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Feeling left out and knowing the others were a lot closer to Tancred than he had ever been in the past, let alone now, Joram did his best to ignore the taunting jests and led the group back towards his pavillion.
"It may be a little tight," he announced as he held back the tent flap.
Joram laughed nervously.
"But it beats being alone on a night like this. It's a genuine Billy night if you ask me. Billy..."
It was cold outside, and he could feel a cramp coming up in his leg. Crouching, one arm over the goat, a young boy peered out between the leaves. A group of men carrying torches raced past only yards away, but the bushes lining the estate's walls sheltered him from their view. The fact that it was almost completely dark wouldn't stop them from trying. He was deathly afraid.
What had they ever done to deserve being hunted like so much game?
There was shouting going on, and more men came by. He could see them too, lots of big angry men. And the boy and the goat were small, and all alone. His eyes began to water, obscuring his sight. He had to struggle from breaking out in sobs and betraying their hiding place. The smelly but lovable goat nibbled on some leaves, bleating soflty.
And then the wind rose. It came in gusts, each gently stroking his neck. It carried the smell of ale. But the bushes were silent.
Slowly, almost too afraid to move at all, the boy turned his head. He was staring right into the ugliest grin he'd ever seen.
"They're right here guys!" the man shouted. Joram made a run for it, but was caught almost before he started. Billy managed to find a clear path to the woods. Silently, Joram cheered his friend on.
Then Billy stumbled and fell. A final, keening bleat filled the air, and seeing the two wooden shafts potruding from the fuzzy coat, young Joram cryed with him.
Joram stabilised himself with the aid of a tentpole, waiting for the painfully vivid memory to sink once more beneath the surface of his mind.
"Why'd he have to die?", he murmured.
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