Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Well! Falmeard’s face lit up. He eagerly agreed and, with a resounding handshake and the best of wishes, finally took leave of Grub.

  The lane dropped beside the potato field. Grub could follow Falmeard’s head as it bobbed along behind the dry stone wall between them, and smiled broadly when it vanished from sight. He then returned to the quiet monotony of weeding.

  For Falmeard, though, the farmhouse was only just beginning to come into view, its roof barely visible above the level of the lane. Beyond it, he could see the farmyard, bordered by smithies, byres and barns, with its cobbled surface awash with mud and shit. At its centre, a round and raised well sat beneath a small and steeply pitched roof. Nestled there, amidst steep terracing, the farmyard lacked the usual jostle of suburban stock and, instead, was bordered below by dropping cliffs that left open such wonderful views.

  The steep setting meant the lane took a sudden dive between stout stone walls. Its central flight of steps brought him, at the bottom, on a level with the farmyard to his right. He could see all its working buildings as they clung together along the narrow shelf, and how they were all connected by a well maintained lane laid to setts. To his left stood the milking parlours, and beyond them the pig sties and chicken runs.

  It was to the right, however, that he turned, towards the inner yard and its imposing farmhouse, following the lane to its arched gateway. A short tower rose from its apex in which a clock face was set but whose hands had long since been lost. It mattered little, really, for the mechanism itself had been defunct even longer.

  Falmeard passed beneath it and came into a richly smelling yard where he saw Geran struggling from the house with armfuls of buckets. He called a greeting, to which she smiled back until they came together at the well. There, she set to filling them, but it was only then, as she was hooking the first to the rope, that she finally welcomed him with her sing-song lilt. As usual, it quite embarrassed him. “Good morning, Master Falmeard. How pleasant it is to see you again. And what, if I may ask, have you run out of this time, eh?”

  He tried to avoid her honest and open smile for it always made him feel awkward, but failed, yet again, and found his reply stammering out, as it always did. “Good … good morning, Mistress … Ge… Geran. I’m well. Thank … thank you for asking.” She stopped her cranking when the bucket hit water and then looked at him, all dewy-eyed.

  It made him dwell on the dimples at the sides of her full lips and the milky smoothness of her shoulders until he felt his face reddening, as it always did. Geran giggled, as she always had, whilst elegantly winding up the laden bucket. He then rather bashfully helped draw the household’s remaining needs, finding rare contentment in her company.

  With her charges now filled, they carried them to the kitchen’s scullery, where the butt was kept. Once they’d poured the last, and Geran had slid the cover back, she wiped her hands on her apron. “Would you like some tea then, Master Falmeard? We’ve a fresh bag of nettle that needs opening, if you’re interested.”

  He thanked her and accepted her kind offer, as she knew he would, and then led him through to the warmth of her kitchen. There, she bade him sit at a large table whilst she brewed up.

  He chose a chair from which he could follow her movements as she filled the stained black kettle and before hanging it above the fire’s coals. After rinsing an enormous brown earthenware pot she broke open a new packet of leaves. All the time, she absently hummed something he couldn’t quite place, unlike the effect her lithe figure was now having.

  He found difficulty taking his eyes from her fine dark hair, gathered in a linen fold, and her ponytail hanging down her back to her waist. Geran’s figure was petite and unshapely, not unlike a boy’s, but her skin belied her forty or so years by being so clear and milky white. It was always her face, though, that enchanted Falmeard, that brought out her unusual beauty, with wide set eyes resting welcomingly beneath dark and finely wrought brows. A knob of a nose daintily sat above full red lips, always seeming to rest in a half smile.

  What made Falmeard most anxious, he was saddened to admit, was his own great age. It sat so uneasily with his thoughts and made her seem remote and unattainable. The trouble was, it all gave her easy and open frankness and simple acceptance even more allure and charm.

