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[[Winterstream]] slowly thawed as spring tentatively knocked on winters’ door. This, thought [[Cynyr]], was a mixed blessing. Spring would bring the raiders, cautious and few in wintertime, and probably war. As the roads became serviceable word carried, men reached out to one another, seeking the comfort of familiar ties and strong [[sword]] arms for the trouble ahead. These past years had been fruitful, close ties had been knit with his two closest neighbors, bonds of aid and support. His wife and son would not go hungry, nor undefended, should ill fortune befall him or them in his absence. The fire had faded hours ago, embers hid from the chill in the hall beneath ash and black coal. The quiet suited his mood, even the servants were abed. Both alliances had cost him in the short-term, but would be well worth the investment. [[Winterstream]] was not well defended, but Lord Harwalls stone and tile manor was. His family, and he himself, would shelter there should the need arise. Lord Macan to the south had seasoned [[forest]] men, they could find food aplenty when all conventional means were exhausted. His family would not starve even in the leanest of times. More interesting than these mundane concerns was his newfound friendship with abbot [[Dilwyn]]. Last year had been turbulent, raiders threatening near [[Vagon]] making a fierce stand in a fortified camp, a trap for the unwary knight. He had fought his way out, hate a red mist that none of them could stand against. Later, he had found them again as they tried to waylay his family on their way back from Sarum. They should not have threatened Ebrill… it was the last thing they did. [[Dilwyn]] had invited him to [[Ambrius]] and he had accepted. As they spoke the older man gently mocked his anger at himself for falling into the raiders trap, and though [[Cynyr]] had at first been angry at the abbot for the affront he had soon realized his error. By degrees over the days he stayed both men had realized they shared much, a mind for secrets and mazes, loyalty to their cause, cutting wit and a love of deep and layered discussion. The lord of [[winterstream]] now understood that his acidic disdain for much of the clergy had little to do with those men, and more to do with himself. For all the great favors the church had done him, healing his mind and teaching him patience, he still had very little of the latter to spare for religious niceties and hair splitting. When faith and scriptures were approached as an exercise of the mind, seeking hidden meaning and practical advice behind the often obtuse passages, the whole affair became much more interesting. He was actually looking forward to the next visit. He sat a while watching as the muted glow beneath the grey and black of the fire pit nearly died. Then he rose, and stoked what remained into a small but lively fire. Word had come from Caercoloun, and the displaced [[Cymrii]] of Elmham manor. Lord Elmham had died of advanced age in exile, driven from his home by the Anglo-[[Saxon]] invaders. The news had cut unexpectedly, he had not thought much about his foster family in a long time, nor of the lord whom his foster father had served and who had taken him as a squire at [[Bedegraine]]. Why, then, had all his thoughts cast back those days of late? It was a constant truth of the world that men who had, whether wealth, power or love, strove and worried to protect those things with all their being. [[Cynyr]] rose, feeling sleep beckon at last, and walked to the platform where his wife and son slept behind drawn curtains. Looking down on them both he wondered. Was it the possibility of losing them that stirred such great emotion in him? Would he love his wife equally had she not lain near death, ill with child and foul humors so many times? It was, he admitted, a useless distinction. Wasted thoughts of the kind he was unfortunately prone to. He loved them both, boundlessly, and that was that. He slipped beneath the furs, drawing his warm wife close. Let them come and try to take her, they would find him ready.
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