by Robert Beers
“What's a spindle?” Sari peered closely at the disk.
“Yeah, what's a spintle?” Jonas echoed his older sister.
Ethan smiled at the mispronunciation.” A spindle is used to spin wool or cotton into yarn so it can be woven or knitted.”
“What's spin?”
“What's knitted?”
“Ellona.” Ethan called to the cottage from the bench in front of the hut he built during the late spring and summer.
She came out of the back door of the cottage, wiping her hands on a homespun towel.
“Children,” she called,” Stop bothering Ethan. It's time for chores now, anyway.”
“Aww, ma...”
“I wanna play whiff, Ethan.” Jonas started to fuss.
“Hush, now.” Ethan soothed him from the back porch. “We can play later. I'll show you how to spin some wool into yarn.”
Jonas clapped his hands, and ran off to catch up with his sister at the cottage door. Ellona kissed them into the cottage, and walked the short distance over to Ethan.
“I'm sorry they were bothering you. I really should keep a better watch over them.” She sat down on the bench.
Ethan snicked off another shaving of wood from the disc, and held it up for measure. “They're no bother, Ellona. I enjoy their company.”
“Is that why you built your hut here?”
He started digging out a centered hole in the disc with the point of his knife. “That, and other reasons.”
He could hear her smile. “Jonas said you were making a spintle, and you were going to let him spin it. Is that what you're doing, carving a toy for the children?”
“No, I'm making this spindle...for you.”
Ellona's eyes widened. “For me? Whatever for? I've no time for playthings.”
“This isn't a plaything.” He finished digging out the hole on the other side of the disc, and began working on smoothing the hole through. “It's a tool used to turn wool or cotton into thread or yarn. You can sell that to the shops in Bantering, if I don't miss my guess.”
“How...? But ... I know nothing about that. I wouldn't even know where to begin.”
Ethan pointed to a slender rod on the ground near the bench.” I'll show you how. Pass me that rod, will you?”
He took the rod from Ellona's hand, and twisted it into the disc until about two inches of rod showed through the other side. He then cut a notch that angled upwards near the long end of the rod.
“Ok. Now, where's that tuft?” He bent over to look under the bench.
“Tuft?” Ellona said. “Tuft of what?”
“Wool. I wheedled some out of one of the ranchers near the western side of the forest. I need it to test the spindle.”
Ellona stood up to help him look.
Ethan laughed. “Don't move. I found it.”
“Oh? Where was it?”
“It's sticking to your backside. Shall I get it?”
“NO! Uhh ... I mean, I'll get it myself. If that's all right.” She arched an eyebrow at him.
Ethan gave her a rakish grin, and held out his free hand. She picked the tuft of wool off of her bottom, and dropped it into his hand.
“Thank you.” He said. “Now, watch how I do this.”
Ellona nodded her head. In spite of her misgivings, she found what he was doing fascinating.
Ethan pulled a small amount of wool from the tuft, and rolled it against his thigh until he had a short piece of woolen thread a little over a foot in length. He tied one end of the thread to the short end of the rod that passed through the disc, and looped the middle around the notch in the far end. This left him with about three or more inches of thread extending beyond the end of the rod.
“This,” Ethan pointed to the disc, “is the whorl. The rod is the spindle, and you spin wool into yarn like this.” He pulled some more wool from the tuft, and gently secured some of it to the thread.
“You spin it like this.” He held the top of the spindle between his thumb and forefinger, and spun it like a top. He let it drop as he held onto the wool.
“Oh ... my...” Ellona exclaimed. “Look at that.”
Ethan lifted the spinning spindle as he played out the wool, attenuating the forming yarn. “It's as easy as it looks.”
“How did you learn such a thing?” Ellona looked at him with huge eyes.
He shrugged. “I grew up among farmers and ranchers down in the Wool Coast. I learned it as a way of family life.” He wound the spun yarn onto the spindle behind the whorl.
Ellona held out her hands. “May I try it?”
