Author notes:
This chapter features a flashback to the night the Black Riders attacked Crickhollow. This flashback has been heavily inspired and partly copied from Dreamflower's And so it Begins. I'm very grateful that she let me borrow her excellent story.

Chapter Two: From the Beginning

Adamanta sat on a chair beside Berilac’s bed and spoke quietly to Pimpernel who sat next to her. Four days had passed since Berilac had been injured. He had awakened several times since – just long enough to get some broth or tea into him – but each time he seemed delirious and recognised neither his mother, nor his wife, who hardly ever left his bedside. Sometimes he would moan and mutter in his sleep, but now he lay quiet again and Adamanta could not tell whether he was just sleeping or whether he had drifted into unconsciousness again.

Pimpernel took a cloth from his fevered brow and as Adamanta replaced it with a cool one, she spoke softly to her daughter-in-law. “You should get some sleep, lass. I haven’t seen you resting for a while.”

“I can’t sleep,” Nel replied instantly and shook her head. “I’d rather sit here and wait.”

“You may wait in a bed. I will tell you the moment his condition changes.”

Pimpernel made no reply but took Berilac’s hand into hers and gently stroked her fingers over his. Adamanta’s heart grieved to see her like this. Her face glowed in the firelight and yet it was pale and dark rings lay under her eyes. Her long auburn hair, which she had bound in her nape, looked dull and many strands had loosened from the knot and now hung unkempt over her shoulders and down her back.

“She is right, girl.” They looked up in surprise to see Merimac standing in the doorway. “Allow yourself a break. He will need you when he wakes up and I don’t doubt he’d rather have you full of life than worn out and weary.”

Nel gave him a weak smile, the first Adamanta had seen on her for several days, but she did not let go of Berilac’s hands and kept looking at his face, peaceful now, though a few beads of perspiration glittered on his glowing cheeks.

“Do me the favour,” Merimac said and bent down beside her to gently take Berilac’s hand from hers. He looked deeply into her pale green eyes. “Rest. I don’t want to worry about the both of you.”

For a long moment Pimpernel simply held Merimac’s gaze, her hands folded in her lap were gently covered by one of his to reassure her. Finally, she nodded. “You’re probably right. But if I go, please…”

“We will let you know immediately,” Merimac assured her and got to his feet to make room for her.

“Thank you,” Adamanta said when Pimpernel had left the room. “I was beginning to be as concerned about her as about Berilac.”

Merimac sighed in reply and sank into the chair as if worn with exhaustion. Adamanta looked at him, aware of a change in his mood. She had noticed it several times since the day Berilac was injured. Merimac constantly tried to give hope to Bluebell and Pimpernel, yet at the same time he didn’t seem to have any left for himself. He looked worn and aged, older than ever before. His hair had been lined with silver for several years now, but age never seemed to catch up with the rest of him. Lines of mirth were ever on his face, some carved deeper than others, yet he had never looked old to her eyes – until now. A huge weight seemed to bend his head and back and whenever she saw him, it seemed to her that more lines had appeared on his face.

“How is he?”

“He was awake for a bit about an hour ago,” she informed him, “but so far nothing has changed.”

Merimac nodded weakly and not for the first time Adamanta wondered what had happened to him. Ever since he had returned with Berilac on his back he was lost in thought. He spoke little and said nothing about the incident itself, apart from the few words he had told Saradoc on coming back.

It was he now, who held Berilac’s hand in his lap, and when Adamanta placed hers on top of them a shiver ran through Merimac. “Mac,” she entreated him, looking in vain for his eyes which were lowered as if he was afraid to meet hers. “Will you not tell me what happened out there?”

“I told you,” he said but his voice seemed unsure of his words. “Berilac was…”

“No,” she squeezed his hand gently. “I know about Berilac, but what happened to you, Mac? What brought you back to me all changed?”

