The Merchants Daughter

[dustinzgirl]

Been a while since I posted, but what the heck. Anyways, Im not too worried about critiques except mabye if you could tell me more about "disparate themes" thats what I've heard from an editor. So what am I missing on? When you read it, what do you need to know more of? It is long, I'll warn you now. I dont expect you to pick through everything, but I hate chopping it up into short responses. If you want to critique it, that is cool, but moreso, I want to know if you ENJOYED it....enough to read a whole novel of it, because it started as a short story, but grew so much BIGGER than that.

Anyways, thanks guys!

The Merchant's Daughter ​

Three Springs village was the hub of existence in the northern world, just south of the icy glaciers where only barbarians lived; it represented the last hold of civilization. Merchants came this far north only for the infamous and precious metals the city offered, to barter for that which was hard to find so far north, mainly the southern regions spices and silks. The inner city itself was built for trade, with one massive center devoted to the purchasing and selling of goods, and of course, the taking of taxes. Above the Market Square, nestled behind a myriad of gates and stone walls, lay Lord Bartholomew's own castle, Corwynn, just beyond prestigious inner city. For those who lived within the city walls, the closer to the castle, the greater the prestige, and so the inner portion was a myriad of tall and gilded houses for those who favored pretties, and the smaller houses of those who catered to them.


The castle itself was a massive construct of four connected tower-houses, and in the midst of that was the grand Commons, where Lord Bartholomew and his kin held court as well as entertained feasts. Above this, the tower-houses loomed over the villa, and within the myriad of rooms and dining halls, Lord Bartholomew kept his office.


Lord Bartholomew had grown tired. He was nearing his twenty-first birthday, and with the death of his father still fresh in his mind, the young lord was beginning to feel the pressure from his mother, Lady Theodora, and older sister, Lady Esmeralda Elder Priestess of Gaia. The pressure was not that of state and country, or even vengeance for his father's death at the hands of a barbarian tribe, but rather that it was time for him to marry. Marry, so that the line of his father would not go stale. Marry, so that he may produce an heir for the great castle before he grows so old that no woman would want him. The hawkish man was wearing little finery today, he disdained the embroidery and lace his mother constantly forced upon him, wearing it only in matters of state-which the boy made lord attended rarely, and ruefully when he did. Bartholomew, or Bart to his mother and sister, had little patience for parties and politics. His thick black hair was tied back haphazardly by a leather thong, and he irritably swept the wayward locks from his brackish face.


Lord Bartholomew was young still by any standards. Battle had not yet hardened his face, but he was strong and thick nonetheless. The boy had been raised in the shadow of his father, a well respected and even more feared warrior who had guided his son with a quick and heavy hand and was just as quick to praise or even hug the boy, paying no mind to any traditions of propriety. Bartholomew gripped the hilt of his sword, the thick metal and inlaid rubies were cold against his sweaty hand, and the lord sat back in his chair.


"Ho there, boy, where are you going?" The man asked from his horse, his face darkened by the bright summer sun behind him.

"With you da, of course." Bartholomew tried to climb on the massive war horse and his father smiled, reaching out a hand.

"Your mother will have my head if I let you go boy." His father used a gauntleted hand to rub his black mustache. "Besides, this war has no place for a boy who can barely get on his steed."

Bartholomew sat up straight in his saddle, adjusting his chain mail. "You went on campaigns when you were half my age da."

"True son, but that was a different time, and the enemy not so great." The lord leaned over, clasping the boy's shoulder. "Besides, I had four younger brothers who stayed and watched over your grandmother. You can't leave women to their own devices boy, Gaia knows what they would be up to."

"There's the house guard that is what they are for." Bartholomew almost pouted, realizing the trap his father had set. Go, and leave the women with no protector if he would do so, an unfair play on the boy's pride.

"Bah, they are not worth a spit, and you know that." The armored man leaned across his horse and gave his son a hug. "But, you are brave boy, I'll give you that much, and if you can keep up with us, you can come."

There was a moment there, Bartholomew, only fifteen years old, wrapped in the chain and leather covered arms of his father, staring into those loving and hard dark eyes. Bartholomew had never felts so proud, so adult. He shook away the tears that were forming in his own eyes, and saw-much to his surprise- father wipe a tear from his scarred cheek.

The powerful lord gave a last smile to his son, and kicked up his horse without a word or a backward glance as Bartholomew kicked his own steed, not intending to be left behind and miss the greatest battle of his young life.

The saddle fell away, and Bartholomew tumbled to the ground, almost face first. He pounded his fist into the earth, and watched his father join the armies outside the open gate.


That was his last memory of his father, watching the man ride to his army, never giving another glance to his son. Bartholomew could never forget how the armor sparkled in the sunlight, the horned helm bobbing atop the massive steed, and big green flags wavering in the sun, carrying his father to war, chaos and death.


Bartholomew, a year and a half later and not sure if he was a year wiser, stared at the maps of the northern world and sought a way over the high and fearsome craggy tops of Ursula's Pass. The Pass divided the barbaric ice lands from the wet forests that surrounded Three Springs. In four hundred years of recorded history Ursula's Pass had never been crossed by men in the cold grip of early fall, and certainly never in the harsh winter that was only a month away. Often the young lord sat in his office through the night, staring at the maps until his eyes glazed over, thinking that if only he could cross the Pass and capture the barbarians off guard, he could avenge his father's death. The barbarian tribes of Hailstone Falls had been the enemies of civilized men for nearly as long as the area had been inhabited by them.


They were a fearsome people, giants when compared to average men. Bartholomew had seen barbarians only once, a man and woman with a small babe on the south side of the Pass. He had been guarding the Pass borders with Matteous, captain of his fathers guard and Bartholomew's brother in law. The barbarian man had attacked them with no provocation. The man had been massive, covered in thick furs and leathers, adorned with feathers of the majestic eagle. A shaman, Matteous had said later, and often shamans had used the hot springs on the south side of Ursula's pass for special ceremonies. The barbarian had been wild, screaming in a rough tongue Bartholomew could not understand, and with amazing accuracy and force the barbarian had thrown spears at Bartholomew's guard, much farther than the boy had ever seen one thrown. An arrow from Matteous's long bow sliced through the shaman's neck, and the almost eight foot tall man fell gasping and bleeding to the ground.


The woman had attacked them after the shaman fell, and again, Matteous made short work of her with his long bow, never pausing. The woman had been in similar dress as the man, though she did not have a head dress, her long hair had been so covered with feathers and beads that Bartholomew could not tell what color her hair was. Matteous's arrow had shot through her neck, and the spear she had fell to the ground. Then, the baby, a small thing swaddled in white fur, fell with a sick thud and strangled cry.


Matteous went to the small, struggling babe and placed it in his arms. "Turn away boy." Bartholomew remembered him saying. "Turn away and look at the horizon." Bartholomew had turned away, but the sound of the babe's cries abruptly cut off by a quick snap could not be avoided, and the young boy, six months after his father's death, had vomited on the ground.


"Never think they are like us." Matteous had said after hours of silence, riding along side the boy. "They may stand upright, may breed and worship Gaia, but they also worship animals and trees. They are animals themselves, beast held over from an era they should have died in. There is no place for their kind in our world, not even for a baby of theirs. They keep memories, passed down from generation to generation from the beginning of time. That child would have hated us as much as his parents did."

Bartholomew believed that, every word. He was not a sympathetic one like his sister, not in the least. The barbarians of the north glaciers were meant to be feared, respected and destroyed, barbarians were little better than a rabid wolf pack-just more dangerous. They refused to bow to any rule and raided villages without mercy, taking slaves and burning what could not be carried away. Bartholomew had learned this from stories passed down to him, from his grandfather and uncles. The boy had learned to fear and respect the barbarians, but most of all he had learned that they must be overtaken; they should die for their crimes against mankind.

 

[dustinzgirl]

Esmeralda, his older sister, did not seem to agree with this position; in fact he knew that she was friends with several barbarians, and that they had been with her in Slighe. Slighe was another place though, the largest city on the southern half of the continent, and one that had a mixture of all peoples, all religions. It was a melting pot for disaster and heresy, but Esmeralda had half a year there in study, ten years ago before she married and settled into her family.


The noble priestess Esmeralda had been there when the Slighe fell, and afterwards she carried herself differently, but had never spoken of that or of how she had escaped, not even to her husband Matteous. But Bartholomew and Matteous had both heard the tales and stories of a great army that worshipped a new god, The God they called him, and was ruled by a man called the Christian King who had swept across the far south and Slighe like a wildfire, killing and taking slaves, forcing man to bow to this new god. But, wars of the south did not matter to Bartholomew, especially ones that had happened when he was only five, and the young lord believed that Slighe had probably deserved to be destroyed for it had been a city of filth and desire. There were other stories too, but these had been laughed away, tales of Dragons in the sky, massive wings beating against the sun and breathing fire on men, of course this was silly, as every freeman knew dragons were a myth that slept in the dreams of children.


Now, though, the lord rubbed his sharp beak with the tip of his finger, and dreaded a much different enemy.


It was on this morning that Lord Bartholomew was in a particularly foul mood, having been up all night discussing the possible furthering of his boundaries, but that mattered little to anyone of importance. The wide oaken door to Bartholomew's study swung open, and the short dimpled house boy bowed, announcing Lady Theodora. The boy had a pretty face, Theodora favored those, but the boy's dimples and garishly embroidered clothes struck Bartholomew as being far too pretty for anyone's tastes, the scrawny youth would never be more than a house boy.


"Oh!" His mother, Lady Theodora, cried out as she walked in to the room, trailed by Lord Bartholomew's elder sister. "What am I to do if I die before I see my unborn heir?" She lifted her pale and heavily gemmed hand, to her face, feigning dizziness. The woman sat in the large chair opposite Bartholomew, her gold and green gown embroidered with a multitude of small, intricate vines and flowers. She fanned her face with an equally intricate silk fan, but the look on her face was nothing short of abrupt and almost, Bartholomew though, condemning.


"Terrible thing that would be, dear mother." Esmeralda said, gently bouncing her second baby on her knee. "I do not know what ancient line would be broken, should the child of a daughter rule, such things could be very well unimaginable." Unlike her mother, the noble daughter wore a plain green robe with little embroidery other than across the high neckline, in reverence of her earth-goddess. She let her hair lay loose and braided. Esmeralda had little care for the twisting and twining involved getting her long black locks to fit in the steeped henin her mother favored. His sister was never without one or the other of her two children, Dakkon, her eldest and named after his grandfather, was nearing the age where he was learning to soldier and lead.


Already the Bartholomew's nephew, only six but tall and smart for his age, was showing striking resemblance to his grandfather. The sword master Kerry, who taught the youngest boys, had told Bartholomew that his nephew was a shrewd fighter and that the boy already had the entire seven year old class-about fifteen sons of nobles, following him. Like his grandfather, Dak had a way about him that made others want to follow him, a charisma that was not taught or learned, but something one was born with. In fact, the swords master had gone so far as to say that Dak was very much like Bartholomew's father, Lord Drake.


Bartholomew felt a little jealousy over his nephew, certainly Kerry had never fawned over him so when Bartholomew had been under the sword master's tutelage. Of course, it was not until his late teenage years that the boy-lord had begun to shine on his own, but Dak was something of a prodigy, like the tales told him that Lord Drake had been. The youngest of his nephews was on his sister's hip, Thom was a chubby thing with the same dark eyes as Esmeralda, and had inherited his mother's plumpness. Just barely out of diapers, Bran was certainly the cutest of the two brothers, but still too young to have any personality-other than sucking his thumb.


Lord Bartholomew answered them with a scoff and a wave of his hand, to dismiss them from his office. "I am busy, ladies. If you will show yourselves to the door?"


"Planning revenge again brother?" Esmeralda said, leaning over his desk and studying Ursula's Pass. "Father would not want you wasting your life on his revenge." A plump and pretty woman, his sister's soft face was a mask for the calculating and intelligent woman, one that many a man fell in love with, only to be handed their own hearts by her sometimes cruel hand. "This is insanity, brother, and thee knows this."


"You have sympathy for those animals, and for what? Because some barbarian bitch saved you from Slighe? They killed our father yet you want me to let them be?" Bartholomew's young voice trembled with anger. "They killed our father!" He shouted now, only inches from Esmeralda's face. His nephew Thom began to cry and Esmeralda glared back, shushing the boy.


"Enough." Lady Theodora interrupted her children. "Do not speak of the dead so frivolously, and Esmeralda, have some respect for your brother's place as your lord. Now, both of you, mind your own places in my presence."


Bartholomew sat back, and Esmeralda's face flushed with embarrassment. Both siblings should know better than to talk so about their dead father, especially in front of their mother. Theodora had been a gracious and loving wife, who had finally stopped wearing black only a few months ago, almost a year past the standard mourning time, but her heart was still shrouded in pain. To speak so openly and carelessly about their father was disrespectful to Theodora's grief-stricken spirit.


"Would you ladies kindly excuse me, and let me finish my work?" Bartholomew said and kept his brown eyes on the floor.


Of course, the two women ignored him duly, and went on about their incessant prattle, putting the short argument quickly behind them. He was the lord of this castle, but his mother and sister paid that no mind at all. Bartholomew tapped the inkwell with an ill-humored glance for the women. This was a daily enterprise, and an exhausting one for the lord, both women would bring him coffee and morning cakes with cold beef, sit with their seemingly idle chat, all the while making comments directed at him.


"What would possible happen Esmeralda, if your darling elder boy, were to take the head of state instead of Bartholomew's own unborn-and likely to stay that way-child?"


