Kate Warren

Last week we met Mary Shawley, mother of Edmund, Henry, and Beth. This week Sir Nicholas has decided to seek out Bixby the chestnut man for more information about the boys.

    “Bixby, there you are!”
    “Did you miss me, Sir?” the chestnut seller grinned.
     Nichols could not help grinning back. “Not a bit of it, but I wondered if I might ask you about those boys who were minding the stall for you yesterday.”
     “The Shawley boys?” Bixby asked, his expression tinged with wariness. “Did they do something wrong? They’re good lads, but that Henry…well he’s a sweet boy but he isn’t all there above stairs. Fell out of a tree and landed on his head when he was a tyke or some such thing.”
     “I had noticed that Henry is…different, but no, there were no problems. 

That's my ten. More below, for those who are interested. I've come down with a cold and may not get to my visits until later in the day or tomorrow. I'm up now because I needed more medicine. Figured I'd get the post done before I fall asleep again.

Kate


"...I was rather impressed by them actually. The eldest, Edmund, is it? He seems quite industrious.”
     “He is that. Smart lad too. Shame his mum can’t afford to send him to school.” Bixby shook his head and filled a bag with the roasted nuts for another customer.
  “Yes, I see that the family must be in difficult circumstances,” Nicholas remarked, “but I think that has perhaps not always been the case.”
     The chestnut seller snorted. “I’ll say. The missus has taken an interest in them. Sad story. The little ‘un, Betty, or Betsy, is sick. Needs an operation. Course they can’t afford that neither. They were well-enough off in the country for a while. Don’t know all the details o’ course but there was some doings with an uncle who inherited the widow’s father’s estate…” Bixby looked around covertly and lowered his voice, “and it seems he made improper advances to the poor widow. Can’t blame her for running as fast as she could from that. She’s a good sort, Mary, my missus says.”
     “Mary,” Nicholas murmured.
     Bixby continued as if he hadn’t stopped talking. “We in the neighborhood, we do what we can to help, ‘specially with young Henry. Poor Mary can’t be everywhere at once, can she?”
     “Yes, about Henry. I understand he sells pencils.”
     “Aye.” Bixby nodded as he stirred the nuts to keep them roasting evenly. “Would you be wanting a bag today then, sir?”
     “I will. And could you possibly tell me where I might find Henry Shawley, seller of fine writing implements?”
     “Three blocks that way,” Bixby gestured with his head while filling the bag. “Charges ha’penny a piece. Mary insists that he not stray too far from home.”

    “Thinking of our evil cousin again?” Edmund’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
     Mary turned. “You should not say such things.” There was no real censure in her voice. “Stephen is not evil. He did help us find this house.”
     “This house with four rooms, and as many drafts, away from the fresh air that Beth needs.” Edmund complained quietly.
     “He could not have known about Beth’s condition.” Mary reminded her son. “We did not know of it ourselves before coming to town. And many families live with less than we have, with fewer than four rooms. We have a roof that doesn’t leak, thanks to Stephen.”
     Edmund shook his head. “Sometimes, mother, I think you are too good for this earth. He could have let us stay longer, until we found a better place.”
     “I hope you do not say such things in front of your brother and sister.” She admonished softly.
     “I don’t.” He reached into his pocket. “Here. Our share of the day’s sales.”
     The small bag felt heavy in her hand. “My!”
     “The cold was good for business.” Edmund smiled.
  “There’s a blessing.” Mary muttered. The cold was certainly not good for the coal bucket. “And just in time too, for I must visit the market tomorrow.”
     He nodded. “It will be good to have butter again.” 

Last week we closed out the first scene of the novel. Sir Nicholas Carroll was revealed to be a decent guy, and we have met the two Shawley boys, Edmund and Henry. This week we'll meet our heroine, the boys' mother, Mary.

