THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: G, once again.

Author’s notes: The events of the Autumn Fair are told in a separate story, titled “An Autumn Fair in Halabor”. Some of the characters in this chapter have been first introduced there.  That is where the Hanse of Lebennin is first mentioned, too. Reading that story is not necessary to understand this one, but it certainly adds to continuity.

The oil merchant and his family have their own stories in “Tales of Halabor”.

CHAPTER 8 – A PRINCELY GIFT

(In which new apprentices are being accepted, Delbaeth leaves the Infirmary, and Mistress Angharad is granted a generous gift.)

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

Halabor, the 2^nd day of Bloodmath⁽¹⁾, in the year 2887 of the Third Age

Bloodmath was unexpectedly mild in this year, and Mistress Angharad enjoyed the late autumn sunshine when she left the Infirmary – after having finished her morning chores – to set off for the oil manufactory of Master Faelon, which lay just beyond the Infirmary gardens. Those looked especially peaceful today. Most of the leaves had already fallen, but some of them were still fluttering on the branches, red or golden or brown, reluctant to let go of the summer. The fragrances of the harvest still lingered over the garden, although all the apples were in the loft, all the corn milled, the hay stacked, and the summer herbs were drying in small bouquets, hanging from the beams of old Mistress Crodergh’s workshop.

Much work had been done since the Autumn Fair, and Mistress Angharad was grateful for the presence of Meurig, who – while admittedly a bit slow-witted – was as strong as an ox and could labour happily twice as much as an ox, as long as someone pointed out to him all that which had to be done. Never before had the Infirmary fields been tended so thoroughly and lovingly. One could see that Meurig had come from a farm – one that had, sadly, been destroyed – and that he had great love for the fertile soil. He was so much better at what he did than all the other tenants before him; and all he asked for in exchange was food and lodging for himself and his orphaned nephew, who was still barely a toddler. His personal loss – and a terrible one at that, one that had perchance unhinged his mind – was certainly Angharad’s gain, and sometimes the healer even felt a little guilty about that… not that she would have caused that loss or could have undone it in any way.

They had grown together to a peculiar sort of family since Angharad’s return to Halabor: she, old Mistress Crodergh, Meurig, little Edwy and all the sick and the ailing they were caring for. Her apprentice, Hilla, only moved on the outskirts of this close-knit group, as she did not live with them under the Infirmary roof, but she still belonged to them. And Mistress Dorlas, too, was considered some kind of relation, now that she and little Godith spent so much time there; Dorlas visiting the poor girl Delbaeth and the child helping old Mistress Crodergh with her herbal work and watching what she was doing in the soap manufactory. ‘Twas a trade worth learning, and one could not begin early enough.

Speaking of Delbaeth… the steadily improving condition of the girl was another source of quiet joy for Mistress Angharad. While it was true that she might not have survived without the arcane skills of the visiting Elven healers, every improvement since the Elves’ departure two moons ago was Angharad’s own doing, and she was rightly proud of what they had achieved so far. Soon, the girl would be well enough to leave the Infirmary to live with Mistress Dorlas, little Godith and Old Craban in the Square House.

In spite of all the horrible things that had happened to her, Delbaeth was still fortunate to have a guardian like Master Ludgvan and a foster mother like Mistress Dorlas. Losing one’s own mother was a terrible thing that left one in a state of deep shock – Angharad knew that from first-hand experience, even though she had never been truly close to her mother – but the girl would have an ersatz family in the Square House that was probably a great deal better than living on the road with her own. That would make the loss no less bitter, but at least she would be in good hands.

The provost’s family seemed to take their duties toward their ward seriously, too. Mistress Tamsyn had visited the girl in the Infirmary several times, and so had her daughters, daughters-in-law and grandchildren, of whom particularly Selyv, a very young, apprentice weaponsmith, seemed to take a liking to their new family member. Delbaeth had always accepted their visits graciously, but seemed to have a hard time to have all those strangers around her.

The Master Smith himself had come once, too, when the girl had begun to feel better, and so had his eldest son, Kevern, who had taken over the cutler business from Delbaeth’s late father. The girl had been frightened of grown men, so they had not come again. But now that Kevern had bought her father’s grinding wheel and other tools, she at least had some coin at her hands. Not too much, and Mistress Dorlas would keep it for her anyway ‘til she came of age or married (if any man would choose to marry her after what had happened), but at least she was not entirely penniless.

All in all, Mistress Angharad was content with the way things had turned out for the girl. She would miss her, but Delbaeth needed to find a place in her new hometown. The sooner she could go to the Square House the better it was for her. The sooner people forgot about her story, the better hopes she could have for a normal life. Fortunately, people tended to forget if no-one reminded them of such things, and in the Square House Delbaeth would be safely out of sight. She would have the time and peace to heal.

Angharad was startled out of her thoughts by the arrival of old Mistress Crodergh who brought her a large wicker basket full of bottles of various sizes. There were large ones for walnut oil, meant for the Infirmary kitchen and for the Drunken Boat, Mistress Pharin’s tavern. There were middle ones, for lavender oil, which the herb mistress used for soaps and for healing purposes alike. And there were small, delicate ones, for rose oil or rosewater, both of which were needed for Mistress Crodergh’s soaps and scented waters, which she sold to the wealthier women in town.

