Berach's Jewel

Chapter Six

Four days later.

Two knocks rapped on the door to the Jalde's bedchambers soon after he had finished dressing from bathing. "Enter!" After a few moments he called out again, "Enter!"

"Begging pardon, Jalde Frode," asked the servant, "Eorl Bjorg, is awaiting you in the main hall with Jalde Dunstan."

Frode walked over to where he kept his clothes, and chose a short sleeve tunic with a simple embroidery border around the sleeves, pinning his fur cloak over it at his shoulder with a thin antler tine. He stroked his chin...he would have to cut his beard another time - he couldn't leave another Jalde waiting - a visit warranted serious business.

Coming out of his set of bedchambers, he turned left and followed the wide corridor, covered in decorated hunting trophies and woven pictures of his ancestor's deeds in history. Shortly, he descended a short flight of steps and walked straight through the curtain separating his private entrance to the main hall.

Inside stood his nephew, Eorl Bjorg, with Jalde Dunstan, who dressed in a similar way as a Jalde would be, but the fabric was newer and the stitching finer. Frode gave a slight nod to the Eorl, who left through the same way his uncle had entered. Motioning his guest to the small table in the room, he sat down.

"I prefer to stand, Frode." One side of Dunstan's mouth reached up in knowledge of the fool that his host was. "I am here because something has been stolen from me. An orange stone, that Berach the Adder once guarded herself." His fists clenched and he grinded his teeth at the thought. Pushing the table out of his way, he quickly strode across the space and gripped Frode's throat roughly. His huge hand easily gripped it tight. "Don't weasel yourself out of this one, Frog. My men tracked hoof prints to your hundert and nowhere else!" His eyes stared at Frode's, unblinking, daring him to surrender first. He laughed after a moment, a deep rumbling sound, the smile not lighting up his eyes. "So you will stand against me, Frode? Like a true warrior!"

Shouting the last word, he released Frode from his grip, causing him to topple back on his chair, the crash echoing around the high ceiling of the hall, wood splintering over Frode. His fur mantle enveloped him, tangling his arms. Dunstan's boots stomped out, fading to the softer sound as he began to walk out onto hay outside, to mount his horse.

A silence filled the hall, with curious people looking in after Dunstan had left the doors wide open as he left. Frode ripped the fur off himself, flinging it to the floor in frustration amongst the wood splinters. "Eorl Bjorg," he shouted, "Find my scribe! I'll be in the records room." He stormed off the same way Jalde Dunstan had left, but he turned away from people lining the corridor, who dared not speak that he had now left the hall.

He flung the doors to the records room wide open. Parchment flew out of the stands on either side of them, which crunched as Jalde Frode stepped over them. Glancing throughout the busy room, he spotted his scribe who was working away on copying a document, at a table across the room. He sat down across from the man, who held a finger up to silently signal to wait.

Frode ignored the request. "I need to look at yesterday's records in the hearing hall." He saw the huge scrawl in wet, black ink over the man's work. His scribe swiped the parchment off the table not caring where it lay, discarded, on the floor.

"Yes, of course." Standing up quickly, he walked over to the stand near the now-closed doors. Leafing through the dates on each stack of paper, he shook his head slightly at the crumpled muddy papers on the floor. "What meeting are you searching for, lord?"

"When Daveth Dawsson visited me yesterday."

The scribe frowned trying to remember. "I was not allowed to scribe that meeting, lord. You sent me and your guard from the room." His voice was shaking, not knowing what Jalde Frode would do next.

He shouted wordlessly, pushing the doors once again and slamming them with a loud bang, making the frames fall over in a crash of wood and paper. Jalde Frode was not happy with himself.

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