Flora picked up her bag and started walking. ‘That’d be a first for a dockside tavern,’ she said.
Jimmy nodded, then stopped. ‘Wait!’ he said.
Flora looked at him enquiringly; he said nothing as he squatted beside their baggage, untying the cloth wrapped around a long narrow bundle.
The rapier came free, and Jimmy unwrapped the belt from the sheath and swung it around his hips. The tassets that the scabbard went through—a slanted row of loops on a triangular patch of leather sewn to the belt—kept the chafe—the metal reinforcement at the bottom of the scabbard—from tapping on the ground, if he walked with his left hand on the hilt. He wouldn’t have to worry about that in a few years when he reached his adult growth, but right now he was a bit shorter than most swordsmen.
‘Is that wise?’ Flora said.
‘It’s a mark of respectability,’ Jimmy said. ‘Or at least that you’re nobody to be trifled with!’
And there’s no Upright Man in Land’s End, the young thief thought. Demons and gods, but I’m sick of being pushed around!
They set out, walking slightly uphill along what Jimmy suspected would turn out to be the town’s main thoroughfare to the docks. He assumed there would be a large town square somewhere up ahead, and near there a reputable inn. His eyes wandered and again he studied the distant farms and wondered what it must be like up there. From what townsfolk said about farmers, their lives were pretty boring.
SEVEN
Tragedy
The girl looked up as her mother spoke.
‘When you’ve finished with that,’ Melda Merford said to her daughter Lorrie, ‘I want you to get the flax out of the pond.’
‘Mother, please!’ Lorrie protested.
She turned from where she’d been sweeping out the farmstead’s kitchen-hearth, wiping at her eye where a drop of sweat stung. She used the back of her wrist because her hands were black, but still she got a smudge on her cheek. The fine flying ash drifted up her nose, smelling dusty, like old wood smoke, and she sneezed: cleaning the hearth wasn’t a heavy chore, but it was disagreeable.
‘I was going to hunt today.’
She certainly hadn’t planned on pulling slimy bundles of flax out of the stagnant pond where it lay retting. Never a pleasant job, it would be more irksome still when her mind was fixed on a pleasant jaunt in the cool of the forest.
‘No,’ Melda said, not looking at her. She measured coarse flour out of a box into a wooden mixing bowl. ‘I don’t want you traipsing around those woods by yourself any more.’
Lorrie sat on her heels in astonishment. ‘Why not?’
‘You’re getting too old to be running around like a hoyden,’ her mother said calmly. ‘Besides, we need to get that flax ready. If we can make enough linen and thread to take to the market fair we’ll be able to pay our taxes.’ She looked at Lorrie with a frown. ‘We don’t want to lose the farm like the Morrisons did.’
Lorrie looked away, her frown matching her mother’s. The Morrisons losing their farm because they couldn’t pay the taxes had sent a shock through the whole community. There had been a lot of people losing their farms lately, but none here until the Morrisons. Everyone had assumed it was because of all the sons going to the war, or perhaps those farmers were lazy, but you couldn’t say that of the Morrisons; why, even the baby had chores. Taxes had gone up and up over the last few years, even before the war, and the smaller one’s farm was the harder it had become to pay them. Now even a medium-sized holding like their own had to struggle to pay the debt.
Still, it wasn’t exactly an emergency.
‘But we have hardly any fresh meat in the larder,’ Lorrie objected.
That wasn’t an emergency either—they weren’t nobles, or rich merchants, to eat fresh meat every day—but game helped stretch what they got out of the fields. The more they could sell rather than eat themselves, the better off they would be. The extra few coppers from grain sold rather than turned to bread could mean the difference between paying taxes and starving through the winter, or paying taxes and having enough put by to pay for fish from the town, and cheese from the dairy farmers.
Her mother bit her lip and raised her eyes to heaven. ‘It’s dangerous for a girl your age to go running around alone in the woods. Who knows who you might meet there with no one to help you.’
‘So when Bram comes back from Land’s End I can go with him?’
‘No! Absolutely not!’ Melda said firmly. ‘If anything, that would be worse.’
