Currently in my free time I am busy writing, and editing, and rewriting, and yanking bits of text out, or moving it somewhere else, or...
I've "several" novel manuscripts in various stages of readiness. Each one needs certain things done before being ready. Generally my biggest problem is number of words: I usually have too many!
Eight Feet series:
These include Inside a Love Song and Behind the Drum. Both have been edited down, checked and edited some more, and both still are too long. So I need to go in and ruthlessly yank scenes out, while making sure that the overall narratives lose nothing vital by these gut-wrenching changes. I could break both into two shorter novels, but that interfers more with the overall continuity. I hope to revamp them during the Christmas holidays. Meanwhile the third book in the series: Singer of a Songless Land is getting initial very rough draft updates once a week as "the guys" discuss new material. Most of my summer went on these two.
Yrmegard series(?):
Yrmegard, like Ears, is histocial fiction. I've had so much fun learning about medieval Germany at the rise of HR Emperor Frederick II. The more I learn, the more complications arise for me as a writer! The biggest challenge is finding relevant material in English. Will Yrmegard become a series or a mere duo? I'm not certain yet. With it crrently divided into two, Yrmegard, the Magdeburg Years (Y1) and Yrmegard: the Breslau Years (Y2) these will make two managable novels that won't be too long for consideration. Ears is a character who gets "honorable mention" in Yrmegard. He appears briefly, and in company with his master - though that connection is not presented in Yrmegard. Anyhow I am currently boggled in Y1 at deciding which of three ways to take Yrmegard: a) into a brutal marriage; b) into an engagement; or c) just let her be. Originally the story presented the first scenario (a), however, once I learned what the divorce laws in 1212 would have implied, that seemed the most difficult to resolve with good narrative and historically accuracy. Nevertheless I will have to "try on" all three - which involves writing out all three scenarios - before I'll know which one works best so that Y2 can go on as it is. Oh I KNOW the first one works best, it's just all the legalities which make it such a challange!
Jack:
Jack in somehat autobiograpical yet is firmly fiction. I'm not sure if Jack is going to turn into a series. Version one, which I'm supposedly editing as I write this blog (and no, I can't do two things at once), is - suprise - too long! And I haven't even finished the first part of the story! So I need to find a nice convenient place to tie it up and still have the possibility to continue. That's what I'm supposed to be working on currently - and was doing last week! But this week I've been looking ahead and creating three years beyond the initial story - which certaily hints of a possible series. Certain vistas opened and I've been working every free moment to get those down before they were forgotten!
Taken!
Taken! is my scifi story. Much to my surprise it is NOT too long! It does have the possibility to turn into a series. There are a few science things I'll need to edit, (they promise to be quick fixes which I can get done in a day or so. Basically it is ready! Hurrah... so this means trying to query agents, and that takes research which takes time away from writing.
And these are the reasons Ears is not currently being updated. I AM sorry!
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Monday, October 19, 2015
Ears 4
This continues my story of Ears. Normally I continue it each Monday by about 19:00 GMT (7 pm GMT). By scrolling down this blog you will find the opening Ears preceded by Ears 2 and Ears 3. When I update or add new material it will be in blue. There will be more as soon as I can turn my attention to it again!
Whenever we stopped for the night, his Grace and the highest lords in his retinue had the best housing. The outer precincts and guest house of an abbey if we were in a town large enough to have one, or the best house in the hamlet if there was no abbey. My Lord, the other squires, lesser men, and myself frequently made do in hay barns. Though they provided a sound roof to keep off the rain, these had no walls to keep out the wind, nor heat to keep us warm. We bundled close to each other, wrapped in our cloaks and used the dwindling supplies of hay for softness and warmth.
Knowing they could burn easily, we set no fires close to these barns. Our fires frequently brought a few villagers out to hear news. Some came to be sure we didn't disturb the local peace. Others came in hope of finding excitement. We made our food, played instruments and sang, or tried various games of chance if the night was fair. And through it all Samael was there.
Ostensibly he kept Lord Olbrecht's men in line, and out of trouble. But most of them were accustomed to his way. So his focus was me. I listened.
I listened for nuances in words.
Samael would lean toward me as if to reach for bread and murmur, “Listen to the rough voiced one, Yarl. He aims to pick a fight. Listen.” Or he'd ask for ale, and while I poured, he'd advise, “Beware the quiet one, he fingers a pig-sticker.”
I still used my eyes, looking, but as time went on and I saw again and again that Samael knew, knew through his ears. I began to try to use mine more, dared to close my eyes and focus on the minute sounds that told the underlying stories.
“Listen how Alard's voice changes.”
I listened. Alard spoke well, told a good tale. Men enjoyed his tales.
“Look to his eyes. What do they say? Look to his hands. His right stays close, does it not?”
Alard's eyes moved constantly. I pondered this and decided perhaps they moved as if to see everyman there, but most often they darted to Samael then quickly away.
“Listen well to his voice,” Samael scratched an itch and settled back, a slight smile on his mouth. Next day he advised me to pay attention to Alard for much of what he said were half-truths, but each half-truth was hinted at with a change in the timbre of his voice. “You need to know the voice of truth from the voice of falsehood.
So I spent evenings listening to Alard, and Samael scratched his nose or his ear, or his ankle when he heard a lie, until I began to scratch before he could. Then he took me further field to test my skills as we bargained for fodder for Lord Olbrecht's mounts or a barrel of ale for the men.
“Most men rely on their eyes for information. Hopefully you will have greater skill. Sift truth from false. Listen and be able to repeat the truth, and to explain the false.”
I enjoyed this new skill and discovering more.
“They say we should not bear false witness, but most men try to hide some of their truth. Consider if that is also not false witness.” And then he advised that I keep ears open for Kiczold or Thiemo. One tended to drift near others' possessions. The other liked to pick fights.
Practicing my skills with sword or cross bow were hampered. Instead, while I rode in the wagon, I tried a less noble weapon, a sling-shot. Samael had a priest tell the tale of David and Goliath to inspire me to take this simple weapon seriously. Jostling along in the wagon, taking aim was a challenge. It was also difficult to have a steady target. I couldn't aim at the dray horses pulling the wagon behind ours, or at the man who walked at their side. Aiming at the butts of ale we carried, was a bad idea, least I damage them and they leak. I needed a target that was distant enough, yet not so distant that I could only guess whether or not I hit it. Mostly I aimed for trees. There was precious little game to be seen. No surprise that. By the time the wagons rumbled, creaked, and groaned along the road, any animal had long since fled the passage of his Grace's column. Duke Henryk and his closest nobles had first shot on any game surprised by our passage. Their kill were sent back to the wagons and were skinned and gutted even as we traveled.
If food was scarce in the villages, the lords would take out hunting parties. When we did this, Samael armed my Lord with crossbow and pike and me with just a crossbow and we stood on the edges of the line receiving the game those thrashing the bushes drove toward us. The beaters usually surprised more than one animal.
I waited tensely, looking toward the thinning forest, unable to see clearly. Samael must have guessed this. He demanded I shut my eyes and see. I felt my Master twitch at this injunction. My breath came raggedly as I listened to the sounds approaching. I feared to hit one of the beaters with a crossbow bolt.
“Get down,” Samael growled, “Kneel, aim low. Can you hear it?”
I listened and nodded. “Yes,” I hissed, recalling he might not distinguish my nod from other sounds I made. I threw myself on the damp plowed field, bracing my elbows and tried to gauge distance. It sounded small, perhaps a hare. But not too far behind came a beater. If the hare broke the cover of the forest, I would lose its sound on the soft plowed ground. No beater would thank me if I hit them instead. And anyone would be grateful for some stewed hare to thicken the onion broth we had eaten the last two days.
I steadied myself, my breathing, my aim, eased my grip, prayed silently, wished my hands weren't sweaty, and that I could live up to my Father's original hopes for me as I tried to be sure the beater wasn't directly behind my unseen target. I swallowed, my mouth dry.
I had just cocked my bow ready to shoot, when a shrill squeal, loud crashing and a shout went up.
My eyes snapped open, my bolt loosened, as a huge wild boar broke cover to my right.
“BRACE!” Samael and my voices rose as I spun around to see my Master armed with his crossbow. Surprised, he loosened at the beast's head as I lurched half upright to help Samael set and brace the pike. My master threw himself to our aid, bracing the ash pole firmly against the charging boars full weight.
Roaring protest, the boar impaled himself on our pike point, driving toward us, our feet slipping in the mud with the force of his charge. His small eyes seemed riveted to mine as he just kept coming. The pike had no cross-brace to prevent him spitting himself on the pike. His charge ended as others threw themselves to our aid. But his snout was less than a hand-span from my shaking hands, his razor sharp yellow tusks snapping in death. Blood spurted from his neck.
We heaved a collective sigh. My shaking hands and the boar's passing weren't the only reason the pike pole shivered. No one had expected the beaters to flush a boar. Lord Olbrecht stood up, chest heaving, his knife dripping blood. He had slit the boar's throat. He cleaned it in the dirt at his feet.
“Get that thing strung up, bleed it out.” He yanked my Master to his feet, as Samael scrambled upright. Then I stood, separating myself from field, mud, blood and close proximity to the boar.
We had the boar strung up by the time his Grace Duke Henryk galloped toward us. The beaters had flushed other animals, and he had taken down a deer.
Ears Part 4
This changed my routine for a while as I could not ride until the sores healed. So I sat with the baggage, and we asked in each village if there leather braies or leather hose that would fit me. It took several days to find a pair but they were new and I spent several days rubbing oil into them to soften them enough to make them comfortable. By the time my saddle sores healed, my new leather hose were supple and soft, and protected my limbs from the saddle. Then my riding instruction continued apace as we rode.Whenever we stopped for the night, his Grace and the highest lords in his retinue had the best housing. The outer precincts and guest house of an abbey if we were in a town large enough to have one, or the best house in the hamlet if there was no abbey. My Lord, the other squires, lesser men, and myself frequently made do in hay barns. Though they provided a sound roof to keep off the rain, these had no walls to keep out the wind, nor heat to keep us warm. We bundled close to each other, wrapped in our cloaks and used the dwindling supplies of hay for softness and warmth.
Knowing they could burn easily, we set no fires close to these barns. Our fires frequently brought a few villagers out to hear news. Some came to be sure we didn't disturb the local peace. Others came in hope of finding excitement. We made our food, played instruments and sang, or tried various games of chance if the night was fair. And through it all Samael was there.
Ostensibly he kept Lord Olbrecht's men in line, and out of trouble. But most of them were accustomed to his way. So his focus was me. I listened.
I listened for nuances in words.
Samael would lean toward me as if to reach for bread and murmur, “Listen to the rough voiced one, Yarl. He aims to pick a fight. Listen.” Or he'd ask for ale, and while I poured, he'd advise, “Beware the quiet one, he fingers a pig-sticker.”
I still used my eyes, looking, but as time went on and I saw again and again that Samael knew, knew through his ears. I began to try to use mine more, dared to close my eyes and focus on the minute sounds that told the underlying stories.
“Listen how Alard's voice changes.”
I listened. Alard spoke well, told a good tale. Men enjoyed his tales.
“Look to his eyes. What do they say? Look to his hands. His right stays close, does it not?”
Alard's eyes moved constantly. I pondered this and decided perhaps they moved as if to see everyman there, but most often they darted to Samael then quickly away.
“Listen well to his voice,” Samael scratched an itch and settled back, a slight smile on his mouth. Next day he advised me to pay attention to Alard for much of what he said were half-truths, but each half-truth was hinted at with a change in the timbre of his voice. “You need to know the voice of truth from the voice of falsehood.
So I spent evenings listening to Alard, and Samael scratched his nose or his ear, or his ankle when he heard a lie, until I began to scratch before he could. Then he took me further field to test my skills as we bargained for fodder for Lord Olbrecht's mounts or a barrel of ale for the men.
“Most men rely on their eyes for information. Hopefully you will have greater skill. Sift truth from false. Listen and be able to repeat the truth, and to explain the false.”
I enjoyed this new skill and discovering more.
“They say we should not bear false witness, but most men try to hide some of their truth. Consider if that is also not false witness.” And then he advised that I keep ears open for Kiczold or Thiemo. One tended to drift near others' possessions. The other liked to pick fights.