   Mary Shawley was standing at her small cookstove, stirring a pot of soup when her sons blew in the door. She heard them close it, and smiled. They were very conscientious when it came to keeping the cold out and the heat in, as much as possible.
     “We’ve brought a surprise!” Henry exclaimed happily, and his mother turned to see a wide smile on his face.
     “Have you? How very nice.”
     Henry looked to Edmund, who nodded, and then began to unbutton his coat and pulled two small bags from them. “Chestnuts!”
    “Still warm,” Edmund added, putting a hand to one bag to make certain.

That doesn't tell us a lot about Mary, but there's only so much you can put in eight to ten sentences. There is more below, if anyone cares to read on.

I look forward to reading everyone's excerpts.

Kate


   Mary was torn between delight and dismay. “How did you…?”
    “A customer who had luck in business and wanted to share his good fortune,” her elder son explained, and went to give her a kiss on the cheek. “No need to worry, Mother.”
    “He bought a bag for each of us,” Henry put in, “but Edmund said we should share a bag, and that way you and Beth could as well.”
    “Most generous of you, and most kind of the man.” Mary told him with a smile. “Why don’t you call Beth?”
    Henry went to do just that but stopped a moment and turned back. “Can we eat the chestnuts before supper?”
    “They are best warm,” Edmund added his voice to the request.
    “Very well.” She had said it with an air of reluctance, but truly she was almost as excited as the boys were and their sister would be. It had been more years than Mary knew since she’d had hot or even warm chestnuts.
     “Bethie!” Henry called up the stairs. “We have a surprise! Come at once!”

I thought about switching to my humor novel for the rest of the month, because it's set at the North Pole, but then I realized that would be way more fun in the middle of summer. Last week Jorgen was missing his girls. This week, he still is, but he's a bit distracted...

     The snap of a twig had him reaching for his blade and turning at the same time. Moonlight shone bright enough that he instantly saw who had intruded upon his solitude and sheathed the weapon. “Maja.”
     “I did not mean to startle you,” she said quietly.
  “You should not be about by yourself,” Jorgen admonished. “Where is that cousin who usually hangs upon you?”
     Maja smiled. “Probably looking for me as we speak.” She blew out a breath. “A person can only take so much being looked after.”

That's my ten. I'll add more below, in case anyone is interested. Didn't get to adding the new gallery yet, so hopefully that will be next week. Thank you for visiting.

Kate


     “You seek solitude.” Jorgen nodded, understanding. “Shall I leave you then?”
     “I thought you said I should not be by myself.” Maja stated with a hint of amusement in her voice. “Though I can tell you I know how to use a dagger. Shall I show you?”
     Jorgen raised a hand and shook his head. “No need. I believe you.”
     “Tell me, if you will, about Hilvard.” She requested. “I have never been away from Islak.”
     “Life is much the same everywhere.” Jorgen began. “We work all year to make ready for winter, then huddle by our fires, drinking our ale and mead and waiting for spring.”
     “Yes, so I have heard from others of their lands.” Maja let out an exasperated breath, wishing the pain in her head didn’t make her so easily annoyed. “I wish to know what is different.”
     The king thought for a moment. “We have mountains in Hilvard. They rise up from the earth to the heavens it seems, until you climb one. In the valleys are lakes, some are quite beautiful, and the parts that are flat are flatter than most of Islak. The birds, beasts, and fish are much the same, though we have some flowers and berries that you have not.”
     “And the people?” Maja encouraged. “Are the people much different from Islaker?”
     “Perhaps a bit more rough, a bit less formal, but kind of heart, loyal, and brave…some of the bravest in the world.” Jorgen smiled to himself, thinking of his middle daughter, who he knew would one day put grown men to shame with her courage.

We left off last time in Chapter 3, I think? Everyone just learned, courtesy of Asgrid's brother, that Jorgen is in fact the king of Hilvard. Here's this week's snippet.


