Boots Chapter 6

The morning was grey and chill. Boots settled close to the fire as he ate his morning meal. It was a time of the year for change; sun, rain and sometimes snow, chased each other through the days; the sky above delighting in confounding those bound to the land below. 

Meranin was sitting by the window that opened out to the garden, settled into a pile of blankets in her large, ornate chair. A book was open on the sill allowing her to read by the light of the sun’s early rays. 

“How do you think the weather will be today?” he asked. 

“I don’t think it will rain too much.” She paused in her reading to peer up at the clouds. “Should hold off until at least after midday. I saw the bees go out this morning in no big hurry.” 

It was known that the behaviour of bees could predict the weather, but Meranin’s bees seemed to be more accurate than most. As he warmed his bones and filled his belly, Boots pondered how to best spend his day. He curled the fingers of his right hand; they were stiff and sore. 

“I will take a look at that hand before you make any plans today, Boots,” she said, noticing the gesture. “That’s two days in your field and two days in Balert’s.” 

“Yes, but in Balert’s field I had help,” Boots said with a grimace that was equal parts due to the soreness in his hand and having accepted help in Balert’s field. It had been Balert’s insistence that Boots take extra help in the field for the foreseeable future. Boots was not happy about it, a share in work meant a share in profits, but Balert was immoveable on the point. 

“And thanks to my friends helping out, I think I am – well, I’m not caught up – but things could be much worse. And still no sign of blight in either. I was actually going to go to the village in the afternoon, talk to Balert. And maybe just see some people. I haven’t been there since…you know,” he finished. 

His mother nodded. “I also have business there, and with Balert as well. Why don’t I meet you on the path later? I’ll pack some food.”  

 

Meranin had been right, probably more right than she realized, Boots’ hand was in a lot of pain. Halfway to the field he had to awkwardly pull the cart with his left hand to try and save strength in his right for when he had to work. The only thing that forced him to rest was the knowledge that his hand would heal crookedly if he did not. But every time Boots set out to do something, he realized there was a little more work to be done than he had thought, and that he was slower at it than he used to be, so he always pushed a little harder than he should. 

A few small bursts of rain came along, enough to loosen the soil and encourage the new shoots, so Boots could not complain as it pattered against his back and shoulders while he bent over his work. Boots hammered a few tall stakes in the ground and made a note to ask Balert for something to string between the poles to hang with bits of bright fabric, small stones, shells and sticks. The wind would set everything waving and deter birds with sound and movement. He had stakes to put in Balert’s field as well. 

As planned, he met his mother on the path, a basket under her arm. They leaned against the cart and ate. When they were done, Boots admitted he was not able to pull the cart all the way to the village, so they pulled it off the path and left it in the shelter of some trees. It would be safe enough; the only people who would come across it would be those taking the path to Boots’ cottage. It was more likely someone would do the neighbourly thing and bring it the rest of the way home than steal anything from it. Besides, if someone was after tools, they could certainly do better than Boots’ collection, which was modest in both size and quality. 

As Boots turned to go, he realized his mother was still standing by the cart looking up at the trees. He walked back over, and she has such a calm and appreciative look on her face he took a moment to look around as well. 

The heavy air and the brushing of rain had ignited the forest with green, the trunks of the trees seemed to glow with moss that dripped onto the forest floor to varnish the dark earth in a sheen of emerald. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening or thinking, then took a few deliberate steps towards a fallen trunk to peer over the side. Boots joined her and saw a row of tiny white mushrooms dotting the decaying wood. 

“What are those ones?” Boots asked. 

“Drasir mushrooms,” she said moving around to examine them without touching them, “they are not ripe yet, but they can be a potent consumer of rot.” 

“What does that mean?” Boots asked. 

They turned and went back to the path, the tails of new ferns not yet unrolled dampening their legs. 

“You know that when a wound is sceptic maggots can be used to eat the dead flesh?” she asked. 

Boots nodded, he and Colin had helped Meranin perform the task for livestock in the village. It was delightfully disgusting, and although she was not queasy, Meranin was content to leave the removal of the maggots to Boots and Colin, so long as they were careful. 

“Well, drasir mushrooms can perform much of the same task but on plants.” 

Boots thought it over and followed his mother’s logic. “Are you thinking about this blight Balert was talking about? Could the drasir mushrooms eat it?” he asked. 

“Something like that. Or at least it may consume any rotted plants before they spread. Or even eat the disease out of the soil in the fields and protect the rest of the plants from getting infected.” 

“But?” Boots prompted, hearing the reserve in her voice. 

“‘But’ many things. For starters, drasir mushrooms are difficult to cultivate, they need moisture and shade and prefer wood to soil. Getting them into a field will be difficult. There is also a risk that the blight will kill the mushrooms, or worse, be spread through their roots into more of the soil. I will have to know more about this disease and speak with Jayna on it.” 

 

It was with those weighty thoughts of the blight on his mind that Boots made his way into the village. His thoughts were distracting enough that he forgot it was his first visit to the village since the festival. While convalescing he had imagined judgment and cold stares would greet him from the faces of Holding, but he should have known better. The people of Holding had no care for Lord Narosh and his honour. And their busy little village always found new concerns and gossip to turn their thoughts from old gossip to new. Boots thought he detected a few judgmental looks, and curious glances at his bandaged hand, but that could have been his imagination. Mostly, it felt like any other day in the village, and it felt good to walk its paths again. 

 He waved to a few people, smiling and calling out hellos. His mother delivered stately nods and smiles; occasionally stopping to have a close chat with someone. They were passing the village hall when a large horse out front caught Boots’ attention. 

It was a lovely broad beast, solidly muscled and calm. It was loosely tethered outside, nosing a few things with its ears swiveling to listen to the sounds. Boots stopped and looked more closely. 

