Eorling Mead Hall

[littlemanpoet]

"Eodwine, Lèof is racing. Come!" She took his hand in hers and began to tug him lightly through the crowd. "We should watch him."

"And him with a bad foot?" Eodwine said absently. His hand was sweaty. She had to notice. What did it matter? This would not do, being dragged around a horse fair by a twenty-something young filly, no matter how how elegant her gait. He rolled his eyes.

"Hold up there!" He tugged back and slowed Saeryn down. He pulled his hand gently from his and placed his hands on both her shoulders, standing behind her. "No lead!"

She looked up over her shoulder at him and gave him a quizzical look, then stuck her tongue out at him prettily, and set off at a good pace, snaking through the crowd until they were at leaning against the fence, watching the race.

It was already under way, and seemed to be on the middle lap. Eodwine tried to make out Léof, but could not.

"There!" Saeryn shouted, pointing. "Caught in the middle, lower than the others!"

"Of course. Æthel is the smaller horse." Eodwine watched Léof's progress, worrying his molers against each other. "He's a fool for being out there with his bad foot."

[Celuien]

The fair was a sea of chaos, threatening to swallow the reserved stoneshaper in its midst at every moment. People came at Garstan from all directions, hawking their wares, inviting him to their shows, begging a coin. He was terribly uncomfortable. Not a familiar face in sight.

No familiar faces. Where, in all this crowd, had Lèoðern been? He pushed aside the thought that he had come in no small part to check on her. Garstan didn't want to doubt the pair who had been so kind as to take his daughter to visit the fair for a treat, but it was difficult to leave her in their charge. She had never been out of his supervision before. He hoped to find them soon.

First he would find a wheelwright. The cart still needed repairs. The search wasn't difficult. Near the stables, there was a booth surrounded by stacks of wheels. A crudely drawn sign with the image of a wheel hung at its front. But the booth was empty. Garstan asked a nearby loiterer if the booth's owner had been seen, and received a curt reply in the negative. He would return later.

Shouts and cheers echoed in the distance. The horses were running. Garmund would probably enjoy the race. So too would Lèoðern. Maybe that was where she had gone, cheering on the horses and riders from the edge of the race. Garstan led his son in the direction of the din, listening to the boy's excited speech about horses. Lèoðern and her brother weren't so very different in some respects.

They came up to the crowd gathered around the horse race. Garstan quickly scanned the watchers, searching for a wisp of red hair, listening for Lèoðern's familiar laughter. But instead of his daughter, Garstan spotted Lord Eodwine and the hostess from the Mead Hall. It dawned on him, even at a distance, that there was something different about her, though he was unsure what it was.

If frustrated in one search, Garstan had at least succeeded in another. He approached Eodwine and Saeryn, and found himself staring at the latter's gown and hair, despite trying not to notice the difference from her usual appearance. She was blushing, and he thought that Eodwine looked a bit flustered.

Garstan now felt confused himself, though he could find no good reason for it. He had come to speak to Eodwine on business, though he feared that he had arrived at an inopportune moment. Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. He couldn't vanish without a word. Garstan raised his eyes to meet Eodwine's face.

"My lord," he said. "May I speak to you?"

[Undómë]

Away -- Wistan's farm - Dunstede

‘I don't mean to be rude, and it is very pleasant here, to be sure, but how much longer, do you think, until goodman Wistan returns? There are still several places I must go before I can return. Will he be much longer, do you suppose? I understand that one of your sons was sent?’ He looked at Mayda expectantly.

‘Why yes, little Alfrid was sent to give him your message,’ returned Mayda. She flicked her gaze toward Ardith, who nodded her head in agreement and sat forward on her bench.

‘It will take some time for Father Wistan to get here, you know,’ Ardith went on. ‘The men have all gone down to the far western field to mend fence and begin to clear that field for plowing. We’ve let it lay fallow for a number of years; let the grasses come up and kept it for pasturage. But now it’s time for getting that field into production and moving the pasture elsewhere . . .’ Ardith flustered a bit, thinking she had said more than was really needed. ‘But Alfrid would have got there by now and they should be on their way back, unless there was one project they really wanted to get finished.’