"Perhaps a cataclysmic event would occur, mother, sending the earth into balls of fire and ice."


It was only tradition, after all, Bartholomew sighed.


Esmeralda was probably more fit than he to run matters of state anyways, and she often had while their father and her husband Matteous had gone off to war. The sister had a shrewd intellect about her, and that is not to say that Bartholomew was less intelligent than she, but the noble priestess had an affinity for politics, where Bartholomew preferred his blade and soldiers.


Matteous entered without an attendant to announce him, the First Captain was a humble but stoic man who disdained things like servants. He shut the large door behind him softly, and his coming probably saved Bartholomew from a harsh lashing from Lady Theodora's tongue, entering the grand office with little flourish. Matteous was a solid man, with a girth one would mistake for blubber until he moved and the rippling muscles beneath his leather tunic could be seen. Just before the First Captain entered the room, Bartholomew had been about to speak rather harshly towards his mother, but seeing his friend and captain at arms, the boy promptly closed his mouth. Which was an entirely smart thing to do, Lady Theodora could tear a man limb from limb with nothing but harsh words, and many a foolish nobility had been sent from her court with a red and shamed face.


As it were, First Captain Matteous was, as far as Bartholomew could discern, the young lord's only and true friend. The muscular man still wore Lord Drake's sigul across the chest of his tunic, but Bartholomew knew this was out of homage and not discontent with the young man's rule. Matteous gave both women a sweeping kiss across their cheeks and a second kiss for his wife, Esmeralda, as he picked up his youngest son, tossing the toddler in the air.


Esmeralda smiled with a sweet and unnerving look for her brother, and Matteous had the nerve to ask a simple question, seeing that glint of the eye the two women shared.


"What are you ladies about this early morn?"


Esmeralda feigned ignorance, and it was Lady Theodora who laughed aloud.


"Tomorrow, my son, you shall shine!" The noble mother declared abruptly, her pale and heavily ringed hand rising into the air.


Bartholomew gave her a grisly grin. "And how, pray tell, is that to be dear mother?"


"Why, do you not know?" Esmeralda said, a sick innocence dripping from her voice as she sliced cold beef for her husband and poured coffee.


In response to both Bartholomew and Matteous blank faces, Theodora smiled sweetly and leaned over the desk, her bright golden hair reflecting in the sunlight. "Soon, we will have a wife for you. There will be a party this evening, do you not remember? Bringing in the Fall Festival, an early party for our Lord and with it will come ladies of fine, noble birth, who wait for your discerning eye to set upon one or the other. Of course, the planning of it was a hurried thing, since you have been ever so busy with your conquests, your sister and I thought it best not to interrupt you for such a small thing as a party."


Matteous burst into a horrid fit of laughter, ignorant of the fierce glare his noble wife gave him. Noble as Esmeralda was, she certainly had a fiercer temper than any lady he had known, which is a large part of why Matteous loved her. The fact that she clung unmercifully to tradition and religion was her only true downfall, but the beautiful and sharp witted young mother made his blood boil, even eight years after their nuptials.


"Well, dear Bart, you are hung, to be sure. These fine ladies will have you dancing the Song of the Stork in no time at all!" The man slapped his leg for effect. "I suppose you lovely ladies already have the perfect bride picked out for our virgin lord?" Matteous grinned beneath his thick and dark mustache, twisted upwards and soaked with oil that made it shine black. A man's mustache was his pride, and Matteous had quite a bit of pride in the long black twirls of hair that curved around his mouth.


Esmeralda smiled, her dark brown eyes setting on her brother. "Actually, darling husband," she spoke far too sweet for Bartholomew's taste, "we have picked a lovely bride for him, since my brother has seemed unconcerned with his own bloodline." Seeing the look on her brother's grim face, Esmeralda added: "It is far too late to worry about that now brother; you should have attended more delegates and parties. You will like the girl, she is quiet and," Esmeralda paused, her plump face growing sharp, "she is malleable, a trait mother and I find most befitting for you." Of course, they would. The two women had their hands in every pot except those of war, stringing the young lord along as if he were bait at the end of a fishing line. "Stop sulking Bart, it makes your face rather unbecoming." Esmeralda finished her coffee, peering at him over the brim of the porcelain cup.


"You can not do this!" Lord Bartholomew shouted, and was instantly sorry that he did, his face slacked in defeat. "I don’t even know this girl." He pouted and voiced his discontent, slumping back into the chair. Bartholomew slowly shook his head, and his dark eyes admitted defeat as they pulled again to the floor. "It is not fair, you know, not fair at all." The young lord's shoulders slumped. "What manner of girl would marry a man without knowing him, anyways? Is she hiding something?"


Lady Theodora sighed heavily, irritably. She gave her youngest child and admonishing stare and tapped her lips with her gloved hand. "Her name is Lady Shia, and she is a princess from the eastern holds. They do things very differently in the East, as you well know. She was bred in a world of culture and wisdom. The young maid is a scholar in her own lands, and well respected. It would do you well to marry her, for she is a pretty thing, with a kind heart. This marriage will bring more than an heir. It will stake our holds on two ends of the continent." The noblewoman's hawk like nose, almost a copy of Bartholomew's, turned upwards, and in that debasing face she looked much more like a hawk set on its prey. "No sense in whining about it now, son."


The young lord glared at them in silence, and Matteous's chuckles did not help him at all. Friend! Ha! The captain at arms was too busy having a laugh at his expense to be any kind of a friend now. Bartholomew brushed another lock of unruly black hair from his face. He squared his shoulders, and wrinkled his face in a manner that accentuated the sharpness of his nose. The unmarried young man thought he was giving his mother and sister a hard glare, but from their end his eyes seemed to widen with apprehension, not irritation. Lord Bartholomew tugged at the bottom of his plain jerkin, and stepped slowly from behind the massive oak desk. He gave one, flat look at Matteous, and then the man moved faster than he ever had before, even in the heat of battle.


"It is about time, Bart." Matteous stood, clasping his thick hand on Bartholomew's shoulder. "You want to be a man, and so you should learn how men behave. War and fighting and leading is only a part of manhood, boy. A family with a good wife and beautiful babies completes a man unlike and sword, bow, or baugh could. You would do well to listen to your mother and sister, for they have always had your best interests at heart."


And their own, Bartholomew thought, but instead he said "I am not ready for this responsibility. I can not even take care of myself without mother ordering my bath, for Gaia's sakes! Yet you all think I should marry some girl from some country in the east, and then everything will be just fine. In fact, you expect me to attend some party and just meet this girl, then be married by the Fall Festival! The party is a week away, and the Festival less than a month, you think I should love this girl by then? Are you all mad?" He pounded his fist on the table, knocking his now cold coffee to the floor.


Esmeralda gave a start in her seat, but it was Lady Theodora who answered her son. "Young man, your father and I had never met before our wedding day. It was an arranged marriage, and I loved him the moment the priest blessed us. That is life, son. Even your sister and Matteous had only met a few times before they were wed. Matteous was always too busy and off to this campaign or that, but your father asked him to marry your sister, and they did so. And you would dare to say that our marriages were wrong? How you spit on tradition son, you shame us with your fancy notions and look down on our lives and our loves with your discontent. It is you who should be ashamed, and not I nor your sister."


Bartholomew flew from the room as quickly as if a pack of wild hounds bit at his heels, and before any could stop him, the brass inlaid door slammed shut behind him. The younger brother ran down the hall, knocking servants and noble cousins alike out of his way. His face was tight with sweat and consternation as the boy leaped over the small gate, heading straight for the stables. Bartholomew saddled his mare in such a quick and careless fashion that Fenzick, the stableman, nearly had to tackle the young lord before he hurt himself, or the horse. Once the nobleman's steed, Marrigan, was properly saddled, the young lord jumped upon it and rode through the gates without as much as a glance to his crying mother and sister.

 

[dustinzgirl]

Corwynn lay centered in a high ring of stone, and that ring was again circled by the lower walls were built so that a first line of defense could stand upon them and rain a tirade of arrows on an attacker. This outer place was where the merchants and craftsman, such as the blacksmith, worked and lived. The castle itself was a thing of architectural wonder; Lord Bartholomew's ancestors had built it with the best minds of their time, and its equal did not exist in the known worlds. The high walls were a secondary defense, also built for archers to stand upon, shooting above those on the lower walls. Should the lower walls fail, however, the high walls were opened by a great arc that swept over the townspeople and a great iron gate had been made that would fall abruptly under attack, though it had not been used in so long that many doubted it would work. This inner ring is where the servants of the nobility, as well as the richer merchants, craftsmen and artisans lived and held market.


Tenwick was tired. It had been far too early a day, and the merchants younger daughters could talk of nothing more than shopping. He had five daughters, the eldest of which was more a son to him than a daughter, but the younger four were pure adolescent girls. How he longed for the days when they were babbling babes, bouncing on his knee and looking at him as though he were the hero of the universe. Since the youngest turned eleven, all that mattered now was clothing, jewelry, and of course, boys. This was enough to bring Tenwick Goldbottom closer to his grave, but that was the way of fathers who cared for their daughters.


Gardenia, his eldest, was very unlike her sisters, so much so that his wife berated him constantly about sending her to a finishing school in the city where she could be taught to become a proper wife. "Who would want a wife that can out hunt, out craft, and out fight them?" She would say, and glare at him for raising her eldest daughter so. Surely, this was all his fault, for Tenwick had taken Gardenia with him on many travels, she had spent the larger part of her life out of school and on the road with her father and his life long guards, battling thieves and rogues alike.


"With no sons to inherit our fortune, do you not think it best that she learn all she can of my business, before I grow old and die and leave you with none to care for you?"


Tenwick's wife could hardly dispute this logic, but she liked it even less for that.


While her younger sisters nearly bowled her father over, Gardenia stood, silent and brooding. It annoyed her that her own mother looked down upon her, and raised her silly and gabby and far too gilded younger sisters above her, at least as far as the house goes. Outside of the house, however, Gardenia was always the lead; she had taken the role of her sister's protector, as much as an older brother would.


It was during this Fall Festival shopping trip that Gardenia walked behind her sisters, while the four blondes trailed behind their parents, and goggled at various bolts of silk laid out for purchase before the Fall Festival. Gardenia could barely stop herself from rolling her eyes as her sisters picked the most extravagant and most expensive masks from the vendors, and silken dresses that they would surely freeze to death in.


Tenwick could only grin and shell out the gold, his hands shaking. Gardenia's mother made the final decision on their purchases, often commenting that only a floozy would wear this dress or that only a peasant would buy such a mask, until it was finally decided and purchased. Tenwick was not a rich man, but they lived very comfortably, and Gardenia wondered if he would put himself into debt to make her little sisters and mother happy.


A crazed man on a crazier horse came bounding through the town square, without thought to the merchants stalls, knocking over various wares. Gardenia was limber enough to bounce out of his way, but three of her sister and her mother were thrust onto the mask sellers stall, and then fell, almost as one, onto the muddy road.


Belleball, the youngest of Tenwick's daughters, was the first to cry. Not because she was injured, although Tenwick was looking at her arm, but because the mad horseman had taken her new mask. Sure enough, when Gardenia looked up to the quickly fleeing man's back, her sisters pearl and gold mask, a resemblance of the goddess Gaia, was jumping across the man's back, caught on his jacket.


"'Tis all right Belle, don't cry now. Your big sister will get that mask back for you." Gardenia planted a kiss on her smaller sister's brow, and before her mother could protest or her father could join her, she was running through the merchant's square as quickly and deftly as any deer.


"Stop thief!" She screamed, and the local guards fell in with her.


"Ho, Garden!" William, a town guard in the Merchant Square called as he fell in beside her.


"That man stole from my baby sister!" Gardenia pointed, without missing a step or losing speed, and certainly uncaring if Will Boots could keep pace with her.


Will Boots was a good gentleman, and he had his eye on the second Goldbottom daughter, Delia. He had his eye on that blonde, blue eyed girl for the last three years, since she had begun to fill out her womanhood. Gardenia did not like the man, if simply for the fact that she believed him a simpleton who would make nothing more of her sister than a poor soldier's wife. He kept stride with her, although the black horse was quickly falling out of their view.


Then, the horse began to slow. Gardenia watched as the animal reared up a hundred yards before her, and flung its master to the ground. She was horrified because the mask that had cost her father fifty gold pieces, a pretty sum, fell with the man and was smashed between him and the cobbled road.


Gardenia burst into full speed, and even the younger Will found it hard to match her stride. In moments, she was upon the fallen thief, and rendered him unconscious with a hard punch to the side of his dark haired head.


"That will teach you to steal from my sister!" Gardenia cried out, and gave him another hard smack for the fun of it.


Will Boots, his sword out and ready in case the man were to try something vicious, although truth be told Will was not much of a fighter, stopped dead in his tracks. He knew the man, knew him very well. Often, the Merchant Square guards would bring a petty thief to the castle, but when they brought a thief who stole a sum of more than one hundred gold pieces, Lord Bartholomew oversaw the trial. Will had done so just two full moons past, having caught, by sheer will and not by brawn, one of the most renowned thieves of Three Springs. Caught him, and had been given a year's wages along with a special accommodation for his prowess, by none other than Lord Bartholomew himself.


Will grabbed Gardenia by her shoulders, shaking the girl violently. "Do you know what you have done?" He nearly screamed in her face. "Run Garden, run for your father's sake!" He pushed her away, but stubbornly she barely moved. She turned back, and saw the wideness of his eyes. "That be Lord Bartholomew, girl! Run, be damned, run home!"


