Chapter Two

This was enough for the moment; John was weary and clearly famished also. I led him inside, helped him off with his cloak and boots--a service at which he protested, but which I insisted on performing--and found a drier cloak for him.

While the butler set out food and drink for John in the solar, I gathered the other servants in the hall and told them briefly that their master, Sir William, and his son were alive but in flight--news which set them chattering like a tiding of magpies. Well, fair enough; I understood their excitement and accepted their hesitant expressions of sympathy. However, I knew also that, with a change of masters in prospect, most of them were no longer to be trusted. Consequently I asked old Walter to guard the door while John talked further.

With food and good ale inside him, my father's squire soon brightened. He told me more of the combat--how, in the charge, my father had slain Sir Walter Blount before being himself wounded; how Richard had been at the Percy's side when that stray arrow had stricken him down; and how, with Hotspur beyond his aid, Richard had joined my father in further hard fighting before the rebel army finally broke.

With the battle lost, they had ridden from the field and found concealment in a thicket. While John tended to my father's wounds, they had hastily reviewed their situation and found it desperate. That no forgiveness could be expected from King Henry, they knew well. Where then, might they go? That there was no refuge to be found in Wales, they were sure; Glendower might have received them kindly, but the Welsh had betrayed their own leaders too frequently to be trusted by any Englishman. My father had fought the Scots so often that to venture himself in their country would have been madness; and the shifting politics of France and the Low Countries made them uncertain refuges.So the three had ridden southward without any clear aim in mind, save to evade the King's reach.

By Monday noon they had reached Bristol. There the news of Shrewsbury was already in the streets, but fortunately my father was not recognised. They had made their way to the quays, still without clear plans. As it chanced, a ship from Rockall was in port. Deciding quickly that so distant a land would furnish them with a safe refuge and fresh opportunities, father and Richard had approached its captain and secured for themselves passages to Lyonesse.

However, John would not go with them; he knew himself to be in no particular danger and was too distrustful of foreigners to wish to leave England. So he had been entrusted with the sale of the horses and with a farewell message for me-a verbal message, since that was felt to be safer.

"Tell Simon," my father had said, "that since God has not chosen to favour our cause, there can be no life for Richard and me in England. The memory of the King is long and his wrath bitter, as all know. Ouur fief of Holdworth is surely forfeit and, were we to stay, our lives also would be forfeit. So we accept exile; we shall sail to Lyonesse and there find a new home. Tell Simon that he may seek mercy from the King if he so wishes, for the King's anger may not reach out at him; or perhaps Simon might take up Holy Orders, for the strong arm of the Church would surely protect him. Yet, if he desires to do neither thing and if his soul be brave, then he must follow us to Lyonesse. Whatever be his choice, Simon has my blessing and his brother's."

So those were my father's words; the last, perhaps, that might ever come to me from him. They showed equally his pride and his doubt in me, yet also they portrayed his love for me and his gentleness. First came the suggestion that I might choose to seek the King's pardon; surely he knew well that I could never do so? Next, his old idea of Holy Orders. Yes, the church would indeed furnish for me a sanctuary, but I had no ambition to seek such sanctuary. Only in third place came his other suggestion, that I might follow my brother and he to Lyonesse; but that, surely, must be what he desired, in view of his love for me. Yet, regardless of my choice, his message ended with his assurance of that love--an assurance without condition.

At last I had the challenge for which I had been so long seeking, the challenge to adventure. Of course I would follow him! My decision was instant; yet little could I foresee the length of that road, or its perils.

After bidding a reluctant and affectionate farewell to his master, John had ridden away from the quay, leading the other two horses. He had been fortunate to find buyers for them immediately for, with the revolt crushed and many knights slain, there would soon be a plethora of war-horses on the market and few purchasers. John had lodged overnight in the back room of a Bristol alehouse. Understandably after two exhausting days, he had slept long and late. When he went down to the quay next day, it was to learn that the ship to Rockall had already sailed on an early-morning tide.

