On the North Sea

Garron couldn't believe the pleasure it gave him to ride across the drawbridge, horses' hooves loud on the wood and iron. He looked up at the four large square corner towers, the high stone walls. Wareham Castle, now his.

But wait, where was everyone? Why were there no soldiers lining the ramparts yelling down at him? And why was the drawbridge down? With night coming quickly, that wasn't wise. He threw back his head and yelled, "I am Lord Garron, Earl of Wareham! Raise the portcullis!"

There was only silence.

Aleric yelled, "Raise the portcullis! Your master is here!"

Still silence.

He felt sudden fear, cold and heavy. Something was wrong, very wrong. The he heard a shaky old voice call out, "Are you really the new Earl of Wareham? Are you really young Garron?"

"Aye, I am Garron of Kersey. Who are you?"

"I am Tupper, my lord."

By all the saints' hoary elbows, old Tupper, Wareham's porter since long before Garron was born, he was still alive? "Have men winch up the portcullis, Tupper."

"There's no one save me here, my lord, but I can do it!" Garron heard the sudden grit in that old voice.

Hobbs said, "Is that old varmint as ancient as he sounds, Garron?"

"Older." Tupper had been stooped with years and worry and had very few teeth in his mouth when Garron had seen him last eight years before.

No one was by the portcullis, save Tupper? But that made no sense. What was going on here? His fear grew. He and his men watched, amazed, as the old iron portcullis slowly rose, the sound of the chain loud in the still air. Somehow, Tupper had found the strength to turn that huge winch. Tupper managed to winch the portcullis high enough for Gilpin to crawl under. After a moment, the portcullis winched up smoothly, the huge chain flying upward. When Garron rode into the outer bailey, he saw Tupper, scrawny as a dead chicken, staring hard at him. Then he yelled, a lovely full-bodied yell that reached the North Sea. "Young Lord Garron! Aye, 'tis you, my boy, ye're home at last! Oh aye, 'tis a wonder! Bless all the saints' burned bones!"

"Aye, 'tis I, Tupper." As he spoke, Garron was searching the outer bailey for danger, but he saw only what should be there -- the barren strip of land twenty feet wide with rusted sharp spikes stuck up three feet into the air, shredding an enemy if he managed to get over the outer castle walls. If the enemy managed to get across those twenty feet, he was faced with another high stone wall and another iron portcullis.

Tupper cupped his mouth and yelled at the top of his aged lungs, "Eller, winch up the portcullis! "Tis Lord Garron home again! Aye, I know it's him! We're saved!"

Saved? It was nearly full dark now, dark clouds thick overhead, hiding the stars. Garron saw nothing but shadows. His fear fair to choked to him now.

Damocles felt his tension, snorted and reared. Garron leaned forward to pat his neck. "We're home, lad. Go easy, we'll find out what's happened quickly now." They waited for Eller, the armorer, Garron remembered, to winch up the smaller portcullis, then rode single file into the inner bailey, a vast space, ringed with soldiers' barracks set into the walls, apple and pear orchard fenced in to the side, a large space for the kitchen garden, pens and byres for the animals, stables for the horses, all dominated by the huge stone keep that rose forty feet into the evening air. His keep.

But there were no people in the inner bailey, an area that should be mad with activity any time of day. There were no lights pouring from the keep, no sounds of voices, no screaming children, no bands of chickens squawking and flying about, no dogs barking their heads off, no cattle mooing in their sheds, no pigs rutting and snorting about in their byre.

He didn't see a single soldier. He didn't see any sign of life at all.