“Well, since we are not yet to the Mid-Winter Festival, it is not yet a concern.” Cera shifted again. “What do you think of the draft of my letter to Lord Ashkevron?” Hoping the change of subject wasn’t too obvious.
Thankfully, Athelnor let her have her way. With a resigned look, he started searching through the papers on his desk.
Cera wiggled her stockinged toes a bit closer to the fireplace. Athelnor’s office was snug, and the shelves of books and records surrounding them gave it a cozy air.
She settled back in the chair, enjoying the warmth. Winter held Sandbriar firmly in its grip, a different kind of winter than she was used to. The cold was thinner, sharper somehow, the snow like hard diamonds instead of the flat, wet flakes she’d known in Rethwellan.
The manor house was kept warm, due in large part to the number of people they’d crammed within its walls. The elderly, women, and children, and if it had not been enough, Cera would have brought the herds into the Great Hall.
Marga and Athelnor had declared it unnecessary, and, in truth, the animals were probably happier in the fields and barns. Still, Cera smiled to herself. It had raised a joyous chaos when she’d put forward the idea in the Grand Hall one night, more from mischief than necessity. She chuckled at the memory of the horrified faces around her, until they had realized she’d been joking with them.
But her pleasure in the memory faded quickly enough. Oh, they’d get by with the food they had, but come spring it would be the hard time, when supplies ran low and the first crops hadn’t yet come in. The women of Sandbriar were knowledgeable in the ways of making meals stretch and none would die, but they’d all be a bit leaner come spring.
Still, she worried for her people and her lands. She didn’t want to burden Athelnor any more than he already was.
The steward leaned forward in his chair, catching her attention, her draft in his hand. “It seems a bit . . . needy, my lady. A bit too eager. It places us in a bad position to bargain, or so it seems to me.”
Cera sighed. “Athelnor, we are in a bad position to bargain.”
“True,” the elder man gave her a pained look. “But need we reveal it so blatantly?”
A snort came from Gareth, sitting on the floor near the fire, sharpening a dagger. He and Alena had been out the last few days, checking farms and households for any in need or distress. But Athelnor insisted that his grandson learn more of the operations of his office, and Cera had agreed. Gareth was not so enthusiastic about wasting a fine winter morning, but he had bent to his grandfather’s will.
“You should try your hand at drafting, Gareth.” Athelnor held out the parchment. “Would do you good to practice your skills.”
Gareth’s face held such a look of horror that Cera burst out in a laugh. Before Athelnor could insist or Gareth protest any further, there was a knock at the door. One of her youngest shepherds stood there, cap in hand. “Beggin’ your pardon.”
“Come in, Jorin.” Cera turned in her chair. “Warm yourself by the fire.”
“Thanks, my lady, but there’s a problem down in the barns. The others went to fetch old Meroth, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“The cold does bad things to his old bones,” Cera scolded. “His dogs aren’t that much better off. What’s so wrong that you would pull them from his warm hut?”
“We were bringing in the herd, to check them over like ya said, and—” The lad turned red in the cheeks. “Well, one of the rams is trying to mount everything in sight, and the ewes keep giving him puzzled looks, being as they’re all bred and none’s in season. But he won’t stop trying. Makin’ a ruckus, he is.”
“Pizzle rot,” Cera and Athelnor both said at the same time.
The lad’s blush got deeper. “Beg pardon?”
“Nothing surer.” Cera stood, slipping her feet back into her boots. At last, something she could do that didn’t involve worrying over what might be. “Let me get my cloak and grab some ointment for the poor thing and we’ll see to him.”
“Pizzle rot?” The lad repeated. “What’s pizzle rot?”
“Just what you think it is, my lad,” Athelnor said.
• • •
“Hold him tight now,” Cera said, trimming knife in hand. “I have to shave the matted hairs around—”
She was interrupted by the ram, baaing and meh-ing at the top of its lungs. It had taken four of the lads to corner him and wrestle him into position.
