I solemnly swear that I am a newbie.
Constant Craving
Fiona rode through the driving rain, sending up muddy water in her horse’s wake. Between squinted eyelids, she could see a light hanging from a building. Above it was a flapping wooden sign with a picture of a dove on it.
“A monastery,” she whispered, relieved. She dug her heels into her horse’s sides and sped off towards the light. She arrived at the doorstep and dismounted her steed. Gripping the reins, she led the horse up the steps and hammered on the door.
There was no answer. She knocked harder, and still no one came to the door. Feeling desperate, she cupped her hands to her mouth. “Please help me!” she cried. “Please!” Tears were beginning to roll down her muddy, weather-beaten cheeks. She looked to her side and saw a bell. Immediately, she rang it with enough fervour to wake the dead.
“Please open the door!” she screamed, sobbing. “Please help me!”
The door opened. A small, balding monk in brown robes with a lantern in his hand stood in the open doorway.
“Was that you, my poor child?” he asked.
Fiona nodded vigorously. The monk opened the door wider and let the soaking traveller and her horse walk in.
“Have you eaten yet?” the monk asked.
“No, sir,” she replied. “If I could just have an apple and some grain for the horse. He doesn’t eat much-”
“As much as you and your horse need, take it.”
She smiled at him as he led them down the hall to the kitchen. “Thank you.”
He opened the door to the kitchen and let the two of them inside. Her horse lay down by the oven while she took a seat by the table. She watched the monk as he put a pot of soup on the stove to boil. He cut her half a loaf of bread and a lump of butter and set it in front of her. She broke off a piece and buttered it.
“What’s your name?” he asked as he stirred the lentils in the soup.
“Fiona. The strawberry one there is Frey.”
“Fiona and Frey. A more distressed pair of travellers I’ve never met.”
Fiona smiled and continued eating her bread. “What’s your name?” she asked, breaking off another piece of bread.
“You may call me Peter. What brings you to the monastery at this time of night?”
“I’m on my way to Evongloria. My husband and son are there.”
“Really?” he looked slightly revolted; Evongloria was a desolate wasteland. “Are you going there to visit them?”
“I go to bring them home. They’re a tyrant lord’s prisoners, so I’m going to take them back.”
“How old is your son?”
“He’ll be turning seven when springtime comes.” Her voice was shaking.
“How did you lose them?” He placed the bowl in front of her and noticed tears rolling down her face. “I’m sorry, I-”
“No, it’s all right,” she whispered, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen them; I can’t remember the texture of their hair. I’ve forgotten the colour of their eyes.” More tears leaked down her cheeks and she buried her face in her arms on the table. The monk put a calming hand on her trembling shoulder and squeezed it gently.
“You will find them,” he said, silently praying he wouldn’t cry for her. What comfort would it be if she saw hopelessness on his face? “Goddess willing, you will find them.”
Her sobs grew louder as her shoulders shook harder, and he went to the cupboard to get a bag of barley. Pouring it into a large bowl, he dropped apple and carrot slices into the bowl and gave it to Frey, who ate graciously.
“I’m going to go to our potions-master. Perhaps he can be of assistance.” He walked out of the kitchen.
Fiona sat up and wiped her tears with her sleeve, further dampening her face. “I’d better eat my soup,” she said to herself. “Peter made it for my health, not for his.”
She took the wooden spoon and ate some of the lumpy, brown liquid. It was bland, and the lentils were only halfway cooked, but she managed to swallow half of it. She looked over at Frey and held the bowl over to him. “Might I propose a trade?” she asked.
Frey looked up from his barley and sniffed the soup. He snorted and shook his mane, wildly.
Fiona laughed. “All right, all right. You don’t have to get all fussy about it.” She continued eating and finished by the time the monk came back. He had several flasks palm sized and a small bag of herbs in his stubby arms.
“These are healing potions. This purple one is for sores.” He placed a bright lavender bottle on the table. “This one,” he said, holding up a green elixir, “this is for cuts. Pour it over the wound to disinfect it and cover the wound so it can heal.” He held out a bottle with a smoking orange liquid. “This will give you energy. Pour it into your horse’s feedbag to make him stronger.” He put the pouch onto the table. “This is a pain numbing herb. Sprinkle a little bit in hot water for it to work.”
