Jorem was still studying the fire, mesmerized by the burning rock, when he heard the door open behind him. The surprised look on the blacksmith’s face left Jorem wondering if the blacksmith had actually expected him not to come.
The man recovered quickly though and said, “You’re here in good time. I’ve got much to get done.” Looking Jorem up and down he continued. “Best you put a smock on or you’ll ruin them clothes for sure.”
Reaching back, the blacksmith plucked a long gray shirt from off of a peg beside the door. He shook the smock before handing it to Jorem and a cloud of black dust billowed out and slowly settled on the floor.
“It’s a bit big fer ya,” the man said, not even noticing the dust cloud. “I’ll send a note over to Biorne fer him to get some proper work clothes fer ya.”
“Thank you sir,” Jorem said doing his best not to notice the black smudges that the smock left on his hands. “I was told that I should get some winter clothes as well.”
“Aye, that would be wise,” the blacksmith said, “but you’ll have time to do that on yer own. I’ll have you pumpin’ the bellows fer now. Ol’ Vern’ll have my head if’n I don’t get his plow blade mended this morning. First snowfall’s due soon an he likes to plow it under. Around the other side of the forge, just lift the handle up an’ push it down.”
At Jorem’s blank look, the blacksmith led him around to the other side of the table and pointed down at a strange contraption connected to the side of the table. It looked like a bag with baskets woven on its top and bottom. The top basket was upside down on top of the bottom basket like clamshells. A wooden pole was connected to the top basket and pointed away from the table.
The blacksmith reached down and grasped the pole and lifted it up. The top basket came up with the pole forcing the bag to fill with air. Then the blacksmith pushed the pole down. The top basket squeezed the bag, pushing the air out of the bag. Sparks rose from the pit in the table. Jorem realized that the air from the bag was being forced into the pit.
“Up and down, that’s all there is to it,” the blacksmith said. “Don’t go too fast or you’ll pop the nozzle outa the forge. Just slow and steady.”
“Yes sir,” Jorem replied, “Slow and steady.”
Jorem stepped up to the bellows and grasped the pole with both hands. The pole had been worn so smooth it looked polished. Like everything else, it was almost black. It was at just the right height so that he didn’t have to bend over to reach it. He lifted the bar up as he had seen the blacksmith do and then pushed it back down.
“That’s right, just keep pumping and I’ll get started,” said the blacksmith.
While Jorem continued pumping the bellows, the blacksmith wandered about the room looking for something. After a bit, he reached down and picked up a shovel. Then he walked over to one of the piles of rocks and scooped up some of the rocks with the shovel. Winding his way around the benches and piles of metal objects, he carried the rocks back to the forge. When he got back, he dumped the rocks into the pit and tossed the shovel aside.
Curious, Jorem asked, “How do you get the rocks to burn?”
The blacksmith looked at Jorem as if he hadn’t heard the question correctly. “That’s coal boy. Haven’t you ever seen coal afore?”
“No sir,” Jorem said all the more curious. “What is it?”
“Why it’swell it’s…” The blacksmith looked puzzled and scratched his head. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t rightly know—burns though. It burns hotter than wood and lasts a sight longer.
Jorem had paused while talking to the blacksmith. “Keep pumpin’ the bellows. I don’t mind ya talkin’, but keep pumpin’. Makes the coal burn hotter.”
The blacksmith turned and started searching through the piles of metal until finally he pulled out a wide curved piece of rusted metal that was bent at the tip. This he then slid into the burning coal until only a small portion was left exposed. While that was heating he began rummaging through the piles of tools that littered the tops of the benches. It took a while for him to find what he was looking for. When he returned he was carrying a heavy set of tongs and a large hammer. With the tongs he gripped the heating piece of metal and pulled it out of the fire. The metal was glowing bright orange.
