THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: still G, at this point.

Author’s notes:

For visuals, Old Craban has the face of Lew Ayres. The description of the Square House interior is based on the data given in “Life in a Medieval City” by Joseph and Frances Gies.

CHAPTER 2 – OLD CRABAN

(In which Chief Warden Henderch and Mogh the Dunlending visit the Old Port and test a new candidate for the Wardens.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was late afternoon on the next day – way beyond the twelfth hour⁽¹⁾ – when Mogh the Dunlending found the time to get over to the Old Port. He asked Henderch to accompany him, as people were still wary in their dealings with him, no matter how long he had lived among them and protected their town by now. The history between Gondor and Dunland was a long and bloody one, and Old Craban in particular was aged enough to have some ugly memories of his own.

Henderch did not mind the walk across town. He had come to know Mogh well enough to appreciate the Dunlending’s sly wit and rough wisdom. He enjoyed their conversations, as Mogh’s mindset was very different from that of the other men he knew, be they Dúnedain or of the Old Folk, and he found the challenge to understand, or even outwit the other man inspiring. Besides, he truly wanted to see if Súrion would show any talent for the battle-axe.

The Chief Warden was still a little unsure about Mogh’s true agenda in this matter. The Dunlending was a mystery for him, and he did not like mysteries. The unknown was often naught else but a mantle to cover perils. He preferred to be ready for everything.

They walked down slowly the Steep Path, among the simple houses of the fishermen, built on terraced levels above each other, to the Old Port – a port, that, strangely enough, had re-gained its importance since the establishing of Cair Andros’ garrison.

In the old days, when Halabor had been an important and lively town, many ships came and left from the quayside of the New Port of the Boat-makers that lay westward from the castle. They brought goods from other towns, as far as Linhir and Minas Tirith, Harlond and even Pelargir, to be sold on the market. When they left, they also carried away much of the products of Halabor: scented waters and beeswax candles, ropes and nets, pottery and leatherware, cheese and liquor and wine and much, much more.

When the Large Port for the boat-makers and the trade ships was built, the quayside was just a gap in the bank of the western arm of the Great River. The smaller boats were usually hauled up onto the bank to avoid the current toppling them over. It not only would have been a huge embarrassment to the ship’s owner and the boatmen, it also cost a lot of spare hands to right the vessel and to bail out the water and flush out the silt.

As the years flowed by and the ships kept coming, the people decided to build a jetty, and later a stone quay, thus enabling larger vessels to moor at Halabor. This meant more goods were being pushed through the town during any given visit, making the market larger and drawing more people from the countryside. At that time, thrice as many lived in the town as nowadays.

And therein lay the problem often voiced before the Town Council by the Guilds of Merchants and Boat-makers, as they were the ones who had a lot to do with ships. The western arm of Anduin was silting up, and the shallow water under the jetty was getting even shallower, as the lands upon the west bank were flat, and the Great River kept extending into that direction. The coming and going of the many ships added to that problem, as the volume of land that was being ploughed each year was getting greater, and the tree loss, caused by the boat-makers, just that bit more, all conspiring to wash more soil into the west-arm each winter.

The only way to sort this out would have been to build the jetty further out into the stream, or build a new one, further down the river, where the two arms were still one and the stream deep and strong. And indeed, during the time of Lord Orchald’s grandsire, the Guilds with the most influence – the Merchants, the Boat-makers and the Stone-masons – very nearly succeeded to persuade the Town Council to build a new, even larger port down south. Had the establishing of the garrison upon Cair Andros not turned the trade paths away from Halabor, they could have got what they wanted,

But after that, there was no need for another large port in town. Most merchants left anyway, moving to Linhir, to Minas Tirith or to Lossarnach, as their lives were dependant on the trade routes. The boat-makers followed suit more slowly, but little by little, they left for the bigger ports as well. The few who remained in town, moved back to the Old Port.

The stone-masons held out the longest. The building of the fortifications upon Cair Andros provided them with work for a few years, and the abandoned New Port provided them with stone to work with for quite some time. The muddy bed of the west-arm of Anduin was littered with boulders, brought there as ballast to balance the visiting ships and then thrown into the water to make room for the wares for years upon years. These were usually huge chunks of rock that suited well for building, if one knew how to harvest them from the water.

