Story for the Day: The Date - Part 2

Poor Draeden has no idea how to handle officious women. He does try to be civil and ceremonious, but any attempt at evading their approaches often yields his nigh immediate misconstruction and debilitation. 

In the midst of Draeden’s little fidgets, Bryeison, in leaning his back to the window, gained a better view of the door, where stood the two maids from the hallway, openly remarking him and his armour, and apparently not disliking what they saw. The attention was not unwelcome, but Bryeison was sensible of their admiration

being little more than a playful exhibition and thought nothing else of the business. They were kindly and fascinated, however, and while he would not display himself by rippling his muscles as Draeden thought he ought to do, he would treat them with due civility. A cordial smile, and a gracious nod, and the women giggled amongst themselves.

“Are they staring at me again?” said Draeden, wanting to look back and forcing himself not to look. “Why do you look so complacent? Are they looking at you? Don’t look back at them, Bryeison. There is your plate, pay attention to that.”

“I would,” said Bryeison, glancing at his plate, “except there is nothing on it.”

“Well.” Draeden humphed, reached for one of the remaining slices of toast, and tossed one into Bryeison’s plate. “There. Now you have a credible prop. Look at your toast, not at the girls. If you keep staring at them with inviting looks, they shall come over here, and then we will be obliged to talk to them.”

“I think you mean that I will be talking to them.”

“But I still have to stand beside you and make it look as though I’m very well, which I certainly won’t be if you summon those two women with your subconscious invitations—no, don’t smile at them! Stop smiling this moment or I shall tip your tea over.” He reached out to push Bryeison’s teacup from his hand, but Bryeison moved swiftly away, and Draeden missed, nearly plummeting with his chin toward the table. He recovered and pretended to have meant to have missed in case the two women were still spying them. He glanced askance over his shoulder and caught the sight of the two women, giggling behind raised hands, their eyes sparkling, their aspects eager and expectant, their full forms cloaked by their pinafores, their curves and napes expatiated by the sleek lines of their dresses, and Draeden was all over unquietness, turning back to his bowl and wishing he had the good sense to fill it. “Are they staring at me now?”  

“They are.”

A wince, a tensing of his shoulders, and Draeden could no longer deceive himself: he was in danger, the notion of which evinced a most unpleasant sense of dread. “Bryeison,” he whispered through his teeth, “do not look at them. Do you hear me? I said don’t look. They are just like Marridon poodles, for the more attention you give them, the more attention they shall want.”

Bryeison laughed to himself, highly amused by Draeden’s commentary, and he was still more amused when he asked, “Draeden, how many Frewyn women have you met, not counting the members of nobility?”

Draeden mused and then began counting on his fingers. “Ruta, Aoie, Aghatha…” He paused in stern deliberation, and began to count again. “Ruta, Aoie, Aghatha…there’s Langliegh’s wife, I know her.” He hummed and looked pensive. “Somewhere in the neighbourhood of six, I’m sure, but I have met every woman who works and lives in the keep.”

“And how many of them have you spoken to?”

“Not above ten in the whole course of my life, and that, I assure you, was much more than I should ever hope to suffer.” 

It was said with unanswerable dignity, unpretending and artless as Draeden always was, but Bryeison only laughed and shook his head.

