Bardess of Rhulon Read online

  “I could have, but I decided to retire here in blessed obscurity and rest my weary bones in peace. This old cottage belonged to my grandfather and he left it to me many years ago. It’s decrepit, the roof leaks, and I think there are mice living in the walls, but it’s a quiet nest for me in my old age. Of course, when folks heard Belenus Aylecross, Bard of the First Order, had settled here, parents dragged their sons here to be instructed. Not one of them was worth salt. Then you banged on my door, with your lute on your back and a scroll of poetry in your hand. You announced that you wanted to be a Bard! I almost laughed, but something inside me whistled caution. Then, when I heard you sing and listened to your poetry and storytelling, I knew you had the gift.” He looked pensive now, his green eyes shadowed. “But what will you do with my training, truly? There are no female bards among our clans. None have held that rank in more than a century.”

  Rose picked up her lute and fiddled with tuning the strings. “That’s why I want to travel. I must find my own path. You’ve spoken of women in other lands that are considered equals among men. I don’t belong here. I don’t want a husband or wailing babies. My dream is to be a Bard. It has been since I was four years old when I saw an old Bard perform during Solstice that year in the village. He told marvelous tales of adventure and sang with the most wonderful voice. I knew from that moment that was what I wanted to be. I studied on my own until you came to our village. If I want to become a true bard, I must leave here. You know that, Master.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “South to Tirangel, I think. The land of the tall folk seems daunting, but you did it. I’m not sure, but I must find my home on the road. Tell the stories. Sing the songs. Maybe I’m cursed, as you say. I’m saving the money I earn from singing. Last week I sang at the spring festival, plus there are always weddings and christenings. Until I reach adult age, I will do my best to please mother, barring marriage to some oaf, of course.”

  “What about your father? It will be hard on him to see his only girl leave.”

  “I will miss Papa. I know he tolerates my love of poetry and music as a childish dream, but he’s never berated me for it. Papa overrode my mother’s refusal for me to study with you—even though she raved liked a banshee for days. She burned supper three nights in a row to punish us both. Papa always spoiled me a little; sometimes I think to compensate for mother’s strict demands. I’m their only child. Still, if I were a boy, they would praise me for my bard ambitions; as a girl, I am rebuked for it. They think I will put on a matronly apron and bake pies, but how many pies must suffer a scorched death before they realize I’m not like other girls?”

  Belenus put down his cup and walked over to the window, his slight limp not slowing his step. He opened the curtains to let in the last of the day’s sunshine and fresh air. “You’re only seventeen. That’s so young. I’m passed seventy winters now, beyond the time of supple youth and hot hearts. The decades have turned me gray and stiffened my joints, yet if I could walk a few good miles a day, I would still be on the road singing for my supper.”

  Rose tried to imagine Belenus Aylecross, still in his youthful prime and her imagination erased the crippling of age and grey hair. Yes, she could envision the young bard, defiant and strong, storming through the world with his lute. She could sense his captivity now, here in their insignificant village of Stone Haven. She felt a sorrow for him at that moment, but concealed it, knowing he would chafe at her pity.

  He turned to Rose, his gaze serious. “What do you want Rose?”

  “Freedom,” she replied.

  “Freedom has a price,” Belenus warned. “It takes more than a sharp memory or a singing voice to be a bard, so much more and you have it, but it involves sacrifice. It can be a stark life touched with loneliness.”

  The wall clock chimed. Rose jumped to her feet. “Oh blast! Mother will have a fit if I’m late for supper tonight.” She carefully slipped her lute into its leather cover and slung it across her shoulder.

  “All that fuss just to eat at a specific time? Odd to be so persnickety about time tables when folks don’t go anywhere.”

  “We’re having company. Simon and his mother are coming to supper. At least Mother invited Peony and Tom too.” She opened the front door and stepped outside for her shoes, caked with mud. She pulled them on and kicked against the outside wall, breaking off the dried earth in crusty chunks. “If I’m late again, I’ll never hear the end of it.” She hiked up her skirts and bolted. “Thank you, Master! See you next week!”

