The old widow that lodged Eirwen had not seen her that day. She looked up at Padric with an expression both lost and full of pity. Padric was not sure she recognized him and he began to wonder, not for the first time, how many men had come calling at this woman’s door, seeking her itinerant lodger. Eirwen did not sleep here often, that he did know. He could not count the nights they had spent together, hidden away in some turf shed or root crib. She would always drop off to sleep directly after and leave him lying awake, pondering the lack of true affection between them. He did not love her, then or now. That knowledge, however, did not ease the sting of her betrayal.

The widow slowly closed the door. Padric stood a moment and glared at the house. He wondered if Eirwen was doing the cooking or the washing for the widow as she was supposed to. Shame settled over him with the thought that he had been one of the numerous distractions that kept Eirwen from tending to her duties and caring for this poor woman who had taken her in. Not again, he promised himself. He had wasted enough time with her and no matter what course this day would take, he would see himself free of that worthless wench.

He felt sick to his stomach as he made his way up the hill. The familiar sight of the fort at the summit curdled his anger into a swimming nausea. He hated this place with its cider house and barracks. The drunken warriors with their big talk and idle ways made Padric glad he was a farmer’s son. The labors of the land were thankless, boring, and hard on the bones, but at least the result kept the children’s bellies full. These louts did nothing but create more hungry mouths. Their killing made orphans, their carousing made bastards. Padric was glad his seax was still under his bed. He was like to use the large knife given his mood and he could ill afford a fight with one of these sword-wearing swine. He was not a fighter by any means. Had he the bulk, which he did not, he would still be a farmer’s son. Farmer’s sons were not fighters, they were strugglers.

He did not even glance at the sentries by the gate. Padric discovered long ago that simply appearing direct in action was enough to remain unchallenged by these fools. They perceived he had business in the fort, some menial labor to perform and were not interested enough to bother with him. Or they could have just been afraid of him. He deepened his frown and pushed on, leading with his shoulders as he passed through the gate.