The castle stood on the ridge above the valley. The keep rose straight and hard out of the earth. Thick walls. Narrow slits. The stone pale and cold in the morning light.
It was Hedingham. Awarded to the de Veres by William the Conqueror. Aubrey de Vere (our ancestor) held the land by 1086. He planted vineyards and had sons. They cut the ditch through the ridge and set the walls in place. They shaped the hill to make it fit the keep. You can still see it.
Life inside was quiet but never still. The fire burned in the hall. Meat roasted on the spit. Men spoke in low voices. The lord sat at the head of the room and listened. His sword rested beside his chair. No one laughed unless he did first.
At night, the wind came through the cracks in the stone. The women kept their children warm with wool and stories. They prayed. They spun. They watched their sons grow up and ride away.
The boys played at swords until they learned to use them. They learned Latin, but they liked the horses more. They wanted to ride. They wanted to fight. They wanted to be men like their fathers.
Sometimes there was peace. Sometimes there was not. Either way, the castle stayed the same.
The walls were thick. The stones did not move. The keep watched the valley, and the valley watched it back. When the de Veres died, the keep stayed. When the wind blew, the stone did not care.
Now the keep is empty. The voices are gone. But the stone remembers. You can stand inside it and feel them if you are quiet.
They lived here once. They were your blood. They built this thing to last.
And it did.
