Page 4 of The Unencumbered Warrior
In a way, he remained invisible. And of all the things he had lost in the past year, this was the most unexpected. He never knew how unwanted and lonely it made one feel to not have a single woman show even a bit of interest in him.
He shook off the thought as she stirred the pot in thoughtful silence before finally saying, “Latham is right about Laird Chafton making endless demands on us, more so of late.”
Raff straightened. “The man whose warriors tried to take your wool?”
She nodded, her lips pressing tight for a moment in hesitation, wondering if she should guard her words, since he was a stranger and yet he had helped her. So, what was there to fear about him?
“Aye. Like other crofts on his land, we pay him for the privilege, as he claims, to allow us to farm on it. First, it was a small share of our goods; grain, wool, and such. But lately, he’sgrown greedy. He takes more than his due. And if we do not give it willingly, his men take it anyway.”
Raff’s jaw tightened. “And no one stands against him?”
Ingrid let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “We’re a village of spinners and farmers, not warriors. And those who have spoken out…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “We cannot afford to lose more.”
He studied her, the firelight playing over her features. She spoke of it with the weariness of someone who had fought in her own way but knew the battle was slipping beyond her grasp.
“You seem the type to fight anyway,” he observed.
Her lips quirked. “Aye, I do. But even the most stubborn fighter knows when she’s outmatched.”
She reached for a knife resting on the wooden table and began slicing the loaf of bread on a wooden board. “The wool we spin and weave into cloth is valuable. Lord Chafton knows it. The merchants clamor for it. It’s softer than most and brings comfort to those who wear it. That is why Chafton wants more. He can sell it for a higher price, lining his coffers while we work ourselves raw to meet his demands.”
Raff frowned. “If the wool is so sought after, why not sell it elsewhere? Why remain under his rule?”
Ingrid sighed. “Because we have no choice. We are not traders. We do not have the means to travel to markets far from here, only to local ones. Chafton keeps watch on the roads as you witnessed earlier. If we try to send our cloth elsewhere, he ensures it never reaches its destination.”
Raff’s fingers curled into fists. He had seen men like Chafton before—lairds who took what they wanted, bleeding the people dry with little regard for the lives they ruined.
He had fought battles before against greedy men, but this wasn’t his battle. But as he watched Ingrid move about her cottage, as he listened to the resignation in her voice, he feltsomething stir deep within him. She actually paid heed to him as did Latham and others here. Perhaps it was time he stopped wandering and planted some roots where people didn’t ignore him as if he didn’t exist.
Supper had been a simple meal, yet Raff could not remember the last time food had tasted so satisfying. Perhaps it was because he had spent so long eating alone, or perhaps it was the company. The warmth of the fire, the scent of fresh bread, and the sound of Ingrid’s voice as she talked about the village, all of it, made him feel like he had stepped back into a life he thought was lost to him.
He found himself stealing glances at her as she moved about the cottage, her presence steady and familiar, as if he had always been there. The thought unsettled him. He had not realized how much he had missed the comfort of simply being in another’s presence, sharing food, conversation—belonging, even if only for a moment.
As she wiped her hands on a cloth, she regarded him thoughtfully. “We can always use an extra hand in the fields, the reason Latham invited you to remain here,” she said with a soft smile. “The last of the harvest needs gathering before the harvest celebration. Maybe you should stop wandering for a while and settle here.”
Raff hesitated. The thought of staying in one place again, of belonging, was unfamiliar. Yet, the idea of leaving, of walking away from this place and returning to the hollow solitude of wandering, felt unappealing in a way it never had before.
“You don’t have to decide right away,” Ingrid added, sensing his uncertainty. “But I think you’d do well here. The people are kind, the work is honest, and you might find something you weren’t even looking for.” Her smile remained gentle. “At the very least, you’d have shelter from the cold and a warm meal every evening. That has to count for something.”
He let out a brief laugh. “Aye. More than you know.” To his surprise, he acquiesced. “It might be good to stay in one place for a while.”
She smiled and led him outside and looking around, spotted Latham speaking with another villager and called out to him. “Latham, a moment please.”
Latham hurried over to her.
“Raff has decided to stay for a while”.
Latham grinned from ear to ear. “We’ve got plenty to get done before the harvest festival. There’s barley to be cut, root vegetables to be pulled, and the land to ready for winter.” He scratched his beard. “You know how to handle a scythe?”
Raff smirked faintly. “I think I can manage.”
“Good, we need all the hands we can get,” Latham said, looking pleased. “We start tomorrow at first light.” He gestured toward a small cottage on the edge of the village. “That’ll be yours while you’re here. Not much, but it’s warm and dry.”
“Welcome to the village, Raff,” Ingrid said with a smile and turned and joined two women busy chattering not far from her cottage.
Raff didn’t want her to go. There was something about her that he was drawn to. He couldn’t say what it was, couldn’t even explain to himself. He just felt different being in her presence.
He walked alongside Latham as they headed toward the cottage.