Rolled blanket saddle, twin sword pommels poking out from the back where they were wrapped and sheathed. He knew that horse, and he wagered he had seen it yesterday on the path behind him. 

“Boots!” Colin called. 

He turned to see his friend’s excited face approaching. 

“Does that horse belong to -” Boots began. 

Colin’s response came out in a rush before Boots even finished the question. “Yes, Bridda her name is, was with that captain Burig fellow. She’s been hanging around since they left.” 

“Really?” Boots asked, intrigued. 

“Your mother didn’t want us telling you, thought it might upset you,” Colin said, he was a little sheepish about it, but Boots shrugged. He was more interested in any gossip Colin had about the animal and its rider than why his friend had concealed it before. 

“Isn’t that the western way of saddle?” Boots asked. 

“Yes, that is what everyone is saying,” Colin said, excitedly. “Although it’s hard to place her accent, maybe she’s been away for too long. I heard my mother say braids like that are from the north.” 

“The horse doesn’t have braids,” Boots, said checking the mane. 

“No dummy, the lady, Bridda, she has all these braids in her hair.” 

“Oh,” Boots said, trying to picture her. He didn’t remember her hair being long that day by the field or the next day, but he could not remember if it had been braided, tied up or sheared off. It was not surprising; his mind had been on other things when he had seen her last. 

What truly interested him were the pommels sticking out of the bundle on the saddle. He examined the one closest to him. It was certainly a sword hilt, in the style for a shorter blade. It was made of either horn or wood; polished so dark by age and use it was hard to tell which. There were bands of copper set around the crosspiece that seemed to travel a little ways up the blade. But rather than decorated with the usual sinuous designs of interlocking beasts the copper seemed to be engraved with intricate and precise rows or runes.  

“Has she taken the swords out yet?” Boots asked. 

A voice answered from behind them. “No, and if she does it best be for good reason.” 

Boots and Colin both jumped and spun around. Bridda raised an amused eyebrow at them as she strolled by with an apple in hand to feed to her horse. Boots and Colin shuffled a bit further back. 

“It’s all right, she won’t mind, she likes company,” Bridda said, stroking the horse’s nose with one hand while it munched on the apple. 

They had not shuffled away because of the horse. Boots searched his mind for something to say to this soldier-woman that was not as silly as: “can I see your swords?” 

Naturally, Colin was ready with a question. “What’s her name?” Colin asked. 

“Shanksey. It’s short for Longshanks.” She smiled at their looks of confusion. The horse was not that old. 

“She was born as ornery and sullen as an old nag, there’s certainly worse things they could have called her,” Bridda said, with an affectionate smile at the beast. 

Longshanks was a greyish-brown, with dark varnishing at the shoulders and ankles. Her mane and tail were a light straw colour, and her eyes and lashes were dark. Shanksey was not elegant, nor was she some bulgingly proud war beast, but she was certainly handsome and strong. Boots did not know very much about horses, but he knew enough to appreciate how the fair mane contrasted with the dark, glossy coat. A fly landed on her rump, causing her tail to swish and her hide to twitch in a ripple of muscle. 

“She doesn’t seem ornery,” Colin observed. 

Shanksey finished the apple and bumped Bridda with her nose, returning the affection. 

“That’s because we have an understanding,” Bridda explained, resting her forehead against the animal’s for a moment. “As in, we understand each other quite well.” 

Bridda straightened up and looked past the two boys, wiping her hands on her breeches. 

“That’ll be your mother then,” she said, as she stepped around the horse to greet Meranin who was making her way over. 

“Hello Meranin,” Bridda said, with an easy smile. “I don’t think that we were properly introduced. My name is Bridda.” 

This pleasant greeting was met by stony silence and an even stonier composure from Meranin. Sensing the brittleness in the air between them, Colin and Boots took an involuntary step back. But Boots’ mother surprised him by folding her face into a smile and offering her own pleasant if sharply polite greeting. 

“Yes, Bridda, I had heard you were here. I have just been so busy caring for my son,” and here the touch of emphasis was clear, “that we have not had the opportunity to get acquainted.” 

“Well, I’m certainly not here to prevent anyone from going about their business,” Bridda said, with easy brightness. 

“No, why would you ever want to do that?” Meranin asked with a look and tone that implied that was exactly what Bridda intended on doing. 

Colin and Boots exchanged glances. Boots had mentioned to his mother that the woman had tried to stop lord Narosh, but it did not seem to matter to Meranin. His eyes strayed to the two pommels, ‘don’t make me draw my swords’ she had said as the guards moved to block her from Boots. 

Boots looked back at the two women, and Bridda was smiling, as if Meranin had scored a well-made point in a game they were playing. “I’ll tell you what. If you ever want to sit down and get acquainted, I can tell you a lot about why I am here – and also about where I’ve been. When the mood strikes you of course,” Bridda said. 

Meranin pursed her lips and said, “I’ll give it some thought.” Then she turned abruptly to her son. “Boots, I need to look in with Siggu’s father. I’ll be happy to walk home with you later, I’ll find you near the hall.” 

Boots just nodded and his mother marched away. Bridda raised her eyebrows at Boots and Colin with a look that seemed to say that went about as well as it could before giving Shanksey a final pat and sauntering off. 

“Well, it was almost as though they didn’t like each other,” Colin said. 

“I noticed that too,” Boots said. 

Colin glanced over to make sure Bridda was still walking away from them and not about to catch their conversation again. 

“Why do you think she’s really here. Do you think -” Colin paused and looked uncharacteristically nervous “- do you think she’s here to, you know, find out what happened?” 

Boots took a moment to consider what Colin was saying. He answered in the same hushed tone Colin had used. 