The stone-masons used oxen to pull them out of the shallows, hewed them in the desired size and shape right there upon the quays, and then shipped them up the river, directly to Cair Andros. Only when the large rocks were all collected and removed had the New Port truly been abandoned.

During all these years, the Old Port of the Fishermen had served its purpose faithfully. Built on the east side of the cliff where the castle stood, it benefited from the deeper water and the stronger current of the east-arm of Anduin. Its stone-paved quay stretched from the herb gardens of the Infirmary up to the castle, and a long jetty of heavy oak beams curved gracefully almost all the same way, providing a protected area for the fishing boats to moor and for the boat-makers to work. The Steep Path reached the quay almost in the exact middle. Next to the Square House – a squat, three-level building, made uncharacteristically entirely of stone, that once had been Henderch’s home but belonged to Old Craban’s daughter now.

The old man had not moved in with his daughter, though, no matter how much Mistress Dorlas begged her. He stayed stubbornly in his small cottage further down in the port, alone with his boat and his nets and his friends, the white-headed eagles. The townsfolk considered him strange but harmless, and he was well-liked among them, despite his sometimes scruff manners.

When Henderch and Mogh reached the port, they found the white-haired old man before his cottage, hanging up his net to dry. The nets used in Halabor were all made of nettle-hemp and served one forever, if handled with care. The very net Old Craban was hanging up right now had been made at least ten years ago. But then, Old Craban had always been very careful with his nets. Even before he turned his back on his trade and became a fisherman.

As he watched the fragile old man, whose back was bent from the weight of age, Henderch found it difficult to believe that Old Craban was capable of sailing the sea-wide river in the worst of storms and of pulling in a net full of fish without help. Which was the truth, nevertheless. Although taught the trade of the potters in his youth and worked as one for many years, Old Craban was now a fisherman with all his heart.

After he had lost his three sons in a local skirmish with plundering raiders from Dunland, and – less than a year later – also his wife to the dry fewer, he moved into the abandoned cottage of his late brother and had lived there ever since. For a long time, he avoided all people, finding great comfort in the solitude of the Great River, with no company but the eagles and other water birds, and had he not found Súrion eight and ten summers ago, mayhap he would have lived out his life as an hermit.

But fate had left the baby boy – the only survivor of a slaughtered family from the Riddermark – more or less on the doorstep of his cottage. Nobody could tell how the child – for he couldn’t have been more than six or eight moons old back then – had been able to crawl away from the place, outside the town, where his parents and siblings had been killed. From a family of eight, he had been the only one to escape; most likely left behind for dead by whoever the raiders might have been. Yet instead of lying still and waiting for the inevitable death, the little boy had crawled out from under the dead bodies of his siblings and somehow got himself down to the bank of the Great River – where Old Craban, out fishing with his boat, had found him.

The old man considered the child a gift from the old gods, took him in, gave him the name of Súrion (after his youngest, who had only lived a year after birth) and raised him with the help of Mistress Dorlas, who had been already widowed at that time. Súrion grew up to become a big, strong, good-natured lad, whom everyone liked. But his mind, perhaps because of the trauma he had suffered as a baby, remained that of a young child of nine or ten summers. As Henderch had said to young Lord Herumor, Súrion indeed needed guidance from his foster father in about everything – except in fighting. That seemed to be in his blood; as long as no swords were involved.

Old Craban finished hanging up his net, and as he turned away from the wooden frame, he discovered the two Wardens. A slow, lopsided smile spread all over his wrinkled face. As little as he cared for the Dunlending, he had always been very fond of Henderch, whose parents had been good neighbours for him.

“Chief Warden,” he greeted the younger man; his voice was gentle but not powerless, despite his respectable age. “To what do I owe the honour? It has been a long time that you last visited the Port.”

“Too long,” agreed Henderch. “How are you doing, Old Craban? I hope your nets are always full.”

“Not as full as they used to be when the great sturgeons swam up the Anduin all the way from the Sea to spawn,” the old fisherman shrugged, “but I cannot complain. The Great River is being generous. Even though I cannot hope to catch any other fish as huge as the one back in springtime has been.”

Henderch nodded. The great sturgeon that Old Craban had harpooned in the middle of Anduin last spring – and managed to pull ashore, without help, ere the hungry predators could have robbed him of his prey – was still the object of astonished tales in the whole town. It had been the largest fish ever caught in Halabor: more than four yard long, and it weighed more than 160 quarters⁽²⁾.

