Rowan’s education in the palace kitchens was progressing more-or-less a-pace. Shrewd but also patient, she understood that her arrival had been on sufferance; that the Lord Steward’s orders were behind her elevation and that the head cooks were wary of taking on a slight country-girl as an apprentice. She had ignored any initial slights and endeavoured to prove the doubters wrong by listening attentively and working hard until she had gradually won over even the stern elder who presided over the sauces.
Her fellows, if they did not wholly accept her as one of them, were mindful of the Lord Steward’s eye upon them and most found Rowan to be as kind as she was canny. It was known that the country-girl would come into money, a goodly sum laid away in the palace treasury and more than enough to give her a start in life, so that whilst some might resent her good fortune, most were simply glad that she would not be a rival for any junior position once their training was over.
Alongside the other apprentices she would work for a few weeks at a time in one area, before moving on. She knew full well that crafts such as pastry-work took a lifetime to master, but she was grateful to be receiving a grounding and knowledge upon which to build. Some of the work, like butchery, had been hard physical labour, moving carcases as tall as she was, whilst weeks of preparing vegetables had been spent cutting, chopping and peeling until her hands were stiffened into claws, cramped over from gripping a knife. Sarn would take her hands between his, warm them, and gently work out the hurts. Rowan wondered then how his fingers, roughened and calloused from the stable work, could be so gentle.
As a welcome diversion, an autumn spent shuttling between the palace stillrooms and the city’s gardens, gathering in the harvest of herbs had been a joy, with hours spent outdoors relishing the late sun on her back as she stepped lightly amidst the herb plots. She was learning which plants should be dug up, which plucked or snipped with shears and some leaves even torn to release their goodness. All went into the large sacking bag slung across her body and once it was full she would return to Master Jaym in the stillroom who would divide up the harvest, sending the greater portion down to the Houses of Healing and instructing her on how to preserve the rest, whether dried in bunches or laid out on racks or pounded into pastes which were put into clay pots and covered over with olive oil from Ithilian.
Sadly, her time with Master Jaym had ended and now she was working with the bakers and not in the day company, but with those hardy souls who worked through the small hours so that the palace might have fresh bread to break its fast.
The night-bakers ended their work just after dawn, bringing out the loaves, the rolls and bannocks hot from the ovens and laying them on wire racks to cool. As others cleaned the pans ready for the next batch, Rowan would be raking the cooling wood-ash out of the ovens. The day-bakers gradually wandered in to take over their places and the night company would go down to the kitchens to take some food.
In truth, the bakery work was not so taxing that Rowan did not think she would readily master all that was required of her and as the cold weather took a grip the warmth of the ovens was welcome enough, but she was struggling to sleep during the day, when despite a heavy curtain around her cot in the dormitory, every stray sunbeam seemed to find her face and her ears seemed a-tuned to catching every passing tread in the corridor beyond. She was sure that she would acclimatise herself to the change in time, but for now she felt herself to be grey and drained of blood, often too tired eat.
They were free to go after breakfast but the pastry cook, a kindly soul, had taken to sending her on a last errand each morning, down to the stable yard with a bowl of cake crumbs for the birds. If the Head Groom grumbled regularly about the mess that lasted so long as the sparrows took to clear every morsel, he did not trouble to address the cook directly, but instead would dispatch Sarn with a broom to sweep away any that dropped and if the young people should exchange some words then, well it was no harm done and they had all been young once.
Of late, the cold had descended on Minas Tirith with a vengeance in frosts made keen by winds that blew around the citadel day and night, howling in the corners where they were funnelled by stone walls. The kitchens had been working at full stretch preparing for the Yule Celebrations. All the guest rooms in the citadel were occupied and there were straw mattresses laid in between their cots to accommodate all the additional servants come with their masters.
Rowan had at last been able to rest, but now the place was swarming with virtual strangers who did not know their way about the maze of corridors, blundered into the dormitories and then would hush one another, loudly, before leaving, treading on every creaking board. Rowan had found herself punching her pillow into a more comfortable shape, wondering if all country-folk were so heavy-footed and then giggling weakly, thinking on her own arrival wide-eyed not so long ago.
