Wraecan's Bower

       The ladies of Wreacan’s Bower have a tale. One that keeps their men folk on the tips of their toes. It keeps them gentlemanly and romantic. It was not always so. There would be no three day ridings from the thatchings to procure northern chocolates. Nor the secret cultivation of flowers as Lady Day gifts. The land around the village of Wreacan’s Bower was once known as Saithemirren; or The Seven Rivers. Though in all fairness three were nought but pithy streams fit for midges and tadpoles.
        
        The tale begins in what is now known as the ruins of Saithemirren House. Now there are low brick walls covered in vine and moss. Lumps of battered masonry lie about the tall grasses. All that were useful was robbed a long time ago so now only the chimneys and crumbly stone remain. It was once so much more. It was once said that such stone buildings were fit only for Tilenders and Tithemen. That is to say the fire watchers of the coastal cities and our rich lords. May the Gods make them forget their tax collecting this year. Saithemirren House was full of imported luxury. Tales abound of strange animals, paintings of brown humans, of plants and food we have never seen. There were giant painted vases, dry wines and paper art.

        None of that Saithemirren House remain. The last lord of the manor was known as Wreacan Arbredan. His seven times grandfather, a Royal Yarlaman, had earned the name Arbredan from his lightening pursuit of brigands and fleamings through the Mitwolds or middle hills. With is Royal largess he turned his attention in middle age to building a house and garden worthy of his wife’s passion for flowers as well as his own for lawn games and archery. Over the years the heirs to the house steadily made it bigger as their wealth and power in the region increased a hundred fold. They became known as the Duthadalen; the hundred household, for all their guests and employees. Most of the lords were kindly folk who looked after the subjects of Saithemirren.

        As with all families there are times when war, plague and seedlessness lead to a shortfall of heirs. As came with the time of Lord Delfan Arbredan. Delfan was a giant of a man. Good humoured and generous as a feast day Altarman. Though he bore the pain of burying three sons and a daughter before their time. The house and crypt had become a sullen place. Soon after his wife had died he too passed away; a giant heart broken too soon. This left his sole surviving son as heir to the Duthadalen. This was the twenty-three year old Wreacan Arbredan; graduate of the Royal college of Regensmuth.

        There was nothing to put him out of place. He was not sullen nor insular. Though smaller than his father; more like his lithe mother, he had his father’s heart and his seven times grandfather’s love of archery. The problem for the common folk of Saithemirren was his absenteeism and hell raising reputation eastwards to the sea. At Regensmuth he would spend his fortune on ale, imported wines and the finest mead. With the other lordlings he whiled away his hours in lazy merriment.

        That was until the Lordling reached his twenty-fifth birthday. The day of maturation for noble sons. At moon’s rest he would be Lordling no more but Yarlaman of Saithemirren. As was common in the Mitwoldings of Saellend there would be a bride choosing ceremony for the able men of the Hundred. The tradition dated back centuries. The Aldermen of the town hoped that maturation and wedding would bind the young master to his lordly duties; to the traditions of his fathers. But worse was to follow.

        Prior to the bride choosing the Lordling had his friends bought up plots of land and begin the construction of country retreats and villas. They were the first Tilenders in a town of thatchings. Now able they joined him for the bride choosing. The night before all bachelors over the age of twenty-one gathered at the house to draw lots. The town elders kept an eye on the proceedings and noted down all of the names and their order on vast sheets of vellum. As it turned out the Lordling was placed a respectable fifth. The brides would have the right to refuse but few would say no to he.

        The next day the men gathered at the town’s central common. A plush half-acre of grass bordered with plum blossom trees. The trees were in bloom. Snowy petals floated on the pirl and settled upon the lawn. The grass had been cut at night by the common holders. Ribbons and bunting had been tied around the trees and to the fifth month pole. Locals were packed on picnic rugs. Chief Alderman of the town, Rolfen Randstane, sat upon the Lord’s chair. The bachelors sat upon long benches from the temples. Each engraved with prayers for the seasons and moral obedience. The men sat waiting for the ladies to arrive.

        As they sat batting away errant petals and butterflies the ladies paraded through the streets. From their houses to the moot point at south end. Then to town hall, to the rose givers on Rosentter street and finally along Meat street. The long lane of butchers, mongers and bakers led to the common ground. They strode clothed in flowing frocks of light laces. Flowers of various shades adorned heir hair; pinned back over one ear. Each wore beads strung together by their mothers and grandmothers on their left wrists for luck. Lastly, they carried their father’s knives in flowery sheaths around their waists.