  “Be careful not to fall in the mud this time,” Belenus shouted as she jumped over a fallen tree branch without breaking her stride.

  As Rose rushed home, the black storm cloud in her mind still hovered with mysterious threat, no matter how fast she raced from it.

  Chapter Two

  Knowing her mother would never tolerate a speck of dirt in her immaculate kitchen, Rose slipped her filthy shoes off outside. She tiptoed through the back door, listening for her mother, but the kitchen was empty and silent. Good. Exhausted, she lifted the lute case off her shoulder and laid it on the table. Her stomach growled painfully. The dinner platters were neatly arranged on the kitchen table, like a wicked temptation. Mashed potatoes, rolls, and fried chicken made her faint with hunger. Sweet corn bubbled on the stove. The heavenly smell of gooseberry pies cooling on the window sill tempted her with yummy sin. The basket of rolls was singing to her. Golden and fluffy—and there were so many, her mother would never miss just one! She was so famished! Rose reached for a plump biscuit just as her mother burst into the kitchen. She jerked her hand back like it had been burned.

  “Where have you been?” Gerta demanded. She twisted a dish towel in her hands, curly tendrils of dark hair dared to stray from her tight hair bun as she waited for an answer.

  “With Master Belenus for my lessons,” Rose answered simply. “You know that, Mother. We spent half an hour arguing about it before I left.”

  “Oh, that nonsense!” Gerta sniffed and glanced down at Rose’s bare feet and the muddy hem of her skirt, frowning. “What happened to your nice dress? And where are your shoes, Rose?”

  “They got dirty,” Rose murmured, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, Mother. The shoes are outside so I would not mess up your floor. I was going to clean them—”

  “Never mind!” Gerta threw up her hands in disgust and turned her back on Rose. She stirred the corn in the pot, adding a pinch of salt. “Don’t just stand there. Go wash up. Supper is almost ready and they’ll be here any minute. Hurry down when you’re presentable as a proper lady. I need your help to set the table.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And wear your blue frock. I ironed it for you while you were out doing your foolishness. I laid it out on your bed.”

  “But Mother, that’s my church dress for Soldays.” Rose hated that dress. It was stiff as wood and itched like poison ivy.

  “You will wear it tonight. Please do something with your hair too! You look like a wild ragamuffin. Now scurry, missy! Your father will be home soon.” Gerta pointed to the lute. “Take that thing upstairs.”

  “Yes Mother,” Rose replied evenly, knowing it was insane to even try and reason with her mother when she was flustered about dinner guests. She did not understand the fuss—it was only Simon and his prudish old mother. Why the hubbub about tonight?

  Away from her mother’s sharp demands in the sanctuary of her small bedroom, she breathed deeply and closed her eyes in the only safe and calm place. Rose carefully put her lute in its designated corner. Her shoulders and back ached. She had a raging headache from hunger.

  “Best to get this over with,” she mumbled.

  Rose stripped off her muddy dress and underclothes and stuffed them in the hamper. Rose lathered her face, neck, hands, and feet with homemade honeysuckle soap. Sweaty from running, she lathered her armpits too. Her mother had a sharp nose, so it was best to be cautious. She splashed her face with cool water, hoping it would ease her throbb
ing head.

  A raven outside her window cawed shrilly and her head throbbed violently. The raven was Karta’s symbol, and because Karta was her patron goddess, Rose usually liked ravens. Today its cries rattled her nerves. “Oh Karta, goddess of fate, stop me from losing my temper with Mother and spilling gravy on my best dress,” she prayed. The nagging feeling of dread she had suffered all day did not diminish, but deepened with every breath.

  Rose tried to shake it off as she brushed out her long chestnut hair and tied it back with a blue satin ribbon. After donning a fresh chemise and bloomers, she slipped into the coarsely starched blue dress with the flounced skirt and buttoned the front bodice with the tiny rose-shaped white buttons. The lace collar of her dress tightened around her neck—like a noose. She sighed and pulled on her white stockings and stepped into the ivory shoes with silver buckles. They were pretty but pinched her toes.