“Oh! You mean about the,” he sketched out shooting an arrow with his hands. “I don’t know. Do you think so? I think that’s all over with, what more could they possibly want?” 

Colin was fiddling with the edge of his shirt. Still nervous, but maybe a little uncertain too. “Boots, I never really said about…look I’m really sorry. I never should have encouraged you to do it and then I was too much of a coward to speak out like you did for Siggu.” 

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Boots said, quickly. Managing, for once, to hide his emotions behind a mild tone. 

“That’s nice to say, but how can it be true?” Colin said. He had stopped tugging at his shirt and was watching Boots carefully. 

Boots picked over the thoughts he had endlessly played in his mind, finding the right words as he went. “Because no one would be in any less trouble if you had said something. Sure, maybe you would have been in my place, and then I would be in your place. But, if you were in my place, would you really hold it against me?” Boots asked. Colin opened his mouth to answer but Boots kept going needing to say it out loud. “I think if you were me, you wouldn’t want apologies and stuff, you would just want to be with your friends, and to feel like the same person again. The person you were before things happened.” 

Boots realized they were both avoiding saying exactly what had ‘happened’ and he was comfortable with that. What use was there in always bringing attention to what was missing? Colin looked at Boots thoughtfully, as though just noticing a new haircut, as if there was something a little different about him that he had not noticed before. 

“You’re right,” Colin said. “I think that is how I would feel. But, well,” and they both looked at the horse to avoid the awkwardness of having to see the emotions in each other’s faces, “just remember that if you ever feel angry, or frustrated or want to talk or something. I’ll understand, or at least try to.” 

“Thanks,” Boots said with a half-smile. 

There was silence between them for a few moments, then Colin suggested they go and see if there were any penny pies for sale along the market street. 

“Is that Tafner?” Boots asked as they started walking. 

“Yes,” Colin said with an understanding smile. 

Tafner was coming along the road, her tall lanky form as distinct as ever, but she looked very different. She was wearing pants, and where that was not so unusual for her, she generally wore baggy hand me downs or a hastily altered skirt. Today she was wearing proper pants, more fitted through the leg, showing off her ankles. She had a man’s style shirt on too, that was tucked in. Not to be overlooked, Tafner had completed the look with a brightly coloured scarf to tie the neck of the shirt closed. The most telling part of her outfit was her hair; rather than the usual hasty knot or single plait, it was done in a few smaller braids twisted with some ribbon and pinned around her head. It was probably the most time and care Tafner had ever bothered to put into her hair and outfit. 

“How long has that been going on?” Boots asked, amused but also impressed. The look suited her. 

“It started a few days in, I don’t think Tafner has ever been so smitten with anything, and she isn’t the only one,” Colin said, nodding to a few more girls going by wearing various pieces of clothing hastily altered or borrowed from fathers or brothers. Their hair was also twisted up in braids. 

The group congregated around Bridda, who greeted them all pleasantly and equally whether the speaker was shy or boisterous. If Bridda was aware of the mimicking of her hair and dress she gave no indication that it bothered her. Boots watched as Bridda bent down to receive an apple from a small girl and then look over at Shanksey with a smile and a nod; clearly the gift was for the horse and not for her. Bridda took the girl’s hand and led her over to the horse, the other girls and young women trailing along. 

Boots saw Fauna had joined the group, her face curious, and his heart skittered a little inside his chest. Fauna was still wearing a long skirt, and her hair was done up in the same sort of complicated and neat braids and loops she usually wore. But her friend was wearing wide pants that had probably been a skirt until a few days ago. Fauna spotted Boots and gave a shy smile. He grinned back widely and waved. 

Colin and Boots went to Bessie’s bakery to look at the penny pies made with some of the final stores of last season’s berries and honey. Bessie offered to throw in a third pie if they helped swap out the empty barrels for full ones from the still to the cellar. Colin quickly bartered for two cups of what was in the barrels. Bessie gave them each a considering eye –probably remembering the time they had snuck into the cellars a few years back to help themselves. They contrived to look innocent and trustworthy until she rolled her eyes and sent them off with a warning to be careful. 

They sat outside a little later, thoroughly enjoying their reward. Meranin would spend infinitely more time and care brewing a draught or ointment than she would cooking or baking. And Colin was always fighting off siblings for seconds at mealtimes. They were both happy to have a treat just for themselves. 

Boots added further flavour by sharing what Meranin had told him about her past. It was the smallest of glimpses, but Boots and Colin could not resist trying to guess at more of the picture. 

“Maybe,” Colin speculated, “she was some kind of healer, but to some real fancy hob nobs. Like, maybe she knows some secrets about bastard sons and nobles with diseases they keep hidden. You know, when Balert and Siggu come back with all those stories the ladies love to gossip about?” Colin batted his eyes and whispered with mock fascination, “Lord Crumly has three legs, he stuffs two inside one pant leg to hide it.” 

“Wouldn’t he look rather funny?” Boots asked with a smile. 

“Ah, he has a fourth, fake leg that he stuffs in the other side so that they are the same size. He had a toymaker design it with a bending knee so that he can walk. But every time he has to sit on horse I imagine it would be rather uncomfortable.” 

Boots thought about that for a moment. “But why wouldn’t he just wear the fake leg on the outside instead of in the middle where it goes right into his…?” he asked, indicating at his crotch. 

Colin shrugged, “I never said Crumley was a smart fellow.” 

Boots had another bite of his pie and tried to picture his mother in some busy city, or visiting some mysteriously ill lady in a large, fancy home. He tried to fit her no-nonsense face and plain village dresses into a babble of gossiping grins and colourful, silken intrigue. The image was incongruous, even though the idea had merit.  

They were just licking their fingers clean when they spotted Meranin herself approaching. She was walking with Balert, and Siggu was tagging along a few steps behind. 