        As the ladies entered the men stood. Any hats remaining upon the heads were doffed as they bowed. One done the men sat back down again. Ritcher, a Lordling of Regenspur smiled. “Many a good sport today don’t you think? I’d petition a few for a night’s pleasure. Though would be loath to marry such.”

        Wreacan nodded. “The same. There is no obligation for you. I must pick one, court her, betroth her and marry her. She must be a local of the town.”
        Ritcher shook his head and turned to another friend of theirs, Hallinder. “Our Wreacan’s in a bind. Forced to marry a common scrounger. Some bicken’s daughter smelling of bee-bread and lard.”

        Wreacan shook his head. No matter his feelings on wanting to escape the town and party in the winter capital, Regensmuth, he knew his duty. His father had always said that the hardest thing was giving up the boundless life of a Lordling for the duties of a lord. “I’ll survive my friends and our summers will be the stuff of merry legend.”

        “Ale men to that.” Hallinder smiled. “Bound but not captured. Pick well and enjoy the night before you must marry for politics or money. As is all our fates.”

        Ritcher seemed to disagree but played it cool. “See any wretches you like? The big bosomed one perhaps? Or the tanned one. A field worker no doubt with firmer buttocks than ye.”

        “Oh Ritcher, you do seem to care about the body more than the mind.” Wreacan laughed. Of course he felt the same way. Good body and a lot of wealth went a long way. “There is one lady I see now. Just leaving Meat Street and coming this way.”

        He pointed down the line of processing ladies. There was a lady of average height; shorter than he by half a foot. She had all the right curves and lusciously long black hair which seemed to be braided. Wreacan’s eyes could not leave her. There was something special to him about the way her skirt swayed as she walked. If he could find his tongue he would describe it as pure elegance. Instead it was Hallinder who spoke first. “Seems our Lord has found his lady. That’s if one of the other four don’t take her first.”
        “Seems so.” Ritcher agreed. “What of the four? How do you rate their chances mate?” He looked at Wreacan.

        He didn’t look at the men before him. First was a miller’s son. Rather weak looking and unsuited to his father’s profession. More suited would be the burly number two; an armourer of a nearby hamlet. Third was a normal looking guy; a butcher’s son. And fourth was a freeholder from a nearby village. “The burly guy is just a fatling. She’d never take to him.” Ritcher began on Wreacan’s behalf. “The farmer’s son will stink of pigswill and manure. If that doesn’t repulse her then his flesh-wormed hair shall. The butchers son has had too much bee-bread and honeyed cakes. Either that or he eats his pigs whole. I wouldn’t worry about this potbellied flax-footed gimp. And what of the miller’s son? A pathetic wimp who’ll go for the fattest girl he’ll find. A fleaming who would run away from a dandelion.”

        “Then how would I win her?” Said Wreacan. “Suddenly I feel inadequate in this little town.”
        “Oh, you are in love.” Ritcher laughed. “Taken by the first sight at distance. A rose pink veil strewn across your eyes. Better to see a lady in that then the real life of day… worse, the reddened pillow marked face of the next morning. There is much that I have to teach you poor fellow. And little time in Regensmuth to do it. If the weather be fair I may stretch the summer before you must up and leave. Take her if you must. Light the candles in her heart but keep her matches at bay.” He turned to Hallinder. “Too late I fear.”

        “You have avoided the question.” Wreacan sighed. “To not win the heart is the aim of your game. But, it is not mine. I would wax the moon each night to guide us along river paths, hand in hand…”

        The ladies stopped walking. Drums beat. Long dull rhythms like distant boulders falling down the Stanwolds. Rolfen Randstane read his speech. He welcomed the ladies, warned the men to be fair and the crowd to behave themselves in an orderly manner. Then he sat down again as the ladies turned to face the bachelors. There were thirty-three ladies and twenty-seven men. Drums rolled like waves upon the sea crashing on the rocks of Ser Kwent. The ladies reached down to their waists and undid their belts. Soft pirls swished around their dresses showing hints of legs. From the belted sheaths they withdrew their family knives. Each bore inscriptions. Some showing a birthday gift, others magical incantations or flowing beasts. With a swift cutting of their cloth the silk and lace blouses fell from the shoulders. They slid along their pale and tanned skins down to their sides. From nape to navel they stood bare.