“That is not for the want of trying to be pleasant to them,” Draeden disclaimed, in a plaintive voice. “How can anyone bare their insufferable looks and their tinkling voices—and their effrontery is abominable! Don’t you remember how Lady Rosse treated you? What a pulchritudinous quean-- no, don’t look at them, I said! You are encouraging them! Turn away and stare at your plate this moment or I shall—“ The sound of delicate footfalls passing over the threshold silenced him. His ear twitched, his eye blazed in a fit of horror, Bryeison sat up in his seat, the footfalls grew steadily louder, and Draeden, fearing that they were going to be the next moment attacked, said, “Bryeison, stand from your chair and loom over them. Do not you hear what I tell you? Stand and look monstrous,” thinking that Bryeison’s immense proportions would frighten the girls into a modesty, but Bryeison had not stood from his chair when Draeden found himself accosted by the two maids, who came in all their state of commotion, a flurry of words and movement, giggling through every word and talking ceaselessly, giving compliments which Draeden had no regard for, and making a hundred inquiries at once, none of which Draeden had time or consciousness to answer. Their attention was kept chiefly on Bryeison, as he was the commoner of the two, but knowing that Bryeison and Draeden were always together, they might address one and have their conversation apply to both without needed to address the prince directly. It was an inundation of womanly bustle, a cachinnation of titters, a foray dizzying motion, phrases and sense lost under the flow of sanguine spirits, and while Bryeison listened and humoured them with amiable nods, Draeden sat in silence, rapt an alloy of fear and humiliation. He knew not what to say or even how to interpose, being assaulted by indirect commendations unprecedented and undeserved. Their eyes darted from himself to Bryeison and back again, their voices becoming one melodic rapture, and suddenly—he could not tell how—they were asking Bryeison if he and his fellow captain would do for an evening out, were asking if they might not go out that very evening, and before Draeden could decipher and distinguish, and before Bryeison could respond with a polite negative and answer for the prince’s incapacitation, they were running away, were thanking Bryeison for his acquiescence, were pronouncing that they would meet him by the front gate once their workday was over, and whisked out of the kitchen before Bryeison could tell them that they must be mistaken. 

Story for the Day: The Date - Part 1

Prince Draeden, Alasdair's father, never had much luck with women. When he was young, many ladies in and about the keep would insult his slatternly dress, his emaciated frame, and even his bedraggled appearance, claiming he had no pride in his title and would rather be a peasant than the next Prince of Frewyn. And right they were, though Draeden could have done without the mockery. He joined the armed forces at seventeen and decided to be useful to his kingdom by defending his father's rule. Donning armour, while getting rid of the nobles, evinced a whole new set of problems: solicitation from the yeomanry. 

He is in so much trouble

Baked apples were waiting on table as Draeden and Bryeison entered the kitchen, but while Draeden went through the varying humours from anxiety to excitement and back again as he marched toward his conquest, Bryeison stepped over the threshold and paused. His countenance pretended to be listening to Draeden’s dissertation on fishing and foraging while his awareness was on the tinkling sounds of high glee emanating

from the bottom of the winding stair. He turned his head toward the sound, and while keeping his eyes on Draeden, who was sitting down at the kitchen table and taking a baked apple for each hand, he turned his attention toward two young women, who were hiding behind the dividing wall which separated the stair from the hallway and who were presumably spying on Draeden. A few giggles and a few compliments on the prince and how well he looked in his armour betrayed their business, and a glance to the side from the corner of his eye betrayed their appearances: they were two maids under Aghatha, two whom Bryeison had seen several times cleaning the carpets in the gallery and the main hall. They were decent enough, as far as young women with penchants for princes went, but, as Bryeison soon perceived, if Draeden was their object, they could not know how mistaken they were in their choice. He was an unexceptionable young man, this Bryeison would gladly own, comparing with no one in the kingdom, leader amongst his peers in understanding and distinction, an exceptional soldier in spite of himself, a genius in every other way, but his gallantry with regard to women was dreadfully wanting, whether on purpose or innately, Bryeison could not decipher. The subject of women had hardly come up between them, and when Draeden did chance to talk about the bemusing and stunning creatures, it was always with an apprehension, a fright and an admiration that Bryeison could never quite understand, for Draeden liked women in one respect—at least, he believed so--  and then so wholly despised them for judging him by his appearance and situation that it was difficult to know whether he liked their attention or detested it. The circumstance had its hilarity, however, for two such young and silly girls to be infatuated with Draeden must warrant its due amusement, and Bryeison, with eyes subrisive and lips wreathed in restrained smiles, walked into the kitchen, betrayed none of what he heard to Draeden, and being met with a “Are you going to eat that apple? Ruta has made two for you, and I know you will only take one,” as he sat down. Both apples, however, were relinquished to Draeden’s appetite, and Bryeison took his usual tea, leaning back against the window, listening to Draeden through his mastications while eyeing the entranceway for a revival of what he had witnessed in the hall.

