to grow up to be the legendary Peregrine.
“I wish I had a real sword,” Sigge said. “One just like the Peregrine’s with that big red stone on the pommel. And the falcon etched on the blade.” He swung his play sword in wide arcs that would have cut through the brush if the sword had been real.
“You’re too young for a sword. You’d probably cut off your other foot.”
“Would not!” He shouted a battle cry and jabbed at an imaginary enemy.
“Don’t you want to be a blacksmith like your father?”
The lad hung his head. Leonie knew how much he loved his father.
“Mayhap your father would let you become a monk so you could study, and learn to read and write. You are always so interested in everything.”
“I don’t want to be a monk. They never have any fun. And they have to shave their heads funny. And besides, my father wouldn’t ever have any grandchildren and he wouldn’t like that.”
“You have two brothers and two sisters, Sigge.”
“I know, but he still wouldn’t like it.”
“I suppose you’ll have to be a blacksmith, then.”
“I want to be a knight,” Sigge replied. “I’d ride on a huge white charger to war like the Peregrine, and slay lots of enemies so the king would make me his favorite knight.”
“His horse isn’t white. It’s grey.”
“Mine would be white.”
His dream tugged at her heart. She knew what it was like to have dreams that could never come true. “You know it is not likely, Sigge.”
“That’s what Papa said, too. A blacksmith’s son is always a blacksmith’s son. And then he’s a blacksmith himself.”
“’Tis an honorable heritage. And your father is Lord Geoffrey’s armorer, not just any blacksmith.”
“But he can’t ever be a knight. So I can’t be either. But my grandfather was a knight. Only he had to go be a traitor. I guess my father was lucky the king let him live.”
So he was. Leonie had heard the story told in the hall when she was very young. Some even mentioned Emilien, the Norman given name Harald had disowned. But Harald was valued and honored in this household, so no one mentioned it anymore.
Today she had to smile. There was nothing wrong with Sigge’s foot now besides an ugly red scar, and Sigge would be far less likely to get into trouble if he went with her.
“Can you show me how to find the good mushrooms, Leonie?” he asked as he bobbed along beside her.
“I don’t know them, Sigge,” she replied. “I always go get old nanny Brigid to look at them.”
He swaggered a bit as he walked. “I know some of them.”
“No, you don’t. You only think you do. Only old nanny Brigid can always tell. When you are older, we will ask her to show us both.”
“Aw.” He kicked at a stone in their path. “Ow!”
Leonie smirked. Bright as the boy was, he seemed always to have to learn the hard way.
“We’re looking for sumac leaves today. I want to see if they make better dyes when they first get their autumn color, or if it helps to wait till they fall. And while we’re there, you can show me the piece of metal where you cut your foot.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Can you make something really bright yellow, so I can have a tunic of it? I’m getting tired of green.”
Leonie laughed. “I am too. Yellow is hard, though. Some of the leaves may work better this year, but most of them aren’t verybright or the dye fades too quickly. I need a different mordant to set them, I think. The coneflowers were the best last year. I’ll have you pick them from the herb garden when we return.”
Sigge whistled as he danced along the path. Leonie began to feel the now familiar dread soaking into her, as it had all week, and she took a deep breath. She had taken to thumping her fingers against her palm as a way to remind herself not to become embroiled in ridiculous fears. Now she thumped her hand with increasing ferocity. If one had reason to be afraid, that was one thing. But not silly fancies. That was
“I wish I had a real sword,” Sigge said. “One just like the Peregrine’s with that big red stone on the pommel. And the falcon etched on the blade.” He swung his play sword in wide arcs that would have cut through the brush if the sword had been real.
“You’re too young for a sword. You’d probably cut off your other foot.”
“Would not!” He shouted a battle cry and jabbed at an imaginary enemy.
“Don’t you want to be a blacksmith like your father?”
The lad hung his head. Leonie knew how much he loved his father.
“Mayhap your father would let you become a monk so you could study, and learn to read and write. You are always so interested in everything.”
“I don’t want to be a monk. They never have any fun. And they have to shave their heads funny. And besides, my father wouldn’t ever have any grandchildren and he wouldn’t like that.”
“You have two brothers and two sisters, Sigge.”
“I know, but he still wouldn’t like it.”
“I suppose you’ll have to be a blacksmith, then.”
“I want to be a knight,” Sigge replied. “I’d ride on a huge white charger to war like the Peregrine, and slay lots of enemies so the king would make me his favorite knight.”
“His horse isn’t white. It’s grey.”
“Mine would be white.”
His dream tugged at her heart. She knew what it was like to have dreams that could never come true. “You know it is not likely, Sigge.”
“That’s what Papa said, too. A blacksmith’s son is always a blacksmith’s son. And then he’s a blacksmith himself.”
“’Tis an honorable heritage. And your father is Lord Geoffrey’s armorer, not just any blacksmith.”
“But he can’t ever be a knight. So I can’t be either. But my grandfather was a knight. Only he had to go be a traitor. I guess my father was lucky the king let him live.”
So he was. Leonie had heard the story told in the hall when she was very young. Some even mentioned Emilien, the Norman given name Harald had disowned. But Harald was valued and honored in this household, so no one mentioned it anymore.
Today she had to smile. There was nothing wrong with Sigge’s foot now besides an ugly red scar, and Sigge would be far less likely to get into trouble if he went with her.
“Can you show me how to find the good mushrooms, Leonie?” he asked as he bobbed along beside her.
“I don’t know them, Sigge,” she replied. “I always go get old nanny Brigid to look at them.”
He swaggered a bit as he walked. “I know some of them.”
“No, you don’t. You only think you do. Only old nanny Brigid can always tell. When you are older, we will ask her to show us both.”
“Aw.” He kicked at a stone in their path. “Ow!”
Leonie smirked. Bright as the boy was, he seemed always to have to learn the hard way.
“We’re looking for sumac leaves today. I want to see if they make better dyes when they first get their autumn color, or if it helps to wait till they fall. And while we’re there, you can show me the piece of metal where you cut your foot.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Can you make something really bright yellow, so I can have a tunic of it? I’m getting tired of green.”
Leonie laughed. “I am too. Yellow is hard, though. Some of the leaves may work better this year, but most of them aren’t verybright or the dye fades too quickly. I need a different mordant to set them, I think. The coneflowers were the best last year. I’ll have you pick them from the herb garden when we return.”
Sigge whistled as he danced along the path. Leonie began to feel the now familiar dread soaking into her, as it had all week, and she took a deep breath. She had taken to thumping her fingers against her palm as a way to remind herself not to become embroiled in ridiculous fears. Now she thumped her hand with increasing ferocity. If one had reason to be afraid, that was one thing. But not silly fancies. That was
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