  Suddenly, Geran’s tasks were done, for the time being. The kettle was slowly heating above the fire and the pot dried and loaded with fresh leaves, so she sat down opposite and cheerfully asked, “You keeping warm enough up there, Master Falmeard? Not getting too cold on these chilly nights are you?” He couldn’t help himself but was sure there was a coyness about her, as there always seemed to be, but could never untangle how much was unbidden wishful thinking and how much cold fact.

  “Oh, I’m alright, Mistress Geran, although the past few nights have been unusually cold for the time of year. Seems like the wind blows chill from the north most nights these days, which is most odd. Normally it comes in off the sea, from the west, you know, so I’m cosily in its lee, but not so recently, no, it’s been hard to keep properly warm it has, and for the past couple of months as well. I was wondering if I ought to get my new robe out as this one’s not what it used to be.” He knew he was just babbling on under the pressure of her steady and guileless gaze, and so abruptly stopped, feeling slightly embarrassed.

  “Have you not thought of getting yourself some proper blankets, and not relying on your poor old robe for warmth?”

  “Well, that’d be a bit mollycoddling and…”

  “Maybe you ought to be looking at something to bring warmth to your bed, eh, something you can cuddle up to on these cold nights. I’m sure there’s something here that would do the job.”

  Falmeard reddened and his tongue become well and truly tied. When he failed to reply, she rose to tend to the boiling kettle. “I’m sure we’ve a spare hot water bottle somewhere around here. Think it just needs a new stopper. I’ll have a look before you go.”

  Relieved but also a little disappointed, he let his eyes cast down to the table top where he drew imaginary circles with his finger as she poured boiling water into the pot. She gently stirred it before dropping the lid on and asking, “What victuals have you need of today then, Master Falmeard?”

  He lifted his eyes to her face and stared blankly until he remembered the discussion with her father. He passed on their agreement before suggesting, as he wasn’t going back right away, he’d pick it up later that day.

  She only smiled and walked to the inner door where, after opening it, called through, “GROG? You up there, pup?” Falmeard could hear a muffled reply. “Come on down here now, lad, I’ve an errand you can run me.”

  She returned to the stove and took down two mugs from the shelf above, which she filled through a strainer. It was as she was placing them on the table that the door burst open and a young lad rushed in, as eager and full of energy as a puppy.

  “What do you want, Geran … Oh! ‘Ello, Master Falmeard, ‘ow ya doing?”

  He pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down noisily before noticing Geran’s admonishing look. “What’s wrong, what ‘ave I done now?”

  She wagged her finger before his face. “It’s Hello, Grog, not ‘ello, how and not ‘ow and you and not ya. Stop being lazy and speak properly in future, eh? Can’t have Master Falmeard here thinking you’re an ill-educated lout, now can we?”

  “Oh, alright then.” He lifted his face to Falmeard. “Hello, Master Falmeard, and how are you keeping?” He giggled and shot Geran a silent raspberry, as her back was now turned, before grinning broadly at Falmeard who conspiratorially grinned back.

  “I am very well, thank you so much for asking, Master Grog, and I do hope you’re keeping well yourself?”

  Before Grog could answer, Geran interrupted their charade. “Right, my lad! Before you do anything else, you can be off up to Master Falmeard’s and bring down his broken fire grate, for your dad to mend.” The lad exploded with excitement and was about to run straight o
ut. “Hang on, pup, not so fast, there’s more you can do for Master Falmeard but you’ll have to wait awhile, ‘til I get some bits together for him.”

  Grog sighed, heavily, and folded his arms in disgust as he looked up from a mock-disgruntled expression.

  “Your sister’s just going to get a few things together for me. You can then take them up to my cold store, if you would? I’m sure she won’t be long.” Falmeard turned to Geran. “That’s very kind of you, but I could’ve called on my way back.” She assured him it wasn’t a problem, took a sip from her mug and then left for the larder, leaving him alone with Grog who was, by now, idly swinging his legs under his chair.

  Falmeard heard the larder door swing to. “How’s the kite doing then, Grog? You managed to get it out much?”

