A murder of rooks flapped heavenwards startling Begiloc while he sowed beans in the Near Field. In the trees edging the woodland, they perched, cawing while he marvelled how the tender branches bowed but did not break under their weight. The earthy smell of the harrowed soil pleased him as he sought to discover what had startled the sullen sentinels.
“Ealric!”
Was something wrong? A command to stop the headlong rush before he broke a limb died when his son skidded to a halt on the ox-trail before a rainwater-filled rut. The boy, heedless of the mud, dropped to his knees.
Constant and fierce this love because Gerens, his father, drowned when he was Ealric"s age and the wound never healed. Setting these thoughts aside, Begiloc stepped over the furrows and strode down the path.
A whitethr
