Bardess of Rhulon Read online

  Rose knew it was risky to spar with Agnes, but sometimes the old lady just irked her good nature. Agnes did not reply to her ill-timed humor, but wrinkled her nose as though she had a whiff of something fetid.

  Agnes squeezed Simon’s thick arm, her eyes bright with pride. “Well Miss Greenleaf, don’t you have anything to say to my boy about his accomplishment?” Agnes wheedled.

  Agnes always referred to unmarried girls with a sneering ‘Miss,’ as though being unmarried were a state of shame and degradation.

  Rose curtsied with demure modesty. “Congratulations on finishing your apprenticeship and becoming a blacksmith, Simon.”

  “Thank you,” Simon answered haughtily.

  “My son’s good at everything he does. He’ll soon be best blacksmith in all the southern counties.”

  Rose’s father rescued her from further cruel examination by stepping between them and shaking Simon’s hand and then deftly took Agnes hand in welcome. “Welcome, Agnes and Simon! Come on into dinner before it gets cold. So glad you could sup with us tonight. We have much to celebrate now that Simon has achieved the status of blacksmith. You raised a fine young man, Agnes.”

  Simon patted his mother’s hand and guided her to the table. “Come Mother, let’s not fuss. Is that chicken I smell?”

  Rose mouthed a silent thank you to her father and went to the table. Rose and Peony exchanged grins as Agnes continued to moan about the deviance of youth.

  Despite the formality of tonight’s dinner, the meal was splendid. It took her mother’s home cooking to mute Agnes Split-Oak’s opinions. For such an infirm old lady, she ate with gusto. Baked chicken, mashed potatoes whipped with heavy cream and butter, biscuits, sweet corn, and gravy. Rose was too ravenous to think about taking tiny ladylike portions, and scooped large heaps of everything onto her plate.

  Embarrassed, Gerta put down her fork and hissed, “Rose, your manners! Goodness, people will think we never feed you!”

  You didn’t today, Rose mused in silent revelry. You shoved me out the door with a very long list of ridiculous errands before I could even have a cup of tea.

  Gerta passed the crock of butter to Agnes. “I must apologize for my daughter. Rose is usually a very delicate eater.”

  Peony burst out laughing, mixing her corn and mashed potatoes together. “No she isn’t, Auntie. Her appetite is boundless.”

  Tom buttered a biscuit, agreeing with his wife. “Rose usually eats like starving bear after hibernation. If more folks ate like Rose, my bakery would make me a rich man.”

  “I’m always a bit jealous at how she keeps that trim figure,” Peony said. “I’m envious of her tiny waist while my waistline just keeps expanding, especially after having two babies.”

  “A small price to pay for the sacred role of motherhood,” Gerta added, chewing tiny bites of chicken and nibbling her biscuit with delicate care.

  “More to love, sweet,” Tom said, kissing Peony on the cheek.

  Rose was glad Tom and Peony were so happy. It was a love match, not arranged like some weddings. Rose liked Tom too. He did not treat her like a silly girl or think her crazy for her love of music and poetry. He also gave her free sweet rolls whenever she stepped into the bakery to visit.

  Peony put another biscuit on her husband’s plate and said, “Remember the cake eating contest a few years ago? Rose won after eating a whopping—”

  “I must check my pies,” Gerta said quickly. “Please help me, Peony. I so miss you, my dear. Tell me about little Nettie and Cody. They are getting so big!”

  “Yes, Auntie Gerta,” Peony said, rising from the table and throwing Rose an apologetic glance.

  Soon dinner was over and the plates cleared away for the best part—dessert! Gooseberry pies and a bowl of fresh whipped cream were brought to the table by Gerta and Peony. Rose still looked forward to pie despite the large meal she just ate. Rose was obligated to pour the coffee and Gerta served the sherry in her finest citrine-colored glasses with delicate stems. Peony cut the pies into generous slices and served them on the good dessert plates with clean forks. She passed them around to each person. Rose sat down and added lots of cream and sugar to her coffee and piled a few good spoonfuls of whipped cream on her pie too. She had been looking forward to this all day. Despite their disagreements, her mother was one of the best cooks in Stone Haven. Gerta’s pies and cakes often won top ribbons at the local fairs and festivals, which she accepted with modest pride.