There had been a great feast on the Spring Fair, for even after most of the unfathomable amount of sturgeon meat had gone to Madron, the most respectable and richest fishmonger of the town to be ferried, sliced and salted and smoked, to Cair Andros and Minas Tirith, there had still been enough left so that everyone would have his or her fill. Even Lord Orchald came down from the Castle to the Drunken Boat, declaring that no-one but Mistress Pharin could do such a noble fish right. An extra barrel of fine wine had been opened as Lord Orchald’s treat, and not even the oldest people could remember a Spring Fair that would have been merrier than this recent one. Sulain, the wine-seller had made so much coin that he bought a new pair of mules after the fair.

“That fish brought me a whole new set of clothes,” said Old Craban with a smile, in fond memories of the once-in-a-life catch. “And new shirts and breeches for Súrion – the lad is still growing, unlikely as it seems. And I could give some coin to Dorlas, to pay the roofer and have that leaking roof of hers finally flicked.”

“I heard the skeleton of it hangs from the roof of the Riverside Inn still,” said Henderch, grinning. Old Craban nodded and laughed quietly.

“Sydnius is not a bad one as innkeepers go,” he judged, “even though he thinks a bit too much of his own importance. But he is the only one daring to live here, in the Old Port, with us – where the walls are little protection. He thought that skeleton would make people want to hear the tale, and therefore stay longer and drink more.”

“Was he right?” asked Henderch, slightly stunned by the innkeeper’s shrewdness.

“If you believe Gennys, he was,” Old Craban laughed again, “though you know what they say about beer-sellers and the truth. But I think you did not come to discuss Sydnius’ business with me, did you?”

Henderch shook his head. “Nay, I came to test Súrion’s fighting skills.”

“Did you?” One snowy brow was raised. “Young Master Herumor is an insistent one, it seems.”

“He is,” agreed Henderch. “And being the son of our Lord can be helpful in such arguments, of course.”

They both laughed. Old Craban then turned his piercing look to Mogh.

“What is he doing here?” he asked coldly.

The Dunlending mentally shrugged off the unspoken insult; after decades spent among the people of Halabor, he had grown used to such reactions. Henderch, however, was beginning to develop a certain intolerance towards the narrow-mindedness of his own folk. In Osgiliath, he had fought alongside men from Rohan and from various Gondorian provinces, and had learned to judge a man by his deeds instead of where he came from.

“He has a name, Old Craban,” the Chief Warden said with a frown. “And he is here to do you a favour. You should be grateful.”

“That would be a day to come, when I found myself in the debt of a Dunlending,” replied the old man, his eyes blazing.

“Well, you might be surprised,” said Henderch. “For we both know that Súrion would never learn how to wield a sword properly; thus Lord Herumor suggested to train him in axe-fighting.”

Old Craban shrugged. “He said so much. So what?”

“If he proves skilled enough, he will need a tutor,” answered Henderch. “Mogh here is the best I have ever seen wielding both the pole-axe and the double-axe. He is willing to teach your lad the art of axe-play. You should not insult him, Old Craban, unless you want him to change his mind.”

The old man hesitated for a while, his hatred and prejudices against the Dunlendings who had slain his three sons and his love for his foster son fighting a short but vicious battle in his heart. Finally, the love won out, as always, and he inclined his grey head in apology.

“Forgive my manners, good Warden,” he said. “I shall thank you if you taught my son to fight properly.”

Mogh accepted his apology with a simple nod. He was not a man of many words. Henderch looked around, seeking for Súrion.

“Where is the lad anywise?” he asked. “I thought he would help you to bring in the nets.”

“He has,” said Old Craban, “and then I sent him with today’s catch to Brioc’s house, so that Deoca and the other women can gut the fish and salt them, ere they go to the fishmonger.”

“When is he coming back?” asked Henderch. Old Craban shrugged.

