Welcome to the second chapter of Keeper Of Gudrun, an original medieval fantasy saga made public by yours truly, right here on Steemit.
Moryse stepped outside and into the back alley of the Good Horn, wiping wistful pearls of sweat from her face. The chilly night breeze cooled her brow and the flushed flame-like tint of her skin simmered in the grimy air.
It was yet another toilsome bout of cooking and attending to the cheery night-folk of Lyon.
A crude full-mouthed shout echoed an instant throughout the stone and log cottages of town. Moryse was beginning to have contempt for the loutish cries that occurred on such late nights, it sounded too much like barking dogs to her. This type of clamor appeared to be cropping up more and more over the last year. Moryse sometimes believed that she was being too snappish and overbearing. The result of a brimful night of hovering closely over fiery hearths and boiling pots. The revelment was ultimately good for business and the Good Horn was blooming.
The extra earnings paid for the increased necessities.
More kettles, skillets, frying pans and pots.
Larger stocks of figs, pears, apples, plums, cabbage, turnips, carrots, onions, garlic, dried peppers and herbs. Sage, mustard, parsley, dandelion, mint, dill, caraway, fennel and salt.
Barrels of mead and ale. Casks of wine and spirits of which the nearby abbey was producing in luxuriant amounts.
Cod, herring, haddock and salmon were being amply caught and pulled out of the Seewig bay.
Moryse was in talks with her brother and father about getting more help, building a separate building, moving the fireplaces toward the walls and having a second kitchen area. Her brother led the second most gainful digging and mining party in all Lyon.
Moryse's father kept very busy with the family business pursuits since her mother passed away two years ago.
Everything was cooperating to keep her very occupied. But deep down Moryse wanted to travel and discover more of the land. She had only ever been to Arliman and Tourla once before. She spoke at length with most of the travelers and runners of each city, collecting not just knowledge of the land layout, intrigue and history; but also amassing envy for the overheard adventures and a growing resentment for the cornered and plighted course of her life.
What was it about scalding fire and smoke that made so many restless and angry cooks?
"Moryse? Pardon me, Runners of Tourla asking for you," said the barmaid warily from the doorway.
"They're waiting in the mead hall, three of them."
"Thank you Amelyn. Don't worry about checking out the other tables. I'll go over them. Just make sure Phipp remembers to hang up all the bellows this time and to soak all the pans and spits in the potash brew and leave it overnight."
Amelyn nodded and yawned slightly, pulling at the laces of her twill chestnut bodice.
"...And make sure the counter is cleaned off before you go. It's late enough now. There's an apple tart and a bonus of krapfen pastries waiting for you in the cellar."
Amelyn curtseyed and smiled with elation.
Moryse followed Amelyn inside, withdrawing from the disparate silence of the back alley and met with the abated clatter and chatter of the hall. Warm lights from the fireplace and candles spilled onto the tiled limestone walls and timber framed ceiling. A number of folk still loitered at some of the tables, speaking in low tones. She saw three men sitting at the front table, drinking from flasks. They each wore ankle length blood-colored cloaks, their backs emblazoned with the vivid emblem of the kingdom of Tourla, an adamant shield bearing a set of crossed swords with a mountain range behind it. These three men were among the select to make up the Runners of Tourla, an elite squad of fast travelling emissaries, nimble and faithful heralds of the king of Tourla.
"Honored guests of Tourla. Good night to you and welcome," said Moryse obligingly.
"Well met maiden Moryse. The sweetened bread is good-tasting, but we're craving something hot and peppery."
"Oh I'm sorry. We've already put out the hearth fires in the kitchen. If you would be so kind as to wait a short while I can heat you some pottage in the hall fire."
Moryse prayed silently that he would renounce her offer. The runner smiled coldly and glanced briefly at his other two cohorts. The polished clean-shaven skin of his face stretched to reveal an expansive set of well-defined teeth.
"These here are my dutiful friends, Urry and Kosta," he motioned toward his two companions.
Moryse's cheeks became red with annoyance.
"My name is Singer. We've traveled these lands in hailstorms of rain and snow, from the Shattered City in the far east to the Gates of Ireon, many times."
A deliberate sneer appeared on the man's face and he shook his head with disdain.
"What good is such worldliness if it does not earn us a heated bowl of stew?"
Moryse did her best to disguise the hostility brewing inside her. She now regretted sending Amelyn and Phipp home for the night.
"If you'll be patient I'll bring a pot of stew over and put it over the fire. It shan't take too long to heat."
The man chuckled.
"Thank you good woman. The cherry blossoms are blooming this spring near Golden Lake. When they are shaken off the sprigs and float on the water I will think of you and how you warmed our bellies and hearts."
Moryse bowed her head politely and tried not to storm off too abruptly.
She entered the back part of the kitchen and lifted the heavy bronze bowl, panting with silent rage. Moryse absolutely despised the haughty last minute, late night food orders. She slammed the bowl down next to the stew pot and filled it using a ladle. Ever present fury flourished within her accordingly.
The bowl was finally too heavy to lift and carry over to the hall fireplace.
"Bloody hell! Fat-kidneyed sod!"
Moryse heard a knock on the back alley door.
"What foot-licking fool-born yard wants to bother me now!?"
She marched furiously to the back door and swung it open.
It was Haramond.
Chapter three is iminent!