Merimac looked at her as if in shock at her question, only to turn away the instant their eyes met. He faced Berilac instead. Time stretched and a heavy silence wrapped them in a mantle of brooding. Merimac sat like a figure carven into stone. Adamanta felt her nape tingle with anticipation, but she restrained herself and waited.

And suddenly something happened that she had never expected. Merimac drew a shaking breath and a single tear trickled down his cheek. “I didn’t help him,” he breathed, his voice so low that Adamanta had to strain her ears to catch it. “I just stood there and hid myself behind a tree. I wanted to help him,” he told her, “but I was too afraid to reveal myself. So I waited and,” his voice hitched. “And watched.” He took another shaking breath, his eyes fixed on Berilac’s ashen face and his cold hands closed tighter around Berilac’s warm one. “I didn’t even realise what was going on until it was too late. He just lay there and for a moment I thought they had killed him and still I couldn’t move.”

He spoke as if to himself and Adamanta pressed her lips together to keep from interrupting. She felt that there was more to come but also that she would never learn it if she did not keep her mouth shut. Merimac trembled like a leaf in a cold winter breeze. His eyes were dark and blank, completely lost in memory, but in his face she could see all wretchedness and misery. It was eating him, gnawing at his spirit from inside and her heart quailed to see him like that. She put a hand onto his damp cheek and gently forced him to look at her. He gazed at her like someone waking from a dream but not yet roused enough to distinguish truth from fantasy.

“I am the tallest in the family,” he went on. “I always thought I was strong. But then this other one came and he beat me with a club and then he grabbed my arm so I didn’t even get a chance to defend myself. He was so strong. He lifted me up as if I weighed nothing at all and he stared down at me and grinned. He said he didn’t have a mind for killing, but I think he thoroughly enjoyed what had been done to Berilac. He said Berry would die ere we reach home and I believed him. I didn’t think I would make it home either. I kept waiting for a knife or an arrow to pierce me from behind.”

Adamanta trembled as hard as he did. She hardly dared to breathe. Her tongue was dry and swollen and her heart was in her mouth. She could hear its quickened thumping like drumbeat in her ears. Time stood still while Merimac spoke and Adamanta could see clearly all that had happened, unaware that she was safe for the time being and that a fire warmed her cold, shaking fingers. “I felt so small, Mantha,” he whispered and his voice was hoarse and choked with tears, “so helpless and afraid.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand as if for the first time aware of her touch. “I’m sorry,” he said and kissed her palm before he robbed himself of her touch and pushed her hand back so that it rested on her heart. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

“You didn’t,” she answered and only now did she realise that tears streamed down her cheeks as well. “You did all you could, Mac. If you hadn’t stayed hidden it might well be that neither of you had returned to me. You’d have been lying out there bleeding to death.”

Merimac wanted to avert his eyes but once more she stopped him with a hand on his cheek. “Mac,” she entreated him, desperate to have him understand that he was not to blame. “I’m grateful for everything you have done, and I’m proud.” He furrowed his brow in confusion and opened his mouth, but Adamanta would not be interrupted. “I’m proud to be your wife and the mother of your children. I love you, Merimac, more than anything, and there is nothing to be sorry for.” She caressed his cheeks and wept soundlessly. All the worry and fear of the past weeks surfaced in her at once and mingled with the pain to see the one she loved more than even her own life torment himself over a feat he would not see. “You brought my son back to me and as of yet he is not lost to us. Because of you, Merimac.”

As he made no answer she leaned forward and kissed him in a most passionate way. If this did not convince him nothing ever would. His lips trembled, yet for a long moment he hesitated. Adamanta was about to draw back when suddenly he responded with a hunger and eagerness that startled her. He stood up, pulling her with him, and flung his arms around her, holding her, clinging to her as if she was a rock – the last rock and his only hold in a thunderous storm. And Adamanta accepted it and let herself fall into his kiss, willing to be whatever he needed her to be.