Practicing my skills with sword or cross bow were hampered. Instead, while I rode in the wagon, I tried a less noble weapon, a sling-shot. Samael had a priest tell the tale of David and Goliath to inspire me to take this simple weapon seriously. Jostling along in the wagon, taking aim was a challenge. It was also difficult to have a steady target. I couldn't aim at the dray horses pulling the wagon behind ours, or at the man who walked at their side. Aiming at the butts of ale we carried, was a bad idea, least I damage them and they leak. I needed a target that was distant enough, yet not so distant that I could only guess whether or not I hit it. Mostly I aimed for trees. There was precious little game to be seen. No surprise that. By the time the wagons rumbled, creaked, and groaned along the road, any animal had long since fled the passage of his Grace's column. Duke Henryk and his closest nobles had first shot on any game surprised by our passage. Their kill were sent back to the wagons and were skinned and gutted even as we traveled.
If food was scarce in the villages, the lords would take out hunting parties. When we did this, Samael armed my Lord with crossbow and pike and me with just a crossbow and we stood on the edges of the line receiving the game those thrashing the bushes drove toward us. The beaters usually surprised more than one animal.
I waited tensely, looking toward the thinning forest, unable to see clearly. Samael must have guessed this. He demanded I shut my eyes and see. I felt my Master twitch at this injunction. My breath came raggedly as I listened to the sounds approaching. I feared to hit one of the beaters with a crossbow bolt.
“Get down,” Samael growled, “Kneel, aim low. Can you hear it?”
I listened and nodded. “Yes,” I hissed, recalling he might not distinguish my nod from other sounds I made. I threw myself on the damp plowed field, bracing my elbows and tried to gauge distance. It sounded small, perhaps a hare. But not too far behind came a beater. If the hare broke the cover of the forest, I would lose its sound on the soft plowed ground. No beater would thank me if I hit them instead. And anyone would be grateful for some stewed hare to thicken the onion broth we had eaten the last two days.
I steadied myself, my breathing, my aim, eased my grip, prayed silently, wished my hands weren't sweaty, and that I could live up to my Father's original hopes for me as I tried to be sure the beater wasn't directly behind my unseen target. I swallowed, my mouth dry.
I had just cocked my bow ready to shoot, when a shrill squeal, loud crashing and a shout went up.
My eyes snapped open, my bolt loosened, as a huge wild boar broke cover to my right.
“BRACE!” Samael and my voices rose as I spun around to see my Master armed with his crossbow. Surprised, he loosened at the beast's head as I lurched half upright to help Samael set and brace the pike. My master threw himself to our aid, bracing the ash pole firmly against the charging boars full weight.
Roaring protest, the boar impaled himself on our pike point, driving toward us, our feet slipping in the mud with the force of his charge. His small eyes seemed riveted to mine as he just kept coming. The pike had no cross-brace to prevent him spitting himself on the pike. His charge ended as others threw themselves to our aid. But his snout was less than a hand-span from my shaking hands, his razor sharp yellow tusks snapping in death. Blood spurted from his neck.
We heaved a collective sigh. My shaking hands and the boar's passing weren't the only reason the pike pole shivered. No one had expected the beaters to flush a boar. Lord Olbrecht stood up, chest heaving, his knife dripping blood. He had slit the boar's throat. He cleaned it in the dirt at his feet.
“Get that thing strung up, bleed it out.” He yanked my Master to his feet, as Samael scrambled upright. Then I stood, separating myself from field, mud, blood and close proximity to the boar.
We had the boar strung up by the time his Grace Duke Henryk galloped toward us. The beaters had flushed other animals, and he had taken down a deer.
Currently I am not udating Ears as planned. The reason being other writing projects which I'm (hopefully) preparing for publication! I will resume Ears' story as soon as I can think.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Ears III
This post is the third part of Ears story. If you are just starting to follow the story you may like to go read the first two chapters. The first part is located here sulokale9.blogspot.com/2015/01/ears.html and the second part is here http://sulokale9.blogspot.fi/2015/03/ears-ii.html.
Special notes or comments will be posted here in blue.
A hand gripped my forearm like a hawk's claw.
“We will talk.” Samael said, and directed me away from the voices that must have gone to play boules. Clicking his tongue repeatedly, Samael directed my stumbling steps with a few words. I guessed we were behind the house in shadow. “Reach out and grab the ladder in front of you,” he directed when we came to a stop.
“What ladder?” I asked, my voice cracking in fear and frustration.
“The one in front of you. Just reach out and you will touch it.”
Hesitantly I reached and indeed found a ladder. I was under it.
“Up you go!” Samael ordered.
With the ladder at hand I stepped out to go to the other side, but he pulled me back.
“Not like that! Up this side.”
“But I can't see!”
“You do not need to see. And you don't need your feet for this. Up you go, use only your arms.”
I moved my hands up, got a splinter in my left hand, and managed to wiggle it out with my teeth.
Samael was impatient, “You do not have time for splinters, just go!”
I managed to swing up three rungs before I missed the fourth rung and dropped to the ground in a heap.
“Get up and do it again,” Samael ordered sounding as if he delighted in my struggles.
Not once, but ten times, I did what I could to climb the wrong side of the ladder hanging by my hands. When I dropped the tenth time, arms shaking from the unfamiliar task Samael said, “Come.”
I stood, dusting off my clothes, “Where?” I asked.
“Here,” Samael's voice came from further away.
Turning toward his voice, I heard his foot scuff the dirt. It came from my left, but his voice had come from my right. “Who is with you?” I asked.
“Only you,” came his reply, but it was from behind me.
I barely avoided turning towards his voice. Instead I settled into myself to listen.
Something moved to my left.
“Hurry up!” he demanded.
There was a patter of sound in front of me. Considering it, I decided it must be gravel he had thrown. I waited.
“What is taking you so long? Have your feet become lead?” Samael sneered.
His voice seemed to jump from place to place, near, far, right, left, in front of me, or behind me. Though I clenched my teeth in frustration, I had too much experience with the uselessness of venting my fury. I pushed my wrath into a focus point, ignoring his voice and listening for any sound he made. In those moments I became aware of my own breathing and then the thud of my heart.”
“Have you gone to sleep?” Samael's question made me smile. He had moved, probably moving a hand from his belt to gesture.
That faint brush was close, though his voice came from my left. I waited. Another faint sound also close, probably within two strides.
Another patter of sound to my right.
Raising my arms, I stepped toward him, not in the direction of the pebbles he had thrown. Two steps had me clutching him by the arms. His reaction was laughter and clasping mine.
“Well done! You are well named Ohren. Now we must train you.” He half pushed me away and stepped out, pulling me along in a half-embrace. “There are many things you can do, things you can learn, and,” he paused, his voice smiling, “things no one will expect a blind man capable of. We must build up your strength and speed, further train your ears. You've neglected your body. You must learn to land on your feet.” He stopped, holding me back. “Where are the others?”
“You're asking me?”
“Of course! You have to train your ears, why delay?”
I sighed resentful agreement at that logic and set myself to listen to voices I had been ignoring, to find the tap of the ball against a boule-pin. Instead I heard the unmistakeable thunk of arrows on a wood target, and someone playing lute over the continual murmur of men's voices. Worriedly I chewed the corner of my lip, I hoped my Master wasn't ignoring his lady. The lute player was too practiced to be my Master. “This way,” I said stepping forward in the general direction of the voices.
With a click of annoyance, he pulled me back, or rather prevented me going forward. “We go around the tree,” his voice smiled.
Confused, I gave way, “Lead on. I can't see – as you know!”
He tisked several times. “Choler is useless,” he said, stepping away. “Surrender to it and your life will be bitter indeed!”
I stifled a snort as I followed him. Of course, he would be phlegmatic, he wasn't the one going blind.
He tisked again, and nudged me almost off-balance. “Another tree. You know a choleric person is always bitter, always seeing slights where perhaps none are intended.” He tisked isapprovingly.
“They presuppose the world is set against them.”
“Are you a philosopher or a priest?” I dared ask.
I heard him snort in quiet laughter. “No I'm just one of my Lord Olbrecht's arms-men now, once I was training master to his Grace, Duke Boleslav, when he rode attendance on Frederick Barbarossa's tail.”
Awe devoured my ire. “Grandfather,” I gave him as respectful a title as I could. He was much older than I'd imagined. “Why take notice of me? Shouldn't you be easing your bones?”
Samael chuckled, “My bones'll get all the ease they need after the Grim Reaper finally catches me, but I'll try not to let him till you're a proper man, truly able to serve your Lord.”
His quiet voice vibrated as if he were taking oath.
“Good aim!” my Master said. “Well done. That was close.”
“Thank you,” the quiet voice could only be his betrothed. I had still to get the sound of her voice firmly in my ear. “I'm sorry yours went wide.”
As clearly as if I had seen it myself, I knew he had deliberately tossed the ball wide. He practiced things until he seldom misjudged his game. It left me in awe of him yet emphasized the difference between us. For him everything seemed easy, while for me most tasks seemed almost beyond my skill.
Samael cleared his throat. Not an attention getting, distracting throat clearing, rather a servant's quiet sound allowing the nobles to inquire if they deigned.
“Samael?” the lady inquired laconically.
“With your permission, Lady Christine, I'd like to ask Lord Paschke if he would permit me to train his man? I believe I can do you both much good if permitted.”
The silence which followed was broken by Lady Christine, “Samael was training master to Duke Boleslav before he joined father after...”
Under my bandages my eyebrows drew together in a frown. After? After what? What was there about Samael that I couldn't see? I knew he must be a venerable age, but his voice and step were as firm and sure as Lord Odo's.
“What would you do for him?” my Master asked.
“My Lord, he needs training. His balance is poor, his hasn't as much strength as your Lady does, He says he has no skill with a bow or pike, how can he serve you without these and other skills?”
My Lord was quiet for a seeming eternity, before inquiring, “Can you train him?”
I could almost see Samael plant his feet solidly, thumbs hooked in his belt, settling into himself. “I can.”
Under my bandages my eye brows rose. Samael was assurance itself speaking.
“What needs be done?” My Master asked.
“With your permission, I will bring him here every day – there is no need for others to see him train, for any to carry news of what skills he masters, and he will master them. People will notice a difference, but they need not know the extent of it.”
After another pause my Master replied, “Alright. I see the wisdom of that. How will you find him?”
“Leave that to me my Lord. I can find him.”
“Good, now that that is settled, Samael, would you kindly play some music while we return to boules?” The lady's voice sounded as if she wished Samael had never interrupted their game.
“Certainly my Lady.” from somewhere about his person he found a flute and began to play. It was a common tune, jaunty and gay. Without asking I took out the flute in the bag my Lord Paschke had given to my safekeeping and joined Samael.
Behind our melody, a jaunty dance tune, the pair struggled with polite conversation as their throws of the balls hitting the ground or tapping each other created an irregular rhythm.
The game closed when the bells in the twin towers of the Dom1 rang Sext. As everyone else, we trooped to the call.
We looked to the door. A man was framed there as the early morning lighted the steel grey of his thatch of hair. I could see his red woolen tunic reached his knees, and his brown braies ended in ankle high boots.
“God give you a good morning Physicians.” The newcomer's voice identified him as Samael. “I've come for Ohren.”
“Good morning Samael” Physician Steffan spoke. “How are you keeping?”
I saw a faint flash of Samael's teeth as he smiled. “Busy, as ever. And you?”
I gathered that they knew each other, perhaps had known each other well at some time. I looked to Siman. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Not really Ohren. I want you to return tonight, we'll bandage your eyes for the nights.”
I nodded, “Saints preserve me, I shall come.” I looked at the edge of the window embrasure before stepping down into the room. How wonderful to be able to see again! I could see things, step around things in my way, move unhindered. I felt like a falcon unhooded and released to fly. I never wanted to be hooded again.
“Physician Steffan, I've a question about Ohren here. I understand he is going blind. Is it alright if he's blindfolded for training?”
I halted, mouth open, staring at Samael, then looking desperately at Physician Steffan. My mouth formed the word “No”, even as my head moved in a slow negative.
Physician Steffan turned to Siman for a wordless conversation. Siman replied cautiously, “For this sevenday it will be better if Ohren's eyes are unbandaged.” He looked at me once more, “Keep them clean, and keep your hands away from your eyes, do you hear me?”
