In the wild lands of medieval England, a brutal winter settles upon the poor villagers of the northern realm of Westcliff. But it is not just marauding wolves that they must fear. As they toil for their master Lord Westcliff, he makes plans that wil...
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She ran through the mud with short, fat legs not designed for the road. The thin blanket around her shoulders was as good as useless against the driving snow – it sat sodden against her back. But despite the penetrating chill she ran on through the night, guided only by the bright moon above her.
Martha had spent almost her entire life in the castle. It was far from a place of righteousness, but it provided her with a living and so she closed her eyes to the sights that greeted her there. Where she could, she helped those she could. But she knew the absolute loyalty that was demanded of anyone in Lord Westcliff's employment – and had witnessed many times the heavy price to be paid for treachery. A sense of dread filled her as she wheezed her way onwards trying to ignore the nagging knowledge of the terrible judgement that would await her disloyalty. Martha ran on though – the message she had to deliver was more important than her own fate. She had to get to Friar Alfred.
The ground was slippery where the snow had settled. She tripped and slipped many times, going down on her knees as she did and often ripping her hands as she braced her fall. Fortunately the cold weather numbed her to the pain. As she looked at her hands in the moonlight, she couldn't tell where the crimson colour of her skin ended and the hue of fresh blood began. The stubborn woman ignored the pain and pushed herself to her feet with hands that couldn't feel their work. She ran on, steams of air blowing from her lips as the ground steadily began to flatten.
She could see the fields now, spreading out wide to either side of the path. Beyond them the ominous shadows of the forest swayed. Fears of a different sort gnawed at Martha as she imagined bright yellow wolf eyes watching her as she ran, waiting for her to trip again. She gritted her chattering teeth and pushed the fears away, replacing them with faith in the righteousness of what she was doing. The old cook trotted on, her pace slowing as the exertion of the midnight sprint began to take its toll on a woman who had never run so far in all her life. She felt her heart beating like it would explode, her lungs almost to bursting point. But she focused on her destination, finally visible now as she made out the distant glow of a fire.
As she neared the village, her hopes to be found and taken the last few yards were dashed. It was too cold for sentries. Only the village hall itself seemed to bear any signs of life; all the other buildings were battened shut and no smoke came from their chimneys. Martha halted and tried to call for help, but her throat – swollen and exhausted from the effort of getting here – could issue little more than a gentle croak. Tears of pain and desperation broke on her face, freezing almost as immediately as they broke. A hunched steaming figure, she trudged the last few yards to the hall and banged as hard as her frozen hands could manage on the doors. She stood desperately by, praying for the doors to open. But as the seconds passed, not a sound could be heard. Her eyes scrunched tight in pain, she thumped at the wood again. A wail left her lips as her flailing arms rattled the doors, but the sound was lost on the winds. Her reserves depleted, Martha's knees buckled and she found herself suddenly sliding down to sit on the frozen earth. Her head slumped as the coldness called to her.
