader, realized he’d failed. Was it worth the trouble to
go north? One lesson he’d learned was that he’d discuss such
things in the future before making a decision; that was for
certain. He thought about it a long, long time before drifting off
to sleep. So did Meg.
In the following days Meg reported that several people acted
cool towards her on the street. Feelings ran high in town when
Second Reeve Devlyn Telford made his appearance, which
caused quite a stir. The Thane tried to send his bailiff along
officially to be of assistance, but he was soon sent packing, as it
was obvious, he was simply spying on the Reeve’s movements.
Telford wasn’t going to be dissuaded by a petty bureaucrat. Not
everyone was pleased about the disruption. Those who were
solidly behind Thane Gessing and the Council made it known in
little slights and oversights. Meg held her head up, but was
happy that she was staying at her parents while Jon and Garret
traveled north.
Despite all of that, the number of people attending meetings
457
at Jon’s house was at an all time high. Over fifty people
indicated that they were willing to heed a call any time to
protect Saeland whether they called themselves the Guard was
beside the point. Jon felt vindicated and angrier than ever at
Warren and Gessing.
Three days before Jon was to go north, Egan Holman
showed up at Jon’s door just after dark.
“Come in, Master Holman,” Jon said rather perplexed and
sat down next to Meg. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve just received word that I must leave immediately; I
can’t explain anything more just yet. But I want you to listen to
me carefully. You must go to Erenby as you planned! Find
Erlend on the North Road at a Norsk fort called Lillebaek, he’ll
be watching for you. Do what he says; you can trust him. I’ve
arranged with Rob Markham to keep the weeds down at my
place while you are gone.” He started to say something and
stopped himself. “I have much to tell you, but it will have to
wait. Perhaps we shall find each other as before. I don’t like
what’s going on here, Jon. It’s not safe for you or Meghan to
stay. Clear out. Take her and go to Ribble or anywhere else.
We’ve caused trouble for powerful people, not just here in
Redding.”
“I’m not afraid of Warren or the Thane,” Jon sputtered.
“I wasn’t thinking of them,” Holman interrupted. “This is
bigger. Someone is working against Saeland, and the Olani are
not our worst enemies, not yet anyway.”
“Now look,” Holman said as he handed Jon a bag of coins,
“here is money for your journey. I won’t take no for an
answer,” he added over Jon’s objections. “You’ll need it before
you are through, mark my word. If I could say more, I’d tell
you. Take Meg up to her dad’s place. Go by way of Holbourne,
go tonight. I wouldn’t give two pence for your life if you go
west as I suppose you had planned to.”
“All right, Master Holman,” Jon agreed, more than a little
intimidated by all the hurry and secrecy. “I’ll do as you wish.”
“That’s good,” Holman said visibly relieved. “I’m off,
now.”
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 “He’s given you a month’s wages,” Meg cried in amazement
after Holman’s steps retreated into the dark. “Do you really
think we should leave?”
“I’ll not have you in harm’s way, Meg. Let’s go back up to
Ribble, you’ll be safe there. It’s not as if we weren’t already
going. We’ll just be going a few days early that’s all.”
“All right,” she agreed, “you’ll have to help me pack.”
Jon patted her hand. “I am sorry for all the trouble, Meghan.
Once we get past all this Norsk business, things will settle
down.”
“I hope so,” sighed Meg.
Meg rattled off a list of things she thought she might need
for an extended stay at her parents home. The pile of packages
and boxes by the kitchen door grew until Jon said he’d had
enough. “I’m in no mood to go driving off in the dark. We’ll
leave first thing in the morning.” Meg agreed, and they and
stumbled into bed.
Jon woke out of deep sleep at a sound, something different
than the ordinary night noises that creaked into his dream,
something that ought not be. It brought him completely out of
sleep, heart pounding in his ears and pressing hard against his
chest. His ears tried to detect the sound once again, but it had
passed. His heart raced and a searing in his gut had every nerve
on edge. Soundlessly he slipped from the bed and whisked
Turpin’s knife from its sheath from its place on a peg on the
bedroom wall. He prowled silently down the hall; every sense
keen to movement or sound in the dark. The front door was ajar
and he could see out into the street by some orange light that his
half conscious, sleepy mind could not make sense of. He
paused before entering the hearth room and swore he could hear
the breathing of someone between himself and the door.
Jon lifted one of the packages sitting in the hallway and
hurled it ahead of him and shouted at the same time. Out of the
night shadows a dark-clad arm slashed downward with a knife.
Without thinking Jon hacked his own knife at the arm as hard as
he could. The assailant screamed and grabbed his deeply
