Chapter 4, Part 2
Resolve
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The show-jumping arena gleamed beneath a clear sky. Flags snapped crisply along the perimeter, their colors bright against the white rails and polished footing. The grandstands were full, the hum of expectation rising and falling in restless waves. Beyond the course, the scoreboard held the standings for the jump-off—names and times frozen in quiet challenge.
“And now … our final rider in the jump-off … looking for a perfect round to take the win … Lady Saras Ashcombe, riding Blackwell.”
Nothing. At the in-gate, the clock began its descent. Fifteen seconds. Fourteen. Thirteen.
A murmur stirred through the crowd, faint at first, then gathering as the seconds slipped away unanswered.
Ten ... Nine ...
Still nothing.
Five ... Four ...
The gate burst open. Saras surged through on Blackwell, the horse’s power contained but unmistakable, every stride precise, controlled. She rode in immaculate competition form—jacket fitted, posture flawless—except for one detail that caught the eye at once: Black jodhpurs, not white.
The deviation rippled outward through the stands, a flicker of surprise, of recognition.
“Ah! Here she comes … wearing … black.” A pause, dry, measured. “We’ll have to check that with the stewards.”
Saras gave no sign of having heard. The first fence came up fast. Blackwell took it cleanly, lifting as if the rail were no more than a suggestion.
The second followed—effortless again, the rhythm already established, unbroken.
The course tightened. Turns sharpened. Distances lengthened and collapsed in quick succession. It demanded precision, demanded trust. Saras gave it nothing less. There was no excess in her movement, no visible correction. She rode as if the line existed before her, already solved, her hands steady, her seat quiet, her intent carried cleanly through the horse beneath her.
The murmurs of the crowd faded. A hush settled, not imposed but earned. They watched.
The final fence rose ahead. For a fraction of a moment, everything narrowed to that single approach—the line, the stride, the breath between. Blackwell gathered. And flew. Clean. Perfect. The landing was as smooth as the takeoff. The line carried through. No fault.
The arena erupted. Applause broke like a wave, sudden and full, filling the space the silence had held. The clock stopped.
“And Lady Saras completes the course in 45.05 seconds. No faults!”
Saras brought Blackwell down from the pace, guiding him to a controlled halt. Around her, the judges conferred, heads bent together, the decision hanging in the air just long enough to matter.
Then the announcer offered resolution. “We have confirmation from the stewards: the uniform violation does not affect today’s result.”
The crowd responded instantly, the cheers rising higher, sharper now.
“It applies to her next competition only …”
A ripple of laughter moved through the stands, followed by renewed applause.
“… which, I’m told, will not come—as Lady Saras will be leaving the circuit to pursue her doctorate at Cambridge.”
The reaction deepened, respect threading through the noise.
“An extraordinary final performance by Lady Saras Ashcombe and her mount Blackwell!”
Saras reached forward and rested a hand against Blackwell’s neck, her fingers pressing briefly into the warmth of him. She did not smile. But the satisfaction was there—quiet, absolute, and entirely her own.
* * *
The noise of the arena had faded to something distant, indistinct.
In the paddock, the air was quieter, steadier. Horses moved in slow circles, their flanks darkened with sweat, breath easing as riders loosened reins and let them cool. Grooms spoke in low voices. Leather creaked softly. The rhythm here was different—measured, intimate, untouched by spectacle.
Saras approached the fence at the edge of it, still in her riding gear, the precision of the course not yet fully released from her posture.
He was waiting for her, standing just beyond the rail, his frame thinner than it had once been, when he had chased her out of the kitchen. His color was not quite what it should be. Age had settled into him, and something else besides. But none of it dimmed his presence.
And none of it touched his eyes. They shone as she came near—openly, without restraint.
“That was flawless, my dear.”
Saras allowed herself a small smile—not the composed curve she offered the world, but something quieter, real.
“Thank you, Papa. Blackwell was perfect today.”
“I meant you.” His voice softened, the formality easing without disappearing. “There is no prouder father in the whole of England.” The words lingered between them, warm, undeniable.
And then—inevitably—“And the jodhpurs?”
Saras met his gaze without flinching. “My protest.”
He exhaled, a long, tired breath. Not anger. Not even surprise. Only weariness, worn smooth by familiarity. “Could you be a little more discreet?”
Saras considered that. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached up and unfastened the front of her riding coat. She opened it just enough to reveal a tartan sewn into the lining.
“Like this?”
He leaned forward slightly, squinting as though the pattern itself might explain its own existence. “What on earth is that?”
“Parker Bowles.”
He closed his eyes. “Saras.” The name carried everything—resignation, affection, a plea he knew would not be answered.
She held it only a moment longer, and then buttoned it closed again. A flash of a grin escaped her—quick, irrepressible.
He shook his head, but he was smiling.
A shift moved through the paddock before anyone spoke. It was subtle—felt more than seen. Conversations quieted. Grooms straightened. A path seemed to open of its own accord.
Queen Elizabeth II approached with a small retinue, her presence at once understated and absolute.