~*~*~

Saradoc sighed heavily as he leaned back in his chair and stared blankly at the wooden ceiling of his study. His lids fell closed and for a moment he feared he might lose the struggle to open them again. He turned his head this way and that to ease his aching neck. It was no use to brood over Esmeralda’s latest food calculations any longer. They promised nothing but dismal prospects, with the Hall as crowded as it was and still another five weeks to go until they could begin to harvest in earnest.

He blew out the candles, left the study and staggered down the dimly lit hallways. He was about to quietly open the door to his bedroom so as not to disturb his wife, when he realised that the opposite door was slightly open. Saradoc closed his eyes as if in pain, knowing what he would find in his son’s room even before he pushed the door open.

The room was bathed in the pale white light of the full moon streaming in through the small window next to Merry’s bed. Ominous shadows, like long, gnarled fingers stretched themselves on the wall beside him. Untouched by them a small, bent figure with long, silver hair, sat on the bed. On her lap sat a brown, stuffed rabbit, worn with many years of being a favourite snuggle toy. Esmeralda shimmered like an elf-maiden in her white nightgown, and Saradoc pitied her as he watched her unnoticed.

He missed Merry more than he dared to admit to anyone, but the oftener he found his wife in this room, the more he realised that he would never understand what she felt. During the day she was strong and stern, untouchable and ready to help wherever she was needed – the reliable Mistress of Buckland. It was in the night that she put aside that coat and was neither Mistress nor wife. All that was left of her was a mother – the mother who grieves over the child that has been taken from her.

Saradoc longed to comfort her, but he knew that nothing he would say could console her. So he watched her and suffered in his turn over her anguish. How much she knew of this he did not know. She never spoke of it, too proud, perhaps, to admit all her sorrow, so he did not mention it either, too afraid to upset her further.

He was about to leave and, for Esmeralda’s sake, pretend that he had not seen her, when suddenly she spoke. “I’ve heard them talking again,” she said and Saradoc stopped short silently cursing the gossiping folk. “They didn’t know I was listening.”

Saradoc shivered as he walked to her, for a chill air seemed to linger in the room, although Esmeralda kept it clean and tidy, ready for their son’s return. Tears glistened in Esmeralda’s eyes and just as he sat down beside her and took her in his arms the first of them trickled down her cheeks. “They say he is dead. No one believes he’s going to return. No one but us and I…” she lifted her head and her eyes looked to him like a sparkling pond of dark blue on a sunny summer’s day – deep and desperate. “I’m not sure if I still have any hope left.”

Saradoc made no reply, but kissed one of her tears away. When she laid her head onto his shoulder, he rested his chin on her hair and gently caressed her cheek. Words were of no use and yet, as they sat like this, he remembered an old lullaby his mother used to sing to him a lifetime ago. But even as he hummed softly in the silence and stroked her hair the memories of a growing darkness came unbidden to his mind.

~*~*~

FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE! AWAKE!

Saradoc jumped to his feet and all but knocked over the Master’s chair in his study. He blinked, for a moment too confused and disoriented to realise what was going on. Then he saw Merry’s letter on his desk, the very letter he had read again and again all evening until sleep had finally claimed him, and fear gripped him.

He hurried into the corridor where already a huge turmoil had broken out, and all exclamations and questions were addressed to him the moment people realised he was among them.

“What’s going on?” some demanded.

“It must be a fire,” others replied, but Saradoc had an ill feeling about it. Why should the Horn-call sound the very night he discovered Merry’s letter? That dreadful letter! If only he had found it sooner.

“I do not yet know what happened,” Saradoc said and his voice caused all others to fall silent. “Whatever it is, I want all males between the ages of twenty-five and sixty to be prepared to assist in the emergency. Dress yourselves and gather in the front hall within a quarter of an hour. The rest of you return to your own rooms.”

The order was carried out immediately, though it neither caused the hubbub to die down nor did it stop the Horn-call. Every now and again Saradoc heard it blowing from just outside the smial and every call increased his fear.

