A Squire's Progress

A Squire's Progress

Postby Cherny » Sun Jul 28, 2013 4:18 am

Matters move quickly for Cherny, once Sir Elliot visited the mill with a letter from his Lady; for his last day's work his master hardly let the boy out of his sight, as if intent on wringing out every last drop of sweat before passing him into the knight's care. Get your things, he'd said, and that was all; his fellows had watched him depart in silence, Kotek with a sullen stare, little Padalec on the verge of tears, for who'd spare him from the older boy's cruel attention now?

The squire meets his new master at the end of the mill road, his few possessions wrapped up in in a bundle of burlap and coarse rope. He speaks little on the way to the Broken Dagger, listening as the young knight enthuses about the path the boy now follows, the path he'd trod in the arcane wastes of distant Lothaine; a life of service - to his knight, to his Lady, and to the ideals of chilvalry and virtue.

His first evening is spent learning to tend to the knight's steed; matters of food and water and bedding, the proper storage of tack and the correct way to groom his coat. The boy is cautious, wary of so large a beast, but listens carefully to the knight's instructions and does the best he can.

That night he sleeps in the hayloft above the tavern stables, his bed a worn blanket and a sack stuffed with straw. His friends are nearby - Son in his own corner of the loft, Many-Fights and his pups in a stall below.

He wakes as the sun rises, and begins his new life.

The days that follow are a blur of new things. In town, at the salon of Mme. Atrahasis he is measured and fitted for livery, quiet and compliant as his knight and the couturier discuss cuts and colours; he pleads a few shillings for clothes in which he might work and train without fear of ruining finery, and procures a smart doublet and britches in hard-wearing black, and a brace of loose shirts so that he might always have something clean; stout leather shoes are a novelty, for all that they raise blisters on his heels until the leather has softened and his skin has toughened.

The mornings are filled with training as Sir Elliot teaches him how to ride, how to grip a wooden blade and how to stand when wielding it; in the afternoons he accompanies his master in performing good works, labouring for the public good - homes for the poor, food for the starving, coin for the destitute, and the squire strives diligently at each task he is set. He knows the value of hard work and honest toil, and is rewarded with hearty meals and the esteem of his knight and his knight's Lady.

He does not shirk. He does not complain. He questions only so that he might understand. He is an attentive shadow at Sir Elliot's side, silent until spoken to, deferential in his speech and quick to bow or beg pardon. He watches his knight closely, learning to anticipate his needs.

He smiles little.
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Cherny
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Re: A Squire's Progress

Postby Cherny » Tue Aug 13, 2013 12:36 pm

Days and weeks roll into one another, a new routine established, a new regime. He rises with the dawn, and sees his knight's horse fed and watered, the stall cleaned. He breaks his fast - he eats well now, better than he has before, meat with every meal - and makes himself presentable for training with Sir Elliot; time spent in strenuous action, building his strength and endurance, establishing habits of balance and poise. A good lunch after such exertions, and he dresses according to the day's duties.

On some days he wears the Lady's livery, matching Sir Elliot's crimson-and-gold - albeit a little less splendid in its ornamentation, less vibrant in its colours, so as not to challenge his knight for attention. Such days are spent as an accessory to Sir Elliot, just as he is in turn an accessory to the Lady Rhaena - a Lady must have a Knight, and a Knight must have a Squire. He does his best to be unobtrusive, to note when a cup might be refilled or an empty plate cleared, otherwise standing back while his betters conduct their business. Patient. Quiet. Attentive.

From his knight's side Cherny observes the people who come to the Lady's court, paying obeisance or seeking opportunity.

He sees the fat-fingered foreign merchants who have scented a new market in luxuries and dainties, and come bearing gifts and samples in the hope that the Lady's favour will render their wares fashionable - bright silk, fine wine and fragrant tea, spices and sweetmeats with which Myrken's aspirational classes might impress one another.