“That's why I made it. Here, give it a go.” He put the spindle into her hands, and handed her a small amount of wool.
She held the spindle, and looked at him. “How do I do it again?”
“Like this.” He guided her hands into the right position, and then told her, “Ok, spin it.”
“It's working! I'm making wool!” She cried out in her excitement, and then, “Why are you laughing?”
“Because,” he said, through his chuckles, “that's exactly what I told my mother when she first taught me. I'm going to tell you what she said to me that day. You're making yarn, sheep make wool.”
She stared at him for a few seconds, and then she blushed furiously, covering her mouth with her free hand. “What was I ... did I say ... oh Deity! I'm so embarrassed.”
Ethan stopped laughing. “Don't you think that. Don't you ever think that. You're a fine woman, Ellona and you've proven that you're the worth of anyone in that town down there.” He pointed towards Bantering.
Ellona looked at him. “Why, Ethan! One would think you were beginning to really care for me.”
It was Ethan's turn to blush.
* * * *
“...And that one gives the best red.”
Ellona recoiled at the sight of the little bug Ethan held in his hand. “But it's a bug!”
“Can I see, mama?” Jonas peeked over the edge of Ethan's hand. “Oooo, buuug.”
Circumstance pulled him away. “Come over here, Jonas, and you can play with Sari and me.”
Ethan watched Ellona's adopted son lead his youngest sibling across the room. “That's a good boy you've got there.”
Ellona looked at Circumstance and smiled affectionately. “Yes, he is. I worry about him sometimes, he's so somber.”
Ethan kept an eye on the boy as he showed Ellona which plants, and insects gave the best colors in dying wool and yarn. Was it his imagination, or did the boy's ears look slightly pointed?
Chapter Eleven
Morgan slapped the chamber floor twice. The signal of surrender. Charity released him, and stood up.
Morgan raised himself up onto one elbow, and massaged his wrist. “You've been practicing without me.” He said wryly.
“You're not angry?” Charity was a little surprised at his easy acceptance of defeat.
He stood up and brushed himself off. “Why would the teacher be angry when the student surpasses his expectations?”
Charity allowed herself a little smile. “I did do rather well, didn't I?”
“You did splendidly, my dear student. You've learned what I could teach faster than I would have thought possible. I'm quite happy having to slap the floor.” He gave her a half bow, and left the room.
Cloutier was standing on his terrace overlooking the city of Berggren when Morgan found him.
“And how is my ... guest faring in our care, Captain?”
“She is ... adapting well, my Lord. She will be a woman any man would be proud to have at his side.”
Cloutier turned and looked at Morgan with an upraised eyebrow. “I detect a note of affection in you, Captain. Your loyalties would not be changing, would they?”
“Of course not, my Lord.” Morgan said stiffly.
“I would hope not, Captain.” Cloutier replied with equal stiffness. “I have plans for that young woman. She is ripening nicely, and I plan to be the one to harvest her fruit.”
“Yes, my L
ord.”
The Earl spun on his heel, and looked back out over the city. The sun was beginning to set, and the city buildings were painted with the colors of the sunset. He motioned to Morgan. “See the colors? This is my favorite part of the day. The buildings look like they're coated with blood. Delicious.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Cloutier turned again, and looked the Captain up and down. “Captain, in all the years I've known you, you haven't once committed an act contrary to the law.”
“No, my Lord.”
“I've always found that to be a little disappointing.”
“I am sorry to be a disappointment, my Lord. Do you have any further need of me?” Morgan kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Cloutier turned away from him, and waved him away with a languid hand. “No, not at this time. Go away. I wish to enjoy this sunset.”
Charity looked up from her book at Morgan's knock. She'd learned to recognize his particular single rap on the wood of the door. “Come in, Morgan. I'm only reading.”
He pushed open the door, and entered the chamber.
Charity could see something had upset him. “What's wrong?”
“I've something to tell you, my Lady. You may not like it.”