  Rose checked herself in the mirror, hoping to satisfy her mother’s pristine standards, but looked more like a rigid, lacy doll. A gruff tomboy with no graces was her mother’s usual taunt. Rose was a smidge over four feet tall. Her mother was relieved when she stopped growing last year. Freckles dusted her tanned face from running about in the sunshine—not a proper creamy complexion most girls prized. Not even her mother’s constant application of buttermilk lotion faded her offending freckles.

  Rose felt incomplete, as though fate was still weaving her image; like a caterpillar ready to emerge from its warm, concealing cocoon—but what will I become?

  Gerta’s piercing shout snapped Rose from her inner musings. Goodness, how her voice carried. It was enough to scare the gods!

  “Rose, hurry up! I need you downstairs now! The table will not set itself, you know.”

  “I’m coming, Mother!” Rose shouted back.

  Rose took careful steps down the stairs, since her good shoes hurt. In the dining room, Gerta had already set the table, placing her best hand-painted plates on the crisp white linen tablecloth which was topped with a delicate lace cover that was usually reserved for Solstice dinner. Apparently, Gerta was too impatient for Rose to do this simple task.

  Gerta folded the napkins, frowning. “Such a slow girl. Lazy as an old cat. No common sense for what’s proper. Why can’t she behave like a normal girl? That’s going to change! What did I do to deserve such an ungrateful child?”

  “I can hear you, Mother.”

  “Then get to work,” she snapped without missing a beat for an apology. “We have much to do, young lady. Much to do!”

  Rose finished setting the table, acutely aware of her mother’s verbal barbs in an unrelenting bitter tirade. Rose tried to ignore her by gritting her teeth. She prayed for the arrival of the guests which would provide deliverance from her mother’s oral assault.

  “Why all this fuss over Simon and his mother?” Rose asked, trying to change the topic from Rose’s failure and her mother’s incessant scorn to something safe and neutral. “They’ve been here for dinner before. It’s not like an Ironheart is coming to dinner. And Simon’s table manners are not exactly princely.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful. This is a big occasion. Simon’s finished his apprenticeship with your father. He may go into business with him now, which is a blessing. Old widow Agnes has all that money her husband left her. Simon could buy into the business. Then your father could spend more time at home, if he had a partner to shoulder some of the burdens. The village is growing and a good blacksmith is never short of patrons.”

  “I hope Peony arrives first. I haven’t seen much of her in a few weeks and I’d like to catch up.”

  “Well, being a proper wife and mother is very demanding work.”

  “I know, Mother,” Rose sighed wearily, lining up the good silver on the table.

  “If you realized that then you’d be married by now and I’d have grandchildren to cuddle.”

  Rose smoothed the lace tablecloth and bit her lip to prevent the retort that burned on her tongue. She took a deep breath and said, “I do hope Simon and his mother don’t stay long tonight. His mother hates me and I don’t care much for him.”

  “What’s your problem with young Simon? He’s a fine young man with prospects. He certainly speaks well of you.”

  Rose wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “His hair is greasy and he reeks of onions and soot.”

  “Rose Greenleaf, what an improper remark!”

  You insult me at every turn. How is that proper?

  Jack Greenleaf stepped through the front door, preventing her mother’s tirade before it exploded. “Where are my ladies?” he shouted.

  Gerta’s brow creased in agitation, but she closed her mouth. Jack Greenleaf always tried to soften Gerta’s ridicule and thankfully her mother was too busy for another argument on Rose’s unwed status.

  “Papa!” Rose cried, relieved at his arrival. She ran to him and hugged, her arms barely reaching around his broad chest. “Here, let me take your coat.” Rose hung it on the front peg by the door.

  “Thanks, Rose,” he sighed wearily.

  “What’s wrong, Papa? You look so tired.”

  He patted her shoulder and smiled. “It’s just been a long day, my dear. How was your lesson with Master Aylecross?”

  “Wonderful, Papa. I learn so much from him.” Her father always asked about her lessons and Rose loved having someone to share it with. “I learned three new songs and recited the war poem of King Gregor Ironheart.”

  “The whole thing!”

