The Vineyard Tavern

[Ealasaide]

Sallie watched from her seat at the table as the heavy oaken door swung shut behind the tall figure of her papa as he walked out of the kitchen. She made a little noise in her throat that caused Ædhral, or Ada, as Sallie called her, to reach out and gently tweak her nose. Sallie giggled but still did not dare tear her eyes away from the door. She hated for her papa to leave her. She was afraid that he might go away again like the time he did after their house burned down and the big, golden dragon fell into the lake. He put on his silver shirt that was made out of the little rings that clinked when he walked and put on his sword. Then he got on his horse, Alydar, and rode away, leaving her behind with Cook and Ada. She cried every night until he came home. Now, every time he walked away, she wondered if he was coming back.

Sallie listened as Cook ticked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Pity, a young man like that raising a little girl on his own,” Cook said, shaking her head. “The child needs a mother. Look at her - mud in her petticoats and straw in her hair. She’ll grow up knowing nothing of cooking or needlework. All she’ll know about is horses and swordplay.”

Ædhral laughed. “Don’t be silly. It’s just a spot of mud.” Sallie had the feeling that Ada was taking the side of her papa, so she smiled hopefully up at her.

“Horses and swordplay!” repeated Cook, still shaking her head.

Ædhral opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again as the door flew open and Finian came in. Sallie liked Finian, so she smiled up at him, too, but this time he did not seem to see her. He told Ada and Cook some things to do and walked out again. Sallie watched the door close behind him, then, as Cook and Ada rushed about to do as they had been told, Sallie clambered down out of her chair. She limped to the window with her slow, uneven gait and took hold of the window sill. Stretching up on to her tippy-toes, as tall she could, Sallie could just see out of the bottom pane of glass. She felt very big and old as, just a month ago, she had not been so tall and had needed her papa to hold her up if she wanted to look out. Now she could do it on her own.

Peering through the window glass, Sallie could see the stable yard and the stable, but her papa was nowhere to be seen. She stuck out her lower lip in a fierce, bad pout. She couldn’t see Alydar either. Maybe while she was eating her papa had put on his silver shirt and gone. “Papa!” she called out plaintively. “Papa!” Maybe, if he hadn’t gone too far, he would hear her and come back.

Behind her, the clatter of the kitchen stopped. Then, there was the gentle touch of hands as Ædhral picked Sallie up and settled her on one of her slender hips. “It‘s all right, little princess,” the serving girl cooed. “Your papa hasn’t gone far. I’m sure he’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

“Promise?” asked Sallie doubtfully, the pout still quivering on her lip.

“I promise,” answered Ædhral. “Now, why don’t you help me over here?” she added, pulling a chair up from the table to the kitchen counter. “Finian says there’s a sick little boy out in the common room who needs some breakfast. You can help me make him up a plate.”

[Bêthberry]

Ædhral, true to her worth, had indeed gone to tell the Healer of a sick boy in the Tavern. She had found the woman at her desk, pounding and grinding plants in a large marble bowl with a heavy stick. Ædhral did not know the words for these dishes, just as she did not know many of the words which the Healer used, yet she found that no barrier to understanding the woman. Each word was clearly explained, not too much, not too little.

"The bowl is a mortar," the woman said, "and this is a pestle. It is a heavy object, for it helps to turn leaves into a fine powder." She stopped and stretched her fingers, for they were stiff from the incessant pounding. "And you have come to relieve me of my task?"

"Yes, mistress, for Finian told me to tell you we have a very sick boy in the Tavern. He is ugly with burns; his skin rippled red like roast mutton. "

"Well, burns heal poorly if the body is not covered in salve; that is no fault of the boy."

"Yes, ma'am, but will you come?"

The woman nodded and rose, wrapping a large brown shawl around her shoulders, the fringes of which gently swayed back and forth over her hips as she walked.

"Can he eat?" she inquired of the girl.

"Barely, he has sipped some cider." The woman made a noncommital shake of her head and peered into the hall while Ædhral disappeared into the kitchen. Finian then met her glance and told her what he could of the lad. The boy was slumped into a chair, gingerishly leaning against the back and talking with Rochadan. She smiled to herself, for she knew Rochadan well and could imagine what the man might be attempting.

