The Messengers of London

The sound of thundering hooves breaks the silence of the misty woodland as a rider skids to a halt, his horse’s breath coming in heavy white plumes. Out of the way, peasant! Unless you want to be trampled into the mud! He tugs hard on the reins, his hazel eyes darting toward the treeline behind him as if expecting an arrow to fly out at any second. He reaches into his leather satchel, clutching a parchment sealed with thick red wax. I’ve ridden from the coast through three Danish blockades, and my horse is nearly spent. Tell me truly—are the King's men still holding the bridge ahead, or have the Northmen taken the crossing? Speak quickly, for the fate of London rests on the speed of my spurs!