by JL Merrow
Capture the Moon
By J.L. Merrow
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2016 J.L. Merrow
ISBN 9781634862813
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
NOTE: This book was previously published by Torquere Press.
* * * *
Capture the Moon
By JL Merrow
There once was a young woman named Adrien, who lived with her father in a simple, low-roofed cottage at the edge of a forest. To the rear of the cottage stretched mighty hills covered with sweet-smelling pine and mountain ash; in front of it, the steep gables of a tiny village.
Adrien’s father, whose name was Robert, was a weaver, and had married late in life. Until his fortieth year he had dwelt alone in his homely cottage, content to work his loom and see to his modest needs himself. Indeed, having reached such an age unwed, he had not thought ever to marry; but there lived in the village at that time a beautiful, wilful girl of seventeen. She was named Roberta and was the daughter of the miller, a proud, prosperous man.
One brisk winter’s morning, the miller sent his young daughter to fetch some cloth from the weaver. Now, Roberta was her father’s only child, and he had indulged her and let her be taught how to read. The books she had read had caused many fanciful notions to form in her innocent, girlish brain, and one of these was that names had power. She no sooner learned the weaver’s name was Robert than she determined that the Fates must have meant for them to be together, and she set about wooing the lonely old man with all the feminine wiles at her disposal, which were not inconsiderable. For her face was fair and her breasts were full, and she moved with a dancing grace; moreover, she was sweet-tempered, if a little used to having her own way, and possessed a sweet smile that could light the darkest room like the sun on a June morning.
“Master Weaver,” she said as she twirled her flaxen hair about her slender finger and smiled her sunny smile, “how ever do you weave this cloth so fine? For I swear, even the spiders at their webs do not weave such delicate fabric as you.”
“Ah!” replied Robert, little suspecting her intent, but succumbing to her charms all the same. “When I was a younger man, I swore I’d learn to weave cloth so light and fine that if you dropped your kerchief, ‘twould take half a day to fall. I fear I’ve failed in that intent, but still, ‘tis a fine, delicate weave, that I’ll admit.”
“Oh, Master Weaver,” she said, and her long lashes fluttered closed as she spoke, and she pressed the end of the cloth to her cheek. “Such softness! Why, my father will think you’ve had help from the little folk. I swear, it whispers over my skin like fairies’ wings.” And she let the cloth fall, and as it slithered across her firm young bosom, Robert found he knew not where to look, and he coughed and strode to the window, in sudden need of air.
And Roberta smiled to herself, for she knew in that moment she could win this humble, hardworking man for her own. She found reasons to visit the lonely weaver more days than not, discovering within him a love of the same books that had charmed her childhood—which was, indeed, not so very long past. They talked, and they laughed, and she helped him with his work, and ‘twas not long before even the miller himself began to think the match a done thing. When his neighbours laughed and expressed disbelief at his daughter’s elderly beau, the miller would shrug and say, “Well, there’s many a maid has chosen worse.” Which, after all, was only too true.
Robert was accustomed to little society and so he did not fear ridicule from his neighbours for taking so young a wife. But he did fear he might die too soon and leave her unprotected, and so he resisted the winsome, determined girl for as long as he could.
Which was, as might be expected, not long at all.
So they were married in the spring, as blossoms sprouted on the apple trees in her father’s orchard like the flowers the bride wore in her hair. The following January, as snow whitened the tops of the trees in cheerful mockery of the white hairs that graced the old weaver’s head, Roberta presented him with a child.
It had been a long, hard labour, and the weaver had feared to leave his young wife’s side to fetch the midwife. So when the babe was born it was Robert who delivered her. Exhausted from worry and lack of sleep, Robert held the tiny scrap with wonder. He had never held one so young before, and it seemed so odd-looking, its little face so red and wrinkled. Hurriedly, he wrapped the babe in a clean cloth of his own weaving and handed it to his wife.
She smiled as she cradled the precious infant to her breast. “What is it, my love? Do we have a daughter or a son?”
Robert stared at his wife. “Why, my dear, I quite forgot to look!”
“You old silly!” She laughed and pulled open the swaddling clothes for a moment. “We have a daughter, love. A beautiful baby girl, perfect in every way.”
“What shall we call her then?” Robert asked gruffly.
She laughed once more and said, “Well, love, as you paid no mind to whether she was boy or girl, let us call her by a name that could be either! I name our daughter Adrien.”
And forever after the weaver loved to tell the tale of Adrien’s naming, but he told it always with a tear in his eye. For that was the last time he was to hear his lovely young bride laugh. She succumbed to the child-bed fever not many days later, leaving him to raise their daughter alone. Fate, it seemed, had answered his prayers that Roberta not be left widowed—but as so often happens, not in the way he would have chosen.