Balert rarely mentioned what had happened with Lord Narosh, whether by direction from Meranin or because of his own son’s involvement, but it was clearly on his mind. Interactions with the man were always grating, but lately they had been unusually stiff and curt. As though the merchant was limiting what he said in case something of his true thoughts broke free. The most direct mention of the incident was a statement that Boots’ injury had better not impede his ability to work and the insistence on taking hired help. 

Boots eyes flicked to Siggu and then away again. He knew that Siggu faced his own losses and struggles and guilt. But at the end of the day Boots could not completely ignore the thought that Siggu’s loss was in feelings, things that could be smoothed over and healed by the passage of time. Boots’ loss was permanent, a literal piece of himself gone forever. There would be healing, but nothing would be made whole again. 

Sensing, or guessing, something of Boots’ thoughts, Colin gave his friend’s shoulder a little shove before getting to his feet. Boots rose as well, resisting the urge to straighten his clothing; he wagered Colin resisted the urge to rumple his more. The two used to waver between trying to appear benign to Balert and deliberately provoking his disapproval. Since being employed by the man, Boots had mostly stopped trying to annoy Balert. Although, Boots considered that Balert’s disapproval had now been quite thoroughly provoked. 

As he and Colin brushed crumbs off their fingers, Boots watched the trio approach thoughtfully. For all his superiority and arrogance, Balert always treated Meranin with respect and would sometimes even defer to her opinion. And although Meranin privately considered Balert to be a stuffy twerp, she did trust the man to find her certain goods in his travels and never gossiped about him to others. Boots wondered why this wealthy, traveled, self-aggrandizing merchant took the time to listen to a woman with an unknown past who lived on the edges of a small village. 

As they approached, Meranin shifted her basket from hand to hand, hefting it a little as though it was heavy or uncomfortable. 

“Is your basket heavy? Should I carry it?” Boots offered to his mother. He was already reaching for it before she could answer. 

She started to say, “I think I’ll manage -” but Boots had already seized the handle and lifted. His arm bobbed as he took a moment to balance the heavy basket. 

“Ooof, what did you buy anvils?” he asked, surprised at the weight. 

“Tiny ones, I’d wager,” Colin added, eyeing the size of the basket. 

“You should have told me it would be heavy, we could have brought the cart,” Boots said, momentarily forgetting that they had left the cart because it had been too awkward for him to pull with his hand. Once he had said it, though, he remembered, and realized he would run into the same problem with the basket. Some of what Boots was feeling most have shown on his face because it prompted a quick response from both of his friends, who spoke at the same time. 

“I’ll walk home with you, and we can take turns,” Colin said as Siggu suggested, “I’ll nip home and bring it on my wagon later.” 

Boots was caught between a smile and a cringe, he settled for muttering thank you to both of them. 

“What’s all that over there?” Balert asked, gesturing with his chin to Bridda and her admirers. 

“That’s Bridda, the soldier, sorry, the commander, that’s been staying here,” Siggu said. 

“I know who she is,” Balert said, impatiently. “I want to know what she thinks she is doing.” 

Siggu shrugged. “She’s been spending a lot of time talking to people. She’s quite nice.” 

Maybe Siggu had said it purposefully to annoy his father, maybe it was a genuine thought, maybe it was both of those things – but “nice” was not a compliment in Balert’s opinion. 

“Hmph, nice enough to distract and derange every woman in the village. Not that some of them need much encouragement.” Balert said that last part with emphasis as Tafner stepped away from the others to swing a stick around wildly. There was laughter from the group, and Bridda stood up and walked over. Not to take the stick, but to give Tafner a few pointers on how to hold her mock weapon. Tafner took the advice, then restarted her performance, this time it seemed to be led by an exchange of insults with an imaginary foe. 

Colin and Boots could not help but smile as Tafner called her invisible opponent an outlandishly rude string of names then charged forward, only to follow with a sudden jerk as though she had been stabbed. She then proceeded to swish her stick around wildly while hunched over with one arm wrapped around her invisible wound. The girls around cheered her on with laughter and warnings of her imaginary attacker. Despite this encouragement, her ramblings and actions slowed, and she finally stumbled to a halt. 

“Fair sisters. Do not let me die unavenged!” she declared before collapsing in a tragic death. 

The laughter turned to applause as she leapt up to bow. Boots put down the basket, clapping somewhat awkwardly against his right wrist, and joined Colin in hollering his appreciation. Delighted at the extra attention, Tafner turned and bowed at them too. Siggu was clapping his hands distractedly, the dreamy smile on his face making it clear he was interested in more than just Tafner’s antics. Tafner caught his eye and her smile deepened, then she turned away with a wink and went back to her group. 

“Despicable to carry on in such a way. Certainly, that one will not make an easy wife for any man,” Balert said, with a snort. 

His phrase was clearly meant to cast doubt on Tafner’s suitability as a match, but had he bothered to look at his son’s face he would have known he had greatly missed the mark. The smile and wink had left a deep blush creeping up Siggu’s cheeks. If he heard his father’s remark, he gave no indication. This annoyed Balert even more. 

“I think it would be my duty to put an end to this,” Balert said, tipping his chin up and settling his shoulders. 

“I should think not,” Meranin said, disapprovingly. “What reason could you possibly have to do so?” 

He opened his mouth as if to argue his point but was swiftly cut off by Meranin. “That woman is a commander in the king’s army, and of rather an important branch I presume. How do you think it would go to accost a group of girls and young women not just in her presence but because of it? What report would she send back to the castle about such an incident as that? And really, do you think you could challenge her?” 

