Fayremorn

By Margot Dolgin

Leighton Chapel, the son of a wealthy London merchant, follows a king into battle. It becomes The Seven Year War. Phoebe Fox, a serving maid and his lover, waits those long years. Leighton returns with a wife, Lady Francesca. Though heartbroken, it is Phoebe who becomes the surrogate mother to their baby boy, Wynn. Sir Leighton subjects his son to a cloistered life style in Heorot Hall, a great Manor House on the Sussex Downs. In the loving hands of a skeletal staff and the long absences of a crazed father, Wynn grows into manhood. Unexpectedly he meets Tranquil Saxon (Trill). Misplaced, she has run away from Fayremorn, a nearby village. The superstitious rustics are fearful of Heorot all. The novice lovers must contend with Leighton's rage and the secret of his bizarre nocturnal visits to the crept.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 8, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469707686

Margot Dolgin

The acclaimed ALL ELSE IS SHADOW, is the first of four novels by the author, three historical fiction. WALK IN LOVE evolved from the author?s kinship to the city of her birth. The Bay and topography remain in a pervading view of another time. Her story reveals provocative details of that era. As an artist, the author has again created her own cover, ?Yerba Buena 1844.?

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

Chapter 42

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

To Andra and Makoto, my daughter and son-in-law.

With all my love.

To my sweet cousins Anita and Veronica.

Bless you.

BRING ME YOU

As you leave towards distant skies

To step on ancient shores

Where wonder lies.

Take me

Though we’re far apart

Take me

Take me in your heart.

Let me walk with you along the way

Through spring green hills

Villages and seaside towns

Our kiss reflecting in a clear blue bay.

Through morning mist and starlit nights

See my face

Feel my touch—my mouth

My soft embrace.

Then bring me back the gift of you

Bring me you

Bring me you.

Margot Dolgin

CHAPTER 1

London 1756

Phoebe Fox, the pretty fifteen-year-old serving maid, lie alone in the young Master’s oak carved bedstead. This is where Leighton Chapel had ordered her to wait for him, naked. Restlessly she tossed and sighed beneath the soft down comforter, two warming pans having tempered the shock of cold sheets. The heavy red velvet bed hangings were tightly drawn to ward off the chill that yet seeped into the huge dark paneled room.

Though a log was ablaze and crackling in the fireplace, further cutting the cold, Phoebe trembled from the ambivalence of her emotions. It was a combination of fierce desire and despair. The interminable lying in wait took on a torturous stabbing in her stomach. Each throb of her heart pounded away the seconds until they were hours.

Even from within the height of the four-story St. James estate, she could catch the sounds of those celebrating below. There was the uproar of voices, of laughter and spontaneous song. It was almost dawn when the revelry ceased. At last Leighton would be coming to her?

For all the merriment, the night’s festivity was truly a farewell. Tomorrow he would be going off to war. How ironic that those final hours in his father’s house would be ravenously spent with her, Phoebe Fox, one of the least significant members of the household, yet to Leighton the most desirable. One smoldering look from this handsome youth and Phoebe was instantly and insatiably his.

He had stepped into her prosaic little world and given it resplendence. What difference did it make that many a young domestic before her had unrepentantly jumped into the same abyss of deluded joy? This was her own private abandon, and no one could take it from her. No sharp demeaning stares nor ridicule or gossip could dissuade her, not even Mrs. Mead’s incessant moralizing.

Condemning Phoebe’s affair with the young Master seem to be the cook’s vicarious concern. Once Mrs. Mead managed to corner her and commenced to rave there was no respite from the woman’s shrill scolding.

You’re here to earn your keep with good, honest work. Not to be fornicating the Master’s son! Your poor dead mum must be spinning in her grave. Haven’t you a mite of shame? And looking so innocent and all.

’Tant so. Phoebe meekly mumbled.

Don’t be telling me. We’ve got eyes. It’s no secret that you’ve been seen sneaking into his chamber at all hours of the night and day, like we’re all blind or something. You’re a shameless wench! That’s what you are! When did ye get the notion that you were placed here in the household for whoring? The Parish brought you here out of respect for your poor dead mum. Would you rather have been sent to slave in some workhouse? Instead of being modest and grateful, you resort to whoring and day dreaming and humming away at your work like you haven’t got a care in the world. You’re a love sick little trollop. What if you find yourself with a bastard? What will you be singing about then?

