He gathered dignity into his aching body, and had neared the door when a clatter of wooden pattens sounded down the passage, and Rebecca swept into the room like a gale from the north.
“Come talk to Geordie Wiseman, Master,” she broke in, without leave asked or granted. “He’s in the kitchen, roaring for strong ale.”
“No great news, that. Geordie was born with that sort of roar.”
“Aye, but I’d have you come. He says the Lost People have left an arrow on his gate, same as they’ve done on yours.”
Again Causleen saw little, grey wrinkles creep about Hardcastle’s battered face, saw him recover with stubborn strength.
“I’ll come,” he said, after a moment’s silence, “if only to tell him it’s nothing to make a cry about.”
When he reached the kitchen, a tough, thick-set farmer was standing by the hearth, his hair drabbled with the sweat of abject dread, his knees shaking.
“They’ve put the token on us, Wiseman,” said the Master. “It had to come, and better soon than late.”
“What need had it to come? Three of the Wilderness Men asked tribute. Well, we’ve payed it for many a year, and the roads have been easy for us.”
“A Hardcastle never payed it—and a Hardcastle never will.”