Balert’s teeth clicked shut and Boots, Siggu and Colin could barely suppress the smug looks on their faces at seeing the man cowed. But Balert’s face soon twisted in a satisfied smile. “It seems I will not have to,” he said. 

All four followed his gaze and took in a collective sharp breath at seeing who was approaching. A wiry woman who marched rather than walked, her skirts gripped tightly in her hands to keep them out of the way of her swiftly moving feet. Her head pitched forward from her neck and shoulders, perpetually ready to be thrust into any conversation or argument, whether it concerned her or not. The frown carved into her features was directed at the group of girls and young women around Bridda, but specifically towards her daughter. 

“Oh, by Skogar’s chestnuts,” Meranin muttered. 

“Tafner!” The approaching woman’s voice cut through the streets causing all who heard it to wince. “I knew I would find you here, even after the long talk we had about it. I suppose it must be nice to have so much leisure time that you can spend it gallivanting about, almost as though you hadn’t got a basket of wool to be spun at home and bread that needs – what are you wearing?” 

The tirade ended in a shriek. The group had cleared out of the way, not wanting to be between Sheffi and her daughter. This had left Tafner completely visible in her man’s shirt and pants, taking Sheffi by surprise. It did not help that Tafner’s recent theatrics had left her scuffed with dirt and her hair and clothing all askew. 

“They’re called pants, mother,” Tafner said with a startling degree of calm, then she smoothed them over appreciatively, “and I like them.” 

“Well, I like a stiff feather and a full codpiece, but you don’t see me trailing after the nobles to set up a whore’s tent, do you?” 

Colin bit his lips around a burst of laughter; Boots actually drew back in reaction. It was really the type of thing Tafner would come up with. Strange the ways in which Tafner and her mother were so similar and so different. 

Sheffi forged on. “And why, because some fancy lady with a sword is here you think you can just shirk your family? Wearing pants is not going to knead and bake the bread, wearing pants is not going to spin the wool, wearing pants is not going to keep your mother from an early grave. I will die with your shame upon my heart, you ungrateful girl.” 

It was something to watch Tafner’s proud resolve start to crumple and twist into a sort of angry defiance under the beating of her mother’s tongue. 

“My girl, I have to say I quite agree with your mother,” Balert said, sidling up to the conversation. 

“Father!” Siggu said, following close behind. 

“Don’t you ‘my girl’ me.” Tafner said. 

“No one asked for your opinion,” Sheffi snapped at Balert, who tossed his chin up as if she had flicked him under the nose. “If I want some turncoat cradle robber’s brother to advise me on the raising of my daughter, I’ll know who to ask.” 

“Oh no, the feud,” Boots whispered. 

“Oh yes, the feud,” Colin also whispered. “You’d think with her sister and his brother having left the village some ten years ago it would have passed.” 

“Sheffi lets nothing pass, not even wind,” Meranin said. 

“Because she’s so uptight. So the foulness all comes out her mouth.” Colin amended. 

Both Boots and Colin snorted in an effort not to laugh out loud less they draw attention to themselves. Meranin’s lips twisted so as not to smile. 

“Is that a daughter?” Balert was saying, making a show of observing Tafner in her men’s wear. “I can’t tell if she should be behind a plow or a pot.” 

“At least she will be doing good honest work for a living, not learning to be a swindling fancy boy. That is, when he isn’t getting drunk and antagonizing nobles instead.” Sheffi said with a smug smile. Boots could only imagine the satisfaction Sheffi felt at dealing such a solid blow to her enemy. Balert’s face purpled over with rage. From there things quickly began to break down into shouting, snippets of insults ringing out, no one really listening to anything. 

“Mother! Siggu is not—”  

“Tafner it isn’t worth—” 

“Don’t you defend her. I am speaking—” 

“Side with them against your own mother and your dear lost auntie—” 

“She isn’t dead or lost, she left because—” 

It was entertaining, but also worrisome. Tafner, Sheffi and Balert would all pounce on the opportunity to argue and lash out at each other like spitting cats. But Siggu was more serious, once provoked his anger burned hot and he was known to do and say things he would later regret. 

Even now, Siggu was trying to mitigate between the three of them, but it was clear that with Tafner as the target of both his father’s and her mother’s ire it would not be long before he mounted an impassioned defense. 

“Maybe we should stop them,” Boots said. 

“Maybe,” Colin said reluctantly. It was always satisfying to see well-deserved insults hurled at Balert and Sheffi. 

“I think that may already be in hand,” Meranin said. 

Boots looked over at his mother, but she was watching just beyond the arguing parents. Bridda was quietly speaking to some of the other girls, who were nodding and smiling nervously. Then she strolled up to the argument and announced in a loud and jovial voice: “Excuse me.” 

It was not quite loud and jovial enough to break through the bickering so she tried again with more emphasis: “Excuse me!” 

And now the arguing drifted off somewhat, Sheffi was the last to stop, her tirade dying off with some reference to a blessed great aunt who had lived off bark and pinecones for a winter. 

“This has been a lovely afternoon,” Bridda pronounced in an impeccably polite voice that Boots was beginning to recognize, “but I need to be tending to my horse and checking in at the hall to see if any missives have arrived from the captain – or maybe even the castle.” 

She let her connections sink in for a moment before continuing. “I am sure we all have duties to attend to. Good day to you,” she said with a polite nod of the head. 

While she was talking the arguers had drifted apart, and Bridda stepped into the space her conversation had made. Behind her the girls and young women had lined up with a small chorus of where they were off to followed by a regal ‘good day’ or ‘thank you’ as they passed between Balert and Sheffi just as Bridda had done. Fauna was there too, looking giddy and nervous, she bobbed a little curtsy as she passed through then rushed to catch up with a friend. 

Tafner announced loudly, “you’re right mother, I do need to get to my chores,” and allowed herself to be pulled away by the stream of girls and young women leaving. 