"There are stories of ill treatment, of beatings. You know what we hear of Harstan."

"Aye. And if we wish to find the boy other employ, that man will demand recompense for the loss of his labour."

Finian sighed. "First, find out how hurt the boy is, Bethberry. Then we shall see what plans we need to put into effect."

"He looks starved. I doubt he can for the moment eat much. Let me bring him some thin gruel." From Cook Bethberry got a tray with a bowl and the gruel, mixed in with some sugar and cream, but not too richly. And then she approached the lad.

"Rochadan, I'll wager you are making a proposition here," she said with a lilt to her voice. He smiled at her.

"Bethberry, meet young Andhun here. He's going to help me in the stable."

"Is he now? Don't be hasty, for perhaps he has someone else he needs to help first."

The lad looked up at her, the black rings around his eyes appearing even more quizzical than they had at first.

"Who would you send me out to work with, lady? I must get back to master."

"Nay, none other than yourself, lad. Here, tell me if Cook has made this well. And by name I am called Bethberry."

His one arm hung by his side but with his other he slowly scooped up the gruel, panting between sips. While he ate, Bethberry looked over the many miserable signs of torment and pain on his small frame. Yet in her face she held a warm smile, so that her very look seemed to banish worry and concern from his heart. When he was finished the meagre breakfast, she sat back to let him talk. She would win his trust before she attempted to see to his wounds.

[Nurumaiel]

"I thank you, ma'am," said Andhun as he set his breakfast aside. He studied her face carefully, and found warmth and compassion in it. Not pity, but compassion. Andhun was not wholly opposed to pity, but he felt he did not need it. The weak ones had ever been the ones who wanted pity, wallowing to make themselves seem worthy of pity, trying their utmost to gain it. His master was like that. He forever complained of the boys who worked for him, saying they were lazy and slow, and making it seem as though he were the one with the miserable existence rather than they. And always, always, whenever someone came to the master's home they would pity him and believe he was right, and often he, Andhun, or one of the other boys would merit an extra kick as the visitors passed by.

He passed his gaze on to Rochadan and smiled, just a little hesitatingly, for he still was not absolutely certain that Rochadan was indeed a friend. "And, sir, I thank you for your offer," he said, "and I would express how much my delight would be to work for you in the stables, but I fear I cannot. I must return to my master, for soon he will be looking for me. I feel I should leave even at this very moment, but I wait because Mister Cynan is not come back yet and I think I should wait for him to bid him goodbye, and thank him for his kindness."

"Can you not leave your master to work here?" Rochadan questioned.

"I wish it were so, sir, for I would dearly love to work here. You are all so kind..." He faltered in his speech, and felt he was speaking too warmly to them. He recalled an occasion when a young woman had come to his master's house, only three months ago, and she had been very kind to him, unlike other guests, and he had thanked her for it, and, feeling that he should make some attempt to be kind to her as she had been to him, he chanced to compliment her upon her fair face within his master's hearing. The young woman had seemed pleased at his compliment, and the master had restrained himself, but as soon as she was out the door he had sprang forward like a wild beast pouncing upon his victim. A shudder went through Andhun's body as he recalled this. He had been beaten so badly that he thought he surely must die of pain, and all the while the master had shouted into his face that he had no business speaking to the guests, let alone say anything friendly to them.

He closed his eyes and could feel keenly in his mind every pain he had endured then, and he swayed in his chair. A strong, gentle hand fell on his shoulder, so gentle that it did hurt the sores upon his back, and so strong that he was kept from falling over, and he opened his eyes. Rochadan held him steady in his chair and smiled gravely into his eyes. The stablemaster, however, wisely made no reference to Andhun's temporary faintness but continued the conversation in a level tone. "Tell me, Andhun, why you cannot leave your master."

"Because," said Andhun, wincing upon the reflection of what he was going to say, "the master owns me."

"Owns you?" Rochadan's brow furrowed. "Surely he is no relation to you?"