  Jack Greenleaf stood and raised his glass of sherry. Everyone followed his example. Rose impatiently waited for him to toast Simon, eager to eat her dessert. Let it be full of praise but brief, Rose wished fervently. That pie looks so yummy!

  Jack cleared his throat. With solemn pride he raised his glass. “Today is a special day. My apprentice and a fine young man, Simon, finished his training as a blacksmith. We have also decided to become partners and will expand our business together.”

  “Here, here,” they all joined in. Rose took only a small sip, for she was more anxious for the sweet confection before her.

  “There is more to celebrate,” Jack declared, his expression serious. “Simon will not only be a partner of the forge, but of this family. He has asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage.” He paused, looking down at his shoes, until Gerta stood up and took his arm tightly. “Go on Jack. Tell everyone our happy news.”

  Jack nodded and raised his glass again. “I have accepted his offer for my only daughter, Rose. We have agreed on a dowry and the marriage will take place next Solday at noon.”

  Rose froze, the glass of sherry paused at her lips. She could not breathe or make a sound or even think with clarity. Married to Simon? Next Solday? That’s in six days! She felt as though she had died in that instant and no one was polite enough to notice. The starchy lace collar strangled her and each breath was a struggle. Her fine meal was a heavy brick tormenting her stomach. She managed to register the shocked gasps from Peony and Tom.

  That unknown black storm cloud of chaos was unveiled now. It had chased her all day, always at the back of her mind, haunting her. Her silly fear that nagged her all day exposed to a fate grimmer than even she could imagine.

  Rose did not fail to notice Simon’s proud stance, accepting the prize he had won—Rose. His arrogance was only surpassed by his mother’s. Agnes glanced at Rose with narrowed eyes, as though she could not wait to torment Rose when she was under her strict thumb in Simon’s house. Rose looked at her mother, who beamed with smug satisfaction at her domestic conquest as she sipped her cordial. Arranged marriages were common enough, she just never realized her parents would do this to her. Wordless, Rose looked to her father, but he turned away from her questioning and desperate gaze.

  Her mother poured more sherry for everyone, giddy in her triumph. “Well, speak up Rose. What do you have to say about the fine match we have made for you? Don’t you want to thank your Mother?”

  All tender feelings for her mother vanished in that instant.

  The dining room fell silent and Rose finally felt the air escape her lungs. Rose gently set down her glass of sherry and finally spoke—soft, barely above a whisper, but with firm conviction.

  “No. I will not marry Simon.”

  Chapter Three

  Agnes Split-Oak, insulted by Rose’s refusal, gasped with shock. Her eyes popped as though struck by an anvil. Her wrinkly face twisted with such searing anger Rose thought the aged woman would burst into flames, like some terrible creature of myth. “Come Simon, we’re done here!” Despite her infirmity, she hobbled away with amazing speed, her cane scuffing Gerta’s gleaming oak floor. Simon said nothing. He simply turned away from Rose and followed his mother out.

  “I’m so sorry, Simon,” Rose called after him. He did not acknowledge her words. She didn’t want to hurt anyone.

  “Oh dear, oh dear—Agnes, Simon, please WAIT!” Gerta cried after them, dropping her fragile cordial glass on the table. The contents spilled and stained the snowy cloth. Gerta ca
st a furious glance at Rose, pointing her finger at her like a sword of doom. “Don’t you dare say another word or even move, Rose Elisa Greenleaf!”

  Gerta chased after the Split-Oaks, wailing her apologies. Rose remained standing in the same spot, her anxiety rising with each ragged breath, nervously smoothing her skirt with her hands and wishing the earth would swallow her up.

  Desperate, Rose turned at her father. “Papa, I’m so sorry but I can’t marry Simon—”

  With brusque finality he held up his hand. “No, Rose.” I don’t want to hear it.” He walked out of the dining room.

  Rose’s pleadings fell silent. Her tenuous hope for her father’s support vanished. She thought she would crumble right there if it were not for Peony’s support. Her plump hand brushed Rose’s cheek affectionately. “Are you all right, Rosie? Did you know—?”