Saradoc hastened down the corridor and almost bumped into his brother, who came running round a bend closely followed by Berilac and, tousled but wide awake Esmeralda dressed only in a dressing gown.

“What are you doing here?” Merimac demanded for he would have been the first one to knock at his door. “What’s going on?”

“Follow me and you will find out,” Saradoc said and grabbed him by the shoulder even as he told Esmeralda to see to it that no one lapsed into a panic, after all the Horn-call had not been sounded since wolves invaded the Shire in the Fell Winter of 1411.

Saradoc, followed by his brother and nephew, ran into the dark where Tobi was still blowing the Horn. “It’s come from the direction of Crickhollow,” he told them.

All colour left Saradoc’s face as the tight noose of fear closed around his neck. “Any news why?”

“Not as of yet, sir.”

“Get ponies saddled,” Saradoc said. “The three of us will ride to Crickhollow and find out.”

Tobi nodded and bolted off, but Saradoc stood silent for a while and stared uneasily into the darkness. In the distance he could still hear answering calls piercing the cool night air with their sound.

“Do you think the lads are in trouble?” Merimac asked uneasily. He looked as worried as Saradoc felt and his teeth clattered as he spoke, since he had apparently only found time enough to slip into a pair of trousers before he went to search for him.

“More than I had feared,” Saradoc replied quietly. “I will tell you more about it once we’re on the road. Get dressed now, the both of you, and be quick.”

They headed back to the Hall when they heard the sound of hooves approaching and a voice asked for the Master. Saradoc hastened to meet the rider and Merimac and his nephew followed him in spite of the cold. It was young Finch Boffin, who lived closest to Crickhollow – a little over a mile from the small house that Frodo had purchased.

“Mr. Saradoc!” He was breathing hard. “One of Mr. Merry’s friends come to the house, a-running for his life! He says there’s Big Folk in Buckland all dressed in black on big black horses – and he said something about the Old Forest, too! He’s all done in – but he said it was danger, so me da blew the Horn.”

Saradoc knew without any doubt that Finch was speaking of Fredegar. Merry and Pippin had left with Frodo, or so he hoped – and feared. He turned to Merimac. “I want you to ride with me to find out what has happened at Crickhollow. Berilac, go back in and tell the others we need them to spread out and give warning. Send Seredic up to the bridge, with about six others to see to what’s happening. Send Cousins Marmadas and Merimas south towards Haysend, and then head over to the Ferry and make sure all is secure there. Send the Ferry across to the west bank. If there are enemies in Buckland we don’t want to give them an easy way into the Shire proper. Also, send message to Ted Puddifoot. We might be in need of a healer.”

Berilac darted off. Less than ten minutes later Saradoc and Merimac were on the road as well, a still anxious Finch leading them at a swift trot to his home. It was then that Saradoc got a chance to quickly inform his brother of Merry’s letter. “It seems that Frodo is in some sort of danger. Merry said it has something to do with old Bilbo’s stuff, but he only hinted at things and wouldn’t speak clearly. He and Pippin went away with Frodo since he feels that the Shire is no safe place for him anymore. I fear that tonight only proves them right, but I hope that Fredegar will tell us more about it.” He shook his head helplessly. “Then I might even have something to comfort Esme with. She doesn’t know yet.”

Merimac did not reply but even in the darkness Saradoc could see the concern on his face. Merimac loved Frodo dearly and though Saradoc had at a time taken responsibility for the lad and raised him as his own Merimac had often supported their young cousin as much as he had.

When they arrived at the Boffin smial they were taken into a small guest room. Fredegar lay on the bed, shuddering and moaning like somebody caught in a fever-dream. Saradoc stared at him, horror stricken.

“Fredegar,” he said quietly and made to touch his shoulder.

The young hobbit screamed in shock. “No, not me! I haven’t got it! Not me!”

