Lord Bertin sat astride his charger watching the refugees of Edenshire stream into his gate. The small hamlet sat on the edge of his territory. Word had come a week ago that the soldiers of the neighboring kingdom of Verbia were approaching his lands. Lord Bertin took his army and raced to protect his people and his holdings.
But he arrived too late to save many.
“Will you have room for all of us, my lord?” William, one of Eldenshire’s surviving elders, stood beside Lord Bertin watching the long procession.
“They are my people and I will see they are provided for until Edenshire can be rebuilt and secured again.”
Women and children, covered in soot, staggered in an unending line. The littlest and wounded were in the few remaining wagons. One person caught Lord Bertin’s attention. She was the only one who had her hood up. “Who is that?”
Sarah glanced around to make sure the event’s queen and her lackeys weren’t in sight before she pulled up her hem to keep from tripping. She trudged up the steep drive between the parking lot and the fairgrounds. The breeze of the early spring day tugged on her skirt and long sleeves.
Sarah had worked this Renaissance Faire a few times. Of all the different reenactment festivals she sold her novels at, this one had the strictest rules. Her Royal Majesty Lady Eleanor de Pompadour of France, duchess of blah, blah, blah, oversaw this faire with an iron hand. The woman took her two day pretend role entirely too seriously. All vendors at this ren. faire, paid for the privilege but had to remain in character speak in an antiquated accent, cover the ankles, wear costumes without modern conveniences like zippers and snaps.
It all seemed a bit silly for the few sales Sarah ever made. She toyed with the thought of this being the last one she attended as a vendor.
The same small shops owned by the same families. Dogwood petals still littered the ground. Boringsville was just how he’d left it.
Childhood memories couldn’t be hidden by Gran’s overgrown backyard. Fynn’s gaze of the present blurred with the recollections of the past. His favorite climbing tree was now overgrown and too full of leaves to see the branches.
Steph gazed through the wall of windows at the lashing waves and blowing sand. She snuggled deeper into her sweater and sipped her cocoa. Stuck inside in August.
She noted again the lights in the bungalow down the beach. He’d lost his wife last year and just returned to this quiet shore.
Warm lips brushed her cheek. A hand caressed her face. Warmth lapped at her skin. A whisper danced over her ear. “Come to me, beloved.”
Kate sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for the air stolen by the unfamiliar touch. Her heart pounded. “That is the third strange dream this week.” Kate’s words fluttered across her empty bedroom. The familiar surroundings calmed her.
Murder holes were found above the gates of many castles. In the event that the gate was breeched, defenders of the castle could drop rocks, shot arrows or pour hot liquids onto enemy troops trying to enter. If the gate had a rear portcullis. Invaders would be trapped and killed in this small space under the holes.
Everyone has moments of loneliness, but there is greater depth to those of us who feel we are never seen. But in that you are strong.