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| POST OF THE MONTH ~ November 2007 ~
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| ALAN & JOHN ~ Written by Rhys & Gwyn. Posted on the HoS Yahoo group August 2006.
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With an armfull of dead dry oak branches, John walked slowly back to the firewood he and Alan had collected in the forest clearing. The minstrel was already there; standing and thoughtfully surveying the firewood.
"How's the leg?" asked Alan as John came over and added his bundle to what they had already collected.
John grunted. "Holding up." It was a little stiff but exercise would ease that, he knew. His fever had gone, Tuck had looked at the wound this morning and pronounced it clean.
Alan looked at the two bundles of firewood that rested in the clearing; long dry branches. "Think we've got enough?"
"Aye," said John, "for the time being. Let's get it back to camp and stored away in the cave, keep it dry." He bent and wound rope around the larger of the bundles to secure it, and then, knotting the rope together to form a makeshift strap, slung the bundle across his back.
"Surely there'll be a storm soon," said Alan, securing the other bundle with rope.
John looked up at the bright sky through the trees. "There'll be one coming soon enough. But not today. Maybe tomorrow."
"Much should have come with us," Alan shouldered his burden, "three pairs of hands would have collected more firewood and carried more. If storms are coming, we need a store of dry firewood in the cave."
They had asked Much if he wanted to accompany them, but the sullen-faced youth had just slipped away down to the lakeside. John had caught a glimpse of him sitting on the fallen tree which stretched out into the shining waters as he and Alan had rounded the lakeside on their quest for firewood. Sitting, staring into the water, dangling a fishing line half-heartedly into it. He hadn't looked as though he was particularly intent on catching anything, so John hoped Will, Nasir and Robert were having better luck on their own fishing quest. The venison Much had brought back to camp yesterday evening had been consumed for breakfast, though Rhiannon had taken some of the marrow bones to make a broth for Ellie which she could then soak bread in.
"Robert'll take Much to task if he doesn't pull his weight, but for now, best leave him be," John said wisely. "He's still in the mood from last night."
"The girl?" Alan guessed, as they moved from the clearing back into the trees.
John laughed into his beard as they wended their way through the bracken and the staggered array of tall ash trees. "What was it? - Gwyndolene? I think he wanted to have his way with her. No wonder he's frustrated."
Alan laughed too. "He'll learn he can't have every girl that comes his way."
John unslung the aleskin from his shoulder to take a drink. He nudged Alan with his elbow as they walked and offered the skin. "Here."
Alan accepted the aleskin and paused to drink.
"So what is it with you and Jenet of Elsdon?" John asked curiously, pausing beside him and watching as Alan took a drink from the aleskin.
"I don't know." Alan stood, replugged the aleskin and wiped his damp hands on his trousers. "Maybe something. Maybe nothing. She was another man's. She has a child by him...."
John suddenly thought of Meg.
"I don't want to cause her any danger by being her man," Alan finished.
"Lad," said John, "danger will come when it will."
"Was Meg ever in danger because of you?" Alan asked.
John nodded. "I got seen at Wickham by Gisbourne himself. Was obvious I was rolling in the hay with a Wickham woman. He punished the whole village because of their association with us. That's why we leave Wickham well alone now. Edward doesn't need the trouble. They'd hang him if they connect him with us again. He keeps his head down; he's got a family to look after. It's not as if he can come into Sherwood to join us."
"That's the problem of taking on a family, isn't it. Bringing them in here." Alan stood there and thought of Nesta.
"One of the reasons why you and Mildred didn't stay with us?" John asked.
"Do you really think Loxley would have put up with me back then?" Alan said wryly.
John laughed. "Aye, Robert's an entirely different person."
"No, I thought of it and then thought better. Children were bound to come and Mildred and I needed to be settled. I haven't been a minstrel all my life, you know. As a child, I helped my father work his land in our village. He was elderly - past fifty when I was born - and so I worked hard on our land from a very early age." They moved on through the trees again.
