A/N: So, long story short, this is for Paladin. I'm trying to insert song lyrics that sound authentic to the Medieval time period. However, I hate writing poetry, and I don't know how to write song lyrics. So I'm going to try a few different times and see what I hate least. Or perhaps ditch the idea entirely.
This chapter is frigging hard to write, man. I'm not a short story teller, and I am struggling a bit with the set up for one. I haven't decided if I like how I wrote/structured this...it's weird and different. Open to all thoughts/opinions (especially on the dang song lyrics), and yes, I'm aware it's not very good. WIP!
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With Emont’s coach back in working order, they stopped a day’s ride out from the capitol, just as the sun started to set. But it would not be the quiet evening of evenings past—tonight, they shared their camp with three dozen other wagoners. It was safer that way, explained Emont, who had long since gotten over his anger at Sam—harder for wild animals or demons to attack, or bandits to rob them.
The wagons formed a circle on the grassy plain by a long, winding river. In the distance, an uneven gray line Sam knew to be the high wall surrounding Heartwine was visible. Some of the wagoners put up tents; others just lay out blankets for bedding. A bonfire burned in the middle of the camp, smelling of woodsmoke. People had started to gather around the open hearth, warming their hands by the flames. A few of the men—boys, really—stood apart, looking unsure and uncomfortable.
“Are all of them headed for Heartwine?” Sam asked, fascinated. Most of the wagoners were men, but there were a fair number of women and families, though very few children and none younger than eight or ten. They were dressed in fine clothes and poor, conversing in dialects ranging from polished to incomprehensible.
“Most likely,” said Emont from beside her. “Where there’s profit to be made, men follow.” He lifted a hand to greet a nearby wagoner.
“Ho, Emont!” said the wagoner, a man as brightly dressed as he.
“Hullo, Yosef,” Emont returned. “How’s the wife?”
“Good, good. She’s staying with her mother while she’s in a delicate way. We’re having our first,” Yosef said proudly.
“My felicitations. If the babe’s a boy, may I suggest the name Emont?”
Yosef chuckled, said hello to Juna and Liam, and then made his farewells.
Sam stared at the peddler. “Do you know all of these people?”
Emont exchanged greetings with another wagoner before answering. “Seems like it, doesn’t it?” he replied with a grin. “When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you start to see the same faces. But in truth, I hardly know half. Besides, it isn’t only peddlers and merchants who come to Heartwine at this time of year. Some are coming for the trials, and most of them are above my station.”
Seeing her confusion, Emont clarified, “The Paladin trials, to determine the next crop of Paladin trainees. They’re to be held in five weeks’ time. ‘Course, it’s a bit early to come to Heartwine for that, but some folks don’t want to take a chance on the weather.”
Sam thought of Lord Fenric. He’d said something about the trials, hadn’t he? “I’ll bet he doesn’t make it,” she muttered to herself. The Paladins didn’t need the likes of him.
One of the wagoners brought out a fiddle, playing music made for drinking and dancing. Some generous soul provided spirits—it was unlike a merchant to give a thing away for free—and Sam tasted her first ever sip of whiskey. Didn’t like it, but tasted it, after Liam goaded her into trying.
She didn’t recognize the songs the fiddler played, far from the dour music she’d heard at court. But most of the wagoners did, joining in for the choruses. They were simple, catchy tunes, and she hummed along until she paid better attention to the words’ innuendos.
I sing of a maid who once was mine,
Sweet as sweets, when so inclined.
True of love, she claimed to be
Beneath her skirts, she swore to me.
But she met a mister
And I saw the man kiss her
‘Scuse me, sir, I interrupted,
That would be my sister!
Sam put her hands to her burning cheeks. No wonder they didn’t play that at court! Although she’d love to witness Lady Colton’s reaction to the lyrics . . .
The music drew to an end, the last notes fading into a sudden silence. Though the hour was late, the wagoners made no move to leave the bonfire’s warmth for their tents and blankets.
She touched Liam’s shoulder. “What’s happening?” she whispered.
“Stories,” he whispered back. “Now hush.”
She didn’t know what he meant until a man stood up and gave a small bow, the kind a bard or a jester made before a performance. “Petyr Winship, of Iverbridge,” he said. He was an older man, and his voice had a pleasant rasp to it. “I would tell the story of The Shepherd of Dragonlea.”
A quiet, pleased murmur ran through the camp—the story was an old and familiar one, one Sam knew well. Petyr took a long draught from a cup of wine, and began.
“In the mountains above the city of Dragonlea, a man lived alone with naught but his lambs and his sheep. The shepherd was a hearty young man, and could’ve been handsome if the mountains hadn’t turned him wild . . . ”
Sam drew her knees into her chest and rested her chin on them. She must have heard this story a hundred times but couldn’t remember the first to tell it to her. Denya? Tsalene? Her mother had always enjoyed a good story, especially one of unexpected love.
“. . . And the shepherd asked the king’s daughter, ‘But what will I do with my sheep?’ And the princess, being fair of face and mind, promised to give them pasture for as long as she could have his heart. ‘Forever, then,’ said the shepherd. And so the king’s daughter became a shepherdess."
Petyr of Iverbridge raised his cup of wine. “To sheep and love.”
“To sheep and love,” the wagoners echoed, toasting with smiles and laughter.
Another man stepped forward, tall and dark of skin. “Merek Salman, of Cashmar,” he said in a deep, rich voice. “I’ll tell you the story of the white witch’s folly.” Sam didn’t know that one, but she liked listening to the man speak.
“ . . . It was said she could heal all wounds, bring a man back from the brink of death . . ."
As his story drew to a close, Sam turned to Emont and asked, “Will you tell one?” He seemed like the storytelling type.
The peddler laughed, shaking his head. “Gods, no. I only tell jokes, and bad ones at that.” He squeezed his wife’s hand. “Juna’s the storyteller, not I.”
Juna smiled serenely, and when Merek finished his tale, she stood, dusted off her skirts and curtsied. “Juna Kalmar, of Riverton.” She straightened, her unseeing eyes bright with intensity. “I will tell you a true story, of ages past. An old story, the first story. I will tell you of Hartwin the Brave and his Twelve. When Hartwin the Brave was just Hartwin and the Twelve were just twelve men.”
There was a hypnotic quality to her voice, her words casting a spell over the camp. “But as with all stories, I must start at the beginning. And for this oldest of stories, the beginning is the beginning . . . ”