​     As soon as he was certain no one was watching, [Jorgen] broke into a run and quickly left the trees behind. He was breathing hard when he reached the water's edge. Kneeling, he cupped his hands and brought up the cold, clear water, splashing his face.  Jorgen let the water drip off his chin and stared out at the sea. A part of him always yearned to be a-sea, breathing salt air, feeling the motion of wind and water, and the rhythm of rowing when the wind failed him; another part yearned for home, for his children and his keep, his horses and his dogs. And he wished to see his people. Morgyt himself could be in Islak or Berunia, but he might have split his raiders into two parties, the better to terrorize more lands.
     Disgusted to have let that black-hearted rogue into his thoughts, Jorgen closed his eyes and pictured his little ones. Brita was the oldest, nearly a maiden, she had her mother’s lovely golden hair and her father’s brown eyes, and a gentle firmness that had her people listening to her in spite of her youth. Next was Thorkatla, as bold and noisesome as her name implied, all of eight summers old but she ordered other children around as if born to it—Katla was a shieldmaiden in the making, and took after her father with brown hair and eyes. 
​

Jorgen needed some quiet after all the hubbub and a short meeting with Harald Frodarsson. Below is the rest of his musing about his girls.

Quick announcement that the draft is finished! It's massive and will have to be two books. I also accidentally won NaNo again. And I'm planning to add a new gallery for this story in the Image Galleries section of the site in the coming week.

Thank you for reading, and please stop by again.

Kate

Last was Amma, the quietest of his children. In Amma was all of her mother’s beauty and eyes the same sky blue as Viga’s had been, but a temper that was all her own—she was an enchanting waif of a child, prone to chills, fond of music, and always seeming a bit lost in the world. Amma had been born three winters ago and reminded Jorgen of snowflakes, delicate and fragile, indeed she had nearly been named Drifa because at birth the soft wisps of hair she sported had been white as snow. 
     His heart squeezed and he caught his breath. How he missed those sprites and their quarrels. If all went well, he would have them in his arms again in a fortnight. After months away, that much seemed a short enough time to see their smiles and hear their giggles once more.

    The next morning, Jorgen allowed everyone an hour to break their fasts, perform necessary bodily functions, and otherwise begin their day, before calling a council of what leaders and elders were left to the village. He had spoken with his own most trusted men late in the night and they had all agreed to abide by whatever decisions the village folk made.
     "Asgrid Frodarsdottir," Jorgen nodded deferentially. "I see you brought your niece."
     Maja leaned heavily upon her aunt's arm but held her head upright. Her eyes snapped and only with difficulty did she manage to keep from speaking out that she had as much right there as did any man of Hilvard.
     "I value her counsel, and her judgment," Lady Asgrid explained. "I would not exclude her from this meeting any more than my dear Hjelmar would have."
     At this Jorgen raised his brows but said nothing, impressed that as great a warrior as Hjelmar would enlist the aid and request the counsel of one so young. 
     "As you wish." He said, shrugging as if it was no matter to him whether the family dogs attended. "There is little left here, as you well know. I do not pretend to have any knowledge of what supplies might still exist after the Berunians finished sacking your village, but there is little enough in the way of shelter for the coming winter. I offer protection and passage to my lands for any who wish it. Once there you may stay the season, and you shall be welcomed, fed, and treated as any others. When spring comes, you may choose to stay in Hilvard or return here, and my own men will escort you back and assist in rebuilding if that is your wish."
     The few men gathered spoke to each other in hushed tones. One elderly man, with a bandaged arm called out. "And what is it you require in return?"
     Jorgen acknowledged the man with a curt nod. "Anything you can recall about Morgyt's men, where they attacked from, where they planned to go next, anything at all that was noticed might be of use to me."
     "Why?" another man ventured. "The quarrel is between us and Morgyt. It does not involve you."
     "No, it does not." Jorgen agreed. "But Morgyt has plagued my lands, and my people, and I have vowed to stop him. Help me or not, as you wish. Accept my offer or not. But be quick about your decision. My men and I leave on the morrow at dawn."
     The foreigners strode out of the clearing, leaving the village folk to talk the matter over.