“Yes sir,” I replied, relief washing over me again. I saw Siman's mouth twist into a kindly crooked smile, and decided he understood how much this meant to me. “Thank you.” I turned back to Samael, “I'm ready.”
He grunted but didn't look at me. “Come on then, I'll teach you the way.”
I followed him onto the walkway, and was delighted that I could distinguish the individual steps leading to the courtyard.
As he stepped onto the cobbles of the courtyard Samael turned to me and I froze on the last step in shock. Samael was blind. “I won't be able to do as much for you, until they give me permission to blindfold you, but that is no reason to delay what you can learn. Come on.” He pulled his hood up over his head to ward of December's chill and set off with as good a stride as my Lord Odo or any other man.
Ignoring my own hood, I trotted to keep pace with him, ignoring the way the day's early sun cast shadows. How could he see, know, where he was going? His eyes were completely clouded over.
“Understand Ohren, to the people we pass, I seem a man like them. My hood helps. There is no reason to give anyone the idea that you are an easy target. You need the skills I am uniquely qualified to impart to you, and you will struggle the more to learn them as long as you can see. Right now, while you can see, learn the road we take, because I will not play page to fetch you to my Lord Olbrecht's after this. I will, as soon as you can bear the blindfold, teach you how to negotiate the way yourself. You need to know the city as well as your own body. You don't need your eyes to touch your nose or your knees. You know where they are.”
I was catching my breath in my effort to keep pace with him. “Can you see at all?” I dared ask.
He halted suddenly, turned toward me. “Not any more. Come, you are in dreadful condition.”
Amidst women making their way to the river with the weeks wash, bakers and fishmongers reminding householders to buy, I was trying to take in details of where we went, houses we passed, so I could find my way to Lord Olbrecht's town home again. When Samael stepped through the gate, I realized I would have to take better note on my home bound journey or I would never learn the way. Breslau is big, some say it has almost five thousand souls, but most of my time had been at the ducal home.
“You do know how to dance, don't you?” Samael asked.
“Well, yes, a little,” I replied, in confusion. “I've never been good at things like that.”
Samael's eyebrows rose and his mouth thinned to a line.
“Come over here then and we'll start on cross bows.” He set off across the yard to shelter of a roofed pavilion. I was amazed at how well he knew his way around. He reached down a small crossbow, depending from the beam that braced the roof. “Do you know how to cock this?”
“Yes,” I replied uneasily.
He handed the bow to me. “Close your eyes and feel the bow, examine it carefully with your fingers. You must know whether a weapon is in good condition or not before you use it. Feel the sinews. Are they in good condition, smooth, not frayed?”
I did as he ordered.
“Don't hurry. Take your time. Get to know this weapon.”
“It's quite small,” I said. “It feels like a ladies hunting crossbow.”
“Very good. It is. It is also a perfect size for you. People can think you hunt rabbits. However, it is also defensive.”
My fingers kept exploring the bow. I'd had the care of the crossbow my Master used, but never really given it as much thought, or as careful an examination.
“Keep your eyes closed and span the bow,” Samael ordered.
Because the bow was small, I had no trouble drawing the strung to the nut. From somewhere the thought came, wondering what my father would say to see me do this.
“Here's a bolt, without looking, point the crossbow to your left and place the bolt in.”
Except for looking up to take the bolt, I did as he said. I was surprised at how natural it felt to have my eyes closed. It was unexpected that my fingers seemed more skilled than I remember them being before. How my father, Jäger, would have delighted had I had the gift. Lost in futile reverie, I was slow to respond to Samael's command to point the crossbow in front of me and shoot, eyes closed.
The thwack of the bolt splintering into the wood target, caused my eyes to open. I was jubilant to have hit it, even if it was only four strides from me.
“Take another, do it again. Keep your eyes closed.”
Each time a bolt hit as we repeated this, I had shivers of elation. I was using a crossbow, albeit only a small bow for hunting rabbit. When all the bolts were spent, I retrieved them. They were ranged over the large boards set for this practice.
“You have two goals now. One is to load and fire faster. The other is to improve your aim.”
“How can I do that with my eyes closed?”
“Ha! Learn to use your ears. Hear where the bolt strikes. Seek to place your next bolt close to that same place,” Samael replied.
So I continued to shoot and retrieve the bolts – which were still scattered over the target. I learned to dismiss the noises of town, the comings and goings of traders such as the eel monger and the baker. Eventually I became aware my rhythm had picked up. Draw, place, lift, fire, draw, place, lift, fire. Somewhere I became aware that Samael had his flute and was piping a tune to the thud of bolts into the target. I tried to outpace his tune. Then disaster, I missed the target!
Samael stopped piping. “Stay focused, keep your rhythm, continue.”
I steadied my rhythm and stopped trying to outpace Samael. I knew how easy it was to pick up the pace of the melody. Now I listened for the thud of bolts into the wood.
Eventually, Samael called a halt to this practice and inspected my last volley while I retrieved to lost bolt. It wasn't easy to find. I searched the ground for a long way, both right and left of the target, scuffing my feet back and forth hoping to make the bolt move. I finally found it by a tree.
Samael led me back to the ladder of yesterday's torment, and had me repeat the task. He also demanded that I hoist my chin to one of the higher rungs, my head between the rungs. His only explanation was, “You will need strong arms.”
Some time after mid morning he began to teach me lunges, equipping me with a wooden sword. “You will not normally use a sword. It isn't your calling, but, in a crisis you need to know how to use one if it is at hand even though you won't have your own. If your Master is downed, and his is within reach, and you are the only one between him and someone bent on killing him, you need to know what to do.” Samael delivered all this while lunging continuously in rhythm beside me.
“ My master has learned ever so many strokes. I've seen him practice. How will I know what to do?”
Samael stopped. "You will learn to dance, and dance well.”
I stared at him, than glanced away as a maid carrying a basket of fresh washed laundry crossed the yard.
“Don't stop. Keep moving. Lunge right, back, lunge left, back, right, back, left, back,” his litany soon became a fast paced dance on the flute. Was it my imagination that the laundry maid pinned up the laundry in time to the tune too?
When we stopped this, I was breaking a sweat in spite of the chill of the bright winter day and the laundry maid, ignoring us, had disappeared into the house again.
“Today I only want you to know that your hand is faster than your leg. It always will be. So think of the meaning of this.”
I tried to think but could not imagine a reason, why Samael thought this important. I tried to recall if my Lord Paschke had ever made a comment about hands being faster than legs. Nothing came to mind. “I don't know.”
Samael smiled slightly. “Ask your Master, see if he knows. If he doesn't, or if you can't figure it out, then I will tell you tomorrow.”
“Are we finished for today, then?” I asked hopefully.
Samael laughed as if I had told an hilarious jest.
My heart fell, knowing there was more to come.
“No, now you begin your own weapon. It's slightly smaller than a quarter staff but just as effective.”
So we crossed the yard again stopping by a cracked butter churn continuing service holding quarter staves. Samael measured my height and rummaged among the ones available, measured me again and selected a smooth staff.
“You want it about chin high, good solid yew wood. “ Samael smiled as he handed the staff to me. “It also does handy work as a prop for a,” his smile spread into an anticipatory grin, “blind man,” he finished. “But in the hands of a blind man who dances and knows how to wield it, it can bring down any with a shorter weapon, and the greater the skill of the staff wielder, the more useful it is.”
Wonderingly, I examined the staff with hands and eyes, noting the knots which had been smoothed over. It felt damp under my hands, as if the bark had been fresh-pealed. Peasants, shepherds, even beggars are allowed a staff. “If it is so good, why do knights use sword and lance?”
“A lance is an over-long staff, useful primarily for knocking someone out of the saddle. A sword is better for those who need to stab quickly. You will learn to use a pike, but this will be the weapon you automatically reach for.” Samael reached up and took down a staff that wasn't among those in the old butter churn. It immediately seemed to be a natural extension of himself, as if it belonged with him. “Close your eyes and find the center point, where you can balance it on one finger,” Samael instructed, “Then pull it toward you so the center point is at your navel, and place your hands shoulder width apart.”
Samael examined my hold, his own staff resting easily in the crook of his arm, looking like any piece of wood, while his fingers closed around mind, checking their grip and finally gave my staff a hard pull.
“Remember, how to lunge, and that your hands will always be quicker than your feet.” Samael swung his staff to life as he stepped away and began lunging, thrusting, moving his staff with ease of long prctice. When he stopped, I shut my gaping mouth.
“We begin. Hand your staff to me, I hand mine to you.” With that we began, then picked up speed, then he demanded I shut my eyes and he began to call changes such as for right to left hand and from right to right hand whenever we settled into a routine and speed. I began to smile. Getting this stupid exercise right wasn't difficult. Working with Samael was better than having a hot posset on a cold night. He upped the demands, standing further from me so that now we tossed and caught the staves. It wasn't a very big distance, hardly more than our arms' length apart, but he demanded our tosses keep their rhythm and speed.
“Stop!” he called at last. “We have one more task before we eat.” He handed me my staff, for he had both in hand, paused with his face skyward, as if he were squinting at the sun, then turned to the shed. “Come, haul this up.”
Dutifully I stumbled over to see a sack such as grain is kept in. It couldn't possibly be grain, because no one would be so stupid to leave a sack of grain outside on the ground.
“Here's the rope. Haul it up and keep hauling until it's at the tree,” he ordered.
As I began, and hauling is the right word for this task, I could see the rope and pulley wheels that let the sack be hoisted up and across the yard to the tree. “What's in the sack?” I grunted the words between hauls.
“Sand.”
As the sack of sand slowly made its way toward the tree, I realized it reminded me of a quintain except that it was not a stationary pivot. If I released the rope, the sack would start back toward me. I gripped the coarse rope more firmly, dreading whatever trick Samael had up his sleeve this time.
When the sliding quintain finally reached the tree, Samael had me tie off the rope on a hitch on the up-right that supported one corner of the roof and had the other pulley.
“Stand braced like a lunge. Keep your weight forward, flex your knees – very important that – because when that sack of sand finally reaches you it will have much the impact of a galloping knight or a wild boar. You have to keep your feet, understand?”
I nodded, then remembered the couldn't see my head bob, “Yes, sir.”
He snorted. “Are you braced?”
I shifted into what I hoped was a braced position. “Yes sir.”
Unexpectedly Samael lunged at me, palms open, shoving at my chest. I staggered back and fell, feet and legs swinging high in the air.
“Hold steady, fool! Get up and brace yourself again.”
Frustrated, I got up, determination locking my jaw. “I'm ready,” I did my best to growl though my voice sounded like a toad croaking.
This time I expected Samael's sudden lunge. He tested me several times until he deemed me steady enough. Then he handed me a pike, showed me how to brace it and myself, and then unhitched the quintain.
Slowly, wobbling, it eased forward coming back toward me.”
“Flex your knees, lean into it, keep your grip on the pike.” Samael's voice droned on as the formidable bag of sand accelerated. “Stand firm!” He shouted.
My eyes squeezed closed as the last moments closed on me, leaning forward, felt the horrible impact of that dead weight catch on the pike point, wobble, fighting to overwhelm me, and then it surrendered. To me. My eyes flew open and my mouth dropped open too as the gutted bag spilled its entrails of sand. “I skewered it!” though my head was shouting, my voice only managed a whispered echo.
Thus began my training. Samael used every opportunity and every method he could think of to expand my understanding of what happened around me. He expected me to excel at everything he introduced. When Physician Steffan permitted, I was blindfolded for my lessons. As days passed, Samael intensified everything.
Samael also taught me to hear, or rather to listen. If I had thought my ears well-trained before, now I was trained to hear the sound of a mouse creeping across the floor, the silent tread of a hunting cat, the subtle change in the air presaging the soundless flight of the owl. Samael also insisted I had to identify people by their voices and manner of their tread as they walked. We spent time on the training field as my Lord and others practiced so I learned where a heavily breathing person, whose clothes move, or whose armaments shifted, stood, and how he moved. Samael demanded I know exactly where that person was, and which weapon I might use to defend my Master.
