Lynford’s shoring is not pretty: timber from Peverel-who-is-not-here (Osric’s pile, then), wattle, stones in a basket you can actually lift, a face on the cutwater like a scab that means well.

You work in the wet to the knees. Col, if he has been persuaded, holds a horse that does not respect engineering. Bram, if word has gone south, will be tightening his rope.

The bridge still has low parapets. A packhorse could cross if you waved them one at a time, slowly, not two carts proud. The hole is less of a mouth.

Waymarks wait: a painted staff that should mean ridge, a stone cross, the church tower as a landmark for anyone looking backward.

Ferry as backup: one mile south, loads counted.

Wattle is a fence of sticks that slows water the way eyelashes slow dust. Stones in the basket are a weight the current must argue with. You are wet, useful, not a hero. If the shoring is already done when you arrive again later, you check it like a knot, not a trophy, and go where the next door is.

If you have shored already and the story sent you back, you do not rebuild a scab for pride. You press, listen, and go to ferry or marks. Lynford is small. Work done stays done.