The Slaughter Stone

By Anna Boyland

The Slaughter Stone

Owain Glyndŵr's rebellion rages... and no secret is safe.

A story of medieval Wales and a family caught up in the tumultuous events of the Glyndŵr revolt.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Paperwitch Publishing
• Release date: May 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781739178413

Book preview

The Slaughter Stone

The Slaughter Stone

Anna Boyland

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Paperwitch Publishing

Copyright © 2023 by Anna Boyland

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2023

Cover design copyright © 2023 by Olivia Barnes

ISBN 978-1-7391784-0-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Paperwitch Publishing 

[e-mail]

The Slaughter Stone

For Olivia and Joseph

and all the forgotten people

Contents

Wales 1405

Usk 1405

Prologue

Part One - Pestilence

Chapter one

Chapter two

Part Two - Love kept secret

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Part Three - Fortuna's wheel

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Chapter twenty-four

Chapter twenty-five

Part Four - Rebellion

Chapter twenty-six

Chapter twenty-seven

Chapter twenty-eight

Chapter twenty-nine

Chapter thirty

Chapter thirty-one

Part Five - Within a forest dark

Chapter thirty-two

Chapter thirty-three

Chapter thirty-four

Chapter thirty-five

Chapter thirty-six

Chapter thirty-seven

Chapter thirty-eight

Chapter thirty-nine

Chapter forty

Chapter forty-one

Chapter forty-two

Chapter forty-three

Chapter forty-four

Part Six - Truth, nature, knowledge

Chapter forty-five

Chapter forty-six

Chapter forty-seven

Chapter forty-eight

Part Seven - Fire and blood

Chapter forty-nine

Chapter fifty

Chapter fifty-one

Chapter fifty-two

Chapter fifty-three

Chapter fifty-four

Chapter fifty-five

Chapter fifty-six

Part Eight - Not in the roll of common men

Chapter fifty-seven

Chapter fifty-eight

Chapter fifty-nine

Epilogue

Historical notes

Wales 1405

Usk 1405

Prologue

In some dreams, I have seen visions of hell, the tortures, brandings, the bodies torn apart by Satan’s demons, pricked, burned, frozen, and crushed by rocks. 

But in this dream, I am something small, inside a vast space. The blackness is total. Then red shadows, like the insides of my eyelids. Sharp blades, covered in sticky blood, the crushing of broken bones, cracking and splintering, like a monstrous butcher dismembering a pig’s carcass. Sound echoes inside my head. Thumps, thuds, screams. 

The screams are my own.

A red glow appears in front of me, and a figure emerges – this is the worst part, the clutch of fear at my innards as it approaches. I try to pull back but cannot move. I know this figure, somehow, but I cannot remember who it is, and it is terrifying.

It is black, huge, and human-shaped, but there is a dark blank space where its eyes should be and a gaping mouth. It raises its arms above me, but there are no fingers, only blades. The sounds grow louder, screams, shouts, sobbed prayers. I sense the force in the huge arm that will strike at me any minute - any time now. I cringe as it strikes and I feel the blade swooping down.

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Then I wake, drenched in sweat and tears.

My relief at finding that it is just a dream is marred by the realisation that it is no ordinary dream and that it must have some horrific meaning. Each time it returns, it eats away at me for weeks, haunting me through the day and making me dread sleeping at night. 

I have been having the same nightmare since I was tiny. Morgan would comfort me in our bed at Bryn Derwen, stroking my hair. There, it’s just a dream, just a dream...

In my mind, I have come to associate the dream with Morgan. Does it relate to him in some way? I cannot think about that; it is too terrible.

The only people I have told about it are my mother and Mair. I wanted to tell Father Dafydd, in case a demon was possessing me, but mother warned me not to. Father Dafydd had a kind heart, but he needed no reminders of the unconventional circumstances of my birth.

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Part One - Pestilence

...The early ornaments of black death, cinders of the peelings of the cockle weed, a mixed multitude, a black plague like halfpence, like berries. It is a grievous thing that they should be on a fair skin.

Ieuan Gethin, Welsh poet, 1349

Chapter one

William, 1369

On the day that William’s father left Usk for Bridgwater, a Welshman selling fish collapsed coughing bright blood onto the cobbles of the market square. The townsfolk railed and shouted about the Welsh, the filthy scoundrels, bringing pestilence to their town.