Phoebe’s eyes brightened with the possibility. Then they would be forever bound, blessed with a love child. Often her dear mum told Phoebe that she had been born of such a union, that her father was a royal. Although both she and her mother proudly carried the name of Fox, the romantic father figure her mother continually fantasized never emerged. Still, Phoebe Fox recited her own name with pride, as though the mere mention of it was capable of giving her a modicum of worth.

At ten Phoebe found herself an orphan apprenticed to the Parish, a place where her mum had long toiled. Heartbroken she remained there for two years under the severe rule of the clergy. Without her mother, or anyone else in the world, she felt reduced to nothing. Still she carried her head high and held fast to her dreams.

In coming to the opulence of the Chapels’ St. James estate, Phoebe Fox beguiled herself into believing that her mother’s lost hopes could be somehow realized into her own lackluster life.

Following his term at Eton, Leighton spent a frivolous year on the Continent, taking The Grand Tour. This completed his education as a gentleman. He returned home to be immediately taken by Phoebe’s virginal beauty. During the interim of his studies and travels, that skinny ragged little girl sent from the Parish had blossomed into someone quite delectable.

Phoebe’s vulnerability was no match for the young Master’s charm. She deluded herself into believing that it was not beyond all probability that one of affluence could fall in love and marry a servant. She had heard of a man that wed his wife’s maid shortly after the madam’s demise. Though born of great wealth, Leighton was by no means a Royal. It was most evident that he wanted Phoebe. Unfortunately, the young Master’s insatiable passion was sadly misconstrued as the advent of something miraculous.

Once while being unmercifully berated by Mrs. Mead, Phoebe foolishly blurted out her fantasy. The older woman almost choked on her saliva from the temerity of the thought. Must Phoebe be reminded that she was one of the lowest in an exceedingly long list of servants?

Mrs. Mead included herself in the higher echelon of domestics and therefore entitled to a Mrs. before her name. In reality she had never been married, or bedded. Even as a young women she was considered quite homely. She was tall and thickset with a hawk-like nose and eyes, incredibly crooked teeth and a fixed scowl that deepened with age. A pleasant disposition might well have revealed an inner beauty. Her acrid tongue consistently got the better of her, especially to the likes of someone as young and pretty as Phoebe Fox. Yet Mrs. Mead had shamelessly flirted with several butlers along the way, plying them with her special dishes. They had relished her food, but that was all they could stomach. There was no denying that she was an excellent cook, having been employed for twenty years with the Chapels. ‘There’s an art to cookery,’ she would brag, lauding her lofty position over Phoebe’s lowly station. Mrs. Mead insisted that women were the better cooks. Although barely able to read, she could rattle off the women authors of the best selling cookbooks of the day. Most of which had long winded chapters on deportment, with dire headings as CHASTITY and TEMPTATIONS FROM THE MASTER. It was quite common for men of the house to sexually violate the female servants. Attractive female domestics were particularly vulnerable, which excluded Mrs. Mead. Phoebe had little recourse for this sanctimonious old spinster. She could care less. She felt herself the most fortunate girl in the world to have captured the young Master’s fancy, for he exemplified everything she had dreamed.

But, A luv ‘im. Phoebe would postulate. A luv ‘im an ‘e–

’E! Mrs. Mead yelled back in mimicry. How dare you address the young Master in such a personal way? Even worse, you speak of luv. You’ve got to be out of your senses. You’re a poor simple wench. Why would the young Master luv the likes of you, and you’re actually believing him? What a dolt! Phoebe, the Titaness, the moon, she mocked.

’Tis the meanin’! she snapped back. "Ye’ve been eavesdrop-

55)

pin.

Not so. I have more important duties than to listen in on your dirty affairs. It so happens I was talking to the head housekeeper when we both saw you enter the young Master’s chamber with a pitcher of water no less. We both heard him as clear as day. Spouting poetry he was. Calling you his Titaness. Imagine that. La! You want to know what the help is calling you?

Phoebe lowered her eyes. It hurt her to learn that Leighton’s sweet appellation had become a source of ridicule.

