Drums. Dear God, not the drums.
Henry de Grey shuddered and blinked against the mid-afternoon sun. Streaks of light shimmered through the trees like blades of a hundred broadswords. Stephan l’Aigle stirred beside the young knight, but then lay still, like Henry, listening. At the water’s edge, the knights’ horses perked their ears. A distant rumble sounded. Not drums, but wheels grating along the old Roman road on the far side of the River Witham.
“One wagon,” Henry muttered and exhaled sharply.
Stephan brushed Henry’s hand. His fingers lingered on an old battle scar. “Thinking of the war?”
“I am fine.” He smiled, dismissing memories of the Holy Land conjured by the play of light and sounds. “Go back to sleep.”
“Your father expects us. You said we’d not far to go.”
“Not far.” All the while he’d been on crusade Henry dreamed of coming home. He left…