Chapter 11: 11 : Foundling

A pair of riders had vanished through the Polock doorway only heartbeats ago, but their arrival cracked the quiet farm open like a walnut: voices spiked inside, lanterns flared in two windows, even the chickens on the barn roost stirred.

Will tightened his grip on Ricket’s sleeve. “Listen—there’s no time. I need your father’s stallion just for tonight. I’ll bring him back before dawn.”

Ricket blinked, excitement dimming. “Borrow Daisy?”—using the nickname he’d given the big bay without Harbin’s blessing. The boy’s mouth opened in alarm. “Oh no—Pa’s furious with me already. I yanked Brinna’s braid at dinner and he swore I’d be mucking pens a week. If he wakes to an empty stall—”

Outside, Harbin’s bass rumbled: “Git here now, Ricket!”

The boy flinched. Will leaned closer, whisper urgent. “I swear he’ll never know.”

“Cross-your-heart swear?” Ricket’s little finger popped up.

Will hooked it, sealed the childish pact. The boy’s shoulders eased.

Ricket chewed his lip, torn between thrill and dread—until Harbin roared his name again.

“Ricket! Git here now, boy!”

Ricket flinched like a goat under thunder. Panic flooded his freckles. Instinct trumped everything; the boy bolted for the side door.

“Don’t mention me,” Will hissed after him. Ricket nodded—perhaps—but was already slipping into the dusk.

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Will pressed his back to a stall gate, forcing breaths slowly. Outside, voices tangled.

Harbin’s low rumble.

Brinna—shrill disbelief.

Efram—smug as ever.

Another tone: Osric’s, syrup over steel.

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And a fifth, barely audible yet heavy as storm-cloud: Bram.

Alone with the restless animals, Will moved. He slid Daisy’s stall open; the big bay tossed his head but allowed the halter. Blanket, light hunting saddle, quick-looped girth—hands worked by rote while ears tracked the house.

Through the clapboard wall the conversation unfolded like a knife being sharpened. Harbin, trying to sound hospitable but failing; Brinna, voice pinched and poisonous; Efram, eager to stoke any flame; and beneath them all, Osric’s cultured baritone guiding the talk exactly where he wanted.

“…left three days ago—” Harbin said.

“I never trusted that foundling,” Brinna cut in.

“Makes me sick,” Efram added. “Found beside a corpse, so Pa says.”

“And Miriam dead because of him,” Brinna pressed. “Trampled when she saved the brat.”

Will froze mid-cinch, stomach hollowing. He forced himself to keep moving—tightening the girth, checking the stirrup knots.

Osric spoke next, silk over steel. “If Bram's father is missing, we must consider every thread. Where is the boy now?”

“I don’t know,” Harbin muttered. A chair scraped; someone paced.

Will knelt to tie his quiver behind the cantle, hands shaking despite the cool night.

Brinna again, relishing venom. “If Garret’s hurt, Will’s to blame. He’s a curse. Always was.”

Efram folded in eagerly: “I bet Will killed him.”

“Enough,” Harbin warned, but his conviction rang thin.

Boots scuffed. Will imagined Osric pacing, measuring. Bram’s quiet weight hovered in the room—he had barely spoken, but Will felt his brother’s presence like a storm cloud.

Ricket gasped. Will’s pulse skidded.

Will cinched the girth, listening. Footsteps thudded; a chair crashed. Osric called for calm—steady, almost genial—but remained inside; his timing precise, letting tempers feed the answers he sought.

Quiet followed—an awful, waiting hush—before Ricket’s voice wobbled out, high and defiant.

“Will loves his father! Garret even gave him his sword. I bet Will saved his life!”

Mid-strap, Will heard Bram’s voice, raw as a cut. “What’d you say?”

Harbin thundered, “Ricket, don’t you lie to our guests!”

Will’s hands clenched Daisy’s reins—but there was no stopping what came next.

Ricket’s words burst out, earnest and loud: “I ain’t lying! I saw that sword on Will’s hip in the barn just a moment ago—Garret must’ve gifted it to him!”

The sentence cracked through clapboards and night air like a bell of doom. Brinna gasped; Harbin cursed; Osric’s tone sank to lethal calm. Heavy boots thudded—chairs toppled—porch boards groaned beneath a rushing weight.

Will’s breath caught. Every hinge of fate had just turned.