“Are you sure you do not want Meurig to go with you?” asked the old crone. “That basked will be very heavy, once the bottles have been filled.”

Angharad shook her head. “Nay, for he has enough chores for one day already; and he needs some time for himself and little Edwy, too. They have no other family than each other. Worry not about me; I am strong, and the way is not long. Besides, I enjoy the walk through the rose gardens – they are beautiful in all seasons.”

Old Mistress Crodergh was clearly not happy about the healer’s decision, she knew better than argue any longer. Angharad was a headstrong young woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it, and no-one could tell her differently, not even her grandmother, who was every bit as stubborn. She took the basket from the old crone and headed towards the oil merchant’s house, where the oil mill and the still rooms could be found.

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

The rose gardens of Mistress Eirendel, the wife of Master Faelon, were indeed a marvel to behold, even in this late season. She hailed from Linhir and had brought the roses with her from her hometown, where they had originally come from South Gondor and Nah-Harad… a rich southern sort that grew surprisingly well in Halabor’s colder climate. Even now, though the rose harvest was long over, some of the bushes were still in late bloom.

The lavender fields, beyond the rose gardens, were the realm of Mistress Goneril. Also from Linhir, she was not only Mistress Eirendel’s daughter-in-law but also her niece, who had done similar work at home and had gladly taken some of the workload off her aunt’s shoulders. Tended to by Buryan, an honest and skilled tenant, the fields, too, had already been harvested, but the pleasant scent of lavender still lingered about them – it would never go away completely, over the whole year.

Halimath was the true season for making walnut oil, as one could see from afar; the tenants were carting the last of their canvas sacks full of walnuts to the oil mill. This mill was a relatively small building, joined with the oil merchant’s warehouse and the small distillery in which during the late summer rose oil and rosewater were produced. The channel wheel that moved the grinding wheel was driven by the same small creek that turned the much larger wheel of the lour mill a little further down the River, after which it ran into the Anduin and became part of it. The oil mill had been owned by Master Muathlan’s family for more than a hundred and fifty years, or so the books of the Merchant’s Guild proved.

Although he had well-taught workers to do the heavy labour, the oil mill itself was Master Faelon’s realm, and he spent the oil-making season within, from daybreak to sunset, for producing walnut oil was a delicate process and needed great experience. Particularly the heating of the already ground walnut paste was something that had to be done and watched carefully, or else the oil could turn bitter.

Fortunately, now that the season of rose harvest was over, Mistress Eirendel could run the oil shop in the town in her husband’s stead, and their son, young Master Thaneau, could travel up or down the River to trade with their products. Thus the old merchant could focus his attention on the production of walnut oil. They also produced almond and hazelnut oils, vinegars, mustards and spirits made of diverse sorts of nuts; the latter were made in the smaller distillery, outside the rose season, and brought in good coin all the time.

Master Faelon was particularly proud of the excellent hazelnut liquor, the recipe for which his great-grandfather had got from the Wandering Elves and that no-one else in Gondor could produce. ‘Twas said that the recipe hailed from Eregion, the realm of the great Elven-smith Celebrimbor, and had first been made there, in the Second Age, by the Elven cooks of Ost-in-Edhil.

Whatever the truth might be, the hazelnut, walnut, almond and juniper liquors produced in Master Faelon’s distillery were very popular among people with a refined taste. Lord Orchald regularly sent bottles as Yule gifts to both the Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth, his liege lord, as well as to Lord Forlong, his kinsman. The rich merchants of Halabor, too, were fond of Master Faelon’s spirits, and the oil-merchant sold them, alongside with his aromatic oils, to the great southern towns, as far as Pelargir, or even Umbar. As he shared a barge with the spice merchant, they could both save costs, and both their businesses flourished quite nicely.

‘Twould have been useless to try selling rose oil or rosewater in Lossarnach, of course, however close that market was. Lossarnach, the very land of roses, produced those very things in great amounts. But even in Lossarnach, and particularly in Lord Forlong’s town, lavender and walnut oils from Halabor were much sought after. And further down the River, in Pelargir and Nah-Harad, the heavier, more intensely scented rose oil from Halabor was preferred to the milder Lossarnach varieties. More so as it was made of roses originally hailing from the South. There the constant warfare had long destroyed the once amazing rose gardens, but the request for rose products was still great.

Young Master Thaneau had had his clashes with the Hanse of Lebennin, of course, which did not see kindly the independent merchant’s intrusion in their self-proclaimed territory. But the oil merchants of Halabor had strong ties to Ethring, Linhir and Pelargir, and had been able to defend their interests… so far. ‘Twas rumoured that the Hanse had already protested by the Steward against the free trading of the Halabor merchants, but to no end. Fortunately for Halabor, the Steward and Lord Orchald had great, mutual respect for each other, and the Lord Denethor refused to interfere with such matters, as long as the taxes were properly paid.