Charity got to her feet. “I don't like it already. Go ahead, tell me.”
“The Earl has plans for you. He means to take you at the moment you fully enter womanhood.” Morgan's face was set in stone.
Charity felt the beginnings of fear grow in her belly. She strode across the room and faced Morgan. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, my Lady. It is his right within the law.”
“What!?” Charity's scream made him flinch. “HE has his WAY with ME, and you're just going to stand there and do Nothing?”
Morgan stood beneath her verbal barrage, ramrod straight as if on review. “I cannot circumvent the law, my Lady, it is there for a purpose. I came here to tell you because I thought you should know, and you could prepare yourself.”
Charity began hitting him as she screamed. “Prepare myself? How? Perfume? Powder? Maybe I should have you bring in a trollop or two to teach me a few tricks?” She drew blood with her last blow, and then she collapsed onto the settee, and started to cry.
“I am sorry, my Lady.” Morgan still stood where he was, blood trickling from his nose. “I meant prepare in another sense.”
“What sense was that?” Charity replied through her sobs.
“Stand to your feet!” Morgan rapped out the command in a voice that brooked no disobedience.
Charity stood to her feet before she realized what she was doing.
“Guard yourself!” Morgan shifted into an attack stance, and sent a series of lightening swift strikes her way.
Charity parried the blows as quickly as they came. There was no time to think about what to do. She moved through pure instinct. High, low and then back to high. This continued for nearly a full half minute, and then Morgan stepped back, placed his hands on his hips, and nodded in satisfaction. “That sense, my Lady.” He turned and walked out the door, closing it behind him.
Charity stood where he'd left her. “That sense.” She repeated the words slowly as a dangerous look came into her eyes.
* * * *
“You don't have to do this.”
Ethan sat on the cottage porch of the woman he'd come to know as Ellona. He was putting the finishing touches on a Yew bow, and small flecks of wood drifted to the ground under the touch of the small knife he wielded. The woman's children, Sari, Jonas and Circumstance, sat or knelt around him as he worked.
He looked up at her voice. “Yes, I do. I'm not comfortable being in someone's debt.”
“You needed help. I gave it. That doesn't mean you're in debt to me.” Her voice was reproachful.
Ethan finished his work on the bow, and tossed the knife into a small block of wood a couple of yards away. The children ooo'd. “Maybe not to you, Ellona, but it does to me. A life debt isn't something I can just forget.”
He stood up and tested the flex of the bow, bracing one of the arms against the inside of his boot. It seemed to satisfy him, and he reached into his jerkin and pulled out a bowstring made of several strands of a long, sturdy fiber with the ends looped and the center wrapped tightly. He fit the string to the bow with two sure movements, and then pulled it back to his ear.
“It seems a good bow.” Ellona stood on the porch, her arms crossed beneath her breasts.
Ethan grunted in agreement. “It should do the job. Now, we unstring it, and see to the arrows.”
A pile of shafts, made of small branches whittled to an even thickness lay on the porch near Ethan's feet. Next to the shafts, an old pottery bowl sat, full of feathers. Next to the feathers lay a small pile of odds and ends of scrap metal.
Ethan sat back down and picked up one of the shafts and one of the feathers. He held one end of the shaft, and lined the feather against it lengthwise. Grunting his satisfaction with it, he then trimmed the feather with the knife. Then he picked up a length of hemp fiber, and tied the feather in place with two snug loops. Picking up two more feathers, he repeated the trimming and secured them to the shaft as well. Carefully, he began wrapping another length of fiber around the feathers, making sure to cover only the quill portion at the base and at the top. Taking the small knife, he added a notch into the end of the shaft, and then picked up another to begin the process all over again.
When he'd finished putting fletchings onto all the shafts, he picked up one of the metal scraps. “Where did you get these?” He said to Ellona.
“My husband used to collect them. He would save them up, and sell the collection to the blacksmith in Bantering.”
“Where is he now?”