Five days later his father returned.

William heard his heavy footstep in the street outside, and his hand on the door latch. From where he crouched, he heard a rat scutter into a corner. No fire was lit and the only light came from the few remaining rushlights. The door opened and his father stood in the doorway, then the smell hit him and he stepped back. The shutters had been closed for days, to stop the stink of disease from reaching other folk. His mother did not make a sound, simply staring from where she lay on the settle with glassy eyes, reaching for his father with a hand like a fluttering moth, the black lumps shiny and taut on her chest and neck.

At last, his father went to his wife’s side and realised she had little time left. He found the bodies of William’s brothers lying unwashed on their soiled pallets upstairs. 

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He called his youngest son.Boy! Where are you?

William sniffled from the corner.

Why didn’t you save them, you little piece of shit! Why them and not you!

His mother died during the night. Then his father collapsed with weak bowels and a heaving chest, fever racking his body. William tried timidly to give him water and a feather pillow, but he roared at him and threw it on the floor.

A fresh breeze sprang up, rattling the window shutters. William had no sense of time, was it days or weeks since he had eaten the last bread and cheese?

The priest’s workload had increased tenfold having to see so many other stricken families. His acolyte came instead, clutching his cross and viaticum tightly, and glancing at William to check whether a seven-year-old could tell that he could not recite all of the dying person’s Interrogations in the correct order.

Edwin Osborne – can you hear me? Do you believe in the holy scriptures?

His father’s eyes blazed and his mouth moved but no sound came.

Do you realise that you have offended God? His father shook his head, sweat plastering his hair to his swollen, purple-mottled face.

Will you – will you amend if the Lord grants you more time? The cleric’s voice rose in response to the dying man’s struggles.

The cords in his father’s neck stood out as he tried to sit

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up, and then fell back exhausted.

Will you make all satisfaction...

The sparse rushlight flame guttered in a sudden draught. His father stopped moving, eyes staring at William. The clerk held a feather in front of his father’s slack mouth to check for a living breath. It did not move. Uncertainly, he began to pack his things. Then his father suddenly leapt upwards, grasped the acolyte’s robe, glaring and pointing at William. Boy- he croaked. Farm, go there... Keep it, God’s sake keep it....

He fell back and the last breath escaped from him as if it was relieved to be free.

Tears poured down William’s face, and he felt glad. Unburdened. Curses or casual blows were the only things his father had ever given him. The young priest mumbled his prayers, and William could not have cared less about his father’s last wishes or any pox-ridden farm. He hoped that his father was on his way to hell.

He had become a plague orphan, and rejoiced.

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Chapter two

William, 1389

Usk

The alehouse was small, dark and reeked of stale beer and farmers’ sweat. If William turned to look out of the wooden window he would see the wet earth of Twyn Square, and the market stallholders clearing their baskets and hurdles away onto their carts to go home in the thin rain, and the townsfolk sweeping the animal manure from the square into the gutters. It had been a wet and miserable market day. He did not look around though; intent on his thoughts, he frowned into the thin foam of the beer.

The other customers in the Pen Ceffyl laughed and shared jokes, but avoided the morose merchant in the corner, who carried a cloud of disquiet around with him like a swarm of angry flies. He drained his blackjack and shouted at the young serving girl, who was afraid of him, but brought more ale.

A small figure appeared in front of him, wearing a soiled apron: the woman who served and cleaned at the alehouse.

William Osborne? Hob wants you. He’s dying.

Who the hell is Hob?

Friend of your father. Come now.

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She led him up the narrow stairs of the inn, and into the tiny room let to travellers, bare except for a wooden pallet bed, a stool and an upturned half barrel that served as a table. Hob’s few possessions were strewn in the corners. There was a faint smell of excrement. William’s eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Hob lay beneath a thin woollen blanket, staring out of the window at the trees blowing on the castle hill. He turned and stared, with eyes tinged yellow.

You look like your father.

William had been told this before. It did not please him.

Why did you want to see me?