The oil shop within the town offered not only local products but also exotic, spiced oils that Master Thaneau had acquired in the South. As a rule, they did not sell right from the manufactory; one had to visit the shop and buy the oil there. But the Drunken Boat and the Infirmary, as regular customers, had their own little privileges, and Mistress Angharad was grateful for that fact. Instead of walking through the whole town, she only had to cross the Infirmary fields and bring home her bottles of oil on the shortest possible way. Besides, she loved to watch the oil mill at work.

Master Faelon was no-where to be seen, thus Angharad went straight to the counter room to ask Howell, the mill’s elderly clerk for help. The clerk, however, was not sitting at his desk either, which happened very rarely, as he had much work to do all the time.

“He is out, recording the amounts of walnuts the tenants are bringing in,” explained his sister, Enea, who also happened to be the wife of the mill’s foreman; a plain-looking, black-eyed woman, thin and whippy as a withy, with two grown sons beyond Angharad’s age. She was also lettered and numbered – a rare thing for the daughters of the Old Folk – and had the absolute confidence of both Master and Mistress.

“Where can I get my oils and rosewater then?” asked Angharad with a frown. “The order has been sent by an errand boy two days ago.”

Enea checked the books and nodded. “Aye, ‘tis all noted here. Well, Master Faelon is in the mill, overseeing the heating of the large still; you cannot see him now. But do go to Mistress Eirendel; she is cleaning the lesser still room fort he next batch of walnut spirits. She will be able to help you.”

Angharad thanked her and left the counter room. She regretted a little that she would not be able to visit the mill itself, but she knew that during the delicate process of heating the oil master could not be disturbed, for one mistake could have endangered the work of a whole day. Thus she went to the ‘lesser’ still room (as opposed to the one where the rosewater was produced), and there she found the Mistress of the house and her handmaids. The Mistress was cleaning the still – a middle-sized copper kettle that could take about ten gallons of water, surrounded by a stream jacket, into the bottom of which the steam was introduced by a copper tube. The two very young girls were washing and drying the various-sized bottles and righted them on the shelves, sorted by size. They were both sturdy and yellow-haired, the daughters of the oil merchant’s Rohirric stabler, and apparently enjoyed their work very much. They handled the delicate glass bottles with great care and skill, singing while they worked.

Seeing the healer’s approach, Mistress Eirendel wiped her hands on her apron and set the rug, with which she was polishing the copper kettle aside, to greet her. Both the Infirmary and the Drunken Boat were regular customers that bought considerable amounts of walnut, sunflower and rapeseed oil, and Mistress Eirendel, who hailed from an old merchant family, had the proper treatment of good customers in her blood.

“Mistress Angharad!” she said heartily. “’Tis good to see you again! How are things going in the Infirmary?”

Angharad smiled. “They are slowing down, now that the Fair is over and we do not have to deal with any more broken noises… for which I am truly grateful,” she replied. “’Tis just the residents now, and the one or other work accident. We do need the time of repose before the onset of winter, when we shall be dealing with all the sore throats, inflamed chests, frost bites and the likes.”

“How very true!” agreed Mistress Eirendel. Coming from the mild climates of the South, she, too, had her difficulties with the winters in Halabor. “Mayhap you ought to accept more apprentices for the easing of your workload. You only have the horse-master’s daughter, and she is too young to be of much use yet.”

“Oh, I intend to,” said Angharad. “In truth, I have already promised the barber-surgeon to take his daughter, Beara. We shall go to the Town Hall this very afternoon, as all contracts must be set up properly and signed by the provost before the ninth of this moon.”

“True,” nodded Mistress Eirendel. “I have forgotten about that, as we have not had any apprentices for several years by now. We have all the people needed for operating the mill. Well, your purchases have been already prepared and waiting for you in the storeroom. I shall call Aelfric with the cart to keep you take them home.”

“’Tis not necessary,” said Angharad. “I can bear them well enough.”

“You can; yet you need not,” replied Mistress Eirendel. “’Tis a tall order, and we pride ourselves of serving regular customers well. Things have their proper order in this house, you know.”

Angharad might have overruled Old Mistress Crodergh’s concerns, but against Eirendel, the Rose Lady, she had no chance. The Mistress of the house had a native authority about her that made people simply do as she asked, without the need to raise her voice. Thus Angharad, too, followed her obediently to the storeroom, where her empty bottles were exchanged for full ones – this practice enabled the oil merchant to fill the bottles in advance – then the bottles were packed into a small, two-wheeled cart, which Aelfric, the straw-haired stable boy merrily wheeled to the Infirmary.

Angharad went back to the counter room with her host, where she paid for her purchases. Then she took her leave from Mistress Eirendel and the resolute Enea and followed the boy home.

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

Having relieved the boy Aelfric from the various bottles, Angharad sorted out the ones meant for the Drunken Boat and called Hilla to help her put the rest to their proper place in her workroom. One large bottle of sunflower oil she took to the kitchen, where the Widow Lendar was already preparing the midday meal with the eager – and very noisy – help of dear old Eubrwrast. Shortly thereafter, her grandmother’s servant arrived to take the oil to the inn, and Mistress Crodergh, too, collected her rosewater.

“I shall feed little Edwy now,” Angharad told her, “and then we all can have our midday meal together – assuming Meurig will be back from the chandler by then.”