  “The whole thing! I didn’t miss a line. It took me almost half an hour to do it too. My rhythm was a little off though, I think. I also asked Master Belenus about his time in Tirangel and Rhundoran Keep. He told me that—”

  “Don’t bother your father with that rubbish now,” Gerta interrupted, rushing into the room with a basket of biscuits. “Jack, go clean up and put on your nice wool jacket and a clean shirt. The Split-Oaks will be arriving any minute.”

  Gerta permitted Jack to kiss her on the cheek in passing, while she placed the linen napkins in perfect alignment with the plates. “Yes, dear,” Jack nodded, climbing the stairs to do his wife’s bidding. After many years of marriage, Jack learned to comply with Gerta’s domestic demands.

  Gerta kept Rose running to and fro with final touches. When Rose placed a crock of fresh homemade butter next to the steamy hot biscuits, they smelled so good she almost snatched one, but her mother’s brittle stare stayed her hand. Her look would have frightened off a ravenous troll.

  Thankfully, Peony and her husband Tom arrived first. Peony was more like a sister to Rose than a cousin. They all hugged in the foyer. Peony usually softened her mother’s mood. Tom was a cheerful and stout fair-haired man who had his own bakery. He adored Peony and that made him golden in Rose’s eyes.

  “Peony, you look wonderful,” Rose gushed. “That pink frock becomes you. Is it new?”

  Peony, a delicate, petite blonde with kind hazel eyes, smiled and took her hand. “Yes, I made it last week.” Peony whispered in her ear, “You look so…starched.” The two giggled while Tom and Jack allowed the girls their moment until a knock on the door interrupted their happy chat.

  “Answer the door, Rose,” Gerta ordered, placing a large bowl of mashed potatoes on the table. Rose salivated at the sight of the buttery mash and rushed to obey, hoping they would eat soon before she fainted from hunger.

  Simon Split-Oak and his mother, Agnes, entered with solemn importance. Simon Split-Oak was tall, but a bit shorter than Rose, so he always puffed up when she stood next to him. Built like an ox, thanks to his mother’s hearty meals and an even heartier appetite. Simon was a beefy specimen. Only the hard work of the forge kept his bulk from turning into fat. He had been her father’s apprentice since Rose left school at age thirteen. She rarely talked to him though, since he disdained books and music. He wore his good brown suit and looked cleaner than usual, but his wavy black hair was greasy as ever and he still smelled like onions.

  Agnes was an obstinate ol
d woman who despaired about anything young or new. She was middle-aged when she bore Simon; a miracle since Agnes believed she was barren for most of her life. A widow for eight years now, Agnes was the epitome of the proper Dwarf matron. She was petite, modest and somber of dress, for she always wore black, except for her white widow’s cap trimmed in black lace. She hobbled on a polished black cane topped with a silver handle. Frail of bone and grey of hair, in contrast Agnes’ character was hard as iron. Agnes clung to her son with tenacity and looked down on every girl in the village as not being good enough for her strapping young son.

  Rose curtsied, keeping her eyes downcast and voice soft in front of Agnes. That old crone would snap at you like a spiteful old turtle if you crossed her the wrong way. Rose did not want any squabbles to lengthen their visit or bring further reprimand on her. She just wanted to eat and go to bed. Rose took their cloaks and hung them on the pegs. “Welcome to our home.”

  “Hello Rose,” Simon nodded with a smile. “I went to Belenus Aylecross’s house this afternoon to walk you home, but he said you had already gone.”

  “Oh, what a shame,” Rose whispered with downcast eyes. “I’m sorry I missed you.” She hated lying, even to Simon.

  “Good evening, Miss Greenleaf,” Agnes snickered, clinging to her son’s arm. “A young girl should not be rambling about without a proper escort. People may get the wrong idea.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Split-Oak,” Rose replied with forced gravity. “Please go into the dining room. Dinner is ready to be served.”

  Agnes skimmed Rose with rheumy eyes and snickered, “What…no trousers today, Miss Greenleaf? Afraid someone might take you for a boy instead of a girl for once?”

  Rose replied in the most submissive and gentle tone. “Not tonight, Mrs. Split-Oak. My trousers are upstairs, if you prefer that I change?”

  I’m going to pay for that.