John regarded Alan curiously at the sudden flood of information. The man had never spoken of his childhood before. John thought of growing up with his tumble of siblings at Haversage. Most had survived the perils and illnesses of childhood. "You the only one?"
"It was my mother's second union," Alan replied. "I don't think she was expecting to produce anything from it as by then she was old for child-bearing too - but I arrived. I have two half-sisters. The product of my mother's first union. But they are a lot older than I. Were wedded by the time I was born."
John gave a grunt of acknowledgement and decided not to pry for anymore information.
"What do you think of Jenet?" Alan asked curiously as they moved on. "I've heard enough of what Will thinks - but you've not said a word. Tuck doesn't seem to think she's as bad as Will makes her out to be - but then Tuck is in the business of forgiving."
John scratched his head. "Jenet played Will for a fool six years ago. But only because she had to. She's a woman of some spirit, I'd say."
"Really?" Alan wondered. "That hasn't manifested itself so far to me. She seems almost....cowed in Elsdon. Forced to its edges."
"Who knows what may have happened to her in the last six years," John pointed out.
Alan fell to pensive thought as they walked on through the forest. He realised he did not know Jenet at all. ******************************** |
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| MEG ~ Written by Esther. Posted on the HoS Yahoo group September 2006.
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Meg opened her eyes and stared at the wall of the cott facing her. The mud that sealed the wooden wattles was cracking from the heat of the summer and would need patching before winter came. Yet another job on a long list of things that needed doing. She sighed and rolled onto her back, wrapping her hands across her belly to help the move. The baby kicked in protest - a hard and determined protest at that - and she winced.
That must have been what woke me, she thought. Drawing in a breath, she rolled onto her other side with some effort. She had lain down meaning only to rest for a few moments, but the patch of sunlight passing through the sacking at her window and onto the floor had moved several inches across the beaten earth. It must be late afternoon and that meant she'd slept a good part of the day away.
She groaned and swung her legs over the edge of the rickety bed, pushing herself up awkwardly with her hands. The hump of her belly made everything awkward - bending, lifting, even walking was an effort at times. If her reckonings were right, she thought she had a good three or four weeks yet to go before her child decided to enter the world.
It was an event she longed for and dreaded all at the same time.
Longed for because she was sick of the tiredness, the bulky weight, her ankles swelling and her back aching. And dreaded too - because she was a widow and this child would be her responsibility and she did not know if she could do this alone.
She rubbed her eyes. They were swollen and dry - she had wept before sleep had taken her - and now they felt gritty as though a wind had blown dust into them. But she couldn't help the crying when it came.
Some days, any little thing would set her off and it annoyed her.
She had never been given to weeping fits. She had learnt early on that the boys of Wickham liked to make the girls cry. The best way to get them to leave you alone was not to let them see a hint of a tear - or you were done for and they would tease you mercilessly until the tears fell. But since Adam had died.....
She blinked hurriedly and pushed herself off the bed, carefully
feeling out the rungs of the short ladder down to the floor. _No!_
she thought. _I have work to do and crying can wait_.
She sniffed to clear the threatening tears and then sniffed again.
Something smelt bad. She crossed the room to the rough worktop where she kept her pots and tested the air cautiously with her nose, trying to locate the smell.
Glancing up into the beams overhead, she caught sight of the last of the pigeons John had brought her hanging from a piece of rope by its feet. She had meant to put it in the pot last night but had been too tired and now the sweet smell of flesh left too long hanging in the heat filled the cott.
She looked about her to find the long pole with its hook, but it was not in its place beside the door. She had used it to hang up the pigeon and forgotten to put it back. Adam would not have liked that, she thought, he had liked the cott kept ordered and everything to have its place.
She found it at last, lying beneath the table where it had rolled
when she'd thrown it down. Lifting it up, she angled the hook into the loop of twine around the pigeon's rigid feet and unhooked it. The movement disturbed a cloud of flies hidden in the feathers; one trapping itself in her hair as it tried to escape. She batted it away impatiently.