“He will go to Dorlas for supper. We can wait for him there.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Originally, the Square House had not been meant to serve as a home. Now was it a house, as the people of Halabor usually understood the word. It was a stone tower, built to oversee the Old Port in the long-gone days when Halabor still had been an important crossing for trade routes. A watchtower of three stories, with a deep and strong cellar below, it had served to house the constables of the port – there had been a time when such people were needed – and the tax collector’s office on the ground floor. Confiscated goods had either been kept in the large storeroom next to the office – until their owner could pay the proper fee – or secured in the cellar, in case the owner could not pay.

When the New Port was built and merchant ships began to moor there, all these functions went to the warehouse over there, and the Square House was sold to a boatmaker wealthy enough to afford it: one of Henderch’s ancestors. The family had lived there for many generations, and Henderch was still overcome by a strange feeling of coming home when he entered the former storeroom that now served as the main hall of Mistress Dorlas. As she exercised  her trade in the Infirmary, or in the homes of her patients themselves, she did not need to use this particular room for business purposes.

Led by Old Craban, Henderch and Mogh came into the tiny anteroom first, from which three doors led to various parts of the house. One door led to a steep flight of stairs that went to the upper stories of the house. The second door, this one heavy and iron-bound, hid the stairs that led down to the cellar. The third door, finally, opened directly into the former tax office, now the kitchen, with the same old hearth Henderch remembered all too well, which shared the chimney with the main hearth in the hall. Entering the kitchen, the feeling of home strengthened considerably, for the sight offered to his eyes was a very familiar one indeed.

The various kettles and cauldrons with the supper contents were simmering on the hearth, just like in old times. Skimmers, spoons, shovels and scoops, pokers, pincers, spits and skewers, and a long-handed fork hung in front of the chimney. Nearby stood a vat, which held the water supply, and live fish swam in a leather tank, next to the wooden pickling tub. On the same old table against the wall were casseroles and pots of various sizes. Small utensils were stored on a shelf above, once carved by Henderch’ grandfather: sieves, colanders, mortars and graters. The hand towels, too, hang high, to keep them out of the reach of mice, should the insistent little critters invade the house again.

Next to the kitchen table stood the spice cupboard. This was a somewhat newer piece of furniture; Henderch could still remember the day when the carpenter had finished it and handed the keys to his mother proudly – as spices were, in the rule, expensive, a spice cupboard had to be locked all the times. Not that his mother would have had such fabulously rare and expensive spices as saffron, or even ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon or pepper; she usually relied on the herbs from the local gardens, but a spice cupboard was a matter of pride for every housewife with a bit of coin available for finer things. Most of the time, though, it had been the bunches of garden herbs she used: basil, sage, savory, marjoram, rosemary or thyme, which usually hung drying in bunches from the kitchen beams. It seemed that Mistress Dorlas followed the same practice.

Having been a storeroom originally, the hall – also called the solar by more refined people, to which Mistress Dorlas rightfully counted herself – was considerably smaller than such rooms would be in the house of a wealthy merchant, or even that of a well-to-do master craftsman. But as Mistress Dorlas had no family of her own (she had lost her husband shortly after their wedding) it was large enough for herself, her father and Súrion – and it was every bit as homely as Henderch remembered. A hearth fire blazed under the hood of a huge chimney, supplying most of the room’s illumination, as the oil lamp, suspended by a bronze chain from the low ceiling, had not been lighted yet. The narrow windows, fitted with oiled parchment in winter, stood ajar to let in the warmth of the outside, helping so to keep the chilly stone at a pleasant temperature.

 The walls of the solar were hung with woollen tapestries in bright colours, displaying hunting scenes. The stone floor was covered with thick rugs – a rarity outside of noble houses everywhere but in Halabor, as the small town had its own rug-maker: Rustam, an expatriate from Harad, who did not mind making simpler pieces for his fellow townspeople, even though he usually worked for the richest families in Minas Tirith, Linhir and Pelargir. Even the Prince of Dol Amroth had ordered rugs from him once for his shield-brother, Andrahar of Harad, having caught glimpses of his artful handiwork on a fair.

Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished. In one corner stood a big wooden cupboard, displaying a few pieces of plate and silver (and rather simple pieces at that), while in the other corner a low buffet for the pottery and tinware used every day. Looking at the older pieces of pottery, Henderch recognized Old Carban’s handiwork from earlier years, as the jogs and bowl wore a delicate pattern no other potter had ever used in Halabor.