That's it. That's the last part. Copyright 2022. All rights reserved. Do not copy without permission etc. If you're still with me, please let me know what you thought of the chapter. Thank you!

Kate

     "That's the last of the homes." Jorgen's second-in-command said as he dusted his hands.
     Jorgen had worked long and hard, alongside his men and the people of the village, several had been found alive but far more had not. "Men of Islak," he addressed those male persons who were of an age and well enough in body to be of assistance, "We must find anyone who has hidden. Night will fall soon, and they will need fire and shelter. You know, better than we, where your people might have taken cover. Go and fetch anyone you can find. My men and I shall contrive enough shelter for all who come, and will share what provisions we have."
     The local men disbursed quickly, having been assured that the foreigners could be trusted. Truth be told, anyone who opposed Morgyt and his fellow Berunians was considered friend. This Andriksson of Hilvard had proved himself as far as the men of the village were concerned. None could be dirtier, more soot-streaked, or more wearied than this foreign warrior.
     Jorgen took a moment to converse with his men and decide which of the remaining structures would be best and most easily fixed for temporary shelter, and set teams to doing what they could. Then he stepped away from the men, and headed for the cave where the dirty and bleeding Maja had been left.
     The servant, Lene, fell in with his stride. "I know the way, woman." he said, not unkindly.
     "Certainly, you do," she agreed, and said no more, but kept pace with him.
     Jorgen chuckled to himself. The servant need have no fear for her lady's virtue, nor for appearances. The woman was in no condition for bed sport, nor was he. Perhaps the women folk of this village had lived in peace so long they were unaware that in war time no one cared for appearances, and few would care even if he did seduce the woman—which he had no intention of doing anyway. He had enemies to find and kill, and no time for dalliances.
     By the time the two of them reached the cave, they found a number of women and children had returned, some caring for the wounded, others merely trying to settle their little ones for the coming night. One woman in particular seemed to have taken charge and was directing the others.
     Maja had been moved closer to the north wall of the cave, still not too far from the fire, but she could be propped up with little trouble. At the moment she lay sleeping, a small blonde girl snuggled against her.
     "Jorgen Andriksson,” the woman in charge spoke with sad authority. "I must thank you and your men for your assistance. I hear you were of use to my niece."
     Jorgen ducked his head, recognizing the speech of a powerful woman when he heard it. "I merely told her she would live. It was Marta there who insisted I see to the lady."
     "You are modest,"  the noble woman insisted. "Marta has many qualities but she is of little help with illness and injury."
     "That is why I fetched him for Maja." The girl agreed with a nod.
     Again, the woman turned to Jorgen. "I am Asgrid Frodarsdottir, wife…” She closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. “Widow of Hjelmar Jensson."
     "I am sorry for you, Asgrid Frodarsdottir. Hjelmar was a fine man, and a fierce warrior." Jorgen said the only thing he could at a time like this.
     "Yes. A fine husband and father as well." Asgrid said with a tear in her eye. She brushed the stray drop away. "There will be time enough for tears later. Now I must see to my people. The cave will hold half a dozen families perhaps, but there may be others."
     On this point, Jorgen was able to relieve her mind of some of its troubles. "My men are making what repairs can be made to make shelter for all for this night, and our provisions shall be shared as well."
     "That is very good of you." Asgrid sat on a barrel that had not been there when Jorgen had examined her niece. "We shall open this seat of mine and drink to the dead."
     "And to the living?" Jorgen asked softly, unwilling to add to the woman's pain, but unwilling also to see her give up while her support would be needed to convince the villagers of what he had in mind.
     "Yes," she said, making an effort to appear brighter. "To the living. My daughters and sons are safe. That is a blessing of course. My eldest boy may speak with you about joining your men. He is injured as well as angry. He may try to sneak aboard one of your boats, though with a broken leg he will be clumsy about it."