Too late, Gardenia began to run, but she ran straight into the chest of one of the largest men she had ever seen, who grabbed her up by her arm, hoisting her easily into the air.


"Who is this that has accosted our Lord? Who be this thieving girl?" He boomed, and that was all Gardenia saw before the hilt of the burly man's sword crashed upon her tender blonde head.

 

[dustinzgirl]

Lord Bartholomew was recovering nicely in his bed, or so he should have been. Instead, he was pacing furiously. What peasant dared to knock him from his horse and hit him? The mark on his brow was certainly not from the fall, and visions of an insane, blue eyed boy had ravished his dreams throughout the night. A boy who had, by all accounts, who had punched him twice. Hit a man who had fallen from his horse! With all this, certainly, the party last night had been halted, but there were still tonight festivities to contend with. He thought about faking illness, perhaps the hard hit on his head had been too much for him, but that would be admitting that a peasant boy had overtaken him, and the Lord, bred for war and rule, could not admit such a thing. His people would giggle behind his back for the next ten years, and probably after that. No, Lord Bartholomew could see no way out of the parade of young fleshy noble girls that would be set before him. Yesterday his only thought had been to ride, and to keep riding, through the city and into the forest and possible to the glaciers, to face the barbarians alone. That was a foolish idea, one of an immature and selfish child. He would leave his mother and sister undefended, without a Lord to oversee their home, only for his own desire to not marry a foolish nobleman's daughter? The thought of his own selfishness and weakness made the young lord pale and ill.


There was another problem that had thrust the nobleman into fits of confusion. That boy had been, by all accounts, beautiful. Not the simple cultured beauty of his mother and sister, but wild and unchallenged, free and perfect. Even the small scar on the boy's forehead was beautiful, and now the young lord had another problem. Perhaps he did not have an aversion to marriage because of the utter foolishness of it, but more because he was, and Lord Bartholomew almost shuddered, but because he was a bit on the funny side of things. Perhaps women were not his calling, otherwise how could that blonde haired boy be so fluently and perfectly in his dreams?


Matteous came in then, after a sharp and abrupt knock at the door, without waiting for a reply from the young lord stormed in, the door pounding shut behind him. "You can not have such an occurrence. You left the castle without watch or warrant, and rushed off to have a bit of fun? I certainly hope you have that bullarkey out of your system, young lord. And to think you left your sister in such a rage, I had to bear the brunt of your flagrant idiocy and disregard for propriety all day, and through much of the evening."


"You should not speak to your lord so."


"My lord? _My Lord_?" Matteous stormed out of the room, his face twisted with annoyance and anger. The gold worked oak door slammed behind Lord Bartholomew's brother in law, and the young man's cheeks rose in red shame.


Bartholomew had never spoken so to Matteous, the man was more than a friend or brother, he was the young lord's only confident and protector, who had often saved the boy from a well deserved whipping at the hands of his father, occasionally by taking the
blame for Bartholomew's transgressions himself. Several times he owed his life to the First Captain, since they were young enough to sneak out of the castle for a bit of fun and excitement. Now, Bartholomew feared, he had finally crossed the line with his only true friend.


Bartholomew snapped open the door minutes after Matteous had left, and stomped out on his own. He was angry, at himself, at his birthright, and at his friend. "Bring me the peasant boy, immediately." Bartholomew raged in the face of the first castle guardsman he saw. "Be quick about it, or I'll have your head on a pike!"


The castle guard was quick about it, his face paled at the sight of the enraged lord.


Gardenia paced in the sickening stench of her cell. Thieves and brigands and one rapist shared the holding cell with her, though after she gouged the eyes from the first one who tried to touch her, the rest fell silent and turned away from her. She might be hung for her crime of laying a hand upon a lord, but Gardenia would be damned if she would fall to this rabble. Certainly, this was not the death the young girl envisioned herself having, for she was an upright and law abiding citizen, and now she had spent the night watching for the touches of ruffians and killing the biting spiders and rats, but most of all, the young merchant's daughter had spent the night in prayer to the Earth goddess Gaia, her patron.


The guard that came for her stank of hard liquor and whore's perfume, but he laid neither a wandering hand nor eye upon her. Not as much could be said for the four guards who came with him, and he was forced to grab one by the collar after the greasy guard slapped Gardenia's bottom. "This is thy Lord's cell and prisoner, and thus his property. If you touch her bottom again, I will see you hung for laying your hand upon Lord Bartholomew's property. Do you ken?"


"Aye, sir." The small and almost weasel looking guard replied with a shaky voice. "Aye."


"And that goes for the rest of you rabble. We do as we are told, and no looking for a bit o' fun whiles you is under the Lord's pay."


There were grumbles of agreement, and the five guards and one terrified merchant's daughter entered the court quietly and without further incident.

 

[dustinzgirl]

Lord Bartholomew meant to set an example of this person. An example of what happened when peasants tried to steal from a lord, but more an example of his own strength and manhood, to prove that he was a strong ruler, fit for the life of a Lord in the wild northern territories. This was something he must prove to himself, and to Matteous, by giving the insolent peasant a quick and merciful death. The court was silent as the peasant boy was brought in, thrown upon the ground before his feet. This was not the first, nor surely the last, peasant to be thrust below the judge's pedestal, where Bartholomew now stood, his steel gray eyes staring angrily at the heap of dirty boy beneath him. He waited a moment, for surely the peasant would beg for his life and his hands, give a sobbing tale of a poor family or dying mother that warranted his thievery. No excuse necessitated thievery, for Bartholomew's grandfather had set up several charity hospitals and food banks so that no child would go ill or hungry, and the line of Three Springs Lords had kept that as their promise to the people.


Gardenia did not beg. Instead, she stood, her long blonde hair falling in unbraided curls around her, touching just past her waist. Her hair, she realized, was probably now full of lice and probably spiders. Her blouse had been torn enough to reveal her smooth skin and ample tender bosom, but, Lord Bartholomew realized, she wore pants as any man would.


"What manner of trickery is this? Are you a boy or a girl?" He pounded a single fist on the pedestal. "And what do you have to say for yourself, in either case? For I have little patience for lies and even smaller patience for thieves, so be on with it."


Her fine jaw set tight in her rosy cheeks, Gardenia did not stutter before him, nor did she bother to bow. "The pain for touching a lord is death, however, I would also condemn you to lose your hands, for that is the price of thievery, and even your father, who I am certain was a much better lord than thee, claimed that no man is above the law. _Especially_ those who command the law. It is written in the books at the Library, and, lord of thievery, if bidden I am sure we can recover the correct tome. As to whether I am a boy or a girl, I assure you that is none of your business, for that is between me and my gods."


The room was deathly silent, and suddenly cold. One could hear the flutter of wings outside, so quiet the crowd had become, as if her words had taken the very breath from their lungs. Bartholomew himself held his own breath, because he had never been chastised so, except perhaps by his sister and mother.


Then, a murmur began amongst the crowd and with it a shout. Suddenly, the court hall was loud with the chant of "Kill her!" "Hang her" "Death to the whore!" The crowd wanted blood, he could smell it. The temperature of the room rose, and a fine bead of sweat trickled down Lord Bartholomew's forehead. The eyes of that girl did not leave him, and the lord thought they would burn their cold blue gaze into the center of his brain.


"Silence!" He boomed, and did so three times again. "Silence or every man will be removed from this court of law!" His gavel pounded on the pedestal, the force of the hit so hard that it burst into several pieces, and the room fell finally silent. "That is better." He said, and reveled in his small victory over the crowd. "Well, peasant thief, it would be hard for me to understand why you have branded your lord a thief, so please explain yourself."


Gardenia explained the incident in the Market Square in a rush, wanting to get every word out before the maddened crowd tore her from limb to limb. From his left, Bartholomew could hear Esmeralda titter, her gloved hand covering her painted lips. When Gardenia ended with "…and so, I punched you once in the head to render you unconscious and again to make sure you would stay so." Lady Esmeralda positively guffawed with laughter. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Bartholomew thought it all rather unseemly for the noble lady.


"Oh, Bart, I am sorry." Esmeralda said, stifling her laughter. "Indeed, so very sorry!"


The hard gray eyes of their lord fell on the crowd the moment one made a sound, and beneath that gaze they fell utterly silent. His sister's almost maniacal laughter was the only sound heard in the entire room, and she did carry on for several moments. Matteous, who as her husband always sat to her right in matters of state and court, could barely hide his own grin. Bartholomew would certainly never live this down, and he would be laughed at like this his entire life, if not to his face then behind his back. How would he find a wife to appease his mother now? How could he prove that he was not a simple weakling lord who fell at the fist of a peasant girl? How could he stop them from laughing at him so?


Gardenia's sheer blue eyes bore into his soul, and ripped it open for what it was.


With one swift snap of Lord Bartholomew's voice, both their fates were sealed for an eternity.


"Hang her."


Esmeralda stopped laughing, and Matteous's jaw fell slack.


Bartholomew stood and walked away, ignorant of the cheers that fell from behind him, his sister's cries for mercy falling off of his shoulders, but he could not turn his back from those silent blue eyes. Even as he stepped away from them, even when he was sure there was no possible way that bewitching, and strong, peasant girl could possible see him through tons of cold stone, her eyes penetrated him and forced his soul into the open.


What a pitiful and selfish lord he was, indeed.

 

[burnie]

read most of it il leave any grammer problems to other people. i think you should continue this story i know id buy it but maybe you could add a bit more visual description but that might just be me

 

[chrispenycate]

Been a while since I posted, but what the heck. Anyways, Im not too worried about critiques except mabye if you could tell me more about "disparate themes" thats what I've heard from an editor. So what am I missing on? When you read it, what do you need to know more of? It is long, I'll warn you now. I dont expect you to pick through everything, but I hate chopping it up into short responses. If you want to critique it, that is cool, but moreso, I want to know if you ENJOYED it....enough to read a whole novel of it, because it started as a short story, but grew so much BIGGER than that.

Anyways, thanks guys!

The Merchant's Daughter ​

Three Springs village was the hub of existence in the northern world, just south of the icy glaciers where only barbarians lived; it represented the last hold of civilization. Merchants came this far north only for the infamous

why "infamous"? What had the metals done to have such a reputation?

and precious metals the city offered, to barter for that which was hard to find so far north, mainly the southern regions

region's

spices and silks. The inner city

how can a "village" have an "inner city"?

itself was built for trade, with one massive center devoted to the purchasing and selling of goods, and of course, the taking of taxes. Above the Market Square, nestled behind a myriad of gates and stone walls, lay Lord Bartholomew's own castle, Corwynn, just beyond prestigious inner city.

either "the prestigious inner city", or capitalise it to make it obvious that it's a proper name

For those who lived within the city walls, the closer to the castle, the greater the prestige, and so the inner portion was a myriad of tall and gilded houses for those who favored pretties, and the smaller houses of those who catered to them.

The castle itself was a massive construct of four connected tower-houses, and in the midst of that was the grand Commons,

probably overpedantic here, but a "commons" is open to all, nobody's property, and unlikely to be found within a castle

where Lord Bartholomew and his kin held court as well as entertained feasts. Above this, the tower-houses loomed over the villa, and within the myriad of rooms and dining halls, Lord Bartholomew kept his office.

Lord Bartholomew had grown tired. He was nearing his twenty-first birthday, and with the death of his father still fresh in his mind, the young lord was beginning to feel the pressure from his mother, Lady Theodora, and older sister, Lady Esmeralda Elder Priestess of Gaia. The pressure was not that of state and country, or even vengeance for his father's death at the hands of a barbarian tribe, but rather that it was time for him to marry. Marry, so that the line of his father would not go stale.

"stale"? Strange concept. The children he might father later in life would be fresher? Die out, I could understand, the risks are real, but stale?

Marry, so that he may produce an heir for the great castle before he grows so old that no woman would want him. The hawkish man was wearing little finery today, he disdained the embroidery and lace his mother constantly forced upon him, wearing it only in matters

perhaps "affairs of state"?

of state-which the boy made lord attended rarely, and ruefully when he did. Bartholomew, or Bart to his mother and sister, had little patience for parties and politics. His thick black hair was tied back haphazardly by a leather thong, and he irritably swept the wayward locks from his brackish face.

brackish? Slightly salty but still drinkable?

Lord Bartholomew was young still by any standards. Battle had not yet hardened his face, but he was strong and thick

"thick" (implying none too intelligent) might be useful in a warrior, yes.

nonetheless. The boy had been raised in the shadow of his father, a well respected and even more feared warrior who had guided his son with a quick and heavy hand and was just as quick to praise or even hug the boy, paying no mind to any traditions of propriety. Bartholomew gripped the hilt of his sword, the thick metal and inlaid rubies were cold against his sweaty hand, and the lord sat back in his chair.

"Ho there, boy, where are you going?" The man asked from his horse, his face darkened by the bright summer sun behind him.

"With you da, of course." Bartholomew tried to climb on the massive war horse and his father smiled, reaching out a hand.

"Your mother will have my head if I let you go boy." His father used a gauntleted hand to rub his black mustache. "Besides, this war has no place for a boy who can barely get on his steed."

Bartholomew sat up straight in his saddle, adjusting his chain mail. "You went on campaigns when you were half my age da."

"True son, but that was a different time, and the enemy not so great." The lord leaned over, clasping the boy's shoulder. "Besides, I had four younger brothers who stayed and watched over your grandmother. You can't leave women to their own devices boy, Gaia knows what they would be up to."

"There's the house guard

comma

that is what they are for." Bartholomew almost pouted, realizing the trap his father had set. Go, and leave the women with no protector if he would do

if he did so

so, an unfair play on the boy's pride.

