The ship docked.
A plank was laid onto the beach, and the people ahead began shuffling forward.
When Harold's turn came, he stepped onto the sand of the Vale. It felt softer underfoot than the sand in the North, and the wind was a little warmer.
Northern accents surrounded him.
Some men called for everyone to form ranks, others searched for their banners, and officers' shouts traveled from the front to the rear, then back again.
A quartermaster stood beside a wooden crate by the road, thrusting something into each man's hands.
When Harold reached him, he handed over a crooked branch, its bark still on, with a few dead leaves clinging to a fork.
"Take it," the quartermaster said. "You're lucky to get even this. Once the war's over, you can take it home for firewood."
Harold thought the quartermaster had a point.
He took the branch and rubbed his thumb along the ridges of its bark. Once dried, it would indeed burn well.
He crouched beside the riverbank, found a flat stone to sit on, and began scraping off the bark.
He had no knife, so he pulled a sharpened scrap of iron from his boot. His wife had tucked it there before he left, saying it would come in handy on the road.
The iron's edge had dulled, making the scraping hard work. The bark peeled away strip by strip, revealing pale wood beneath.
Every few strokes, he had to rest, shake out his wrist, and try another angle.
As he scraped, he thought of the hazel grove behind his house.
Last autumn, fallen branches had covered the ground in a thick layer that crackled underfoot. But he had not dared gather them.
The grove belonged to the noble lord, who had declared that anyone who touched