This night was the turn of the year and the King would be bringing in the New Fire and then would come the Game of the Lamp, that hour of rushing feet, when the maids would run about the palace with the new fire in lanterns, banishing the old year, in search of one of the purses hidden somewhere in the citadel.
There would be a feast on the morrow, with even more mouths to feed and the bread-making was well underway. Rowan was taking a basket down to the cool cellar where the dough for the traditional sweet rolls, studded with dried fruits and filled with almond paste, had been left to prove by the day-bakers some hours earlier. The palace above was filled with music and merriment but here all was quiet, apart from the stone-flagged floor that echoed a little to the patter of her shoes and the flutter of the torches in their brackets as she passed.
The cellar door was not locked, but it was heavy and Rowan laid down her basket to take her shoulder to it. It creaked a little in moving and once, Rowan thought, she might have been a-feared of the sound. One batch of bowls lay on a bench just inside the door and to save on light, she wedged the door open with her foot and began to fit them into the basket. If she was careful, she thought, she might fetch this batch in one go and not have to make another journey up all the stone steps to the kitchen corridor.
It was as she reached for the last two bowls that the door began to close until it was held only by the basket itself and she was almost in the dark and at that moment she heard footsteps hurrying in the corridor.
“What about in one of these storerooms, sir?” a young man’s voice said eagerly.
Rowan recognised his companion’s voice immediately as a Lieutenant of the White Guard.
“No, no. We have to keep to the corridors.”
There was a faint clinking as they passed and Rowan realised that she had heard the men tasked with placing the seven purses of gold for the Game of the Lamp on their journey through the palace.
When she shouldered her way past the door, now carrying the heavy basket, the corridor was deserted once again. She could not stop herself glancing briefly about to see if there was a purse laying against the wall, but she could see nothing and, as she reminded herself, the game was not started yet and in any case, maid or no, as a kitchen apprentice she would not be thought a regular participant.
In the bake-house, they could hear the distant cheering as the new fire was processed into the Great Hall and the baker had paused in knocking back some dough long enough to wish his crew a Good New Year! Then came the tolling of the bells across the city and soon after there was the sound of running feet and laughter outside as maids with lamps ran through the palace, driving away the old shadows and searching for their reward.
The sweet rolls had been prepared and Rowan was brushing the last of the tops with an egg wash before they went into the oven, when the baker asked her to fetch the final batch of dough. As she stepped out of the bake-house with her large basket, two girls whisked past her, lanterns in hand. From within they had heard the Great Bell toll five times which meant that there were only two more purses to find and they were wielding their lamps enthusiastically.
The cellar corridor was quiet and the torches were perhaps burning a little lower so that the shadows they threw on the walls were more distinct. In any case, as she approached the storeroom Rowan could see a looped shadow where there had been none before and glancing upwards, she realised that something was caught on one of the iron torch brackets.
She set her basket down and reaching upwards on tiptoe, she found her fingers grasping the soft leather of a purse that tumbled into her grasp as there came the sound of feet running behind her.
“No! No! That’s mine!”
Rowan whirled about at the same time as a hand reached out to snatch at the purse and on instinct she clung to it against the fury of one of the laundry-maids, red-faced and her hair escaping from her cap at all angles, who had a grip on the drawstrings and was backing away, the lantern in her other hand swinging wildly.
“I saw it first!” she wailed.
“I don’t...” Rowan began, but the girl hissed at her.
“You have enough! This is mine!”
Suddenly Rowan became aware of someone close behind her, a strong smell of spirits and an arm that insinuated itself about her waist and she was trapped against a hard body that towered over her.
“Oh, let her have it, pretty maid,” the man said and before Rowan could decide what to do, the laundry-maid had wrenched the purse from her grasp and was gone, running back up the stairs.
The man laughed.
“She’ll need a fat dowry, that one,” he said.
In the corridor below, Rowan was holding herself very still, waiting for the man’s next move. If he could sneak up on her from behind then he was likely to be able to out-run her; some men would lash out if you made to resist drunken fumbling. No-one would hear a scream down here. Perhaps she could talk her way out of this? Surely someone would come soon, she thought, and then she heard far away the bell ringing out twice. The last purse had been found…the game was ended.
