Chapter 4, Part 1
New Ventures
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A pale morning settled over the cruck house, the light thin and colorless as it slipped through the doorway and the small gaps in the timber. Inside, Saras moved quietly at the kitchen table, her motions precise despite the lingering stiffness in her body. Each gesture was deliberate—measured, contained—as though she could restore order simply by maintaining it.
A knock at the door broke the stillness. She paused, drew her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, and crossed to the door. When she opened it, Aelfwynn stood waiting. Composed, as always—but not entirely at ease.
“Good morning, milady.”
“Good morning.” Aelfwynn hesitated, her gaze searching Saras’s face. “I wanted to see how you were… after the incident.”
“I’m recovering, thank you.” Saras inclined her head slightly. “And you? Auntie?”
“She’s well.” A brief pause. “I am as well.”
They remained at the threshold, the door still open between them, the cool air lingering as if neither wished to close the distance too quickly.
“I was hoping I might speak with you,” Aelfwynn said at last. “It’s about my lady.” Saras waited. “She and the King will be married tomorrow. And the evening after, she’ll be formally presented as Queen.” A small silence followed. “People will look at her very closely.” Aelfwynn smiled then—honest, but touched with concern that she did not quite conceal.
Saras studied her a moment. “I’m not sure what I could offer her that you cannot.”
Aelfwynn considered that, choosing her words carefully. “You’ve traveled. You’ve seen many things. I thought you might… have some ideas.”
Saras let the thought settle. Only a moment. “I can try.”
The relief in Aelfwynn’s expression was quiet but unmistakable. “Thank you.”
They held each other’s gaze—not certainty, not yet, but the beginnings of trust.
A sudden, heavy THUMP! shattered it. The house shuddered.
Saras turned sharply. “What in the world?!”
Another THUMP! followed, louder, unmistakable. She moved at once, striding past Aelfwynn and around the side of the house. Aelfwynn followed, gathering her skirts as she went. They rounded the corner—and stopped.
Arthur stood at the back wall, sleeves rolled, an axe in his hands. The blade was buried partway into the structure, fresh fragments of wattle and daub scattered at his feet. Nearby, Deorwine and three men worked at a cart, unloading squared, brick-like stones with steady efficiency.
Saras stared. Outrage, disbelief, and calculation flickered across her face in quick succession.
“What are you doing to our house?!”
Arthur looked up, bright with satisfaction, as though he had been waiting to be asked.
“Making a firebox,” he said, gesturing toward the wall. “With a chimney.”
“What?”
He turned then, as if remembering himself, his tone shifting with easy politeness. “Good morning, milady. I hope you are well.”
Aelfwynn returned the greeting with a small smile—amused, almost playful. “Master Arthur.”
Saras did not take her eyes off the damage. “A chimney?”
Arthur warmed immediately, stepping into explanation with enthusiasm. “It’s going to get cold soon. And we can do better—everyone can do better—than a central fire pit.”
He nodded toward Deorwine and the stacked stones. “After the kitchen incident, I thought I might help Master Deorwine with a few ideas for the reconstruction.”
A brief pause. “I volunteered our house for the prototype.”
Saras closed her eyes. Just for a moment. When she opened them again, she turned slowly back to Aelfwynn, her composure restored—if only just.
“It appears I am being evicted,” she said evenly, “and that I should be available to assist you.”
Aelfwynn’s delight slipped through despite her efforts to contain it. “That would be splendid! Could you stop by Mistress Leofrun’s, then meet me at the Manor?”
Saras inclined her head.
Aelfwynn departed, her step lighter than when she had arrived.
Saras remained where she was for a moment longer, then turned back to the house—taking in the damage, the men, the stones, the impossible momentum of it all. Her gaze settled on Arthur. Withering.
He ignored it entirely. “Another win-win for everyone involved!” he called cheerfully.
Saras said nothing. But already, beneath the irritation, her mind had begun to adjust—reordering the day, recalculating what must now be done.
* * *
The sky had turned the color of bruised iron. Rain drove hard across the low English hills, slanting with the wind, cold and unrelenting. The track had dissolved into mud beneath the hooves of the royal party, the ground slick and treacherous as grooms struggled to steady the horses. Cloaks clung heavy with water. Voices were raised and lost again in the storm.
The procession moved in two parts, though no one had intended it so. Ahead rode Aethelstan, flanked by the Lord Chancellor and a cluster of nobles and guards, their attention fixed on the road and whatever lay beyond it. Behind them, less ordered, came the attendants—and the children, half-forgotten in the press.
Edmund was among them. He was ten, slight and restless, already pushing ahead of where he ought to be, drawn by something just out of reach. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, but he paid it no mind.
Elle stayed close. She matched his pace not by chasing him, but by anticipating him—watchful, steady where he was not.
Thunder rolled low across the hills.
The path narrowed ahead, dipping toward a brook swollen beyond its banks. The water churned violently over the stones, louder than it should have been, a harsh, insistent roar beneath the storm.
An attendant moved forward first, stepping carefully down toward the crossing. He tested the footing, one uncertain step at a time. “Careful here.”
Edmund edged closer.
“Edmund,” Elle warned.
He stepped onto a slick stone. For a heartbeat, he held. Then his foot slipped. The world tilted—his arms flung wide—and he vanished into the water. The current took him at once.
Voices cried out, “Edmund! Hold on!”
Horses reared, their handlers shouting as they fought for control. Someone lunged toward the bank, too slow, already too far away.
Elle yelled as well, “Edmund!” She did not hesitate—she tore her cloak free and leapt after him.
The river seized her just as quickly. Two small figures, swallowed by the current—arms thrashing, faces breaking the surface and vanishing again as the water dragged them downstream.
More cries, “Aelfgifu!”
“Foolish child,” the Lord Chancellor muttered to himself. Then his voice cut through the noise, low and sharp. “Catch them!” he commanded.
Guards ran along the bank, boots slipping in the mud as they struggled to keep pace with the river’s relentless pull.
The brook widened as it went, its roar deepening, the current stronger with every yard. Edmund fought to stay above the surface, coughing, gasping. And then Elle was there. She reached him through the chaos of water and panic, her hand finding his arm. He seized her in return, their grip desperate, unthinking. They locked together. And the river carried them on.
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Missing the Next link on here FYI!