Saras’s father drew himself upright, the effort slight but visible, and bowed with measured respect. Saras followed, her movement fluid, unforced—neither hurried nor hesitant.
“Congratulations, Lady Saras,” the Queen said. “That was an impressive performance.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Saras held her composure easily. “We’ve missed Anne.”
A flicker of warmth touched the Queen’s expression.
“She has assured me that she will be back next year.” A brief pause. “But you will be back at Cambridge?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
For a moment, nothing more was said.
The Queen’s gaze lowered—just briefly—to the black jodhpurs. Then returned to Saras’s face.
“Lord Cairnford, might I have a word?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
They stepped aside together, the noise of the paddock softening as distance gathered around them. Saras remained where she was, one hand resting lightly on Blackwell’s neck. She did not turn her head. But she watched.
“How are you, John?”
“I’ve been better.” His tone was even, almost conversational. “The doctors say three months. Perhaps four.”
The Queen absorbed this without outward display, though something tightened—small, contained. “I’m so sorry. If there is anything I can do—”
He stopped walking. “You know what you can do.”
A pause settled between them.
“John, you know I can’t do that.”
Something flickered beneath his composure—irritation, sharpened by time. “Why not?”
The Queen held his gaze. “You know why.”
He gestured, discreetly, toward Saras in the distance. “In three to four months, she should be Duchess of Cairnford.”
The Queen did not answer at once.
“I have served this country without hesitation,” he continued, still measured, still controlled. “Military service. Years under Mountbatten in India under in circumstances you would not wish repeated.” He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. “I did what was required … to be worthy of my title.”
The words settled heavily between them.
“I have earned the privilege of passing it on to my daughter.”
The Queen’s composure held, but her voice softened. “The law is not a personal instrument, John.”
“You’re fortunate it didn’t have to change for you.” The remark landed quietly, cleanly.
“If I were to press for change now,” she said, “it would be unmistakable whom it was for.”
“And that would be inconvenient.”
“It would invite scrutiny.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Because of her mother?”
Silence. The Queen did not answer. She did not need to. The silence confirmed it.
“I am very sorry.” The apology was genuine. It was also final.
Lord Cairnford straightened, what little slack remained in him drawn back into form. “So am I,” he said. “For her.” A brief pause. He inclined his head. “If that is all, Your Majesty.”
Another beat, longer this time.
“I wish you well, Lord Cairnford.”
She turned, the retinue closing around her as she moved away, the space reshaping itself in her wake. He watched her go.
Across the paddock, Saras stood beside Blackwell, her hand still resting against the horse’s neck. From a distance, she appeared composed. But as her eyes tracked the Queen’s departure—then returned to her father—something in her expression shifted. She could tell what had happened.
Lord Cairnford let out a single breath, quiet and controlled. Then, almost to himself, he shook his head.
* * *
The workshop was bright with morning light, the air clean and purposeful. Bolts of fine wool and linen lined the walls in orderly rows, their colors muted but rich. A large cutting table stood at the center, its surface marked with chalk lines—precise, intentional. Nearby, a half-finished gown hung from a peg, its shape already suggesting elegance.
Mistress Leofrun worked at one end of the table, her hands steady as she adjusted a sleeve, pinning the fabric with practiced ease. Before her stood two noblewomen, both in their mid-twenties, well dressed and entirely at ease in the space—not as workers, but as those accustomed to being served.
“It pulls a little here,” one of them said, touching lightly at the seam.
Leofrun made a small adjustment, her fingers deft. “I’ll let it out a finger’s width. That should sit better.”
The front door opened. Saras stepped inside. She paused just long enough to take in the room—the materials, the workmanship, the quiet discipline of it. And beneath it, the structure that governed everything: who worked, who chose, who judged.
Leofrun looked up at once, her attention shifting without hesitation. “You’re here for Lady Aelfwynn, right?”
Before Saras could answer, the two noblewomen exchanged a glance—quick, knowing. Saras saw it but gave nothing back.
“Yes,” she answered.
Leofrun straightened slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies—this will only take a moment.”
The noblewomen smiled, polite but newly attentive, their interest stirred. Leofrun crossed to a wooden chest and lifted the lid. From within, she drew out a carefully wrapped garment. She unfolded it with quiet reverence. The fabric fell open into deep navy blue—rich wool that caught the light with a subdued sheen. At the collar and cuffs, subtle gold ornamentation traced a pattern that was both restrained and unmistakably refined—elegant, beautiful.
Leofrun held it up. “Here is Lady Aelfgifu’s dress for the Presentation.”
The noblewomen leaned closer. “Oh—for Lady Aelfgifu. May we see?”
Leofrun hesitated—just a fraction—then inclined the gown toward them.
“That is certainly lovely, Mistress Leofrun,” the first said. The compliment was measured.
“Merchant money is still money, I suppose,” the second added lightly. “It can buy fine things.”
A pause followed, smooth on the surface. “Enough for Lady Aelfgifu to pretend, at least.”
The laugh that followed was soft, shared, and effortless.