The blacksmith held the heated metal against a large anvil mounted on the end of the table and struck it several times with the hammer. The clang of metal striking metal rang in Jorem’s ears. The blacksmith peered at the metal for a moment and then thrust it back into the forge. Several times the blacksmith repeated the process of hammering and heating the metal and occasionally adding coal until he was satisfied with the shape of what Jorem now recognized as the blade of a plow. Franks then carried the plow blade over to one of the barrels and lowered it into the barrel.
Steam erupted out of the barrel with a wild hissing. The white mist of steam continued to billow out of the barrel as Franks slowly lowered the plow blade into the barrel. Once the plow blade was completely in the barrel the steam slowed from its mad rush to escape to small wisps of a feathery mist. At the dramatic display of steam Jorem had stopped pumping the bellows. In truth, he was ready to collapse. His arms throbbed from the continuous exertion. His back and shoulders ached as though he had been beaten. His clothing was soaked through with sweat and his damp hair hung in his eyes. Some time ago, he had gone into a sort of trance, allowing his mind to ignore the pain while his body continued to work.
He stood there, next to the bellows, and watched as the blacksmith pulled the plow blade from the barrel, its surface dark and shimmering as the water ran off of it. Small wisps of steam still rose from the metal surface as the blacksmith set it down on the table. Franks looked up and noticed Jorem staring at the plow blade. Taking in Jorem’s drooping appearance, the man smiled and shook his head.
“Even the simplest of tasks can prove hard if’n yer not used to them,” he said. “Time you took a break. Go wash up at the barrel by the door an get over to the inn for your midday meal. Don’t take too long though. I’ve got a mess of shovels, pitchforks and scythes that need mended from the harvest.”
Jorem staggered over to the wash barrel and splashed water on his hands and face. He took off the smock and hung it up on a peg by the door. That it was time for the mid-day meal he found hard to believe. Stepping out of the door, he looked up to see that the sun was indeed high up above. Shaking off the numbness that had crept into his mind, he trudged off to the inn.
Wearily, Jorem eased himself down into a chair at a table in a corner of the common room. His mind still wasn’t completely clear and he was in no way hungry. He sat there in a kind of fog, trying to get the muscles in his shoulders to relax. After only a few moments a plate of bread and a bowl of stew appeared in front of him. Looking up, he found Linda standing beside him, her arms folded and a look of concern on her face.
Jorem glanced down at the food and back at her. “I’m really not hungry,” he said.
Linda cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “Eat,” she said. “Your body is hungry whether you know it or not. I’ll run fetch you a pitcher of water.”
She left Jorem staring at the food in front of him. Half-heartedly he tore off a small chunk of bread and put it in his mouth. Another piece of bread followed the first and then another. Then he ate a few spoonfuls of stew. The promised pitcher of water arrived and Jorem downed a glassful in one gulp. Three plates of bread and two bowls of stew later, Jorem sat back, his hunger sated.
“Not hungry, hmm?” Linda asked as she gathered the dishes from the table.
“I guess I was at that,” Jorem replied bashfully.
“Franks sent a note that you need some work clothes. Is there anything in particular that you would like—color, style or fabric?”
Jorem looked down at the clothes he was wearing and noticed that even through the smock his clothes had turned a dark gray.
“I don’t think color is going to matter,” he said with a wry smile. “Just
something serviceable and sturdy. It’s plenty warm at the smith’s shop, so nothing too heavy.”
“I think I can manage that,” Linda said. “You’re about the same size as my son Chance. The Duke arranged for you to have a room at the back of the inn and we’ve already moved your things there. Your father, I mean, the King, didn’t say anything as to what you would prefer so I hope the room will be okay.”
It took a moment for what Linda had said to sink in. Jorem looked about the common room and realized that he didn’t recognize anyone.
“They’re gone?” he asked.
“They left a few marks ago,” Linda said a bit surprised by the question. “Didn’t he let you know?”
Depression filled Jorem’s mind. He hadn’t expected anything from the King, but he’d thought one of the guardsmen would at least have come to let him know they were leaving. Swallowing the lump that was growing in his throat, Jorem stared fixedly at the tabletop.
