It was still early enough in the year for a single day to go through various seasons. It had been dull and dark to start with, then the sun had graced the heavens with a bright light until hailstones started falling from a sky rapidly turning as gray as the cloak of the wanderer, Gandalf Greyhame. The ravens in the field to the back took flight from the ground they had been striding over, and made for what shelter the trees offered.
Then it was sunny again, a mist rising from the grass as the land started to warm. Brona took that opportunity to take a couple of small, fresh baked loaves from the oven, with the intent to give them to her friends.
“I won’t be long, mama,” she called out as she left, food wrapped in her clean apron. “I will get on with the pottage as soon as I return.”
By the time she had travelled down the hill from the Roaring Dragon to the armoury, it was thundering and lightning.
She made straight to the armoury door, running past the guards, some of whom were muttering under their breath about ill-favour with the gods. None moved from their posts though.
Then the heat from a lit and working forge struck her, and turned her hair to curl.
“Ethel?”
Heartha turned to look at her in that initially disapproving manner of anyone who disturbed work.
“Aye, I’m here, Brona.” The friend she sought popped her fair head round the edge of one of the wooden partitions, hair and face looking like she had washed with coal dust that morning. “It’s not a good time though. I will see you later at the infirmary?”
“Brona brushed a lock of dripping hair from her face. She held up her gift!
“Owww! Fresh baked bread!” exclaimed Ethel with genuine pleasure. “Thank you, and thank your mama.”
“You are most welcome. I will bring a larger one tomorrow, as you are all working so hard.”
At that, Heartha winked at the girl. “You have made your delivery, which is appreciated. Now on your way.”
So she left, used to being shewed from the forge since Ethel started working there. But then again, she rarely visited the forge before Ethel was working there. It was still raining heavily. Brona made it from the large door to the small wooden shelter opposite. The rain was almost horizontal. Much as it disappointed her not to take the second loaf down to Brinin in the infirmary, she had no wish to get absolutely soaked.
She would just wait for the next small break in the rain, then hurry back to the Dragon.
Then some of the guards were moving forward, spears at the ready.
“Go get the sergeant!” one called out.
Brona paused. If there was to be trouble she would brave the rain. She wondered what they had seen. Then she could then hear the sound of hooves, and of wheels turning and wood groaning, as a wagon appeared, and halted by the barricades.
She stuck her head out of the shelter a bit further to look. The driver won’t get that cart up here, she thought. Far too much close twisting and turning. And it was a big cart, drawn by two heavy horses. Then there was more noise as a second, similar cart drew up behind the first.
Some guards remained at their posts, two walked forward to speak with the drivers about their business in Bancross. There seemed to be some confusion, though no unpleasantness.
Sergeant Thilwend marched past the shelter as if totally impervious to the weather. “What’s going on?” she called out to her men in a firm manner.
The sergeant navigated the barricades and stood with the guards already by the wagon, joining the short discussion beyond the range of Brona’s hearing until she loudly said “For us?”
The nosiness she had inherited from her mother got the better of the girl. She wrapped the remaining loaf in her apron and held it tight against her as she ventured out, as if she had decided to make for her home after all. The ground made squelching sounds as the mud sucked at her boots. She tried to hold up her skirt a little. And she passed by close enough to catch a little more of the conversation.
“Two wagons, full of supplies of grain and vegetables and two deer carcasses, for Bancross? We haven’t ordered anything to my knowledge. None here could pay for all that.”
The first wagon driver was affirming he had the right village. “We have been told to deliver this to Captain Denholm, that he can oversee the distribution,” the man explained.
“By whom?” Thilwend replied pointedly.
The driver shook his head. “He gave no name. The letter was not signed. But the instructions and payment were clear enough. We were to transport some goods already arrived from Snowbourne and those on the way from Aldburg, here. A third wagon has gone to Middlemead.”
“No stranger would just open their coin pouch to this extent.”
The two guards caught her nod, and began checking some of the boxes and barrels, levering them open, even as the rain gave way to a warm spring mid morning.
“It’s as he says, Sergeant,” came the report back.
Thilwend noticed Brona hovering close by.
“Away home with you girl. Though you may tell your mama we have a benefactor, and food enough to see us through till early summer. That at least will please her.”
Wise enough not to argue with Thilwend, (she was Heartha’s cousin after all) Brona walked back up the hill. Slowly.
“So who do we send our thanks to?” the sergeant continued, addressing the driver.
“We have no idea. The letter read to us said just what we have told you, oh and that it was ‘not acceptable that folk have low stocks of food, that their mood is dismal. Soon, all of the Mark will need to put up more resistance.'
With that, Brona walked more swiftly uphill. She had plenty to tell her mama, and for once it seemed to be good news. Now out of hearing range, she turned once to see the wagons heading slowly towards the market where, no doubt Denholm would in due course inspect and allocate their contents. Four guards walked with the small procession, the others turned back to their usual duty.
The sun shone brightly.