These were not the only things Samael instructed me in. He taught me to play harp, lute and flute, saw to it that I could tend a fire and cook simple provisions, and mend clothes while blindfolded for he believed I would go blind yet. Unfortunately, even with the best teacher, I did not learn everything over night. My training took about three years, and often I wished to be free of my unrelenting taskmaster.
However, at the end of my first week I was still very much a beginner, fumbling at most tasks Samael set. I attended my Lord's elevation from page to squire. In that ceremony, Lord Olbrecht took my Lord as squire and Lord Odo took Lord Olbrect's two sons, Boleslav and Wladislav. My lord and I. We also moved into Lord Olbrecht's house into the wing above the laundry and dairy, not the part where Lady Christine resided with her father. Then the days of Christmas were upon us. On the first we marked the ties between my Lord and Lady Christine. That season was spent much in prayer, hearing Mass – where I payed more attention to the movement of the people around me than to the words of the Bishop. Who moved? Was it restlessness or a potential attack? Was it the right foot tapping or the left hand scratching an itch? How close was the person, were they in striking distance?
Afterward prayers, the tradesmen provided daily pageants showing us each phase of these twelve days, beginning with Joseph's dream of the angel telling him his betrothed was pregnant with the son of God and that he should marry her, on to the Holy family's arrival in Bethlehem, to Herod's search for baby King Jesus as they killed many infants in effigy and all the while the Holy Family fled before unto Egypt, which was the Ducal castle. It seemed the whole town and anyone living nearby came to see these plays, a different one each day, and always performed by different tradesmen. Each day our expanded household group stood close together. There seemed little chance of any footpad or pickpocket closing with us, nevertheless Samael persisted in distracting me from the pageantry to remind me to attend to those around us, those who potentially could be a threat.
Special notes or comments will be posted here in blue.
Ears 3
A hand gripped my forearm like a hawk's claw.
“We will talk.” Samael said, and directed me away from the voices that must have gone to play boules. Clicking his tongue repeatedly, Samael directed my stumbling steps with a few words. I guessed we were behind the house in shadow. “Reach out and grab the ladder in front of you,” he directed when we came to a stop.
“What ladder?” I asked, my voice cracking in fear and frustration.
“The one in front of you. Just reach out and you will touch it.”
Hesitantly I reached and indeed found a ladder. I was under it.
“Up you go!” Samael ordered.
With the ladder at hand I stepped out to go to the other side, but he pulled me back.
“Not like that! Up this side.”
“But I can't see!”
“You do not need to see. And you don't need your feet for this. Up you go, use only your arms.”
I moved my hands up, got a splinter in my left hand, and managed to wiggle it out with my teeth.
Samael was impatient, “You do not have time for splinters, just go!”
I managed to swing up three rungs before I missed the fourth rung and dropped to the ground in a heap.
“Get up and do it again,” Samael ordered sounding as if he delighted in my struggles.
Not once, but ten times, I did what I could to climb the wrong side of the ladder hanging by my hands. When I dropped the tenth time, arms shaking from the unfamiliar task Samael said, “Come.”
I stood, dusting off my clothes, “Where?” I asked.
“Here,” Samael's voice came from further away.
Turning toward his voice, I heard his foot scuff the dirt. It came from my left, but his voice had come from my right. “Who is with you?” I asked.
“Only you,” came his reply, but it was from behind me.
I barely avoided turning towards his voice. Instead I settled into myself to listen.
Something moved to my left.
“Hurry up!” he demanded.
There was a patter of sound in front of me. Considering it, I decided it must be gravel he had thrown. I waited.
“What is taking you so long? Have your feet become lead?” Samael sneered.
His voice seemed to jump from place to place, near, far, right, left, in front of me, or behind me. Though I clenched my teeth in frustration, I had too much experience with the uselessness of venting my fury. I pushed my wrath into a focus point, ignoring his voice and listening for any sound he made. In those moments I became aware of my own breathing and then the thud of my heart.”
“Have you gone to sleep?” Samael's question made me smile. He had moved, probably moving a hand from his belt to gesture.
That faint brush was close, though his voice came from my left. I waited. Another faint sound also close, probably within two strides.
Another patter of sound to my right.
Raising my arms, I stepped toward him, not in the direction of the pebbles he had thrown. Two steps had me clutching him by the arms. His reaction was laughter and clasping mine.
“Well done! You are well named Ohren. Now we must train you.” He half pushed me away and stepped out, pulling me along in a half-embrace. “There are many things you can do, things you can learn, and,” he paused, his voice smiling, “things no one will expect a blind man capable of. We must build up your strength and speed, further train your ears. You've neglected your body. You must learn to land on your feet.” He stopped, holding me back. “Where are the others?”
“You're asking me?”
“Of course! You have to train your ears, why delay?”
I sighed resentful agreement at that logic and set myself to listen to voices I had been ignoring, to find the tap of the ball against a boule-pin. Instead I heard the unmistakeable thunk of arrows on a wood target, and someone playing lute over the continual murmur of men's voices. Worriedly I chewed the corner of my lip, I hoped my Master wasn't ignoring his lady. The lute player was too practiced to be my Master. “This way,” I said stepping forward in the general direction of the voices.
With a click of annoyance, he pulled me back, or rather prevented me going forward. “We go around the tree,” his voice smiled.
Confused, I gave way, “Lead on. I can't see – as you know!”
He tisked several times. “Choler is useless,” he said, stepping away. “Surrender to it and your life will be bitter indeed!”
I stifled a snort as I followed him. Of course, he would be phlegmatic, he wasn't the one going blind.
He tisked again, and nudged me almost off-balance. “Another tree. You know a choleric person is always bitter, always seeing slights where perhaps none are intended.” He tisked isapprovingly.
“They presuppose the world is set against them.”
“Are you a philosopher or a priest?” I dared ask.
I heard him snort in quiet laughter. “No I'm just one of my Lord Olbrecht's arms-men now, once I was training master to his Grace, Duke Boleslav, when he rode attendance on Frederick Barbarossa's tail.”
Awe devoured my ire. “Grandfather,” I gave him as respectful a title as I could. He was much older than I'd imagined. “Why take notice of me? Shouldn't you be easing your bones?”
Samael chuckled, “My bones'll get all the ease they need after the Grim Reaper finally catches me, but I'll try not to let him till you're a proper man, truly able to serve your Lord.”
His quiet voice vibrated as if he were taking oath.
“Good aim!” my Master said. “Well done. That was close.”
“Thank you,” the quiet voice could only be his betrothed. I had still to get the sound of her voice firmly in my ear. “I'm sorry yours went wide.”
As clearly as if I had seen it myself, I knew he had deliberately tossed the ball wide. He practiced things until he seldom misjudged his game. It left me in awe of him yet emphasized the difference between us. For him everything seemed easy, while for me most tasks seemed almost beyond my skill.
Samael cleared his throat. Not an attention getting, distracting throat clearing, rather a servant's quiet sound allowing the nobles to inquire if they deigned.
“Samael?” the lady inquired laconically.
“With your permission, Lady Christine, I'd like to ask Lord Paschke if he would permit me to train his man? I believe I can do you both much good if permitted.”
The silence which followed was broken by Lady Christine, “Samael was training master to Duke Boleslav before he joined father after...”
Under my bandages my eyebrows drew together in a frown. After? After what? What was there about Samael that I couldn't see? I knew he must be a venerable age, but his voice and step were as firm and sure as Lord Odo's.
“What would you do for him?” my Master asked.
“My Lord, he needs training. His balance is poor, his hasn't as much strength as your Lady does, He says he has no skill with a bow or pike, how can he serve you without these and other skills?”
My Lord was quiet for a seeming eternity, before inquiring, “Can you train him?”
I could almost see Samael plant his feet solidly, thumbs hooked in his belt, settling into himself. “I can.”
Under my bandages my eye brows rose. Samael was assurance itself speaking.
“What needs be done?” My Master asked.
“With your permission, I will bring him here every day – there is no need for others to see him train, for any to carry news of what skills he masters, and he will master them. People will notice a difference, but they need not know the extent of it.”
After another pause my Master replied, “Alright. I see the wisdom of that. How will you find him?”
“Leave that to me my Lord. I can find him.”
“Good, now that that is settled, Samael, would you kindly play some music while we return to boules?” The lady's voice sounded as if she wished Samael had never interrupted their game.
“Certainly my Lady.” from somewhere about his person he found a flute and began to play. It was a common tune, jaunty and gay. Without asking I took out the flute in the bag my Lord Paschke had given to my safekeeping and joined Samael.
Behind our melody, a jaunty dance tune, the pair struggled with polite conversation as their throws of the balls hitting the ground or tapping each other created an irregular rhythm.
The game closed when the bells in the twin towers of the Dom1 rang Sext. As everyone else, we trooped to the call.
*
Next morning after Prime, Siffret led me once more to Physician Steffan's lair. During Siman's examination of my eyes footsteps on the stairs distracted him from warnings of many quack remedies I should avoid.We looked to the door. A man was framed there as the early morning lighted the steel grey of his thatch of hair. I could see his red woolen tunic reached his knees, and his brown braies ended in ankle high boots.
“God give you a good morning Physicians.” The newcomer's voice identified him as Samael. “I've come for Ohren.”
“Good morning Samael” Physician Steffan spoke. “How are you keeping?”
I saw a faint flash of Samael's teeth as he smiled. “Busy, as ever. And you?”
I gathered that they knew each other, perhaps had known each other well at some time. I looked to Siman. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Not really Ohren. I want you to return tonight, we'll bandage your eyes for the nights.”
I nodded, “Saints preserve me, I shall come.” I looked at the edge of the window embrasure before stepping down into the room. How wonderful to be able to see again! I could see things, step around things in my way, move unhindered. I felt like a falcon unhooded and released to fly. I never wanted to be hooded again.
“Physician Steffan, I've a question about Ohren here. I understand he is going blind. Is it alright if he's blindfolded for training?”
I halted, mouth open, staring at Samael, then looking desperately at Physician Steffan. My mouth formed the word “No”, even as my head moved in a slow negative.
Physician Steffan turned to Siman for a wordless conversation. Siman replied cautiously, “For this sevenday it will be better if Ohren's eyes are unbandaged.” He looked at me once more, “Keep them clean, and keep your hands away from your eyes, do you hear me?”
“Yes sir,” I replied, relief washing over me again. I saw Siman's mouth twist into a kindly crooked smile, and decided he understood how much this meant to me. “Thank you.” I turned back to Samael, “I'm ready.”
He grunted but didn't look at me. “Come on then, I'll teach you the way.”
I followed him onto the walkway, and was delighted that I could distinguish the individual steps leading to the courtyard.
As he stepped onto the cobbles of the courtyard Samael turned to me and I froze on the last step in shock. Samael was blind. “I won't be able to do as much for you, until they give me permission to blindfold you, but that is no reason to delay what you can learn. Come on.” He pulled his hood up over his head to ward of December's chill and set off with as good a stride as my Lord Odo or any other man.
Ignoring my own hood, I trotted to keep pace with him, ignoring the way the day's early sun cast shadows. How could he see, know, where he was going? His eyes were completely clouded over.
“Understand Ohren, to the people we pass, I seem a man like them. My hood helps. There is no reason to give anyone the idea that you are an easy target. You need the skills I am uniquely qualified to impart to you, and you will struggle the more to learn them as long as you can see. Right now, while you can see, learn the road we take, because I will not play page to fetch you to my Lord Olbrecht's after this. I will, as soon as you can bear the blindfold, teach you how to negotiate the way yourself. You need to know the city as well as your own body. You don't need your eyes to touch your nose or your knees. You know where they are.”
I was catching my breath in my effort to keep pace with him. “Can you see at all?” I dared ask.
He halted suddenly, turned toward me. “Not any more. Come, you are in dreadful condition.”
Amidst women making their way to the river with the weeks wash, bakers and fishmongers reminding householders to buy, I was trying to take in details of where we went, houses we passed, so I could find my way to Lord Olbrecht's town home again. When Samael stepped through the gate, I realized I would have to take better note on my home bound journey or I would never learn the way. Breslau is big, some say it has almost five thousand souls, but most of my time had been at the ducal home.
“You do know how to dance, don't you?” Samael asked.
“Well, yes, a little,” I replied, in confusion. “I've never been good at things like that.”
Samael's eyebrows rose and his mouth thinned to a line.