Cwen beamed at Ardith, giving her an assuring smile. ‘Tis true Master Thornden, And we’re sorry for the inconvenience. But by your own words, you have come early to collect. Had it been nearer the time we usually expect the steward, my dear Wistan would not have gone so far afield or he would have left one of our sons near to conduct the farm’s business.’ She put her plump finger to her chin as if a sudden thought had just come to her.

‘We’re I younger,’ she went on, ‘I would take you out myself to where the men are.’ She shifted stiffly on her cushion as if her hips were aching a little. ‘But these old bones just don’t travel that easily.’ Cwen looked expectantly toward Mayda and Ardith, who both made their very good excuses how they had tasks they really needed to get back to, and no, it just wouldn’t be possible for them to take the time.

Rose all this time had kept quiet as a mouse, making herself as small and invisible as she might. She was, in fact, thinking of slipping silently away and back to her bees. Most of her morning had been spent building frames for her hives, and she wanted to exhange some the old ones filled with honey for the new. She put her mug on the nearby table and slid to the end of the bench she was on. She was just bending down to retie the laces about her breeches cuffs when she heard her name mentioned . . . no, not mentioned, offered, more like, as a solution to the whole problem.

‘Why that’s just the thing, Mayda!’ she heard her mother say. ‘Rose would be just the one. She’d be delighted to take you out to where the men are. Wouldn’t you, dear?’

There was an imperative in that last question that made her rethink her first answer, but she would not altogether give up the hope she might say ‘no’. Her head bobbed up, and she was almost ready to make her own excuses as had the others, save her mother had that look of authority, that is that bone deep knowledge she could exude at the most inconvenient times that she still and would always know what was in the best interest of her daughter.

Thornden had turned, too, to look at her. And while she didn’t wish him ill, she did curse the new lord who had sent such a convenient possibility into the hands of her mother and her sisters-in-law. She was still about to say ‘no’, except that Mayda, from outside the steward’s view, was giving her a severe look and cocking her head toward Mother Cwen. As was Ardith, who had straightened her back quite stiffly and shook her head in a most emphatic manner.

Thorns and thistles!

Her mother would be crushed if she made a scene. And she would never hear the end of it from her brothers’ wives. The lot of them, when banded together in a cause, could make one’s life a living hell . . . if they so chose to do so . . . and wouldn’t they just!

And then of course there was her dear mother, a quite accomplished actress when she wanted something her way and who was and always would be the central jewel of Wistan’s life. If Cwen were happy, he was happy. She sighed thinking how he would look at her with his grave face, saying, ‘Don’t be selfish, now, Rose. Do this one thing for your poor mother who’s done so much for you. It’s just a little thing . . .’ And then, of course, with a half smile, add, ‘Give me a little peace, my darlin’ girl . . .’

‘Well, then,’ she said, her voice a bit muffled as she bent down to untie her cuffs once again, her long blond hair falling forward to hide her face. She stood up, pushing the wavy masses away from her cheeks and stuffed the leather thongs in her pocket. ‘I’ll just fetch a horse for me from the barn. Why don’t you bring your own along, Master Thornden, and we’ll start off from there.

She smiled encouragingly toward him.

Sooner done; sooner he’s gone . . . and sooner I’m free of my ‘obligations’ . . .

[Firefoot]

For the barest instant, Léof had a flash of imagination that he was not racing, and that there were no stakes, but that he and Æthel galloped full out through the fields of the West Emnet, purely for the joy of doing so – in much happier times. “For the simple joy of doing so” was not the sort of phrase that had much bearing on his life in recent years. But the recollection flashed away and was replaced with the view of reality, the exulting thudding of hoofbeats mixing with the exhilaration and inherent danger of the race.

They rounded the first turn for the last time, the horses’ long strides eating up the backstretch. It was just before they entered the final turn that Léof made his move; he did not care to make the turn far on the outside as he was. He loosened the reins, urged Æthel on. For him, she willingly dug deeply, flying along faster than Léof would have thought possible given their already fast pace. He felt as much as saw the grey horse accelerating behind and beside him. They entered the top of the stretch; Léof could feel Æthel starting to tire. “Just a little more,” he urged. “We’re almost there.” The wind whipped the words out of his mouth. She plunged doggedly on; he glanced back to see the grey horse tiring as well. Then he noticed something else entirely: the black horse starting to charge up on his outside. The finish line loomed, so close, yet so far; Æthel was tiring while that horse was picking up speed. Very suddenly, Léof realized how very much he wanted to win. He had not expected anything going into the race, but he was so close, now.