In the ensuing days, John had made his way northeastward across England through the backwash that followed the breaking of the storm-wave of battle. It had been no easy journey. The King's officers were busy seeking out those of Hotspur's principal supporters who had not been killed or captured at Shrewsbury. Though John himself did not figure in their list, his master was at its head, especially now that the Earl of Northumberland had been taken. Because of this, the towns were not safe. Moreover, since the rougher of Hotspur's defeated followers had already taken to ambush and robbery, to seize what gold they could before Henry regained full control of his kingdom, the countryside was little safer. John had slept wherever he could find shelter, beside his never-unsaddled horse and with his cloak as pillow; and, during the daytime, he had been ceaselessly vigilant. There had been two narrow escapes from robbers in the forest rides, when only his quick eye had saved him from ambush...Yes, it had been a hard journey, but it was behind him. With evident relief, he pulled out a leather purse and counted into my palm the twenty nobles that the sale of those horses had brought.

I congratulated John on his valour and honesty, entreated him to say nothing of my father's destination and message, and sent him off to his cottage to rest for a few hours. He undertook to return before dinner. I was glad of that, for I knew I would need more of his advice, but I was glad also that there would be a few hours alone, for I needed urgently to make plans. Thinking was impossible in the disturbed ant's nest that our manor had become, upon receipt of the morning's news; so I saddled my horse and, donning the scarlet surcoat more as a sort of defiance than because it would provide real protection against the rain, I sallied forth.

I took a path northeast, up onto Onesmoor where the wet wind would be refreshing and there would be none to disturb my thoughts. I rode slowly, allowing Firebrand to pick his own way over the stones and through the tussocks, and tried to remember all I could about Rockall. Lyonesse--yes, that had been the legendary realm of the father of Tristan, a realm overwhelmed and drowned by a great sea-wave. Yet it had also come to have a reality, and that through a knight from these very Pennines in which I lived.

Arthur Thurlstone was his name. His mother and father had died, while he was yet an infant, in the black death of 1369 and he had grown up in the charge of a maiden aunt. She was a wise soul and proud, by nature a warrior yet prohibited by her sex from such a life. Consequently Arthur had become the focus for her unattained ambitions. She had crammed him full of history and legend. He had come not only to know thoroughly, but also to accept as veritable truth, the legend of Tristan and the stories of his own namesake, King Arthur.

In their image and at his aunt's urging he had made himself into a knight, valorous in tourney and in battle. He had been befriended by another young Yorkshire knight, Sir John Warren of Mytholmroyd, and somehow had persuaded his friend to participate in a quest of truly Arthurian character--for that Isle of Avallon to which, according to Geoffrey of Monmouth's History, the wounded King Arthur had gone to recover his health, never yet to return to Britain.

And indeed, their idea was not so wild as it sounded. As all knew, there was an island out in the Atlantic, where the old traditions of chivalry persisted and where weird beasts roamed the forests and mountains. To that island of Rockall many an English, Scottish and Gascon knight had gone during the last few turbulent centuries, to seek sanctuary or honourable adventure. Sir Arthur was sure that Rockall was none other than King Arthur's Avalon. There, maybe, the King had died; or maybe he had formed another Round Table and was awaiting England's overweening need before returning.

According to my father, Sir John Warren never put much faith in his friend's theories and never truly believed that Rockall could be the lost Isle of Avallon. However, since Rockall was a real enough island, he had been willing enough to accompany Sir Arthur in his quest. Nor had it been hard for the two to find other followers. Fifteen years ago, frustration at the misdoings of King Richard II had been at its height; there were plenty of other valiant young warriors eager to join in any quest that offered fresh prospects and new horizons. The band of adventurers had bought a ship and sailed west. And, indeed, they had carved out for themselves their own realm, somewhere on that distant island. Yet they had named it, not Avallon, but Lyonesse--quite why, no-one seemed to know.

Three years after they had first sailed, Sir Arthur had returned to cajole more men into following him. Since that time, there had come no further news of Lyonesse. However, stories enough about it were told in the Pennine villages-of creatures so fell and happenings so wondrous that I put little trust in those tales.

Yet Lyonesse must still exist, for had not my father gone there? And other ships from Rockall did put into Bristol from time to time; that much I knew. Well, I must go to Bristol and find my own passage to Rockall, to Lyonesse. I would prove to my father that his younger son was also valorous!