“He died ... a fever two summer's ago. I've never thrown anything of his away.” Her voice caught.
Ethan felt as if he were suddenly intruding. He turned away from Ellona to hide his embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I didn't know.”
“You had no way of knowing unless I told you.” She wiped a corner of an eye with a fingertip. “I'm glad some of his things are being put to use,”
Ethan fingered the scrap he held. “I'll try to make a good use of them.”
The boy called Circumstance picked up one of the scraps, and held it out for Ethan to take. “This one will work.” His voice was high; higher than it should have been for a boy his age.
Ethan took the scrap. “Thank you, Circumstance.” The name sounded odd on his tongue, he looked at Ellona in question, she nodded.
“Run along now, children, Ethan doesn't need to be bothered while he finishes his work.”
“Ah, ma...”
“There's nuthin’ to do...”
“Yes, mama.” Circumstance gathered his siblings and led them back to the cottage.
There is something different about the boy, Ethan thought. He balanced the scrap Circumstance had given him in his hand. He held it up for Ellona to see. “The boy has a good eye.”
“He always has. It's a knack of his.”
“He's not yours, is he.” A statement, not a question.
“No.” Ellona sat and hugged herself. “Russal brought him home after a hunting trip. It must be nearly ten years now. He was just a baby then, and we had no children of our own.”
“Russal was your husband?” Ethan began shaping the scrap with a file he'd found in the small shop behind her cottage.
“Yes. We were married almost thirteen years.” She looked around at the cottage and the grounds. “He was a good husband and a good provider. It's been hard, but we've managed.”
“How did he find the baby?”
“He wouldn't say, not entirely. It was happy chance that he found him at all.”
“Oh?”
“He found the baby in a hollow log. He just happened to glance that way. Circumstance was cold and hungry, but he wasn't crying. He hasn't cried as long as I've known him.”
“Hmm.” Ethan finished fi
ling on the scrap of metal. He reached down and picked up one of the fletched shafts. Using the small knife again, he split the end of the shaft to a depth of two fingers. He then worked the flange end of the shaped metal into the split, and held it up to see.
“It looks deadly.” Ellona commented.
“I hope it is. Game doesn't throw itself into the cook pot just on the asking.” Ethan began winding hemp fiber around the split so the crude arrowhead would remain in place during flight.
He finished the winding, and examined the finished arrow. “Well ... it looks all right. Only eleven more to go.”
Ellona got up to leave the porch. “I'll start making some hot food.”
Ethan looked up at her. He noticed the way the sun caught the highlights in her hair. “I should be finished about then. Thanks.”
Ellona walked into the cottage, and Ethan heard the sounds of pots and pans being rattled. Soon the smell of cooking filled the air, and Ethan realized he was hungrier than he'd thought. Anticipation moved him, and he bent to his task with a will.
Ellona's a fine woman. He thought. I wonder what she could do with a haunch of venison?
* * * *
Cloutier balanced the oyster onto the edge of the slice of toasted rye bread, and conveyed it to his mouth. He closed his eyes in pleasure as he began to chew. Marvelous. The balance of flavors was just right. Some said that raw oysters were poison, but he knew better than that. An old witch passed onto him some of her secrets before he'd had her skinned, and what raw oysters could do for a man's ... performance was one of them.
He picked up a small silver bell, and rang it once. Moments later, Youch appeared.
“Milord?”
Cloutier speared another oyster, inwardly relishing his servant's involuntary shudder of revulsion. “Fetch Morgan, and bring him to me.”
“Yes, Milord.” Youch scuttled back out the door.
The Earl of Berggren swallowed his oyster on toast, and then poured a measure of a light green wine into a carved crystal goblet. The sweet astringency of the wine fitted perfectly with the finish of the oyster and rye. He was examining the color of the wine in the goblet when Morgan entered his chamber.
“Morgan, so good of you to show. I hope I'm not taking you away from something important?” He added a trace of sarcasm to the question.