"Bah, they are not worth a spit, and you know that." The armored man leaned across his horse and gave his son a hug. "But, you are brave boy, I'll give you that much, and if you can keep up with us, you can come."

There was a moment there, Bartholomew, only fifteen years old, wrapped in the chain and leather covered arms of his father, staring into those loving and hard dark eyes. Bartholomew had never felts so proud, so adult. He shook away the tears that were forming in his own eyes, and saw-much to his surprise- father wipe a tear from his scarred cheek.

The powerful lord gave a last smile to his son, and kicked up his horse without a word or a backward glance as Bartholomew kicked his own steed, not intending to be left behind and miss the greatest battle of his young life.

The saddle fell away, and Bartholomew tumbled to the ground, almost face first. He pounded his fist into the earth, and watched his father join the armies outside the open gate.


That was his last memory of his father, watching the man ride to his army, never giving another glance to his son. Bartholomew could never forget how the armor sparkled in the sunlight, the horned helm bobbing atop the massive steed, and big green flags wavering in the sun, carrying his father to war, chaos and death.


Bartholomew, a year and a half later and not sure if he was a year wiser, stared at the maps of the northern world and sought a way over the high and fearsome craggy tops of Ursula's Pass.

that's too many adjectives in succession, And "tops" doesn't feel right, particularly for a pass. Heights, perhaps?

The Pass divided the barbaric ice lands from the wet forests that surrounded Three Springs. In four hundred years of recorded history Ursula's Pass had never been crossed by men in the cold grip of early fall, and certainly never in the harsh winter that was only a month away. Often the young lord sat in his office through the night, staring at the maps until his eyes glazed over, thinking that if only he could cross the Pass and capture

"capture…off guard" It's more take them, but

the barbarians off guard, he could avenge his father's death. The barbarian tribes of Hailstone Falls had been the enemies of civilized men for nearly as long as the area had been inhabited by them.

leave off the "by them"

They were a fearsome people, giants when compared to average men. Bartholomew had seen barbarians only once, a man and woman with a small babe on the south side of the Pass. He had been guarding the Pass borders with Matteous, captain of his fathers

father's

guard and Bartholomew's brother in law. The barbarian man had attacked them with no provocation. The man

repetition of "man"

had been massive, covered in thick furs and leathers, adorned with feathers of the majestic eagle. A shaman, Matteous had said later, and often shamans had used the hot springs on the south side of Ursula's pass for special ceremonies. The barbarian had been wild, screaming in a rough tongue Bartholomew could not understand, and with amazing accuracy and force the barbarian had thrown spears at Bartholomew's guard, much farther than the boy had ever seen one thrown. An arrow from Matteous's long bow sliced through the shaman's neck, and the almost eight foot tall man fell gasping and bleeding to the ground.

The woman had attacked them after the shaman fell, and again, Matteous made short work of her with his long bow, never pausing. The woman had been in similar dress as the man, though she did not have a head dress, her long hair had been so covered with feathers and beads that Bartholomew could not tell what color her hair was. Matteous's arrow had shot through her neck, and the spear she had fell to the ground. Then, the baby, a small thing swaddled in white fur, fell with a sick thud and strangled cry.


Matteous went to the small, struggling babe and placed

"took it"?

it in his arms. "Turn away boy." Bartholomew remembered him saying. "Turn away and look at the horizon." Bartholomew had turned away, but the sound of the babe's cries abruptly cut off by a quick snap could not be avoided, and the young boy, six months after his father's death, had vomited on the ground.

"Never think they are like us." Matteous had said after hours of silence, riding along side the boy. "They may stand upright, may breed and worship Gaia, but they also worship animals and trees. They are animals themselves, beast held over from an era they should have died in. There is no place for their kind in our world, not even for a baby of theirs. They keep memories, passed down from generation to generation from the beginning of time. That child would have hated us as much as his parents did."

Bartholomew believed that, every word. He was not a sympathetic one like his sister, not in the least. The barbarians of the north glaciers were meant to be feared, respected and destroyed, barbarians were little better than a rabid wolf pack-just more dangerous. They refused to bow to any rule and raided villages without mercy, taking slaves and burning what could not be carried away. Bartholomew had learned this from stories passed down to him, from his grandfather and uncles. The boy had learned to fear and respect the barbarians, but most of all he had learned that they must be overtaken; they should die for their crimes against mankind.

 

[chrispenycate]

Esmeralda, his older sister, did not seem to agree with this position; in fact he knew that she was friends with several barbarians, and that they had been with her in Slighe. Slighe was another place though, the largest city on the southern half of the continent, and one that had a mixture of all peoples, all religions. It was a melting pot for disaster and heresy, but Esmeralda had

" had spent"?

half a year there in study, ten years ago before she married and settled into her family.


The noble priestess Esmeralda had been there when the Slighe fell, and afterwards she carried herself differently, but had never spoken of that or of how she had escaped, not even to her husband Matteous. But Bartholomew and Matteous had both heard the tales and stories of a great army that worshipped a new god, The God they called him, and was ruled by a man called the Christian King who had swept across the far south and Slighe like a wildfire, killing and taking slaves, forcing man to bow to this new god. But,

no comma

wars of the south did not matter to Bartholomew, especially ones that had happened when he was only five, and the young lord believed that Slighe had probably deserved to be destroyed for it had been a city of filth and desire. There were other stories too, but these had been laughed away, tales of Dragons in the sky, massive wings beating against the sun and breathing fire on men,

that says that it's the wings that breath fire.Furthermore, I would put a full stop here

of course this was silly, as every freeman knew dragons were a myth that slept in the dreams of children.


Now, though, the lord rubbed his sharp beak with the tip of his finger, and dreaded a much different enemy.


It was on this morning that

is that "It was on…that essential"?

Lord Bartholomew was in a particularly foul mood, having been up all night discussing the possible furthering

furthering?

of his boundaries, but that mattered little to anyone of importance. The wide oaken door to Bartholomew's study swung open, and the short dimpled house boy bowed, announcing Lady Theodora. The boy had a pretty face, Theodora favored those, but the boy's dimples and garishly embroidered clothes struck Bartholomew as being far too pretty for anyone's tastes, the scrawny youth

repetition of "pretty", and "scrawny" must be the opinion of the lord, if he dimples so much

would never be more than a house boy.


"Oh!" His mother, Lady Theodora, cried out as she walked in to the room, trailed by Lord Bartholomew's elder sister. "What am I to do if I die before I see my unborn heir?" She lifted her pale and heavily gemmed hand, to her face, feigning dizziness. The woman sat in the large chair opposite Bartholomew, her gold and green gown embroidered with a multitude of small, intricate vines and flowers. She fanned her face with an equally intricate silk fan, but the look on her face was nothing short of abrupt and almost, Bartholomew though, condemning.


"Terrible thing that would be, dear mother." Esmeralda said, gently bouncing her second baby on her knee. "I do not know what ancient line would be broken, should the child of a daughter rule, such things could be very well unimaginable." Unlike her mother, the noble daughter wore a plain green robe with little embroidery other than across the high neckline, in reverence of her earth-goddess. She let her hair lay loose and braided.

I don't get a picture; one braid, and the rest loose?

Esmeralda had little care for the twisting and twining involved getting her long black locks to fit in the steeped henin her mother favored. His sister was never without one or the other of her two children,

semicolon?

Dakkon, her eldest and named after his grandfather, was nearing the age where he was learning to soldier and lead.


Already the

"the lord Bartholomew", or just "Bartholomew", his name isn't his title

Bartholomew's nephew, only six but tall and smart for his age, was showing striking resemblance to his grandfather. The sword master Kerry, who taught the youngest boys, had told Bartholomew that his nephew was a shrewd fighter and that the boy already had the entire seven year old class-about fifteen sons of nobles, following him. Like his grandfather, Dak had a way about him that made others want to follow him,

repetition of "follow him"

a charisma that was not taught or learned, but something one was born with. In fact, the swords

sword master; and I'd even dare hyhenate it, or compress it into one word (first time, too)

master had gone so far as to say that Dak was very much like Bartholomew's father, Lord Drake.


Bartholomew felt a little jealousy over his nephew, certainly Kerry had never fawned over him so when Bartholomew had been under the sword master's tutelage. Of course, it was not until his late teenage years that the boy-lord had begun to shine on his own, but Dak was something of a prodigy, like the tales told him that Lord Drake had been. The youngest of his nephews was on his sister's hip, Thom was a chubby thing with the same dark eyes as Esmeralda, and had inherited his mother's plumpness. Just barely out of diapers, Bran was certainly the cutest of the two brothers, but still too young to have any personality-other than sucking his thumb.


Lord Bartholomew answered them with a scoff and a wave of his hand, to dismiss them from his office. "I am busy, ladies. If you will show yourselves to the door?"


"Planning revenge again brother?" Esmeralda said, leaning over his desk and studying Ursula's Pass. "Father would not want you wasting your life on his revenge." A plump and pretty woman, his sister's soft face was a mask for the calculating and intelligent woman, one that many a man fell in love with, only to be handed their own hearts by her sometimes cruel hand. "This is insanity, brother, and thee knows

if you want to use the second person singular (quite reasonable within the family, it should be done throughout the paragraph "thou wasting thy life" "and thou knowest it"

this."


"You have sympathy for those animals, and for what? Because some barbarian bitch saved you from Slighe? They killed our father yet you want me to let them be?" Bartholomew's young voice trembled with anger. "They killed our father!" He shouted now, only inches from Esmeralda's face. His nephew Thom began to cry and Esmeralda glared back, shushing the boy.

would he not, if adressed in the intimate form, reply in the same (otherwise implying that rather than speaking to an equal, she had treated him as an inferior) "Thou hast sympathy" , "and yet thou wilt I let them be"

"Enough." Lady Theodora interrupted her children. "Do not speak of the dead so frivolously, and Esmeralda, have some respect for your brother's place as your lord. Now, both of you, mind your own places in my presence."


Bartholomew sat back, and Esmeralda's face flushed with embarrassment. Both siblings should know better than to talk so about their dead father, especially in front of their mother. Theodora had been a gracious and loving wife, who had finally stopped wearing black only a few months ago, almost a year past the standard mourning time, but her heart was still shrouded in pain. To speak so openly and carelessly about their father was disrespectful to Theodora's grief-stricken spirit.


"Would you ladies kindly excuse me, and let me finish my work?" Bartholomew said and kept his brown eyes on the floor.


Of course, the two women ignored him duly, and went on about their incessant prattle, putting the short argument quickly behind them. He was the lord of this castle, but his mother and sister paid that no mind at all. Bartholomew tapped the inkwell with an ill-humored glance for the women. This was a daily enterprise, and an exhausting one for the lord, both women would bring him coffee and morning cakes with cold beef, sit with their seemingly idle chat, all the while making comments directed at him.


"What would possible happen Esmeralda, if your darling elder boy, were to take the head of state instead of Bartholomew's own unborn-and likely to stay that way-child?"


"Perhaps a cataclysmic event would occur, mother, sending the earth into balls of fire and ice."


It was only tradition, after all, Bartholomew sighed.


Esmeralda was probably more fit than he to run matters of state anyways, and she often had while their father and her husband Matteous had gone off to war. The sister had a shrewd intellect about her, and that is not to say that Bartholomew was less intelligent than she, but the noble priestess had an affinity for politics, where Bartholomew preferred his blade and soldiers.


Matteous entered without an attendant to announce him, the First Captain was a humble but stoic man who disdained things like servants. He shut the large door behind him softly, and his coming probably saved Bartholomew from a harsh lashing from Lady Theodora's tongue, entering the grand office with little flourish.

sentence needs rearanging; it's not the tongue that's entering the office

Matteous was a solid man, with a girth one would mistake for blubber until he moved and the rippling muscles beneath his leather tunic could be seen. Just before the First Captain entered the room, Bartholomew had been about to speak rather harshly towards

not "towards", just "to"

his mother, but seeing his friend and captain at arms, the boy promptly closed his mouth. Which was an entirely smart thing to do, Lady Theodora could tear a man limb from limb with nothing but harsh words, and many a foolish nobility

noble

had been sent from her court with a red and shamed face.


As it were,

what purpose does that "As it were" serve

First Captain Matteous was, as far as Bartholomew could discern, the young lord's only and true friend. The muscular man still wore Lord Drake's sigul across the chest of his tunic, but Bartholomew knew this was out of homage and not discontent with the young man's rule. Matteous gave both women a sweeping kiss across their cheeks and a second kiss for his wife, Esmeralda, as he picked up his youngest son, tossing the toddler in the air.


Esmeralda smiled with a sweet and unnerving look for her brother, and Matteous had the nerve to ask a simple question, seeing that glint of the eye the two women shared.


"What are you ladies about this early morn?"


Esmeralda feigned ignorance, and it was Lady Theodora who laughed aloud.


"Tomorrow, my son, you shall shine!" The noble mother declared abruptly, her pale and heavily ringed hand rising into the air.


Bartholomew gave her a grisly grin. "And how, pray tell, is that to be dear mother?"


"Why, do you not know?" Esmeralda said, a sick innocence dripping from her voice as she sliced cold beef for her husband and poured coffee.


In response to both Bartholomew and Matteous blank faces, Theodora smiled sweetly and leaned over the desk, her bright golden hair reflecting in the sunlight. "Soon, we will have a wife for you. There will be a party this evening, do you not remember? Bringing in the Fall Festival, an early party for our Lord and with it will come ladies of fine, noble birth, who wait for your discerning eye to set upon one or the other. Of course, the planning of it was a hurried thing, since you have been ever so busy with your conquests, your sister and I thought it best not to interrupt you for such a small thing as a party."