Fiona nodded and opened her leather purse to put the potions in them.
“You’ve finished eating?” the monk asked. “Would you like more soup?”
“Oh no, I couldn’t. I’d really just like a nice bath and some soap for my horse. He can sleep in my room.”
“All right. You can sleep in the third room to the right. There should be a tub in there, and I’ll set some water to boil.”
Fiona stood up and whistled to Frey. The stallion stood up and walked to his master, nuzzling her hand. She gripped his reins and led him to their room, where she stripped off her drenched clothing.
Covering herself with a sheet, she wrung her garments out into the tub and draped them over the foot of the bed. She wrapped the sheet more tightly around her as she heard a knock at the door.
“Come in!” she yelled, making sure nothing poked through.
The door opened and the monk placed a large basin of water before the tub and a bar of soap on the door-side table. He looked up, shielding his eyes. “I’ll take your clothes and bring you a dryer pair, if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” she replied, getting up to hand him the damp clothing. He took it and went back out, shutting the door behind him. She took off the sheet the sheet and poured the water into the tub. Scraping off a bit of the soap into her hands, she rubbed it into her drenched hair and eased herself into the tub, feeling more and more relaxed as the water covered her inch by inch.
Frey snorted jealously and she laughed. “Don’t worry; you’ll get your turn.” She turned and grabbed the soap off the table. After lathering up a dense cloth, she rubbed herself with the cloth, watching as grey water ran back into the tub. When she had finished bathing, she stood up and wrung the water out of her hair. She dried off and dipped a lathered brush into the water before raking it across Frey’s side.
She had almost finished cleaning her horse when she heard a second knock at the door. Quickly, she got to the other side of the horse. “Come in!”
The door opened. The monk put her dried clothes on the foot of the bed and the change of clothes beside them. “I trust that will be all you need for tonight?”
“Yes, thank-you.”
“Then I bid you good night. Pleasant dreams.”
“You, too.”
He bowed and left the room. When Frey was cleaned, she dried him off and dumped the dirty water out the window. She threw the tunic and trousers over her gangly frame and flopped down onto the bed. Frey knelt down next to the bed and fell asleep within minutes. She stared at the ceiling for a while, and sleep took hold of her and flung her into a terrible sleep.
***
Fiona lay in her bed, nestled in the warmth of Gareth’s arms. The wind howled and shook the shudders and rain thundered on the roof, drowning out the noise of a forced door. The sound of a flower pot crashing to the ground woke the baby who shrieked in discontent. She felt Gareth move against her.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s just Ferdie,” she replied, sitting up to light her lantern. “I’ll take care of it, go back to sleep.”
She walked out of the room and down the hall to Ferdie’s room, following the sound of the toddler’s wails. “I’m coming, darling,” she called as she approached the room. “Mummy’s going to make it all better.”
Ferdie suddenly stopped crying. Fiona’s eyelids shot open. Heart pounding, she shoved the door open and ran to the cradle.
It was empty.
She looked to the window and saw a boot slide down. She ran to the window and saw a man holding a squirming sack climbing down the tree by the house.
“Gareth!” she screamed, seconds before she heard him cry out. Running to the door, she saw two men dragging him through the hall. Quickly, she threw herself against the wall so as not to be seen. He stared up at her, silently telling her to keep quiet. “I won’t let them take you with us,” his eyes said. Fiona’s heart pounded in terror as she watched them take her husband down the stairs and outside into the freezing rain.
Once she heard the door slam shut, she ran downstairs with her crossbow to slow the kidnappers. When she got outside, she took careful aim at the horse’s rear end and fired.
The wind let the arrow go no farther than two yards ahead before it was swept into a nearby tree. She fired again and it swerved around to land on someone’s roof. By the time she could reload the bow, she couldn’t see them.
Fiona collapsed to her knees on the muddy walk, dropping the crossbow by her side. She felt hot tears mingle with freezing raindrops on her face as she wailed, beating at the cobblestones until her fists bled.
“Ferdie!” she cried, tearing at her hair. “Gareth!”
The storm faded to black.