“Or I’ll come do it for ya!” Old Meroth shouted. The old shepherd, grizzled and gray, sat on a stool by the closed barn door, with his three elderly sheep dogs at his feet. Even with his right arm lifeless and the side of his face sagging, he had opinions. “Time was I could’ve wrestled that ram all by myself, aye, and seen to him with the other hand.”
His dogs all looked as though they agreed.
Jorin, struggling to keep the ram’s head still, muttered something that Cera chose to ignore.
“Phew—what is that reek?” The shepherds around her turned their heads away, grimacing.
Cera reached in through the wool and took the scabbed and oozing mess firmly in hand, careful to aim it away from herself.
The ram screeched then, sounding almost human. The men all winced in sympathy.
“I know, I know,” Cera crooned. “I know it hurts and it’s sore, but I’ve got to shave you clear, lad. And that smell is going to get worse when we loosen and peel off those nasty scabs.”
The men all grimaced.
Cera set about it, carefully working the blade close to the skin. “We’ll need a wet cloth to try to loosen them first. It’s the least we can do for the poor lad.”
“I’d say,” one of them muttered.
“Just look,” Cera said, displaying the tender bits.
More winces all around. The ram sagged in exhaustion and gave a weary bleat.
“We’ll clean you up,” she crooned as she worked the knife through the thick, filthy hairs. “And then some ointment for the next few days, and you’ll be as good as ever.”
The barn door opened, and a slim man walked in, Gareth right behind. “Excuse me, Lady Ceraratha?”
“Get that door closed,” Meroth snapped. “That ram gets running free, we’ll not catch him before the damn thing rots off.”
The door closed. The young man cleared his throat politely. “Lady Ceraratha, I am Ellison, Lord Cition’s youngest son. Perhaps you have heard of me? My father sent me to offer our respects and to enliven your Mid-Winter Festival.”
Cera didn’t look up from her task. “I’m a bit busy at the moment.”
Gareth’s voice was a growl. “He insisted, Lady Cera.”
The ram found renewed energy and kicked out, struggling, making its displeasure known loudly. Cera pulled her knife back, letting the lads get a better grip.
“Gonna have to pen him after this,” Meroth called out. “Unless you lads fancy chasing him around the fields, trying to anoint his nethers?”
The lads all denied a desire to do so as they wrestled the ram back into submission. Cera kept her grip gentle but firm as she waited to begin again.
“Lady Cera?”
This time Cera looked over her shoulder to see a fine young lad standing there, dressed in clean, stylish woolens and leather gloves, looking cold and miserable and out of place. He wore a fashionable hat with an elegant feather that couldn’t be the least bit warm.
Ellison doffed his hat as he caught her eye, and bowed. “I know that there was no formal invitation, lady, but my father felt now was a good time to express our good will toward you and your holdings. I—”
“Thank you,” Cera cut him off with a rising sense of frustration. “But, as you can see,” she gestured with the knife. “I am slightly busy at the moment.”
Ellison frowned. “Surely another could do this job? There’s no need for the La
dy of Sandbriar to perform such a task.” He took another step closer, nose wrinkling at the stench.
Cera was having none of that. “These are my herds and my ram, and I will have the tending of—”
Which was when, to her horror, the ram let loose with a torrent of foul-smelling ‘frustration’ all over young Ellison.
Who promptly fell to his knees and vomited.
They all stood in deep, terrible silence for a long moment, the ram, the shepherds, and Cera, watching the poor lad.
Cera cleared her throat. “Perhaps Gareth could see you to the manor,” she said calmly, proud that there wasn’t a hint of laughter in her voice. “I’ll be along as soon as we’ve finished here.”
Gareth got the lad’s elbow and helped him to his feet. He guided him carefully around the mess, and headed toward the door.
“What . . . what was that?” Cera heard Ellison ask.
“Pizzle rot,” Gareth said.