I kept the priest away for as long as possible… Hob said in a voice like sandpaper. I was hoping that it was not yet my time for Purgatory... but there’s a lump growing in my chest cutting off my breath…

William was irritated. He hated any kind of sickness.

Will, I worked for your father. He was - not a good man, but... he was kind to me in his way...

Yes?

Hob’s breath sucked in and out like a bellows. There’s some money, lad. And something else. He clutched at the little wooden crucifix at his throat. I need to confess it, but I don’t think I can tell the priest, it’s…it’s too bad.

What was the old fool rambling on about? William struggled to be patient. I’m listening. You can pretend I’m the priest.

As William sat by his bedside, wheezing and with grating words, Hob began.

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***

"It was twenty years ago. We were in Bridgewater, the year the plague returned. We made the journey every couple of months, across the river to Chepstow, your father had an arrangement, to avoid Bristol port customs... with the harbourmaster and some old friends… four dozen casks of best French wines in the boat, for the Welsh gentry tables. We heard that pestilence raged in Bristol, and no one was going into the city or across the Severn on the Beachley ferry unless they were mad.

We were drinking in the Dove, by the harbour. I always liked the painting outside the inn; the white dove bringing a green leaf back to the ark, thought it was a good sign. Inside though, it was a dim and depressing place, people in there looked as if they would slit their mothers’ throats.

This rich man came in, English…two hefty guards with him and a couple of monks, one old and one too young for a beard. They carried a heavy box about two feet square…didn’t let it out of their sight. Of course, that just made your old man and every other crook in the place more interested. They asked for a room and ate a meal. I caught your father’s eye and started to listen to their talk…the young monk was worried about the delay.

He said, ‘This is an ungodly place.’

‘We must wait for the harbourmaster to send word,’ said Sir Rich.

Some of our boys had a bit too much ale… The bench overturned and your father shouted at them for spilling ale on his new boots. I apologised to the travellers for our drunkenness and noticed the nervous way that the young monk was touching the box.

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‘Got a boat, have you?’ I asked.

‘We were supposed to leave from Bristol but came here because of the sickness. We are expecting word about our boat to Wales,’ the man answered, ‘at any time now.’

Your father said, ‘It can be difficult to get out of here. The ship’s masters go with the highest bidders.’

And I remember then… your father sneezed loudly and sprayed snot all over the table, and the others backed away from him.

A little later they all went upstairs with their box to their sleeping room.

The next morning we loaded up and got the boat ready. The travellers stood at the inn doorway, still waiting for an outgoing ship. Their guard sat on a capstan... grey-faced and shaking in his cloak. The old monk was wringing his gnarled hands and fretting loudly.

‘Yes, I do know how important this is,’ said Rich man, ‘The Abbot of Clairvaux himself employed me, that’s why we have an armed guard, that’s why we came to Portsmouth, that’s why we galloped pell-mell in the dark across bloody England to get here, and that’s why we’re sneaking into Wales, so that the Abbot of Llantarnam can get his precious bloody box!’

The old monk drew himself to his full small height and glared up at the man, and said something about the ‘Lord’s errand.’… Your father jerked his head towards them and winked at me.

A bit later Sir wandered over to our ship. Maybe the poorly-painted eye of God on the prow made him choose us. Your father offered to get them to Chepstow by nightfall, gave him his word that he would guarantee their safe passage… God forgive us..."

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Hob stopped and took some wheezing breaths; he asked William to pass him a wooden cup and took some sips of weak ale. The room had grown dark, but William did not light any rush lights, and Hob did not ask. He lay back and continued.

"A sharp wind buffeted us from the west as we turned into the Bristol Channel... Wales was a fuzzy grey mound on the horizon. Our cog had a little flat-roofed cabin built into the stern, the young monk sat huddled with the chest inside. The old one prayed to St Nicholas for a safe journey, and spoke gently with the crewmen on deck, hands in his sleeves. Sir and his guard sat at the cabin door, watching everything. But the other guard crouched beneath a sack nearby, retching from time to time into the slate-coloured sea. One of our men was also ailing, grey-faced and shaking.

‘What have you got in there anyway, Brother? It seems like a mighty heavy box,’ we said to the old monk.

He crossed himself, ‘It is an errand for the Lord, that is all I can say.’