***
Fiona woke up in her bed, shaking with the horrible remembrance of her child and husband’s abductions. “Must even you be so cruel, dear Lady?” she asked, sobbing. “It’s not enough to torture me when I’m awake. I must suffer in my dreams, too?” She grabbed the pillow and buried her face into it, letting her tears soak the down.
Frey nibbled at her clothing, nudging at her knee. She looked down at him and rubbed his nose, forcing out a smile. “You’ll be good to me until I find them, won’t you?” she asked, choking on her sobs.
He snorted and flicked his ears, nodding his great head as if to say, “Of course I will.”
She sat up and scratched behind his ears, smiling through her tears.
Dawn poked her head over the wide horizon, spreading pink-tinted light across the rolling hills. Fiona stretched out her back and splashed some left-over cold water on her face. She undressed and redressed into her travel clothing, putting the garments Peter gave her into one of the saddle bags.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” she called.
Peter opened the door and poked his bald head in. “We’re about to have breakfast, if you’ll join us.”
In the kitchen, Frey took his assumed place by the stove while Peter served him a bowl of barley, carrots and apples.
Fiona sat near her horse as she ate a bowl of lukewarm, tasteless porridge. The only comfort of the breakfast was the large pint of mulled wine that came with it. “They don’t eat well,” she thought as she gulped down the bitter drink. “But they do drink well.”
She finished her porridge and waited for Frey to finish his breakfast. Peter walked to where she sat and gave her a large sack.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Bread, cheese, dried sausages, tea. There are several apples and carrots for Frey.”
Fiona smiled and looked up at him, graciously. “Why are you being so kind?”
“Well, I thought if I’d given you what we eat you’d start crying. You look so much better when you smile.”
She nodded. “A time will come for smiling, Peter.” Frey finished eating and looked up at her. “I think Frey’s ready to go,” she said.
“I’ll see you off once you get your bags.”
Fiona went back to the room with Frey and hitched the bags to him. After putting the reins over his head, she led him out to the entrance of the monastery where Peter stood, holding the door open. Fiona smiled at him as she mounted her horse. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome. I hope you find your family.”
She nodded and rode down the steps, galloping off into the distance.
Peter stared after her as the horse trotted beyond the forest and onto the gravel road. “Bless you, child,” he whispered to the wind.
***
Bertrand stroked his reddish goatee in thought as his deep brown eyes followed the woman at the next table over. She sat down with a mug of ale and spread a large piece of parchment on the table-top. He stood up and walked over to the counter to refill his pint and then stood over her table, sipping the ale and licking the foam from his lips.
Slowly, the woman turned her head and looked up at him. “May I help you?” she asked, with a voice that was strong and compelling.
“You make your way to Evongloria, I see?” Bertrand replied.
“Yes. The problem is, I’ve never been there nor any place, and so this map does little for me.”
“I also make for Evongloria. I have been there several times, and if you’d like my company, I would be your guide.”
She raised her eyebrows, suspiciously. “So kind of you to help me without knowing much of me,” she said.
“What can I say? I have a tendency to help others.”
“Without even asking their names?”
“I also have a tendency to forget my manners. What is your name, fair maiden?”
“Fiona. I come from eastern Lothlorien.”
“That far?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “For how long have you travelled?”
“About four months.”
“But that means you must have passed through the lands of Surdania.”
She nodded.
“That land is swarming with bandits and murderers! It is a wonder you haven’t been killed.”
“I travelled at night. The bandits know that no one comes out at night, so they don’t bother.”
He nodded in interest and sipped his ale. “I didn’t know that.”
“So, stranger, what’s your name?”
“I am Bertrand, son of Bertram. I mean to return a message to my lord in Evongloria.”
“All right. I’ll travel with you for the first few days, and then I’ll decide whether or not I need you to lead me there.” She shook his hand and folded her map. “I’m going to my room. I’ll meet you down by the stables at dawn.”
“At dawn it is.”
She stood and walked up the stairs. Bertrand stared after her and waited a few minutes before going up to bed himself.
In his room, he took off his mud-stained boots and then took off his shirt. He heard a squawking noise from his window, and looked up to see a raven. “Lord Icthyus,” he said, bowing. “Good to see you.”
