The girl, Bronaa, stands by the table before me, and recites the tale I have told her. The hearth fire is lit, because although the days are still mostly bright, the Harvest Season is upon us, and the evenings can be touched by a chill finger at times.
I sit in my high-backed chair, enjoying having a fire in my hearth again. The comforts of my ‘home’? Indeed, I have missed Bancross these recent years. Too much coming and going on my part. Too many acts of subterfuge that never sat easily with me. But now my loyalties are truly in the open, I can rest. At least unless I put my folk in danger again. I will not do that.
Bronaa halts a moment, looking at me questioningly. She is part way through the account of the Dunlending invasion, under Wolf, son of Freca. She learns well, I deem. Her mind is more suited to telling history than to writing it down. I would have her taught the written word if she wished, but she always replies ‘Ethel will teach me, when she has time.’
I wave to her. ‘Continue’.
As she obliges, I move a hand to my throat. I can still feel the marks left by the rope drawn about my neck by those more recent Dunlendings.
If it had not been for Bronna and her mother, I would have died.
Oh, I knew some would come after me, or be sent by the ‘powers’ in Edoras. Those rough men, likely of mixed blood, had paid visit to the village in the past. And they had entered again, mayhap in the chaos of the time of battle or just before in that most inclement of storms. Their aim was to slay me.
I had been in quiet thought prior to the funerals of those remaining men who died defending Bancross. My mood had been somber. Though I had known none in more than passing, they had given their lives for my people. They deserved my respect.
With two guards at my door, Ealdbriht outside the house, and Captain Denholm’s guards readying the ceremony, I did not feel particularly vulnerable.
But my would-be assailants had planned well. Three there were. They had come through the roof, at the back of the house, then silently down the staircase. How they had steeled themselves against the baleful influence of the Puckle man, I know not. Some Dunlendings have experience with artifacts of power, and certainly much of their beliefs center around what many would call superstitions. No matter!
I was first aware of the door opening and footfall behind me, then I was fighting for my life as the thin rope was over my head and twisted around my throat. No call for aid had been possible. Only my booted feet sounded on the floor as I kicked out, gasping for breath. My sword was knocked from my reach, I struggled with making a fraction of an inch’s space between flesh and rope, so I could grasp my dagger.
My assailants would have none of it.
And then the door flew open.
One Dunlending fell immediately, a dagger in his throat. And Hildfrith and the girl rushed in, my door guards in hot pursuit.
“I told you!” Bronaa was shouting.
The rope was dropped as my men hurried forward, now two against two. One was slain swiftly, the second held at swordpoint.
The Tavern keep was at my side, removing the rope and talking like there was no tomorrow.’What had happened? Was I alright? Did I want a beer? Who were those men? Bronaa had recognised them? Did I want a beer?’
Despite the situation I almost laughed. But I could utter no sound.
Running off momentarily, Hildfrith returned with a beer from my pantry, and with a horrified Ealdbriht.
“Sip this slowly, my Thane,” she said, holding the mug to my lips.
I choked a little, though I managed a few drops of the blessed liquid.
Ealdbriht had taken charge. ‘Check the house, check outside. Leave this would be assassin to me.’
There was movement as more guards entered the hall. "Inform Captain Denholm of what has happened,” Ealdbriht barked in uncustomary fury.
Bronaa just sat beside me, her hand on my shoulder and tears in her eyes.
``We were almost too late,” she said softly.
I was not sure if that was the cause of her tears, or the fact she had slain the man. Luck? Aye. I am sure it was good fortune that guided her dagger rather than experience. But she saved my life. I would not forget. I managed to pat her hand in response.
And so the teaching of history to a common girl had become her reward in due course. Common of blood she may be, but uncommon of valour, I deemed.
In the warmth of the hall, Bronaa pauses to take a sip from the mug of watered beer on the table. Then she continues with the account of King Helm Hammerhand taking refuge in the Hornburg.
I nod encouragingly. She has good intonation. Good pace. No bard yet, but she has promise.
I remove my hand from my neck. The scar will remain for some time, that I look like a hanged man, but Northgyth has worked her wonders and there is no longer pain. I can draw breath unhindered, and speak nigh as well as before.
And my mind wanders slightly, thinking over this past year and my people, so many loyal and brave folk. Loyal to the Mark, aye, and to Theoden King, if it become possible. We keep our heads down for now. Those other Thanes I know to be trustworthy are informed. My messengers have returned. We bide in a watchful peace.
Some things change, but slightly. Hildfrith will soon open a refurbished ’Roaring Dragon’ even though supplies are a little low. The hunting parties need to maintain our rations, though the first harvest was more successful than I feared, after such bad weather. Apples are ripening and there are plenty of berries on the bushes that hint at a heavy winter ahead.
The market has changed hands, and is now become more of a trading post. This new deed holder, Bynmund, has ideas to prosper, and a quiet strength about him. I know little of him save he was a Rider in younger years. May he meet with success.
I rest. No leading the hunt, no hunting for artifacts, at least for a while. My people are good and strong folk.
But we all know in our hearts that war may soon be upon us, as it was in Helm’s day.