The wind dropped slightly and the boat slowed. The guard started to shake ... lay on his side on the deck… filmy sweat on his face. Pinch pushed him over and then we saw his neck – saw the pus-filled lump the size of a hen’s egg.

‘Plague!’ he shouted, ‘He has the plague!’

The monks protested as we threw him overboard, but Rich man shrugged… said he was beyond our help anyway. We took off his belt and sword and tossed them at Sir’s feet, then hauled his limp body over the rail.

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‘And him,’ shouted your father, kicking our other crewman, who was huddled on the deck under a blanket. ‘Get him off this ship.’

Neither man had time to scream, but only splashed feebly once or twice, then disappeared beneath the murky waves.

The old monk gripped his crucifix and knelt to pray fervently in the place the sick men had lain. Your father was angry, and cursed them for bringing disease on board.

Sir said, ‘Your word was to carry us safely to Chepstow. It is unfortunate that illness has accompanied us, and I am sorry for the trouble we have caused you, but I cannot allow you to distress the holy Brothers so. It is – dishonourable.’

Your father just sneered and spat at his feet.

The ship was being borne gently into the Severn Estuary on the rising tide, helped by a gentle breeze. Our lanterns lit up the dusk as the water changed to a muddy soup. Gulls squealed around us as we passed the Flat and Steep islands. The young brother had to piss, and he asked the guard to take his place inside the cabin. Outside, we watched Sir’s eyelids droop, lulled by the gentle movement of the boat.

I saw my chance…kicked the dagger from his hand. It skidded yards away across the deck, he tried to get to his feet, sword in hand, but we pinned him down. Digger took his own sword from him and plunged it into his stomach. His hands clutched at the blood pouring from his tunic front. The young brother tried to pull us away, but a punch from your father broke his jaw and sent him crashing to the deck. We barged through the cabin doors…the guard was waiting for us and ran his sword straight into the chest of the man next to me, but I knocked him down. He managed to get his dagger to my

18

throat, but then more men arrived, and forced him to the floor. My boot smashed into his head, and my knife opened his throat.

The old monk was wailing, ‘Hell! Hell and damnation await you! The relics in the box are Saint Antony’s! Terrible sin is on your souls, stop now! Oh Lord and Saint Antony, please stop these demons! Strike them with your wrath- they are wicked, wicked!’

‘Someone shut that damned monk up!’ shouted your father, and we grabbed the old man and knocked his head against the mast, splitting his skull like an egg. The young monk suddenly leapt up with Sir’s dagger and slashed it across Pinch’s neck. The monk looked horrified at what he had done… at the blood spurting onto his hands, and his grey habit. We picked him up and hurled him into the dark swirling currents of the water, but as we did we felt the heavy weight and clinking sound of metal – coins – that he had concealed in his clothes. The weight of his burden swiftly pulled him under, his thick woollen habit sucked him down. We threw the old monk in next…."

At this point, Hob stopped and crossed himself, tears in his red-rimmed eyes.

"We smashed the box open. There were bags of coins, packed around a pewter box, wrapped in cloth. The lid of the box had a cross engraved on it. We laughed like children as we saw all the coins …silver groats, some gold nobles, some French livres, glinting in the torchlight.

We felt uneasy though, as your father opened the pewter box. He removed the linen cloth and sheep’s wool padding and poked his thick bloodstained finger inside.

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A package wrapped in parchment, tied with a red ribbon and sealed with wax.

‘Saint Antony’s bones, I’ll bet!’ he said.

He ripped it open, and five small yellow pieces of bone, thin and pitted, fell out. We crossed ourselves…it felt very wrong, even for us. But your father lived for the present, and had no fear of God.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, ‘Feeling guilty? Sorry we sent a few measly monks to their maker? This is just pig’s bones.’

He shoved the lot back into the reliquary and slammed the lid. ‘We can share the coins, and say plenty of Te Deums, and pay for many masses, buy an indulgence… that will outweigh any sins we have committed… eh, boys?’

We all thought of the different ways that a heavy bag of silver could be spent... We laughed… God help us, we laughed."

William had to get closer to Hob to listen to his fading voice. He stank of urine and stale sweat, his breath was foul. His eyes were bleary but still alert.

