Tarrant Monkton

A small village in Dorset, its ford marking the tense crossing point where Tegan’s capture occurs. The village sits in a gently rolling landscape where the riverbank narrows to a shallow crossing, its waters chilled from winter’s lingering grip. Mud clings to boots and horses’ hooves, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves from the overhanging oaks. The ford’s stones glisten with moisture, their slick surfaces reflecting the dark silhouettes of armed men emerging from the tree line. Beyond the ford, the village huddles in a shallow valley, its thatched roofs sagging under the weight of age, its lanes narrow enough to force riders into single file. The place feels crouched and watchful, its quietude unnatural, as if time itself has paused to let the ritual unfold.