"No, he is not, but when he took me in nearly a year ago he gave me a paper that said I would serve him until he chose to release me from that service, and made me sign it at the bottom, though I am not good at writing." He started and suddenly stared into Rochadan's face wildly. "Oh, sir, my master will surely never release me, and what will I do for my poor little sister when I find her? What will I do for her? Will she also have to live with my master?" He looked in a panicked way from face to face, and then his pale face became grave and he closed his eyes as if weary, and put his head against the back of his chair, just barely wincing when the burns on his face met with the hard wood.

[Orual]

Bells jangling and thick layers of cheap, rustling fabric created an orchestral noise that warned all in the area of her coming. Kannah hiked up her skirts and stormed towards the door, where, unknowingly, a young man was about to face her wrath.

"Turn yourself around this instant, young master!" she shouted, and everyone in the common room except the object of her attention turned. The young man himself froze, and Kannah was fairly sure she heard him muttering prayers under his breath. Well, wise enough, she figured--he'd be getting the rough side of her tongue.

Kannah was twenty-two years old, and much fiercer than she looked. Her pretty, almond-shaped brown eyes and small stature belied her hot temper and sharp wit. She had a long, regal nose, and a full-lipped mouth that would have been pretty if she ever used it for smiling. Her dark complexion and long, raven hair told of her southern heritage, though she was a native of Dale. She draped herself in layers of fabric in rich jewel tones...but the fabric was always very cheap. For all of her show, Kannah was not a wealthy person, though she tried to pass as one.

"I believe you underpaid," she said harshly, gripping the young man by his upper arm. It was a humorous sight, as the young man was almost head and shoulders taller than Kannah.

"No, I don't think I--" the young man began, but Kannah cut him off by dragging him to the counter where he had paid.

"One, two, three gold pieces," she counted quickly. "You owed four."

"I'm sorry, I thought I'd--"

"What you thought is irrelevant," she said. "The fact remains that you didn't pay in full. Will you give me another gold piece, or would you prefer doing dishes?"

The young man fished a gold piece out of his pocket and handed it to Kannah, who accepted it without the least touch of graciousness.

She saw Finian shaking his head from the other side of the room, but paid him no heed. She had passed a difficult night--two young patrons had come down with violent chest colds, and their panic-stricken mother had come banging on Kannah's door at well past midnight but still well before dawn to have her administer appropriate treatment. She had gotten no sleep and still had some bruises on her ribs from small flailing arms. She was in no mood to be cheated out of her rightful dues. Now, she liked children--growing up with two brothers and one sister, all significantly older than Kannah, she had numerous nieces and nephews on whom to hone her maternal skills. Not that she planned on settling down any time soon...

She settled down in her office--that is, the side of her bedroom with a desk--and started going over the financial records. If they were going to drag her out of bed at ungodly hours of the morning, she was going to make sure they had enough money to pay for it!

[Ealasaide]

At the mention of Harstan’s contract with the boy, Rochadan exchanged a serious glance with Bêthberry. Then he gave the boy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, careful to avoid any of the child’s many bruises and sore spots.

“I can see you are a young man of your word, Andhun,” the stablemaster said, choosing his words carefully. “That is an admirable quality and will serve you well as you get older. But I must tell you that this paper you speak of cannot possibly be binding. People cannot own other people, particularly not on the strength of a document signed by a wounded and desperate child.”

Andhun neither answered nor opened his eyes, but Rochadan could tell by his posture that the child was listening. “I will speak to you frankly now,” he continued. “You must not go back to your master, not if you value your life or the life of your sister. I know this man Harstan. He will work you and beat you until you can no longer help yourself. And then, how will you help your sister?”

He paused as a single tear slid from the corner of one of the boy’s eyes and ran unchecked down his thin cheek. “You will stay here,” continued Rochadan. “And let Mistress Bêthberry see to your wounds. She is a good and kind woman and will take very good care of you. When you are strong enough, we will look for your sister. And I will teach you how to take care of the horses. You do like animals, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Andhun softly. “But I... my master...”

“I will deal with him.”

[Nurumaiel]

Andhun shook his head. "Sir, I promised my master," he said. "And sir, he does not own me, but he does own my services. And even if it were possible that I could leave him, I would not, for it would leave him short of hands and... I promised him, sir."