When the three men entered the solar, the trestle table (which usually got dismantled after meals) was already cowered by a broad linen cloth, and Mistress Dorlas – a pleasant young woman of about thirty years, with the same round, friendly face as her father – was about to lay the table with two-handled earthenware bowls customary among the Old Folk, with knives and spoons, tin plates and wine cups. She was wearing a deep burgundy red tunic, with sleeves laced from wrist to elbow, and above it a light brown surcoat held in at her waist by a belt, with its full sleeves rolled back to the elbow and fastened with simple bronze needles, so that they revealed those of the tunic underneath. Her brown hair was parted in the middle, the two long plaits rolled up over her ears like snail houses, and covered with a white linen wimple.

During the years spent in the garrison of Osgiliath, Henderch had visited Minas Tirith many times, and thus he knew that compared with the women who had true Dúnadan blood – even the common-born ones – Old Craban’s daughter could be called moderately pretty at best. Nonetheless, he found her very lovely, and more so now, watching her performing those most homely of tasks. He asked himself how came that she had not caught his eye earlier.

Just like her father, she had a very friendly nature and greeted them cheerfully, not making any difference between the two visitors (which was naught like her father’s behaviour, though).

“You have come just in time to share supper with us,” she said, laying two more bowls and plates onto the table. “If Súrion manages to get dressed any time soon, that is. He can be worse than a child sometimes, I swear. He would sit at my table in his working shirt if I let him.”

“We do not want to cause you any trouble, Mistress Dorlas,” said Henderch, knowing that two more people to feed could indeed cause problems in such a small household. “We have just come to see Súrion.”

“And you can see enough of him during supper,” she waved him off. “’Tis no trouble at all. I cannot promise that my cooking would even come near to that of Mistress Pharin, but I assure you that it is edible. Súrion has grown big and strong enough on it.”

They all laughed, and the two Wardens had no choice but accept the invitation, unless they wanted to insult the mistress of the house. Which they did not. Thus they sat at the table with Old Craban, sipping from the light red wine that was customary drunk to supper in these parts of Gondor, waiting for Súrion to finally join them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took the lad less time than Mistress Dorlas had foreseen. Barely had the guests finished their first cup of wine, when Súrion already came down from the second floor, where his chamber was, cleaned up nicely, wearing a simple, long-sleeved linen shirt and breeches. He was a very big young man indeed, like the Rohirrim usually were, with a broad chest, heavy shoulders, and arms like tree branches; the result of having pulled in the nets from his early childhood. He had a good-natured, broad face with child-like blue eyes, and an unruly mop of dirty blond hair, bound with a leather string on the nape of his thick neck.

Seeing Henderch, a wide smile spread slowly all over his face.

“Master Henderch!” his speech, too, was slow, just like his smile… or his wits. He was a nice lad nevertheless – everyone liked him. Henderch was no exception.

“Súrion,” he said with a simple nod. “’Tis good to see you.”

“You can see me any time you want,” replied Súrion innocently and took his usual place at the table. Henderch laughed.

“Hint duly taken. But we only came here today to see you. And to speak with you about a matter that could mean to you a great deal.”

“After supper,” Mistress Dorlas intervened sternly. “I have not laboured over the hot oven for the food to get cold.”

Indeed, her cheeks were flushed, though Henderch asked himself whether the heat of the oven might be the true reason for that. In any case, ‘twas a bad idea to make the mistress of the house angry. Even less so when said mistress had a respectable trade on her own; one that had a lot to do with herbs and potions. Healers of any kind could execute very unpleasant, albeit harmless, revenge if provoked. And Mistress Dorlas was known as a resolute person, despite her youth, as some abusive husbands who treated their wives badly had come to known. She was known to confront even Mevvyn, the carter, once, and that was no small feat.

This all four men sat at the table meekly, and enjoyed supper, ere aught else could be done or said. ‘Twas a simple supper, as eaten in most houses of the common folk, rather than the fancy meals of the rich merchants or the nobles. The first course was a porray: a soup of leeks, onions, chitterlings, and ham, cooked in milk, with stock and breadcrumbs added. A rivet of hare followed – the meat roasted, then cut up and cooked with onions, vinegar, wine and spices, again thickened with breadcrumbs. Finally, Mistress Dorlas offered some grapes instead of sweetmeats to end the meal.

