November 1642

The nights are drawing in. The revels of summer are past and the harvest is long home in the barns. The owl hoots and dips low over the fields to catch the tardy mouse as it scurries to the bower.

Billy Drayton brings the last of the horses back into the stable and beds it down for the night. He hasn't seen Zekey for a while. No surprise there. But then he hasn't seen the Lord of the Manor for much longer; not since that terrible day when Sir Humphrey led his motley crew away to support the King. Well, in truth, that day wasn't terrible; but the night that followed was - and the days to follow.

I sit at my desk, scratching a few words to use on Sunday. This is the quiet season about the village. Firewood has been gathered; leaves cascade from the trees and drift around like possessed spirits, restless after All Souls. Soon it will be Christmas; at least we still have that, though God knows what we have to celebrate this year. The King is - who knows where? He raised his standard at Nottingham back in the summer. Some say he's in Oxford.

We wait. We pray. What else is there to do, this November eve? God grant us peace.

Caxton