"I will speak to your master," Rochadan said gently, "and he will be compensated for his loss."

"I do not understand, sir..."

"He will lose nothing by losing you, for he will be paid in equal worth," said Rochadan. He saw Andhun still hesitated, and he took a slightly different course. "Stay, Andhun, at least for the day. You need not make any promise you will stay with us, but stay for now, and then when you see if your master will let you go or not, you may decide what you will do then."

"Very well, sir," said Andhun, and a silence fell. It seemed a very deep silence, though from outside the tavern there were shouting and scuffling noises. Andhun was considering what his position in life would be if he worked at the tavern, and he saw very clearly that Rochadan was a very good man. Andhun would be almost useless in the stables, for he could not carry anything heavy nor move very fast, and he could only use his left hand, which would in normal circumstances have been the weaker of the two. He grew tired easily, and many times when he grew too tired he would fall into fever. Here, he knew, he would not grow too tired, but Rochadan would find him not a help, but a burden. And as Andhun studied the stablemaster's face, he saw that the latter fully realized.

The door was flung open and banged against the wall with a resounding thud, and the young boy who had come running in paused and looked from Bethberry to Rochadan with a shame-filled face, and fixed his eyes on Rochadan, feeling that he as a man would be the one to deal out the punishment. Rochadan raised his eyebrows gravely and shook his head, and the boy sighed heavily, but slowly an impish twinkle came into his eyes when he saw that Rochadan was attempting not to smile. Jumping forward, the boy took Andhun's left hand and let some coins falling into it, saying something about paying for the meal. Then he turned to Rochadan and Bethberry and sweeped a courtly bow, still smiling impishly. "Cynan Harwell at your service," he said. "I was the one to find this boy you seem so interested in."

Andhun had been turning the money over in his hand and then held it out to Rochadan. "Here, sir," he said. "This is for the meal you gave me."

Rochadan opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short as the door was flung open again. It also banged against the wall, but the man who was the cause showed no remorse as his squinted eyes fell on Andhun. With his heavy build, rough large hands, and twisted lips that seemed to be in a perpetual sneer, he was very recognizable. And if he could not be recognized by these attributes it would be obvious by the way Andhun began to tremble and crouched back in his chair that this man was 'the master.' Harstan gave a growl of rage and advanced forward at a quick pace towards Andhun, then stopped and smoothed his brow with one hand, letting his face fall into a twisted, hideous smile as he addressed Rochadan.

"Good day to you sir," he said, his voice rasping. "I hope my boy has not been bothering you with his presence."

"On the contrary," said Rochadan, his words courteous but his tone stiff.

The master sensed this and tensed slightly, and when he spoke he was still smiling and his words still full of politeness, but there was a dangerous edge in both the words and his eyes. "Ah, that is a good thing to hear," said he. "Now perhaps you should not consider it too much of a trouble if I took him back to my home now, for he has been sorely missed."

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry watched the man with disguised contempt, for she did not want to anger him. Not yet.

The boy Andhun was ill, seriously ill. He was weak, almost feverish, and would soon have festering wounds on his back if the burns were not treated, for they were weeping still. He was hungry and haunted by abuse. He was not alone in this condition, for there were many orphans about these days who were at the mercy of adults, many of whom felt the only way to get work out of anyone was to threaten and beat them. And Rochadan was ready to take responsibility for the boy.

She though for a bit. What grounds did they have for refusing to allow this Harstan to take the boy? He ran a business, made trade. He could be influential in complaining that the Tavern was interferring in his business. Finian didn't need to anger the town authorities; he had enough on his hands to improve the business of his tavern. They would either have to make Harstan realise he was better off without the boy, or else make him so angry he stepped over a line, here in the Vineyard, clearly, so that everyone here would witness his transgression.

Bethberry decided to begin by making Harstan prove himself. She would quietly and calmly challenge his claims.

"Your boy, Harstan? I did not know you had a son." She looked at him with a face of mild interest, not challenge, indeed, of almost concern. Let him state what his claims are over the boy, she decided. And then she would point out how incapable Andhun was of fulfilling them in his wounded state. If he could be persuaded that he was better off without the boy, perhaps matters could be resolved without ill effects.