  The lad’s eyes fair lit up and he nodded, enthusiastically. “Oh yeah, certainly ‘ave … err, have. It’s been great what with all this wind we’ve been having, just a shame it’s from t’north ‘cos it’s ‘arder to get aloft against t’hillside, but once it’s up it’s dead easy to control, ya know, to get it t’sweep n’ swoop like.” Falmeard could see the images now plainly filling Grog’s mind and smiled, just as he heard the larder door begin to open. “Thanks very much for it, Master Falmeard. It were a great birthday pressy, thanks ever s’much.”

  Geran came back in with a large sack in her hand which she placed carefully on the table, in front of Grog. “Here you go, lad. Not too long a wait, now was it, eh? You can be off with it as soon as you like.” At that he leapt to his feet, pushing his chair back with a screech, grabbed the sack’s rope and swung it carelessly over his shoulder as he ran from the room. He vanished, out into the yard, and was gone without a further word.

  Geran looked after him and sighed. “Don’t know where he gets his energy from but it takes all our wit to diffuse it. Still, a run up to your place should spend some of it.” She sat down at the table and took some time for herself, sipping at her tea as she leant back and relished the peace and quiet.

  He knew her days there were largely filled with chores about the farm, that she took upon herself the responsibilities that would normally have fallen to Grub’s wife, had she still been alive. It meant she’d little free time. Maybe it was why she seemed to relish his visits so, not because of who he was, in particular, but simply that he was a different face, a change from the familiar company of her many sisters. That prompted him to ask after them, in response to which he learned little that was really new.

  Apparently, they were all about the farm at their usual chores, all excepting Prescinda that was, now visiting her new man at his parents in Grayden. They’d a big farm there, she’d explained, at the mouth of the Eyeswin, but Geran didn’t think she’d be having such a great time of it herself. The place wasn’t doing too well of late, so badly in fact they were seriously thinking of moving to the Esnadales and starting all over again.

  It made Falmeard think of all those stories he’d heard, of families being driven from their land by worsening crops or disease in their stock. It had increasingly become the main topic of conversation in fact, on those rare occasions he’d spoken with people.

  Most of those folk had worked the same land for generations but, over the past few decades, what had once been bountifully productive soil now seemed to be becoming thin and poor. At least in their parts, he thought, the land still seemed as fertile, still produced more than required and gave a relatively good living to its farmers and their families … and their scriveners, of course.

  He realised, whilst he’d been thinking, that his eyes had idly been resting on Geran’s lips and that her own eyes were gazing back. How long it had been so he couldn’t say. She did seem reluctant to break the moment. “So, what would you like me to do for you then, eh, Master Falmeard?”

  His besotted expression quickly turned to surprise before tailing off to bemusement, which greatly amused her. “For your breakfast?”

  “Oh, breakfast, ah, well, excellent and yes, please. Err, well, whatever you have to hand. I don’t want to put you out, of course. It’s so very kind of you.”

  His gratitude was easily dismissed against their done deal, and so she busied herself about the kitchen. She put together a few eggs, slices of bacon and some bread which she then fried together in a deep and fire-blackened pan. With her back again turned to him, he sneaked yet more admiring looks at the tender shape of her ears and the curve of her neck, where the hair pulled tight in its linen fold. He found almost innocent delight in the way her ponytail swung gaily, in time with her stirring arm.

  Eventually, however, guilt once more encroached and so he turned instead to look across the kitchen and out through the small rear window. It opened onto a short back yard that came up close against the cliff behind and always seemed so dank and dreary. It was made even more so by tell-tale spots of rain now speckling the rock. It made him thankful for his snug place there at Geran’s table.

  He was brought away from the weather by the sound of sizzling fare. “Here you go, Master Falmeard, get stuck into that and I’ll refresh our drinks.” It was Falmeard’s first decent meal for a number of days and so he had to be careful not to rush. He found it almost impossible, though. In fact, when she again sat at the table with two fresh mugs, he could hardly speak for it.