“We said our goodbyes last night,” he lied. “No reason for him to interrupt the blacksmith.”
Reaching into his pocket, Jorem withdrew the coin that the guardsman had given him earlier this morning. Carefully, he set the coin down on the table and slid it over to Linda.
“I’ll need a coat and some warm clothing if what I’ve heard of the winters here is true. Will this be enough for those and the work clothes?” he asked. Even he noticed that his voice sounded flat and hollow.
A small hand covered the coin and slid it back to Jorem. The innkeeper stood beside him. Biorne had approached so silently that Jorem hadn’t noticed him.
“The Duke has seen to your expenses,” Biorne said. “Put this back in your pocket. I’m sure that there are plenty of things a young man such as you can find to spend it on. As far as food, shelter and clothing, you needn’t concern yourself.”
“That’s very kind of him,” Jorem replied.
The little man cocked his head to one side and studied Jorem for a moment. Then he lifted himself onto a chair across from Jorem.
“Bring me an ale, Linda,” Biorne said casually, “I’d have a word with Prince Jorem.”
“Sir, if you don’t mind, I’m just Jorem. I don’t feel like a prince right now,” Jorem waved at his dusty, sweat-stained shirt, “and I certainly don’t look like a prince.”
Biorne nodded at Jorem’s words. “If that’s the way you want it, just Jorem it is. We get a lot of rumors out here from the capital. Some of it isn’t worth listening to but most of it has at least a grain of truth to it.
“Take the King’s older sons. I’ve heard they think a lot of themselves and I can see by their actions that it’s true. Oh, they’ll probably turn out all right. A bit of responsibility and time will take care of that. But you, now, you’re a bit of a puzzle. You don’t seem to fit what I’ve heard of you.”
Jorem squirmed a little at the man’s words. He knew that most of the nobles at his Father’s court were not very fond of him. He wasn’t what they wanted him to be, and many of them blamed him for the death of the queen. He could just imagine the things they said about him when he wasn’t around. Right now he was not in a mood to find out.
Jorem sighed and looked at Biorne. “I’m just trying to do what’s right. A friend of mine once told me that doing what’s right is always the best option. She said it won’t always be easy and likely won’t make you popular. But you’ll always know that what you did needed to be done. This needs to be done and I’ll do it as best I can.”
“Good words to live by,” Biorne said nodding at Jorem’s deft change of subject. “Hard words to live up to. This friend of yours, she have a name?”
Jorem paused before answering. To say that he was a friend to Lady Mage Zensa would sound like boasting. “Just a friend, someone I trust and respect.”
“Good friends are hard to come by,” said Biorne, as he wiped some foam from his mouth. “I’ve kept you long enough. Franks is going to start thinking you’re not going back. Better be on your way.”
As it turned out the afternoon was spent putting the plow back together. Most of the time was spent looking for tools and the various parts of the plow. To Jorem it was frustrating that they had to hunt and search for everything they needed. The slow progress didn’t seem to bother the smith at all. By the time the plow was assembled the sun had dipped below the mountains and the sky had turned dark.
Before Jorem left for the day, the smith had him shovel the cinders out of the forge, leaving just enough hot embers to make restarting the fire easier in the morning. The ashes and cinders were carried out to a bin behind the building. Then the smith showed him how to bank the coals of the forge and how much coal to add to get it heated back up the next morning. This, the smith told him, would be his task each night before he left for the inn. When Jorem finally made it back to the inn he was so tired he could hardly stand. He hadn’t taken more than two steps through the door before he was stopped by one of the serving girls.
“The washroom is the last door on the right,” she said in a no nonsense sort of way. “You’ll find a set of clothes for you there. There’s a basket in the far corner for your dirty clothes. Don’t leave them on the floor. Your room is the last door on the left. Be sure you eat something before you go to bed. Biorne sells all of the left over food to the Sheep’s Den, so there’s no snacking in the middle of the night. Now, go wash up.”
