The 14th of July
At last I return to writing after weeks away from the page.
Where to begin? For one there is Father’s state: he fell from his horse two weeks ago and Mother recalled me to the home to visit and show my concern. In truth, I have little concern for that man, and to be entirely frank, I would not much care if the bastard fell over dead tomorrow! I did not wish to return and reinvigorate the quarrel twixt Father and me, though I of course went for Mother’s sake. It was still a sorry sight to see him wounded so. Before he began to speak, I was stirred to compassion, but his tongue quickly disabused me of that notion.
Good Heavens, that bastard did not seem like he was in nearly as much pain as Mother had said! Why, were he not bedridden and of my blood, I would have throttled him for the foul things he said about me and my lifestyle and my intelligence. I withstood his words for a long two weeks, but on the last day he struck a nerve. In anger I replied: “It is your fault for putting all of your eggs in one basket, Sir! Were you enough of a man to produce another heir from your loins, then you would not have such an issue with your issue! But until that day comes, I am all that you have—and without me the heritage the Hazelwoods have established over the years shall quickly fall to ruin.”
And I could not believe what I was hearing when he replied: “Do not threaten me, boy, lest I give all my lands and wealth to one of your Cleelan cousins!”
“To mere smiths! Good Sir, surely you jest!” replied I. “They work for their wealth, and besides that they are fond of their craft as artisans so often are. They would not be so quick to accept such a thing!”
“Are you so certain of that, boy?” Father said. “Men may love craft, but not at the expense of wealth and prestige. Think on that while you waste your hours and my good name in Bree-town among rakes and strumpets. For all your time fencing with more respectable swordsmen, you are still more swashbuckler than master—you are no Captain Brackenbrook! Now get yourself gone from my sight!”
“Yes Sir,” I replied through gritted teeth as I turned to go. Father did not cut me off as I had feared he might, though his words troubled me. I did not think he would go through with the threat—for he has always been toothless and Mother has always come to my side—but he has never given such a threat and the prospect troubles me greatly. I think it best to afford the man more respect in the future, as much as the thought displeases me.
Ah, but what else is there? There was that quarrel with both of the Plumwoods, a matter which I hope is now cooling. It was started with my careless speech and brash comments (made in jest) toward Fenley’s conduct with women, but soon spiraled out of hand. I did not see the cause for their offense at the time (To be perfectly frank, I am still displeased at what I saw to be the resultant abuse of my purse!) but I realize that their actions were in response to my brusque nature. I stopped by Newharrow and came to the Peaceful Peach to apologize to Ms. Plumwood when I returned to Bree-town. She was tight-lipped, as expected, but she accepted my apology. I am relieved. Though it is not ever my desire to make friends, I do not like leaving my misbehavior unaddressed, though of course I still must talk to her brother when I may.
Plumwood, I saw in the Pony, has taken to a strange new fashion—the wearing of a sword! I do not know if it is for fear of me, but I think the fashion unwise, for untrained fencers invite trouble wearing such a piece. I do not hope for friendship between us (for I do not hope for friendship as a rule) but I hope to speak to him and apologize as well. I pray he does not get himself into trouble he is unready for.
Perhaps I should ask Ms. Odelynne—or rather simply Odelynne, as she desires to be addressed—why he dresses so. (It is always strange how Southrons do not bear family names!) She is a fair woman of the South with a Rohanish lilt and red hair and much skill in painting and draftsmanship—and also skill in the outlandish sword from the way she boasts! (I must ask her to show me! the Horse-lords swords have such minimal crossguards that sorely vex me! She has shown me a number of pictures of knights, but I desire to see that swordplay in action! I have seen no manuals from that people, but I much desire to know more of their warlike traditions.)
I digress. Some weeks prior, I commissioned a portrait from her, and the drafts she showed me last night were tremendously magnificent! Why, there were so many poses and options to see! I chose a draft that was a little more traditional, for as much as I admired the other options, I think it fitting that I, despite my wayward nature, have a portrait that recalls those of other powerful figures of Bree-town, be it Tenderlarchs or Appledores or more ancient Hazelwoods. I am pleased to see such a painter portray me, though I am likewise interested in her for sport.
She is rough as Southrons tend to be, stubborn and bold, and her hands are not the fine hands of gentle women. Nay, hers are calloused like a commoner’s and there is dark charcoal beneath her nails from sketching. I could not see my wedding band thrust upon her charcoal-stained finger, but Heavens, she is fine sport! She blushes easily, and last night I took great pleasure in tripping her up and causing her cheeks to redden. She is unused to Breeish games of wit and has said she is unused to the slyness of Bree-town men—not to imply that I myself am so slippery—but she seeks to challenge me, and I am rather pleased that she desires to join me in the play of words.
Her talk of honesty reminded me of Ms. Bietrix Sweetmeadow, a Bree-town lass whom I first saw in a scandalously sodden summer dress—and later met at the Scholar’s Stair Archives and the Hedge Maze during the festival. We had a delightful time in the Maze, having battled with sharp words in a contest of wits—which I won, of course—and later besting her in a drunken race to the maze’s end—and I eagerly claimed my prize of a single kiss that left her desperately wanting for more.
She plays the part of a gentle girl, but entirely unconvincingly. I know there is unladylike wildness and desire in her too, and it pleases me all too well to tug at the strings of her propriety. I hope to tease her again the next time we meet.
Finally, in matters that are darker but more brief, there wa a mousy common girl called Maud Rumsey roaming Bree with a terrible pet last night—a deathly poisonous frog whom she names ‘Bill.’ I do not know where she found the beast, but Heavens, am I terrified of that poisonous creature! What an awful way to die that would be, poisoned to death, not bested by man but a paltry beast the size of my hand! She recaptured the beast with the help of Odelynne and I (I would like to say that I helped purely because it was the noble thing to do, but in truth I was governed in no small part by my fear) but the girl refused to part with the wretched thing! If I die of poison with the Rumsey girl near, let the first suspect be that terrible frog. I hope Mr. ‘Bill’ and I do not meet again soon.