Sheffi turned in a huff and marched after her. It left Balert trying not to look put out and Siggu scratching his nose to hide his expression. He said something to his father then hurried away. Balert was left staring angrily after the departing crowd, his gaze seemed to rest on Bridda. 

“Well,” Colin said. 

“Well indeed,” Meranin said. 

“Let’s leave before Balert comes back over here,” Boots suggested. 

Colin and his mother showed their agreement by hastily hurrying away. Boots could speak to Balert later when the man was in a more agreeable mood.  

“I like Bridda,” Colin announced as they walked, “I think she’s nice.” 

“She’s probably killed a lot of people,” Meranin put in bluntly. 

“Mostly enemies of the kingdom, I would guess,” Boots said. 

“And she didn’t stab Balert or Sheffi today, so she can’t be all that bad. Though she would have been doing us all a favour,” Colin added, cheerfully. 

“Colin!” Meranin said, her tone admonishing but her face smiling. “And how is Bridda settling in at Holding, what are people saying?” 

Her eyes slid towards Colin, who delayed his answer by taking the basket from Boots. He stumbled a step. “Woah, you weren’t kidding. This is ridiculously heavy.” He went to peek under the cloth. 

“Colin,” Meranin said, a warning and a reminder of her question. He guiltily put the corner of the cloth back down. “A lot of people, I mean, word in a lot of circles, is that they don’t really like that she’s here,” Colin said, clearly trying to choose his words. 

“Anyone specifically?” Meranin asked. Colin hunched his shoulders against the question. He did not have to answer, but he knew he would. 

“Not exactly. I mean, I only know what I hear from the people I talk to.” 

Here Meranin gave Colin a bit of a sarcastic look. The truth was that Colin talked to everyone, all the time. And he listened to everything. Whether it was a way to waste time, or just part of his nature to be curious and a bit meddlesome, Colin was a spectacular gossip. 

“You probably guessed Balert and Sheffi aren’t too happy, I think mainly the older people don’t like her so much. They won’t say anything to her outright, but they don’t like her…her influence, I guess. Even though she is very kind to all the kids that hang around, wanting to pet the horse and asking her questions about everything from her hair to her horse’s harness. But some people enjoy her company,” he said, brightening a bit. “I mean Bessie loves having her stop by for a chat – at least they seem to get on well, I’d say. And I hear she was helping Provinny quite a lot around the hall, since she’s staying there and all.” 

He let that rest while they continued to walk. Meranin seemed to be thinking something through in her head. Boots was absorbing it all in, trying to see how Bridda, a commander of some kind, would fit into this village where nothing changed. Where they had all been there for so long there was a degree of ownership about the whole place. Where you could not rebuild a well without letting one hundred people or more vote on the details or else risk having a minor riot. Of course, even if they did vote, you still ended up with a minor riot; but at least they were rioting for the good of the village. What interest did Bridda have in the well-being of Holding? 

“Anything else?” Meranin asked. 

“Well,” Colin wrinkled his nose, “it’s sort of about Bridda, but sort of not. People are worried about the blight, of course. Even though it doesn’t seem too bad here, everyone has a sister or cousin or uncle a few villages over that is seeing worse. So, there is gossip that Bridda is an envoy sent to keep track of things, and report back to the king.” 

“Which doesn’t seem like a bad thing,” Meranin said, her tone knowing that there was going to be more. 

“Right,” Colin agreed, “it would not seem like a bad thing, except that everyone is suspicious of the new king right now. Like, is he trying to get a foothold into the outer-regions, like Holding, and using the blight as a way to get connected?” 

Boots started to understand. “Like you explained about your dad and Balert not wanting to get help just yet. In case it gets lord Narosh involved or costs us too much in taxes.” 

“Is anyone speculating about where the blight has come from yet?” Meranin asked carefully. 

“Uh, no,” Colin answered, giving her a curious sideways glance. 

“Maybe don’t bring it up then,” Meranin said, rather quickly. “What else are they gossiping about?” 

Now Colin’s sideways glance darted at Boots. “Given what recently happened with that lord, and similar things elsewhere, as I understand it, people wonder if the king is setting up watchers to – I don’t know – keep us all in line? Maybe prevent any sort of rebellion? See if she can convince us to follow what King Harald is proposing with these new land divisions? Like I said, it’s a lot of gossip.” 

“Doesn’t look like Holding is preparing to rebel,” Meranin commented, “and I hope everyone is wise enough not to consider that sort of talk.” 

“Not me, that’s for sure,” Colin said. “But they’re too busy talking even crazier than that anyway.” 

Meranin raised an eyebrow, doubtful you could get crazier than rebellion. Colin was happy to explain. “Some people are sort of mixing everything together and coming up with some wild ideas.” 

“Like what?” Boots asked, intrigued.  

“Like, someone here might be an outlaw from the old king’s court in hiding and Bridda is trying to suss them out. And then, of course, these mysterious outlaws are also suspected of trying to instigate rebellion against the new land laws to bring back the old king.” Colin said, clearly finding the idea to be exciting. 

“Well, that’s silly. I mean, the old king is dead, right? And as for outlaws, there would be no such person in Holding,” Boots said, even though the idea was intriguing. “Everyone has been here for years, generations even. Except me and my mom, and a few others, but none of them really seem like secret outlaws. And if they are here to instigate anything they’ve been doing a poor job of it. Unless someone new has turned up. Wait, has someone new turned up? Or has someone gone missing?” 

After all, he had been ignorant to Bridda’s presence, maybe someone else had appeared, or had gone missing, while he convalesced. 

“Not as far as I’ve heard,” Colin reassured him. 

“Well, that’s certainly quite the stack of tall tales,” Meranin observed. 