As she said, it was a simple meal, compared with the fare in the Drunken Boat, simple but tasty, and Henderch caught himself giving her a speculative look. He had never thought of marrying before, and he still was not certain that having a family would be the right thing for him, even less so considering that his main business had been battle and death for many long years. But should he decide to follow his fellow Wardens’ example and wed one of the numerous widows in town, Mistress Dorlas would surely be a good choice.

“Well, Súrion,” he said, when they had finished the meal and Mistress Dorlas began to clear the table; a trade of her own she might have had, but not one that profitable that she could have a maid, “do you still wish to become a Warden?”

The straw blond head nodded eagerly.

“Aye, Master Henderch, I do wish that very much,” then, with infinite sadness, the young man added, “but I know I will never learn to wield a sword. People say I am too slow-witted… and sword-play is difficult.”

“Not everyone has to become a swordsman,” pointed out Henderch.

The heavy shoulders of the young man sagged. “I am not good with the bow, either.”

“But you are very strong,” said Henderch, “and you can wield an axe well enough, or so young Lord Herumor told me. He thinks you would be good with the battle-axe.”

Súrion’s face lit up in childlike delight. “He does?”

“Aye, he does,” nodded Henderch. “Now, the question is, are you willing to learn proper axe-play? Mogh would show you how to do it – but you must listen to him then, and do everything he tells you to do.”

The guileless blue eyes turned to the swarthy face of the Dunlending in awe. “You would teach me? Even though I am dumb?”

“I think not that you are dumb,” grunted Mogh. “Mayhap a little slow.. but that can be helped. And yea, I will teach you how to wield the battle-axe – if you show some talent for it, that is. We must try you first.”

“When?” asked Súrion eagerly. The Dunlending gave him one of his rare grins.

“How about right now? ‘Tis still bright enough to see what you are doing. And I have brought my spare axe.”

“Surely you would not fight with sharp steel ere Súrion has learned how to handle it properly?” exclaimed Mistress Dorlas, clearly upset by the mere idea.

“Of course they would not,” soothed Henderch. “They are not going to fight each other at all. Mogh will simply show Súrion a few moves to see how he is handling the axe to begin with. This will be an exercise, no sparring.”

That seemed to calm her – for she was very protective of Súrion – and wiping her hands, she followed them to the courtyard to see the first instructions.

Once outside, Mogh looked around and chose from the stapled firewood a huge beam that was yet to be split to the proper pieces. With Súrion’s help, he righted the beam so that it was leaning against the staple of wood, and fishing a piece of charcoal from his belt pouch, he made several marks on it.

“Now, he said to Súrion, “think of this beam as your enemy… as an Orc mayhap. Those marks are where you have to aim at – his vulnerable areas. You must hit the mark, in order to render your enemy unfit to hurt you or those you protect. Do you understand?”

Súrion nodded, his blue eyes huge and round like cartle-wheels. Mogh handed him the pole axe, which hand a long, sharpened point on the upper end of its handle… which, for its part, was covered with leather.

“Now listen carefully,” continued the Dunlending. “You need a secure grip on the handle, thus you must hold it with both hands. Later mayhap, when you have learned enough and trained a lot, you might try to wield it single-handedly, so that you may hold a shield with your other hand. But let us begin with the simplest moves first, shall we?”

Súrion bobbed his head eagerly, and for the next two hours, Mogh taught him the very simplest moves of axe-fighting with which seemed endless patience. It was apparently not easy for the young man to learn patterns and rules instead of just attacking the beam headfirst and cutting it to splinter, but slowly, after much repetition, he began to show some understanding.

“That will be enough for one day,” Mogh finally said. “it seems that you definitely have some talent for the axe. I will teach you, and when you have learned all the tricks, I will recommend that you be brought into the Wardens,” he raised a broad hand to quiet Súrion’s happy yell. “But you must understand that it will take time. Most men need at least a year to learn this kind of fighting properly.”

“Would it take me much longer?” asked Súrion, his face falling. Mogh shrugged.

“That I cannot tell. Mayhap it will take longer, mayhap it will take less time… we will see when you begin your proper training.”

“When will I begin?” Súrion beamed with happiness again.

“Tomorrow,” said Mogh. “Come to the Castle when you have brought in your father’s nets. Lord Orchald allows us to use the training curt of his guards.”

