By the authority of the candlelight lantern, the one-armed Mother Simonet made the rounds. The outhouse, the guards, kennels, to the gardens. All was and as it should be. Enough to warrant a night’s sleep without fretting the servants for some unobtainable pursuit of perfection. That was until the strutting hooves made clatter at the manor gates, which without her prompting, duly opened without cause for concern. An act none the less requiring her immediate attention. ‘Sir Bradfrey,’ she said, unapologetic as she imposed herself, willing to cross paths with the bounded steed to make herself known. ‘What brings you back so urgently? Should I be alarmed?

‘I’m afraid they’ve appointed me head of the north reinforcements, tasked with pacifying the north and hunting down the Viking threat,’ said Sir Bradfrey, his horse’s frosty breath creating a smokescreen to his wind-chilled red cheeks.

‘To finish what you started. End the Viking incursions?’ Simonet enquired.

‘Indeed. My knights will rendezvous here tomorrow. Then we will head off to Rekinvale for the winter, and if luck brings ends to end, I’ll return before next summer.’

‘Then we shall start preparations tonight,’ said Simonet as she wrapped the reins around her half-amputated arm, with full intention to lead Sir Bradfrey to his home.

‘Please, I don’t wish to burden you at this time of night,’ Bradfrey expressed.

‘Nonsense. This is your house. We do as you command, my lord.’

Bradfrey smiled warmly at her – he appreciated her straightforward hardliner nature, like a loyal friend with free reign to firmly but discretely hold him to account. The persistent reminder of the standards he expected of himself, and others needed him to be. ‘Well, I do need a squire. Someone I can trust.’

‘Of course. There are several promising sons of noble families.’

‘Preferably no one of name. I don’t need the pride and politics that come with nobility.’

‘Then I would endorse Agrippa. He stands head and shoulders above anyone in the queen’s courts and could best them all fist to fist. They may not know his name, but they know his physique.’

‘Yes, but no. I need someone literate. Whose written word I can freely substitute for my own in all my correspondence. It’s difficult enough to maintain composure in the heat of the campaign, let alone maintaining a sufficient dialogue with Vasier.’

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‘You talk of Anneliese.’

‘If no one else is suitable, then yes.’

‘A barracks is no place for a young lady, nor can she become a knight, if she can’t wield a sword.’

‘Aye, then I will take them both.’

‘In that case, I recommend you oblige her yourself.’

‘She’s still in the study?’ Bradfrey asked.

‘Every waken minute, when not preoccupied with chores.’

Across the fireplace, seated with perfect cross-legged posture, Anneliese sat upon a brown pelt of thick bear’s hide, reading at a fanatic pace in search of wisdom and escape. She was unaware of Sir Bradfrey’s soft-footed arrival into the egregiously large study that was filled with books and parchments across walls too tall for any man to reach.

When she did acknowledge his presence, she startled, ‘My lord, I apologize.’

‘No need.’

‘How can I be of service?’

‘Tell me, what are you reading?’

‘Democritus and his belief in nature and how everything comprises smaller indivisible parts.’

‘In what book? Do I have such writings in my collection?’ enquired Sir Bradfrey, able to laugh through his fatigued mind.

‘Yes, in a book that was high up. I used the ladder.’

‘Oh, of course. In my youth, I was filled with ideals of philosophy and wonder. Now, it’s just crown and coin.’

‘Well, if it pleases you, my lord, I can reiterate their works in small form for you?’

‘I’d like that.’ Bradfrey then gathered his courage with a deep inhale, shifting from reflection to imposition. ‘Your, err … Your skill with the quiver is an invaluable asset that I’m in short supply. As such, I’ve been tasked to lead the queen’s next campaign and request that you prepare your belongings.’

‘We’re leaving?’

‘Tomorrow. We’re heading north.’

‘What of Mother Simonet.’

‘I’m not needed,’ replied Simonet, her presence lingering within the dark corridors like a satellite to Sir Bradfrey’s every move. ‘He is requisitioning your skills of quiver and ink that are sincere and reliable.’

‘But, the Vikings are from the north?’

‘Aye, And I will need clear correspondence if we are to defeat them. Then, once all is done, your words will become the histories that will litter these walls. All our victories, our triumphs … so, what do you say?’

‘I will do as required, my lord.’

‘Anneliese, does your heart say run or rise?’

‘It tells me,’ said Anneliese, recalling the pillaging of Lake Corvid and the deformed face of the glowing green-axe-wielding Viking raider. Equal parts fear and anger clouded her mind. ‘It tells me I will never feel safe, so long as the Vikings threaten our people. Here, there, wherever. But beside you … I will write the histories in their blood.’

‘Don’t you worry, when we find them, I will make a desert and call it peace,’ said Sir Bradfrey. He knew he had embarrassed the stricken child, because he felt her fingertips latch like craws onto his back. Her rage-filled tears then formed falling droplets onto his sleeve.