“Go, girl, come on, Æthel baby!” The black horse reached her flank, now its neck was even with Léof’s leg. The next moments seemed to pass in slow motion; even the wind buffering his face seemed to die for a moment. Æthel’s legs extended, and with a last effort, they crossed the finish line. In first. Within a couple of strides after that, the black horse had passed them, but not before the finish. Just before complete disbelief and joy could fill him, a sobering thought crossed his mind: the black horse should have won. The jockey had waited entirely too long to let the horse go; the horse still had plenty energy left, so why had he not been given free rein before or during the final turn?

These thoughts were quickly replaced by a wholly other sensation: throbbing pain in his foot. Sitting in his saddle, he kicked free of the stirrups to let the foot dangle uselessly, guiding Æthel with the insides of his legs.

Then concerns for himself subsided in favor of concern for Æthel; she was breathing hard, and her neck was darkened in sweat. He patted her fondly. “You gave it all you had out there, girl. It’s a nice hot mash for you tonight, and plenty of rest.” And plenty of rest for you, too, he told himself. The rush of exhilaration following the stress of getting here in the first place was leaving, draining him. He collected his purse money – easily enough to pay back for the money he had spent that day – and hardly remembered doing so. He felt a touch of dizziness and, after leaving the track, dismounted before he fell out of the saddle. He leaned against a post, absently rubbing Æthel’s nose as he gathered his energies for the trek back up to the hall.

[Folwren]

Away - Winstan's Farm - Dunstede

Thornden got up as Rose did and as she turned towards the barn, he thanked Cwen and the two remaining women. "Thank you very much for the tea and refreshments. I hope we will be seeing you soon at the Mead Hall. Once the roof is raised and a proper kitchen is in tact, we'll be able to return the favour."

"Thank you and you're welcome! We'll come, I'm sure. Goodbye, Master Thornden!" they all replied in their different variations and he turned and followed Rose. She turned towards him when they reached Flíthaf.

“I’ll go in and get my horse. It won’t take but a few minutes.”

“I can help you,” Thornden said at once. She looked at him quickly, lifting an eyebrow slightly, and then casting a sharp look beyond him towards her mother and two sisters. “It will take less time,” he said. She shrugged and then turned and led the way into the barn.

They walked up between an aisle of stalls, half of which were empty, before Rose stopped before one and took the halter. Thornden waited while she went in and brought out her horse, a slender, sleek bay with black mane and tale. Together, then, they continued walking down until they came to where she could tie the horse to an iron ring in the wall.

“I’ll get the saddle for you,” Thornden said as she turned from that. She led the way again in silence to a room where saddles and bridles belonged.

“Take this one for her,” Rose said, laying a brown hand on one saddle. “And this is her bridle as well.” She picked up the bridle she spoke of and laid it across the saddle and then picked up a bucket with grooming tools in it. Thornden took the saddle and followed her back out. He hung it up on the aisle wall and then took one of the brushes and positioned himself on the opposite side of the horse that Rose worked on.

The grooming took very little time at all. Few words were passed between the two of them as they worked. Thornden saddled the horse for her (she probably would have done it, but he had the saddle in his hands before she had quite finished adjusting the blankets), and then he went out, Rose following, leading her horse. He untied Flíthaf and turned him about before putting the reins back up over his neck. Then he mounted and moved his horse up beside Rose’s.

Ardith and Mayda were just leaving the house to go back to their work and Cwen was making a last trip in from the table. They all smiled and waved as the two of them turned their horse's heads about and started.

They said nothing for some time, riding in peaceful silence. Thornden was occupied in looking about him, taking into stock the long fields, separated by wide belts of trees and hedges.

After some time of such riding, Thornden turned towards his companion. "Were those your sisters we were just with?" he asked.

[Undómë]

Away -- Wistan's farm - Dunstede

It was one of Rose’s great pleasures to ride round the family farm. She knew every inch of the lands; their nuances in every season. As she turned them down the rough dirt path between fields, she smiled at the tips of barley grass just pushing up from the dark, rich soil. She’d helped her brothers sow the seeds late in the tenth-month of the year. Hardy little things, they were; they wintered over, waiting for the first thaws and had begun to send their shoots up toward the promised sun. To either side, the fields had just been plowed and soon her father would call it time to plant the oats. All around her the air was heavy with the richness of new turned earth.

