“Another one, Aaron?”
He nodded to his wife, whose bright red curls threatened to escape her kerchief. The blacksmith coated a stray curl with a thin layer of soot. His voice was smoke and gravel – when little he spoke, which he did now. “Best hide this.”
Ellen blanched, and hastily hid her hair before returning to dole out soup and fresh bread. “Lord Paramount is on his way?”
He settled into the sturdy wooden chair, that he and Pa had made with their own hands. Better days, those, and memories that made him reluctant to take risks.
“Aye. Baltarin was the runner this time.”
She gasped, and pulled back, ladle still in hand. The lanky youngster had more often than not been the third at their table, taking the place of the children they’d dared not long for yet.
This morning, he’d seen a dark shape running over the top of the hill, not realizing it was his apprentice in the gloom. He’d wished him well; another one to freedom. He hoped it would be enough, before it was too late.
Now…now, Aaron held hope, despite the scrutiny he’d be under for the loss of a skilled worker. Baltarin had the skills to get a message through. Surely there would be accountability.
“Perhaps you should take your workbasket to your mother’s. Maybe stay a while.”
Ellen was already pulling her cloak – the ugliest fabric she could find, in an unfortunate shade that flattered her not at all, just as most women in this village had begun to do when the young Lord Paramount had taken over for his aged father. With the help of a dagger, as the rumor went, and the rumor had come from a young girl who’d be scarred for life after he’d discarded her.
Shoveling stew into his mouth rapidly, he pointed with his wooden spoon to items that might suggest dissent or a surfeit of prosperity. One of their few books, the heirloom jewelry that she’d brought to their bonding, and the dagger he’d made for himself – and never mind that he spent half his time at the smithy forging weapons for the keep when he ought to be supplying villagers with nails and horseshoes. Never mind that daggers were right useful. Those weren’t meant for the likes of him, or so he thought the Younger would believe.
The small basket was nearly full by the time he’d thought of the dagger, and it was still in her hands when the door burst open.
Aaron saw only fragments. One moment, a gleam of triumph as the Younger swaggered toward his young wife. The next, blood soaked Ellen’s cloak, dripped from her hands, the Younger on the floor. And the chair, the one his father had so carefully taught him to craft, the last woodworking piece before he’d started swinging a hammer, in his hands to smash the guard’s face before the man could finish lunging for Ellen.
He closed the door, steadied his shaking wife into their remaining chair, and took the dagger carefully from her trembling fingers. “Eat,” Aaron said, wiping her hands with a stray towel. “Though you may not want to. I’ll finish the packing.”
“Packing?”
“We leave tonight,” he said firmly. “And we’ll stop by the forge on the way. Best pack my good hammer.”
***
Thanks to Parrish for the escapee prompt this week! Mine on ending the war went to Marissa, and a belated welcome to MOTE as well. 🙂