The pigeon dangled precariously at the end of the pole and the
sickly-sweet stench rolled towards her in a solid wave. She gagged and turned her head aside, holding the pole as far from her body as possible as she pushed her way through the entrance cloth hanging at the door.
The bright sunlight made her blink and she paused for a moment, breathing in deep lungfuls of fresh air. The heat of the afternoon hung heavy over the village, trapping the smell of grass and the scent of hawthorn from the hedge that marked the boundary with her nearest neighbour. The ground was baked hard and crumbled beneath her feet as she made her way down the length of the garden, the pole held as far away as she could keep it.
Flies buzzed and danced over the midden and it took her several minutes to jerk the pigeon off the hook and onto the rubbish heap without touching it. Her mother would give her a severe talking to if she could see that waste of good meat, she thought. Especially at this time of year, with the last of the spring vegetables running low and the harvest still weeks away.
She turned, thoughtful now, and made her way back into the cott. The smell inside had lessened, but a glance into the pot beside the hearth told her that the last of the stew, made from the other pigeons, had gone rank. Placing the hooked pole beside the door where it belonged, she bent carefully to lift the heavy pot and headed back down towards the midden to empty it.
_Now mother really would have strong words for me_, she thought ruefully, as she turned the mess of meat and vegetables out and banged the pot against a stone to loosen the burnt bits stuck to the bottom.
I really must put my mind to things, she told herself, as the
congealed food slid and then settled. The villagers of Sedgeley had been good to her, but she could not rely on them all the time, even with a new babe to care for.
The idea of being alone frightened her so much she dared not think on it - or how to cope with a new 'un. She knew she had only to ask and help would be given, but it was not the same as Wickham. Not the same as family. And friendly or no, she could not tax the winter supplies of other families with children and force them into hardship.
She wiped her hands on the grass to rid them of the smell of the
ruined stew and turned. To her left stood a bank of earth topped by undergrowth that separated her garden from that of the croft next door. No sound came from the other side and she savoured the fact that the village beyond was quiet, empty. She did not want visitors; it was hard to make small talk when her mind had so much playing on it.
To her right stood a low, stone wall set in a square and sectioned off within by wattle fences to hold her animals when they came down from the meadow. Several of the fences had begun to fall apart. At the top end of the garden stood the cott, its square, straight sides partially covered by a low thatched roof. The thatch was worn in places and covered by a thick growth of moss. More work to be done before winter or the goats would escape their pens and her roof would leak. There was so much to do that she barely knew where to start.
She set off back up the path. Her vegetable garden bordered it on either side and the soil - so carefully dug and sown scant months ago - had baked hard, forcing the plants up to expose the roots.
The beans and peas were clear of weeds - she vaguely remembered John mentioning he'd seen to them - but they were withered and browned, the precious pods drying out from lack of care. The carrots, their white tops showing beneath brown fronds, looked far too small for the time of year. And the herb garden had gone to seed. The shallots were flowering, the parsley too. She would have to pinch the heads off or the garden would be overrun by them.
A sharp pain arrowed up her thigh and into her groin as the baby
shifted again. She caught her breath and eased herself onto the
bench Adam had made against the wall of the hut. He had seen the pride she'd taken in the garden and enjoyed her pleasure as her plantings took hold and grew. So he'd gone to the carpenter and had him rub smooth a half -section of a tree trunk, which he'd nailed to the wall for her to sit on.
That same evening they'd sat together in the dusk as the swallows dipped and turned in the sky, and made plans for the future, little knowing that Adam would be dead within a few weeks.
She put her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. If she thought on this she would cry and crying exhausted her and made her good for nothing - didn't they say 'twasn't good for a baby if the mother was melancholy? But Adam was gone and she missed him...no, she realised suddenly, it was more than that. If Adam was to appear before her now, she wouldn't throw herself into his arms. She would bunch her fists and beat at any part of his body she could reach.