“Come over here then and we'll start on cross bows.” He set off across the yard to shelter of a roofed pavilion. I was amazed at how well he knew his way around. He reached down a small crossbow, depending from the beam that braced the roof. “Do you know how to cock this?”
“Yes,” I replied uneasily.
He handed the bow to me. “Close your eyes and feel the bow, examine it carefully with your fingers. You must know whether a weapon is in good condition or not before you use it. Feel the sinews. Are they in good condition, smooth, not frayed?”
I did as he ordered.
“Don't hurry. Take your time. Get to know this weapon.”
“It's quite small,” I said. “It feels like a ladies hunting crossbow.”
“Very good. It is. It is also a perfect size for you. People can think you hunt rabbits. However, it is also defensive.”
My fingers kept exploring the bow. I'd had the care of the crossbow my Master used, but never really given it as much thought, or as careful an examination.
“Keep your eyes closed and span the bow,” Samael ordered.
Because the bow was small, I had no trouble drawing the strung to the nut. From somewhere the thought came, wondering what my father would say to see me do this.
“Here's a bolt, without looking, point the crossbow to your left and place the bolt in.”
Except for looking up to take the bolt, I did as he said. I was surprised at how natural it felt to have my eyes closed. It was unexpected that my fingers seemed more skilled than I remember them being before. How my father, Jäger, would have delighted had I had the gift. Lost in futile reverie, I was slow to respond to Samael's command to point the crossbow in front of me and shoot, eyes closed.
The thwack of the bolt splintering into the wood target, caused my eyes to open. I was jubilant to have hit it, even if it was only four strides from me.
“Take another, do it again. Keep your eyes closed.”
Each time a bolt hit as we repeated this, I had shivers of elation. I was using a crossbow, albeit only a small bow for hunting rabbit. When all the bolts were spent, I retrieved them. They were ranged over the large boards set for this practice.
“You have two goals now. One is to load and fire faster. The other is to improve your aim.”
“How can I do that with my eyes closed?”
“Ha! Learn to use your ears. Hear where the bolt strikes. Seek to place your next bolt close to that same place,” Samael replied.
So I continued to shoot and retrieve the bolts – which were still scattered over the target. I learned to dismiss the noises of town, the comings and goings of traders such as the eel monger and the baker. Eventually I became aware my rhythm had picked up. Draw, place, lift, fire, draw, place, lift, fire. Somewhere I became aware that Samael had his flute and was piping a tune to the thud of bolts into the target. I tried to outpace his tune. Then disaster, I missed the target!
Samael stopped piping. “Stay focused, keep your rhythm, continue.”
I steadied my rhythm and stopped trying to outpace Samael. I knew how easy it was to pick up the pace of the melody. Now I listened for the thud of bolts into the wood.
Eventually, Samael called a halt to this practice and inspected my last volley while I retrieved to lost bolt. It wasn't easy to find. I searched the ground for a long way, both right and left of the target, scuffing my feet back and forth hoping to make the bolt move. I finally found it by a tree.
Samael led me back to the ladder of yesterday's torment, and had me repeat the task. He also demanded that I hoist my chin to one of the higher rungs, my head between the rungs. His only explanation was, “You will need strong arms.”
Some time after mid morning he began to teach me lunges, equipping me with a wooden sword. “You will not normally use a sword. It isn't your calling, but, in a crisis you need to know how to use one if it is at hand even though you won't have your own. If your Master is downed, and his is within reach, and you are the only one between him and someone bent on killing him, you need to know what to do.” Samael delivered all this while lunging continuously in rhythm beside me.
“ My master has learned ever so many strokes. I've seen him practice. How will I know what to do?”
Samael stopped. "You will learn to dance, and dance well.”
I stared at him, than glanced away as a maid carrying a basket of fresh washed laundry crossed the yard.
“Don't stop. Keep moving. Lunge right, back, lunge left, back, right, back, left, back,” his litany soon became a fast paced dance on the flute. Was it my imagination that the laundry maid pinned up the laundry in time to the tune too?
When we stopped this, I was breaking a sweat in spite of the chill of the bright winter day and the laundry maid, ignoring us, had disappeared into the house again.
“Today I only want you to know that your hand is faster than your leg. It always will be. So think of the meaning of this.”
I tried to think but could not imagine a reason, why Samael thought this important. I tried to recall if my Lord Paschke had ever made a comment about hands being faster than legs. Nothing came to mind. “I don't know.”
Samael smiled slightly. “Ask your Master, see if he knows. If he doesn't, or if you can't figure it out, then I will tell you tomorrow.”
“Are we finished for today, then?” I asked hopefully.
Samael laughed as if I had told an hilarious jest.
My heart fell, knowing there was more to come.
“No, now you begin your own weapon. It's slightly smaller than a quarter staff but just as effective.”
So we crossed the yard again stopping by a cracked butter churn continuing service holding quarter staves. Samael measured my height and rummaged among the ones available, measured me again and selected a smooth staff.
“You want it about chin high, good solid yew wood. “ Samael smiled as he handed the staff to me. “It also does handy work as a prop for a,” his smile spread into an anticipatory grin, “blind man,” he finished. “But in the hands of a blind man who dances and knows how to wield it, it can bring down any with a shorter weapon, and the greater the skill of the staff wielder, the more useful it is.”
Wonderingly, I examined the staff with hands and eyes, noting the knots which had been smoothed over. It felt damp under my hands, as if the bark had been fresh-pealed. Peasants, shepherds, even beggars are allowed a staff. “If it is so good, why do knights use sword and lance?”
“A lance is an over-long staff, useful primarily for knocking someone out of the saddle. A sword is better for those who need to stab quickly. You will learn to use a pike, but this will be the weapon you automatically reach for.” Samael reached up and took down a staff that wasn't among those in the old butter churn. It immediately seemed to be a natural extension of himself, as if it belonged with him. “Close your eyes and find the center point, where you can balance it on one finger,” Samael instructed, “Then pull it toward you so the center point is at your navel, and place your hands shoulder width apart.”
Samael examined my hold, his own staff resting easily in the crook of his arm, looking like any piece of wood, while his fingers closed around mind, checking their grip and finally gave my staff a hard pull.
“Remember, how to lunge, and that your hands will always be quicker than your feet.” Samael swung his staff to life as he stepped away and began lunging, thrusting, moving his staff with ease of long prctice. When he stopped, I shut my gaping mouth.
“We begin. Hand your staff to me, I hand mine to you.” With that we began, then picked up speed, then he demanded I shut my eyes and he began to call changes such as for right to left hand and from right to right hand whenever we settled into a routine and speed. I began to smile. Getting this stupid exercise right wasn't difficult. Working with Samael was better than having a hot posset on a cold night. He upped the demands, standing further from me so that now we tossed and caught the staves. It wasn't a very big distance, hardly more than our arms' length apart, but he demanded our tosses keep their rhythm and speed.
“Stop!” he called at last. “We have one more task before we eat.” He handed me my staff, for he had both in hand, paused with his face skyward, as if he were squinting at the sun, then turned to the shed. “Come, haul this up.”
Dutifully I stumbled over to see a sack such as grain is kept in. It couldn't possibly be grain, because no one would be so stupid to leave a sack of grain outside on the ground.
“Here's the rope. Haul it up and keep hauling until it's at the tree,” he ordered.
As I began, and hauling is the right word for this task, I could see the rope and pulley wheels that let the sack be hoisted up and across the yard to the tree. “What's in the sack?” I grunted the words between hauls.
“Sand.”
As the sack of sand slowly made its way toward the tree, I realized it reminded me of a quintain except that it was not a stationary pivot. If I released the rope, the sack would start back toward me. I gripped the coarse rope more firmly, dreading whatever trick Samael had up his sleeve this time.
When the sliding quintain finally reached the tree, Samael had me tie off the rope on a hitch on the up-right that supported one corner of the roof and had the other pulley.
“Stand braced like a lunge. Keep your weight forward, flex your knees – very important that – because when that sack of sand finally reaches you it will have much the impact of a galloping knight or a wild boar. You have to keep your feet, understand?”
I nodded, then remembered the couldn't see my head bob, “Yes, sir.”
He snorted. “Are you braced?”
I shifted into what I hoped was a braced position. “Yes sir.”
Unexpectedly Samael lunged at me, palms open, shoving at my chest. I staggered back and fell, feet and legs swinging high in the air.
“Hold steady, fool! Get up and brace yourself again.”
Frustrated, I got up, determination locking my jaw. “I'm ready,” I did my best to growl though my voice sounded like a toad croaking.
This time I expected Samael's sudden lunge. He tested me several times until he deemed me steady enough. Then he handed me a pike, showed me how to brace it and myself, and then unhitched the quintain.
Slowly, wobbling, it eased forward coming back toward me.”
“Flex your knees, lean into it, keep your grip on the pike.” Samael's voice droned on as the formidable bag of sand accelerated. “Stand firm!” He shouted.
My eyes squeezed closed as the last moments closed on me, leaning forward, felt the horrible impact of that dead weight catch on the pike point, wobble, fighting to overwhelm me, and then it surrendered. To me. My eyes flew open and my mouth dropped open too as the gutted bag spilled its entrails of sand. “I skewered it!” though my head was shouting, my voice only managed a whispered echo.
*
Thus began my training. Samael used every opportunity and every method he could think of to expand my understanding of what happened around me. He expected me to excel at everything he introduced. When Physician Steffan permitted, I was blindfolded for my lessons. As days passed, Samael intensified everything.
Samael also taught me to hear, or rather to listen. If I had thought my ears well-trained before, now I was trained to hear the sound of a mouse creeping across the floor, the silent tread of a hunting cat, the subtle change in the air presaging the soundless flight of the owl. Samael also insisted I had to identify people by their voices and manner of their tread as they walked. We spent time on the training field as my Lord and others practiced so I learned where a heavily breathing person, whose clothes move, or whose armaments shifted, stood, and how he moved. Samael demanded I know exactly where that person was, and which weapon I might use to defend my Master.
These were not the only things Samael instructed me in. He taught me to play harp, lute and flute, saw to it that I could tend a fire and cook simple provisions, and mend clothes while blindfolded for he believed I would go blind yet. Unfortunately, even with the best teacher, I did not learn everything over night. My training took about three years, and often I wished to be free of my unrelenting taskmaster.
However, at the end of my first week I was still very much a beginner, fumbling at most tasks Samael set. I attended my Lord's elevation from page to squire. In that ceremony, Lord Olbrecht took my Lord as squire and Lord Odo took Lord Olbrect's two sons, Boleslav and Wladislav. My lord and I. We also moved into Lord Olbrecht's house into the wing above the laundry and dairy, not the part where Lady Christine resided with her father. Then the days of Christmas were upon us. On the first we marked the ties between my Lord and Lady Christine. That season was spent much in prayer, hearing Mass – where I payed more attention to the movement of the people around me than to the words of the Bishop. Who moved? Was it restlessness or a potential attack? Was it the right foot tapping or the left hand scratching an itch? How close was the person, were they in striking distance?
Afterward prayers, the tradesmen provided daily pageants showing us each phase of these twelve days, beginning with Joseph's dream of the angel telling him his betrothed was pregnant with the son of God and that he should marry her, on to the Holy family's arrival in Bethlehem, to Herod's search for baby King Jesus as they killed many infants in effigy and all the while the Holy Family fled before unto Egypt, which was the Ducal castle. It seemed the whole town and anyone living nearby came to see these plays, a different one each day, and always performed by different tradesmen. Each day our expanded household group stood close together. There seemed little chance of any footpad or pickpocket closing with us, nevertheless Samael persisted in distracting me from the pageantry to remind me to attend to those around us, those who potentially could be a threat.
After
the pageants, we ate. The food also was seemingly endless! The lean times lay ahead of course. Now we had goose, swan, duck, as well as pork, beef, and venison. Dishes of mushrooms, onions, and all manner of little leaves were served. We visited and were visited constantly. Our
combined household took a special dish to the ducal palace to present
to their Graces in celebration of this holy season. Always people in and out, much coming and going with Samael always seemingly by my ear having me to attend to sounds, smells, movement.
As the days drew to dusk, out came our instruments, and many a song was shared. Instruments passed from hand to hand. We learned new songs slowly and sang old ones enthusiastically, or held our breath listening to tales of valiant feats.
