The De Montfort Histories - The Dove And The Devil - Plot & Excerpts
He ambled slowly along the dusty road leading to the village, kicking pebbles out of the way as he went, trying desperately to put off his arrival at the cottage where he had known happiness for such a short time. He noticed a roof tile was missing, and the lean-to shed where his wife had kept her pig and a few chickens was hanging precariously off the end wall of the house. His mind registered that he would need to fix that before winter set in. It was then that he realised suddenly that he didn’t really care what happened to the building. There was nothing left of the old life worth preserving. As he pushed against the door, the rusted metal hinges groaned in protest, warning him to keep out. He wanted to turn away, to go back to Lavaur, his courage deserting him. Let someone else do it, he thought. He pulled himself together sharply. He owed his dead wife this last duty. He blinked as the sun shone through the door opening, revealing the thick layer of dust that coated everything in the room.
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