“To the Castle?” repeated Súrion, duly impressed. “I have never been to the Castle before… well, not anywhere but in the kitchens when they ordered fish, that is.”

“Well, ‘tis about time, then,” said Mogh. “You will like it. ‘Tis a nice place… and the maids serving there are very pretty.”

“They are?” there was naught but curiosity in the young man’s voice; in certain things Súrion truly was like a child still. “I only ever saw old Mistress Gilmith… though she is a nice lady. Would the maids like me, you thing?”

Mogh snorted. “Aye, they most surely would… if you train and behave properly.”

“Do they like you?” asked Súrion innocently. The Dunlending snorted again.

“Nay, they do not, for I am short and swarthy, and entirely too old for their tastes. But you are young, strong and blond, so worry not, they will like you well enough, as long as you behave as it is proper.”

This obviously pleased Súrion, for though he did not look at women with the eyes of a man, due to his child-like mindset, for the very same reason he wanted people to like him. All people, if possible – and they usually did, as he was a friendly lad, always ready to lend a helping hand to anyone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Old Craban, too, seemed very pleased with the outcome of the events, and soon took his leave – with a grudging word of gratitude to the Dunlending – saying that his ancient bones needed a good night’s rest ere he rowed out onto the Great River in the next morn again.

Súrion followed suit soon enough, after a quick wash, hurrying over to the Riverside Inn to tell everyone about his good fortune.

“Do not drink too much,” Mistress Dorlas warned him sternly. “You know that I will check your tabs. And Father will need your help in the morn.

“I shall go with him,” offered Mogh. “I could use a good mug of ale myself.”

Henderch nodded. He knew that while people were suspicious with Dunlendings in general, they all knew Mogh who had spent most of his life in town. More than a few nasty remarks would not occur, and Mogh had long since grown accustomed to ignore those.

That left him alone with Mistress Dorlas – a turn of events that he did not mind a bit, as he had been waiting for a chance to speak her without any witnesses for quite some time.

“Mistress Dorlas,” he began carefully, “would you mind if I asked you a question about yourself?”

She was washing the dishes from supper, but at this, she looked back over her shoulder in surprise.

“It depends,” she said. “Ask… though I cannot promise to answer. What do you want to know?”

“I was wondering why you never remarried,” said Henderch. “Your husband had been slain how long ago? Ten years? Twelve?”

“Fifteen,” she replied simply. “I was very young when I married him. He was a good man and a good husband… a shame that our time together was cut so short.”

“Are you still grieving for him?” asked Henderch, slightly bewildered. “Here are other  good men in town, and you are still young and pretty – and not exactly penniless, with a trade of your own. I cannot believe that you would have no suitors in all those years.”

“I had a few,” she said, still turning her back to him and scrubbing the plates furiously, although they seemed clean enough to Henderch. “But they all wanted children. Children that I cannot give them.”

Henderch took in a sharp breath. The thought that the midwife of the town could be barren, of all people, never occurred to him. He remained tactfully silent, leaving her the choice to tell him more – if she wanted. Apparently, she did, for after some more tormenting of the already clean dishes, she continued in a slow, sorrowful voice.

“When my husband was slain, I was carrying our first child. As the other fishermen came and told me that the cursed Orcs shot him from the other bank of the River, I swayed and fell down the stairs. I miscarried and ran a high fever for many days afterwards. Mistress Crodergh tried everything in her might – and she is a very fine herbalist, let me tell you – but there was naught she could actually done. She even consulted the healers of the Wandering Elves, when they crossed the town some years ago, but not even those were able to heal my condition.”

“Was that when you decided to become a midwife?” asked Henderch gently.

She nodded. “As I cannot have children of my own, I wanted at least to help other women to have them. And Mistress Crodergh is getting old; she wanted to teach someone all that she knows before it will be too late. Her knowledge is great; ‘twould be a shame to let it get lost.”

“’Tis still a lonely life to lead,” said Henderch. She shrugged.

“Not truly, ‘tis not,” it sounded as if she wanted to persuade herself. “I have to take care of my father – he is not getting any younger, no matter what he says – and then there is Súrion, who will always remain a child… in certain things.”

“Do you mind me bringing him into the Wardens?” asked Henderch. “It may not help him to see the ugliness of war from so close.”