Saradoc withdrew in surprise. He looked first at Fredegar, then at Finch’s father, then at Merimac whose face was pale with fright.

“That’s all we could get out of him,” said old Mr. Boffin and shook his head.

Saradoc nodded, his eyes, filled with pity, resting on Fredegar. “Can you bring him to the Hall for me? The healer will take care of him there.”

The old hobbit nodded and so Saradoc and Merimac left the smial again. However, they did not head back home. Saradoc thought it best if he himself spoke to the guards on the Bridge, and warned them. Fredegar looked like death itself and though Saradoc knew him to be less adventurous than Merry or Pippin, young Fatty was no coward. Whatever had put him into such a state must have been dreadful.

They galloped north with all the speed they could muster, yet they were still far from the Bridge when they heard the pounding of hooves and stooped. A hobbit sped towards them and as he approached Saradoc recognised Seredic, who looked at them with an expression of horror.

“There were Big Folk, horrid creatures – they didn’t seem to be Men – mounted on huge black horses – two or three came tearing across the Bridge, and were met by two more who came up from the south road to meet them, and they raced eastward on the Road like a storm! Sara, I found old Denham Banks mourning his nephew – they…” Seredic paused and looked sick. “They rode him down, just trampled him over, when he called them to stop. They – it was dreadful…”

The second time this night Saradoc felt all blood drain from his face. Ned Banks had come of age only last summer and had started work on the Bridge the day after his birthday. According to old Denham it had ever been the lad’s wish to keep watch there with him. Saradoc found himself wishing the boy had found a different occupation for himself.

“You said they left the Shire?” he asked and Seredic nodded. “Well, that’s at least a bit of luck. We will ride up to the Bridge and question poor Den. And then, I think, back to the Hall to see what sort of sense we can get out of Fredegar Bolger.”

~*~*~

When he had returned to the Hall Fredegar had recovered enough to tell him all that he knew. And so it was that Saradoc learned what Merry had only hinted at in his letter, and instead of feeling less worried his fear increased. Who knew how long the four of them could go unnoticed from those Black Riders if they had already been at Crickhollow – and only four days since Frodo had left! The road through the Old Forest might have seemed the safest to them, but Saradoc was ill at ease.

His spirits only brightened when another four days later he got word that Gandalf had been seen at Crickhollow. He had longed to speak with him and get some news about the whereabouts of the lads, but as he reached the small house Frodo had bought for himself Gandalf was gone and had not returned since. Saradoc’s hope was that the wizard had found Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Samwise, but hope was all that was left to him.

Paladin, of course, took the news ill, and it had cost Saradoc some persuasion to keep the Thain from running after the lads. It was the borders that they needed to protect – Paladin as much as Saradoc – and trust in luck and the boys.

That was now ten months ago, and Saradoc thought the first night he had ever heard the Horn-call of Buckland the most dreadful night in his life. The real trouble, however, had started just after Yule and the second time the Horn-call startled him into wakefulness was even worse. Then his sorrows began in earnest and the Master of Buckland was put to the test.

Men had appeared in the Shire. They had come to the South Farthing first, carrying off wagon-loads of goods by order of Lotho Pimple. Paladin had been furious, especially when it turned out that some of them were going to stay and built sheds and houses for themselves. Buckland, however, had remained untouched, until the year drew to an end. Big Folk had come from Bree, though in the beginning most of them did not make it over the Bridge. Saradoc had been wary after Paladin’s warning and besides, most of the men looked too suspicious to be trusted. The majority, however, had taken the river. Buckland had been invaded from the south and when word finally reached the Master it had been too late to drive them out again.

~*~*~

“The call came from the south,” Tobi informed them breathlessly, “though whether it’s from Standelf or as far as Haysend I cannot tell. No news yet, and if the call was started as far south I doubt there will be any before lunchtime.”

