It would be expected that Lord Irongron might be in sombre mood at the wake following the funeral of his personal blacksmith and armorer. But the powerful warlord and chief supporter of the self-proclaimed 'King' Offo of Upper Sask' was not sad because he had lost a personal friend. No, indeed, the late master swordsmith had been much more important than that: he, and the wonderful weapons and armour he had wrought, had been the most valuable possession in the warrior Lord's deme! The bright sword he wielded in battle, the sturdy shield, the impenetrable hauberk and helm, they were appreciated, yes. But not as much as the Smith's ability to provide more of the same for his own troops, and as gifts for other lords and for the king. The man had also been able to fashion cunning and beautiful rings, torques and other paraphernalia whose glimmering charm was lusted after, not only by the somewhat rough 'ladies', but also the simple minded noblemen of these cold, windswept northern lands.
'Twas a pity the man had left no son and heir, just a measly daughter. Irongron had laughed out loud when his wife, the Lady Wugnulf, had pointed out that she too had some skill as a smith, oft times helping her Father in the forge. Irongron would not forget the child of course, he would find her a good husband and marry her off, perhaps enjoying a little droit de seigneur first, to some prosperous yeoman. Gaeric the Pig-Farmer had already expressed an interest. And as for a replacement: there were a half dozen smiths at this very wake, 'come to pay their respects', but more interested in sniffing around for the position as Smith to Lord Irongron.
The were also some nobles here, too: mostly to commiserate with Irongron for his loss; not one had sought out the commoner daughter to offer their condolences. Only one, a quite beautiful young woman, a widow it would seem (nobody else was dressed in mourning black for a mere commoner of course) who now made her way across to where the smith's daughter hovered at the outside of the traditional drunken revelry given as a send-off for for a departed soul.
She pulled back a black hood as she approached the newly-orphaned girl.
"I am sorry to hear of your father's death, he once did me a great service, and I have yet to fully repay him." she said. "What is your name?"
From the edge of the room Ismay watched the goings on of those in attendance, doing her best not to draw attention to herself. She was all too aware of how vulnerable losing her dad had made the two women he left behind. Only realizing too late why her mother had kept pressing her to get engaged, despite her young age. As dad’s little hammer, her father was quick to brush off his wife’s insistence, much to Ismay’s delight. She would always love her father for that. Her friends were also aware of their own vulnerability. With all the nobles and men in attendance her friends had gone home after the funeral, with the promise to return after the nobles and other older-single men were gone.
Hearing her mother laugh drew Ismay away from the downward spiral that were her inner thoughts. She looked across the room to where her mother stood talking with two men. One of the men looked older than her father, and the other was in his later 30’s if she recalled correctly. They were from one of the competing smiths in the area. The sight of her mother being so up-beat and friendly with them worried her greatly. What exactly was she planning?
“Ismay!” she called. “Darling, come here for a moment,” gesturing with her arm for her to join them. Hearing her name called nearly made Ismay sick. Her heart jumped into her throat, and her stomach tried to jump off the roof. She could feel the panic in her rise. Then suddenly, as if sent by her father’s heavenly ghost a shadow she hadn’t noticed before began to speak to her.
What she initially believed was a shadow was in fact a woman in a black hooded cloak. Thankful to have an excuse to ignore her mother’s summons Ismay turned her full attention to the very beautiful woman standing in front of her. “I’m Ismay Beaman my Lady,” she answered bowing her head slightly in respect to the woman’s unknown but obviously higher station. “I’m glad my father was able to be of assistance. Knowing him I doubt he’d ask for anything in return,” she replied. Offering the woman a supporting smile.
"I am sorry to hear of your father's death, he once did me a great service, and I have yet to fully repay him." she said. "What is your name?"
“I’m Ismay Beaman my Lady,” she answered bowing her head slightly in respect to the woman’s unknown but obviously higher station. “I’m glad my father was able to be of assistance. Knowing him I doubt he’d ask for anything in return,” she replied. Offering the woman a supporting smile.
"Ismay..." The pretty lady seemed to taste the name upon her tongue, like some notable vintage of wine "... that name, in an older tongue, means 'esteemed and beloved'. Indeed you were beloved by your father: for the favour I owed him, he begged I repay to you, when, upon some future day, he could not protect you from a world which would, like the reaper's scythe in the cornfields of summer, lop you down to the level of all other women of your station: who are without exception mere drudges who labour at their husband’s whims and bear and spawn forth their progeny until, a worn-out husk, you can bear no more and dried out, sucked empty like an old wineskin, you crawl, a neglected hag, to your grave."