“Was she there?” the bird asked in a shrill voice.
“She was. She will have me as her guide.”
“She will come?”
Bertrand nodded, and the bird flew away. “Fear not, master,” he whispered after the raven. “You shall have your collection completed.”
***
Fiona hitched the bags and saddle to Frey just as Bertrand came out to the stables. The grass was still cold and wet with dew, and the air was frigid.
“Good morning,” Fiona said, smiling.
“Good morning,” he replied, going back into the stables to get his horse.
Frey shook his cream coloured mane and looked back at Bertrand. “What’s wrong?” Fiona asked, stroking his cheek. He shook his head again. She looked over at Bertrand, who was putting the reins over his dapple grey charger. She looked at Frey. “You don’t like him?”
Frey nuzzled at her ring finger, where her wedding ring was securely fastened.
“You think I’m going to break my vow?”
He nodded.
She gripped his reins. “Listen, Frey. I love Gareth. I’m risking my life for Gareth. Bertrand is our guide, and that is all. He will be nothing more than that.”
Bertrand rode out the entrance of the stable. “Ready?”
She nodded and mounted Frey, who seemed to glare at Bertrand’s horse. They set off towards the forest. As they rode along, Fiona felt someone’s eyes on her. She glanced at Bertrand, who was staring absentmindedly.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, why should there be?”
“Nothing. It’s just, you were staring.”
“You’re beautiful.”
She blushed. “The years were good to my face, if not to anything else.”
“What harm have they done to you?”
She gazed at him, a distant look in her eyes. “My husband and child were taken from me. I go now to search for them.”
He nodded. “Any idea why they were taken?”
“I know exactly why. I married a blacksmith instead of a scholar. He came to my wedding, though I forbade him, and told me that he’d make me sorry. And he did.”
Bertrand felt his stomach turn. Surely his Lord Icthyus couldn’t be that cruel.
“Of course, I could hardly marry a man named Icthyus. His name sounds like snakes and lizards.”
He nodded. “I guess he can,” he thought.
They came to a valley where they decided to rest for the night. “Do you think the river water’s cold?” she asked, tying Frey to a branch.
“I don’t know. The water’s been pretty warm this month. Why?”
“I wanted to take a bath.”
He shrugged. “It shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll keep watch for you, if you’d like.”
She nodded and hung her hat on the branch beside Frey, then walked down the hill to the stream, looking for a spot that was particularly deep. When she found it, she pulled off her dusty clothing and took them into the water with her, soaking out the smell of sweat. Once she rinsed them, she set them out on a hot boulder to dry. Suddenly, she felt something brush her ankle.
She yelped, startled, then looked into the water. A catfish was swimming around her legs, brushing its whiskers against her legs. Fiona slowly knelt into the water, fighting to keep from twitching. Quickly, she grabbed the fish’s tale, yanked it from the water, and slammed its head against a nearby rock. She put the dead fish on the grass and continued bathing, glad for catching tonight’s dinner.
At the top of the hill, Bertrand poked the fire with a stick. He lit his pipe and took a long drag. Inattentively, he let his gaze shift down the hill. Fiona was getting out of the water, her body glistening with tiny droplets. Her long brown hair was pasted to her chest. Her stomach was toned, her legs long.
A horse’s whinny started him from his daydreaming. Fiona’s horse was snorting at him, throwing his mane and pawing at the ground. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked, nudging the fire.
The horse jerked his head in Fiona’s direction. Bertrand looked back at Fiona, who was putting her clothes back on. “What? Your master’s got a nice body, is all. Who’s to say I can’t admire it?”
The horse stomped his feet, angrily. Bertrand laughed. “What do you know, anyway? You’re just a stupid horse.” The horse glared at him, as if to say, “I resent that.”
Fiona climbed past Bertrand, a large, grey thing in one hand.
“What’s that?” he asked, taking another drag from his pipe. She turned to face him and pointed to what was in her hand. A catfish the size of his arm hung there, its whiskers drooping down. “How’d you catch that?”
“I don’t know. While I was going across a river during a storm, all of the food washed away. I had to learn how to catch fish without a net.”
“Or a spear? There aren’t any gore marks on that.”