                There was to be no recess in the court that noon due to an protracted case that must be resolved, and the king’s meal of drop scones and toasted bread with honey must be forgotten and given to Draeden. Ruta came in all her usual good humour to entreat the prince to eat what his father must renounce, and she had all the delight in hearing Draeden discuss their impending training exercise, but while she said “Aye, it’s a good thing to learn, bein’ out in the woods an’ all,” she was eyeing Bryeison with the same amused aspect that he was granting her. Draeden talked and devoured everything before him, talking through every motion, trying to reconcile his mind to going on such a perilous venture, while Ruta and Bryeison nodded through it all, never forgetting to be encouraging toward one who would panic about everything, and always remembering to keep their broadest and most sagacious grins for one another.

                The sudden sounds of subdued risibility caught Bryeison’s ear once more. He sipped his tea, pretending not to notice the two young maids peering around the post and pointing at Draeden, and watched Draeden ravage his drop scones while listening to every mirthful murmur, giving rise to more whispers from the storeroom and the scullery. The whole of the kitchen, excepting Ruta, seemed pervaded by conscious laughter, muted by raised hands and made remarkable inquiring looks, everyone cherishing a rather commendable regard of Draeden, whose back was turned to the garland of women swarming behind him, completely unaware of their schemes, and still talking of wickering a curragh and making a shelter from salvaged bracken.  

                “Seymour, that fellow from Marridon, has made an excellent study of surviving on the barest of means,” said Draeden, eyeing his last apple in a fever of glee. “I believe he revels in making his living on as little as possible merely for the sake of writing about it.” He assailed his apple, and once his mouth was very well full, he continued, “I daresay he knows everything about foraging and survival. A prodigious amount of time will have to spent in the library this evening—why has everyone suddenly caught a fit of the giggles?” He turned, the kitchen and scullery maids scattered and returned to their work, his eye perceiving only half the situation, as he had missed the two girls who hid behind the door, and when he turned back to his plate, a feeling of sudden trepidation fell over him, causing him to move his chair toward Bryeison, lean over the table, and say in an undervoice, rife with alarm, “The burs from Harriegh’s wretched marigolds haven’t attached themselves to my mantle, have they?”

                Bryeison laughed at Draeden’s misconstruction, and Ruta simpered and shook her head.

                “It’s ‘cause you’re lookin’ all stately and in your armour,” said Ruta, her eyes crinkling with conscious mirth.

                Draeden looked bemused, and Ruta was obliged to fill up the vacancies in his understanding.

                “You look so official and commandin’, Highness, where you’re used to lookin’-“ she made a deliberating gesture and searched for a polite word, “…rumpled.”

                Draeden could be under no mistake that his appearance had never recommended him as a Prince of Frewyn, but to hear Ruta admit his deficiencies injured the slender pride he had gained in achieving his honours. “I am improved, I think,” said he, rather doubtfully, examining himself.

                “Aye, that you are, Highness, and since you got that piercin’ and that mantle and all, the girls are after a chance at you.”

                The comprehension of the danger he was in, of every young woman in the keep being to chase him under the power of violent infatuation, struck him with a most untoward pang. “Oh, Gods,” he breathed, his eyes wide with horror. How could something so catastrophic accompany something so exultant? How could donning the captain’s armour, a rank low and unimportant when there were Royal Guard and Commanders enough on the catch, yield the ardent and abrupt admiration of every woman who had been used to ignore him before? It was a most grievous discovery, one to occasion every feeling of wretchedness and vexation and attack Draeden’s heart with a thousand feelings of mortification and alarm. “But why should my armour attract women?” he whispered, assailed by consternation. “If my appearance does nothing for them, I should think that the armour would do nothing to enhance what little handsomeness I have. Being a captain should rather repel them, for woman can want a man in the armed forces unless he is a Sir or a Royal Guard, and they have hardly any time for courting or for women in general.”