“War will come to him – to all of us – whether we want it or not,” Mistress Dorlas sighed. “Sooner or later, he will have to fight. And he will have better chances when taught how to fight properly, as using his fists would do him no good against the Orcs. I shall sleep better, having him as a trained Warden in the house.”

Henderch nodded. It made sense. She was a wise woman, despite her young age. And a lovely one.

“Mistress Dorlas,” he said, “would you be willing to take an orphaned girl into your house? ‘Tis not the same as having children of your own, but little Godith needs a home, and I cannot imagine a better one than yours.”

She looked at him in surprise. “So that was why you were asking me about my husband?”

“Among other reasons,” admitted Henderch. “I have been trying to find a home for the child for some time now. Her father was one of my Wardens, slain but two moons ago, and her grandmother fell from the ladder and broke her neck only three weeks later.”

“What about her mother?”

“Died in childbirth, out on one of the farmsteads. Was on orphan herself, thus the girl has no living family left. She needs one.”

“How old is she?”

“Barely four years. Right now, the maidservants of Lord Orchald take turns to care for her, but that is not good enough. Not in the long run.”

“Nay, ‘tis not,” agreed Mistress Dorlas. “That poor little bird needs a warm nest and one person to care for her. Very well, Master Henderch, bring her to me. I shall take her and raise her as my own. And when she has grown old enough, I will teach her herb lore. Mayhap when Mistress Angharad returns from Lossarnach, she will take the child as her healer’s apprentice. That way the little one will be able to care for herself when the time comes.”

“You are very generous, Mistress Dorlas,” murmured Henderch in relief. He was glad  to find the girl a permanent home; this was one burden less weighing upon his shoulder.

“I am only doing what common sense tells me,” Mistress Dorlas shrugged. “Yet you said this was but one reason to ask me about my husband. What else is there, I wonder?”

“I wanted to know if you were currently… engaged to someone,” admitted Henderch. “If I had any chance to court you.”

Mistress Dorlas laughed. “Henderch, we have known each other since… well, since I was born, I deem. You could have asked straight away.”

“Mayhap,” Henderch allowed. “But I was absent from the town for a long time, and thus we barely met as adults… in truth, not at all, not ‘til I sold this house to you. So I was not certain how much of that childhood familiarity was still there.”

“True enough,” she agreed. “Times changes, and so do people. And since we are being honest to each other… I would be not adverse. But I know not if I wish to be married again. I have grown used to be the mistress of my own house, and I doubt that I could become a meek little housewife again.”

“And I have grown accustomed to the lonely life of a soldier,” said Henderch. “Weapons and war are my business now; not something upon which you can build a family safely. But I am loath of sleeping in a cold and empty bed every night.”

“You know that which you are suggesting is not seen as very honourable,” said Mistress Dorlas, but her eyes were gentle and understanding.

Henderch nodded. “I know. But I also know that we only have to answer to ourselves… if you are willing.”

“Well… ‘tis not so that you could get me with child unwillingly,” she said with a sad little smile. “And no-one would find it strange if you visited little Godith who is to live in my house. Let us give it a try. You are right; sleeping in a cold and empty bed can be very lonely sometimes. No promises, though. Should we find out that we are not right for each other, we can still end it in friendship. For Godith’s sake.”

“No promises,” Henderch agreed.

And then he leaned in to kiss her, and her mouth was soft and sweet and yielding under his. The dishes were forgotten, as they climbed the steep stairway to the upper rooms, and they fell onto her bed, clinging to each other, in desperate hunger for closeness, for warmth – for life.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And on the next day, the Chief Warden brought the shy, frightened four-year-old to the house of Mistress Dorlas, who took in little Godith and loved and raised her as her own. People in the town found the idea a very good one indeed, for they all pitied the midwife who could not bear children, and were happy for her. And no-one found it strange that the Chief Warden took to visiting the Square House regularly. After all, he had been the one who had found little Godith such a good home.

If Old Craban had guessed the truth, he never spoke about it. He was content with his life. Súrion was now training daily to become a Warden, and Dorlas had a little girl to raise. What else could he want for the autumn of his life?

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) Approximately 6 o’clock in the afternoon.

(2) Hard to believe, but these are authentic measures. In the past, great sturgeons of 6 metres were not uncommon. The record weight documented was 2,078 kg.