"We parted company at Chepstow, all with a share of the coins. Your father had the box of bones along with most of the gold and silver. We scrubbed the blood off the decks, chopped up the chest and tossed it into the river; along with Sir’s body and our two dead comrades…we swore to keep our deeds secret and to spend the coins carefully to avoid any suspicion. I had to help your father back to Usk with the cart the next day, so we slept in a tavern near the Town slip. But your father did not sleep well, he tossed and turned - blamed the draughty shutters letting in the chill from the Wye.

20

The next day we sold half the cargo to local merchants, then loaded the rest of the barrels onto a cart.

I heard much later that one of our men died the next night in the bed of a Chepstow whore…coughing blood and bearing black rosettes on his skin, clutching two unspent bags of silver. Another made it home to his wife in Trellech, and was happy for a few months with his new-found wealth, then died in a tavern brawl.

Digger did not go to his home… he was overcome with remorse and confessed to a friar. He gave his coins to the local beggars and lepers, and become a lay brother at the Abbey at Tintern. I dearly wish I had done the same.

When we got to Usk we noticed how still the town was – not much smoke, no noise. The bells tolled once or twice…as they do when a soul passes. At the town gates, a single guard warned us that disease was in the town, but we thought little of it. We unloaded the barrels and casks at the warehouse, and then your father wanted me to help him with a final errand before we went home. I was uneasy... it was too quiet... But in the dusk, we headed down Pook Lane to Llanbadoc. We went to Bryn Derwen, the farm your father rented from the Priory, you know that place? It is a good setting, couple of fields and a water meadow, under the oak woodland. It had been derelict and unworked since the first plague.

He left me to watch for prying eyes… took the box and bags of coins, and set off with a spade and the lantern. Bats swooped around, and I sat and wondered how I would spend my silver.  I was pleased with my profit but wished we had not killed the monks. It sat like a small festering sore on my conscience and has done so ever since… getting bigger and blacker and more terrible.

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I lost sight of your father in the dusk but I could make out a distant bobbing light, first in the sloping fields around the ruined farmhouse, and then in the yard, and then all was dark. He came back wiping his hands on his tunic, looking pleased with himself.

‘That’s tucked away,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait a while, and then the wife can give the fancy box to the Prioress at Saint Mary’s.’

We clasped hands and parted, I went to the Golden Lion, and your father went to his house…"

William remembered. The hand on the door latch, the sputtering rush light, the rats.

We shouldn’t have done it… the plague….it was God’s judgement, we took what was His, the gold and silver, and the bones, said Hob. His words brought William back to the dark room, the hard stool he sat on.

So where is it? asked William.

I don’t know lad, that’s the thing. God help me, I went to that farm once or twice to try to find it myself. I didn’t want to tell your uncle or anyone. I couldn’t stand the self-righteous arsehole.

William smiled a little at this.

I would have put it right, believe me, I would have given it to the nuns or something, Hob sounded almost convincing. But I found nothing, nowhere. I don’t know whether he buried it or just hid it, it could be anywhere. And that place… he shook his head and hissed, "It’s strange… I was digging in a few likely places, and I felt like there was somebody, some thing, watching me. And there’s that big stone, in the 

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field behind - weird noises. I was spooked and I didn’t go back. It’s got to be there, your father never went back to fetch it. Dead the next day and buried in the lime pit with all the others. God rest him."

William remembered, and hoped that God was giving his father no rest.

How much gold and silver was there? he asked.

Had to be about twenty bags I reckon.

And no one else knew it was there?

I swear, boy, I never told a soul. I never will now. Only maybe the priest, so my soul can be saved. I’ve wanted so much for the weight to be lifted from me, so that I don’t have to carry it for all eternity. He lay back on his coarse sheets, a thin tear running down his leathery cheek

No. You won’t tell anyone else now, said William.

He put his hands around Hob’s skinny neck and squeezed tightly, pressing with his thumbs, pushing the last breath from him, as Hob’s hands flailed weakly at him and his blue eyes pierced his. It took very little effort.

When it was done, he sat in the room looking at the dead man. Hob’s eyes glared at him, he tried to close the eyelids, but they would not stay shut. He turned Hob’s head towards the window shutters instead.

