Thirteen suns had swung through the sky and sunk beneath the mountain caps since the thane Calan had disavowed the crown. The King’s messenger had ridden into the valley to deliver the decree that the town should send twenty men of fighting age to march in the ranks against the English. Back had the messenger been sent with an unprecedented simple refusal – no men would be sent south. Of the last contribution of muscle, sword and blood twenty strong, only one had returned less a leg. The harvest that followed was pathetic without enough men to reap, and the bitter winter that year drowned the village in sadness as all went hungry.
Calan had sworn to his wife that this year would be lived for themselves.
He knew retribution would come, but the form in which it would materialise would remain a surprise. The King did not mete justice openly; known from sea to sea for his literal backstabbing approach to vengeance. Calan had not slept soundly since the day he had dispatched the messenger back down the hillside. He awoke at every distant animal call, every rustling of wind in branch and leaves, and grew suspicious of even familiar faces around him.