He sees the members of this new society, those who have joined the Lady's Foundation and prospered by the association; those with flair enough for politesse might win boons for themselves or their families, taking advantage of the contacts one makes from an afternoon of tea and dainty cakes or an elegant evening of music and dancing. They rub shoulders with newly-prosperous traders in grain and livestock, who find themselves richer than they've ever been in this time of unprecedented peace and plenty, seeking to bask in the dawn of Myrken's new golden age.

He sees those who yet hope to benefit from the New Myrken Wood, delegations of tradesmen and craftsmen who find themselves in difficulties as tastes swing towards the exotic and the imported. An envoy of weavers and dyers, dressed in their chapel clothes, bring examples of their best work in the hopes that the Lady's approval might win them custom from those who cannot afford silk but might settle for linen. An older woman wears a dress with a creamy froth of lace at collar and cuffs, gnarled fingers clutching her fan as she lifts a wrist for the Foundation's ladies to inspect; her own technique, which she has passed on to her girls, whose hands are more nimble by far, these days, and so much more personal than that imported stuff. A farmer's son, giddy at moving in such elevated circles, does his best to remember his etiquette while explaining how his father - who's farmed hens for years - has had Trae Kelsan quails imported specially, so that he might offer the very freshest eggs in all Myrken Wood - just like they have in Rasazan.

The squire comes away from these gatherings with a head full of flowery perfumes and tinkling laughter, urbane witticisms and painted smiles. He spends his evenings slinging stones at the cordwood villain by the woodpile, goading Son into teaching him how to scrap or wrestling in the dusty straw with Many-Fights and his pups.
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Re: A Squire's Progress

Postby Cherny » Tue Aug 13, 2013 12:42 pm

On other days he simply washes and changes into a fresh shirt, his sombre training clothes more appropriate to the work ahead; and it is work, often demanding, tiring, but undeniably productive.

He assists in the distribution of bread to the town's poor, those crippled by past disasters or brought low by circumstance. He takes care to learn their names, to address them politely. Ser Kendrick, known to others as Mad Ken, broken by the loss of wife and two sons to the Bloody Flux years ago; he offers a gap-toothed smile and calls Cherny by a dead boy's name as bread is pressed into his filthy hands. Sera Catrin with her half-burned face, widowed by Ashfiend's spite and left to care for four young children; for years she's sold clothespins and sprigs of meadow flowers to keep them fed, and not always with success; she accepts the boy's charity for her children, but declines a loaf of bread for herself; he returns a little later to buy a fistful of ha'penny posies for three shillings, and promises that they will grace the table of the Lady herself.

He does what he can to aid in the construction of homes for the town's beggars and vagrants, their ranks swelled by refugees from Derry; clapboard cottages replace tents and shanties, neat little rows of houses outside the front gate, new streets named for homes lost to Burel's armies. The squire helps where he can, hauling and carrying. He scrambles over rooftops bearing stacks of shingles and buckets of nails, and spends so long watching the roofers at their work that they invite him to have a try for himself. In this way he learns bits and pieces of the various trades; he learns how best to mix whitewash and how best to apply it; he learns when iron nails are optional, and when they are vital; he learns how to strike a nail rather than his thumb.

He most enjoys his work on the rooftops, scrambling like a monkey over laths and rafters as he hammers shingles into place row by tidy row; he forsakes first his doublet and later his shirt, and the summer sun tans his thin face and bony shoulders. He watches as families move into each new house as it is completed, and each visit after the simple buildings become more like homes - simple cloth curtains at the windows, skinny children playing in the dirt streets outside, here and there a scratched patch of earth where vegetables or flowers have been planted. Each time the smiles are a little easier, the eyes a little brighter.

The squire ends these days of toil in a cloud of pine pitch and sawdust and sweat, his ears ringing with hearty oaths and ribald laughter. He bathes in the lake, and spends the time before nightfall on the stable roof, reading in the fading daylight or surrounded by the raucous chatter of crows.
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