Lorrie stood to confront her mother, hands on her hips. ‘So I can’t go alone because it’s dangerous and I can’t go with a friend I’ve known my whole life because that would be worse than dangerous?’ she said, her voice ripe with sarcasm. ‘This makes no sense at all, Mother.’
‘Lorrie,’ her mother said wearily, ‘you’re growing up. And there are certain things, unfortunately, a girl can do that a woman can’t. One of which is keeping up with the boys she grew up with. You can do that as a child. But when you get older, sometimes . . . those same boys, when they get older—’ Melda sighed and looked her daughter in the eye, ’—want things.’
Lorrie rolled her eyes. She was a farm girl and had seen animals mating since she could crawl. ‘Mother, I know about those . . . things.’
‘That’s why it’s dangerous! You think you know about the ways of men and women, but you don’t, and it’s not about watching a bull and cow or a cock and hen. It’s about going all crazy inside when a lad smiles at you and forgetting what you think you know. You’re a good girl from a good home, and some day when the right lad asks for your hand, you’ll be glad for this. I’m your mother, and it’s my duty and your father’s duty to tell you what’s right and what isn’t. And until you’re married and moved out, we’ll keep that duty.’ She took a deep breath, anticipating an explosion.
But Lorrie was icy in her response. ‘So what you’re saying is that from now on I can’t go hunting, which I’m very good at and which I love, and which I’ve been doing since I was younger than Rip; but I can stay at home and do all the messy, smelly, dreary chores you can think of just because I’m a woman? Is that right?’
‘You’ll do the chores I tell you to do because you’re my daughter and that’s your place in this house. Your hands are needed here today and I don’t want to hear another word about it. So finish that up and get going down to the pond.’ Melda glared at Lorrie with her arms folded across her ample chest and hoped that she wouldn’t hear any more argument. She probably should have dealt with this before; but Lorrie loved the woods so. As she had herself when she was a girl. Melda had never forgotten what a wrench it was to give that up. All that freedom, she thought wistfully. With an effort she suppressed a sigh. Well, she was dealing with it now.
With a long last glare and a pout Lorrie knelt down and went back to work, but with her stiff back, brusque movements and unnecessary clatter she let her mother know exactly how she felt. At last, with a last clunk of the wooden shovel, she stood up and silently bore the ash bucket from the kitchen.
No more hunting, hmm? she fumed to herself. We’ll see about that.
The flax would be safe in the pond until tomorrow. Her mother would be angry with her she knew; very, very angry. But fresh meat, especially if she brought home some pheasant, would go a long way toward soothing her.
Lorrie dumped the ashes in the barrel where they waited to be leached and the potash used for soap, and brought the bucket back to the house. Then she marched to the barn and gathered the peg-toothed rake for mucking out the bundles of flax and the tarp for carrying them to the drying field. She also tucked her sling and bag of stones into her waistband under her apron, then headed for the retting pond.
The packed earth of the farmyard was littered with things—a broken plough-handle, an old wheel, foraging chickens that scattered clucking from around her feet, bundles of kindling—but she walked among them without needing to consciously use her eyes. They were as familiar to her as all the sm
ells—smoke-house, the outhouse, the manure-heap. Too familiar; right now it all seemed like a prison.
Lorrie could sense her mother watching from the house through the warped boards of the closed shutter and knew her mood. Annoyed; that was how Mother felt. These days she and her mother struck sparks as often as not.
But how can I help it? Lorrie asked herself. It’s always, ‘you’re almost a woman’ or, ‘you’re almost grown up’. Then they treat me more like a child than ever! Who wouldn’t lose their temper? And now, suddenly, no more hunting! Not even, no, especially not with Bram! That just isn’t right.
As she walked along the hedge-bordered path, brooding, Lorrie slowly became aware of her younger brother’s presence and sighed. This strong awareness of family was a gift inherited from her great-grandmother, who was secretly a witch, or so her mother said. She could always tell when her mother was thinking about her, or was nearby. But she was especially aware of her little brother, Rip. Right now Lorrie sensed he was as focused on her as an arrow speeding toward its target.