“We cannot wait that long,” Saradoc said and drew his coat closer about himself. It was the dark hour before dawn and the air was chill and clear. Stars shimmered in the sky above him and wasps of mist rose before his face with every word he spoke. “Saddle at least ten ponies for me. I will ride to meet the messenger.”

Tobi trotted off, but Merimac who stood shivering beside him shook his head. “It’s no use, Sara. Even if we ride at full speed it will be at least mid-afternoon before we arrive in Haysend.”

“What do you suggest then? Wait?”

At that Merimac fell silent and followed him back into Brandy Hall, where Saradoc held a similar speech as only months before. “I need you to spread and give warning. One of the southern villages is in trouble, though of what kind I do not know. Ten, no, let it be twenty of you that are willing, I beg to ride southwards with me. Seredic, could you again ride to the Bridge as last time and tell them to double the watch. We don’t know exactly what is going on south, but I have a feeling that the number of Big Folk we meet there of late has something to do with it. Milo, take five with you to the Marish and warn folk there. The River is rather narrow at Haysend and if people are in trouble there, folk in the southern parts of the Marish, especially in Rushey and Deephallow, might soon be as well.”

The first glints of red and pink were visible on the eastern sky when Saradoc and his troop finally set out on their journey south. They took the straight road from Bucklebury to Standelf and Haysend, riding now in a gallop, now in a swift trot. The kitchen maidens had packed them some breakfast and lunch, but Saradoc felt that he had need for haste and did not allow for a break until the sun was already high in the sky. Only an hour ago had the Horn-call faded into silence and the cold stillness which surrounded them now seemed even more ominous.

There was little conversation during their quick meal. Everybody seemed to feel the same kind of urgency, even the ponies. Though foaming and steaming in the cold winter air they held a steady pace, but still Saradoc had no sign of a messenger, no news from the south.

They were an hour away from Standelf when they saw a rider approaching them. He rode like the wind, urging his pony on and only came to an abrupt halt when he was right before them.

“Master Saradoc!” he spluttered breathlessly and Saradoc noticed with horror the tears on the young lad’s face. “I’m so glad to see you. They have come! They have come from the river and attacked us at night. I hardly got away from them. So many got hurt, but I think no-one was killed, at least not until I left.”

“Who attacked you?” Merimac ask, finding his voice before Saradoc did. “You’re Tobert Greenhill’s boy, aren’t you? From Haysend?”

The tween nodded. “Yes, sir, Tobert, the Young, that’s me.” The tears now streamed down his face freely as if the mention of his father had awakened another fear. “Big Folk came from the south by way of the river. There were about fifty of them and more came from the western bank of the Brandywine.”

“Then it was a planned attack,” Merimac said horrified.

“Buckland is the only land that still parts them from the rest of the Shire,” Saradoc agreed. “We must have been a thorn in their side. Let’s ride to Haysend with all the speed we can. They might be saved yet.”

A shiver ran down his spine which had nothing to do with the chill winter wind. He could not imagine what was going on, but he dreaded to find out. Neither did he know what he would do once they arrived in Haysend. They had no weapons and even if they were armed he doubted that a group of twenty stayed much chance against a bunch of over fifty men.

When they reached Standelf Saradoc found the people well prepared, all getting ready to help folk in Haysend.

“I sent some lads south, Mr. Saradoc, and they says folk are a-running from their homes all coming this way. They will be here soon, no doubt.”

Saradoc thanked the farmer, then stood silent for a while, gazing southwards.

“We need to guard the river,” Merimac, who stood beside him, eventually broke the silence that was coming up.

“How do we stop them?” Saradoc wondered. “Even if we watch the Brandywine, how do we stop them from going further north?”

Merimac looked about as if he hoped the solution might jump at him if only he turned in the right direction at the right time. “Fishing nets!” he suddenly shouted. “We need to get a net from this bank to the other. It mustn’t go too deep into the river so as not to disturb the fish too much, but if we keep parts of it above water it might stop the men, at least for a time.”