Something about the look in her eyes told Jorem that she was trying to get a reaction out of him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that several people were watching to see what he would do. They wanted to see him angry and indignant. As tired as he was, it was tempting to give them just that. Well, if they wanted a show, a show they would get. Just not the one they were expecting.
Schooling his expression as seriously as he could Jorem bent forward in a deep, formal bow. Then in as sincere a voice as he could muster, and borrowing a few lines from some of the more fanciful books he had read, he began.
“M’lady, I must apologize for my appearance. It is truly a sorry time when a prince of the realm would present himself before such a fair maiden in such a state. Thy services and kind words have left me bereft of my senses. I beg that thou would forgive me this lapse of courtesy.”
As he spoke, Jorem could see by her blank expression that this was not what she had expected. To call her a serving girl was a bit of a stretch as she was easily twice his age. Before she had a chance to recover Jorem continued, “Mayhap M’lady, it would be best that I should remove myself from thy presence that I should not bring insult unto thy house. Pray tell, would you that I should grovel before thee in penance?”
Then with a grin on his face Jorem said, “Then again, maybe I should just get washed up so I can get something to eat.”
Before she could react, Jorem walked past her across the common room toward the hallway that led to the washroom. He took the time to wash thoroughly and donned the fresh set of clothing that had been laid out for him. Apparently someone had unpacked his things for him, as this was a set of his own clothes.
When he returned to the common room, he found it full of people. Spotting a quiet table in an out of the way corner, Jorem seated himself and waited patiently to be served. He could see the serving girls bustling from table to table. Many of the customers were clambering for food and ale. Accepting that it might be a while before his food arrived, he relaxed a bit and began studying the crowd.
Most were fighting men by the look of them, although there were a few nobles and commoners among them. Jorem noticed that the nobles and the commoners were quiet and polite when served. The fighting men, probably soldiers, ranged from quiet and studious to loud and obnoxious. He found it interesting that the quality of dress of the soldiers did not correlate to their actions. He did notice, though, that the boisterous soldiers were very careful not to annoy the quiet ones.
Linda appeared at his table with a bowl of stew and a large mug of water. “So here’s where you’re hiding,” she said as she set t
he bowl and mug on the table. “That act you put on was precious. I’ve not seen Daisy speechless for ages.”
“I hope she knows that I wasn’t being serious,” Jorem replied. Then as something occurred to him he asked, “So, what was the wager and did you win?”
A big grin covered Linda’s face. “Oh, I won alright. They all figured you’d have a fit. Thanks to you, I got tomorrow off so I’ll get to go to the festivities after Pertheron’s knighting.”
“Is that why there are so many people here tonight?” Jorem asked.
“That’s right. As soon as word got out that we had room ‘cause of the King not staying, they came in droves.” A look of concern crossed Linda’s face. “Are you okay with being left on your own?”
Jorem felt emotions starting to squeeze inside his chest and he pushed them aside. Plastering a weary smile on his face he sighed and said, “I’m really too tired to care right now.” Then to keep the conversation away from himself, asked, “Are all of these people going to the knighting?”
“Only a few. The chapel won’t hold more than twenty or so,” Linda replied looking around. “The rest of them will gather outside the keep to show their support. Perth is very popular with the fighting men around here. Not just the army, but the mercenaries as well. I’d best get back to serving. Wave if you want some more stew.”
She walked away and Jorem focused on eating his stew. He was about halfway through his first bowl when a plate laden with cheese and fruit slid onto his table. Jorem looked up to find Daisy standing somewhat abashedly by his table.
“Sorry I talked to you like that,” she said, avoiding looking Jorem in the eye. “I only did it on a dare. You won’t tell the Duke or nothing, will ya?” That last came out as almost a plea.
HONOR BOUND (The Spare Heir) Page 10