Wonderful, she thought, a wry twist to her mouth.
Her brother would be seven on the next Midsummer’s Day but he’d already discovered the benefits of blackmail and he was disturbingly adept at it. She supposed she could work on the flax until he got bored or disgusted by the smell and went away.
But if I start then I might as well finish, she thought. Once you got that smell on you only soap would take it off. And the stink could drive off rougher creatures than the birds and hares she was after.
Maybe even the robbers and murderers her mother was so frightened of. So it wouldn’t be worthwhile to go into the woods.
Rip was off to the right and a little ahead of her, uselessly creeping from bush to bush in the bit of scrubby pasture-cum-orchard to the right of the path. He knew she was aware of him.
He could sense her just as clearly as she could sense him. Sometimes she thought he was better at it. Lorrie didn’t call out to him because she needed time to think of some way of getting rid of him.
At last the stand of currant bushes ended and he leapt out with a cry of, ‘HAH!’ His hands raised over his head and curved into claws.
Lorrie raised an eyebrow in his direction and marched on without comment.
After a short pause he skipped up beside her.
‘Can I come?’ he asked, bouncing up and down in excitement.
‘You want to help me clean flax?’ she asked dubiously.
Rip laughed and Lorrie frowned. He knew, he always knew when she was up to something.
‘It’s messy and smelly,’ she warned.
‘You’re going hunting!’ he accused, then covered his mouth to hide his grin.
‘What makes you think that?’
Rip rolled his eyes at her elaborately casual attitude, put his hands on his hips and gave her a look of such adult condescension that she had to smile. ‘You promised you’d teach me to hunt and track,’ he said. ‘You said you would.’
She nodded, feeling rather sad. ‘I know. And if I can talk Daddy around I still mean to.’ She stopped walking and looked at him. ‘I really do mean to, Rip. Honest.’
Looking down, he scuffed the earth with his bare foot. ‘I know,’ he muttered. ‘But if this is the last time you can go . . .’ He looked up at her from under his eyelashes. For an instant she realized what a beautiful boy he was, and he knew it. He had used those long lashes more than once to wheedle his way with his father and mother.
She gave him a small smile. ‘It’s up to Daddy.’ She shrugged. ‘If I took you today then we’d both get punished.’
He considered that, still scuffing his foot back and forth.
Lorrie watched him sympathetically. ‘When Bram gets back from his uncle’s in Land’s End I’ll ask him to take you. Hey,’ she gently punched his shoulder, ‘maybe that way I’ll be able to go, too.’
He rubbed his shoulder and smiled ruefully. ‘That’s all right,’ he said.
‘Then that’s what we’ll try to do,’ Lorrie said positively. ‘But it would be a bad idea today.’
Rip nodded wisely. ‘Yeah. You’re gonna get it.’ He thought about this, then added, ‘You’re really gonna get it.’ He looked at her, his expression somewhere between awe and doubt.
Lorrie saw the moment his mind turned to making the situation work for him by the slight change in his expression and headed him off. ‘If you tell on me I’ll tell Bram not to take you, ever. And you know he’ll listen to me.’
Rip’s brow furrowed and he gave her a considering look. Lorrie folded her arms and looked back, one eyebrow raised. He tried, unsuccessfully, to imitate that and gave up after a moment with a frustrated hiss.
‘All right,’ he muttered resentfully. ‘But if Mummy asks me where you are I won’t lie.’
‘Of course not,’ Lorrie said, picking up the rake and the tarp. ‘Tell her the truth, tell her that you don’t know where I am. Which you won’t.’ She grinned and ruffled her brother’s hair to his considerable annoyance. ‘You won’t be sorry, Rip. I promise.’
He snorted and after a moment turned and walked away. Lorrie smiled at his back and headed off toward the pond and, just coincidentally, the beckoning woods beyond, humming a dancing tune.
Rip was confused and a little angry. Why couldn’t Lorrie go hunting any more? And if she really couldn’t, then why couldn’t she wait to stop hunting until after she’d taught him everything she knew? And what was it that boys would want and make Lorrie give them? Her hunting knife? Rip craved Lorrie’s hunting knife. It had a deerhorn haft and a seven-inch steel blade that took an edge so sharp there was nothing in the world it couldn’t cut.