        Wreacan could not help but stare. He felt a flush of jealousy go through him as others saw the girl he wanted. He saw the wimpy fleaming leering at her golden skin. Cover up, he wished, show me alone in the willow’s grove. Ritcher could see why his friend wanted the lady so much. He wondered if his eye sight was getting worse as he squinted at the others. “You have found the pin amongst the straw my friend.”

        Nervously the first man stood up. He was smaller than Wreacan in every facet. At first he seemed to take wobbled step after wobbled step towards the lady. As he came close Wreacan watched intensely. He studied her face. How two strands of hair curled towards her lips. As enraptured as he. Something flashed across her face. The brief closing of her eyes; a tilt of the head. The boy walked away and chose another girl. Just as Ritcher had predicted. The closing of the eyes and tilting of the head gave the same fate to the Armourer’s son, then the butcher’s son and finally the pigswilling farmer.

        The Alderman stood beside him. “Lordling Wreacan Arbredan. It is your turn. Choose your lady; not the blonde one in the first row, that’s my daughter.”
        Ritcher smiled as he heard the Alderman; a plan formed.
        Wreacan stood up and smoothed down his jacket. The heat was unbearable as he blushed. He remembered Hallinder’s kind words the night before. If you pick one before you stand; don’t go to her straight away. Take your time, chat to the ladies including her then make your move. First he walked to the Alderman’s daughter. “Good morning to you. Your father tells me not to pick you.”
        “My father is a fool.” The girl reddened.
        “Mine said the same thing.” The brunette next to her added.

        “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. In fact, if I may ask a boon. Save yourselves for my friends Ritcher and Hallinder. They have taken quite a fancy to you both. A couple of fair ladies they said.”
         “Oh really.” The Alderman’s daughter smiled. “And why should we take them up? Such strangers.”

        “It would anger your parents somewhat and that should be reason enough.”
        The assented. Now he felt better. He had engaged in conversation as his friend had suggested plus caused a little mischief. But his legs ached. His crotch tickled with little pins and needles. His heart fluttered like a pigeon in a panic. She was there; exposed, a few ranks back. He moved through the ranks smiling at the ladies and wishing them good luck until he began to close in on her.

        With each step he checked her face as subtly as possible. Deep down he knew he was failing miserably. She blinked but didn’t close her eyes deliberately. Her head remained without a tilt. Indeed her chest seemed to expand and her lips formed a little pout. Maybe it was just his imagination. For a second he almost went to the lady next to her. A shorter dumpier girl. “Good morning.” He began. “I am Wreacan Arbredan. I don’t suppose your father has put a ban on me too?”

        “I doubt it.” She stated and looked at him. “He died ten summers ago. My mother doesn’t care much either.”
        “I am terribly sorry.”
        “It is not your fault so don’t waste your sorrow. He fell from his horse during a winter trip through the snows to Hillholm in the Nordwolds.”

        “I have been that way.” He lied. “It can be a treacherous route.” He cleared his throat a little. “Of all the ladies here today you are without doubt the most beautiful. A rose amongst daisies. If I may; I wish to chose you for tonight’s dance under the stars.”
        “I do wish to be chosen. By you.” She smiled. “But, if we are to wed then you must give me what I truly desire above all things.”
        “Anything, just tell me.” He said earnestly.

        She smiled a little more. “I will not be the one to tell you or to write it in a note. If you wish to know what my heart truly desires then you will divine it for yourself. That is my wish.”

        He was a little confused but decided to anyhow. The longer he spent with her. The longer he looked at her. The more he wanted to be with her. Though he knew it would be like duelling rapiers with the King’s champion every morning. “Seems I have quite a challenge ahead of me. Now, cover up.” He offered his coat. “And I shall escort you to your mother; if she cares.”

        “Thank you.” She nodded as he put the coat around her and buttoned it up over her fulsome breasts. His fingers trembled as they brushed her soft skin.

        The rest of the day was spent watching the other men picking their ladies. All the while Wreacan stared through the ladies at the picnicking families where the lady sat with friends and family. She still wore his coat. The last six ladies clustered together in tears for they would have no men of age tonight and would be entrusted a cousin or widower for a dance partner. Ritcher got his Alderman’s daughter and Hallinder her friend. They returned to the house to make merry and prepare. The servants ran hot baths from the spring. Their tubs heated by firewood. They selected their evening suits from the finest on offer and chose the most alluring of male-perfumes.