To be sure, Mrs. Mead expounded. Your duties are downstairs in the kitchen. I nor anyone else has told you otherwise.

But, but ‘e–

’E? spat Mrs. Mead. There you go again. You mean Master Leighton don’t you? It pleasures him otherwise. Is that what you’re trying to say? You little fool! That rich-blooded lad is filling your head with swill and you’re swallowing it all up. Titaness indeed, she scorned, Phoebe’s a common name for a common gal, nothing more. You fancy yourself more handsome than anyone else. Well you’re not. Stop daydreaming and take a good look at yourself. You’re the wench that labors in the back of the kitchen cleaning everyone else’s scum. And don’t you dare forget your place!

’Tant so. Phoebe protested. She was no longer that little scullery maid in her soiled apron and cap bent over piles of pots and dishes in the back of the kitchen. A benevolent old butler found her sobbing into her scalding red palms. He took pity upon the skinny orphan girl with the saddest blue eyes he had ever seen. To Mrs. Mead’s chagrin he saw that Phoebe was bathed and attired in a uniform suitable for working in the kitchen as well as acting as a serving maid. Though a step upward and a relief from the abject drudgery, she was not totally free from the cook’s condemnation

Master Leighton was raised to court a high born lady, not some shameless little hussy ripe for whoring. I’ve known that one since he came hollering from his poor mum’s womb. I watched him sprout into a lusty lad, chasing his share of maids through the house, as well as right here in the kitchen. Many a time I’ve caught him swiping at the rear of some screeching young thing, then pulling her into the stillroom to feel up her skirts. I had to go after that one with a broomstick, and rightly so. Boyish prank indeed. He’s always been up to having a jolly good time. Don’t think you’re anyone special, because you’re not. He’ll very well know who she is when the time comes, and it won’t be a slut.

Mrs. Mead might well have saved her breath, for Phoebe’s sudden silence, was neither shame nor submission, but reverie. What could that bellowing old hag, nor anyone else, know of Leighton and she, of the sweetness and sensuality that was theirs? Those luminous eyes, how they devoured her. Yet not always as one might believe. There were moments of tenderness and delight, of meditation and even melancholy.

Phoebe would rush to him at the slightest request, if only to sit silently by, as he would impatiently pace and expound upon thoughts she could not quite comprehend. When suddenly he would cease to speak and seize her, she would fully give of herself in whatever way he wanted.

What she could not perceive was that Leighton was in love with an image not yet realized. At times it took shape in the childlike face cupped in his hands, heart shaped and pale with startling azure eyes and hair so flaxen that it shone white by moonlight. There were instances when she moved him in a manner that was more than passion. This lovely illiterate with her adoring look and calm acquiescence was the perfect elixir to his tempestuousness. He would rant and she would listen with a patience that was awe-inspiring. Still she was incapable of recognizing his outbursts for what they truly were, the restless tantrums of a pampered young man of twenty.

Leighton Chapel was the only child of an English couple of the better class. His father was a London Merchant of immense wealth. One of the untitled nobility whose riches gave him undo advantages without the bother of belonging to the rank.

Leighton was conceived when his parents were in mid-life. The shock of suddenly being able to produce a child at such a late date was exhilaration beyond belief. They had been given a son and heir, all in one. Their hopes and indulgences were immediately heaped upon their precious offspring. They denied him nothing, save the freedom to be himself.

He grew into manhood incredibly spoiled as well as stifled. His doting parents failed to see someone other than themselves in their progeny. The barrier that sadly stood between them was not caused by lack of love, but by lack of recognition.

So it was that a hapless serving maid, and not themselves, who shared Leighton’s deepest confidences. Confidences that often time made little sense to her. His words could become lyrics. He would soar into heights of profound emotionalism, so carried by his own visions that often time it impelled tears. Phoebe would cry with him, not knowing why, only that she felt his pain. Her limited perception saw only beauty in his bizarre moodiness. He spoke of other horizons, of heroic adventures and conquests; and always of love. An ephemeral love very much apart from Phoebe. She could not guess that his rhapsodizing was the prelude to a wanderlust that would never cease.

