[The British Isles, Northumbria, fyford , April of 793]
William stood outside the small timber house, his back to the rough wood. The morning wind carried the muffled sound of voices from within, a quiet, domestic crisis. He heard the scrape of chairs, hurried, heavy footsteps, and the sharp, brittle sound of a woman's desperate sob.
Athelstan was preparing his son for the road.
A moment later, the door creaked open. Athelstan stepped out first, his face drawn tight with a consuming mix of exhaustion and absolute resolve.
Behind him came his wife, her eyes swollen and fixed on the earth, holding young Harold by the shoulders. The boy's pack was pitifully light: a few wedges of bread, a waterskin, and the small, smoothed wooden cross Father Ecbert had likely blessed.
The whole family stood there in the doorway, bound by silence, save for the faint sound of the wife's quiet, broken crying.
Athelstan knelt before his son, sinking his heavy body into the mud, and placed a rough, calloused hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Listen well, boy," he said, his voice held steady by sheer force of will. "You learn from him. You work hard. You take the chance that me and your mother never had. You hear me?"
Harold nodded, his eyes wet.
Athelstan's grip tightened, the pressure intense. "And never think of us again. You've got no family now. No village. Only your duty and your chance. Remember that, always."
His wife let out a choked sound, turning abruptly to hide her face against the timber frame. Athelstan stood, straightened his shoulders against the cold wind, and looked once at William, the pale-haired figure in impossible armor.
His eyes were not grateful, but challenging , demanding that William hold up his end of this impossible transaction.
"He's yours now, Ser," Athelstan said quietly, the word Ser heavy with the price of the boy's life. "We have done all we can."
William held his gaze for a heartbeat, then inclined his head
He placed a hand on Harold's shoulder and turned toward the road.
The wind stirred again, carrying with it the faint, broken sound of the mother's crying as the two figures walked away.
[Outside of fayford on the way to York]
"William left Fayford with his hammer on his shoulder. The wind was cold and clean." The village was already fading behind him , a few huts, smoke from cooking fires, and the faint sound of dogs barking. Ahead was the road to York.
He didn't believe work there would magically get him what he wanted, but everything had to start somewhere.Still, if he were to kill the king and take his treasury, it would be much faster.
He grinned to himself. "No, no. Bad thoughts. Go away. Shoo."A knight wasn't supposed to think like that. Sin was always waiting close, just one step behind.
He looked at his new page to distract himself.Harold walked beside him, small and thin, clutching his little pack like it was treasure. The poor boy looked like he might faint any moment.
"Do you know what a page is, Harold?" William asked.
The boy snapped from his thoughts. "No, m'lord."
William smiled. "A page is a boy training to become a knight. Usually they start between seven and fourteen. Do you know what that means?"
Harold shook his head.
"It means you missed five years of training," William said. "So we'll have to train harder for the next three."
The boy's eyes widened. "Train in what, m'lord?"
William started counting on his fingers."Horseback riding, hunting, basic combat , that's first."
Harold frowned. "But… we don't have a horse"
William looked at him, dead serious. "Then I'll seat you on my back and teach you. Don't worry , as my page, I have an unwavering duty to make sure you get a complete education. Just like I did."
Harold blinked, unsure if he was joking. William gave him a small grin and went on.
"Then you'll learn how to serve in a hall, set a table, pour wine, and behave like a decent person. Maybe, if we find someone who can read, you'll learn a few letters too , reading, counting, history, the boring stuff."
Harold blinked, trying to follow. "All that?"
"All that," William said. "And if you don't complain too much, maybe I'll even teach you how to swing my hammer without killing yourself."
That made the boy smile, a small nervous thing.
William looked down the road again. "You'll hate me before long," he said quietly. "But if you listen and keep working, one day i will make you a knight , and I won't have to look at you and see a scared boy anymore."
They walked on. The mud squelched under their boots, the wind blew through the empty road, and for a while neither spoke again.
Then William said, "And Harold , one more thing."
"Yes, m'lord?" Harold answered.
"Never call me lord again," William said. "Sir, or Sir Gwyndolin, is just fine."
"Yes, sir," Harold said quickly.
"Good boy," William said, glancing at him once before facing the road again.