Ismay's mother could be heard yapping nearby, the merry widow feathering her nest at the price of her daughter's freedom and happiness. The woman in black listened for a second with a wry smile on her perfect features.
"You are Esteemed, too: especially by those who envied your father's skill: for they realise that you, too, have a magical touch with hammer, tongs and anvil. But those men will not utilise your skill, they will smother it in the cot and snuff it out as a candle at eventide: for men are jealous an fearful of such skills in a woman." She gave no reason why she believed this to be true, but certainly sounded very sure of herself. She looked at the strong, well built girl with a gaze as direct as it was intense.
"Tell me Ismay, daughter of Beaman the Smith: what are you - what would you be? A wife, a drudge or a blacksmith?"
She listened with hesitant ears to what the woman said. Her words and the way she spoke somehow reminded her of a haunting song someone might hear around a late-night campfire. Like a spell meant to warn those who were listening to proceed with caution. Ismay had to wonder if all noble women spoke this way, or if the one before her was unique even among the elite.
Glancing towards her mother for a moment she could already feel herself starting to wither, like an old husk, as her mind wandered down the the path of accepting the marriage her mother was likely in the midst of planning. The woman’s words were spot on. As if she had already known.
“Your options feel really off balance,” she pointed out with a slight smirk. Which quickly disappeared as she recalled where she was. “Would you be disappointed if I replied saying I desired an advantageous marriage?” Asking her own question with a curious look. After a brief moment her eyes widened with a mix or shock and surprise, “Forgive my rudeness. I shouldn’t have used such a tone my Lady.” Bowing her head in shame. She could feel a phantom smack to the back of her head, knowing her dad would have put her on forge clean-up duty for a month.
“Your options feel really off balance,” she pointed out with a slight smirk. Which quickly disappeared as she recalled where she was.
The noblewoman raised an eyebrow.
"Do you think so? Freedom on one hand, slavery on the other: that seems to be a perfectly balanced brace of options to me." the woman smiled wanly.
“Would you be disappointed if I replied saying I desired an advantageous marriage?” Asking her own question with a curious look.
The stranger, give her her due, did not answer immediately, but thought about this for a second. "I would be disappointed if you believed that any of the base churls that your mother has in mind for you could be described as 'advantageous'. But I would be even more disappointed if I believed that you were playing with me, Ismay; for I ever deal plainly with those I deign to speak with, and expect no less frank reply." she replied in haughty tones, her demeanour becoming a little more frigid: indeed, the temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree or two, and Lord Irongron on his little 'throne' pulled his stole around him closer.
After a brief moment her eyes widened with a mix or shock and surprise, “Forgive my rudeness. I shouldn’t have used such a tone my Lady.” Bowing her head in shame. She could feel a phantom smack to the back of her head, knowing her dad would have put her on forge clean-up duty for a month.
This apology seemed to warm the hooded Lady a little, and she smiled again now.
"It is natural at this hour that you grieve for your Father and drown in despair, your mind is not your own. And yet now is the time you must decide: whether to slumber and let life carry you downstream to a mundane destination: or whether to rouse your spirits and swim agin the tide to a fate worthy of your great skills and abilities. I am a rope that dangles overhead: you have a fleeting chance to snatch at me now, before the rush of the waters carries you away, and gain aid, for I shall not come here again." she said, her ocean-blue eyes burning into Ismay's black coals.
The Lady in black suddenly forgot this rather demanding soliloquy and looked about.
"The hour grows late, the sand runs through the time glass. My horse is tied up upon the road beside the marshes..." she reached out a small white hand and touched it to Ismay's unusually muscular arm "... strong lass that you are, will you not accompany me through the forest to that place, lest I become lost in the tanglewood or beset by footpads or goblins?" she asked, or rather, dared: for even the strongest of men and doughtiest of warriors would scarce venture into the woods by the marsh at this late hour, where strange lights often showed and odd noises groaned when night had come and all good Ceros worshippers were asleep in their beds.