Matteous burst into a horrid fit of laughter, ignorant of the fierce glare his noble wife gave him. Noble as Esmeralda was, she certainly had a fiercer temper than any lady he had known, which is a large part of why Matteous loved her. The fact that she clung unmercifully to tradition and religion was her only true downfall, but the beautiful and sharp witted young mother made his blood boil, even eight years after their nuptials.


"Well, dear Bart, you are hung, to be sure. These fine ladies will have you dancing the Song of the Stork in no time at all!" The man slapped his leg for effect. "I suppose you lovely ladies already have the perfect bride picked out for our virgin lord?" Matteous grinned beneath his thick and dark mustache, twisted upwards and soaked with oil that made it shine black. A man's mustache was his pride, and Matteous had quite a bit of pride in the long black twirls of hair that curved around his mouth.


Esmeralda smiled, her dark brown eyes setting on her brother. "Actually, darling husband," she spoke far too sweet for Bartholomew's taste, "we have picked a lovely bride for him, since my brother has seemed unconcerned with his own bloodline." Seeing the look on her brother's grim face, Esmeralda added: "It is far too late to worry about that now brother; you should have attended more delegates and parties. You will like the girl, she is quiet and," Esmeralda paused, her plump face growing sharp, "she is malleable, a trait mother and I find most befitting for you." Of course, they would. The two women had their hands in every pot except those of war, stringing the young lord along as if he were bait at the end of a fishing line. "Stop sulking Bart, it makes your face rather unbecoming." Esmeralda finished her coffee, peering at him over the brim of the porcelain cup.


"You can not do this!" Lord Bartholomew shouted, and was instantly sorry that he did, his face slacked in defeat. "I don’t even know this girl." He pouted and voiced his discontent, slumping back into the chair. Bartholomew slowly shook his head, and his dark eyes admitted defeat as they pulled again to the floor. "It is not fair, you know, not fair at all." The young lord's shoulders slumped. "What manner of girl would marry a man without knowing him, anyways? Is she hiding something?"


Lady Theodora sighed heavily, irritably. She gave her youngest child and admonishing stare and tapped her lips with her gloved hand. "Her name is Lady Shia, and she is a princess from the eastern holds. They do things very differently in the East, as you well know. She was bred in a world of culture and wisdom. The young maid is a scholar in her own lands, and well respected. It would do you well to marry her, for she is a pretty thing, with a kind heart. This marriage will bring more than an heir. It will stake our holds on two ends of the continent." The noblewoman's hawk like nose, almost a copy of Bartholomew's, turned upwards, and in that debasing

debasing? Making mean or of less valuue, adulterating?

face she looked much more like a hawk set on its prey. "No sense in whining about it now, son."


The young lord glared at them in silence, and Matteous's chuckles did not help him at all. Friend! Ha! The captain at arms was too busy having a laugh at his expense to be any kind of a friend now. Bartholomew brushed another lock of unruly black hair from his face. He squared his shoulders, and wrinkled his face in a manner that accentuated the sharpness of his nose. The unmarried young man thought he was giving his mother and sister a hard glare, but from their end his eyes seemed to widen with apprehension, not irritation. Lord Bartholomew tugged at the bottom of his plain jerkin, and stepped slowly from behind the massive oak desk. He gave one, flat look at Matteous, and then the man moved faster than he ever had before, even in the heat of battle.


"It is about time, Bart." Matteous stood, clasping his thick hand on Bartholomew's shoulder. "You want to be a man, and so you should learn how men behave. War and fighting and leading is only a part of manhood, boy. A family with a good wife and beautiful babies completes a man unlike and sword, bow, or baugh could. You would do well to listen to your mother and sister, for they have always had your best interests at heart."


And their own, Bartholomew thought, but instead he said "I am not ready for this responsibility. I can not even take care of myself without mother ordering my bath, for Gaia's sakes! Yet you all think I should marry some girl from some country in the east, and then everything will be just fine. In fact, you expect me to attend some party and just meet this girl, then be married by the Fall Festival! The party is a week away, and the Festival less than a month, you think I should love this girl by then? Are you all mad?" He pounded his fist on the table, knocking his now cold coffee to the floor.


Esmeralda gave a start in her seat, but it was Lady Theodora who answered her son. "Young man, your father and I had never met before our wedding day. It was an arranged marriage, and I loved him the moment the priest blessed us. That is life, son. Even your sister and Matteous had only met a few times before they were wed. Matteous was always too busy and off to this campaign or that, but your father asked him to marry your sister, and they did so. And you would dare to say that our marriages were wrong? How you spit on tradition son, you shame us with your fancy notions and look down on our lives and our loves with your discontent. It is you who should be ashamed, and not I nor your sister."


Bartholomew flew from the room as quickly as if a pack of wild hounds bit at his heels, and before any could stop him, the brass inlaid door slammed shut behind him. The younger brother ran down the hall, knocking servants and noble cousins alike out of his way. His face was tight with sweat and consternation as the boy leaped over the small gate, heading straight for the stables. Bartholomew saddled his mare in such a quick and careless fashion that Fenzick, the stableman, nearly had to tackle the young lord before he hurt himself, or the horse. Once the nobleman's steed, Marrigan, was properly saddled, the young lord jumped upon it and rode through the gates without as much as a glance to his crying mother and sister.

 

[dustinzgirl]

Wow Chris, Thank you. And here I thought I had caught all my grammar errors! Thank you so much, that was awesome and informative.

 

[chrispenycate]

That's all I can manage in one sitting, I fear. My eyes were starting to cross towards the end.
Oh, and thou shouldst probably ignore all the second person singular stuff; I fear I got somewhat carried away.

 

[BooberApGrumbly]

I hate to post a review like this being fairly new so please take it as only opinion and only one opinion at that. I really had a hard time getting through this piece and about 1/3 of the way through started scanning. There was alot of telling and exposition with little or no showing. You could do several chapters of fairly exciting stuff if you "showed" us all the stuff you describe for us. alot of what you wrote seemed like back-story that could be worked into narrative and dialogue (not sure how though).

I also felt like I was reading every other fantasy novel I've ever read. I know theres a loyal fan base out there for this type of writing but to me it seemed very cliche'd like I was going to have to wade through a lot of words to get to the writing.

I'm by no means an accomplished writer, so like I said take this review for what it's worth, if anything.

Darrin Coe

 

[chrispenycate]

Corwynn lay centered in a high ring of stone, and that ring was again circled by the lower walls were

I think that without that "were" the sentence makes sense

built so that a first line of defense could stand upon them and rain a tirade of arrows on an attacker. This outer place was where the merchants and craftsman,

"craftsmen"; or "merchant and craftsman", but that doesn't work too well with the end

such as the blacksmith, worked and lived. The castle itself was a thing of architectural wonder; Lord Bartholomew's ancestors had built it with the best minds of their time,

a castle built of minds! Does it stop arrows? More seriously I find this sentence too "tourist guide"

and its equal did not exist in the known worlds. The high walls were a secondary defense, also built for archers to stand upon, shooting above those on the lower walls. Should the lower walls fail, however, the high walls were opened by

I don't think that should be a "by" Still, I can't visualise the set up; the "circle of stone", the arc of the inner walls, the "inner city" (or inner ring) with market place and castle, homes of nobility but few merchants; I hope there's a diagram somewhere.

a great arc that swept over the townspeople and a great iron gate had been made that would fall abruptly under attack, though it had not been used in so long that many doubted it would work. This inner ring is where the servants of the nobility, as well as the richer merchants, craftsmen and artisans lived and held market.


Tenwick was tired. It had been far too early a day, and the merchants younger daughters could talk of nothing more than shopping. He had five daughters, the eldest of which

"of whom" even teenaged daughters are human

was more a son to him than a daughter, but the younger four were pure

is this "purity" a measure of their mating status? Because if it describes their adolescence, perhaps another adjective would reduce the possibility of confusion

adolescent girls. How he longed for the days when they were babbling babes, bouncing on his knee and looking at him as though he were the hero of the universe. Since the youngest turned eleven, all that

"all that had mattered"? The "now" isn't nescesssary after the "since"

mattered now was clothing, jewelry, and of course, boys. This was enough to bring Tenwick Goldbottom closer to his grave, but that was the way of fathers who cared for their daughters.


Gardenia, his eldest, was very unlike her sisters, so much so that his wife berated him constantly about sending her to a finishing school in the city where she could be taught to become a proper wife. "Who would want a wife that can out hunt, out craft, and out fight them?" She would say, and glare at him for raising her eldest daughter so. Surely, this was all his fault, for Tenwick had taken Gardenia with him on many travels, she had spent the larger part of her life out of school and on the road with her father and his life long guards, battling thieves and rogues alike.

that sentence would be better split

"With no sons to inherit our fortune, do you not think it best that she learn all she can of my business, before I grow old and die and leave you with none to care for you?"


Tenwick's wife could hardly dispute this logic, but she liked it even less for that.


While her younger sisters nearly bowled her father over, Gardenia stood, silent and brooding. It annoyed her that her own mother looked down upon her, and raised her silly and gabby and far too gilded

gold painted? I'm not sure of "gilded"

younger sisters above her, at least as far as the house goes. Outside of the house, however, Gardenia was always

in

the lead; she had taken the role of her sister's

sisters' the protector of all of them

protector, as much as an older brother would.


It was during this Fall Festival shopping trip that Gardenia walked behind her sisters, while the four blondes trailed behind their parents,

Gardenia is also a blonde (mentioned later) Actually, I find you mention their hair colour somewhat too frequently

and goggled at various bolts of silk laid out for purchase before the Fall Festival. Gardenia could barely stop herself from rolling her eyes as her sisters picked the most extravagant and most expensive masks from the vendors, and silken dresses that they would surely freeze to death in.


Tenwick could only grin and shell out the gold, his hands shaking. Gardenia's mother made the final decision on their purchases, often commenting that only a floozy would wear this dress or that only a peasant would buy such a mask, until it

minor comment, but would "all" work better here than "it"?

was finally decided and purchased. Tenwick was not a rich man, but they lived very comfortably, and Gardenia wondered if he would put himself into debt to make her little sisters and mother happy.


A crazed man on a crazier horse came bounding through the town square, without thought to the merchants stalls, knocking over various wares. Gardenia was limber enough to bounce out of his way, but three of her sister and her mother were thrust onto the mask sellers stall, and then fell, almost as one, onto the muddy road.


Belleball, the youngest of Tenwick's daughters, was the first to cry. Not because she was injured, although Tenwick was looking at her arm, but because the mad horseman had taken her new mask. Sure enough, when Gardenia looked up to the quickly fleeing man's back, her sisters pearl and gold mask, a resemblance of the goddess Gaia, was jumping across the man's back, caught on his jacket.


"'Tis all right Belle, don't cry now. Your big sister will get that mask back for you." Gardenia planted a kiss on her smaller sister's brow, and before her mother could protest or her father could join her, she was running through the merchant's square as quickly and deftly as any deer.


"Stop thief!" She screamed, and the local guards fell in with her.


"Ho, Garden!" William, a town guard in the Merchant Square called as he fell in beside her.


"That man stole from my baby sister!" Gardenia pointed, without missing a step or losing speed, and certainly uncaring if Will Boots could keep pace with her.


Will Boots was a good gentleman, and he had his eye on the second Goldbottom daughter, Delia. He had his eye on that blonde, blue eyed girl for the last three years, since she had begun to fill out her womanhood. Gardenia did not like the man, if simply for the fact that she believed him a simpleton who would make nothing more of her sister than a poor soldier's wife. He kept stride with her, although the black horse was quickly falling out

not "falling" maybe "fading from", though it isn't really fading. "escaping from"?

of their view.


Then, the horse began to slow. Gardenia watched as the animal reared up a hundred yards before her, and flung its master to the ground. She was horrified because the mask that had cost her father fifty gold pieces, a pretty sum, fell with the man and was smashed between him and the cobbled road.


Gardenia burst into full speed, and even the younger Will found it hard to match her stride. In moments, she was upon the fallen thief, and rendered him unconscious with a hard punch to the side of his dark haired head.


"That will teach you to steal from my sister!" Gardenia cried out, and gave him another hard smack for the fun of it.


Will Boots, his sword out and ready in case the man were to try something vicious, although truth be told Will was not much of a fighter, stopped dead in his tracks. He knew the man, knew him very well. Often, the Merchant Square guards would bring a petty thief to the castle, but when they brought a thief who stole a sum of more than one hundred gold pieces, Lord Bartholomew oversaw the trial. Will had done so just two full moons past, having caught, by sheer will and not by brawn, one of the most renowned thieves of Three Springs. Caught him, and had been given a year's wages along with a special accommodation for his prowess, by none other than Lord Bartholomew himself.


Will grabbed Gardenia by her shoulders, shaking the girl violently. "Do you know what you have done?" He nearly screamed in her face. "Run Garden, run for your father's sake!" He pushed her away, but stubbornly she barely moved. She turned back, and saw the wideness of his eyes. "That be Lord Bartholomew, girl! Run, be damned, run home!"


Too late, Gardenia began to run, but she ran straight into the chest of one of the largest men she had ever seen, who grabbed her up by her arm, hoisting her easily into the air.


"Who is this that has accosted our Lord? Who be this thieving girl?" He boomed, and that was all Gardenia saw before the hilt of the burly man's sword crashed upon her tender blonde head.