Good enough; I would leave Holdworth soon--tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day. No doubt the Watertons would seize it; their lawsuit would surely succeed now! Old Walter, our steward, would never willingly enter their service; well, I could give him enough gold from my father's store to see out his days in comfort. Peter the bailiff and Cerdic the reeve were wedded more to the lands of Holdworth than to any master; they and our other servants would accept the Watertons readily enough. As for John Stacey, there was a farm up among the limestone hills near Malham to which my father owned title and of which the Watertons knew nothing; I would give him the deeds to it. I rather thought he'd be taking a girl from Penistone up there with him, for he'd found many reasons in the past year to visit that village....For me, Holdworth had long been home, but recently it had come to seem like a prison; I could part from it without regret.

As I rode and pondered, the rain had slackened and ceased. Now a watery sun was emerging from behind the clouds, as hesitantly as a badger emerging from his sett at dusk. That image heartened me; badgers were the emblem of the Branthwaites and sunshine always brought cheer. Yes, I had been too long pent up in these Pennine uplands by the clouds of doubt and despondency: it was time for me to go forth into the wide world beyond. I turned Firebrand's head and rode back towards Holdworth.

This time I followed a different path which, as it chanced, brought me through the cluster of cottages in which our yeomen lived. Few people were abroad; the women had stayed indoors because of the rain, the men were still out working their lands. However, as I passed the first cottage, John Stacey ran out and called to me urgently.

"Master Simon! Master Simon! Wait on; there's news--bad news!" As I reined up, he ran to my side. "You mind young Ralph--old Watkyn's son? He fought with us at Shrewsbury. Well, he's back; he's in the cottage now. He came through Ashbourne and met up with some King's officers. Seemingly you're on their list for arrest! The King is angry as a bear that he's missed catching Sir William and says 'If I can't take the hawk, then I'll have the eyas.' So they're coming to Holdworth to arrest you! They'll be here in the morning, Ralph reckons. What shall you do?"

This news had set my pulse racing; events were surely crowding in on me today! However, I summoned up a smile for John. "It looks like I'm going to have to leave, doesn't it?"

"Aye, but there's another problem. Guess who's at t'manor just now? That popinjay Hector Waterton, Sir Hugo's son! Come on a cousinly visit, no doubt, or maybe to survey his future property." John snorted in disgust.

"Well, of course I must welcome my cousin, mustn't I?" I responded lightly. Yet John was right; I must return at least briefly to Holdworth and, if dear cousin Hector were there--not that there was, or ever had been, any affection between us! -- my departing would surely be rendered more complicated.

It was late afternoon already; Hector was sure to expect to be accommodated overnight. It would be hard for me to find any excuse not to entertain him; despite the lawsuit, our relations with the Watertons had remained at surface civil. Moreover, though Hector was presumably not yet aware that I was under threat of arrest, I could scarcely leave the manor while he was there without my departure being most carefully observed.

John walked beside me as I rode back to the manor. He spoke no more, for he knew I was thinking furiously.

Hector was still in the courtyard when we arrived, elaborately instructing the groom concerning the proper care of his horse. This was a black stallion with a hammer head, inferior indeed to Firebrand, as I noted with amusement. Hector himself strove to be in the height of fashion; his garb had surely been chosen to impress rather than for practicality. He wore a green houppelande of the "bastard" calf-length but slit at front and back to make riding, if not easy, at least possible; it was high-collared, ornately embroidered and had full sleeves with elaborate dagging. His legs were enclosed in tight yellow hose and his calves in fawn boots, pointed-toed and buckled at the sides. On his head was a turban-like hat from which two curling feathers sprang--or rather, trailed, for the wet weather had not done them good. Indeed, his whole appearance was bedraggled; he looked not so much a leader of fashion, but rather like a court jester too long shut out in the rain.

Hector pretended not to notice me as I rode in, but I was sure he did, for he ended his instructions in words pitched loud enough for me to hear: "I realize you have no good stabling here, fellow, but do the best you can and you shall be rewarded." Then he turned, affected to notice me for the first time and said in tones of the most ineffable condescension. "Ah! Cousin Simon!"

I dismounted and, hastening up to him, took the limp hand he offered. Not without irony I responded: "Cousin Hector! What an unexpected pleasure--and what an honour!"

As we embraced with a maximum of courtesy and minimum of affection, I took hasty stock of him. It was many months since last we had met and I had forgotten how very alike we were in appearance. Both of us were small and dark, slim and brown-eyed. We might easily have been taken, if not for twins, certainly for brothers; though Hector had a quality of effeminacy which, I trusted, I lacked. Hector was eyeing me with equal interest. I could see that my silk cloak had impressed him, for his own, although so elaborately embroidered, was only of wool; and I could see also that he envied me of Firebrand. At that moment, a plan began to burgeon in my mind....I signalled John to wait, conducted Hector inside and ordered my butler to see to his wet clothes. Then, excusing myself, I slipped outside again to talk to John.