Leofrun lowered the gown. Her hands moved with deliberate care as she began to fold it again, each motion precise, controlled. As she worked, her gaze flicked briefly to Saras—recognition. It was there and gone in an instant. Saras met it, just for a moment, then looked away.
Leofrun finished folding the dress and placed it gently into Saras’s arms.
“Thank you, Mistress Leofrun.”
Saras turned to the noblewomen, offering a small, formal inclination of her head. “Miladies.”
They barely acknowledged her. Saras did not wait for more. She turned and stepped back out into the light.
Saras strode deliberately down the passageway of the royal manor. When she reached the door to Aelfwynn’s chambers, she knocked—firm, precise. No pause between intent and action.
The door opened at once. Aelfwynn stood there, her expression brightening as she saw who stood before her.
Saras did not return it. She stood composed, the folded gown held securely in her arms, her posture exact, her gaze steady.
“Let’s do this,” she said.
Aelfwynn blinked. Then, in the space of a breath, she understood. Something had shifted.
* * *
The cruck house no longer stood whole. One wall had been opened, its woven frame cut back to expose the structure beneath. In its place, a rough firebox was taking shape, stone set carefully upon stone. Wooden scaffolding climbed along the side of the house, its narrow beams and cross-bracing rising like a ribcage around the forming chimney.
Deorwine and his masons worked with steady precision, their movements unhurried but exact.
Before them, Arthur held court. A small crowd had gathered—farmers, tradesmen, women with arms folded or hands resting at their sides, a scattering of children who shifted and whispered but did not stray far. Auntie stood among them, Kaelyn beside her, both watching with quiet interest.
Arthur gestured toward the half-built structure as if unveiling something remarkable. “We need our fires—especially with winter approaching.” He let that settle. “But we do not need the smoke.”
A few heads tilted. A shrug from somewhere in the back.
“It lingers in the room,” he went on. “In your lungs. In your children’s eyes.”
That earned a murmur. A few nods.
“What if we gave it a path to follow?” He pointed upward, tracing the line of the scaffolding and the rising chimney stack.
A woman spoke, her tone edged with skepticism. “When have you ever been able to tell smoke which way to blow?”
More nods followed.
Arthur paused, considering—not dismissing the question, but meeting it. “Have you ever opened a window for a summer breeze,” he asked, “and found nothing happens unless you open the door as well?”
This time, the response was immediate. Recognition. Agreement.
“Air needs a path,” he said. “Like water in a stream. Water runs downhill.” He glanced upward again. “Hot air runs up. The chimney is simply the streambed.”
Another woman folded her arms, studying him. “And this works?”
Arthur met her gaze directly. “Yes.” A beat. “And when it does, it will change the way houses are built.”
The crowd shifted closer, drawn not just by the claim, but by the certainty with which he made it.
“But as I said,” Arthur continued, easing back into motion, “winter is coming.” He nodded toward the masons. “Our friends here will build it true—and I suspect they work faster with stew and bread.” A pause. “Perhaps even ale.”
His glance slid toward Auntie. “What do you say, Auntie? Feed the lot of us—and perhaps it will influence where Master Deorwine decides to build next.” A faint smile touched his voice. “I hear the Royal Kitchen is in need of repairs.”
Auntie arched a brow, unimpressed but not unmoved. “Fine. I’ll see what I can manage.”
“There we are!” Arthur said, pleased. “A day’s work deserves a day’s meal.”
He turned then to the children, his tone shifting—lighter, quicker.
“Now. We need flat stones. Not the round ones. Over by the fallen wall.”
He pointed toward the remnants of an old Roman wall, half-buried where the storm had broken it apart. The children stirred at once.
“Who thinks they can bring the most?”
Hands shot into the air.
“I can! I can!”
“Go! Go! Go!”
They scattered in a burst of energy, racing toward the rubble. Arthur watched them go, satisfied with his Tom Sawyer impersonation. Each return trip to the work site came with a small boulder, pride, and a smile.
Amidst the excitement, one little girl paused, crouching among the debris. Her small hands moved through dirt and broken stone. Something caught the light. She paused and wiped it clean—a gold coin. She turned it over in her fingers, studying the face stamped into it, unfamiliar but unmistakably deliberate. Then she ran.
“Master Arthur! Master Arthur!”
He turned at once.
“Yes, milady?”
“I found a picture of an ugly man.” She held the coin up to him, breathless with discovery.
Laughter rippled from the nearby children. Arthur took the coin lightly, amused—at first. He turned it in the light. Letters emerged beneath the dirt. Latin. “IMP C DIOCLETIANUS”
“Imperator Caesar Diocletianus,” he murmured. “Diocletian ... you’d be disappointed in who England ends up calling its heroes.”
He crouched to the girl’s level. “Where did you find this?”
“Under the stones. By the old wall.” She pointed back toward the rubble. “There’s lots of them.”
“Lots?”
She nodded vigorously.
Suddenly, the easy showman’s energy drained from him, replaced by something sharper, more focused. He rose slowly, the coin still in his hand. Deorwine approached, drawn by the change in him.
“What do you have there?”
Arthur looked once more toward the Roman ruins, then back to the coin. “A problem.”
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Oh... Saras :(