[Firefoot]

Harold watched Arthur gallop off through a window. Samuel had slipped off with him, and his other men had beat a hasty retreat as soon as the meeting was over. If he had been in control of his emotions only a little while ago, Arthur’s outburst had put him over the top again. He looked around for something to vent his anger on, and seeing nothing, unsheathed his belt knife. He hurled it as hard as he could at the wooden door across the room, and smiled grimly when it went so that only a few inches of the blade were left open. If he could admit it to himself, he was actually quite pleased that Arthur had been strong enough to stand up to him; it made him feel that he hadn’t completely failed in rasing his boys. He left the knife buried in the door for now, and headed outside to the stables.

It was only a short walk, and once there he wasted no time in finding what he needed. He was relieved to find that the bay horse he had ridden so hard from town was recovering. It would be sound to ride tomorrow. That was his best horse. As he walked down the aisle he calculated how many horses they would need and whether to take a wagon or not. He wanted speed, but certainly they would be able to bring more things if they took the wagon. Harold decided that if he and his sons each brought an extra mount those horses could also be used for pack animals, and a cart would not be needed. He retrieved some saddlebags for packing, and returned to the house as it began to drizzle.

Harold collected all the money and things of value that he had in the house. There was quite a bit; the Lightheart estate was a very successful one. The valuables would be buried nearby for when he returned; they were too heavy to be brought. The clothes he had stacked up on the table before were all that he would need for garments, and he placed those in the saddlebags along with the money. All of the important records and agreements followed those. He figured it would not be wise to leave all of those for Sandrina to find when she got here, though what she would do with them he could not fathom. There was still a little bit more room, and he mused on what else might be needed. My knife, Harold remembered. He returned to the kitchen, and it took some effort to pull the weapon out of the door despite his strength. He belted on his sword as well, figuring it would not be wise to go without it until Sandrina and likely Henry were dead. He thought, and hoped, that he would not meet Henry again anytime soon, because the new house his brother had settled in was a couple days’ hard ride from here.

Harold looked around. He didn’t want to leave, but it really was his only choice. He didn’t think there was much more to do, other than hire some mercenaries. He supposed four or five would work; that would leave ten men here. Ten would do. Everything was coming together nicely, and yet he could not shake the feeling of foreboding that had been building in him ever since he had heard that Sandrina was alive.