As the days drew to dusk, out came our instruments, and many a song was shared. Instruments passed from hand to hand. We learned new songs slowly and sang old ones enthusiastically, or held our breath listening to tales of valiant feats.
Thus
passed the season of feasting celebration and joy. It closed upon
some fouls stormy weather, a driving sleety rain that chilled the
bones whether indoors or out. Under these conditions, we made
provision to travel, for both Lord Olbrecht and Lord Odo were among
those knights accompanying Duke Henryk to attend upon the Emperor. We
would attend them, my Lord as Squire and me as my Lord's body
servant. Samael was a pace behind me of course.
We
had woven and felted cloaks to help stave off wet and cold. These
were emblazoned with Lord Olbrecht's arms, and fell to our knees. We
could swagger indeed with these. I felt half lordly myself! We also
had wool tabards similarly emblazoned. Boots were stuffed with straw
to keep our feet warm as long as they remained dry. Horses, thick
with winter coats of their own, were reshod, and smiths kept busy
making spare shoes, for surely winter's mud would pull off more than
one and a forge might not be at hand. Food was more problematic. We
had to carry enough provisions for ourselves and our horses. We would
move from village to village, and as long as we were in the Silesian
Duchy, the villagers would provide for the Duke and his closest
retinue, but although we were in their company, adding to their
consequence, we would have to make our own food – or at least
provide provisions for it.
I
received my Lords old gambeson, as Lady Christine had made him a new
one. The long sleeved garment was thickly padded with wool. Samael
tied me into it.
“It
will keep you warm, and with everything else you wear, should protect
you from everything except an arrow, a crossbow bolt, or a lance. Try
not to get stuck!”
My
Lord also received chain to wear atop his new gambeson. He quipped
about the weight as I laced him into the chain. He would be much
harder to pierce than I would. Not that we were expecting trouble!
Lord
Olbrecht pointed out, “If we dress appropriately, then there is no
need to fear attack. We go in peace and pray to return in peace, but
we take reasonable precautions to ensure our return.”
Our
tabards fitted above these other clothes, and our cloaks finished our
attire. I felt quite proud, and noted that my Master also walked, or
turned, to show Lord Olbrecht's blazon more clearly. How could I not
emulate him?
We
set out in early February, the land still sere and drab, the weather
still changeable. Our trip would take weeks. His Grace, Duke Henryk,
led. We, following Lord Odo and Lord Olbrecht, rode. At first this
seemed a luxury I had not expected, but Samael insisted I ride each
morning behind my Lord. Behind us came others, each household less
significant. And at the rear came the great wagons hauling supplies.
Before long we were helping haul them out of potholes and muddy
wallows. My finery became muddy, my shoes leaked and chaffed my cold
feet. Unaccustomed to riding, I got saddle galls in places that hurt!
Samael had some salve to treat the galls, but every movement hurt!
Seeing me walk made people laugh, and for a while I was the brunt of
rough jokes and ribaldry.
Please see Ears 4/Ears IV for a continuation.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Property
These are photos of property I went to see at the beginning of April. It is a "house" with four cottages, a sauna, a small bit of forest, and a couple of arces of field.
This picture (above) is looking up the drive from the road. The drive hasn't been plowed. We walked in. The main house is a shadow on the left, the sauna is the shadowy center, and the shadowy building on the right actually straddles the property line, is in terrible condition and must be torn down (a lot of work... but there might be some useable wood in that...)
This picture (above) is from the front of the house showing the pile of snow the roof has dumped in the corner. The wall hinted at to the left is the entry.
This picture (above) is a the back of the house and is the side wall of the entry to the cellar. looking pretty bad - and no I do NOT mean the boarded up window.
This picture (above) is from the other side of the entry to the cellar - yes, you could stick your fingers between those boards. The entry to the cellar would need work (a LOT of work).
This picture (above) is the back of the house and one of the windows to the bedroom. The forest in the background edges the road going past the property.
This picture (above) shows the threashold, sitting on the ground and yes it has gaps. New entry way definitely needed. More work.
This picture (above) is of the entry hall - after the entry way which can be seen on the right of the picture. The paint (possibly lead-based (a known health hazzard)) is peeling badly here. The house hasn't been lived in for some time.
This picture (above) is the other side of the entry hall, and that clever door you see opens on "storage" which actually happens to be the stairs to the attic. No pictures of the attic but it had LOTS of evidence of rodents. The hall just shows lots of peeling paint.
This picture (above) is the main room. The red-brown thing on the left is the baking oven. The ceiling shows more peeling paint, the floor underfoot is not "squishy" but definitely needs attention.
This picture (above) shows more of the main room. There is a sink - but no water. The table under the window has a small electric cooker. The red thing to the left is the wood burning stove (in need of repair... big surprise).
This picture (above) is the baking oven and wood burning stove. The door to the left is the entry hall. The door to the right is the bedroom. No, I am NOT feeling "at home" here.
This picture (above) is the bedroom.
This picture (above) is the left side of the house. I was trying to get a feeling for how close the bushes (I think they are lilacs) are to the house. I am not fond of lilacs, sorry to those who love them!
This picture (above) is what I noticed about the foundation on the left side - actually this is the entry addition which would have to be completely replaced. Yes, I have a plan. No I do not have the money to do it. In one of the pictures below there is actually a fair photo of the main house. The "problem" with the snow and "wet" siding is actually caused by the additions of the cellar entry and the front entry. Both were "additions" and if they had been carefully thought out, someone would have raised the entire roof, turned it 90 degrees and then made the additions. Then these problems would NOT have developed. Cheap plan, leave the expensive clean-up for someone else. Am I that person?
This picture (above) is the well house. Ummm I think I'd like to have it completely checked and "shorn up" as dear friend Mabel Olsen used to say. Just to be on the safe side. This is the source of the water. Supposedly it has never "run dry" - but then no one was doing laundry here with modern equipment!
This picture (above) shows the exterior of the sauna.
This picture (above) shows the need to replace the poarch to the sauna (work and money) I do think I could do this myself. Actually all the poarches need attention, but this is the worst.
This picture (above) is the dressingroom of the sauna.
This picture (above) is the sauna interior and...
the picture below is the kiuas (left) and the kettle (right) where the sauna and water are heated - just when you were thinking I wouldn't point to a lower picture. HA!
This picture (above) shows the main house (best picture you'll see of it) and one of the cottages - I call it cottage 3. Technically this is "in" the forest part of the property raising the question of how many trees make a forest!
And the picture below shows (left to right) the side of the main house, the back of cottage 3 and the front edge of cottage 2 where we go next!
This picture (above) is cottage 2, which I am calling the Fisherman's cottage because it had fishing gear inside.
The picture below shows the "kitchen" portion of cottage 2. The sink needs to drain to a bucket. No cooker. No electricity. No heat. No toilet. All of which means: no modern conveniences. Gee, just like living in the DARK AGES!
This picture (above) is the bedroom of cottage 2. Yes it has bedframes, almost civilized!
This picture (above) is cottage 3 from the left side. Notice the low roof. This might be a problem with a heavy snow load. Ah so, more work: raise the roof. Question: is it worth raising?
The picture below shows the poarch of cottage 3.
This picture (above) shows the kitchen(???) living area of cottage 3. It was occupied by the lawn mower. The "bedroom to the back was long and narrow 150 cm wide. Few modern "conveniences" (like cottage 2) and no bed frames.
These pictures (above and below) is cottage 4. Above exterior, below interior. The "kitchen" area is to the right - no photo. Yes, this begins to look ok. I could definitely see using this.
This picture (above) is the "dog house" and fenced yard. Keep the fence and replace the dog house. Have I mentioned the WORK involved in this place?
The picture below shows the "official" forest which runs from my feet to the begining edge of the field (not on the property). Looks like it needs some attention. I could plant oh 19 or so sugar maples here, a few (maybe 9) oak trees (I LIKE oak trees), and surely a few other trees too - some that aren't generally "grown" commercially in Finland (yes, I am not your average lady - but you OUGHT to have figured that out by now!
This picture (above) is the exterior of cabin 4. Please don't tell me it looks hideous! One former door needs painting (aka work). But please, comé in and take a look at this unlikely gem.
The picture below shows the entry to cabin 4 - and hints at the comfortable living/sleeping room beyond! Not so bad (except maybe I'd tone down the blue... paint, aka "work").
This picture (above) is Cabin 4 kitchen. This one is ready to use. Propane cooker, small fridge... Chairs just like mine at home (hey I want this!)
This picture (above) shows that the living room has formerly been a sauna (which means it still could remorph into one again - with a lot of work, yeah, yeah I know!). But actually I like it very well just like this and the stove. o la la! I LIKE it!
This picture (above) is the rest of the living/bed room of Cabin 4. Homey. Nice! I CAN see liviing here - with one or two relatively minor changes.
Below is the last photo I'm sharing. A glimpse of the main house on the right, but the photo is showing the extent of the "field" which is rented and cultivated (thankfully). The property ends where the trees begin in the distance and beyond them is a year-round neighbor. Oh, the "bushes" on the right happen to be hawthorn, which is excellent - a very healthy herb! No I was not "just" looking at the buildings!
Well I hope you've enjoyed this little excursion. I need to go get back to EarsII now and soon it will be time for Ears III!
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Ears II
This blog continues the story Ears. You might say it is Chapter 2. If you haven't read Chapter 1 here is the link: sulokale9.blogspot.com/2015/01/ears.html
Compline in mentioned. The time is about 21:00 or 9:pm Prime is also mentioned, it is about 6 am.
Compline in mentioned. The time is about 21:00 or 9:pm Prime is also mentioned, it is about 6 am.
2
The
quiet place my Master found for me was the court scriptorium. There
the week passed, Sifret bringing me to and from Siman's care. Siman
made worrying noises treating my eyes, avoiding questions as to why
he mumbled to himself. Sifret always managed to find some fresh dog
dung to lead me through when returning me to the scriptorium. Getting
it off my shoes was difficult when I couldn't see what I was doing.
Within
the first day and a half at the scriptorium, I managed to grind all
the oak galls they had in store. They didn't task me with making the
ink. Instead one of the scribes, Fridel, sat with me guiding my hands
over velum, patiently training my fingers to find the awl marks in
the margins. This took three days before Fridel was content that I
could locate the marks, then he began teaching me to line the page
using bone-stylus and ruler. Fridel taught me much in that week, for
he was free with his knowledge, explaining and letting me handle
different qualities of velum so I knew the feel.
In
the evenings, before we retired, there was talk of the coming Yule
and the pages who would become soon become squires. Speculation ran
as to who the Duke Boleslaw and his son Henryk would chose. My Lord
was a likely candidate, in spite of his mischievousness, he was
popular, and very apt in all his tasks. Of course, each page eligible
was eager to be squire to Henryk, because he would go to Würzburg.
What an adventure that would be! The younger pages were quite
envious. Of course Duke Henryk would take a large entourage so there
was hope that there would be several new squires going.
Two
evenings before I was liberated of the bandages, that is the eve of
Saint Adelheidis' feast, my Master was leading me towards the pages'
dormitory when the clatter of shod hooves over stone cobbles
approached at a steady jog.
“I
make that four of five horse. What do you say Ohren?” my Master
asked.
Taking
a deep breath to steady my senses, it took a moment to decide, “Five
and one is foot sore, probably a loose shoe.” This was a game we
had often played. He woudn't wager with me – for I had no coin to
bet with, but if he had I would have won.
The
riders rounded the corner and one arrested us with a shout.
“Hoy
Page, will your man tend our mounts while you direct me to my son?”
My
Master was busy reaching for reins, his shoulder shifting under my
hands, so he disregarded my grip tightening on him. “Certainly my
Lord, though Ohren lacks use of his eyes, he can tend your mounts
as...” he was cut off here, because the inquirer had dismounted –
I heard his booted feet hit the ground and two quick steps.
Fortunately
I lost purchase on my Lord Paschke's shoulder as his father, Lord
Odo, pulled him into a manly embrace and, from the scuffle of feet,
almost got dumped on his backside in thanks. Lord Odo proved the
quicker and laughingly swept my Lord Paschke's feet from under him.
There were good humored comments and laughter from those who
accompanied Lord Odo.
