Village Cross

The village cross stands at the heart of Little Hodcombe, its ancient stone shaft weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Four roads converge here, their rutted tracks cutting through the frozen village like spokes from a hub, their cobbled surface slick with ice despite the unnatural stillness. A narrow circular yard of packed dirt surrounds the monument, its edges worn smooth by the passage of carts and feet. Roughly hewn stone steps lead up to the cross’s base, their height just enough to allow Wolsey and his troopers to dismount stiffly after their fruitless search. The cross itself rises against a backdrop of thatched roofs and shuttered windows, its shadow stretching long in the failing light. The air carries the scent of woodsmoke from unseen hearths and the metallic tang of anticipation, thick with the unspoken tension of a community hunting one of its own.