As the miller and his wife were not tardy in following their only daughter to the grave, Robert and Adrien became all in all to one another. He cared for her and taught her and passed to her the books that had so delighted her mother. And when she was older, Adrien kept house for her father. But the weaver grew ever older and one day, when Adrien had not long reached the full bloom of womanhood, he fell ill.
“Daughter,” Robert croaked from his sick bed, “I fear I must leave you soon. I pray you, do not be afraid for your future. You may not be a beauty like your mother was—you favour your poor father too much for that. But you’ve two strong arms, a ready, cheerful smile, and a calm and sensible manner. I’ve no doubt the young men of the village will be lining up at your door once I am gone.”
“You old silly!” Adrien chided him fondly, wondering at the tear that sprang to his eye when she, all unknowing, addressed him as her mother had so long ago. “I don’t need a man to take care of me! For as you’ve said: I’m strong, I’m cheerful, and I’m sensible. Besides which, Father, you are not going to leave me.” But she crossed her fingers behind her back as she spoke and hoped God would
forgive her the lie, for she knew he was not long for this world.
And indeed, it was not many days before Adrien found herself alone in the cottage, her father’s loom standing silent and forlorn in the corner. The old man himself lay buried beside his wife, and it was no longer Adrien’s lot to watch over him, for that task now fell to the ancient yew that ruled the churchyard, its bright red berries falling like tears upon the graves below.
* * * *
As Adrien was sorrowfully bundling up her father’s clothes to be given to the poor, a knock came upon the door of her cottage. She opened it to find Will Green, the farmer’s eldest son, standing there in his best smock. A squealing piglet struggled to escape from his large, rough hands. With some difficulty, the young farmer tipped his broad-brimmed hat to Adrien, and she hastened to relieve him of his wriggling burden, not without a strong suspicion as to why he might have come.
“Miss Weaver,” the farmer began, “I hope you’ll be so kind as to accept this fine young piglet as a gift, and when your time of mourning is done, will you be allowing me to be a-courting of you? For those strong arms of yours would do mighty well a-helping me on the farm, I’m thinking.”
“I thank you, Master Green,” Adrien said politely, “and I’ll think on your words.” For although she shuddered inwardly at the thought of those large, rough hands upon her body, still she knew the young farmer to be an honest, kindly man and would not for the world have hurt his feelings.
So she put the piglet down by the fire to keep warm, fed it on scraps from the funeral spread, and wondered at herself, that she found the thought of marriage to such a good man so abhorrent.
The next day there came a second knock upon the door. It was Thomas White, the village baker, come to present her with one of his finest loaves. He too tipped his hat to her, leaving a large floury thumbprint upon the brim.
“Miss Weaver,” said he from behind his bushy auburn beard, “I hope you’ll accept this modest gift, and will allow me to court you when a suitable time has passed. For your ready, cheerful smile would be an asset in my shop, I’m sure.”
Although Adrien could not stomach the thought of kisses from such a bristly face, still she knew the baker to be a hard-working, God-fearing man, and so she thanked him kindly and told him she would consider his proposal. Then she sat down by the fire with the piglet and fed it a crust from the still-warm loaf.
“Oh, Ferkel,” she sighed, for so she had named the little beast. “I begin to think I must be a sinfully dissatisfied sort of woman, for here are two of the finest men in all the village come to court me, yet I am only disgusted by their attentions.”
The following day, there came yet another visitor. This time it was Reverend Goode, the parson, bringing her a book of psalms, and the hope that she might allow his suit.
“For,” he told her in his deep, booming voice, “a calm, sensible woman is just the thing for a clergyman’s wife.”
Although Adrien found she liked him better to look at than either the farmer or the baker—for he was clean-shaven and his hands were long-fingered and delicate—still she could not bear the thought of hearing words of love spoken to her in that deep, booming voice. So she thanked the reverend kindly and sent him on his way, and when he had gone, she sat down once more by the fire. She read a psalm or two to the piglet, and then she sighed and closed the book. “Oh, Ferkel, I’m afraid if I stay here one more day, I’ll be knee-deep in unsuitable suitors, and as there’s not one man in the village I wish to marry, I fear I’ll disappoint half the parish.”
She nibbled thoughtfully upon the baker’s loaf and fed another crust to the piglet. “I’ll tell you what, Ferkel, perhaps if I leave this village and see a few new faces I’ll find the reason I’m so dissatisfied with all the men I know. What do you say we pack up a few things and travel a while?”
The piglet grunted excitedly in agreement, so the next morning, shortly after cockcrow, Adrien packed up a few things—and then she stopped and bethought herself that it might not be safe for a young woman to travel alone. So she went to the bundle of her father’s old clothes and, after binding her breasts with a strip of cloth that they might not reveal her, dressed herself like a man. Then she took her father’s scissors and cropped her hair short to complete the disguise. “Well, Ferkel, what say you?” she asked her little companion. “I find Father’s clothes fit me well enough, for luckily weaving is not a profession that makes for broad shoulders. Do you think I’ll pass for a boy?”