Saradoc could have kissed him for that piece of brilliance and had Merimac put his plan to action as soon as possible. He himself went with the males of Standelf and those he had brought from the Hall to meet whatever was heading for them from the south.

It was now mid-afternoon and the sun shone brightly from a clear sky. Saradoc was tired and exhausted, but determined not to let his people down.

He did not have far to go until he came about the first group of fugitives. Saradoc galloped to meet them and was welcomed with both joy and grief. The news they bore were similar to the ones Saradoc had already got from Tobert. It was Old Gaffer Brownlock, however, who gave him the clearest picture. “Ye needn’t go further. Haysend is lost, and if ye don’t hurry, Master Saradoc, there won’t be no Hall to which you can return either.”

“Are you sure?” Saradoc asked urgently. “We might be able to fight them off.”

The gaffer shook his head gravely. “Nay, sir. All ye’ll find is more people running away. You can’t fight the Men. There’s too many of ‘em. They set fire to me son’s stables and what cattle didn’t break free and run is being burned there alive.”

Saradoc was breathing hard and for a moment his voice failed him. “What about the people?” he enquired at length. “Did they all escape?”

“Aye,” the old hobbit nodded, “as far as I know. Some were badly hurt and some ran with just a nightgown on. They’ll find that all they had is gone now, I’ll tell ye. They’re burning not only stables, they are.”

Saradoc quickly arranged for some of the people to spread in groups and find scattered fugitives, while others should accompany those that had already been found to Standelf. He, however, hastened towards Haysend with the few people who were still left.

~*~*~

Old Gaffer Brownlock had not exaggerated. Haysend had been overrun and plundered. When Saradoc arrived there Men were sitting on the field of their victory amidst the smoke of burning sheds and stables. Hobbits, Saradoc found to his relief, were not among them, neither dead nor captured. They had all made it to Standelf, some severely wounded, others half frozen to death, but none suffering the loss of a loved one.

That day it had begun – the battle for Buckland and the Shire. Haysend had only been the beginning. Soon the Big Folk were pressing north and others came over the Bridge. The Bucklanders had fought for days, but then the capturing and killing started and the hobbits shrank away. Mothers lost their sons, wives their husbands, and still some kept fighting – but it was useless. The men increased not only in number but also in brutality. The hobbits were driven back until only Brandy Hall, Bucklebury, and the surrounding fields remained. The Hall turned into a safe haven and its rooms threatened to burst at the seams, yet Saradoc kept the doors open to anybody seeking support, comfort, or simply a place to sleep. Many had lost their homes but even more had fallen into the hands of the ruffians and were now forced to labour on fields and vegetable gardens that were not their own. So they filled the Chief’s stores rather than their own grumbling stomachs.

It tore at Saradoc’s heart and during the first weeks he doubted his skill and needed Esmeralda and Merimac to assure him and keep him from despair. Yet, whenever the Master was needed Saradoc was confident, assured his folk and drew strength from the trust they had in him. He might have lost the battle, but he had not yet failed his people, not as long as he held Brandy Hall.

Yet he doubted how long that might be. They could hold the Hall for months and years unless hunger beat them and hunger, unfortunately, was their enemies’ greatest weapon. Saradoc had not yet forgotten what had happened on the southern fields and in his heart he still did not trust their victory, although he hoped his concerns were unjustified.

He glanced down at his wife, who had fallen asleep in his arms, and smiled ruefully, loath to wake her. Gently he then kissed her hair and caressed her cheeks. Esmeralda blinked sleepily. “What…?” she enquired but Saradoc hushed her with a shake of his head.

“I hate to wake you, but I believe our own bed will give us more comfort. Come.”

Reluctantly, she broke from his embrace, but when she noticed she was still in Merry’s room she let herself be lead into her own bedroom, where she snuggled up against Saradoc and immediately fell asleep again. But Saradoc lay awake and stared at the ceiling, longing for the blissful forgetfulness of a dreamless night.