“Well-met
son, well met!” Lord Odo laughed. “I am pleased you've attended
to your training so well!”
“Father!
My abject apologies! My thoughts were elsewhere. I just...”
“You
just did what you are being trained to do! Yes, yes. I am well
pleased. Now, what's this about eyes and who is Ohren? What happened
to Wolfram?”
The
four men with Lord Odo dismounted while my Lord Paschke explained my
situation. I could feel Lord Odo's concern through his grip on my
shoulder and guessed, from his hold on my chin, that he tried reading
the secret of my eyes through the bandages. He made a dubious
half-chirping noise as if resigning himself to my fate and turned
back to my Lord.
“Greetings
from your mother and sisters Czyne and Czylle, and, were he old
enough to send greetings, from your brother.” He must have turned
his head toward me, “Wolfram, your family also sends greetings and
a gift, which I will give you once your eyes are unbound. Meanwhile,
point Lütold toward the stable and take me to his Grace – I assume
he is still awake...”
“He
retires after Compline. Lüthold, one of the
horses is foot sore - perhaps it has a loose shoe. Niklas the hostler
can help with that.”
It
wasn't until Lüthold was leading the horses toward the sables, and
we were making our way to the Great Hall, that Lord Odo asked how my
Lord knew one of the horses was foot sore. He was silent for several
strides after hearing that it was my suggestion.
“Ohren
is a good name for you Wolfram. Have you learned any fighting
skills?”
I
didn't realize that he was speaking to me til my Lord nudged me. “Oh!
Me? Sorry, I am useless in a fight, everyone – even the smallest
lad – has me at an advantage in” I snapped my fingers to show the
speed.
Lord
Odo hmmed. “Paschke, I think, with ears as good as Ohren has, that
a little focused training would be wise. If he can read the number of
horses in a group he can't see, and know one is footsore, I see no
reason he can't also learn to hear the moves anyone attacking him
might make. Clothes move, armor or chain clinks or squeaks, men
breathe – usually a deep breath before lunging. Shoes – even bare
feet – make a noise.” He paused. “But I think it wisest if you
do that training very privately – there is also an advantage to
having everyone think your man is helpless, and untutored.” His
voice firmed, “I'm delighted, proud you decided to keep Ohren! Well
done, son, well done. I think this decision will have unexpected
benefits.”
In
my imagination Lord Odo was nodding vigorously at his own words,
probably because I was so relieved to hear them!
At
the Great Hall, my Master told the guards and the herald to announce
Lord Odo of El Taraan and my Lord and I waited near the door while
Lord Odo paid his respects to Duke Boleslav, who had arrived from
Glogau earlier in the week, and Henryk his son and co-ruler. He
withdrew with invitations to attend their Graces on the morrow.
Even
through my bandages, with my eyes shut, I could tell when we passed
torches, for they were moments of glow in the dark.
“There
is much we must do tomorrow Paschke. You are betrothed now and I want
you to meet her. I think you know her brothers – both are pages
younger than you. Wladislav and Boleslav, named, I think ,to please
his Grace – but keep that opinion to yourself!”
My
Master chuckled. “It has been suggested by many already! Yes, I
know them well. So we are to become family!”
“That
pleases you?” his father asked.
“Yes,
on my part for they are good lads. The betrothal part, is... I'm not
sure. I mean, I knew this would happen eventually, I just wasn't
expecting eventually to arrive so soon. But that's silly because I
could have been betrothed years already!”
Lord
Odo laughed kindly and even the three men attending him, whose foot
falls kept pace behind us, chuckled. “Have you some small trinket
you could gift her? It would be appropriate. If not, then I have one
or two small items with me you can choose from.”
My
Master turned slightly toward me, “Ohren, have I anything
suitable?”
Oddly,
this made the men laugh again.
“Who
would know better than a body servant responsible for all his Lord's
possessions?” one voice asked.
I
recalled the voice, but couldn't immediately name him. He was Lord
Odo's body servant. Ah yes, Orban! “I have no idea what trinkets a
lady would like!” I explained in desperation.
"Christina
is about two years your junior." Lord
Odo continued.
“Page
Paschke!” a bellow interrupted us. “Page Paschke!” It was
Sander, his leather shoes slapping the cobbles as he approached at a
run. “Page Paschke, you are late for curfew. My abject apologies
good sirs. I hope this page has not inconvenienced you! Paschke make
haste now. Farewell these gentlemen.”
“I
believe we inveigled this page,” there was a smile in Lord Odo's
voice, “rather than he us.”
I
could imagine the change in Sander's officious stance because he
delighted in his authority over the pages.
“Lord
Odo, this is Sander, squire to Lord Depolt, Master of Pages. Sander
this is Lord Odo, my father” My Lord Paschke made the introductions
warmly – as if he never felt Sander's officiousness.
“My
Lord,” Sander now sounded confused, taken aback. “I apologize. I
had no... but of course! You've come for his elevation to squire!”
“Indeed,
among other things, such as paying homage to my lord Dukes Boleslav
and Henryk. But, Paschke, son, you must not jeopardize your elevation
by violating curfew. I judge, from what good Squire Sander said, that
there are some people who find you troublesome.”
“Yes,
a bit,” my Lord admitted, his voice abashed.
“Then
we will speak more on the morrow!” Lord Odo said.
“But
how will you know how to get on?” my Master asked.
Lord
Odo's laugh almost covered Sander's gasp. “ Remember, I have been
here before and have been making my way about the world some years
now, as it has pleased God to keep me alive. Perchance I can manage a
night here.”
I
jerked a sketchy bow in rough imitation of the undoubtedly graceful
one my Lord Paschke gave his father.
“What
should I expect?” her voice in the dark was serious.
With
my hand on my Master's shoulder I kept alert to his movements as we
strode after Sander.
In
the Page's dormitory, I felt for the two items, hidden in his pallet,
which I thought might make betrothal gifts and placed them on his
pallet. One was a small knife he used on Saints' feast days if he
attended his Grace. The other was a wooden flute he'd whittled. He'd
be loath to part with the former, and I with the latter. The flute
had been his first instrument when we came to the Dukes' court and he
could play it well, although now he was learning to play the lute,
and allowed me to play the flute. It had begun to feel like a part of
me.
“Would
either of these do as a gift?” I asked.
Frustrated
mumbles gave me understanding that he was removing his tunic and
momentarily couldn't see any better than me.
“Can
you hang this up?” he asked as though he'd forgotten I still had
his care and the care of his clothes.
I
reached open handed toward his voice to grasp his tunic as he thrust
it my way.
“Let's
see...” his voice turned toward the pallet, spread ready on the
floor as I shuffled to the wall, found the wooden bar, and arranged
his tunic. “I'm not sure about the knife. Isn't there some old
wives' tale about knives being turned on the giver? I think so.”
“Hey
Paschke! If you're giving that knife to someone, why not give it to
me? I'll even pay you a silver Haller, “ Bero importuned.
“I
haven't decided to give it to anyone,” my Master parried. “You
can't tell about old wives' tales. Sometimes there's truth in them.”
“Who's
the gift for?” Clymke queried inquisitively.
“My
betrothed.”
Various
exclamations, from ribald to moans of misery, erupted. Some of the
pages were already betrothed, others still awaited news that the
formalities had been decided.
“What
about that spoon you made?” Bero asked. “You know. The one that's
perfect for salt.”
“Or,
oh, that bead necklace you wove of bark. You know the ladies like
beads.” Kaspar teased.
I
was glad the bandages over my eyes hid my eyes rolling.
“The
spoon is a good idea, Bero. My Lady will undoubtedly be making food
and adding salt. It is a worthy suggestion.”
I
began to hope the flute might remain with us while I knelt to
withdraw the small spoon from its hiding place.
“What's
this?” Sander endeavored a bellow, but his voice cracked even as
the boys quieted. “Compline bell is ringing.”
There
was a scuffling of feet, then silence reigned, cut by the peels of
the bell, answered by the other church bells.
“Undoubted
he will gift you something.” I replied. “You must thank him
appropriately and gift him something in return. I...”
“Will
he like me?” she interrupted.
“I'm
sure he will. I suggest...”
“How
will I know if he likes me?”
I
sighed. “He will like you,” I reassured her. “Now as I was
saying...”
“And
what if I don't like him?”
“Oh
you try the patience of the saints Christine! Of course you will like
him. Do you think your father would choose someone you wouldn't
like?”
“Father
chose him because he knows his father. He knows nothing of the son.”
“Rest
assured, you will like him! Now pay attention. You have some nice
embroidery which could be sewn onto a shyrt for him. Also you have
those tablet woven bands you did which could be sewn on a tunic.
Those would be very appropriate gifts.”
I
was rewarded with the sounds of her quiet breathing. She slept. I
shook my head with a sigh and tried to find a more comfortable place
on my pallet.
One
page, Clymke from his position in the pages' dormitory and the sounds
he made, rose early, lit a touch and began dressing. He had the day's
duty serving their Graces'.
Yawning
hugely, I crept off my pallet to begin preparations for that day. I
wanted to rub my eyes but the bandages prevented that, so I scratched
my head instead as I recalled the strange dreams of last night. Still
yawning, I brought water for my Master to wash with, set out clean
body linen for him, and then tugged his foot to rouse him.
He
sat up asking thickly, “Where is my nutcracker?”
I
removed the key from my neck and leaned down to find his hand. “In
your box,” I whispered.
He
grunted incoherently as he grasped the key and began moving as the
other pages began getting up also. From the sounds he wasn't bathing
or dressing, rather moving our pallets aside and opening the wooden
chest that stored his clean linen and personal items.
I
guessed he wasn't happy with what he had to give his betrothed. It is
one thing to make small items for amusement but they were not such
fine things as a lady might crave.
“Here,
put this tunic on,” he thrust something at me.
My
hands knew it for the tunic of my office identifying me as his body
servant. I sorted out front from back and tugged it on.
Next
he handed me a satchel with a strap to wear over my shoulder. It
wasn't full, but it had a few items in it. I didn't investigate. He
would ask for them when wanted, and my hands could identify whatever
he had chosen and placed in the satchel. A smile tugged at my mouth,
would it seem clever that a man with bandaged eyes could give his
lord what he asked for?
From
the sounds my Lord was making, I knew he had finished with the box,
and was locking it. He returned the key and began washing in the cold
water. I felt for his discarded shyrt to place it with his laundry,
and found it under a fine wool robe. He intended to look his best
today. I was chagrined that I couldn't help him prepare. Had it been
almost a week since Mistress Hedwig had interrupted me with that
task, changing my life so that now my Master helped me almost more
than I helped him?
“How do I look?” he asked of his fellow pages. Few bothered to reply
coherently. I knew most of them blundered about eyes closed until
after Prime, unless they attended their Graces'. I worried that I
couldn't reassure him. From the fact that he asked, I guessed he was
anxious to make a good impression today.
This
was confirmed when he told me to stand still as he attacked my hair,
intending to make the curly red mass lie reasonably. Curly hair is
never reasonable. Bandages and being overdue to have it cut probably
made my head look like a runaway red sheep in need of sheering.
Dressed,
we lined up with the other pages and attendants while Sander
inspected us, pulling a robe or tunic, remarking on whose hair needed
attention, before we marched to Prime.
May
perhaps tried to catch nap there, I listened to the cadences of the
monks chanting, letting their voices carry me toward salvation and
redemption. The cold stone floor seemed to warm under my feet.
Will
he notice me?
More
important that he does not notice you or you will have been doing
something wrong. Modest maids keep their eyes down and...
Never
respond to men, for to do so is allow the devil to play. Yes aunt, I
know.
Impertinent
imp!
I
shook myself. Waking dreams? The voices so feminine. Why was I
hearing them? I managed to stop myself from looking about attempting
to see through the bandages. Was I losing my mind? I sighed. I
didn't have much mind to lose.
Berthold
elbowed me to shut up.
I
wondered if I should mention the voices to someone and decided
against it. No sense in going blind and being branded crazy. If I
kept quiet, perhaps the voices would leave me alone.
Prime
over, Sifret came to fetch me. On his heels came Lord Odo and his
men. He deemed it wise to attend upon Physician Steffan.
Siman
unbandaged, washed and examined my eyes yet again.