 

[dustinzgirl]

the "circle of stone", the arc of the inner walls, the "inner city" (or inner ring) with market place and castle, homes of nobility but few merchants; I hope there's a diagram somewhere.

http://www.ireland-now.com/restored_t.html
Trim Castle, Co.Meath

Combined with

Athenry Castle, Co. Galway

http://www.ireland-now.com/ruins_a.html

: )

I know, my castle description was hurried. I should have spent more time on that point. I realize that now that you have pointed that out. (how many times can I use the word that in a sentence?)

Thank you for your analysis! It really is helping me!!!!!!!

 

[chrispenycate]

I trust that it is clear that these are mere suggestions, and that if you disagree with any of them, that you can tell me where to stick them with no offense (I managed four; perhaps I can do better with a little work)
I'm not sure others want more description; it's merely that castle architecture is one of my specialities (my boss owns a mediaeval castle, and I could bore you to tears with details like roofs, or how to avoid the walls crumbling where the well wekens them. Actually his is a château, and no bigger than the keep of your castle, but…
And I will do the two remaining sections; it's just that it takes me a while.

 

[chrispenycate]

Lord Bartholomew was recovering nicely in his bed, or so he should have been. Instead, he was pacing furiously. What peasant dared to knock him from his horse and hit him? The mark on his brow was certainly not from the fall, and visions of an insane, blue eyed boy had ravished his dreams throughout the night. A boy who had, by all accounts, who had punched him twice.

do you really need the repetition of "who had"? Is it really that important? "A boy who, by all accounts, had punched", perhaps?

Hit a man who had fallen from his horse! With all this, certainly, the party last night had been halted, but there were still tonight

tonight's

festivities to contend with. He thought about faking illness, perhaps the hard hit on

blow to his head?

his head had been too much for him, but that would be admitting that a peasant boy had overtaken

overpowered? overcome?

him, and the Lord, bred for war and rule, could not admit such a thing. His people would giggle behind his back for the next ten years, and probably

longer?

after that. No, Lord Bartholomew could see no way out of the parade of young

comma; and probably another after "fleshy"

fleshy noble girls that would be set before him. Yesterday his only thought had been to ride, and to keep riding, through the city and into the forest and possible

is that "possibly" or "if possible"?

to the glaciers, to face the barbarians alone. That was a foolish idea, one of an immature and selfish child. He would leave his mother and sister undefended, without a Lord to oversee their home, only for his own desire to not marry a foolish nobleman's daughter?

Clumsy sentence

The thought of his own selfishness and weakness made the young lord pale and ill.


There was another problem that had thrust the nobleman into fits of confusion. That boy had been, by all accounts,

how can "by all accounts" fit in? Either he'd seen his agressor, in which case he's seen the beauty, he's seen the scar, he's felt the attraction, or else he didn't, in which case, why all this questioning his possible homosexuality? Needs clarification.

beautiful. Not the simple cultured beauty of his mother and sister, but wild and unchallenged, free and perfect. Even the small scar on the boy's forehead was beautiful, and now the young lord had another problem. Perhaps he did not have an aversion to marriage because of the utter foolishness of it, but more because he was, and Lord Bartholomew almost shuddered, but because he was a bit on the funny side of things. Perhaps women were not his calling, otherwise how could that blonde haired boy be so fluently

I don't find either "fluently" or "perfectly" the right adverbs for this situation

and perfectly in his dreams?


Matteous came in then, after a sharp and abrupt knock at the door, without waiting for a reply from the young lord stormed in

not "came in" at the beginning and "stormed in" later

, the door pounding shut behind him. "You can not have such an occurrence. You left the castle without watch or warrant, and rushed off to have a bit of fun? I certainly hope you have that bullarkey out of your system, young lord. And to think you left your sister in such a rage, I had to bear the brunt of your flagrant idiocy and disregard for propriety all day, and through much of the evening."


"You should not speak to your lord so."


"My lord? _My Lord_?" Matteous stormed out of the room, his face twisted with annoyance

"annoyance" is a bit weak for what he's feeling, don't you think? And if he "stormed in" he should at least storm "back out", though if he exited in some other indication of his mental state might be even stronger

and anger. The gold worked oak door slammed behind Lord Bartholomew's brother in law, and the young man's cheeks rose in red shame.


Bartholomew had never spoken so to Matteous,

semicolon

the man was more than a friend or brother, he was the young lord's only confident and protector, who had often saved the boy from a well deserved whipping at the hands of his father, occasionally by taking the
blame for Bartholomew's transgressions himself.

too many commas ,too many subsidiary clases. Sentence could be split.

Several times he owed his life to the First Captain, since they were young enough to sneak out of the castle for a bit of fun and excitement. Now, Bartholomew feared, he had finally crossed the line with his only true friend.


Bartholomew snapped open the door minutes after Matteous had left, and stomped out on his own. He was angry, at himself, at his birthright, and at his friend. "Bring me the peasant boy, immediately." Bartholomew raged in the face of the first castle guardsman he saw. "Be quick about it, or I'll have your head on a pike!"


The castle guard was quick about it, his face paled at the sight of the enraged lord.


Gardenia paced in the sickening stench of her cell. Thieves and brigands and one rapist shared the holding cell with her, though after she gouged the eyes from the first one who tried to touch her, the rest fell silent and turned away from her. She might be hung for her crime of laying a hand upon a lord, but Gardenia would be damned if she would fall to this rabble. Certainly, this was not the death the young girl envisioned herself having, for she was an upright and law abiding citizen, and now she had spent the night watching for the touches of ruffians and killing the biting spiders and rats, but most of all, the young merchant's daughter had spent the night in prayer to the Earth goddess Gaia, her patron.

sentence too long

The guard that came for her stank of hard liquor and whore's perfume, but he laid neither a wandering hand nor eye upon her. Not as much could be said for the four guards who came with him, and he was forced to grab one by the collar after the greasy guard slapped Gardenia's bottom. "This is thy Lord's cell and prisoner, and thus his property. If you touch her bottom again, I will see you hung for laying your hand upon Lord Bartholomew's property. Do you ken?"


"Aye, sir." The small and almost weasel looking guard replied with a shaky voice. "Aye."


"And that goes for the rest of you rabble. We do as we are told, and no looking for a bit o' fun whiles you is under the Lord's pay."


There were grumbles of agreement, and the five guards and one terrified merchant's daughter entered the court quietly and without further incident.

Why has he assumed the "boy" is a peasant? He's well dressed, anfd while not noble, we've already been told there's a large middle class in the city. Peasants would rarely be in the city except in times of war, while the son, say, of a military officer might easily be trained in martial skills, or a blacksmith's son would have been training fot several years, and easily have the strength to concuss a non-resisting opponent.

 

[chrispenycate]

Lord Bartholomew meant to set

make

an example of this person. An example of what happened when peasants tried to steal from a lord, but more an example of his own strength and manhood, to prove that he was a strong ruler, fit for the life of a Lord in the wild northern territories. This was something he must prove to himself, and to Matteous, by giving the insolent peasant a quick and merciful death. The court was silent as the peasant boy was brought in, thrown upon the ground before his feet. This was not the first, nor surely the last, peasant to be thrust below the judge's pedestal, where Bartholomew now stood, his steel gray eyes staring angrily at the heap of dirty boy beneath him. He waited a moment, for surely the peasant would beg for his life and his hands, give a sobbing tale of a poor family or dying mother that warranted his thievery. No excuse necessitated thievery, for Bartholomew's grandfather had set up several charity hospitals and food banks so that no child would go ill or hungry, and the line of Three Springs Lords had kept that as their promise to the people.


Gardenia did not beg. Instead, she stood, her long blonde hair falling in unbraided curls around her, touching just past her waist. Her hair, she realized, was probably now full of lice and probably spiders. Her blouse had been torn enough to reveal her smooth skin and ample tender bosom, but, Lord Bartholomew realized, she wore pants as any man would.


"What manner of trickery is this? Are you a boy or a girl?" He pounded a single fist on the pedestal. "And what do you have to say for yourself, in either case? For I have little patience for lies and even smaller patience for thieves, so be on with it."


Her fine jaw set tight in her rosy cheeks, Gardenia did not stutter before him, nor did she bother to bow. "The pain for touching a lord is death, however, I would also condemn you to lose your hands, for that is the price of thievery, and even your father, who I am certain was a much better lord than thee,

I really don't think she'd "thee/thou" him, however angry she was

claimed that no man is above the law. _Especially_ those who command the law. It is written in the books at the Library, and, lord of thievery, if bidden I am sure we can recover the correct tome. As to whether I am a boy or a girl, I assure you that is none of your business, for that is between me and my gods."


The room was deathly silent, and suddenly cold. One could hear the flutter of wings outside, so quiet the crowd had become, as if her words had taken the very breath from their lungs. Bartholomew himself held his own breath, because he had never been chastised so, except perhaps by his sister and mother.


Then, a murmur began amongst the crowd and with it a shout. Suddenly, the court hall was loud with the chant of "Kill her!" "Hang her" "Death to the whore!" The crowd wanted blood, he could smell it. The temperature of the room rose, and a fine bead of sweat trickled down Lord Bartholomew's forehead. The eyes of that girl did not leave him, and the lord thought they would burn their cold blue gaze into the center of his brain.


"Silence!" He boomed, and did so three times again. "Silence or every man will be removed from this court of law!" His gavel pounded on the pedestal, the force of the hit so hard that it burst into several pieces, and the room fell finally silent. "That is better." He said, and reveled in his small victory over the crowd. "Well, peasant thief, it would be hard for me to understand why you have branded your lord a thief, so please explain yourself."


Gardenia explained the incident in the Market Square in a rush, wanting to get every word out before the maddened crowd tore her

is that "limb from limb"? tore from limb to limb sounds a bit strange

from limb to limb. From his left, Bartholomew could hear Esmeralda titter, her gloved hand covering her painted lips. When Gardenia ended with "…and so, I punched you once in the head to render you unconscious and again to make sure you would stay so." Lady Esmeralda positively guffawed with laughter. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Bartholomew thought it all rather unseemly for the noble lady.


"Oh, Bart, I am sorry." Esmeralda said, stifling her laughter. "Indeed, so very sorry!"


The hard gray eyes of their lord fell on the crowd the moment one made a sound, and beneath that gaze they fell utterly silent. His sister's almost maniacal laughter was the only sound heard in the entire room, and she did carry on for several moments. Matteous, who as her husband always sat to her right in matters of state and court, could barely hide his own grin. Bartholomew would certainly never live this down, and he would be laughed at like this his entire life, if not to his face then behind his back. How would he find a wife to appease his mother now? How could he prove that he was not a simple weakling lord who fell at the fist of a peasant girl? How could he stop them from laughing at him so?


Gardenia's sheer blue eyes bore into his soul, and ripped it open for what it was.


With one swift snap of Lord Bartholomew's voice, both their fates were sealed for an eternity.


"Hang her."


Esmeralda stopped laughing, and Matteous's jaw fell slack.


Bartholomew stood and walked away, ignorant of the cheers that fell from behind him, his sister's cries for mercy falling off of his shoulders, but he could not turn his back from those silent blue eyes. Even as he stepped away from them, even when he was sure there was no possible way that bewitching, and strong, peasant girl could possible see him through tons of cold stone, her eyes penetrated him and forced his soul into the open.


What a pitiful and selfish lord he was, indeed.

The occasional bits of archaic language clash a little; if it were maintained in the dialogue and modern in the descriptive, it could work, but bits of each are each. The text is occasionally alittle over ornamental, and could be tightened up. I suspect that eye gouging in prison would be frowned upon, even between classes, and see no reason why he would accuse her of theft; assault, certainly, but not theft. And that "no man is above the law" doesn't fit with the absolutist justice handed out by a ruler, at least not in our time ; the idea of generalised justice handed down by anything but a god (or a direct representative of one, or equal justice for noble and commoner are quite a recent developement (and don't actually work properly yet, even if the differences are now more financial than hereditary)

 

[j d worthington]

I swear, Dusty, something about this post simply don't like me. After three attempts earlier today that got eaten, I just tried again and couldn't call it up at all, until I went through Chris's profile and looked up his posts and came in the back way. I wonder if somebody's trying to tell me something....?

Anyway, since Chris has handled a lot of the punctuation, etc. my comments will be a little different than I'd expected. If I repeat what has already been said, chalk it up to losing track after going through this four times running!

The Merchant's Daughter ​

Three Springs village was the hub of existence in the northern world, just south of the icy glaciers where only barbarians lived; it represented the last hold of civilization.

You might want to go for a short and simple introductory sentence as a "hook", and let the following material expand on that. E.g.: "Three Springs village was the hub of existence in the northern world. Just south of the icy glaciers where only barbarians lived, it represented the last hold of civilization."

Merchants came this far north only for the infamous and precious metals the city offered, to barter for that which was hard to find so far north, mainly the southern regions spices and silks.

"Merchants came this far only for the infamous and precious metals the city offered, for which they bartered that which was hard to find so far north: namely, the spices and silks of the southern regions."

The inner city itself was built for trade, with one massive center devoted to the purchasing and selling of goods, and of course, the taking of taxes.

I think, perhaps, "of goods and, of course, the taking of taxes" might be a better construction here.

Above the Market Square, nestled behind a myriad of gates and stone walls, lay Lord Bartholomew's own castle, Corwynn, just beyond prestigious inner city. For those who lived within the city walls, the closer to the castle, the greater the prestige, and so the inner portion was a myriad of tall and gilded houses for those who favored pretties, and the smaller houses of those who catered to them.

