Begiloc strode to the village with a spring in his step: the prospect of returning home, albeit a year hence, a hope that had died to a glimmer surged anew. This, with the expectation of wielding his new sword, raised his spirits from the depths where they dwelt since the shock of Meryn"s blinding. He would have plenty to tell Somerhild and Ealric when he got back to Wessex. Rome! The Alps! Had anyone told him he"d see either when he tilled the Near Field in Wimborne, he"d have named him a madman.
The blacksmith, at Begiloc"s shout, halted his hammering. Dagobert, arms slick with sweat, laid down his tool, greeted him and beckoned. The heat from the furnace blasted as Begiloc advanced into the smoke-filled smithy, where one of the slaves worked the bellows while the other flung a shovelfu