  “She didn’t tell me a thing, Pea. How long has she been planning this? I can’t believe Mother tried to trick me into this marriage. How could Father go along with this! He never pressed me to get married. Mother thinks announcing it in front of witnesses will make it truth and I would have to marry Simon. It will never happen, not if the god’s demand it! Did she tell you anything, Pea? Please don’t lie.”

  “Of course she didn’t tell me, I swear! I would have told you if she did. You know that.”

  Rose clung to Peony, fearing she would collapse otherwise. “What am I going to do?”

  Peony hugged Rose and stroked her hair, like she did when they were children. “Goodness, I’ve no idea, Rosie. This is pretty bad. I’ve never seen your mother look this cross, even with you.”

  Rose took deep breaths, trying to calm herself. “Cross? CROSS! Try livid, furious, and murderous. Instead of a wedding next Solday, there may be a funeral—mine!”

  “Your bard training has really expanded your vocabulary,” Peony said lightly.

  They both burst out laughing, though only for a single breath before the panic reasserted its brooding presence again.

  “What should I do?” Tom asked, still sitting at the table, uncertain and sweating a little, clutching his napkin to his chubby chin.

  “I’ve no idea,” Peony shook her head. “Wait! Tom, you try talking to her father. But for goodness sake, do not challenge Auntie Gerta right now.”

  “Yes, Dear,” Tom nodded and left the dining room.

  Without Pea’s support, Rose would have crumbled into a heap. Rose wished she could cry, but the tirade of Agnes in the hallway echoed through the house prevented further emotional outbreak. Dangerous curiosity pulled them to rush to the corner and peek at the confrontation between Gerta and Agnes.

  “That girl needs a whipping,” Agnes declared loudly, pulling her cloak around her stooped shoulders and swatting Simon with her cane when he tried to help her. She then pointed her cane at Gerta. “Your daughter is unnatural, Gerta Greenleaf. This is what happens when you let them read books and play outside,” her raspy voice wheezed. “Mark my words; I’ll announce to the whole village what a wretched mother you are and what a trollop your daughter is if you don’t fix this. My Simon wants the little fool, though I can’t fathom why. She’s worthless. She cannot cook or bake or sew like a normal girl. She possesses no feminine virtues. She’s tall as a man and plain as dirt. Your brat won’t be courted by a better offer of marriage than from my boy. Talk sense into your daughter else I’ll show her what’s good for her.”

  “It’s a maiden’s panic, that’s all,” Gerta begged as she opened the door and showed them out. “All will be well, Agnes. Young girls are so flighty you know. Please stay silent about this embarrassing moment. Your Simon will be partnered with my husband soon. We must remain friends, after all. I will take care of this misunderstanding. Just give me a little time.”

  “See that you do,” Agnes warned. She grabbed Simon by the elbow she marched out the door.

  Rose and Peony rushed back to their original places at the table just as Tom bounded down the stairs and ran into the dining room. Rose looked at him for a hopeful sign, but with a glum expression he shook his head. Her father was not going to come between Rose and her mother this time.

  Rose prayed Peony and Tom would be allowed to stay, but Rose was deprived of further emotional support when her mother sent them home. Peony and Tom’s sympathetic faces was the last hopeful thing she saw before Mother pushed them out the door.

  Rose’s mind was barren of ideas. Her quick wit and sharp mind always capable of tough debates and reason deserted her now. All her courage drained away when she declared her refusal to marry Simon.

  Now what?

  But from Gerta’s hostile expression when she returned, it was far from over.

  * * *

  The war of wills lasted three days.

  Gerta locked Rose in her room for daring to refuse marriage to the noble Simon Split-Oak. It was unbearable. Rose tried reasoning with her mother through the door, but in the end her temper would snap. She would beat on the door with her fists, begging her father to help her—but he did not come to her aid by word or deed. That was the worst part of this vile situation. Her mother had always been vocal in her disapproval of everything Rose liked or enjoyed—hiking, horseback riding, fishing, music, books, poetry, and writing stories. Anything that involved living! Rose’s resistance to marriage had been a constant battle for years.