I very much like that phrase: "tall and gilded houses for those who favored pretties, and the smaller houses of those who catered to them" -- adds a nice ironic inversion to the usual sense of "catered to". You'll want to watch overuse of any word, however; in this case "myriad", which originally meant "thousand". Some of the alternatives might be: "countless, boundless, infinite, untold, thousands, numerous, manifold, multitudinous, multifarious, sundry, teeming, swarming, crowding, thronging, innumerable, numberless" etc.

The castle itself was a massive construct of four connected tower-houses, and in the midst of that was the grand Commons, where Lord Bartholomew and his kin held court as well as entertained feasts. Above this, the tower-houses loomed over the villa, and within the myriad of rooms and dining halls, Lord Bartholomew kept his office.

"Towers" might be a better choice here. And I'm a bit confused with the phrasing here: are you meaning that the towers loomed over the structure, and that the rooms and dining halls were located in them, or in the "villa"? Incidentally, "villa" means "a country residence or estate", often what we think of as a farmhouse; I think what you're meaning here is what they called the "don-jon", which was the central structure to which the people would retreat when the outer perimeter was taken during a siege, either for purpose of a final fortified stand or (in the case of existing tunnels) to have a rearguard action while the rest escaped. Correct me if I'm wrong.

Lord Bartholomew had grown tired. He was nearing his twenty-first birthday, and with the death of his father still fresh in his mind, the young lord was beginning to feel the pressure from his mother, Lady Theodora, and older sister, Lady Esmeralda Elder Priestess of Gaia.

This might work better as "He was nearing his twenty-first birthday and, with the death of his father still fresh in his mind, the young lord was beginning to feel the pressure from his his mother the Lady Theodora, and his older sister Lady Esmeralda, Elder Priestess of Gaia."

The pressure was not that of state and country, or even vengeance for his father's death at the hands of a barbarian tribe, but rather that it was time for him to marry. Marry, so that the line of his father would not go stale. Marry, so that he may

might

produce an heir for the great castle before he grows

grew

so old that no woman would want him. The hawkish man was wearing little finery today, he disdained the embroidery and lace his mother constantly forced upon him, wearing it only in matters of state-which the boy made lord attended rarely, and ruefully when he did. Bartholomew, or Bart to his mother and sister, had little patience for parties and politics. His thick black hair was tied back haphazardly by a leather thong, and he irritably swept the wayward locks from his brackish face.

Several things should be noted here. First, no noble is ever too old for any woman to want him, even if she only wants him for the power he wields; power and money will always find a mate. Love, no; a spouse, yes. Also, try this restatement, and see how it strikes you: "was wearing little finery today; he disdained the embroidery and lace his mother constantly forced upon him, wearing it only on state occasions, which he attended both rarely and ruefully." And, as Chris noted, brackish is an odd choice here, and I'm not sure what you mean. Do you mean sallow? brownish? olive? dark?

Lord Bartholomew was young still by any standards. Battle had not yet hardened his face, but he was strong and thick nonetheless.

Again, "thick" seems an odd choice. Perhaps "muscular" or even "stocky"; "thick" implies fat or even thick-witted.

The boy had been raised in the shadow of his father, a well respected and even more feared warrior who had guided his son with a quick and heavy hand and was just as quick to praise or even hug the boy, paying no mind to any traditions of propriety. Bartholomew gripped the hilt of his sword, the thick metal and inlaid rubies were cold against his sweaty hand, and the lord sat back in his chair.

Again, try this restatement: "The boy had grown up in the shadow of his father, a warrior both respected and feared, who had guided his son with a quick and heavy hand, but was just as quick to praise or even hug the boy, paying no attention to tradition or propriety." I altered it to "or" to cover both overt and covert traditions; things not stated but nonetheless showing strong cultural preference. Also, unless it's a strictly ceremonial sword, a jewel would only be in the pommel, not the grip, as it would otherwise interfere with grasping and holding the weapon during use, not to mention being hard on bare hands, and even possibly catching metal gauntlets (fine mesh). As I recall, the palm wasn't covered by plate at any time, but if this is the case in your world, one would have to mind scrapes that would encourage rust, which would weaken the metal.

"Ho there, boy, where are you going?" The man asked from his horse, his face darkened by the bright summer sun behind him.

"With you da, of course." Bartholomew tried to climb on the massive war horse and his father smiled, reaching out a hand.

To help him up? or block him mounting?

"Your mother will have my head if I let you go boy." His father used a gauntleted hand to rub his black mustache. "Besides, this war has no place for a boy who can barely get on his steed."

Bartholomew sat up straight in his saddle, adjusting his chain mail. "You went on campaigns when you were half my age da."

"True son, but that was a different time, and the enemy not so great." The lord leaned over, clasping the boy's shoulder. "Besides, I had four younger brothers who stayed and watched over your grandmother. You can't leave women to their own devices boy, Gaia knows what they would be up to."

"There's the house guard that is what they are for." Bartholomew almost pouted, realizing the trap his father had set. Go, and leave the women with no protector if he would do so, an unfair play on the boy's pride.

"Bah, they are not worth a spit, and you know that." The armored man leaned across his horse and gave his son a hug. "But, you are brave boy, I'll give you that much, and if you can keep up with us, you can come."

There was a moment there, Bartholomew, only fifteen years old, wrapped in the chain and leather covered arms of his father, staring into those loving and hard dark eyes. Bartholomew had never felts so proud, so adult. He shook away the tears that were forming in his own eyes, and saw-much to his surprise- father wipe a tear from his scarred cheek.

The powerful lord gave a last smile to his son, and kicked up his horse without a word or a backward glance as Bartholomew kicked his own steed, not intending to be left behind and miss the greatest battle of his young life.

The saddle fell away, and Bartholomew tumbled to the ground, almost face first. He pounded his fist into the earth, and watched his father join the armies outside the open gate.

If his father is holding him up, this needs to be made a shade clearer at the beginning, when he reaches out.

That was his last memory of his father, watching the man ride to his army, never giving another glance to his son. Bartholomew could never forget how the armor sparkled in the sunlight, the horned helm bobbing atop the massive steed,

This is a somewhat awkward image, as it seems to indicate the horse is wearing a helm -- horses were armored at various periods, but I think you're speaking of his father's helm, so you might simply make it "his father's" rather than "the" here.

and big green flags wavering in the sun, carrying his father to war, chaos and death.

Bartholomew, a year and a half later and not sure if he was a year wiser, stared at the maps of the northern world

I'm not sure you actually need "of the northern world" here

and sought a way over the high and fearsome craggy tops of Ursula's Pass. The Pass divided the barbaric ice lands from the wet forests that surrounded Three Springs. In four hundred years of recorded history Ursula's Pass had never been crossed by men in the cold grip of early fall, and certainly never in the harsh winter that was only a month away. Often the young lord sat in his office through the night, staring at the maps until his eyes glazed over, thinking that if only he could cross the Pass and capture the barbarians off guard, he could avenge his father's death. The barbarian tribes of Hailstone Falls had been the enemies of civilized men for nearly as long as the area had been inhabited by them.

They were a fearsome people, giants when compared to average men. Bartholomew had seen barbarians only once, a man and woman with a small babe on the south side of the Pass. He had been guarding the Pass

I think "Pass" is superfluous here, "borders" explains it well enough

borders with Matteous, captain of his fathers guard and Bartholomew's brother in law. The barbarian man

"man", again, superfluous, especially as it enters in the next sentence.

had attacked them with no provocation. The man had been massive, covered in thick furs and leathers, adorned with feathers of the majestic eagle. A shaman, Matteous had said later, and often shamans had used the hot springs on the south side of Ursula's pass for special ceremonies. The barbarian had been wild, screaming in a rough tongue Bartholomew could not understand, and with amazing accuracy and force the barbarian had thrown spears at Bartholomew's guard, much farther than the boy had ever seen one thrown. An arrow from Matteous's long bow sliced through the shaman's neck, and the almost eight foot tall man fell gasping and bleeding to the ground.

I do have a question here: It's highly unusual for shamans to actually take part in battle; they are there to urge on the warriors and provide spiritual succor to the living and the dead; which they cannot do if they put themselves in harm's way. It's your world, of course, and if this works in your plan, so be it. But you may want to reconsider their role in this.

The woman had attacked them after the shaman fell, and again, Matteous made short work of her with his long bow, never pausing. The woman had been in similar dress as the man, though she did not have a head dress, her long hair had been so covered with feathers and beads that Bartholomew could not tell what color her hair was. Matteous's arrow had shot through her neck, and the spear she had fell to the ground. Then, the baby, a small thing swaddled in white fur, fell with a sick thud and strangled cry.


Matteous went to the small, struggling babe and placed it in his arms. "Turn away boy." Bartholomew remembered him saying. "Turn away and look at the horizon." Bartholomew had turned away, but the sound of the babe's cries abruptly cut off by a quick snap could not be avoided, and the young boy, six months after his father's death, had vomited on the ground.


"Never think they are like us." Matteous had said after hours of silence, riding along side the boy. "They may stand upright, may breed and worship Gaia, but they also worship animals and trees. They are animals themselves, beast held over from an era they should have died in. There is no place for their kind in our world, not even for a baby of theirs. They keep memories, passed down from generation to generation from the beginning of time. That child would have hated us as much as his parents did."

Bartholomew believed that, every word. He was not a sympathetic one like his sister, not in the least. The barbarians of the north glaciers were meant to be feared, respected

I'm dubious about "respected" here; feared and destroyed, perhaps, but respect seems to not fit; his people actually respect the barbarians, or despise them?

and destroyed, barbarians were little better than a rabid wolf pack-just more dangerous. They refused to bow to any rule and raided villages without mercy, taking slaves and burning what could not be carried away. Bartholomew had learned this from stories passed down to him, from his grandfather and uncles. The boy had learned to fear and respect

ditto

the barbarians, but most of all he had learned that they must be overtaken; they should die for their crimes against mankind.

While it is not unheard of for primitive women to battle alongside their men, it tended to be only in desperate circumstances. Any race that was able to put together enough religion to have shamans and arm themselves with even crude weapons (above sticks and stones), would be likely to put two and two together enough to know that only women had babies, and without babies they'd all die. Therefore, the women would be protected and left behind except at the last need, when it looked as if they'd all be exterminated anyway; even then, if they were too primitive, they might not handle that larger concept, but still protect them, leaving them behind in their villages to be (as they might imagine) safe, when in reality they were simply left there to be the last to be slaughtered.

 

[j d worthington]

Esmeralda, his older sister, did not seem to agree with this position; in fact he knew that she was friends with several barbarians, and that they had been with her in Slighe. Slighe was another place though, the largest city on the southern half of the continent, and one that had a mixture of all peoples, all religions. It was a melting pot for disaster and heresy, but Esmeralda had half a year there in study, ten years ago before she married and settled into her family.


The noble priestess Esmeralda had been there when the Slighe fell, and afterwards she carried herself differently, but had never spoken of that or of how she had escaped, not even to her husband Matteous. But Bartholomew and Matteous had both heard the tales and stories of a great army that worshipped a new god, The God they called him, and was ruled by a man called the Christian King who had swept across the far south and Slighe like a wildfire, killing and taking slaves, forcing man to bow to this new god. But, wars of the south did not matter to Bartholomew, especially ones that had happened when he was only five, and the young lord believed that Slighe had probably deserved to be destroyed for it had been a city of filth and desire. There were other stories too, but these had been laughed away, tales of Dragons in the sky, massive wings beating against the sun and breathing fire on men, of course this was silly, as every freeman knew dragons were a myth that slept in the dreams of children.

Again, this is your world, so feel free to take it any direction you choose. However, I would caution against using a specific religion such as Christianity that has known historical precedent; it's likely to pull the reader out of the fantasy unless this is set in some historically-known land; and that's a whole lot of research involved.... Or, as Karl Edward Wagner said it when doing a Robert E. Howard pastiche, likening it to playing Russian roulette with five loaded chambers: "Hey, this pistol only has five chambers!"

Now, though, the lord rubbed his sharp beak with the tip of his finger, and dreaded a much different enemy.


It was on this morning that Lord Bartholomew was in a particularly foul mood, having been up all night discussing the possible furthering of his boundaries, but that mattered little to anyone of importance. The wide oaken door to Bartholomew's study swung open, and the short dimpled house boy bowed, announcing Lady Theodora. The boy had a pretty face, Theodora favored those, but the boy's dimples and garishly embroidered clothes struck Bartholomew as being far too pretty for anyone's tastes, the scrawny youth would never be more than a house boy.


"Oh!" His mother, Lady Theodora, cried

you can drop the ", Lady Theodora,", as we already know who she is.

out as she walked in to the room, trailed by Lord Bartholomew's elder sister. "What am I to do if I die before I see my unborn heir?" She lifted her pale and heavily gemmed hand, to her face, feigning dizziness. The woman sat in the large chair opposite Bartholomew, her gold and green gown embroidered with a multitude of small, intricate vines and flowers. She fanned her face with an equally intricate silk fan, but the look on her face was nothing short of abrupt and almost, Bartholomew though, condemning.


"Terrible thing that would be, dear mother." Esmeralda said, gently bouncing her second baby on her knee. "I do not know what ancient line would be broken, should the child of a daughter rule, such things could be very well unimaginable." Unlike her mother, the noble daughter wore a plain green robe with little embroidery other than across the high neckline, in reverence of her earth-goddess. She let her hair lay loose and braided. Esmeralda had little care for the twisting and twining involved getting her long black locks to fit in the steeped henin her mother favored. His sister was never without one or the other of her two children, Dakkon, her eldest and named after his grandfather, was nearing the age where he was learning to soldier and lead.