Ismay had to wonder if she chose the wrong word earlier. Life and death always balanced each other, the woman was correct. What Ismay didn’t understand is why someone would willingly choose death. To her there was a single choice, not two, she would always choose life. She found it frustrating that her sex limited the options available to her if she chose to follow her own path, rather than being bound to someone else for the purpose of breeding and little else. Fatherless daughters didn’t get to marry for love, they married in order to support the weight of her surviving family.
"It is natural at this hour that you grieve for your Father and drown in despair, your mind is not your own. And yet now is the time you must decide: whether to slumber and let life carry you downstream to a mundane destination: or whether to rouse your spirits and swim agin the tide to a fate worthy of your great skills and abilities. I am a rope that dangles overhead: you have a fleeting chance to snatch at me now, before the rush of the waters carries you away, and gain aid, for I shall not come here again." she said, her ocean-blue eyes burning into Ismay's black coals.
For a moment Ismay found herself lost in the woman’s eyes. It was uncommon to see blue eyes. She was left to wonder if she had picked the drowning analogy because of her eye color, or if it was just by chance. “I’d grab the rope my Lady,” she answered in a quiet voice. As if waking from a brief dream. “Grabbing the rope will save me today. I’ll worry about what’s at the other end of the rope once I’m safe from the rushing waters,” she added. Her voice returning to its normal tone.
"The hour grows late, the sand runs through the time glass. My horse is tied up upon the road beside the marshes..." she reached out a small white hand and touched it to Ismay's unusually muscular arm "... strong lass that you are, will you not accompany me through the forest to that place, lest I become lost in the tanglewood or beset by footpads or goblins?" she asked, or rather, dared: for even the strongest of men and doughtiest of warriors would scarce venture into the woods by the marsh at this late hour, where strange lights often showed and odd noises groaned when night had come and all good Ceros worshippers were asleep in their beds.
“The goblins are already in the room my Lady,” Ismay warned the woman with a sigh as she looked back over to the groupings of men plotting how to best take advantage of a strong man’s death. “Give me a moment to get my cloak and a lantern and I’d happily escort you,” accepting the woman’s request with little thought.
“The goblins are already in the room my Lady,” Ismay warned the woman with a sigh as she looked back over to the groupings of men plotting how to best take advantage of a strong man’s death.
The mysterious woman smiled at Ismay's ready wit.
"Do you not think that is rather unfair to real goblins?" she returned.
“Give me a moment to get my cloak and a lantern and I’d happily escort you,” accepting the woman’s request with little thought.
The woman looked at Irongron, sat upon his solid looking lordly throne, while she waited. She saw what others saw, aye, yet something more: the mark of death upon him. She counted the fingers of one hand: within five days the head and body of the Great Lord Irongron, Beaman's patron, would lie upon the battlefield of Aelfthryth's Mound, the head in one place, the body in another. And this great hall in which they stood, would be burnt to the ground. Many here tonight, laughing, feasting, planning their fatted futures, would be dead or dispossessed within the week. Again, a smile played upon the pretty lady's lips.
Ismay was ready, and they stepped outside, the strange woman pulling up her hood as black as the night that awaited them without. Ismay led the way: she was strong, she was bold, she knew her way and her tread was firm and measured. The creature in the black cloak; for in truth, despite her beauty, she had nothing of the human about her; the creature looked upon Ismay Beaman gladly. Anis had been wise and right to have her fetched hither.
They did not speak - for to speak in the tangle-wood at this dark hour was to miss a sound that might save your life. Ismay's tread might well be soft and undetectable: but that of her companion was completely intangible. Still, tiny woodland creatures fled from both.
They came to a clearing.
There was the road, there was the stinking, fetid swamp - glowing insects hovering and humming above it, just visible in the light of the stars and planets. Of the carriage, there was no sign, unless an old gourd with a couple of slugs crawling with their slime upon it was the Lady's form of transport.
The beautiful stranger now turned and smiled at Ismay and then suddenly called out: "Horse and Hattock! Anis, I summon thee!!"
The most foul, ugly looking, hideous old witch then shot out of the swamp as if propelled by a rocket and landed flat footed on two enormous clod-hoppers in front of both young women, with a sickening splat!
"Hello Mummy" the lady in black greeted her dame, completely unfazed by this horrible apparition, grinning before them "This is Ismay, daughter of Beaman, the one I was telling you about."