“Mm-hmm. I caught it with my hands.”
“That’s really impressive.”
“Thanks. I’ll gut it. Take some vegetables out of my bag and wash them in the stream, will you? And when you’re done with that, will you cut them?”
“What kind of vegetables?” he asked, opening up her saddlebags.
“Red potatoes. Take about five, and then grab a pot and fill it with water. I need to boil them.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, biting back a “Cooking is women’s work.”
She gutted, skinned, and filleted the fish in seconds. Bertrand came back up the hill with a pot of water and potatoes in his hand. Fiona looked up at him and smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll take it from here.”
When the food was finished cooking, Fiona took a carrot to Frey and held it out to him. He munched it gratefully and she went back to her fish.
“This is a good fish,” Bertrand said through a mouthful of catfish.
“I’m glad you like it. If we’re in the forest next time, I’ll catch a rabbit.”
“With your hands?”
“No, I’ll trap it.”
He nodded and continued eating. “We won’t eat this well in the mountains.”
“That’s why I have dried meats and almonds.”
“I thought you said your food supply was lost in the river.”
“I stopped by a monastery on the way to the inn.”
He nodded. “Pretty generous monks.”
She smiled and finished off her meal. Taking a cloth from her bag, she dampened it in the potato water and cleaned off the dishes. Bertrand wolfed down his meal and cleaned his plate off. With the rest of the water, she doused the fire.
The two of them went to their horses. Fiona bade Frey lie down and she lay beside him, resting her head upon his great belly. She looked up at Bertrand, who sat on a rock beside her horse. “Are you going to sleep?” she asked.
“I think I’ll keep watch for a while,” he replied, taking a flint and lighting his pipe.
She nodded and shifted slightly, falling asleep. Bertrand watched the sun set as he smoked, and when pink faded to black on the horizon, he felt his eyelids growing heavy. It was too dark to find his horse, which slept standing up. He got on his hands and knees and crawled to where Fiona slept. His hand brushed her leg, and he continued crawling forward until he reached the horse’s underbelly.
He rested his head on its side and drifted into an easy sleep.
***
Dawn found Bertrand before she found Fiona. He sat up on the ground, yawning and stretching, and then he went to put the dishes from the night before into Fiona’s saddlebags.
When he had put them away, he put his hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. “Wake up, Fiona,” he whispered. “It’s time to go.”
Her eyes fluttered open and she stretched out her arms. “Good morning,” she said, sitting up.
“How did you sleep?”
“Like a log in the water. I dreamt I was with my husband again.”
He nodded. “Come, we must keep moving.”
She stood up, and then beckoned her horse to do the same.
“What’s your horse’s name?” he asked, mounting his own.
“Frey,” she replied, hitching her leg over her steed. “And yours?”
“Aldir. You wouldn’t happen to have anything for breakfast, would you?”
She reached into her bag and pulled out two apples and a loaf of bread. Breaking the loaf in half, she tossed one piece and an apple to him.
“Thanks.”
Frey reached his head back and nibbled pitifully at her pant leg. “No, Frey. We can graze later. Come on, giddap.”
They continued riding and began making their way across a huge plain covered with thick grasses.
“We should let them eat,” Bertrand said, dismounting. “It wouldn’t do to have them reach the hills on an empty stomach.”
“How long is it to the hills?”
“About a month. Then it’s a month of the mountains, and then to the wastelands of Evongloria.”
She nodded and pulled from her bag a bottle of an orange liquid. Bringing it to her horse’s mouth, she popped off the lid and let Frey drink some.
Bertrand stared, puzzled. “What is that?” he asked.
“One of the monks gave it to me before I left. It’s a sort of energy cordial. Here, give some to Aldir.” She handed him the bottle and he let his horse drink.
“How much energy do you think it will give them?” he asked.
“Oh, enough to make the journey into the hills about a week.” She pet Frey’s nose and let him eat some more of the grass.
He nodded and they got back on their horses. “How fast do you think they can go?”
She smiled. “Probably enough to make you wish you were a woman.” She dug her heels into Frey’s sides and took off, sending dust flying in her wake. Bertrand slapped Aldir’s hindquarters and he took a gruelling pace to follow her.
