by Robert Beers
“Burn the farm, Milord?”
“And everyone within it. Now leave me. I wish to compose myself.”
* * * *
Charity heard the knock at her chamber door. She tried to ignore it as she attempted to put an edge on the piece of slating she'd worked away from the backside of the bureau. The knocking came again, this time a little louder.
“Please, Milady. I'd prefer not to have to force the door.” It was Morgan's voice.
She sighed and tucked the half sharpened slating under her mattress and then crossed the room to the door. “Go away.”
“I cannot, Milady, my duty is to you.” Morgan's calm voice again frustrated her.
She made her voice imperious. “I wish to be alone. Come back tomorrow.”
She thought she heard muffled laughter from the other side of the door. She repeated her command. “I said, you may come back tomorrow.”
“I have something which may interest you.” Morgan answered after a short while. “More than that wooden knife you've been working on.”
Damn the man. She thought. How did he know? She opened the latch. “Very well. You may enter.”
He opened the door, and came through, walking in that fluid way she'd come to recognize. How did a man of such obviously advanced years move like that?
Charity turned and stalked over to one of a pair of wing-backed chairs that flanked the central high window in her chamber. She sat down and placed her hands in her lap as she regarded her caretaker. “And just what do you have that may interest me?” She tried to pitch her voice so as to be as insulting as possible.
Morgan did not even blink. “A way to fill your days with something more enriching than staring at the window, Milady. If you please, may I demonstrate?”
Charity tried to hide the interest she felt. “You may.”
Morgan seemed to relax at that. “Good.” He pointed to a solid-looking brass sculpture of a hunting dog sitting on the table next to Charity's right elbow. “If you would be so good as to throw that at me as hard as you can.”
Charity gaped at him, unmoving.
Morgan stood where was, his face impassive, but she thought she saw a glint in his eye. Toy with her, would he? Her temper flared, and her hand moved in a blur. The statue flew unerringly at the center of Morgan's face, and then he wasn't there, and the statue was placed gently on the mantle next to where he stood.
“You are fast, Milady, much faster than the other ladies at court. Faster even than most of the men I've trained.” He turned and fingered the sculpture. “And I must say ... far more accurate.”
Charity watched him, saying nothing.
Morgan paced back and forth in front of her. He reminded her of Adam when he was working out a problem. “I'm sure you're wondering how I avoided being hit. I assure you, right now, nearly anyone else would either be unconscious or in pain.”
“Ok. I'll ask. How did you do it?” Charity relaxed and sat back into the chair.
“Training, Milady. There is a method of training both the body and the mind so that the individual becomes the weapon, rather than just the one wielding the blade.”
“That really doesn't answer my question.” Charity snorted.
Morgan nodded. “It is really much easier to demonstrate than describe.”
Charity stood up. “So, demonstrate.”
Morgan moved so he faced her. “Very well. Hold your hands like so.” He positioned her hands until they suited him. He then grunted in satisfaction, and pushed at one of her feet with the toe of his boot. “Now change your stance so you are balanced, like so.”
Stepping back a couple of spaces, he looked her up and down. Then he closed the gap between them again, and readjusted her pose and stance. He stepped back and examined her once more.
“I hope you like what you see.” Charity said coldly. “What do I do now?”
Morgan copied her stance and told her. “Strike me.”
She lashed out with a straight right that was neatly diverted to the side by a blocking forearm.
“Again.”
Charity threw another punch in Morgan's direction, and it was blocked in the same fashion as the first one.
“Again.”
She'd had enough of being blocked, so she kicked him in the shin.
He yelped in surprise, and grabbed at the offended limb, and then he moved. Charity found herself upside down, and held in such a way that any attempt to escape caused pain.
“You cheated.” His voice remained clam. She wondered how he did that.
“I improvised.”
Morgan began to chuckle, and then he laughed. He released her out of the hold, and continued to laugh until tears ran down his cheeks.
Charity rubbed her wrists as she glared at him. He looked at her and broke out in more laughter.
“What's so funny? Stop that!” She shouted at him.
He sat up and forced himself to settle the laughter. “You.” He replied around chuckles. “You. Held against your will by a Lord you can know nothing about. Guarded by a stranger of whom you know only his name, and yet, instead of acting as any other maiden would, you kick me in the shin, and I let you do it!” He began laughing again.
Charity saw nothing funny in what he said, but his laughter was becoming contagious, and a smile started to twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Morgan saw the smile and pointed at her. “Aha! I knew there was a smile in you! I just had to draw it out.”
She put a hand to her mouth as if to hide the evidence, and then lowered it. “Very well. You saw a smile, but I couldn't help it, with you laughing like a loon. What was that thing you did after I kicked you?”
He stood and held out a hand. She took it, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. “Ok,” He placed his right hand over her left with his fingers spread. “What I did was...”
* * * *
The rooster woke him. Ethan opened his eyes to the dim light that proceeded dawn. He felt the thick bandage that wrapped his midsection. If he pushed on the part that covered his wound hard enough, he could feel a bit of pain, but only then. She did good work, this widow woman. He owed her his life. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with that knowledge. Maybe after he was healed enough, he'd see what he could do to repay her.
