Walter Clegg pulled his broad-brimmed hat low over his forehead and cursed at the cold water that cascaded over his already sodden shoulders. He looked ahead, where the road descended into the Birch Ford. Three days of constant rain and the passage of a score of wagons had churned the approaches into a morass of mud, with knee-deep puddles in the ruts. The East Stour River, usually a tranquil stream, roared through the defile like a mountain torrent, crashing through the surrounding trees and carrying branches, broken boughs, and bales of straw.
“Bugger,” Walter grunted, easing his wagon to a halt. He surveyed the road, assessing the best route to the ford. The rain had created rivulets that carved gulleys in the ground, undermining the soil on either side. Walter dismounted from his cart
