Prologue

A Chapter by JSReed

The prologue for my Novel - Restoring Dover

Prologue

October 1216

Norfolk, England

The man in the bottom of the oxcart noticed the sudden stop and reached a shivering hand to the top of the sideboard to pull himself up for a look. They were still in the bay, but the cart had run aground in the thick mud of the shore. The light of the full moon reflected off several yards of hostile water, and then a deserted beach. A ragged sigh escaped his lips and he slumped down to to join the shivering figure at his side.

“Walter.” His voice shook. “We’ve made shore.”

Walter groaned as he pulled himself up to retch over the side of the cart. Exhausted by the effort, his body went limp and he splashed back down to the waterlogged planks.

“We’re gonna die, Peter.” He forced his words from between clenched teeth. “I c..can’t stop shaking.”

Peter stood and leaned over the edge of the cart. They had stuck in the muddy bank, but the steady waves threatened to pull them back into the bay.

“You’ve got to help me.” Peter threw his legs over the side of the cart and plunged waist-deep into the icy water. He gasped and tried to keep his balance as his feet sank into the muck.

“I c..can’t.” Walter pulled a sodden cloak tight around his shoulders. “Too c..c..cold.”

Peter reached over the side, seized an ear, and pulled Walter up to the edge of the cart. “You will help me, brother, or we both will die out here.”

Walter could feel the tremble in his brother’s grip, and see his teeth chattering behind blue lips, but the glow of fire burned behind his eyes. He stumbled to his feet, and with a splash, joined Peter in the water.

With their strength failing, the two brothers managed to drag the cart several meters and secure it to a large boulder . Walter collapsed onto the muddy shore. A slight breeze froze the water to his skin. He sank to his side and curled himself into a ball. His ears filled with the sound of the sea and Peter urging him to keep moving, and then all went silent.

###

Walter awoke to a pulsing heat and lifted his head. A small fire blazed in front of him and he was clad only in his breeches. He noticed his tunic and cloak laid out on a large stone nearby. The sound of waves came from the blackness beyond the dancing circle of firelight. A cracking sound rang out behind him and he raised himself onto an elbow to peer about. A shape materialized out of the gloom, and a small cry escaped him.

It was Peter.

His brother threw a long board onto the blaze, sending a shower of cinders skyward. Peter squatted and stretched his hands to the warmth of the flames.

Walter sat up and squinted into the night. “Where are we?”

Peter shrugged and stared at the glowing coals.

Walter followed his gaze. “Where’d you get the wood?”

“The cart,” Peter answered simply.

His brother gasped. “But that’s the King’s cart! It could be our heads if- ”

“If what?” Peter snapped. His eyes smoldered. “They left us, Walter!”

His brother lowered his head. “But he’s the King.”

“And he rode off! The King,” Peter spat the word. “Had archers on the shore in case we tried to leave the cart!”

Walter whimpered at the memory.

“For that!” Peter pointed a finger toward the shore. “If I hadn’t broken the wheels loose, we’d have drowned!”

They sat in silence; only the crackling flames and whistling wind spoke. After several minutes, Peter stood and walked to the large stone. He picked up the tunic and cloak and tossed it to his brother.

“Here,” he said. “They’re dry now.”

Walter dressed quickly, grateful for the woolen garments to check the biting breeze. His shivering subsided and was replaced by a gnawing hunger.

“What are we going to do, Peter?”

His brother thought for a moment before answering. “We need to get as far away as possible. The King will search for his cart.”

“We have no food or money,” Walter whined. “We’ll never make it.”

Without answering Peter rose from his place by the fire and strode back to the broken cart. Walter lingered for a moment at the fire and then followed. He found his brother untying a large canvas that had been stowed inside.

“Peter.” Walter looked around. “We shouldn’t be doing that. It belongs to the King.”

His brother didn’t answer, but threw off the large covering, revealing an assortment of bags and pouches. He bent over, seized a small pouch and tossed it to Walter.

“We shouldn’t -”

“We need food.” Peter was already working on the strings of a large sack. “See what’s in there.”

Walter glanced around nervously before turning his attention to the leather pouch in his hand. It was unusually heavy for its small size. The wind sharpened its bite and his fingers trembled as he tugged at the strings. The pouch opened and a sudden glimmer of moonlight illuminated its contents. He recoiled and dropped it as if it were a burning coal. It struck the wooden planks and sent a spray of silver coins across the wet wood.

“Peter!” Walter cried. “We’ve stolen the King’s tax cart!”

His brother didn’t respond. He was staring into the mouth of the large bag that he’d managed to untie. After a moment he looked up slowly.

“Walt,” his voice trembled. “We’ve stolen much more than that.”