                “Aye, but bein’ in the service holds a charm for us girls,” said Ruta, smiling. “Means you’re savin’ folk and protectin’ the kingdom, bein’ heroic and all. That’s works over a girl’s heart.”

                Draeden crumbled in horror and then shifted toward Bryeison, endeavouring to hide from any remaining invigilation without drawing attention to himself and failing miserably by Bryeison’s sudden shifting of his body, placing his back to the window, and denying Draeden his hiding place. He made a few complacent smiles as he watched Draeden fumble about for something to conceal himself and laughed when Draeden grabbed one of the bowls on the table and pretended to find something very interesting at the bottom of it.

                “Sure’n it’s good to have a few admirers,” said Ruta, all maternal encouragement, “teaches you how to be on your toes better than any war. You’re gonna be doin’ a lot of runnin’.” A fever of laughter overwhelmed her when Draeden grabbed a second bowl and held it to the side of his face, and when she find breath once more, she said, “There’s your survival trainin’ and all,” wiping the tears from her eyes, “Sure’n you’ll learn more in escapin’ from the girls than you would runnin’ from the wolves.”

                “This isn’t at all humorous,” Draeden warmly protested.                         

                “Aye, it plenty is, Highness. Any other fella your age can’t wait to get their armour so’s they can parade about for the girls. I never seen a-one waste what luck the Gods are givin’ him.”

                Draeden put down the bowls and gave Ruta a flat look. “I know that you believe this is all rather delightful, Ruta, but it isn’t. I am not adorable and my armour, though earned and somewhat enhancing, does not yield any more attention than it deserves.”

                Ruta could not help reaching out and pinching Draeden’s cheek, and Draeden sulked and allowed her the indulgence before flailing and scoffing her away.

Story for Mother's Day: Sister Mithe

Gaumhin (pronounced Gowan), one of the Captains of the Royal Guard, grew up in in a small orphanage in TussNaTuillin, Westren's westernmost village. He was raised by Sister Mithe, a tender and jovial woman, who became a model mother figure to him. Constantly passed up for adoption, Gaumhin had almost given up hope of finding a family, until the day finally came when he was summoned to be fostered by a family in the east, and while the day was a happy one for him and all those who loved him, it was also a torment to those who had raised him and looked after him as a son.

A dissonance of strident mirth rang out from where Gaumhin and the children sat, and Mithe was gone directly, off to tell the farmer that he was to convey Gaumhin to the east by evening, and then to sob out her beleaguering woes in the privacy of her own little room, where her red eyes and crimsoned cheeks would go unnoticed by the chief of the chuch’s inhabitants, where she might cherish the selfish notions of wishing to keep Gaumhin there with her rather than be forced to endure the bereavement that parting with him must evince. She had a moment’s chariness sending Gaumhin to the east, fearing what loneliness and cruelty might await him there, for while it might be an agreeable place, it was an unknown to her and therefore must be frightening to one who had never been anywhere but the church. TussNaTuillin was small and confined, everyone knew everybody else, everyone was amiable and generous, everyone found solace in the splendid simplicity of a country village life, and if only she could know that Gaumhin would be given the same treatment, all her vexations should be satisfied. Would he make friends, would he be given all the commiseration and kindliness that was his due, would he be recognized in such a house shut up together with five other children, would he be returned after the kingdom’s compensation should be paid, would the children of the house consider him as a brother or as an outsider? were all consternations that accompanied her fidgets as she hastened to ready the children for their lessons. Sweaters and pinafores were donned,  a tolerable job was done in brushing hair and cleaning teeth, and while socks and shoes could not be said to be on the right feet, her spirits were somewhat revived as she ushered the older children toward the school room. They claimed their seats and quieted, but when Gaumhin came with the younger children, all fully dressed and smiling, hanging from every limb, attacking his legs and begging him to tell them another story, her heart sunk, assailed by a thousand agonies of impending separation. How could he go, and yet how could he stay? It was a question she could not but ask yet which must remain unanswered. Her head would reason what her heart would refuse to admit: he must go and they were all to welter in sadness without him, and with a faltering voice, she called the class to order, urging her students to open their books and settle down without knowing how she was to proceed for the day. It was a mortifying office, to teach while her beloved child, her one constant, was to leave them, and still more mortifying was it to see Gaumhin standing before her, his eyes tapered and expression scrutinizing  as though trying to decipher whether she had spent the last half hour combating some unknown misery in her room.

