MAYFLOWER

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gideon's heart beat faster and harder as he started to recognize the countryside. They neared his village. There was no chance for the feeling of a homecoming. Every movement seemed to jar through him. Weariness replaced any spring that he had started with. Anya and Trigan realized the gravity of the situation and were quiet. Usually, they would poke words at each other. It had become confusing for Gideon if they liked each other or not. When camped they practiced swordplay. It was spirited between the two so that bruises resulted. Gideon was left as a spectator. But of fine quality swordsmanship, that was good for his learning.

The fields seemed tranquil. The horses at ease bended their necks to smell and chew at the high grass that drooped onto the road. They passed the gristmill which was idle. Farther along the sawmill was working. They stopped to watch. Men were too busy to look back at them. The three nodded to one another that it was a sign and kept going. Branston was over a low hill. They had not stopped at any villages or taverns as if to avoid talk, with only breaks for the horses, they camped in the woodlands and caught rabbits for food.

There was the likelihood that Gideon's mother had not been in the village. She had spent more time away than there, camping far into the forest, not saying why. It was likely that with Gideon away she would not have stayed in the village. Glinda was resourceful. He kept telling himself this. They reached the top of the low hill and saw the first of the burned cottages. He kept his eyes low, not wanting to see more. The cottage was one that he had mishit balls from the field into its yard and it was the task of the hitter to retrieve.

He looked warily farther along. More cottages were destroyed, some were not. He noticed building work. A roof had been stripped to its frame and men hammered in tiles. A boyish-man came to a fence to have a closer look at them. Gideon recognized his uniform. It was the same as his. A Royal Scout. Gideon only wore the shirt of his uniform. It had the insignia of crossed arrows on the shoulder. The pants had long been replaced by ones from the store of Anya's castle. They stopped to talk to the scout.

Anya spoke. "You are a royal scout?"

"I am, madam, from Speedwell. Sent here to help secure the village. And you?" He looked at Gideon.

"This lad, is a scout from Branston returned to his home, and we are his traveling companions. You know what happened?"

"I don't know a lot. Sorry to hear that. It's a mess. Whoever came through here was as terrible as can be. You'd best head to the center of the village, there's an old man, a shepherd, I think. He knows. There are others too. They are with our captain. There is only about twenty of us here, so we will need strong-looking types like yourselves to help with the work."

The scout watched them go. Gideon looked back. The boy's face had a look of worry and he crossed himself and kissed a crucifix that hung from his neck. Inside the walls the village was ruined, blackened, and burned. Some cottages had only chimneys standing, and debris was across the road. The watchtower where he had made the blood oath with Glinda had toppled and lay in a mess of wood and stone. They dismounted and led the horses. Saturn ran off, the place was familiar to him, but not familiar. The only building that stood almost together was the schoolhouse. The church had lost its steeple. The village green was covered by piles of debris, dragged there by the scouts. The shops and tavern were burned to the ground. Gideon looked in the direction of his house. There seemed to be more rooftops in that direction.

"Who are you three, then?" A man said to them. He wore a scout's uniform and cap, but was older and must have been the captain.

"This boy is a Branston scout, he was on mission when the village was attacked. We have accompanied him home," Anya answered.

"Ah, hell, damn ugly to come back to." The captain chewed on an unlit tobacco stick. "I'm Captain Mandrake. What's your name, son?" He completed a loose salute by touching fingers to his cap.