“It isn’t done, it gets even stranger,” Colin said, remembering more as he talked. “I guess some people are thinking about where the blight came from, but it’s not what you’d think. You know the wizard that was supposed to have been the downfall of the old king?” Colin shifted the basket to his other arm. “There’s talk that the wizard set a curse on the land, and that the blight, is his final revenge on the new king.” 

“Wait, didn’t this happen almost twenty years ago? That seems like a poorly planned curse for such a mighty wizard,” Boots observed. 

“No kidding. The other thought is that Old King Frederick is still alive, and the so-called spies of the old king are causing the blight to throw the land into chaos. Then when the kingdom is weak, he’ll reclaim his throne.” 

Boots’ mind spun with all the ideas. “What, and then he reclaims the throne of a ruined kingdom? What good is that. Might as well accuse King Harald of causing the blight to weaken the villages so that he can –” 

“Boots.” His mother cut in sharply. She stopped, causing them to also stop, and fixed them each with a stern look. “Do not, either of you, take that thought any further. It’s a wonder we’ve made it this far without hearing it. And putting a stop to rumours like that may very well be why Bridda is here.” 

She started walking again and Boots and Colin fell into to step with Meranin; the friends silent and thoughtful to either side of her. She sighed. 

“You may be quiet, but I can practically hear the wheels turning, you two. Out with it, I’d prefer you ask now and get sensible answers rather than speculate dangerously later on.” 

Boots and Colin each took a deep breath then both asked, in a jumbled rush, to know more about the wizard. Meranin raised an eyebrow, as if she had not expected that to be their first question. 

They walked in silence for a few steps, Meranin’s pensive, Boots’ and Colin’s anticipatory. When they were younger, Meranin would tell the best fireside tales – ones that could bring you on a high adventure as easily as leave you clutching a blanket in fear. As Boots grew, he started to realize that some of those stories seemed to be rooted in reality, or myths braided with just enough truth to seem plausible. When he started to ask specific questions, trying to follow the threads of reality, the stories seemed to stop. Or perhaps his mother had just thought him to be too old for such tales. 

“Being a king is not an easy job – from what I can gather,” Meranin said, as they walked. “Think about how difficult it is for Yuggen to keep everyone in this village content. Now imagine each of these villagers as a lord and lady with much more to lose than a few squares of land or a chicken – imagine gold, and villages, and houses in three different places, and status and respect. Imagine being at the top of a heap so precariously high that any step you took might send you crashing down.” 

And such was the magic of his mother’s words that he really could picture it. He could picture gilt furniture, mounds of silk and lace, leather boots, chests with jewels spilling out of them all pushed and stacked together to make a tall, unsteady, mountain of wealth. At the top balanced a chair and on it sat a lord in all his finery. All it would take was unraveling one velvet curtain from the bottom of the heap and the whole thing may well come tumbling down. 

“So, the last king wanted to find new ways to hold and have power. Instead of ruling with reason, he twisted truths and set his subjects against each other, making them jealous and suspicious. They became too occupied with watching each other to pay attention to him. And while they had their heads bent over their own secret plans, he set about finding ways to gain more power.” 

“Magical power?” Colin asked, hopefully. 

Meranin though a moment. “Any power he could get. Magical, military, money, land – anything he held that someone else wanted gave him an advantage. They say that magic is much like healing, the more you hold of the source the more potent it will be. Healing is, of course, for good, so more power is a better thing because it creates a stronger treatment or cure. 

“But magic has no set intention for good, it can be whatever the wielder wants it to be. Power for the sake of it, is dangerous and can twist the mind. It is said that the wizard and King Frederick were much alike in that way, wanting and wanting and wanting, until their minds began to bend and twist under the weight of all they had amassed. 

“Instead of sharing his power by binding people to him through gifts or bribes, King Frederick wanted everything for himself, so they say. That made some powerful lords wary once they realized what was going on. They began to worry King Frederick and his wizard would eclipse any power and wealth they had, leaving them as powerless as the rest of us. So, they banded together to try and raise their own power.” 

“Is that how the new king came to be?” Boots asked. “Did he lead the nobles against Frederick and take over?” 

“No, well not right away, anyway. Once the idea of unseating the king became possible it led to all sorts of scheming and planning and alliances. At least, I imagine that it did,” she amended with haste. “There would have been those supporting the old king, then those wanting to take his power for selfish reasons, and probably two or three groups that were truly concern with the good of the kingdom and finding a rightful and decent king to succeed.” 

“Why two or three groups? Wouldn’t that just be one group?” Colin asked, shifting the weight of the basket to his other hand. 

“You would think that, and I’m sure in the end they probably found some common ground. But everyone has ideas about the best way to do things, even when they agree on what needs to be done – whether it’s building a well or a kingdom. You remember when we rebuilt the well, here in Holding.” 

Boots and Colin remembered the building of the well vividly. Some of their fondest memories were from that memorable spring when the villagers in Holding worked “together” to rebuild the well. It was still a forbidden topic in Colin’s house, mentioning it set Tale on edge. Many villagers made a point of using the old well as a sign of protest to what had happened. Boots remembered how passionately some had felt about the type of stone that was to be used. Then he imagined being a lord and having piles of wealth at stake and having to decide which king to support instead of whether to use limestone or river rock. 

“So how did they agree?” Boots asked. 

“With no small amount of secret dealings and bloodshed, I would imagine,” she responded. “That is to say, I do not think they all just agreed after having a nice, long chat.” 

Colin, as usual, had moved to speculating in every direction. “Does that mean the new king, before he was the new king, and all the people that followed him, were they committing treason up until the point that the new king actually became the new king?” 