It was seventeen hundred and fifty-six and George II, the German King of England had made an alliance with Frederick II of Prussia (Frederick the Great). George’s strong emotional ties with the land of his ancestry suddenly took precedence. He was a King absorbed with military affairs and little else. Except for his precious Guards which he did not hesitate sending into battle. The cause and safety of Hanover was at stake. To bring the Prussian forces up to the huge numbers needed, Frederick enlisted men from abroad. The one ‘n’ in Hanover came across more English than the proper German spelling of Hannover. Frederick detested the German language, insisting that everyone converse in French.

Hanover was a battle secondary to Leighton’s own declaration of freedom. He had cut the parental cord. With little thought, and much after thought, he became a gentleman volunteer, one of whom gravitated toward the cavalry. As many an English gentleman, he was an adept equestrian, horses having been an important part of his life.

What at first seemed like a magnanimous gesture quickly took on the tones of vanity. The donning of that beautifully tailored uniform was in itself a metamorphosis.

On first seeing him, Phoebe’s heart seemed to stop. He looked more handsome than ever, a beautiful youth suddenly having emerged a man. Soon he would be leaving her to follow a war she could not begin to understand. A war that might very well take his life.

She could barely keep her eyes off of him, shirking her duties as she silently watched from hidden shadows throughout the house. There had always been a certain swagger to his walk. Suddenly he stood taller and prouder, like one having been born and bred into the military.

In reality his life had been totally permissive, considering Eton’s discipline. One thing he retained from that period in his schooling was courage. This above all would serve him well not only for battle but for the severe Prussian drilling that was yet to come.

He soon learned to wear the red coat of his uniform with the skirt turned back, as was the fad of the officers. The black and gold- laced cocked hat becomingly suited the shape of his handsome cleanshaven face, his eyes arrogantly gleaming. His long dark blonde hair was tucked beneath a white powdered-wig worn back in a queue.

It pleased him to know that his height was in keeping with the so- called army of giants Frederick inherited from his father. Frederick William I had been obsessed with the idea that his soldiers were at least six feet tall. He took particular delight in reviewing his Potsdam Guards. They were meticulously uniformed men of remarkable height, recruited as well as kidnapped from all of Europe. Leighton more than measured up, as did the magnificent white horse that he would ride into battle. The animal’s elaborate hardware was a symbolically important part of the arms of Hanover, an emblem that was also on the headdress and coat of arms.

Leighton was so enamored with his new image that he never failed to catch his own reflection in a mirror or when riding past the glass of store windows. He was stared upon wherever he went, particularly by women.

His pompous attitude pretended to be bravery. After all, wasn’t England facing unbelievable odds? There were the combined forces of Russia, Sweden, France, Germany and Austria against Prussia and England. England, who was already beset with problems in the Colonies and whose victories were on the sea not land.

There was more weeping to be had than both Phoebe and Leighton’s parents could possibly perceive. Who could guess that the war Master Leighton grandly embarked upon was to last for seven impossible years?

Tonight there was one last festivity that would send him away. The elation was contrary to his parent’s heavy hearts. As proud as they pretended to be none of it made sense to them. He was their only child and a son. How could they relinquish him to a war with such enormous odds? And why did he want to go?

Just as the pitch of night began to give way to a dim purple those last farewells were followed by a deadly silence. Phoebe’s heart and breath were caught up by the uneven rhythm of Leighton’s steps trudging up the four circular staircases that led up to his bed chamber. Abruptly the door tore open then slammed. She listened breath abated, aware of his every movement. There was the heaviness of his

boots being hurled across the room, then a succession of impatient grunts as he wrestled to unclothe himself.

She lie breathless caught up by the dull thud of his bare feet moving across the thick carpet to the bed. Suddenly the curtains were rent back. His nude sinewy body loomed over her. His eyes drew upon her even through the semi-darkness. He stood there a moment studying her long blonde hair spilling like silk across the pillow. He ripped away the comforter and swept her up into his arms, sliding her nakedness against his own. His mouth and tongue found hers. She could taste the bitterness of alcohol mixed with the moisture of his ravenous kisses.