“Dorlas came by while you were away,” replied the old crone. “She wants to take Delbaeth home with her after the midday meal.”

That surprised Angharad a little. “But we had agreed that the girl would stay for another week, at the very least. Why would she want to take her home already?”

“Súrion will be staying with the Wardens for a fortnight, starting today,” explained Mistress Crodergh. “Dorlas thinks the girl will easier get used to life in the Square House when there are no men around at first. Well, save from Old Craban, of course, but I doubt that he would frighten anyone.”

Angharad smiled. “Neither do I… and I must say that Mistress Dorlas’ thinking has its merits. I am still worried about Delbaeth, though, as she remains very weak.”

“Perchance getting out of the Infirmary with all its ailing people will help lift her spirits a bit,” meant the herb-mistress. “And as Dorlas herself knows the one or other thing about healing herbs, she will take good care of the girl.”

“About that, I have no doubt,” replied Angharad. “Very good, then; if you can feed little Edwy for me, I shall go and prepare Delbaeth for the moving.”

“Oh, that will be no hardship at all, him being such a sweet little lad,” grinned the old woman. “I always wanted to have grandchildren, you see, but Nurria never gave me any chicks of my own… none that would live longer than a few days, that is. Having Edwy with us all the time truly makes up for some of those losses.”

Angharad smiled in understanding, thanked her and went to the private chamber of the girl Delbaeth and found her sitting in a chair next to the small window. She was repairing an old, threadbare gown that – at second sight * the healer recognized as old Eubrwrast’s spares. She was glad the girl had sought something useful to spend her time with. ‘Twas one step towards healing.

She knocked on the doorframe, for Delbaeth, understandably enough, was quite easily frightened in these times.

“Delbaeth, ‘tis good to see you up,” she said. “May I come in?” She wanted to give the girl at least such little choices and some semblance of privacy.

“Of course, Mistress Angharad,” whispered the girl, and after a moment of hesitation, she raised her head and looked the healer straight in the eyes. ‘Twas something new; she had not done that since the Elves had left. Mayhap she was still missing them – and who could blame her for that?

Angharad stepped in and pulled up a chair for herself, carefully keeping her distance from the girl. Getting too close would frighten Delbaeth, even from a woman.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Mistress Dorlas wishes to take you home with her, if you feel strong enough. That way, you could be alone with her and little Godith and Old Craban for a while. Would you like that?”

She expected panic at first, desperate protests, mayhap even tears. Yet the girl looked up to her serenely with those dark, shadowed eyes, and Angharad was pleasantly surprised to see great strength lingering among those shadows; and also great courage.

“The lady healer of the Elves told me there is enough strength in me to become whole and happy one day… even if it may take a long time,” Delbaeth finally said. “She made me promise not to give up on myself – and so I shan’t. She blessed me and cast a spell of happiness over me. She said I had it in me to beat fate. I know not if she was right, but I shall try.”

“You are not alone,” said Angharad. “You have the provost to look after you; and Mistress Dorlas and Old Craban, whose heart is made of pure gold. Be not too proud to ask for help if you need it – they will provide it gladly, and so will I. Now, do you feel up to have midday meal with the rest of us or would you prefer to eat in your room?”

Delbaeth set her handiwork aside and rose from her chair steadily enough. She was wearing the simple homespun gown Angharad had brought her from the old clothes merchant during the Autumn Fair; the one with the pretty wooden buttons on the front. It was patched in several places, but still good enough for a girl of her status. She might be the provost’s ward, but that meant by no means that she would belong to his family.

“I think I shall go to the common room,” she said. “I ought to get used to be among other people again. I would be grateful for some help with packing my things, though.”

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

Meurig had come back from the chandler by the time they had packed Delbaeth’s meagre belongings into a wicker basket. ‘Twas not much anyway; just some spare clothes Mistress Tamsyn had brought her. The provost’s wife had a great many daughters, both by blood and by marriage, and granddaughters, too, so collecting a few shifts and gowns no-one would currently need was not a hard task. She had also left two pairs of used but still good shoes for their ward, as well as a small basket with sewing things every woman would need. That was all, and thus packing took very little time.

Meurig had brought two dozen of the simple tallow candles that were used in the Infirmary. The healers worked during daylight as long as it was possible, but sometimes using a candle or a small oil lamp was inevitable. Thus Angharad regularly ordered the cheap tallow ones to save her coin. The only beeswax candle in the entire house stood before the small shrine of the Lady Nurria in the sick room and was only lit on sacred days.

Now with everyone at home, they had a simple midday meal together, and Delbaeth dealt with it fairly well. She seemed a bit frightened by Meurig’s presence, but the mild-mannered young man pretended not to notice her fear, and so she pulled herself together again after a while.

Mistress Dorlas came a great deal later than originally promised; and she seemed quite angry, too. She did not get angry easily – that would have been bad for her occupation – but if she did, she was positively fuming. Like now.

