K is for Kenrick
Godwin enjoyed watching Joan cooking. In truth, he just enjoyed watching Joan. She was cheery and full of life. Maybe plain, but real, and earthy. Bertram would never have approved. She was perfect.
He chuckled to himself, then struggled to sit up a little better.
“And you’re moving around,” Joan said, looking up from the pot that hung over the fire. “How are you feeling today?”
Godwin shrugged, looking away.
“A man could question your motives,” said Joan’s father from across the room. “I see how you stare.”
Godwin moved his hand slightly, expressing mock surprise.
“No doubt you’re not completely innocent,” said the father. “Surely there’s some reason for the beating you took.”
“Father,” said Joan. “Please.”
The man snorted. Godwin leaned back and sighed.
Joan slipped over to his bedside. “You don’t remember?”
Godwin frowned, shaking his head. It was a lie, of course. He remembered Aldred’s sneer, and Grant’s wicked cackle. He remembered all too well. But he dared not say anything.
“Do you remember your name?” Joan said.
Godwin wrinkled his brow. ‘Godwin’ wouldn’t do. Godwin was dead. It was best that way. Then who would he be?
“How do you forget your name?” muttered Joan’s father.
Joan sighed and clicked her tongue. “Nevermind him.”
“David,” Godwin groaned.
“David?” echoed Joan. “That’s your name?”
Godwin nodded. A lie, he knew, but David was a safe name.
“I guess that’s forgettable,” grumbled Joan’s father. “But I am Kenrick, and this is my house.”
Godwin wrinkled his brow.
“Perhaps some time you’ll be so kind as to tell us how you came to lie battered in a ditch?” said Kenrick.
Godwin frowned. “Evil men,” he breathed.
“You or them?” Kenrick said.
“I’m no one,” said Godwin.