The chargers’ footsteps thundered as they hurtled west towards the Hills of Rowena. They had ridden along for a long while when Bertrand decided that enough was enough. “We’ll stay here for tonight,” he said, pointing to a grove of trees. He let his horse stay at a trot while Fiona jet off towards the forest.
When he alighted from his horse, his legs were completely bowlegged. Fiona looked up at him from the fire she was building and laughed. “Come, lie down,” she said, clutching her aching sides. “Maybe you can fix your legs if you rest.”
He winced as he walked to the log she sat on. Slowly, he sat down, trying to avoid further pain in his stiff legs and aching parts. She laughed again and she prodded the fire. “Why don’t you watch the fire and I’ll see if I can catch something for dinner?”
He looked up. “Sure, fine. Could you get my pipe and tobacco please?”
Nodding, she brought back his smoking utensils and then went off into the forest to make a trap. He stared after her and heard Frey whinny again. He looked back at the strawberry horse and sneered. “Shut up,” he scowled.
She came back with a brown hare dangling by the ears. Raising it up like a trophy, she took out her knife and deftly skinned off its fur.
“Would you like a pair of gloves?” she asked, putting the naked animal in the pot.
“Sure. I bet you could make four out of that.”
“Which is exactly why I’ll need to measure your hands twice.”
He looked up at her, puzzled. “Why do you call for a double measure?”
“My husband’s hands should be about the same size as yours.”
Bertrand nodded, though he felt a strange emotion. Jealousy? Perhaps. Fiona was gorgeous, her deep green eyes always smiling despite her pain. She was an excellent cook, and had a wonderful air of fierceness. She was strong, a quality he desired most in a woman.
He looked up and saw Frey, who was snorting at him. “Stupid horse,” he thought, taking another drag from his pipe.
Fiona was cutting bits of potatoes and carrots and dropping them into the pot along with the shredded rabbit meat. “Pass me the salt and water please,” she said, setting the pot above the fire. He gave them to her and she stirred the seasoning into the soon-to-be-stew.
Later, they held large bowls of rabbit stew in their hands and sipped them, taking care not to spill any of the hot liquid. Fiona had thrown the remaining carcass to a group of ravens, which picked the bones clean, all except for the brain, which she saved in an extra bowl to tan the hide.
When she had finished eating, she went into her bag ant took out a pair of scissors, a needle, thread, and a lump of charcoal. Laying the rabbit fur out flat, she traced her hand onto it and then cut out the outlines. She worked quickly and made a pair of gloves for herself within minutes. “Hold out your hands,” she said to Bertrand, sitting next to him. She traced his hands and he shivered slightly as her fingers brushed his rough, calloused hands.
“Did you ever have a feeling about giving up on your husband? That perhaps he and your child were dead?” he asked.
She looked up at him, tears threatening to fall. “Well,” she said, the ghost of a sob in her voice. “I did, for a while. I figured I could start a new life without them. But-” she broke off, glimmering tears falling down her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” Bertrand said. “I didn’t mean to be so tactless-”
“No, it’s a fair question.” She looked down at the fur, trying to recollect herself. “Gareth had done so much to be with me. He gave up his trade, turned to farming so I could do more than just sit around the house. He moved from his family in the city to the country side. And then he built a big house for me to live in, and a barn.” She sighed, beginning to sew again. “I feel as though if I don’t find him and bring him home, then I’d be taking everything he’s done for granted. Not all men would have done that.”
He nodded and wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “You’ll find them,” he whispered, though it killed him to say the words. “I’ll lead you to them if it’s the last thing I do.”
Fiona choked and buried her face in her hands, her sobs piercing the silence in the air. Bertrand, realizing he’d said the wrong thing again, rushed to apologize. “I’m sorry, I-”
She shook her head and threw her arms around him, hot tears streaming onto his shoulder. Slowly, hesitantly, Bertrand held her loosely and rubbed her back. “Thank-you,” she whispered.
He nodded, feeling a mixture of confusion and elation. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said, lightly rocking her back and forth. “It’s all right.”
Frey snorted. Bertrand looked up at him and sneered, sticking his tongue out.
To be continued...