The Giant of Brede. The Winchelsea Veil, #4

The Groaning of the Land They say the marsh remembers. Not in words, nor in thoughts, but in the slow, patient way that water holds a shape long after the hand has gone. The Brede Valley is such a place - low and sodden, stitched with ditches and whispering reeds, where the fog clings to the bones of the land like a shroud. And in the heart of it stands Groaning Bridge. It is not a grand bridge. Not Roman.
Not Norman. Just old timber and older stone, bowed with age, slick with moss, and prone to complaint. It groans beneath every footstep, every cartwheel, every breath of wind. The villagers say it groans because it remembers. They do not speak of what it remembers. Not openly. But the tale is there, buried in the soil, etched in the planks, whispered in the mist. A tale of a man too large for the world, too hungry for peace, too strange to be called mortal.
A knight, they say. A giant. A protector turned predator. A shadow that walked in daylight and drank from vats meant for harvest. Sir Goddard Oxenbridge. The Iron Maw of Brede. He was buried, they insist. Twice. Once in Sussex, once in Kent. Split like a curse, divided like a secret. But the marsh does not forget. And the bridge still groans. Especially at night. Especially when the mist is thick.
Especially when the river runs slow and dark. This is the tale of how the valley tried to rid itself of its monster. And how the monster learned to crawl.