     "I shall look for him." Jorgen agreed easily. "It might be best to let him be, for a time. A son of Ironfist would be an asset to my band, even if only for a day or two."
     Asgrid smiled. "My thanks once more, Jorgen Andriksson. You are wise as well as kind."
     The Hilvardi leader said no more and turned to rejoin his men fixing shelter in the village.
     “He has gone.” Asgrid said, knowing her niece no longer slept.
     Maja opened her eyes but did not try to move. “Thank you, aunt.”
     “I do not agree that it is best to keep your identity a secret.” Asgrid chided gently. “But I will do so—for a time—because you ask it of me. Here, let me take her.” Bending to take the child from Maja, Asgrid pressed a light kiss to her niece’s head. “Now sleep. You will want all of your strength on the morrow.”
     Maja settled more comfortably now that she could move the arm which had gone numb from the slight weight of her little cousin.  She closed her eyes and tried to block out all thought, but she could not. Where was her brother? Was he safe? Would she be able to send him word of the attack? What would he do if he knew? Perhaps it would be better only to say that she was safe. But that would never do. Surely Vakr would hear of the fate of the village, and know who was responsible. Even with Maja’s assurance of her own safety, Vakr would be only the more incensed and determined to avenge the deaths of their mother and father, and now their uncle as well.
     Tears came unbidden at the thought of her fierce yet kind uncle. Hjelmar had at first frightened her, but once he had caught her sneaking a treat and sneaked one along with her, a mischievous gleam in his eyes and a grin beneath his great reddish-brown beard, she had known him for a kindred spirit and a powerful ally in any and all kitchen raids she might wish to conduct. He had even once allowed her to don his helm as they “pillaged” the larder. The only condition ever laid upon these ventures was that Maja not say a word to her Aunt Asgrid about them.
    Maja curled herself tighter under the furs and fought waves of grief. She had thought there would be more time to spend with Uncle Hjelmar, riding across the meadow, screeching like a heathen as she was never allowed to do in Krossgata where she was a representative of her father and the crown of Islak. In Hjelmar’s village, though everyone knew she was the princess, she had been allowed a few brief weeks each summer to be just a child.
     Maja swallowed her tears and tried to clear her mind. Aunt Asgrid was right; she needed rest. On the morrow there would be a great many decisions to be made, and she knew her aunt would require her counsel. Her head hurt less, thanks to some herbs Lene had given her, but she could not quite settle and convince her body to rest.
     Forcing her breathing to slow, Maja carefully did not think about home, her parents, her brother, or her uncle. She did not think of the village either. Instead, she found herself picturing a handsome yet dirty face and deep, dark eyes, the color of which she did not yet know. There had not been enough light in the cave to see. Why Jorgen of Hilvard's face should intrude into her thoughts she could not say, nor why the memory of his eyes should be both frightening and comforting. He had not shown any sign of seeing her as anything other than an injured woman. No threat had been implied in his gaze, his questions, or his probing of her wound. Why then did she feel nervous thinking back to that brief moment when their gazes had met and locked? It had not been long, half a moment really, certainly not long enough to cause Maja any discomfort this much later.
     Rather than fight the thoughts, she allowed herself to be soothed by them. She was not afraid of her feelings, only confused by them. It could not be attraction she felt, she was certain, for she had felt that before and it was a far more overwhelming set of emotions. Flutterings of the stomach, skipping of beats of her heart, and a feeling of lightness to almost giddiness. None of that did the thought of this Jorgen Andriksson give her. And when her weary mind wondered how it would feel to have his strong arms around her, she paid it no mind at all, but rather snuggled deeper under her blankets as if she truly was held and safe.
     

   Copyright 2022. All rights reserved. Do not copy without permission, etc. Thank you for reading.

Kate