She was hurting, she was lonely, she was afraid of what might come - but more than that, she was angry. She was furious at him for getting himself killed and ruining their lives and leaving her like this. Everyone expected her to weep, that was the acceptable face of her widowhood - pain, grief, loss - but did anyone understand this anger within her? How could you feel anger at a dead man - a dead husband - for something not his fault? But she did.
Opening her eyes again, a movement caught her attention, a dark blur within the hedge. Placing the pot on the ground, she rose cautiously and listened to the rustling within the bushes. Too big for an animal, too small for a man - and if a stranger had entered the village the dogs would've set up a racket.
The rustle and snap of twigs moved along the hedgerow and she followed its progress until she came to a hole, where the dogs took a short cut as they patrolled the village. She thrust her arm into the gap and grabbed, her fingers closing on warm skin. She pulled hard and small boy emerged from within. He gave a startled yelp and something fell from his hand to smash at her feet.
"Daniel Carpenter - what are you doing sneaking 'round here!" she demanded, more in surprise than anger.
The boy, his face grimy and scratched from his sudden exit through the briary undergrowth, flushed guiltily and stared down at the mess at their feet. Meg followed his gaze then placed her hands firmly on her hips. A yellow yolk floated gelatinously on the mud, cracked shell lying about it.
"Stealin' my eggs are you?" she said.
Daniel, the carpenter's youngest son, drew his head back up and shook it hard. "No, I weren't stealing them, honest! Me Mam asked me to collect them for you - they was going to waste and we thought p'rhaps...p'rhaps..." he tailed off uncertainly.
"P'rhaps what?" Meg demanded, the anger within boiling up and making her tone shrill.
Daniel screwed up his face as though recalling something overheard rather than related to him directly. "John stopped by last time he were here and asked Mam to keep an eye out for you - said he thought you were dwelling still on...things. Mam told me to come an' see if you needed anything, so I did, but you were asleep an' I thought I ought'n to wake you, but two of the hens were already nesting an' you'd be losin' all the eggs if they all got broody an' I thought I ought to collect them for you…" Daniel tailed off again after this breathless speech.
Meg stared at him a moment, then relaxed, her hands dropping from her hips. They were bound to talk about her in the village - only natural she supposed, that they discussed what to do about the widow of Sedgeley when the winter came.
"Show me the nesters," she said.
Daniel slipped his hand into hers and drew her closer to the hedge. She felt his small, hot fingers twitch within hers, a warning to be silent and be gentle with her movements; then she bent her head beside the child's and together they peered down through the branches.
Deep within the tangle of twigs and briars, one of the hens had made herself a nest in a dip in the bank. She cocked her head at them, staring up with an unblinking eye as she crouched her body closer about her clutch. Meg smiled a little, understanding the defensive movement. Her own body drew close around her baby at times, as though to protect the child within.
"There'll be plenty of chickens for the pot come winter," she said, wryly.
Daniel released her hand and she straightened, pushing the palms of her hands against her back to ease it. The nagging ache that came and went throughout the day had returned. To take her mind off it she turned back to the garden, assessing the damage wrought on it by a month of neglect. It was not beyond repair, she decided, but she'd need water, and lots of it.
"Come t'help did you?" she asked the boy, his round, freckled face upturned and squinting in the sun. He nodded and waited for her to continue.
"You'll find two pails behind the cott. One for us each. We'll take
a walk down the river, Daniel. An' if you help me fix up my garden, two of this hen's chicks will be yours when they hatch. You'll have to earn 'em though - no shirking with the heavy work."
Daniel took a moment to think, weighing up the value in his mind and savouring his brothers' envy when he came home with two, fluffy chicks to call his own. It was, he decided, a very good deal. He trotted off around the side of the cott to fetch the pails.
_Tackle the jobs one at a time_, Meg thought as she watched him go, a sense of relief washing over her that a decision had been made about where to start. _An' I won't worry about the next until this one is done_. ************************************
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