gashed arm and fell back against the raised hearth in agony,
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Meg was shouting wordlessly from the bedroom. In the heat of
the moment Jon lunged forward only to meet the full force of
the attacker’s booted foot in his diaphragm. Gasping for breath,
Jon staggered back as the man scrambled to his feet. Hissing
and grimacing he kicked door wide open and fled. The face lit
by the orange glow was the face of the Norman he’d seen
talking to Warren at the mill. Jon staggered to the door; Meg
following closely on his heels in panic.
“Jon, are you hurt? Jon!” she screamed seeing the blood
glistening on the floor.
“I’m, all right,” he gasped. “Just got the wind knocked out
of me.” He turned back to assure her and realized he shouldn’t
be able to see her face, but he could clearly make it out by the
light coming from the street.
How odd, he thought in his disoriented state. He took two
steps to the door and saw the first yellow curl of smoke drift
down and explore its way into the house.
Someone’s house had caught fire. He’d seen two or three
house fires growing up in Redding,but as he reached the door,
the heat from the outside warmed his face. The terrible
realization came in an instant.
“Meg,” he roared, “the house is on fire, get out, get out!”
Meg wide-eyed stood stock-still. Then they both scrambled into
action.
“Throw things out into the garden, hurry!” He raced to the
hearth room and began hurling the items piled near the door as
far out into the yard as far as he could. Flames already licked
hungrily at the roof thatch. He knew that there was nothing he
could do about the fire except get as many things out of the
house as he could before the roof collapsed. Heat from the
flames warmed his naked chest and arms. The bedroom
window shutters crashed open and items flew out of it as if
bewitched. Jon rushed back into the house and began carrying
furniture out into the garden away from the house. Geiran
Thomas, a neighbor, and his son ran through the back gate and
began carrying household items as well. The yellow pall of
smoke drifted ever lower from the ceiling. Jon hadn’t heard the
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fire before, but its low roar quickly drew a gaping crowd.
Shouts were heard in the street, and several more neighbors ran
to help. Pieces of smoldering thatch fell onto the hearth room
floor as Jon physically picked Meg up and carried her out the
back door. Curling, writhing, orange flames enveloped the
interior of the house in span of twenty heart beats.
Jon and Meg carried what they had salvaged even farther
away from the burning building. Heat would charcoal the wattle
inside the walls until they collapsed under the weight of the roof
beams. They were determined that nothing more should be lost.
Cries in the street echoed their own shock as the fire ate
completely through the summer-dry thatch, and the flames
curled up and around the roof and into the night sky. Flames
leapt ten then twenty feet into the air above the roof, and the
searing roar of the hungry flames cut off all other sound.
Meg and Jon and the neighbors could do nothing but stand
farther back as the fierce heat and smoke forced them away
from the inferno. Shouts and panicked cries from the street
grew in volume. Flames swirled into the sky, devouring the
entire roof and casting an unnatural ruddy light across the
neighbor’s houses. With a roar like the sound of a storm, the
conflagration engulfed the entire upper part of the house from
end to end.
Luckily for the neighbors, the wind was not blowing. As it
was, the houses north of Jon’s soon had people scattering across
the thatch batting out the sparks or cinders which rose in great
arcs and fell like shooting stars. Long rakes appeared in the
hands of experienced neighbors who pulled off sections of
thatch that had begun to smolder. Jon and Meghan stood arms
around each other; the heat beating on their faces staring up at
the flames. Tears ran down Meg’s face.
“Oh, Jon, I am so sorry, it’s all gone.” He put his arms
around her and held her tight against his chest feeling curiously
detached, as if the fire and loss of his boyhood home was
happening to someone else. He was filled with rage and
frustration at the pointlessness of the act; sure that Ralph
Warren or the Thane had been behind it. The fire was no
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accident; it had been set deliberately, and he was absolutely sure
he would never be able to prove it.
They watched the flames burn for more than an hour, the
rafters exposed black against the fire and the night. Then
sections of the roof collapsed into the house sending embers and
cinders into the sky like a gigantic Midsummer’s Eve bonfire.
Neighbors scrambled after the cinders to stop the fire from
spreading beyond Jon’s place. Buckets of water were passed
hand to hand and hurled onto the exposed neighbor’s roof to
keep the fire contained, but there was nothing that could be done
about Jon’s house. The neighbors breathed sighs of relief as the
