A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead and over the crest of her eyebrow, hanging there for a breath before it dripped into her eye. She squinted against the objectionable sting, and the swinging pitchfork came to a standstill. The back of her wrist passed roughly across her face, whisking the offending perspiration away. A horsefly circled the halo of her frizzled, pale-gold hair, trying to find a place to light, but was swiftly shooed off.
She glanced at the wheelbarrow beside her. It was nearly full, and only half the stalls had been mucked. Summer brought out the appetites of the brood-mares and the lively stallions, and it showed in the soiled straw left behind each day. Propping the pitchfork against the stable wall, she hoisted the wheelbarrow by its handles, blowing out her breath towards her brow in an attempt to loosen the sweat-sticky hairs that clung to her skin.
The distance from the stable to the village gate of Snowbourn was not especially long. A turn to the left, passing along the blessedly shady lane with its graceful chestnut trees overshadowing the thatched roofs. And then the gate stood, wide-open and welcoming to locals and visitors alike. Beyond the stone wall and away from the main road, a short path led to a tiny paddock where the town’s stable-waste was collected. Farmers of the nearby crofts would come and take what they wished to fertilize their fields.
It was on her way back into the village that she was intercepted. Initially, there was only the common, pleasant clamor that her ears were accustomed to hearing: creaking wagon wheels, the jangle of reins, horses snorting and stomping, dogs barking as they chased wayward chickens (beneath the shrill cries of the women who pursued the dogs whilst waving switches), and children laughing as they scampered about the fountain on the green by the meadhall. But through and between these sounds, something else pierced her ear. A high, clear voice, calling her name.
“Brynleigh!”
She lifted her eyes to find the familiar shape of Elfswith trotting through the dappled patches of sun and shade, a hand lifted to hail her young apprentice. The older woman’s honey-colored hair bounced in its loose bun as she ran the last few paces and came to a halt, breathing heavily with her cheeks ruddied from the exertion.
“Elfswith,” Brynleigh called back, pausing to set the wheelbarrow down and then prop her fists against her hips as she stretched her stiff spine. “You look rather harried. Is all well?”
“A message, my dear,” panted Elfswith, straightening up as she caught her breath. “From Hengist, the stable master of Aldburg.”
Brynleigh’s sweat-beaded brow furrowed. “Yes, I know him. What has he to say, that has you running to me in such a state?”
Elfswith allowed herself a moment to swallow, and to take another breath, before going on in a calmer tone. “There is some sort of ailment among the horses there. A plague of some kind. Several have died, and more are falling ill.” The woman’s cornflower-hued eyes were sharp and vivid within her time-lined face. A stable mistress herself, these words were more than sufficient to fix a line of grim concern between her gaze and Brynleigh’s.
There was no hesitation from the young woman in her soiled, stained tunic, with her damp hair all awry and her skin slick with sweat. She ripped the leather gloves from her hands. “I will go at once. Will you see the wheelbarrow back to the stable, Elfswith?”
“Aye! Of course,” Elfswith answered, but Brynleigh was already jogging past and down the lane, whistling sharply for Jack.
