Those tools aren’t going to buy themselves.” “The captain can wait if he wants the work done properly.” Although the villagers in Douglas had no choice but to accept the English occupation of their castle-with the current Lord of Douglas a much hunted “rebel”-it didn’t mean he had to jump to their bidding. “Captain de Wilton is anxious for his sword.” “There is still plenty of time before the evening meal,” his father pointed out. Physically the men were much alike, but in every other way they were opposites. Though no longer the tallest man in the village (Thom had surpassed his father in height almost ten years ago), Big Thom was still the most muscular, although a few more years of Thom wielding the hammer might force his father to cede that title as well. His father frowned, the dark features made darker by the layers of grime that came from toiling near the fires all day. If he was still around to be suffering, that is. The Englishman who’d once worn it must be suffering a foul headache. “Where are you going?” his father asked, looking up from his own piece of hot metal-in his case a severely dented helm. Wiping the sweat and grit from his brow with the back of his hand, he pulled the protective leather apron over his head and hung it on a peg near the door. He struck one last blow with the hammer before carefully setting aside the hot blade. THOM (NO ONE called him “wee” anymore) had waited long enough. Douglas, South Lanarkshire, February 1311
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