* * * *
“Again, Milady.”
Charity threw the punch, and blocked Morgan's return. The months of practice had built hard muscle on her, and speeded up her reflexes to the point where she was nearly as quick as Morgan himself.
Cloutier's infrequent visits seemed to be only for the purpose of assuring him his prize was still within reach. Other than that, he seemed to show no interest in her whatsoever, so she took advantage of every opportunity to learn as much as she could from Morgan. But, even as early as today, she'd learned that speed and strength alone cannot equal technique and experience.
She'd caught Morgan hard enough to make him flinch during a fast, complicated exchange that involved all four limbs, including the elbows and knees. When she tried to take advantage of it by tying him up in the same hold he'd used on her all those months ago, he reversed her position, and she found herself back in it once more.
“Again.”
She threw the punch again, and again he blocked the return, but this time he didn't end it there. She found herself blocking an even faster blow, so she altered her pattern, and then Morgan was on defense. Charity dropped and swept a kick across at knee height. Morgan drew his feet to his chest, just in time and threw a palm strike at her head while she recovered, but Charity had been waiting for him. He found himself being pulled in the direction of his punch, and off balance, to boot. Tucking his head to avoid having his nose crushed, he couldn't avoid what came next; the completed roll left his arm in a bone breaker of a lock, with a young woman's hand poised to rupture his throat.
* * * *
Plop! The peeled potato dropped into the water to join its fellows.
“Pass me ‘nother spud, Flynn.�
�� Neely held his hand out, as he stared at the water.
Flynn reached into the pile, and placed the potato into Neely's hand. “'ere ya go, Neely. These is fine lookin’ spuds, these is.”
Neely grunted and peeled.
Flynn pulled another potato out of the pile, and began peeling it. “I likes spuds. Good eatin', they's is.” Plop!
Neely grunted again. “Hmmppf. Knew a man once. Ate so many spuds it near ruined him mixin’ it with the ladies.”
“Oh, c'mon!”
“It did, I tell'ee. Ever look close at ‘em? Put two together. Kinda look like yer plums in th’ bag, don't they?”
Flynn held up two potatoes together. “Well I'll be...”
“I tell yer, anything that looks that much like ... well, yer just gotta be careful that's all.”
Plop!
“Tell me about th’ man, Neely.” Flynn picked up another potato, and handed it to his friend.
Neely paused in his peeling, and leaned back against the stone wall of the prison kitchen. “This man, he had a terrible love of spuds, couldn't get enough of ‘em. Just like ‘e couldn't get enough o’ th’ ladies. Once, when he was lucky at Jack Th’ Spot, he took his winnin's to Hattie's Hoar House in Coverdale, and spent the whole night with four of her lovelies.”
“No! Four?”
“Yup. Four. Well, after that night, he spent th’ rest on a breakfast of spuds. Gorged hisself, he did. Th’ next day he got th’ stones so bad, he couldn't wear pants for a month. Shocked ever old lady in th’ village. Potatoes or nookie, me lad, ya gotta chose one or th’ other. Mix ‘em, ya got trouble. Remember that.”
“I will, Neely. I will.” Plop!
Chapter Ten
The Elven village was small; it stank, and she hated having to live there, but the child was going to come too soon for her to travel. She was half certain the villagers were involved in her husband's death. He had been far different from the others. He stood tall and strong, and he wasn't afraid to show his affection toward her, regardless of the stricture against an Elven male doing so to any woman, much less a human one.
A contraction racked her body, and she screamed through her gritted teeth. It felt like it went on for hours, and when the pain passed she lay back, exhausted and breathing heavily. She could hear the village women outside, chattering in their insipid little voices. They wouldn't help her, even if they wanted to. They were afraid of the men, and she had to admit she was, as well.
Another contraction hit her, and the urge to push became too strong to ignore. Her legs spread by instinct, and a wave of fiery pain washed up from below.
Her scream echoed through the village, but none of the women of the village looked up. A child raised its head, and received a smack on the back for its curiosity. A couple of the Elven men looked up at the scream, and then nodded to each other.
One more scream, and the child came forth in a rush. She forced herself to sit up and tend to it. It was a boy, and her tears flowed. A boy, his father would have been so pleased. His coloring looked good, but he didn't cry. Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled him to her breast, fearing he was stillborn. When he began to suckle, she nearly collapsed with relief.
Another contraction came, but this one was small, nearly painless, and she realized the afterbirth was passing. She had to separate her child from the afterbirth. An old nurse had told her when she was growing; the baby had to have the birth cord cut as soon as possible to prevent the dark one from entering the child. She had no idea whether or not the old nurse had the right of it, but she didn't want to take any chances. He was all she had now, but there was no knife. She had nothing to cut the cord. Small panic crept in on her, and she gritted her teeth in fear for her baby. Her teeth, those she had, and all of them, too. Maybe she couldn't cut her baby's cord, but she could bite through it.
She bent her head to meet the cord she held in her free hand, and bit as hard as she could. The taste of blood almost gagged her, but she continued to chew until the cord parted and her baby was free.