The man was beginning to mutter, almost to himself, as he rubbed his beard against her neck and Rowan feared her heart might beat out of her chest. This was a man she did not know, could not judge his mood, and could not bring him to his senses by using his name. He was holding her so close with one arm and with the other hand he was beginning to paw at her breast. If he was hard, her stout bodice and layers of petticoats would not let her know it, but they would be no defence in the end.
“Now, that’s enough, you’ve had your fun,” she said, trying to sound firm but understanding too, “this may be your feasting night, but I’ve work to do…and the baker will send folk looking for me if I’m not back with that dough!” she added crisply and began to try to pull herself free from his grasp. Above her the man snarled and shook her so that Rowan’s feet left the floor.
He spun her around, gripping her arms to her sides, a huge raw-boned man in plain, dark, clothing and Rowan looked into his face. It would have been a pleasant face, but there was a sheen of sweat across his skin and a cold light in his hazel eyes and a slow grin that chilled her, but nevertheless she lifted her chin defiantly.
“I have work to do,” she said calmly, “the baker will be looking for me.”
The man seemed to consider for a moment and then sniggered quietly, which sent a chill down Rowan’s spine.
“You shouldn’t be working tonight, a pretty maid like you,” he said, “you should be enjoying yourself…you should be thanking me for rescuing you…I think,” he said, “we should have our own celebration.”
It was then that Rowan began to struggle in earnest, kicking out at his ankles although hampered by her skirts and when he began to laugh at her and bent down a little she rammed her forehead into his nose and heard a crunch, before a smashing blow to her jaw made her world grey and fade.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
It was the master baker, who had finally sent someone to track down the missing dough, who took it upon himself to rouse the Lord Steward from his bed, when a search of the kitchens and cellars could find no trace of the girl Rowan.
It would normally have been unthinkable to have done so for one apprentice gone missing from their post on a feast day, but quite apart from Lord Boromir’s interest in the girl, there was Rowan herself; she would not have gone off leaving a job half-done and leaving the basket lying in the corridor.
Boromir was not long in his bed and pulled his clothes on hastily whilst Master Nye, a lamp in one hand and the basket in the other, told his tale.
“You’ve told the captain of the Guard,” Boromir said tersely, pulling on his boots.
“Aye, my lord,” Master Nye replied, “His men helped us search the kitchen cellars.”
“Go down to the hall and I’ll be with you shortly.”
As he started down the stair, watched by the night porter from the hall below, Nye heard the Lord Boromir running quietly up a stair behind him and he had barely reached the pool of light from the porter’s lamp when Boromir was coming down again followed by Master Arin’s great dog, its nails clicking on the marble treads. Rullo had been banished from the kitchens long since, but he was still prepared to greet Master Nye as an old friend and thrust a damp nose into his hand before investigating the basket.
The palace as they entered it was dimly lit and largely quiet, but Boromir could sense a watchfulness about the place and greeted the Captain of the Guard waiting for him with a couple of his lieutenants, with a brief nod.
“I’ve alerted the sentries at the sixth level gate, my lord,” the man said as they made their way towards the kitchens, “They’ve not seen the girl. They say no-one has passed them for several hours that they did not know and no-one,” he added, “carrying anything that might conceal a body.”
Master Nye swallowed, but by now they had reached the darkened corridor and at Boromir’s request he had laid down the basket again as it had been found. The torches had gone out and one of the lieutenants was sent for fresh. In the meantime they had cast about by lamplight until he returned, the torches had been lit and placed in their brackets, whereupon Nye had exclaimed that he had been in error; the basket was left much closer to that bracket, there, and he replaced the basket as he’d first seen it, lying on its side.
“My Lord, that’s where we left one of the purses,” said the lieutenant, “we put it up in the torch bracket.”
Boromir was looking back-and-forth along the passage. There were twenty or more storage rooms along this corridor and he’d no doubt that they’d all been searched. At the far end, the corridor joined another with steps upwards towards an inner court, from where there was general access to a maze of workshops and offices. There was no chance of seeing footmarks on the stone floor, but it was the Captain who had spotted the dark marks spattering the plastered wall.
“My lord,” he said grimly, pointing to the wall, “Blood.”
-oo0oo-
Summary: The turn of the year brings sudden danger.
Rated: PG-13
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2872 Read: 1256
Published: 02 Feb 2013 Updated: 02 Feb 2013
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."