[Undómë]

Bregoware

Meghan


Meghan’s fingers ached from the hard, frightened grip she had taken on the reins. They were cold, too; the blood had left them as it had left her face when they entered the empty village. Arnanaes . . . that is how Sythric had named this town. She rolled the sound of it about on her tongue. She had heard of it, but never come here.

It was much like her own little hamlet. There was the Lord’s mead hall . . . there the forge, now gone cold, where the smith had worked. And little cottages, many of them, dotting the brown grassy plain. Their windows, unshuttered, were like blind eyes staring blankly ahead. For a moment the thought, like dead eyes, had crossed her mind in reference to them. But she pushed it away, not willing to give up hope as yet. The village still stood whole. There were no burnt down dwellings, no dead bodies, as she had heard whispered among those of her townsmen. Other places more outlying than Wulfham had been burned, all slaughtered, destroyed. Rick, cot, and fold! Everything . . .

She kept a little hope in her heart, banking it well against the day this great and awful thing that was beginning would be somehow be ended. That these soulless cottages would once again house life.

And now she was glad that she had kept to her word, and gone on with the others. Her little part for Wulfham and those she loved would be done as best she could. She felt, though, like some small little reed, bent low by a rushing wind . . . and behind that wind would come a fire of such hellish fury she did not know if she would rise to see another welcoming Spring

Meghan turned her gaze to the path directly in front of her; she nodded her head at Osmod’s words, giving her silent consent that she would follow. Kicking her heels lightly into Ash’s flanks, she urged the little mare forward.

‘Rædy!’ she called, coming up along side the man’s horse . . .


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Rædwald


‘Aye, lass, ‘tis a grim site. I knew a number of those who lived here.’ Rædwald sighed. He was glad, though, that she had resolved whatever was in her mind and was riding with them again.

He was about to tell her something of the fellow from whom he’d bought his first billy-goat, when she pulled up quite near and whispered something low to him. She had composed her face so that none might note her discomfort, but the trembling touch of her hand on his arm and the flash of concern in her eyes made him understand the gravity of her request.

‘Of course! Of course! I’ll stick like honey to the comb to you.’ He patted her reassuringly on her hand. ‘Naught will happen and the river will be crossed without a splutter.’ He smiled and eased her into other areas of conversation.

She couldn’t swim . . . he eyed her small frame as they rode through the town. Ah well, he was as easy with water as any fish and more than twice her size. He would see her safely across . . .