I am like my father, he thought, even though I do not want to be. There was no escaping it. He felt sick.

Hob’s body was growing cold, but William made no move to leave the room. It was very dark outside, and noises below indicated the arrival of the evening’s customers at the inn.

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He went downstairs and told the landlord that there was no hurry to call the priest, the old man upstairs was already dead. The man blinked at him and crossed himself.

William stumbled out into the night.

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Part Two - Love kept secret

‘Gorau modd o'r geiriau mad

Gael adrodd serch goledrad.

Cyfryw nych cyfrinachwr,

Lledrad gorau gariad gŵr.’

‘No better purpose for fine words

than to tell of furtive love.

Such is a confidant's anxiety

that a man's love is best kept secret.’

Dafydd ap Gwilym – Y Serch Lledrad

Chapter three

Tomos, Spring 1405

Windsor

The gift is wrapped in a soft white lambswool cloth, and tied with a red ribbon. I spent many hours making it, as is only natural for someone in my profession. Being a craftsman, I am proud of it for its own sake. It is a cherrywood spoon, an ornament, small, less than the length of my hand. Two graceful deer – harts – sit within a bower of curling heart-shaped leaves, with a little sun and moon showering their rays down upon them. I had to use my tiniest and sharpest scalpel to make it.

Even as I carry it to her rooms, I know that she will probably scorn it. I have no illusions that I occupy more than a transitory and casual place in her life. I have been a diversion, an amusement. There will be smiles and praise, maybe an airy kiss, and then she will put it on her table in front of her looking-glass, among the pots of perfumes, hair brushes and jewel boxes, where it will gather dust and be forgotten.

Lately, she has been preoccupied and distant, her hazel eyes reluctant to meet mine. Her gold-ringed fingers fidget with the velvets and trimmings of her dress, instead of stroking my hand or tousling my hair as she once did.

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The spoon smells fragrant from the beeswax polish that I used to buff it smooth. It is inside the carved box she commissioned me to make, months ago, a gift for her kinswoman Eleanor Charlton following the birth of her daughter. I confess that I have taken much longer than necessary to complete it, and have returned for many extra discussions about size, design, and clasps. I allowed myself to believe that she enjoyed these times as well as I did, but now I am not so sure.

The box is protected with an oiled layer of canvas to keep out the rain. It is bulky, but I carry it beneath my arm through the wet Windsor streets, my handcart would have taken too long to manoeuvre through the alleys. The rain means that the streets are a little less crowded, but I have to pick my way through the streams and puddles, full of manure and rotting food, trying to keep my boots clean, I do not want her to think me a dirty clumsy oaf. The grey castle towers loom ahead, matching the colour of the sky.

My arms ache by the time I reach the castle gatehouse. The cold rain dripping from my hat and running down the back of my neck does not dampen my spirits, as I am excited about seeing her and giving her these things I have made entirely for her. I have thought about nothing else for weeks. I imagine her smile as she opens them, and her pleasure, which would be the only reward I want, though she has already promised a handsome payment. A Countess is well able to afford far more expensive and exclusive work than mine.

I am proud of my skills, and I have built up a good range of clients since I became a Guildsman eight years ago, but I am Welsh, and seen by many as an outsider.

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The current state of the world, with Glyndŵr such a thorn in the side of the King and his allies, has not helped my reputation, nor that of my fellow cymry.

I am almost run down by a party of shouting horsemen in Lancaster livery charging from the castle. There are many more guards about than usual.

The soldiers at the gatehouse stop me.

I am Tomos ap Rhys, Master woodcarver of Peascod Street. I have a completed commission for delivery to Lady Constance Despenser -

You’re a Welshman.

Yes, but I live here in Windsor. I have my own workshop.

I have become used to this. Since Glyndŵr raised his golden lion standard as Prince of Wales four years ago, we are all viewed with mistrust. But today there is more hostility in the man’s voice.

What’s in the package?

I told you, it’s a completed commission for Lady Constance. A gift for her kinswoman. I am becoming angry. Not that it’s any of your business, it’s private. Are you going to let me in?

It happens quickly; I am knocked around the head with the butt of a spear, and land hard on the cobbles, cracking my head on the wall as I fall. The box