fire subsided into the ruins consuming everything, leaving only
a few singed reeds to mar the neighbor’s thatch. The outside
walls collapsed into the back garden. The only parts of the
house left standing were the smoked stones of the empty animal
byre and the chimney and the summer kitchen. The once
excited crowd dispersed shaking their heads, a few offering their
sympathy and a place to stay. Jon listened and nodded his
appreciation, but inside he seethed.
“Warren’s behind this, Meg, I know it. I’m going up there,
I’m going to smash something,” he threatened. “I’ll torch his
place and see what he does.” But for Meg’s gentle restraining
tug on his sleeve, he would have stormed off then and there. He
refused all offers from kindly neighbors to go home with them.
Night returned as the flames died down to flickering and
popping inside the walls of the house. He made a bed in the
kitchen house on the bedding the had saved, and in time Meg
was able to drift off to sleep with his arms around her. As Jon
watched the dying embers cast their inconstant light on the
remaining walls of his house, his anger grew cold and the germ
of a plan came to him.
Later, after checking to be sure Meg was breathing deep and
evenly, Jon slipped into the dark and out into the street. Sweat
stood out on him as he moved soundlessly through the shadows
to Warren’s mill. He’d thought about setting fire to it, but
something held him back. He’d worked the mill long enough to
know how to sabotage it. He hurried straight to the river path at
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the back of the mill watching nervously to see that no one saw
him. Forcing the mill room door open, he felt his way to the
millstones and used a pry bar and his considerable strength to
bend the cross bar that balanced the runner stone above the
lower stationary one. If he could force it out and down, the
force of the mill wheel would damage both stones beyond repair
once he opened the sluice gate. The movement of the wheel
would take care of the rest.
Jon pushed and heaved mightily, until with a metallic groan,
the bar bent and one side of heavy the runner stone sagged down
onto the lower stone hopelessly imbalanced. Relieved that the
hard part was done, Jon scanned the mill room to see if he could
damage anything else, his anger had burned off in the struggle
to wreck the crossbar, and he decided there was little else to
bother with. Outside he felt down into the water for the top of
the sluice gate and jerked it up and hurled it as far as he could
out into the river where it landed with a watery smack before
submerging in the black star-lit river. The mill wheel creaked
and groaned its way to life, echoing out across the river. It was
enough. By the time Warren came to unlock the front door in
the morning, the uneven turning of the runner wheel would ruin
itself and destroy the top of the stationary millstone and strip the
cog wheels bare. Jon hoped the cross bar would be so twisted it
would never be put right and have to be replaced.
“Try grinding anything with that,” Jon exulted in a whisper.
He smiled as he made his stealthy way back to his own house,
or what was left of it with the town still sleeping. As he
approached the remains of his home, the acrid smell of charred
wood made him wrinkle his nose.
When he opened the door to the kitchen house, Meg sat up.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Jon lied. “I went for a walk. But I’m
back now.” He lay down beside Meg and pulled a blanket over
the both of them. Sleep didn’t come for either of them,
“What shall we do?” Meg asked
“Let’s pack what we can in the cart, I’m sure Holman won’t
mind if we store some of this up at his place for a little while.”
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They piled what little furniture was left to them by the light of
the guttering glow from inside the walls. Kitchen implements,
and everything else Meg wouldn’t need at Ribble was shoved
into the cart. They drove it through the empty streets and
unloaded what they could in the barn at Holman’s.
The drive back to where Jon’s house should have stood was
wordless; neither of them felt like talking. Looking over the
smoking ruin, Jon felt utterly weary. People out on the street
came early came to gawk at the ruins of Ellis house and offer
quiet condolences and assistance for which Jon was grateful.
The pile they were to take to Ribble was pitifully small. Jon
said little as he packed the last few items into the cart.
“I almost forgot,” confessed Jon. He found a stout stick and
picked his way carefully into the remains of their room. He
scraped away the charred pieces of rafter, ash, and debris from
the southeast corner and then pried up a four inch thick stone in
the floor. Unscathed beneath lay Jon’s life savings in a still
warm leather bag that showed only the slightest signs of
scorching. Then he returned to where the front door had been
and kicked through the ash. He stooped down and sifted until
he felt something metallic. He pulled his father’s old key still
covered with ash, blackened, but intact. He blew off the ash and