The twisting grip of his hand caught in her hair. They fell back upon the bed in a tangled embrace. His breath and tongue teased her ear. His small bites and wanton kisses found her mouth and throat, then slipped down to the tautness of her small erect nipples, sucking, biting until it coerced her to softly cry out with pain. He was taking her more desperately than usual, separating her thighs with his own, leaping astride to thrust himself deep inside, his hands tightly manipulating her hips.

Always she had yielded to his every need. Whatever he wanted she gave, with her mouth, her hands, with the erotic suppleness of her beautiful young body. Her ultimate pleasure was giving him pleasure.

Quite suddenly his self-serving movements became tender. For the first time Leighton was acting the lover instead of the demanding young Master. The weight of his body was lightened by the brace of his elbows. She could feel him incredibly hard pulsating inside of her, yet surprisingly a sweeter side emerged. He was gently kissing, fondling her in a manner she had never known, titillating her with his every movement and touch. He was delicately probing and finding her most vulnerable spots, sighing with pleasure when she reacted with ecstatic little gasps and groans.

At last he was certain that she was ready for him, totally rampant and frenzied with passion. Again his wildness took hold and she welded with him, all the while writhing fiercely as one. They seem to erupt synchronously, their cries emanating as a single voice in the silence of the ensuing daylight.

Phoebe had broken into tears of shock and joy. Her body yet reverberating from the jubilant jolts that continued to climax even after Leighton had collapsed upon her.

He continued to hold her, stroking her hair, soothing her with small kisses upon the face and eyelids. He had never known her to cry or to tremble so violently in his arms.

His tenderness, his solicitousness made her feel so thoroughly loved and secure. Countless times before he had touched and tasted and scrutinized every measure of her, but always in a way that was for his own gratification. After all, she was only a serving girl, quite beautiful and delectable but a nobody to be used.

Leighton suddenly found it exciting to experience Phoebe’s passion as he was hotly ravishing her. Her tears were a testament to his prowess, to his ultimate mastery over her.

Poor beguiled Phoebe imagined herself more in love with him than ever. She was hopelessly and irrevocably bound to Leighton for all time. No man in her entire life had made love to her before him. No man had loved her, or hugged her or spoken kindly to her, even as a child, save for that genial butler. Tonight Leighton Chapel was all those things.

Her arms slipped tightly about his neck, her warm rapturous kisses finding his mouth again and again. She was overcome with a feeling of urgency. Too soon he would be gone.

Already dawn had invaded the sanctum of his room and Leighton was fast asleep, breathing heavily in her arms. She studied his face, beautifully sculpted features, especially his full moist sensual mouth. Softly her fingertips traced its perfectly curved outline.

Me God! A luv ye, Leighton, she sobbed knowing he was beyond hearing her words.

She would not have dared express her feelings if he were awake or address him by his name. Perhaps somewhere deep within his subconscious he would grasp her words and carry them with him through battle.

Ye be safe now me luv. Come back t’ me. Please come back t’ me.

CHAPTER

2

Phoebe cursed the stain of blood on her shift. Only a few days had passed since Leighton’s departure. Already she knew there was no baby inside her belly.

For almost a year they had been lovers. She was fourteen when he took her. Except, it was not a taking but a giving on her part. If there had been a sense of shame or fear or pain that first time, she could not recall. She had been too overwhelmed with love to remember anything less.

Leighton consistently satiated himself without giving thought to the possibility of a baby. Why worry? For the privileged class those matters were easily taken care of with little concern for the young women in question.

Nothing could dissuade Phoebe. She was convinced otherwise. She longed for Leighton’s child, a son so bright and beautiful that it could not help but draw upon his love so strongly that it would forever join them.

Suddenly he was gone. To some God forsaken battlefield on foreign soil, to possibly die.

There was no baby inside of her. No promise of a little boy that would bear his image. As devastated as she was, she had to repress the tears and silently stand by as his anguished parents kissed him farewell. How could she possibly tell them? Or somehow, in the interim of that awful war, become worthy of their son?

Having been sent here from the Parish was in itself a mammoth step upward. In truth it was nothing more than a meager position. Yet here in the splendor of this St. James estate is where she had truly come alive, where she had experienced the enormity of love. After Leighton what else could life possibly offer her? There was a chimney sweep that eyed her longingly, as well as a rotund older baker. And there was a particular steward that was kinder than the rest of the staff.