“My apologies for the delay,” she said, accepting a cup of watered-down wine. “I had to go to the Street of the Bakers, to see after Goran Flesher’s daughter-in-love, that poor Crochnuit. She recovers very slowly from giving birth last year, and the butcher simply cannot understand that not everyone is born to have the strength of an ox. I just had the most unpleasant quarrel with him. I had to threaten him with the provost, should he keep driving that poor woman the way he does. Crochnuit is still barely seventeen, and he thinks she is some kind of pack horse.”

“’Tis a common blindness with people who are big and strong,” commented Angharad.

“I know,” the midwife sighed. “But I do not have to like it, do I? Every day do I speak my thanks to the Lady Nurria that Súrion has turned out such a good-natured, mild-mannered lad, or we would be fighting day in, day out, to Father’s sorrow.”

Angharad smiled. “Old Craban does like his peace and quiet, does he not?”

“So do I,” the midwife rose from her seat. “Well, Godith, my little dearling, we must be off. Delbaeth will come with us, you see, so that you shan’t be the only chick in the house any longer. Is that not a nice thing?”

The little girl looked at Delbaeth with wide, grave eyes. “She is so much older than me,” she said, clearly disappointed. Perchance she would have preferred a playmate of her own age.”

“A little,” admitted Mistress Dorlas. “She will be new in the house, though, so you will have to show her where everything is kept and how things are done by us. You think you can do that?”

That mollified the child greatly, and thus she, her foster mother and Delbaeth took the wicker basket wit Delbaeth’s things and left the Infirmary. Delbaeth whispered her thanks to Angharad, even allowed Old Mistress Crodergh to hug her, then followed the midwife and the little girl out. She was clearly frightened to leave her safe haven, but went anyway, her head raised and her jaw firmly set.

“She is a brave one, she is,” said Meurig slowly.

“She will need it,” replied Angharad with a sigh. “Even though she was blameless in the misfortune befalling her, she will be branded for life. Too many people know about it; and they will talk. Goodwives will feel sorry for her, but they will not want their sons to wed her, and who can blame them? I wish her only the best, but she is damaged goods. Fortunately, she will always have a family of some kind in the Square House; or else she would end up leading a very lonely life.”

“As I have here, with you?” asked Meurig. Angharad shook her head.

“’Tis not the same, Meurig. You word hard for your keeping; in truth, you work for two people. I know not what I would do without you. You are needed here.”

“But I am damaged goods, too,” pointed out Meurig reasonably. “I know people think me a dimwit, and mayhap I truly am. Not many would have taken one like me in their house… and with a toddler too.”

Angharad smiled. “This is the Infirmary; where else should damaged people go? I am not doing you any favours, though; you more than earn your keeping here, so never worry. And we all love little Edwy; he is such a delightful child. He makes the old people laugh, and that is better for them than all the medicine Mistress Crodergh and I can concoct between us.”

That seemed to reassure Meurig – he was still a tad unsure about his own place within the Infirmary – and he left to do some work in the herb garden, taking little Edwy with him. He did that often, talking to the child in his slow, soothing manner while he worked, and Edwy seemed to like it. Angharad watched him go with a fond smile, and then turned to Hilla.

“I must go now to the Town Hall, to have the contract of my newest apprentice signed. I want you to clean Delbaeth’s room, change the bedlinens and take them to the laundresses. Then you will help Mistress Crodergh check on the patients, as I know not how long I will be gone. ‘Tis very important for old and ailing people to have a firm daily routine they can follow; more so for the ones whose mind tends to wander at times – so do not wait for me.”

The golden-haired apprentice nodded. “Aye, Mistress Angharad, will do. You wish me to do anything else while you are away?”

“Nay,” Angharad smiled. “You can help Mistress Crodergh with her herbs and soaps. Just do not forget to check on the patients every hour.”

Hilla promised that he would not, and so Angharad could finally return to her own room to put on her finery. As a rule, doing so would not have been necessary for visiting the Town Hall; ‘twas a fairly common place, after all. But the signing of apprentice contracts was an important event. The provost and the reeve presided over it, together with Master Suanach, and even Lord Orchald honoured it with his presence. Not for the lack of trust in the Guild masters, but as he cared a great deal for the well-being of his subjects; who loved him like a father for that.

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

When Angharad reached the Town Hall – wearing her finest, burgundy red undershift and a light brown gown of fine cotton wool, with the white veil of a healer covering her carefully braided hair – the place was full of people already. The hearing of future masters and apprentices was being held in the main hall, also known as Cloth Hall, as this was where the weavers brought their cloth and spread them out on long, low tables for the Guild masters to examine them for any faults. This was also where the Guilds held their gatherings and festive meals on high days.

Right now, the trestle tables had been taken apart and out of the hall; only one stood there, facing the entrance. At this table sat the provost, the reeve, Master Suanach, representing the Merchants’ Guild, and Odhrain, the head scribe and book-keeper of the Guilds, all wearing their finest garb. Not only to honour the presence of their lord; apprenticing was the backbone of their work, and thus both Guild masters and the leaders of the town had a word about it. Two other scribes – courtesy of the Warehouse – were sitting at small desks a little on the side, ready to copy any contracts that were to be set up. Gondor’s Law required such contracts to be written in three copies: one went to the master, one to the apprentice, and one to the Guild archives.