When I joined Hector in the solar an hour later, I found that he had shed that wet houppelande and set aside his hat; both indeed had been taken away by the butler to be dried. Instead he had borrowed from my wardrobe a loose-sleeved scarlet jupon, which, with his yellow hose, gave him an even greater vividness of colour. He was sitting relaxedly on a padded stool, a flagon of sherris sack on the chest beside him and a goblet in his hand.

"You've been the devil of a time, Simon," he observed discontentedly.

"I'm sorry," I answered meekly. "As you'll understand, cousin, I had to ensure that a fitting meal would be prepared, properly to mark your visit. Normally, of course, we would be eating much more simply." This was only in part true. I had indeed arranged a banquet, but I had been busy with other matters. To old Walter I had confided the news of my imminent departure, passing onto him the gold that would ensure his own future comfort-the old man had been afraid of that future and was deeply grateful--and arranging that the deeds of the Malham farm be given privily to John Stacey. I had also made a few other covert and hasty arrangements, about which I had no intention of telling Hector.

My reply, and its tone, pleased him. "Yes, yes; very proper. Well, cousin, I need hardly say how grieved we were when your father chose to side with those damned rebels. Foredoomed, of course; we all knew that his majesty King Henry would soon settle Hotspur's hash."

Odd, then, I thought to myself, that you chose to hole up in Pontefract Castle instead of riding to the King's aid! However, I said nothing and Hector continued: "Have you had news of my uncle your father and my dear cousin Richard? I trust most sincerely that they did not fall on Shrewsbury field?"

Liar, I thought to myself; you'd be happy to know that they were safely dead! But I replied sweetly: "Your concern is most creditable, cousin. I am happy to say that I have had news that my father and Richard both survived the battle almost unscathed."

Hector's brows contracted at this, but I went on: "However, I understand that they are fled from this country. I am not sure whither; somewhere across the Narrow Seas, I doubt not." No, I would not tell him where they had gone.

At the news that they were fled, Hector drew in breath and relaxed visibly. He observed portentously: "Very wise....very wise. I fear King Henry is wrathful indeed. And of course, that ridiculous judicial dispute between your father and mine need trouble the justices no more. Under these changed circumstances, our right to these lands of Holdworth surely needs no further demonstration."

No indeed, I thought bitterly; that cause was tried in battle--but not by you!--and lost irrevocably. Yet I said nothing, merely nodding gravely.

"Had your father been wise enough to admit the justice of our claim from the outset, much time could have been saved; and I am sure my father would have appointed him seneschal, to hold these lands for us. But under these circumstances--these unhappy circumstances"--he coughed--"we cannot, of course, make the same offer to his son. You will understand that, with the King so justly wrathful with the Branthwaites, we dare not be so generous."

Hector paused, striving to look magisterial, sympathetic, yet firm. He did not succeed, for his underlying glee at our downfall was too apparent.

"I understand, cousin," I responded neutrally; and he continued with what was obviously a prepared peroration.

"Naturally you must throw youself upon the King's mercy. My father Sir Hugo trusts that, since you did not take up arms in this most unhappy rebellion"-his sententiousness was excruciating--"such mercy will be granted. I am hastening to speak in your cause when I have opportunity. If all goes well, perhaps we may retain you in our household--not as seneschal, of course; that would not be fitting; but as our accountant, perhaps? They tell me you have more use for the pen than for the sword, that you can read well in both Latin and French, and that you are a pretty singer to the citole. With such accomplishments, you might do well in our service!"

So you would like me both to work for my keep and sing for my supper, I reflected bitterly; and assuredly it would be satisfying for you, after so long a quarrel, to know that a Branthwaite had become your dependent! My wrath was rising at Hector's pretences and condescensions, yet somehow I contrived to contain it.

"You make overmuch of my skills, cousin," I responded. "Yet it is true that Lord Furnival's chaplain has taught me well. And of course, it would mean much to me if you were to speak to the King on my behalf."