  She looked at him with amused reproof, shook her head and then sipped thoughtfully at her tea as she watched him eat. After a short while, with the edge taken from his hunger and his mouth less full, they chatted about this and that until he’d finished. Then, for a few minutes more, they sat contentedly in each other’s company until he noticed the rain had abated and Geran seemed more mindful of neglected chores.

  So, at last and regrettably, he rose. “Mistress Geran? Thank you ever so much for the infusion, and the wonderful meal, it was most refreshing and sustaining, but I must be away, although it saddens me greatly to leave. Thank you for sorting out my victuals, and of course, getting Grog to deliver them. Do thank him for me.”

  He looked wistful as his voice took on a dreamy air. “You’re always so very kind and helpful.” The room genuinely seemed to vanish, leaving only her soft features to fill his gaze, which kept him silent for a good while.

  Suddenly, he nodded awkwardly. “I hope you have a good day, Mistress, oh, and pass on my thanks to your father, if you would.” He wasn’t exactly sure, but he thought he caught a hint of disappointment in her face yet her voice held no trace of it.

  “You’re most welcome, Master Falmeard,” she breezily replied. “It’s nice to see you when we do, although it’s not often enough, now is it?”

  Again, she smiled beguilingly, but Falmeard tried hard to ignore the meaning he suspected only he saw in it and quickly moved to the outer door. He drew it open slowly as he steeled himself, but the moment had passed and so he stepped through without a backward glance, closing it softly behind him.

  3 A Stallion Stare

  The yard still looked flat in the leaden light of the lowering sky, but Falmeard felt distinct traces of a breeze. It stiffened as he passed through the gate and out onto the exposed lane once more. He stopped, where a track fell to the north down the castle’s slope and between yet more shards of Grub’s jagged fields. From there, he could see a bright streak of cloudless sky slowly drawing in from beyond the Gray Mountains.

  Another day with the wind unusually blowing in from the north and carrying with it a strange foreboding, one he’d felt more often recently yet never as strongly. His sudden departure, from the cosy warmth of Geran’s kitchen and out into the chill, grey day, couldn’t fully explain it.

  Somehow, he felt nervous facing north. Even when the breeze eased, as he dropped between high earthen banks, he still felt its chill cutting sharp. It seemed to carry with it more than simple air, as though it heralded something less tangible yet of considerably more weight.

  It made him suspect the real reason for his journey that morning, admit to himself that his empty cold store had been but an
excuse. An excuse for what, though, exactly? Falmeard honestly didn’t know. Whatever it was, it had made him acquiesce, however unwittingly, to an insistent yet formless urge, the only guide his own two feet.

  He followed them, beyond the last of Grub’s fields and down into the close-packed buildings of Utter Shevling, the next close district west of the Lords Demesne. He came onto a well paved street, as they all were there, but one that was quite deserted. Something about it stopped him abruptly, made him stand, uncertainly, peering this way and that.

  He’d felt, strangely enough, as though he were watched but the mellow stone paving, the grass laced setts and the blank windows were all empty. Looking across the street, to the alley he’d intended taking, seemed to make it worse, seemed to chilled his heart.

  Before he knew it, he was striding away from the alley and, as it fell behind, the air’s chill steadily grew less. Despite it, his stride soon became a run and the run a headlong dash only to be curtailed when he reached the end of the street. There, a huge wall reared high, sending him into a narrow snicket, up which he then stumbled.

  At its first turn he was brought to the start of a long, straight path that narrowly squeezed between the wall and an opposing cliff. His view now, along its muck-strewn way, was nothing more than a tapering slit of sky, a bright grey poniard pointing the way. Intrigue soothed the prickle at his neck, where the phantom pursuer had breathed, and drew him on. In fact, it drew him on for a good hour or so before the poniard’s tip became blunted and the path’s end in sight. What he found there, though, was something of a disappointment.

  It left him looking down into nothing more than a small but very deep yard, a good sixty or seventy feet below. The only connection with it was an extremely steep and well-worn flight of steps. They weren’t just smooth but extremely slippery, matted with moss that almost seemed to ooze from the path’s canyon slit.