“Is
there chance of improvement between today and tomorrow, if treatment
continues?” Lord Odo inquired as I looked about the familiar room
wondering if my sight was better, worse, or the same.
Physician
Steffan heaved a thoughtful sigh. “Short of a miracle, we do not
have much hope of saving his sight, merely of prolonging it. How is
it Ohren? Is it any better...?” his voice trailed off, leaving me
with options.
“I
am not sure. I have been blindfolded for most of a week, so just now
it seems as if I see very well.”
“Can
we hope for better?” Lord Odo asked.
“Ohren,
describe the table,” Physician Steffan requested.
I
looked into the room. I could see the table. My recollection of it
was vague. “It is a trestle table, with cross-legs,” I looked to
decide if I could determine other features. “The feet have a shape,
like a ball or a hand.” I was thrilled. I hadn't noticed details
like this in long memory. I began explaining what I saw on the table.
Physician
Steffan seemed perplexed, doubtful, and stepped up into the window
embrasure to examine my eyes himself.“Is
it better to keep his eyes bandaged?” Siman asked.
Physician
Steffan frowned – I could see his brow wrinkle. “Ultimately it
won't matter. At some time, when it pleases God, Ohren will go blind”
I was fascinated to see Physician Steffan shrug, “Unless He pleases
to grant a miracle.”
Siman
shifted his feet. Glancing at him I noticed how his mouth creased,a
s if he were frustrated with physician Steffan's answer. “Do you
think that one more day of treatment is needed?” There was a slight
edge to Siman's voice.
I
glanced back at Physician Steffan in time to see him shrug again. “We
should try. Yes. If God is choosing to us us as the means of
delivering a miracle, then we will do all in our power to assist
Him."
Siman
nodded and began redressing my eyes.
I
heard Physician Steffan step down onto the wood floor of the chamber.
Someone, from the origin of the sound I think it was Lord Odo, placed
a coin on the table.
Released
from Siman's care, we made our way to the Great Hall still with time
to eat – though being late we were at the lowest table. My Lord
insisted I be seated too, though normally I would serve him. It was
Orband. Lord Odo's body servant, who brought the remains of the
porridge and bread and we gave our attention to breaking our fast.
It
being the Sabbath we were free from our most of our usual duties. So
while the sun was still climbing to the heavens, the mire of the
streets still frozen in shadows long and cold, we made our way into
the town.
“Lord
Olbrecht and I agree that Christine and you shall have a residence
here in Breslau. He has some land here already and a modest home.
What did your bring as gifts?” Lord Odo changed the subject.
On
on Sunny corner we paused briefly while I showed what my lord had put
in the satchel I carried: the horse-headed nutcracker, the flute, the
carved spoon, and the beads.
“Add
these to that,” Lord Odo requested.
I
heard him fiddle with his belt pouch, untying the tong that closed
it.
My
Lord drew breath. “All these?” he asked, wonder in his voice.
“Surely these are ivory, but what stone is this? I do not recognize
it?”
“I
am not sure.” Lord Odo's voice hesitated. “It, I, it's from
Iconium.” Something growled in his voice as if a sour memory
plagued him.
My
Lord was quiet, perhaps recalling hearing of the great battle of
Iconium when Emperor Frederick Barbarossa took the city from the
Turks. We had been lads then, barely away from our mother's care, not
yet matched like a pair of hounds. Lord Odo had joined Duke Boleslav
for that great Crusade, the one that should have won back Jerusalem.In
another moment the first one item, a necklace, and then the other, a
bracelet, were placed in my hand. The necklace had smooth and
pointed beads, the pointed ones felt as if they might be teeth. The
bracelet was cool stone carved into shaped beads. In the brief
interval that I held it, I could not determine what the shapes were
meant to be.
“Christine
is your bride, son. You may chose to gift all to her at once or
perhaps you will please her better if you offer fresh amusement with
each visit.” He sighed, “It can be difficult to please women. You
need bobbles to keep them constant. Don't be too lavish, or you will
beggar yourself, but if you withhold gifts and attentions too much,
they can prove withholding in ways you will regret.”
There
was a pause then someone muffled a chuckle, and suddenly we were all
laughing.
“Come,
we are keeping your lady waiting!” Lord Odo continued.
We were met at the gate and escorted within. I can say with certainty was that the house we entered was behind a gate, for I had to step over the threshold of the door in the gate. We entered the house, cold in shadow, and passed through a dark drafty chamber redolent with smoke before coming to what must be the solar. It smelled of new wood and amonia. This must be a new addition with a gardrobe for the ladies.
As introductions were made, and we tossed aside our cloaks, I knew there were no women present, because none were introduced. When were were sitting on benches I heard footsteps overhead. Two sets of feet descended what seemed a narrow stair, barely more than a ladder. We stood.
I wished Physician Steffan hadn't insisted on bandaging my eyes this day. I wanted to see my Lord's bride enter, see – however imperfectly – their reactions to each other. Would he like her? Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I might see better for a while longer because of the bandages, but it only increased my frustration that I could not see right now. My nose told me she wore lavender.
“Lord Paschke, I present my daughter Lady Christine,” that was Lord Olbrecht's gravelly voice.
I strained my ears to know whether she curtsied and catch the first whisper of her voice, so I missed the other introductions. Had they clasped hands? Had that rite of betrothal taken place? How was my Lord doing under this formal situation?
“We hope you will sup with us this day,” Her voice was quiet, hesitant, maybe shy. I though she might be looking at a place on the floor, as a modest maid should never look men in the face. “Please be seated.”
She must have sat down perhaps on a chair – maybe the room had a chair, if so it might have been reserved for her on this occasion, rather than for her father's lordly haunches. Over rumbling murmured acceptance of her invitation, we fumbled to reseat ourselves on the benches behind us. I decided she must be beautiful if everyone was having such difficulty finding the benches again. Why wasn't my Lord speaking? Should he be speaking? Was his mouth dry? Was this pause normal?
“My Lady, I have brought a few gifts, perhaps you would accept them?” My Lord's voice was awkward. Perhaps she was ugly rather than beautiful. “Ohren,” he prompted me to my feet.
I hesitated to the right where his voice emanated.
“The ivory necklace and the nutcracker, please,” he requested.
I held the flap of the satchel open with my left elbow and felt for the beads of the necklace, reassured that she must be beautiful, or he would not have asked for this. I regretted that I couldn't hold it up with a dramatic flourish such as minnesingers tell in their romances. My lord's hand found mine and I passed the necklace to him with a smile. It would be better if he presented it dramatically.
I found the horse-head nutcracker too. My Lord had carved it last winter. There were always little things to be making during the winter, and pages were encouraged to make such items for their own use and to give as gifts.
“For your generous invitation to sup with you this day, I accept on behalf of all of us and offer you this nutcracker in hope you may never want for food.”
Oh he was almost as clever as a minnesinger! I stepped back, paused, considered my steps and moved to my left before stepping back again. Fortunately strong hands caught me from both sides and guided me to my place on the bench.
“Lord Paschke what chances with your man?” Lord Olbrecht inquired.
Embarrassed I felt my face flush with agony. Not a pretty sight as it makes my face look diseased! I told myself to get used to this for surely as I am going blind I will face this many times as long as I live. As my Lord told my short tale, I prayed silently, in despair, that all the saints and the blessed Virgin would grant me a miracle and save my sight.
The man on my left sifted, nudging me. “You able to fight?” he murmured close to my ear.
Cold fear gripped me as I didn't recognize his voice. I hesitated to shake my head.
“My Lord, pardon my interruption,” the man spoke up.
“Samael?” Lord Olbrecht queried.
“If Lord Paschke's man can't fight, how's he to defend this family at need?”
This brought the other men into the discussion. Somewhere I felt this was all wrong. The newly betrothed should be the center of attention. And if anyone cared they might at least have spoken as if I existed as a person rather than as an object to be discussed.
Suddenly everyone was silent, then all stood. I staggered to my feet, surely the lady must have stood up.
“Perhaps you would join me outside for a game of boules,” Lady Christina's voice was mild, carrying no hint of feeling ignored.
“My Lady,” my Lord spoke.
People began moving, though I guessed that my Lord was leading his betrothed and we just followed behind them.
We were met at the gate and escorted within. I can say with certainty was that the house we entered was behind a gate, for I had to step over the threshold of the door in the gate. We entered the house, cold in shadow, and passed through a dark drafty chamber redolent with smoke before coming to what must be the solar. It smelled of new wood and amonia. This must be a new addition with a gardrobe for the ladies.
As introductions were made, and we tossed aside our cloaks, I knew there were no women present, because none were introduced. When were were sitting on benches I heard footsteps overhead. Two sets of feet descended what seemed a narrow stair, barely more than a ladder. We stood.
I wished Physician Steffan hadn't insisted on bandaging my eyes this day. I wanted to see my Lord's bride enter, see – however imperfectly – their reactions to each other. Would he like her? Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I might see better for a while longer because of the bandages, but it only increased my frustration that I could not see right now. My nose told me she wore lavender.
“Lord Paschke, I present my daughter Lady Christine,” that was Lord Olbrecht's gravelly voice.
I strained my ears to know whether she curtsied and catch the first whisper of her voice, so I missed the other introductions. Had they clasped hands? Had that rite of betrothal taken place? How was my Lord doing under this formal situation?
“We hope you will sup with us this day,” Her voice was quiet, hesitant, maybe shy. I though she might be looking at a place on the floor, as a modest maid should never look men in the face. “Please be seated.”
She must have sat down perhaps on a chair – maybe the room had a chair, if so it might have been reserved for her on this occasion, rather than for her father's lordly haunches. Over rumbling murmured acceptance of her invitation, we fumbled to reseat ourselves on the benches behind us. I decided she must be beautiful if everyone was having such difficulty finding the benches again. Why wasn't my Lord speaking? Should he be speaking? Was his mouth dry? Was this pause normal?
“My Lady, I have brought a few gifts, perhaps you would accept them?” My Lord's voice was awkward. Perhaps she was ugly rather than beautiful. “Ohren,” he prompted me to my feet.
I hesitated to the right where his voice emanated.
“The ivory necklace and the nutcracker, please,” he requested.
I held the flap of the satchel open with my left elbow and felt for the beads of the necklace, reassured that she must be beautiful, or he would not have asked for this. I regretted that I couldn't hold it up with a dramatic flourish such as minnesingers tell in their romances. My lord's hand found mine and I passed the necklace to him with a smile. It would be better if he presented it dramatically.
I found the horse-head nutcracker too. My Lord had carved it last winter. There were always little things to be making during the winter, and pages were encouraged to make such items for their own use and to give as gifts.
“For your generous invitation to sup with you this day, I accept on behalf of all of us and offer you this nutcracker in hope you may never want for food.”
Oh he was almost as clever as a minnesinger! I stepped back, paused, considered my steps and moved to my left before stepping back again. Fortunately strong hands caught me from both sides and guided me to my place on the bench.
“Lord Paschke what chances with your man?” Lord Olbrecht inquired.
Embarrassed I felt my face flush with agony. Not a pretty sight as it makes my face look diseased! I told myself to get used to this for surely as I am going blind I will face this many times as long as I live. As my Lord told my short tale, I prayed silently, in despair, that all the saints and the blessed Virgin would grant me a miracle and save my sight.
The man on my left sifted, nudging me. “You able to fight?” he murmured close to my ear.
Cold fear gripped me as I didn't recognize his voice. I hesitated to shake my head.
“My Lord, pardon my interruption,” the man spoke up.
“Samael?” Lord Olbrecht queried.
“If Lord Paschke's man can't fight, how's he to defend this family at need?”
This brought the other men into the discussion. Somewhere I felt this was all wrong. The newly betrothed should be the center of attention. And if anyone cared they might at least have spoken as if I existed as a person rather than as an object to be discussed.
Suddenly everyone was silent, then all stood. I staggered to my feet, surely the lady must have stood up.
“Perhaps you would join me outside for a game of boules,” Lady Christina's voice was mild, carrying no hint of feeling ignored.
“My Lady,” my Lord spoke.
People began moving, though I guessed that my Lord was leading his betrothed and we just followed behind them.
There's a new blog post with chapter 3. Its address is: http://sulokale9.blogspot.fi/2015/04/ears-iii.html See you there!
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