He smirked with satisfaction at my apparent capitulation, quaffed heartily from the goblet and set it down on the chest. I hastened to refill it. For my own good reasons, I intended that Hector should drink deeply that night!

"Yes, I trust that King Henry may listen to me and withhold his hand from you; and I am pleased, cousin, that you recognize the courtesy of my father Sir Hugo in his dealings with you. What a pity your father chose to be so foolish.... Well, well; you may be sure that I, at least, have your interests at heart!" He quaffed again from the glass. "Now tell me something of this demesne."

Thereafter I was subjected to a surprisingly detailed cross-questioning about the holdings of our manor of Holdworth; the extent of demesne and glebe, of commonland and Lammasland, the number of our vassals and villeins, the details of their service, the productivity of the fields, the size of our cattle herds, and much else. Though Hector might seem so affected in his dress and his manner, he had inherited his father's solid grasp for matters of money; and Sir Hugo had always seemed to me better fitted to be a moneylender than a knight. By the time we were summoned down to the hall for dinner, Hector had not only exhausted the flagon of wine but also, with his questioning, just about exhausted me.

Normally old Walter Tinsley, Peter the bailiff and Cerdic the reeve would have dined with me at the table on the raised dais at the head of the hall; and I would certainly have invited John Stacey to join us also. Unfortunately, such company would have been unacceptable to Hector. Had he been made to sit with them, he would either have ignored them or insulted them in other ways. So that night, only Hector and I sat at the high table.

Nevertheless, I had made sure that the table settings should be at their most magnificent. I had set before him the great silver salt-cellar, fashioned in simulation of a castle keep, and beside him the silver nef made in Italy, shaped like a Genoese sailing-vessel and loaded with spices. I knew he would normally eat from silver platters; tonight, instead, there were plates of the beautiful iridescent Moorish pottery (a gift to my father from Henry Hotspur, though I did not tell Hector this!). The knives were elaborately wrought from silver and had ivory handles. For the dessert we had been set forks in the new fashion, likewise wrought of silver and ivory. All in all I had made every effort, not only to impress Hector but also to convince him that he was an honoured guest.

When he started in surprise at the table furnishings, then drew himself up, laid his hand upon his breast and smirked with satisfaction, I knew that I had succeeded. Hector was further pleased when I asked him to say grace. He did so at length, and not in Latin but in French, though I was probably the only one in the hall to realize the difference! Then, at last, we sat down to our banquet.

As I knew well, this would be my last dinner in my old home. As course succeeded course, infinitely would I have preferred to have been enjoying the homely conversation of John and old Walter rather than enduring the high, affected voice of Hector and his secondhand recountings of fashionable doings or amorous adventures at court. Yet I smiled and nodded, asked artless questions in simulated admiration whenever there was opportunity, and kept plying him with more wine--a dark malmsey now, much more potent than the sherris sack had been.

Since this was a feast for our vassals and villeins also, the hall was crowded with them and their families. Plenty of beer was provided; a good monastic barley brew, stronger than that to which they were accustomed. Soon the hall was loud with talk and song.

I had thought Hector might be discountenanced to see such profligate supplying of food and drink to the "lower orders". However, he had drunk much wine by then and, perhaps for that reason, seemed to approve of this general festivity. Indeed, his high voice was faltering a little by the time the seventh course was removed.

When Hector pushed away unsampled the pewter plate with the gingerbreads, I felt it was time to proceed with the next act of that evening. I rose to my feet, hammered on the table for silence, and spoke.

"Good people all, this evening is both a happy occasion and a sad one. Glad we are to welcome our honoured guest, my fair cousin Hector, the son of our respected neighbour Sir Hugo Waterton." I paused and, when Hector had nodded his approval of what he considered a very proper sentiment, went on; "It is sad, though, that my father, who has been for so long your master, and my brother cannot be here to welcome Hector. As you will all know, they have been caught in the wreck of the fortunes of Sir Henry Percy. I am sorry to say there is little hope that they will ever again return to this manor of Holdworth."