• • •
With the ram seen to and penned for future treatments, Cera had returned to the manor to wash and change. Marga had assured her that Ellison had been welcomed with a bath in his room and his clothes taken for cleaning. “Not quite sure how we get that stench out, but we’ll try our best.” The older woman shook her head. “A nice polite boy, don’t you think?”
Cera hated to disappoint, but best stop that thought in its tracks. “Marga, I am still in mourning for my late Lord Sinmonkelrath.”
“Yes, Lady,” Marge said. “I do know. A year and a day.” The older woman looked her straight in the eye. “You’re the Lady of Sandbriar, and a good Lady to your land and your people. But part of that stewardship is the passing down of your titles and seeing to your people. And that requires an heir.”
Cera flushed, but did not look away. “A year and a day, before I can consider that,” she clung to the thought.
“A year and a day,” Marga confirmed, but didn’t hesitate to continue. “But that day is coming, Lady.” She dropped her gaze then, and added softly. “And they’re not all like your late, cruel Lord.” She nodded down the hall before Cera could respond. “The young man is with Athelnor, in his office.”
Cera nodded, and brushed past, holding her head high. What Marga said was true enough, but she’d had her fill of charming younger sons. If this one had in mind to come courting without so much as a by-your-leave, well, then he had another think coming.
She opened the door to find both men talking, and they rose as she swept in and took her usual chair. “Athelnor,” she nodded to him. “Ellison,” she said, and instantly regretted the chill in her tone.
Ellison, however, didn’t seem at all bothered by it. “My lady, I should apologize.”
That caught Cera by surprise.
The young man continued with a courtly bow. “I fear that, in my eagerness, I barged in without thought as to what impact it might have on your task.”
“I think it had more impact on you than on the ram,” Cera said, gesturing for both men to be seated.
“True enough,” Ellison’s face was rueful. “My poor hat may never be the same.” To her surprise he flashed her a grin, lighting up his whole face. “Pizzle rot. Who knew?”
His laugh was open and free, and Cera relaxed enough to smile. Ellison’s nature seemed kind enough. He certainly didn’t seem someone to be feared.
“Lord Cirion sent his son with an escort,” Athelnor said. “Guards and three wagons, stuffed with hams, sides of beef, wheels of cheese, and dried fruits and vegetables. A handsome gift,” with a questioning tone in his voice.
Cera wasn’t about to ignore the obvious. “A handsome courting gift, indeed.” She frowned at Ellison. “I must tell you that I am still—”
“No,” he interrupted. “It’s not a courting gift. Well, it is,” he amended with a shrug. “But it’s from my father.”
Cera glanced at Athelnor to see that he shared her confusion.
“My father did send me to court you,” Ellison explained. “‘Get in early’” he said, deepening his voice and waving his hands in the air. “‘Stay until after the Mid-Winter festivities. Dance with her, talk with her, woo her.’” Ellison was turning a bit pink. “That was my father’s thought. But that is not why I’ve come.”
“It’s not?” Cera blinked.
“No,” Ellison said. “This is.” He reached down by his side and brought up a leather bound book of loose pages, and opened it to show them. “See this?”
There, pressed between blank pages was an old, old handkerchief of fine cloth. Embroidered on its corner were two bright red birds perched on evergreen needles. As fine a work as Cera had ever seen.
“It’s lovely,” she breathed.
“It was my great-grandmum’s,” Ellison said. “And she bought it from Sandbriar.”
“From here?” Cera asked.
Ellison nodded. “She said that it was as fine a work as she had seen, and she envied its detail. She was ancient when I was born, and older still when she first taught me weaving.”
“Weaving?” Cera asked. “Cloth?”
“Tapestries,” Ellison replied. “Huge hangings for the walls of stately halls. I’d steal time from my ‘lording’ lessons to have her teach me her ways. Her all hunched over her loom, weaving fine and complicated pictures into cloth. Da didn’t argue so long as her work lined his walls. And his purse.”
“Tapestries,” Cera breathed, thinking of the ones she’d seen along the halls of the Palace in Haven. They’d been lovely, and thick enough to block the worst of drafts. She’d marveled at their quality.
