“I’m sorry, Elspeth. I don’t want to upset you more,” Ethan said.
“Ethan, Mr. Howinger, is a good man at heart, only troubled.”
“You mean he troubles us,” Ethan spat.
“It’s better treatment than you would get from Mordred,” she whispered.
“Mordred doesn’t care about us.”
Elspeth stared into his eyes, searching them. “Have you forgotten our mother and father-the people of Salem? He wanted all of us dead for a reason.”
Ethan blinked, taken in the memory of a night long ago. He blinked, returning. “Sister, we must forget, or it will drive us mad. Mordred took the House of Nod and the whole kingdom with it. We’re of no consequence to him now, no matter why Salem was before.”
Elspeth caressed his cheek. “We must never forget.”
She turned and started back into the house to finish cleaning up the spill. “Ethan, go to your chores and don’t worry me with your temper. If you love me, then you’ll do what I say.”
He watched her go inside. Ethan breathed out his frustration, letting go of the anger. He started toward the horse barn. “I won’t forget, sister.”
Horace Howinger stood just behind the inside wall of his large, green barn. The door was open and he had heard the exchange between Ethan and his sister. Horace gripped the axe tightly in both hands, waiting to see if there would be a confrontation.
Horace listened as the girl talked Ethan out of a rage again. Relieved, his grip on the axe loosened. The girl went back inside while Ethan ran off to the animal stalls to do his chores. He knew the boy was too big now to deal with physically. Horace needed a way to get rid of him, but keep the girl. He wiped beads of sweat from his stubbly upper lip and set the axe aside. His hired hands would arrive soon from town. It was time to tend the day’s work.
ETHAN
Ethan walked into the horse stalls on the far end of Mr. Howinger’s horse pasture. He hoisted a one hundred pound bag of oats upon his shoulder and carried it to the area where he kept equipment and feedbags for the horses. He loaded each of twenty sacks with enough grain to satisfy his hungry equine diners, then he placed them all on a wooden cart in order to distribute them to Mr. Howinger’s beautiful horses.
Ethan fed the other horses then stopped at the stall of a beautiful brown stallion and placed a bag on his muzzle. He stroked the horse’s head and neck as it began chomping away at the oats. “How are you, Whistler?”
The horse inclined its head toward Ethan. “Don’t worry, boy, Horace won’t sell you if I have anything to say about it.”
Ethan stroked the sleek, muscular neck and shoulder. “Still, you should let him ride you when he wants to. Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I’m the only one who can ride you.”
Whistler snuffed through his oats. “Well, you’re only going to make it worse on yourself. Howinger won’t listen to me. He told Elspeth I was lazy. Can you imagine? And me doing the work of three of his hired men for no pay, except for his constant fussing.”
Whistler shook his head and pulled away from Ethan’s hand. “Are you taking his side too?” Ethan said, stepping closer. “Elspeth told me to watch my temper. I only wish I could take her away from all this. If the militia does come to Grandee, then I can join. And you and I can ride into battle against Mordred and his Wraith Riders.” Ethan turned his back to the horse. “Or, if you’re still put out with me, I could take one of the others for my mount.”
The horse brushed Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan turned and patted Whistler again. “Don’t worry, I was only fooling. No other horse is half as magnificent as you are.” He walked away, then turned to wag a finger at the stallion. “I’ll see you later, but if I have to put up with Horace so do you.”
Ethan started the cart back toward the prep area. The sound of whinnying, outside of the horse barn, caught his attention. He wheeled the cart faster, then left it and ran to the barn door. Ethan saw several men from the town council approaching where Mr. Howinger stood, talking with some of his hired hands.
A field of green corn, nearly ready for harvesting, lay between Ethan and the men riding toward Mr. Howinger. Ethan slipped away from the horse barn and into the corn. He crept through the stalks, moving quickly, but trying not to disturb the tops. Neither Mr. Howinger nor his men seemed to take notice of Ethan, now that the riders had come near.
Horace removed a blue rag from his pocket and stopped digging the hole for his fencepost long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow. As the horses approached, one of Horace’s men asked, “Now who do you suppose this is riding in like they were going to the ball?”
“Tom Grandee, by the looks of him,” Horace said in a mocking tone. “He always was a snappy dresser.”
“Aye and his daddy and Grand-pappy too,” one of Horace’s field hands said.
“Watch it now, lads,” Horace warned. “Their family founded this fair town.”
His men chuckled under their breath as the riders came to a stop before them.
“Good morning, Howinger, how are you today,” Tom Grandee said.
“I would do fine if it weren’t for all of the taxes I have to pay to our illustrious Lord Mordred,” Horace said sharply. Mr. Howinger was dressed in common work clothes despite his wealth. Only his age and the dignified manner in which he carried himself would have hinted to anyone that he was anything more than a common laborer.
“That’s just the subject we came to discuss with you, Horace,” Tom said. He and his men wore colorful waistcoats with knee length breeches and hose. Their garments held gold buttons and shiny buckles sat atop their shoes. Horace sneered at their attire and their soft, uncalloused hands.
“What about it?” Horace asked.
“There’s a council meeting tonight. Some of the council members from Ridgeton and Baylon are going to be there as well.”
“Aren’t they organizing a militia to join Stephen?” Horace asked suspiciously.
“Aye, that they are and they’ve come to seek our allegiance to their cause,” Tom said. Adventure and intrigue sparkled in his eyes like a child with his first toy.
“You mean their rebellion, don’t you, Tom?”
Tom looked insulted by the comment. “Is it rebellion to side against tyranny?”
“That depends,” Horace said.
“On what, pray tell?”
“On whether you’re the tyrant, boy,” Horace said flatly. “Have you thought about the consequences of going up against the Wraith Riders, Tom?”
Tom and the four men with him looked uncomfortable now. Even their horses fidgeted beneath them.
“Mordred overthrew a more experienced man of war in our own King Wenceslas,” Horace warned. “How do you suppose King Stephen of Wayland will ever defeat him now that Mordred’s power has grown so much more over these nine years?”
Neither Tom nor the other men had any answers for Mr. Howinger’s questions. Finally, Tom Grandee managed to say, “You’re entitled to your opinions, old man, but don’t forget your obligation to be at the council meeting. You might be willing to bow to the Wraith Riders, but the majority of the people in this town are ready to live out from under Mordred’s yoke.”
“Oh, I’ll be there, whelp,” Horace spat. “Now get off of my land.”
Tom and the others turned their well-groomed horses, trotting back the way they had come.
“What do you think, Mr. Howinger? Will Grandee join King Stephen’s militia?” asked one of his men.
“Only if the council wants to get us all killed,” Horace said, watching the horses go. “Let’s get these posts