At this there were cries of consternation and a buzz of conversation, hastily suppressed as I continued to speak. "You will all realize that this will mean great changes here at Holdworth. It is likely--it is virtually certain-that your future liege lord will be our good neighbour Sir Hugo. Sir Hugo himself is not here, but we are fortunate in having his worthy son to represent him. So let us now pledge a toast to Sir Hugo, the future master of this manor, and to his son Sir Hector. Cousin Hector, please rise! "Hector rose to his feet in readiness thus to be pledged. His smile was smug but his eyes were looking a little glazed; the wine was taking effect. However, as I raised my glass and surveyed the hall, I saw no signs of enthusiasm for that toast. Instead there was a shuffling of feet and muttering of dismay, for Sir Hugo was known to be a hard and ungenerous master; I sympathized deeply with our people.

Nevertheless, since the servants were busy recharging the earthenware beakers with ale, maybe the toast might have been drunk, albeit reluctantly. However, this was not to happen. As I was about to pledge it, John Stacey rose also. Though his charged beaker was clutched in his massive right hand, he had no toast in mind. He was as angry as a bear at a baiting.

"Master Simon and people all," he growled, "hearken to me! I've followed our good master Sir William for nigh on twenty years, and well he's treated me. Whether in the fighting field or at home here in Holdworth, he's always been kind and generous--you all know that."

There was a chorus of agreement; and John went on: "Gladly I'd have followed his fine son Richard also; or, for that matter, you yourself, Master Simon. But not a skulking coward like Sir Hugo, afraid to fight either for the good cause of Hotspur or the bad one of King Henry and instead hiding away like a frightened cur in his castle of Pontefract! Now that the battle's over, I don't doubt he'll be sticking his nose out again and come sniffing out after the moneybags, like a jackal picking up scraps when the lions have gone. I'd rather face eternal damnation than follow such a creature; for 'man' I will not call him! And as for this pretty scarlet popinjay, this son of his--that is what I think of him!" He flung the ale straight in the face of the unfortunate Hector.

There was a silence of shock, and then laughter and shouts of approval. Yet I, who was of course delighted by this scene, must simulate anger.

"John Stacey!" I shouted over the din, "John Stacey, you have insulted my cousin and our guest. You will pay dearly for this. Peter, Walter, Cerdic-seize him!"

I leapt over the table to go to their aid; but Hector made no attempt to do so. He was wiping his face and trembling, quite as much from fear as from fury.

Nor did we have an easy task, for there were many indeed that were prepared to stand with John. If they had had weapons, their subduing would have been a bloody business. There were some, however, whose urge for self-preservation was undulled by ale. The days of the Branthwaites were done at Holdworth. Whether or not Sir Hugo would be a good master, he would be their master, so why fight in a lost cause? Others were loyally inclined to follow my orders, however unwelcome. With aid from men of these two groups, John was secured and his supporters subdued or bundled out into the rain.

I returned to Hector's side. His elaborately curled hair had been turned into rat's tails by the ale and his face was white; the scarlet jupon was irretrievably stained. I contrived to look properly sympathetic and said fawningly: "Cousin, I am appalled by this unhappy scene; I am grieved that your worthy father and yourself were thus insulted. Be sure that the insult will be avenged!"

John was now brought before me by two stalwart yeomen. His hands had been tied behind his back, but even so they were not finding him easy to handle. I turned upon him in pretended fury.

"John Stacey, you have long been my father's servant; yet such outrageous behaviour is beyond toleration. Your holding here is forfeit; you are expelled forthwith from this hall and this demesne. You will be locked in the barn tonight. Tomorrow you will be taken to Sheffield Castle, to be imprisoned till it is time for you to face the King's justices. Take him away!"

As the yeomen strove to hustle him out John turned his gaze upon Hector, who cowered back fearfully in his chair. "I've not done with you yet, popinjay!" John shouted. "You and yours have not heard the last of me, be sure of that!"

Hector watched with relief as John was taken forth from the hall, then rose and said shakily: "Cousin, I--I don't feel well....I think I must retire to bed; you must excuse me....No, I don't feel well at all...."

With appropriate noises of sympathy I escorted him up the stone stairs to the solar, where my father's bed had been made up for Hector. My pretences of concern were so effective, and my assurances of a harsh retribution for John so convincingly fervent, that by the time I left him Hector was somewhat soothed in spirit. He paled, however, and refused very firmly when I offered him more wine. I thought it prudent to place a large wooden bowl within easy reach of his bed.

For my own part, when I had done what other things I must that night, I rolled myself in blankets in the hall, beside old Walter and among our servants. For the few short hours I might, I slept soundly.

foreword chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12  (more chapters will appear in the future)

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