Allowing herself the brief luxury of feeling her baby feed, she lay back and rested. In the morning she would begin to prepare for travel.
“Filthy human whore!” The Elf woman threw the clot of feces, but her aim was bad, and it only hit the side of the hut. She ducked back into the darkness, and tried to hold back the tears. They were not going to allow her to leave peacefully. Damn their Elven bigotry. She'd done nothing to them except fall in love and marry an Elf man. To them, that was crime enough.
She'd recognized the two males drinking across the street. They'd been rivals of her husband's. One of them had even propositioned her when her husband had been off hunting. The memory of the expression of shock on his face made her smile, even now. That a mere woman, more a tool or toy than a person, would refuse him ... she tried to steel herself for the gauntlet she must run, as she clutched her newborn to her breast.
The women of the village were gathering; the sounds of their voices irritated her even more as she poised herself to run.
Ducking her head, she dashed out the hut's door. The sewage running through the middle of the Village Street splashed against her legs, and the stones in the mud bruised her feet, but she continued to run. The Elven women cursed and screamed at her as they threw rocks, sticks and feces, but she continued to run. She covered her baby's head, and bent her body to protect him from the villager's blows and missiles. Sharp pains struck her legs and side, and the wetness of her blood warmed her skin, but still she ran.
She continued to run even when she passed the outskirts of the village and the range of Elven women's rocks. Her breath burned in her lungs, and her body ached all over. Blood ran into her eyes, and she wiped it away with a hand as she ran. The thought of never hearing an Elf woman's voice again gave wings to her feet as she ran and ran and ran.
The pine needles cushioned her feet, and the covering of the trees made her feel safe enough to slow down to a walk. Soon, ferns began to cover the forest floor. In a moment of giddy freedom, she looked up to see the blue sky showing through the treetops, and didn't see the gully hidden in the ferns. She fell, twisting so as to land beneath her baby. The sharp pain told her she'd broken an ankle, and a sob escaped her throat.
The raindrops woke her. She looked down to see her baby sleeping. He looked so beautiful, neither like his father nor like her, but beautiful in his own special way. She looked to either side for a way out of the rain. Off to her right, a hollow log extended over the edge of the gully. She sat up and tried to stand. The agony that shot through her ankle reminded her of the break. Her hiss of pain failed to wake her baby, and when her eyes stopped watering, she looked around to see if there was something in the gully she could use for a crutch. She saw nothing except a few dried fronds and some small dead pine branches. So, she would have to drag herself to the log. The throbbing in her ankle settled down to the point where it blended in with the feel of the wounds she'd taken running the Elven gauntlet. It was time to start.
Her baby stirred as she shifted him to her other arm, and then she wriggled herself onto her side so the injured ankle was supported by her other leg, and started to drag herself, holding her baby, up the slope of the gully.
The climb felt like it took hours, and by the time she made it to the log, she was trembling, both with shock and fatigue. A dampness told her she'd begun to bleed. She lay down within the log with her baby, and tried to rest. He stirred again, and she moved him so her nipple was at his mouth. Instinct took over, and he began to suckle. A wave of contentment swept through her, and she stroked the fine black hair on the back of his head as she smiled down at her treasure. She felt like she could lie there forever.
* * * *
The huntsman followed his target as it leapt through the pines. His hands held the drawn bow and its arrow steady, as he tracked the stag. There was a brief moment where the trees cleared, and he released the arrow. The stag dropped with the arrow through its heart.
&nbs
p; “Got you.” He said to himself. “Ellona loves venison. This one should keep her happily cooking for a month or two.”
He shouldered his bow, and began picking his way through the bracken to get to the downed stag.
He reached it in short order, and retrieved the arrow. Dressing the beast took him a good two hours or more, but he didn't like the idea of the meat possibly souring on the long trip back to Ellona and the children.
“What's that?” A movement off to his left caught his eye, as he tied the heart, liver, kidneys and sweetmeats into the hide he brought for that purpose. “Who's there?”
There was no answer, but he was too experienced in the ways of the wood to discount his senses. If it was an animal waiting for an easy meal, or one of those thieving Elves, he'd deal with it directly. There was no sense in letting them ride his back during the journey home.
He stepped cautiously through the ferns. They had a nasty habit of hiding creeks and gullies. His caution proved correct, because he soon found himself at the edge of a steep one. A hollow pine log lay on the other side, its ragged end jutting into the gully. He couldn't quite see what was in the log, so he worked his way through the gully and to the other side. His nose told him part of the tale, but he was not prepared to find a living baby at his dead mother's breast.
The morning air still held its predawn chill, and he wondered why the baby wasn't at least fussing. Babies cried all the time, didn't they?
“Come here, little one.” He reached into the log, and gently lifted the child off the woman's corpse. The babe looked back at him out of large ebony eyes. He was struck by the intelligence he saw there.
“Well, lad. It looks like you're coming home with me. It was a lucky circumstance I found you, so that'll be your name, Circumstance.”
* * * *
“What are you working on, Ethan?” Sari and Jonas stood by him watching him whittle.
Ethan held up the wooden disc that he was in the process of smoothing so the children could see it.” A spindle, see?”