Heartha

Hertha still had little liking for Captain Denholm, but for her cousin Thilwend’s sake, for Bancross’ sake, she had put aside her plan to travel to Helm’s Deep, at least for the moment. 

Heartha woke at her regular time, just before dawn. She yawned, stretched her strong arms up above her to ease a slight crick in her shoulder, stretched her long legs one at a time. She smiled. 

This story continues from The Bancross Mystery: Armament, part one.

Heartha rode back into the village with a cursory wave and a nod to the guards on the gate. Her white horse looked almost fresh. No long, hard ride from Helm’s Deep then, one could easily suppose. Neither did the smith herself look overly drawn or travel weary. 

The guards nodded back at the well recognised face, and waved her on.

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. 

Hearrd, the assistant smith, entered the forge to find Ethel already at work on removing a dent from a helmet nose piece. Her expression was one of intense concentration, her eyes were narrowed and focused, her hand raising and lowering her hammer to an already practiced rhythm. She was doing very well.

Heartha had already scouted out the area agreed upon, when the others arrived. She had found very few signs of boar, even there. The hilly woodlands to the east of Bancross were usually teeming with wild boar. Why was there such a shortage this year? The hunting party may yet have to rely on the results of fishing, or possibly a moose or two, to fill the mouths of their folk, she mused.