Some day it would probably be his, but not yet. If Lorrie was too old to do certain things then he was still ‘too young’. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction his sister had been walking. He hoped she’d be all right. Mummy had sounded like she really was worried about her. Even about Bram.
Why would she worry about Bram? Rip wondered. Bram was the best person ever. And he liked Lorrie, you could tell. Rip shook his head. Grown-ups worried about all manner of things that he didn’t understand. And asking questions just made things worse mostly.
With a sigh, Rip looked around. He’d done his morning chores so he was free to play until lunch time. I’m a warrior! he decided and galloped off on an imaginary horse to slay the invaders from the other world. He swept up a likely stick and waved it with a flourish.
‘Ah ha! Villains! Attack my castle will you?’
And the battle to save the Kingdom began.
Come to Lorrie, the girl thought.
The coney was young, plump, and even by rabbit standards not too bright. Right now it was hopping slowly through the undergrowth along the forest edge, which was emerald and colourful with the first spring growth, stopping to nibble at berries or shoots now and then. And it was about to find Rabbit Paradise—a stretch of wild blackberry canes.
Now!
The coney’s head was down and its ears forward, its full attention on what it was eating. The next generation would be more alert.
Lorrie had the sling ready, a rounded pebble in the cup, the inner thong gripped securely between thumb and forefinger, the outer pinned against her palm by the middle fingers. She came out of her crouch with a smooth steady motion, the sling beginning to move as she came erect. Then it blurred as she whipped arms and shoulders and torso into the movement, one full circle around her head. The coney rose on its hind legs, eyes and ears swivelling to find the sound, herbs dropping from its still-working jaws.
Whupp!
The stone went out in a long sweet curve, travelling almost too fast to see as more than a grey streak. It caught the rabbit on the side of the head just as it began its leap, striking with a flat smack sound that always made her wince. Still, food was food, and the rabbit died before it had more than a moment of fear—she hated pig-slaughter time far more, because the pigs were smart enough to know what the preparati
ons meant.
The long furred shape was kicking its last as she loped over.
‘Two or three pounds at least,’ she said happily, picking it up by its hind legs. Good eating. Rabbit stew with potatoes and herbs, grilled rabbit leg, minced meat pie with onions and carrots . . . The guts wouldn’t go to waste either: the dogs and pigs loved them, and the bones would be broken and thrown onto the compost heap.
A good day, she thought happily. Four pheasants and four fat little coneys. And since they wouldn’t keep, dinner would be like a harvest festival all week.
The sun was low on the horizon as she lay at her ease beneath a great oak, daydreaming. Bram would be home from Land’s End soon and she was imagining what it would be like when he came to see her. He might bring her a small gift, a hairpin, or some fine cloth for a shawl to wear at a dance. If he lacked the means for those tokens, he’d almost certainly bring her meadow flowers. He’d hand them to her with that charming smile of his and perhaps he’d kiss her. She felt her cheeks grow warm at the thought.
At fifteen Lorrie was more than ready to start thinking about who her husband would be and Bram was the best candidate in the neighbourhood. Handsome, skilled at everything a countryman needed to know, and heir to a good farm. He was hardworking, honest and sincere, but not without intelligence and humour, qualities the hard life of a farmer often beat out of a man even as young as Bram’s seventeen years. And she was sure he felt the same way about her. With a contented sigh, Lorrie remembered his handsome face, his golden hair and the special smile he’d given her when he’d come to say goodbye.
Bram’s mother, Allet, wanted him to concentrate his attentions on plump, spoiled Merrybet Glidden, whose father owned the grandest farm in the area, and who put on airs that she never had to turn her hand to honest work, what with three maids and a dozen farmhands. Lorrie smiled grimly; no doubt that stuck-up Merrybet would prefer it that way, too. Then she wrinkled her nose, and grinned, settling her shoulders deeper into the soft grass beneath her. Both Bram’s mother and Merrybet were going to be disappointed—Bram was going to be hers. She just knew it.
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