Lord Orchald was present indeed, sitting in his large chair on the other side, wearing his customary sombre attire of fur-lined dark velvet. His elderly notary, Master Artbranan, who had to sign all contracts in his lord’s name, was seated next to Odhrain, with a feather pen stuck behind his ear. But what surprised Angharad most was the fact that young Lord Herumor, too, was there, sitting on his father’s right and looking like a fish out of water. Well, if his father wanted him to learn his future duties as the Lord of Halabor properly, they had to begin somewhere.

‘Twas less surprising that most of the future apprentices were girls. The deadline for accepting new apprentices was very close. The boys had already been accepted days ago. The girls usually had to wait and take the places not wanted by their brothers. ‘Twas not fair, but it had always been like that, and it seemed unlikely to change any time, soon.

Angharad sought out with her eyes Mylor and his daughter, and soon found them standing in one of the corners, waiting for her. The barber-surgeon was a spare, vigorous man of middle years and middle height, his short-cropped brown hair liberally streaked with grey, his clothes simple yet orderly and very neat, mirroring the cleanliness that was required for working with injured people.

His chick – a late child, born to them after several miscarriages, when they no longer had hoped for any more children – was barely at the age when a girl could be apprenticed. She most likely went after her mother, for she was tall for her age, slender and fine-boned. She had dark hair, braided neatly about a small, shapely head, soft, full cheeks, now flushed rosy by excitement, and large, dark eyes, wide open to the wonders of a world she was about to enter. Angharad liked her at first sight.

“So, this is your Beara, is she not?” she asked the barber-surgeon, who nodded.

“Aye, she is my little lark. Her mother and I are both loath to see her gone, but she needs a trade of her own to feed herself, should she not find a suitable husband in time. As a healer, she can later work with her brother, even, who shall take over from me one day.”

“’Tis a good choice,” agreed Angharad. “She will have a good place with us, never fear, Master Mylor. My other apprentice is somewhat older; she has been with me since I came home. She will help Breaga to get used to the life in the Infirmary.”

“Oh, I know she will be in good hands,” said the barber-surgeon, smiling. “We are just sorrowed to let her go, ‘tis all. She has grown up so quickly.”

“That is what children do,” smiled Angharad; then she looked around. “How many of these come before us?”

“Only two or three,” replied Mylor. “We came in early and secured out appointment with the Guild masters in time… it does not hurt that I am the one to cut their hair, of course,” he added with a wink. “Most here do not wait for apprentice contract anyway. They just wish to get the hiring of handmaids and servants registered. It should not take long.”

And indeed, the head scribe already called Mullion, the old clothes merchant with his daughter Malride. The girl seemed a bit old to be apprenticed – Angharad guessed that she could be twenty, or not much younger: a plain-looking, though shapely little person, with her father’s hazel eyes and middle height. Her only remarkable feature was a great, heavy braid of the colour of polished oak, wrapped around her head like a coronet. ‘Twas a light, silky brown, even with silvery dashes in it, like the grain of oak. Her face was pale, but now had the faint rosy tint of apple blossoms, her lips, now curled into a concerned half-smile, smooth like rose petals. Not a great beauty, for certain, but lovely enough, and had her father’s business brought in enough to give her at least a small dowry, she would have been safely wedded for years.

“Master Mullion,” said the provost, “what brings you to us on this day? You have not brought any master to which you would apprentice your daughter, I see.”

“That is true, Master Ludgvan,” answered the old clothes merchant, “for I would wish to apprentice her to Master Artbranan here, if he is willing and our lord has no objections,” he added with a polite bow in Lord Orchald’s direction.

The Guild masters and the reeve exchanged surprised looks.

“Well, this is certainly… unusual,” said finally Sydnius. “While there are a number of goodwives who do the books for their husbands business, there are not many female scribes that I would know of. In truth, poor Mistress Eryn was the only one I have ever heard about. And her work has already been given to Odhrain here.”

“Oh we do not have our eyes on the Master Scribe’s work,” explained Mullion. “’Tis like this: I cannot afford a clerk for my business alone, and while I am lettered and numbered, the books demand more of my time than I can afford. I must travel a great deal, and can call myself fortunate that my wife and her mother are doing most of the repairing while I am on the road. Malride here has helped me with the books for some time already. I have taught her the letters myself. But she needs to learn much about numbers and accounting ere she could lift this burden from my shoulders.”

“You want your daughter to become your clerk, then?” classified the provost.

Mullion nodded. “That I do, Master Provost, and she is willing.”

“But will you be able to bring up the apprentice fee?” asked the provost, knowing that the old clothes merchant and his family led a meagre life, saving every brass penny for their shared dream: to buy a small house within the town walls. They were living in the New Port, which was not a good place for a respected family to live.

Mullion nodded again. “Madduin, my eldest, is supposed to wed the wool-merchant’s daughter come spring. I shall be able to set aside some coin for Malride’s fee, thank to the small dowry Elava is going to bring to the business. Malride is also supposed to become Eudo’s clerk as well, should Acco one day no longer be up to do the books of the wool trade.”

“That would make sense,” said Master Suanach. “More so as the two families are just about to become one.”

“I concur,” said the provost. “The Guilds would accept her apprenticeship. ‘Tis up to Lord Orchald and Master Artbranan, though.”