She pulled herself back to the present situation and recalled she had a companion riding at her side. She applauded the fact he had so far not been of the idle chat sort. And a few stolen looks his way had assured her he could sit a horse well. Two favorable points, then, for Master Thornden, she thought to herself.

‘Were those your sisters we were just with?’

The question brought a smile to her face, and she wondered how she should answer him. She could speak the plain facts or embellish the answer with her own interpretation. His attention was turned to her, and his hazel eyes regarded her in an expectant manner.

‘Oh, much worse than sisters, I should think,’ she began. ‘Though I love them dearly,’ she then disclaimed. ‘I can’t really know how awful a sister might be, having only brothers myself. But I could imagine that a sister might take into account my own feelings and preferences and fancies, as I should like to think I would hers, and take my side in those sorts of family arguments and discussions where the force of opinion was against me.’ She chuckled, relishing the thought of such a confederate.

‘No, those are my sisters in law. And you only met two of them. There are four altogether.’ She counted off on her fingers. ‘Aesc and Breca are twins, and my oldest brothers. Mayda is Aesc’s wife; Lynet is Breca’s. Ardith, the other one you met, is Willim’s wife; he’s the next oldest. And my youngest brother, Garan, is married to Britta. I say youngest, but still he is five years older than I.’

They had come to the corner of one of the fields and took a sharp turn, riding now along the length of it. ‘I do hold them dear, my sisters in law, and mostly for the fact that they do love my brothers well. But they seem to have become joined at the hip with my mother, and I can always count on them to support her opinions and decisions. And therein lies the problem when the opinions and decisions under consideration concern me. They are a quite formidable force, my mother and my brothers’ wives . . . quite a tough opposition to get round at times.’ She grinned impishly at the thought and shook her head. ‘But I do manage to outfox them now and then. And so far, in the game, I do believe I’ve managed to stay a step or two ahead of them.’

‘What about you?’ she asked, turning the focus from herself. ‘Didn’t I hear you say you were the oldest in your family? I envy you, as I’m the youngest in mine. I wonder . . . it must be easier, isn’t it? As the oldest child and a male, to boot, to be able to avoid your mother and sister’s whims and plans, as you so ably put it earlier.’

[Lalwendë]

He’d done it, the lad had actually done it, and what’s more, he’d made it look real. Larswic shook his head and wondered if the lad really had managed to pull it off all on his own. He couldn’t be sure.

His heart was racing now, more so than when the race had been going on. He had shouted and hollered along with everyone else as the riders had neared the winning post, but it was an act at first. Yet as the race had finally drawn to an end, his shouting and excitement had been genuine. His face was red and his throat sore. The little slips of paper which his bets had been written on were now getting crumpled in his fist, and he looked down at them almost tenderly, and smoothed them out.

Larswic went quickly to the bookmakers to claim his gold. First was the man to whom he had placed a single large bet on Leof’s horse. This was the most important one, and the bookmaker gave him a broad smile as he handed over the money, though his face was white with shock. Larswic left him with a silver coin and an instruction to “get yourself drunk tonight with that”. Next he went to the bookmakers where he had placed money on his own horse coming second; the amounts here were large too, as the odds on this horse not winning were long. Finally, he went to claim the money from his first and second place wager.

As he moved quickly through the throngs around the various bookmakers, Larswic nodded his head at a few people who went by. However, these were more than passing acquaintances. One was none other than the son of the man he had sold the black stallion to, and by the way he held his cloak close to his chest, he was reaping a large reward of gold for his wager. He gave Larswic an almost imperceptible wink as he went by and Larswic quickly pressed something into his hand.

The others that Larswic passed were some of his closest contacts. Regular punters, trusted dealers and those men who he wished to keep in favour. A small number of Larswic’s customers got a lot more for their money when they bought a horse from him; they also bought his intelligence and insider knowledge, they bought future hopes and chances from the man. He knew that he would be treated to more than a few drinks over the coming days. He also knew that he had bought their discretion and moved confidently as ever through the crowds, heading for the winners’ enclosure.

When he got there, he played his role as a part owner of the second placed horse, commiserating that he had not won, but saying how he was content with his share of the second prize, all the time feeling the pull and heavy weight of the bag of gold he carried under his shirt.