Meranin nodded. “Yes, they did. And once Harald was in power many men and women in the nobility tried to use that to immediately unseat him as a usurper. And those people were then committing treason in turn against Harald, as was anyone still supporting Frederick. Although those refusing to recognize Harald claimed that Harald and his supporters were the traitors. Suffice it to say, it was rather messy.” 

Boots asked, “what happened to the others then? The men and women who were against the new king taking over. Did they lose all their lands and titles – or whatever it is they have? Did they get executed?” 

“Goodness no!” Meranin said. “Can you imagine? Imagine if a wealthy landowner fired all his workers every time they disagreed with him. Or if a farmer killed his sheep every time one wandered off? No, you need all the parts to make the whole work. I am sure there were some lords and ladies that met an unfortunate demise. But, overall, the nobles have wealth and power that feeds the kingdom’s wealth and power and keeps the king wealthy and powerful. It is a chain that needs strong links.” 

“And they just get to keep being themselves?” Boots sounded a little disgusted. 

“Yes. Unjust as it sounds, they do. They change their alliances; they make gifts and promises of peace and the king pretends that it is sincere even if it isn’t, so long as they keep their word. The king cannot afford to go to war with everyone that opposes him within his own kingdom. It would be disastrous. 

“That might account for some of the mistrust Bridda is facing. There is no way for a villager in Holding to know the inner-workings of the castle and the old kings and new kings and how they fell or rose. But it would be foolish to think that every man or woman that sits on the throne is entirely righteous. Before old Frederick fell to temptation, he was a decent enough ruler. But look how he turned out. It pays to be vigilant.” 

“You mean suspicious. It pays to be suspicious,” Colin said. 

“Suspicious is another way to look at it,” Meranin agreed.  

Boots and Colin thought this over while they walked. Merging this less ideal -but evidently practical- approach to kingship with the more honourable and duel-challenging version they entertained in their minds. Both had a very recent reminder of the realities of tangling with royalty. Boots’ was wreathed in shame and Colin’s in guilt. But the question they both wanted answered had somehow been absent from the explanation Meranin had offered. 

“So, all that stuff about power and magic. Are you saying it was real. That the wizard was real?” Boots finally asked. “Everyone talks about it, but no one seems to really know what it means. Or even if it was true. But just now, you seemed to talk about it like it was.” 

Meranin paused before answering. “The world is full of unexplained strangeness,” she said, seeming to build her answer as she spoke. “It would be foolish to dismiss something out of hand if it had the potential to alter the course of your life so fully. If you admit for the possibility of something, then you are at least somewhat prepared for it when it happens.” 

Boots could not help but feel like she was speaking more about him than any wizard. About the dreams and warning she had for him, and how he had foolishly dismissed them out of hand. But when he looked guiltily her way, she seemed lost in her own thoughts. Then she gave her head a small shake. 

 “I suppose many things are possible, and there is no shortage of rumours about the wizard. But it is as I said, the walls to the castle are thick and strong, they keep their own secrets. What Holding villager would have any real insight into wizards and kings? What need have we of that when there are seeds to put in the ground and water to draw from the wells?” 

They spoke a little more of Bridda and some of the things Colin had overheard. Then it was time for Colin to make his way home. Boots took the basket from Colin, and even though he was ready for the weight, it still surprised him anew. 

“What is in there?” He asked as they turned for home. 

“A small anvil,” Meranin said with a smile. 

“Not really?” 

“Yes. And some odd bits of metal and a few specific stones, and some other things. I am going to craft a few things. I need a small anvil to work the metals.” 

“What for?” Boots asked, hefting the basket into the wagon. 

“Just trying something new,” she said. She was looking through the contents, they were out of Boots’ sight, but he heard some clinking as she moved things around. 

“For the blight?” He asked. 

“Hmmm, what’s that?” 

“The copper and stuff. Is it somehow going to make a cure to fight the sickness that’s taking down the fields?” 

“Yes, yes, for the blight,” she answered. 

The sky was clear blue, and the sun was bright and hot. There was a gentle breeze that was refreshing when encountered on a shady path. Boots and his mother walked in contented silence, alone with their thoughts. 

Meranin seemed deep within her own mind, her eyes looking outward only enough to see the path before her and place her feet without tripping, but the rest of her was deep in thought. She could be plotting to bring down a wizard or determining how many berry shoots to cultivate – her face showed only that she was pensive. 

Walking beside her, Boots had an easier expression to read. His forehead was creased ever so slightly between his eyebrows, in a way that meant he was worrying through something in his mind. He scuffed his feet a few times on the path as he walked, as if any time his thoughts became snarled it tripped him up wholly.  

He was thinking about the idea of castles, and lords and the politics of royalty and rule that his mother had painted. And even as what she said made sense, the more he thought about it, it also made the missing pieces more obvious. It was like a forest in the fog, you could see the trees in front of you, but what was behind the gloom? The idea of a wizard was like the gloom – unknowable and full or foreboding, but still part of the picture and his mother had lied about it. 

Meranin was very much a person who decided what truths people needed to know. Because of that she was not only comfortable lying but felt justified in doing it. It was not something widely realized; but Boots knew from experience. She did, Boots had noted, make an effort not to lie to him. She would certainly avoid the truth or refuse to tell it – but she seemed to avoid lying outright to her son. Maybe from some sort of maternal duty, or maybe because she was aware that he could tell the difference.  

In his thoughts, Boots kept circling back to one, precise moment in the conversation. When Colin asked the question about the wizard she had hesitated. And then, before answering, she had taken a quick breath like a swimmer about to duck her head under water. It was not much different from gathering your thoughts to answer a complicated question; and would seem like exactly that to someone who did not know her as well. But Boots was fairly certain that, just before his mother answered the question about to what degree a wizard was involved in the demise of the old king, she had decided to lie.