The elderly notary took a good, hard look at the girl and smiled. “I would be willing to teach her… if my lord grants me one free hour a day to do so.”

Lord Orchald nodded thoughtfully. “If the girl in indeed willing to earn her own living one day, I wish not to stand in her way. One hour a day, though; no longer. Master Artbranan has many duties that must not suffer from it.”

“One hour,” assured him the notary. “If she is good, that will be enough. If she is not, then there is no reason to waste more time.”

“In that case, I have no objections,” said Lord Orchald. “Your daughter will come to the Castle each day, to learn with Master Artbranan, from the third hour to the fourth hour⁽²⁾, for the next year. After the year is over, she will be heard by the Guild masters, and if she proves herself worthy, she will be accepted as a clerk, with the right to work for any craftsman or merchant in town, just like the male scribes do. Is this satisfying for all parties involved?”

Mullion, Artbranan and the Guild masters nodded as one.

Lord Orchald looked at Malride. “Do you truly wish to do this, girl?”

The girl blushed, mortified to be talked to directly by such important people. “Aye, my lord,” she whispered. “I very much wish to do this. I like my letters and numbers; and I wish to be useful for my family.”

“Very good; then ‘tis settled,” said Lord Orchald. “Set up the contract for her. She will begin her apprenticeship on the tenth of Bloodmath and will end it by next Yule.”

As the head scribe had pre-written contracts, lacking only the names of master and apprentice, the duration of the apprenticeship and the necessary signatures, the official part was quickly done. Malride seemed both awed and frightened by the prospect of being taught in the Castle itself, and left with her father, her cheeks glowing. It was a great opportunity for a girl of a modest family like hers. She might even catch the eye of some suitable young man serving in the old lord’s household. If not she will still have a trade of her own.

Odhrain called Cinni next, the water-carrier of the town. A bird-like little man Cinni was, of small bones and lean but wiry flesh, just this side of fifty, with a thin, deeply lined, beardless face and small eyes that mirrored sorrow and weariness. His narrow back was permanently bent from the yoke, upon which he had carried the heavy water barrels all his life.

He lead a skinny little girl by hand, every bit as bird-like as himself; all great, dark blue eyes in a meticulously scrubbed, pale little face, and a tangle of dark hair, which she had tried to bring to some kind of order with the help of faded ribbons, but to little effect. Her clothes, while spotlessly clean, were worn and patched in several places; they must have served more than one previous owner ere the girl would inherit them. The lack of proper maternal touch was very obvious in her case.

Angharad knew that Cinni’s wife, Avota, had been suffering from a debiliating illness for more than five years, which had aged her beyond her actual age, making her look like a withered leaf. Angharad visited the poor woman regularly, trying out new medicines she and old Mistress Crodergh came up between them, but nothing ever helped. They could not even guess what was ailing her; the visiting Elven healers, too, had only shaken their heads in bewilderment.

Avota endured the constant pain with admirable patience. She even worked a bit at the distaff on her better days. Alas, those days had become less and less frequent. She would stay in bed for days, so weak she had become. Her four chicks, of whom the wild-haired little girl clutching her father’s hand was the second-oldest, did everything to step into their mother’s place, but there was only so much a couple of very young girls could do to run a household of six and help their father at the Conduit House. Even though Cinaed, the eldest was very prim and housewify for her eleven years.

And now Cinni was apprenticing his other chick, who was a year younger, to Folcwalda, the saddler, it seemed. Father and daughter were both dwarfed by the large, heavy-set Rohirric craftsman with the braided yellow mane who accompanied them. Little Cyneswith was clearly frightened by him, holding to her father’s hand for dear life. The Guild masters saw this as well as Angharad, and seemed unhappy with Cinni’s choice.

“Are you certain that saddle-making would be the right craft for your daughter to learn?” asked Sydnius. “’Tis hard work, one that requires great strength. Forgive me, but the girl does not seem to have that kind of strength.”

“Oh, I do not wish her to learn saddle-making,” replied Cinni. “’Tis basic leather-working that she will be taught; mostly how one makes embroidery on leather. She has skilled fingers and is good with the needle already.”

“She is also way too young,” objected the provost.

“She has just turned ten,” admitted Cinni, “but what can I do, good sirs? The Lady Nurria gifted four daughters upon me, yet no son who could take over my work. And I am not getting any younger. In a few years, I shall not be able to feed them all properly, with my wife bed-ridden and unable to do any regular work, though she used to be a good spinstress, as Mistress Betha would tell you. One of my chicks needs to learn a trade. Cinaed I cannot spare, as she runs the household in her mother’s stead, and Ceinredh and Briocca are both barely more than faunts.”

“How can you afford the apprentice fee, then?” asked Lord Orchald quietly.

“I cannot,” answered Cinni with a bitter smile. “But Master Folcwalda agreed to take my girl in without payment. She will help in the household for her keeping.”

The provost shook his head doubtfully. “I fear this will be too much for the girl, Master Cinni. Leather-working is not an easy craft in itself; less so if she has to work as a maid, too.”