clutching that last vestige of his childhood, returned to the cart.
Jon handed the money bag to Meg as he stepped into the cart.
“Everything I have in the world, you hold in your hands, Meg.
You take care of it for us.”
“What else did you find?” Meg asked.
Jon held out the iron key. “Stupid to keep a key to a house
that no longer exists, isn’t it?” The question was sincere, and
Meg heard it in his voice.
“No,” she whispered, “it’s not stupid at all. That key is
important, it protects memories, and the only real treasures any
of us have. No, Jon, keep that key; I know I would.”
Heeding too late Holman’s advice to clear out, Jon and Meg
drove out of the gate onto the street as Redding sat down to its
breakfast. Perhaps one day Jon would bring Meg back, but then
he remembered that his father’s house was burned to the walls;
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there was nothing to come back for.
A part of him wanted to drive past the mill to see Warren’s
reaction when he arrived to find the mill damage, but that would
be asking for trouble. Just then he just wanted to get away. The
message to Jon’s friends would be clear. Keep you heads down,
for the present anyway; the Thane and his cronies could bully
their way through life and not reap the consequences. Jon was
as angry and disgusted with his own people as he had ever been,
frustrated by his utter helplessness to do anything about it. Jon
vowed to the gods that he would see justice done, but it would
have to be later.
The ride to Holbourne was hushed, both of them deep in
their own thoughts. With Meg out of Redding, Jon felt better
about setting off for Norheim with Garret. He knew she would
be safe. To say that their future was uncertain was an
understatement. They spent the next two days recovering from
their shock. Jon kept an eye out for a bailiff or a reeve. His
foolishness at Warren’s mill might cost him the trip north, if he
wasn’t careful, but the wheel of justice ran slow in Saeland.
Meg tried to divert Jon’s attention from the loss of the house
at Redding and acted as if everything was fine, but the evening
before the inevitable parting Meg gave up the struggle and
began to cry. Jon held her tightly to him and promised again and
again he’d come home safe to her. His interest in going to
Norheim waxed and waned from moment to moment, and he
felt unmanned by leaving Meg in her father’s care so soon after
the wedding feast. He wondered if Meg was truly safe, if
anyone was safe. He lay awake half the night and finally
concluded that her family would be able to console her while he
was away for the two weeks he expected to be gone. Despite
his protestations that everything would be all right, both of them
knew there were few guarantees in real life. Just after dawn,
when there wasn’t anything else to do but climb on his horse
and ride north, Jon kissed Meg goodbye. As he turned away,
she stopped him.
“Here,” she said unclasping the amulet from her neck, “put
this on and keep it with you, Jon. I want you to take something
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from me on your journey. If it is as powerful as you say, it will
bring you safely back home.”
Jon shook his head frowning and would have protested, but
she put a finger to his lips to hush him and kissed him, tears
salting the taste of it. She was smiling, trying to be brave about
Jon’s departure, but her tears betrayed her. Jon smiled and did as
she told him, patting the amulet into place under his shirt.
“The seidwoman said you’d find a home on your return, Jon.
I’ll be very interested to see what the gods know that we don’t.
Hurry back, and don’t do anything foolish.”
“Foolish, Meg, have you ever know me to do anything
foolish?”
“If I recounted all the things I know, we’d still be standing
here at noon. Just you be careful and get back here in one
piece,” Meg ordered.
Jon kissed her again and dragged himself onto the back of
his horse. He fixed his eyes on Meg and then turned towards
Gamble.
Durban Turner put his arm protectively around Meg’s
shoulder, the gesture a promise, and waved goodbye. Jon looked
back until the little inn on the Ribble was lost to view with
everything he held dear in the world.
An odd admixture of apprehension and excitement troubled
him. If Garret hadn’t agreed to go, Jon might have given it all
up. But more than anything else Eofa’s words drew him from
the comfort of hearth and bed. Fortune beckoned to him, but he
would have to cross the border into Norheim to find it.

“The wife you seek will be your own

Whose gift you bear, a mighty stone

‘Ware the servants, counsel keep

‘Ware the master’s hatred deep

Comfort friends in grief and pain,

They will bring you home again.

Find the northern prince uncrowned,

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 Your own fortune’s to him bound.

Northward must your footsteps bend,

To find a home at journey’s end.”

FOR MORE INFORMATION AND

TO LEARN ABOUT BOOK II OF THE
BLOODSTONE AMULET SERIES VISIT

http://thebloodstoneamulet.blogspot.com

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