Watch this sort of tone. You've started out with a slight bit of irony in the first post, but here you're slipping over into almost a slapstick, heavy-handed satire that's in danger of undermining the overall serious and somber tone you've carefully set up.

Already the Bartholomew's nephew, only six but tall and smart for his age, was showing striking resemblance to his grandfather. The sword master Kerry, who taught the youngest boys, had told Bartholomew that his nephew was a shrewd fighter and that the boy already had the entire seven year old class-about fifteen sons of nobles, following him. Like his grandfather, Dak had a way about him that made others want to follow him, a charisma that was not taught or learned, but something one was born with. In fact, the swords master had gone so far as to say that Dak was very much like Bartholomew's father, Lord Drake.


Bartholomew felt a little jealousy over his nephew, certainly Kerry had never fawned over him so when Bartholomew had been under the sword master's tutelage. Of course, it was not until his late teenage years that the boy-lord had begun to shine on his own, but Dak was something of a prodigy, like the tales told him that Lord Drake had been. The youngest of his nephews was on his sister's hip, Thom was a chubby thing with the same dark eyes as Esmeralda, and had inherited his mother's plumpness. Just barely out of diapers, Bran was certainly the cutest of the two brothers, but still too young to have any personality-other than sucking his thumb.


Lord Bartholomew answered them with a scoff and a wave of his hand, to dismiss them from his office. "I am busy, ladies. If you will show yourselves to the door?"


"Planning revenge again brother?" Esmeralda said, leaning over his desk and studying Ursula's Pass. "Father would not want you wasting your life on his revenge." A plump and pretty woman, his sister's soft face was a mask for the calculating and intelligent woman, one that many a man fell in love with, only to be handed their own hearts by her sometimes cruel hand. "This is insanity, brother, and thee knows this."


"You have sympathy for those animals, and for what? Because some barbarian bitch saved you from Slighe? They killed our father yet you want me to let them be?" Bartholomew's young voice trembled with anger. "They killed our father!" He shouted now, only inches from Esmeralda's face. His nephew Thom began to cry and Esmeralda glared back, shushing the boy.


"Enough." Lady Theodora interrupted her children. "Do not speak of the dead so frivolously, and Esmeralda, have some respect for your brother's place as your lord. Now, both of you, mind your own places in my presence."


Bartholomew sat back, and Esmeralda's face flushed with embarrassment. Both siblings should know better than to talk so about their dead father, especially in front of their mother. Theodora had been a gracious and loving wife, who had finally stopped wearing black only a few months ago, almost a year past the standard mourning time, but her heart was still shrouded in pain. To speak so openly and carelessly about their father was disrespectful to Theodora's grief-stricken spirit.


"Would you ladies kindly excuse me, and let me finish my work?" Bartholomew said and kept his brown eyes on the floor.


Of course, the two women ignored him duly, and went on about their incessant prattle, putting the short argument quickly behind them. He was the lord of this castle, but his mother and sister paid that no mind at all. Bartholomew tapped the inkwell

in a medieval society such as this, they didn't yet have ink as we think of it, as it's a rather difficult thing to manufacture. Instead, they used what is called an "ink-block" (inkwells didn't come into use until about the latter 16th century, I believe; the term "inkwell" dates to around 1870-75, and ink as we think of it was made with lampblack and various oils, usually linseed mixed with other substances to keep it from coagulating and clogging the pen), which worked in an entirely different way; so you may want to drop this, unless your world is much more advanced technologically than it seems.

with an ill-humored glance for the women. This was a daily enterprise, and an exhausting one for the lord, both women would bring him coffee and morning cakes with cold beef, sit with their seemingly idle chat, all the while making comments directed at him.


"What would possible happen Esmeralda, if your darling elder boy, were to take the head of state instead of Bartholomew's own unborn-and likely to stay that way-child?"


"Perhaps a cataclysmic event would occur, mother, sending the earth into balls of fire and ice."


It was only tradition, after all, Bartholomew sighed.


Esmeralda was probably more fit than he to run matters of state anyways, and she often had while their father and her husband Matteous had gone off to war. The sister had a shrewd intellect about her, and that is not to say that Bartholomew was less intelligent than she, but the noble priestess had an affinity for politics, where Bartholomew preferred his blade and soldiers.


Matteous entered without an attendant to announce him, the First Captain was a humble but stoic man who disdained things like servants. He shut the large door behind him softly, and his coming probably saved Bartholomew from a harsh lashing from Lady Theodora's tongue, entering the grand office with little flourish. Matteous was a solid man, with a girth one would mistake for blubber until he moved and the rippling muscles beneath his leather tunic could be seen. Just before the First Captain entered the room, Bartholomew had been about to speak rather harshly towards his mother, but seeing his friend and captain at arms, the boy promptly closed his mouth. Which was an entirely smart thing to do, Lady Theodora could tear a man limb from limb with nothing but harsh words, and many a foolish nobility had been sent from her court with a red and shamed face.


As it were, First Captain Matteous was, as far as Bartholomew could discern, the young lord's only and true friend. The muscular man still wore Lord Drake's sigul across the chest of his tunic, but Bartholomew knew this was out of homage and not discontent with the young man's rule. Matteous gave both women a sweeping kiss across their cheeks and a second kiss for his wife, Esmeralda, as he picked up his youngest son, tossing the toddler in the air.


Esmeralda smiled with a sweet and unnerving look for her brother, and Matteous had the nerve to ask a simple question, seeing that glint of the eye the two women shared.


"What are you ladies about this early morn?"


Esmeralda feigned ignorance, and it was Lady Theodora who laughed aloud.


"Tomorrow, my son, you shall shine!" The noble mother declared abruptly, her pale and heavily ringed hand rising into the air.


Bartholomew gave her a grisly grin. "And how, pray tell, is that to be dear mother?"


"Why, do you not know?" Esmeralda said, a sick innocence dripping from her voice as she sliced cold beef for her husband and poured coffee.

Again, coffee is a risky thing here, as it's imported from Central and South America, and any society in our world before Columbus' final voyage simply wouldn't have it; and it would be unlikely to be something belonging to another world, for that matter. You might want to create a drink with similar properties, but without these specific associations.

In response to both Bartholomew and Matteous blank faces, Theodora smiled sweetly and leaned over the desk, her bright golden hair reflecting in the sunlight. "Soon, we will have a wife for you. There will be a party this evening, do you not remember? Bringing in the Fall Festival, an early party for our Lord and with it will come ladies of fine, noble birth, who wait for your discerning eye to set upon one or the other. Of course, the planning of it was a hurried thing, since you have been ever so busy with your conquests, your sister and I thought it best not to interrupt you for such a small thing as a party."


Matteous burst into a horrid fit of laughter, ignorant of the fierce glare his noble wife gave him. Noble as Esmeralda was, she certainly had a fiercer temper than any lady he had known, which is a large part of why Matteous loved her. The fact that she clung unmercifully to tradition and religion was her only true downfall, but the beautiful and sharp witted young mother made his blood boil, even eight years after their nuptials.


"Well, dear Bart, you are hung, to be sure. These fine ladies will have you dancing the Song of the Stork in no time at all!" The man slapped his leg for effect. "I suppose you lovely ladies already have the perfect bride picked out for our virgin lord?" Matteous grinned beneath his thick and dark mustache, twisted upwards and soaked with oil that made it shine black. A man's mustache was his pride, and Matteous had quite a bit of pride in the long black twirls of hair that curved around his mouth.


Esmeralda smiled, her dark brown eyes setting on her brother. "Actually, darling husband," she spoke far too sweet for Bartholomew's taste, "we have picked a lovely bride for him, since my brother has seemed unconcerned with his own bloodline." Seeing the look on her brother's grim face, Esmeralda added: "It is far too late to worry about that now brother; you should have attended more delegates and parties. You will like the girl, she is quiet and," Esmeralda paused, her plump face growing sharp, "she is malleable, a trait mother and I find most befitting for you." Of course, they would. The two women had their hands in every pot except those of war, stringing the young lord along as if he were bait at the end of a fishing line. "Stop sulking Bart, it makes your face rather unbecoming." Esmeralda finished her coffee, peering at him over the brim of the porcelain cup.


"You can not do this!" Lord Bartholomew shouted, and was instantly sorry that he did, his face slacked in defeat. "I don’t even know this girl." He pouted and voiced his discontent, slumping back into the chair. Bartholomew slowly shook his head, and his dark eyes admitted defeat as they pulled again to the floor. "It is not fair, you know, not fair at all." The young lord's shoulders slumped. "What manner of girl would marry a man without knowing him, anyways? Is she hiding something?"


Lady Theodora sighed heavily, irritably. She gave her youngest child and admonishing stare and tapped her lips with her gloved hand. "Her name is Lady Shia, and she is a princess from the eastern holds. They do things very differently in the East, as you well know. She was bred in a world of culture and wisdom. The young maid is a scholar in her own lands, and well respected. It would do you well to marry her, for she is a pretty thing, with a kind heart. This marriage will bring more than an heir. It will stake our holds on two ends of the continent." The noblewoman's hawk like nose, almost a copy of Bartholomew's, turned upwards, and in that debasing face she looked much more like a hawk set on its prey. "No sense in whining about it now, son."


The young lord glared at them in silence, and Matteous's chuckles did not help him at all. Friend! Ha! The captain at arms was too busy having a laugh at his expense to be any kind of a friend now. Bartholomew brushed another lock of unruly black hair from his face. He squared his shoulders, and wrinkled his face in a manner that accentuated the sharpness of his nose. The unmarried young man thought he was giving his mother and sister a hard glare, but from their end his eyes seemed to widen with apprehension, not irritation. Lord Bartholomew tugged at the bottom of his plain jerkin, and stepped slowly from behind the massive oak desk. He gave one, flat look at Matteous, and then the man moved faster than he ever had before, even in the heat of battle.


"It is about time, Bart." Matteous stood, clasping his thick hand on Bartholomew's shoulder. "You want to be a man, and so you should learn how men behave. War and fighting and leading is only a part of manhood, boy. A family with a good wife and beautiful babies completes a man unlike and sword, bow, or baugh could. You would do well to listen to your mother and sister, for they have always had your best interests at heart."


And their own, Bartholomew thought, but instead he said "I am not ready for this responsibility. I can not even take care of myself without mother ordering my bath, for Gaia's sakes! Yet you all think I should marry some girl from some country in the east, and then everything will be just fine. In fact, you expect me to attend some party and just meet this girl, then be married by the Fall Festival! The party is a week away, and the Festival less than a month, you think I should love this girl by then? Are you all mad?" He pounded his fist on the table, knocking his now cold coffee to the floor.


Esmeralda gave a start in her seat, but it was Lady Theodora who answered her son. "Young man, your father and I had never met before our wedding day. It was an arranged marriage, and I loved him the moment the priest blessed us. That is life, son. Even your sister and Matteous had only met a few times before they were wed. Matteous was always too busy and off to this campaign or that, but your father asked him to marry your sister, and they did so. And you would dare to say that our marriages were wrong? How you spit on tradition son, you shame us with your fancy notions and look down on our lives and our loves with your discontent. It is you who should be ashamed, and not I nor your sister."


Bartholomew flew from the room as quickly as if a pack of wild hounds bit at his heels, and before any could stop him, the brass inlaid door slammed shut behind him. The younger brother ran down the hall, knocking servants and noble cousins alike out of his way. His face was tight with sweat and consternation as the boy leaped over the small gate, heading straight for the stables. Bartholomew saddled his mare in such a quick and careless fashion that Fenzick, the stableman, nearly had to tackle the young lord before he hurt himself, or the horse. Once the nobleman's steed, Marrigan, was properly saddled, the young lord jumped upon it and rode through the gates without as much as a glance to his crying mother and sister.

At any rate, the comments I've given above will give you some idea of the things to watch out for. Overall, though, I think you do a splendid job of making your world have a solidity the reader can feel. You have technicalities to tinker with, and perhaps some research and maybe even a bit of restructuring to do, but it's basically sound and worth pursuing. And, as noted with your poetry, you often have a gift for the unexpected metaphor or simile that's very effective. Polishing is basically what you need, I'd say.

So go to; I look forward to seeing more of your work.

 

[chrispenycate]

Sorry, Dusty; just having a quick pedant at J.D.
Coffee is old world, originating in the Ethiopian highlands. It was available in Spain, and certain regions overrun by the Turks, considerably before the world was round, and people stopped sailing over the edge.
And while Larousse agrees with you that the donjon (no hyphen in french) is "la tour maitraisse", the local architects use the word for the corner towers, and it's difficult to see how either of them became the english "dungeon" for an oubliette, or, if the word came from castles in Spain, as the hyphenated version woul suggest, how it migrated (unfortunately my spanish historian is on holiday, so I'm restricted to English, French, German and Rumainian in the office).

 

[j d worthington]

I stand corrected on the coffee. As for "don jon" or, as I've more commonly seen it, "don-jon", granted; that's what I thought, but various authorities I've run into lately seem to disagree; though the oubliette/dungeon connection still seems to be the subject of some dispute. The closest I've been able to come across is from an early 19th-century bit discussing Scott, where it seems to have been adapted from chambers originally built for safe refuge below the keep, later converted to purposes of imprisonment and therefore the word "don jon", originally associated with the first, in time became adapted to what we now tend to refer to as "dungeon". How accurate this is, I'm not sure -- but that's the closest I've come.

Yes, I'd glitched and forgotten the Ethiopian connection with coffee -- silly of me; the Arabs took more than a little interest in that long before those three Spanish ships ever sailed, didn't they? Oooops. never mind.....