“She will not be hired as a maid,” said Folcwalda. “My daughter is to return to Minas Tirith, come spring. Cyneswith will take her place in the family and do her chores in the household. No more and no less. In the rest of her time, she will learn leather-working from my son Feoca, who is, as you all know, a harness-maker; and she will learn embroidery from my wife. This is how we teach our daughters in the Riddermark. This is how we shall teach our apprentice.”

“The ways of the Éothéod are different, yet time-honoured and practical,” commented Lord Orchald. “I assume you also have it in your mind to bind the girl fully into your family at the right time?”

Folcwalda nodded. “We shall take her for four years. Teach her our craft and our ways. When she is of age, and both families consent, she will be wedded to one of my sons, and her father given the proper bridesgift to compensate her family for the loss of a daughter. That way, Cinni will be able to marry off at least one of his other daughters… and we shall have a daughter to love in Crewyn’s stead, when she marries and leaves her cyn. Such is the way of Clan Éowain of the Riddermark.”

At first, the Guild masters were a little taken aback, and so was Angharad. For truly, it sounded almost as if Cinni would sell his daughter to the saddler. But she saw Lord Orchald’s approving nod, and that made her think. Aye, the custom appeared downright barbaric; but again, few girls had the freedom to choose their own husband. Marriages were arranged by the parents and extended family, based on sober considerations of wealth, dowry and other such aspects. Cyneswith would be given proper time to learn not only a good craft but also Rohirric customs, and to get familiar with a prospective husband. She will be treated as family; and Angharad knew from Hilla that the Rohirrim loved their children and treated them well. Better than many from the Old Folk, in fact. So aye, Cyneswith will perchance thank her father later, for she will have a better life than most girls of her low status could hope for.

Right now, she was understandably frightened, though. She even teared up a bit when the contract was signed and the saddler’s wife, Mistress Ceithlenn (herself a local, being the shoemaker Anda’s daughter) took her away from her father and led her out of the hall. Cinni was crying, too, for he loved all his chicks very much, and losing one of them all but broke his heart. That Cyneswith will have a better life than he could ever hope to offer her was little comfort.

Now finally came Angharad’s turn, and as she had discussed every detail in advance with the barber-surgeon, having the proper contact set up and signed took little to no time. She was about to leave the hall with her new apprentice, when she got unexpectedly addressed by Lord Orchald himself.

“Mistress Angharad, I require a private word with you, if you please.”

“Certainly, my lord,” she said in surprise.

“It will be but a moment, good masters,” said the old lord to the others, “but I shall have to borrow the Master Provost and my notary for this.”

Master Suanach and Sydnius exchanged a look – and shrugged as one.

“We have not had midday meal yet,” said the innkeeper, “and a break will be welcome in any case. We can go to the Drunken Boat and sample Mistress Pharin’s cooking for half a mark or so… if that will suffice, my lord.”

“It will,” replied Lord Orchald. “Our business shan’t take longer, I deem.”

Thus the provost ordered a break, and while the others went to the tavern to eat a bite, he retreated with Lord Orchald, young Lord Herumor, Angharad and the old notary to one of the small chambers where the scribes usually worked.

“How can I be of service, my lord?” he asked.

“I need you to read and then sign this document, in your authority as the provost of Halabor,” answered Lord Orchald, and Artbranan unrolled a parchment – already signed by their lord and himself and sealed it by the dragon seal of the House of Erellont – and laid before his stunned eyes.

“But that is…” he stuttered.

“’Tis the certificate of a grant given to Mistress Angharad, daughter of Rognor and Eryn, leader of our Infirmary,” Lord Orchald finished for him. “For her successful efforts to save the life of my son, she may have the house of the apothecary, in which she is currently living, as her own. She no longer must pay rent to me and can do with the house as she pleases, save one thing: she may not sell it, as it belongs with the Infirmary. Her children, should they choose to follow her footsteps and remain in the service of the Infirmary, may keep the house after her. Otherwise, ownership would fall back to me or to my progeny.”

“That… that is a princely gift, my lord,” said the provost, almost shocked.

“Mayhap it is,” said the old lord. “Yet the life of my only son is precious to me beyond lands and houses and any kind of treasure. And as I have to thank Mistress Angharad for still having him with me, I wanted to thank her properly.”

Angharad was speechless with surprise… as shocked as the provost seemed. True, the old lord had promised her the house if she healed his son, on that fateful day when a gravely wounded Herumor had been carried into the Infirmary. But great lords often made grand promises when in need… promises that many of them all too easily forgot afterwards. Lord Orchald, though, was a man of his word… something that he had proven over and over during his rule and their lord. Which was one of the reasons why his subjects loved and respected him so much.

“My lord,” she said, “you are way too generous. I was only doing what I always do.”

“And now that you have a house of your own, you can work even more diligently for the good of all,” smiled the old lord. Please allow me to show my gratitude as I see it proper. Old men like me rarely get the chance to indulge themselves in such small pleasures.”

To that, Angharad had no answer. She curtseyed deeply, thanked the old lord for his generosity one more time, and left with her documented grant, trying to imagine what life as a house-owner would be like.

~TBC~

(1) November... roughly.

(2) From 9 a.m to 10 a.m.