Ferkel squealed happily.
“Well then,” said Adrien, “let us go and seek our fortune!” And stopping only to equip herself with a stout stick and tuck the parson’s book of psalms into the breast pocket of her father’s jacket, she set off into the forest, Ferkel scampering at her heels.
They walked all day. As their path led down from the mountains, the majestic spruce and unchanging fir so familiar to Adrien gradually gave way to sturdy oak and chestnut trees, their leaves a riot of red and gold. When the sun had fled from the sky and a silvery moon peeped coyly from behind the treetops, Adrien lay down to rest in the shelter of an ancient oak tree. There she slept, Ferkel snuggled in her arms, and dreamed of soft hands and softer voices. In the morning, she ate the last of the baker’s bread while her little companion feasted upon acorns, and when they had both eaten their fill, they set off once more.
They had not gone far before Adrien heard the sounds of fighting ahead. Quickening her pace, she hurried towards the noise, careful to tread as silently as she could.
She emerged in a forest clearing where she saw two ruffians—fierce, well-grown men both, with greasy black beards and ruddy faces twisted into snarls—setting upon a young man dressed in a monk’s kirtle. Without stopping to think, Adrien strode into the fray and dealt the nearest brigand a hefty blow with her stout stick. As he dropped to the ground, his companion bellowed in rage and rushed at her, a knife in his outstretched hand. She felt a blow to her chest, but as the pain was not great she whirled her stick and caught him a wallop to the chin. He too dropped like a stone to the forest floor.
“Good sir!” gasped the monk to Adrien as he struggled to rise, his kirtle so strewn with leaves he seemed a bush sprung to life. “How can I ever thank you? But are you not grievously hurt? For I saw the ruffian stab you in the heart!”
Equally puzzled now that the rush of the fight had left her, Adrien examined herself for signs of bleeding. She laughed when she saw what had happened. “Well, Brother, it seems the good Lord himself has saved me, for ‘tis only my psalter that’s grievously wounded!” And she showed him the book of psalms that had been in her breast pocket with a hole pierced almost clean through.
The monk peered at the book like a mole blinking in the sunlight. “Alas! Those brigands broke my eyeglasses, and I am sure would have killed me were it not for your brave assistance, good fellow.”
Amused to find that he took her for a man even at such close quarters, Adrien helped the young monk brush the leaves and dirt of the forest floor from his habit. He was of slender build, with longish, light brown hair not yet tonsured. His features were narrow, regular, and not unpleasing to the eye. “I am glad I was able to assist you, Brother,” Adrien told him. “Now, I imagine those ruffians will not be in the best of temper when they wake up, so perhaps we should be on our way before that happens?”
“Of course, of course!” the monk agreed, looking around a little bewildered. “Is my horse nearby?”
As she led him to the beast, which stood placidly beside a tree not half-a-dozen yards away, Adrien came to a decision. “With respect, Brother, it seems to me that without your eyeglasses you’re blinder than a new-born kitten, and just as helpless. Now, I’ve no fixed destination in mind, so why don’t I see you to yours, whatever it might be?”
At this, the monk looked mightily relieved. “Gladly, my new friend, for as you say, I fear I’ll make but a poor showing at finding my way when I can scarce see my own hand in front of my face. And besides
,” he added with another wary, yet unfocussed, glance around the clearing, “‘twill be safer should these ruffians awaken from their sleep.”
And so they set off together, riding upon the monk’s horse until they judged they had put enough distance between themselves and the brigands, and then walking to give the beast some rest. And as they travelled, they talked.
Although it amused her no end to hear the monk address her as “good fellow,” Adrien told him her name. But she hesitated to tell him she was female. For, after all, even a monk was yet a man, and what man would be pleased to hear he had been rescued by a girl? And so she held her tongue on this score.
For his part, the monk was right garrulous. “You must call me Felix, not Brother,” he told her. “For though I wear the habit of a monk, I have not yet taken my final vows. I plan to do so as soon as my mission is concluded,” he added with a heartfelt sigh that piqued Adrien’s interest.
“And what is this mission of yours?” she asked.
The monk’s pale, unfocused eyes opened wide as they stared in her direction. “Why, to the castle! Have you not seen the royal proclamation?”
Adrien shrugged. “Which one? Though we do hear tell of such things in our village, to be honest we pay them little mind. After all, what are the doings of royalty to simple country folk?”
“Ah,” Felix told her, “this one concerns the princess, Selene. It is said she is a great beauty and has had suitors from far and wide. But she refuses to marry any of them, although it is the duty of any young lady who has reached the age of eighteen.”
“Of course,” Adrien replied drily, although she feared her irony was one more thing imperfectly perceived by the eager young monk.
“The princess, it seems, has a great yearning for the moon and has said she will marry only the man who can bring it to her,” Felix continued. “And so the King issued a proclamation, that whosoever can bring his daughter the moon shall have her hand, be he prince or pauper.”
