“Granddad,
what are you staring at? We've got to go.” The ten year old budding
woman brought her new grandfather back to real life again. With a
shiver the older man turned his back to the farmhouse. He had seen a
fire, as soon as he started to lock the door. A huge devastating fire
ruining his house and much of the surrounding buildings.
Nonsense. He
had checked everything before he left. And there would be personnel
around during his brief absence. The house would still be there when
he'd come home from Balmead.
Balmead, the
name of the house of Martin's new daughter-in-law. Mother of the ten
year young woman and an eight year old prankster who never got bored
of teasing his sister.
And now their
mother had married his son.
The day after tomorrow they'd return from their honeymoon and his son
would move in at Balmead. Leaving empty the apartment at Lhamgrange.
Martin had offered to keep the apartment ready for Ron and his new
family, for visits. But his son had found a tenant. “The grange is
not really a profitable place, dad. Can't let an opportunity for an
extra income slip by.”
So
now his son was married to a woman twelve years older than he -Ron-
was himself. Launching himself elbow deep into fatherhood at the same
time. The older man silently wondered why his son had made this
choice. The latter had already made it clear that he wouldn't stand
any comment on that matter.
“Granddad,
what were you thinking of?” While opening the door of his car for
the girl, he loosely mentioned his 'vision'. “Just a silly thought.
I have thoroughly checked everything,” he concluded. With a caring
look the girl's eyes roamed the grounds and the buildings of the
grange. “It's not really going to burn down, please Granddad?”
As
the old man shook his head reassuringly, the girl slid into the car.
The younger boy seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Seated
himself next to his sister. He had clearly overheard her last
question, because as soon as his grandfather took his place behind
the wheel, the boy blurted out that the grange was in no way safe
from burning down. “It happened before. The stable master told me
so.” Via the mirror, Martin frowned at the boy. “That was
centuries ago. Besides, that was arson.” As if arson was not
subject to repetition.
He's
riding home alone, his men already having left the day before. The
duke had detained only him. What for? He had been waiting all day,
only to answer some trivial questions and perform an almost menial
task. The senseless waste of time away from home frustrated Ranuld.
His heart belongs to his homeland, Leysinghowe. And to the people who
depend on him, a mixture of freedmen and serfs, who rather serve him
than the duke. And not in the least does his heart belong to his
spouse.
Ranuld
feels restless, urges on his horse. At least one can travel faster
when alone. The road is familiar, so he continues his journey after
the sun has set. He will sleep in his own bed tonight, his consort
locked in his arms. Even before Ranuld and his horse reach the top of
the last hill to cross, the moonlight is no longer their sole
companion. There is a familiar, harsh yellow glow glaring up from the
hill beyond the valley. The hill of the freedman, leysing's howe.
Fire!
Ranuld's heart starts to race, his muscles tighten. The horse bucks,
too familiar with fire already, but Ranuld regains control. Now they
are galloping down the hill, and across the valley. Moving in on the
file of people leaving the village. His people, the men, women and
children. With a shock Ranuld realizes that there is no struggle.
Most seem to leave voluntarily.
There is
some uproar, further away, from men -soldiers- he doesn't know. They
carry torches, laughing they move towards two horsemen who stay at
the back, as if trying to go by unseen. To no avail. One of the
riders is a tall broad shouldered man, no mistake. The other is lean
and slim. Fragile as a woman.
Ranuld
rides in on them, making sure they will not pass by him without a
confrontation.
The large
hood does not hide the woman's mouth. Ranuld recognizes the narrow
shapely curves at once. Eve, his spouse. Is she riding along with
this stranger out of her own free will? Her lips tighten in fear, but
not before she has seen Ranuld, heading them off.
Ranuld now
veers toward the masculine rider. His posture suddenly becomes
familiar. One of the duke's guests. He had left with a handful of
men, the day after Ranuld arrived.
On seeing
the true husband of his new 'bride', the large knight pulls his
sword. He's not impressed by Ranuld's physical appearance. It's the
calm decisiveness in the eyes of the betrayed landowner that upsets
him. The clatter of swords, the whinnying of the horses pierce
through the rumble and crackles of the fires. The unfaithful people
halt and turn. As if frozen, they gaze at the two men, who continue
their duel dismounted from their horses. As their fight draws on, the
third rider, Ranuld's lady, slides down from her horse and approaches
the rivals. As the large man pushes the leaner one from him, she
steps in. Her uplifted arms go down with force. In her hands a
dagger, shimmering golden in the firelight. A moment later the
landowner doubles up and sinks to the ground. The two conspirators
stare at the still form in dismay. Only for a moment, then they
remount their horses and press the bystanders to move on. What use is
it, staying at a burned down village that has lost it's proprietor?
When
he had finished telling the tale to his grandson, Martin mentally
shook off the haunted feeling the history gave him. Through his
mirror he looked his granddaughter in the eye. She clearly liked the
story as little as he did. She didn't speak, but her eyes begged him
to please put a plaster on the wound. So Martin went on.
Graham,
Leysinghowe's shepherd, has seen the glow of the fires against the
black sky. He has rushed to the village, to find his deserted master
lying unconsciously between the burning houses. Hurt badly but alive.
Graham
carries him to a remote house that has been overlooked by the
arsonists. There he takes care of the wound and nurses his friend
those first nights, while his life hangs on a thread only. By then a
few of the village's people have returned and they take over the care
of the betrayed freedman.
Ranuld
doesn't want the large farmhouse restored. So a new modest house is
rising on the foundation of the old one. Neither does the village
regain its previous glory. It becomes a remote farmstead, a grange.
When the owner is at home, worn out travelers are welcomed, fed and
rested. But often the house is dark and deserted, because of Ranuld
spending time with Graham the shepherd. The flock, under the watchful
eye of two dedicated friends, prospers and the grange becomes known
as the Lhamb's Grange. The talks of the two men help Ranuld heal and
overcome most of his pain. There is just that big scar, where the
dagger has pierced his chest and scathed his heart. Ranuld learns
that it won't hinder him, as long as he refrains from extreme
exercise and deep emotions. On the quiet nights with his sheep
herding friend, who is now accompanied by his niece, Gwen, he forgets
his mark entirely.
Julia
looked relieved. She couldn't bear the idea of the kindhearted
landowner not surviving the attack -the betrayal- of his wife. She
wasn't after the roughness and kicks like Howard, her younger
brother. She is, as Ron informed his father, a hopeless romantic. A
bit like Ron then. The old man kept the thought to himself.
Howard
wasn't entirely insensitive to romance either. He wanted to know all
the details of life in medieval times. Focusing on warfare. He fired
off questions at his grandfather at a steady pace. Julia's eyes
swerved across the horizon, while she dreamed and thus answered all
her questions herself.