“Sesster?” said he, approaching her, “Are ye o’right?”

A moment’s pause allowed her to say, “Aye, Gaumhin-son. Just a bit with the flowers Ciran brought in.”

Gaumhin looked askance and rased a brow. “Woodsorrel doesnae bother ye.”

Here she was caught, besieged by Gaumhin’s wretched suspicion and beset by the sensations she was endeavoring to suppress. “No,” said she impressively, “but th’day, Ah thenk they’re a bit strong. Bad with the rime an’ tha’, but time’ll sort them oot.”

Gaumhin could not but be aware of Mithe’s meaning: downcast eyes and a voice oppressed by the struggle for self-possession betrayed her sorrows.  He had thought her delighted at his being summoned at last, for when she had put the letter into his hand, she was all mirthful assurance. Here, however, was a very different Mithe than the one he has been used to see, visibly distressed, ever so much more than Gaumhin had conceived possible for one of her usual cheerfulness, forever the model of conviviality and encouragement. It was disheartening to see her in so disconsolate a state, standing before the children, being made to continue with lessons when she might have wished to sit in her room and cry or spend some private time with the boy she was losing. “Would ye need tae come outside with meh for th’ while?” said he quietly.

“No, Gaumhin-son,” said she sweetly, cradling his chin. “Ye’ve got tae gather yur things an’ tha’, an’ Ah should be daein’ the lesson, givin’ ye yur time tae prepare.”

They gave each other a protracted and penetrating look, one one side all restrained disconsolation, and on the other all sincere compassion. It was wrong to rob her of his presence as it was wrong to convince her away from her misery, and while he must leave her with a broken heart, he would not be leaving so soon as she had foreseen.  He gave her hand an affectionate press, said a soft “Ah’ll wait till after the lesson to gather mah things,” and took his seat, eager to glean whatever teachings her last lecture to him was to impart.

With a tremulous hand did she open her book, and with agonizing misery did she look up from the page to find Gaumhin returning her gaze, his countenance bespeaking happy anticipation, his blue eyes sparkling with interest, his lips wreathed in pleasant smiles. Thess is the last time my Gaumhin sits in thess chair, was her distressing cogitation, but all she could say was, “Th’day, we’re gonnae learn aboot Cathal and Cine, Frannach’s steads” while turning to a page that had little to do with the lesson she meant to give. Gaumhin’s subrisive and obliging looks ruined her for speech, and she stood for some minutes under the flow of a fluttering heart, unable to brook the rustling of papers, the hems, the fusses, the scuffing of feet without giving way to her unquietness, trying to soothe herself with the consolation that Gaumhin was beloved here and needed there without much success. Releasing children from the church was always a trial to her nerves, regardless of the joy that their being wanted supplied, but none would be so difficult as watching him go. Doant thenk of it now, she chided herself, but before she could reclaim her self-possession, Gaumhin was standing from his chair, was coming to the front of the room, was taking up the book from the lectern  and was entreating her to sit that she might recollect herself from whatever it was that might be ailing her.

“Ah’ll give the mornin’ lesson,” was his gentle offer. “You just sit there and doant thenk aboot it.”

And she would not think about it, at least not while one whom she regarded as a son was standing before her, reigning over the room and reading every line of the lesson with all the animation that the happiness of the day could admit. 

Khantara: Special Edition!

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