“Let me show you,” Ellison pulled his chair closer to hers. “See these drawings? These are some of her works.”
Cera breathed her delight. The picture was of a hunt, with gaily-dressed men and women mounted on proud horses, hawks on their wrists and hounds at their feet.
“And these are mine,” Ellison added, thrusting more drawings into her hands.
These were of landscapes, a wide vista of lovely mountains, streams, and waterfalls.
“These would be enormous,” Cera said.
“These were designed for Great Halls.” Ellison’s excitement showed through him. “They take up to a half-year, depending on the complexity.”
“Your great-grandmother taught you this?” Cera ran her fingers lightly over the picture.
Ellison nodded. “Yes.”
“What have you woven?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Ellison’s face tightened. “When she passed away, leaving her last work still unfinished on the loom, my father had it dismantled. He didn’t believe I had the skill and saw no reason for me to continue it.”
Cera nodded, sharing his obvious pain and understanding the frustration behind those words.
Athelnor coughed, drawing their attention. “If you are not here to court our lady, why have you come?”
“To prove to myself that I can do this,” Ellison said quietly. “Based on this.” He gestured to the handkerchief. “And from what we’d heard, I’d hoped that the Lady Ceraratha . . . Lady Cera might understand. Not that you aren’t pretty, Lady,” he paused, flustered. “But I—”
“You want to be free,” Cera said, the knot in her chest loosening. “But we’ve no looms that would take—”
“Father only dismantled great-grandmum’s loom, he didn’t destroy it.” Ellison gave her that grin. “The loom is in the first wagon, under the hams.”
Cera let herself grin back. “And her unfinished panels?”
“Well wrapped, under the cheeses,” the young man replied.
• • •
The Mid-Winter Festival was a bright, warm day in the cold, dark winter.
No bards had wandered south this year, and so her people had taken it on themselves to provide the entertainment. And what they lacked in talent, they more than made up
for with joy.
Children put on skits, sang songs, and recited poetry. Adults sang for the crowd, too, and there was a constant swirl of music for dancing. Wine, ale, and beer flowed, and the cooks had readied a fabulous feast, supplemented by the gifts of Lord Cirion.
Cera had not seen much of young Ellison since his escort had departed and the wagons had been unloaded. There’d been enough foodstuffs to share with her villages and farmsteads, and Athelnor had seen to a fair distribution, brightening everyone’s holiday.
Ellison had been in a dither when it came to the loom, unloading it and setting it up in one of the attics. Once it had been set up, he’d started working immediately, and soon he had to be reminded to eat and sleep. He’d hopes of finishing his great-grandmum’s tapestry by next fall.
She’d inquired a few times as to his progress, and he alternated between almost manic joy and utter despair over it. Still, she’d caught a glimpse of the work he’d done. It looked wonderful, despite Ellison’s protests to the contrary.
Cera thought it best to just pat him on the shoulder and leave him to it.
She smiled at the newest chorus before her seat at the high table, the tiniest of babes, singing of the coming spring. Later, after the feast was done and the little ones had been sent to their beds, things would take a bawdier turn. She’d heard a whisper that as an entertainment, Meroth and the other shepherds were planning to recreate the pizzle rot treatment. Apparently, Ellison had even offered to recreate his role.
She looked forward to that.
But even better was what she’d received this morning. She tucked it in her bodice and smiled every time the paper crinkled as she moved. Just a short note, written in a rough hand, from Lord Ashkevron. No fancy flowery language, but it still made her heart sing:
‘Chirras breed like rabbits up here. I’ll send a herd, and you’re welcome to them. My Lady likes your kerchiefs. Send more.’
The Great Hall was filled with light and joy and laughter this night. Cera sighed in contentment. There was no telling what the future may hold, but no worth in the worrying either. Tonight, she’d celebrate. Tomorrow, she’d write to her father, tell him of all that had happened.
Tempest Page 6