  It was her father’s betrayal that stung Rose’s spirit. He had always been a gentle shelter against her mother’s harsh demands and old-fashioned opinions. Her father’s abandonment in this terrible madness was a bitter revelation. During her incarceration her father did not visit once, though she cried out to him that first day of her confinement until she was hoarse.

  Peony and Tom came every day, but were forbidden to see her. Mother took away her lute, scrolls, and books to further deprive her of any solace. She unlocked the door only to bring her food and drink. The food was barely edible. A deliberate tactic her mother used to demonstrate her power. Plain porridge without milk or honey, bread, and water were all her mother permitted Rose to have. No other food was permitted—not even butter or jam for the bread. It gnawed at Rose, who longed for even an apple, a sweet slice of sponge cake, or a salty slice of ham. She craved steaming cups of tea infused with heavy cream and sugar. But those were denied to Rose as part her punishment. She was treated like a convict in every way.

  The final humiliation was the refusal for her to visit the water chamber in the back yard to do her personal business; instead she was forced to use a chamber pot like an invalid.

  Her Mother also found her stash of money that first day they locked her in. Rose had been keeping it in her pretty wooden trinket box she had bought at a fair two summers ago. She earned every coin from her talents too. Gerta gloated over her discovery and confiscated that too.

  Desperate, Rose prayed to all the gods of her faith, not just her patron goddess, Karta. She doubted the mother goddess Ishar or any of the other gods would rage down from the heavens just for her benefit. They would have better things to do.

  Rose would have to manage her own troubles.

  Belenus Aylecross even came to the house. Rose’s only solace was sitting at the window, since she could not expense the sunshine any other way as a prisoner locked in her room. She saw her Bard Master walk to her front door, staff in hand, and knock on the door. She pressed her face close to the glass, trying to see what was happening. Belenus hated coming into the village and did not like her mother. He wobbled the three miles from his cottage, using his staff to propel his aching hips, to speak for her. If Rose could have climbed out that window to thank him, she would have, however, Jack Greenleaf had nailed the window shut that first day of her incarceration to prevent Rose from escaping. Fresh air was also not permitted for the prisoner.

  The war of wills that erupted between her mother and Belenus was quite loud, though she could not understand all of it. Rose made out words about wedding, bard nonsense, minding your own business, and foolish old hag. Her
mother, usually a stickler for proper manners, did not invite the venerable Bard, a man who performed for kings, inside or offer him refreshment for his pains to visit. Then the door slammed and the fighting ceased.

  Devastated, Rose watched Belenus walk away from the house. She wished she could have spoken to him! He stopped by the front gate. His perceptions must have picked up on her desperate plight. He stopped and turned around, and gazed up at Rose peering through her bedroom window. He smiled up at her, a sad smile that broke her heart. He then bowed, touching the rim of his wide-brimmed hat, before walking away.

  She wept only when he had gone from sight.

  Each visit from her mother brewed only more embittered fights, recriminations, pleadings, and threats.

  Mother, I don’t want to marry. I want to be a Bard. Please don’t do force this false marriage on me.

  Foolish spoiled girl. A female Bard! Bah—unheard of! A woman’s place is with her family. No daughter of mine is going to gallivanting around the countryside singing for her supper like a beggar. Think of the shame!”

  Shame? What of the shame I must endure being married to an oaf who sweats like a pig and smells of onions?

  People are beginning to talk about you, Rose. An unwed maiden at your age speaks ill for your whole family. All these silly fantasies of yours have made you forget your proper place in life. Marriage is the only thing that will restore your place in the village. Simon is a man with prospects.

  Can you only describe a man by whether or not he has prospects, Mother? I don’t even like Simon. How can I grow to care for such a man? He hates books and poetry. He hates music.

  You’re an old maid, Rose. You cannot be choosy now.

  I’m seventeen, Mother, not a crone.

  My daughter is a changeling!

  If only I had a changeling to switch places with, I could escape this damned fate.

  Ingrate!

  Jailer!

  The fights always ended with Gerta storming out and locking Rose in with the key that she now wore at her waist on a chain.