Indeed she was noticed with her flawless skin, white gold hair, sky-blue eyes and provocative mouth. Her tiny waist and full-blown breasts were apparent even in the most humble garb. Many a fantasizing male eye traced her long shapely limbs though her skirts as she swiftly moved about her work, or gathered the hem to facilitate freedom in her chores.

Only Leighton had seen her limbs and fondled them and felt them tightly wrapped about him during untold erotic moments. By every measure Phoebe Fox was a beautiful, sensual young woman. Who could ever truly know but Leighton? Her lowly station in life had caused her to become terribly withdrawn. She rarely smiled. When her mother was alive they had laughed together. When she died something spontaneous in Phoebe seem to have also died, until Leighton. Now that he was gone she was engulfed with loneliness. Only memories remained. Pitiful poignant memories devoid of promise.

Whenever possible Phoebe would steal into Leighton’s bedchamber and recall every detail of every moment they shared together. Even as a child, upon first seeing him, she fell madly in love. It was the first day she was brought here by the Parish. She was twelve years old and he seventeen. He had come home for the holidays from Eton. She had gasped at the sight of the young Master, at once dropping her eyes, mortified by her own insignificance. Such a sad skinny little girl demeaned by everyone in her life save for her sweet caring mum who was forever gone. There was no one in the entire world to love her to sustain her hopes and dreams, until she laid eyes upon Leighton. She would lie in the dark of her tiny room and visualize being beautiful and high born and thoroughly loved by Leighton. Phoebe was convinced that it was a guiding gift from her dead mum.

How easy it was to be beguiled by this handsome passionate youth that eventually chose her as his lover.

Having first lived surrounded by the filth and stench of the poor and then the bleakness of the Parish, Phoebe was in instant awe of the opulence of this great house with its magnificent garden. The enormous staff garbed in their clean fine uniforms was at once intimidating. Phoebe appeared not only raggedly dressed but also dirty. Her head hung low in shame when she meant to carry it high as her mum had taught her. She arrived there a sad little girl with no one seeming to care that her heart was broken. Or that she indeed had a heart that ached for her dead mum. When harshly addressed she could barely choke back the tears, which she repressed until she fell upon the cot of her tiny room beyond the back stairs. That kindly old butler, now expired, was the only one to offer her compassion. With Leighton Chapel Phoebe’s heart soared with both love and joy. For the first time in her life and perhaps the last.

Now his bedchamber was empty and frightfully still. Tenderly her hands would glide across the taut brocaded spread. She envisioned their bodies writhing naked through the rumpled bedding, especially that last night together. Again and again she relived the feel of him, his devouring mouth, his sinewy body enveloping her, and above all, the tenderness. Tears ran down her face. To Phoebe it was much more than passion. It was the consummate closeness to another human being, the enormity of love as well as desire.

She would linger to ruffle through a richly leather bound book with its gilt edged pages. Pages filled with words she could not begin to comprehend. The letters looked like foreboding symbols that made no sense, but might well mean something beautiful or even dire. Dire? Not Leighton’s exquisite books. If only she could read them as he did. Where and how could one learn to read and write and speak properly? It seemed like an impossible fete for one in such a lowly station.

She took Leighton’s graceful peacock feathered quill and clumsily gripped it in her hand in a manner that tried to emulate him. She sighed to think he held this very quill. She pretended to write. How was it possible for one to express feeling into words? Why wasn’t she able to at least write the most minimal of thoughts? Even her own name. She was an illiterate, a stupid simple wretch; the likes of which Mrs. Mead had jeered. Only in the loneliness of Leighton’s chamber was Phoebe so overwhelmingly aware of her own inadequacies.

Leighton was gone from her forever, never to look back. He had blithely wandered into another world.

CHAPTER

3

Sussex Downs

The narrow dirt streets were jarred by the horrendous thud of horse’s hooves, as both the cavalry and foot soldiers passed through the tiny village of Fayremorn.

The convoy, escorting an endless row of wagons filled the outskirts. Supply wagons, meal wagons, and those filled with mountains of hay and oats for the horses.

The slow-paced rustics were in a state from the shock of soldiers suddenly arriving en masse on the way to war. The Golden Gorse, Fayremorn’s solitary Inn, was