The Southampton Chronicle

The Making of a Name is a Terrible Chore

Gregory knew they hunted him, but did they have the horses to see it through? Doubtful, but soon the answer would be known. He neared the end of a mournful poem that had bedeviled him for a fortnight. Once done, he would again ride out and give test to their mettle. Gregory gazed into the raftered reaches of the hall and thought of home. An autumn gust rattled the shutters, candles flickered and, somewhere out there, they waited. He lit a stub of Fran...