Bree, about 12 years ago
The cool morning breeze wafted in through the window of the tiny Bree home as Arthur Northropp hobbled across the floor on rough crutches. In one corner Sonya sat, already hard at work on a new weaving. The large tapestry she’d finished yesterday sat against the wall, rolled up and ready for delivery. A good commission, and one that might let them finally get out of the city. Finally own a farm again.
It’d have to be a little one — Art wasn’t capable of as much anymore with half a leg gone thanks to an ill-swung sickle a farming season ago — but it would be good to be out in the fresh air and not the cramped city.
As he stoked the fire and got some bread toasting, Sonya turned to give him a smile. Even in this blasted town life, they’d found a rhythm. She weaved to earn them some money and he made food as well as he could manage and dyed threads and such for her work.
A knock at the door interrupted the routine. Arthur tucked his crutch under his arm and began to pull himself up to standing when the visitor shoved the door in, splintering the lock.
“Oi! You’re not welcome here, whoever ye are!” Arthur balanced on one crutch, waving the other threateningly at the sneering man and his goons.
The unwelcome guest, a man perhaps in his thirties who would have been pleasant-looking enough but for the ugly sneer that vilified his features, took in the small home with a disdainful gaze. At his nod, the goons — rather unintelligent looking men, but strong enough — moved in and yanked Sonya from her seat. She gave an angry yell and attempted to stab one with the spindle, but they held her arms tight.
“Now, Northropp, perhaps you can tell me where I might find the little lady known as Arlane Farnham?” The voice was smooth and oily.
Looking for Arlane? he wondered, before realization hit and his jaw tightened. Ah… the bookie her father left her deep in debt to.
Arthur gave the man a withering glare and drew himself up to full height. “I don’t know a thing, and I wouldn’t tell ye if I did. Now get out.”
“Perhaps your old lady can do her weaving with a finger or two less…?” He snapped his fingers and one of his henchmen pulled a knife out and grabbed Sonya’s hand, holding it out in front of her.
She spat at him, and Arthur glared, but he could feel his resolve weakening.
“I don’t know anything, aright? Leave her alone and go pester someone else. Th’ girl’s gone.”
The man in front of him tilted his head, giving a nasty smile. “What about a hand, hm?” The knife moved to Sonya’s wrist.
“Please…” Arthur’s voice wavered. “Look, after I was injured, th’ girl left town. Not a note, nothin’. I got no idea where she’s gone, and no way t’ find her. Please just let us be, we’ve done nothing to ye.”
A scowl darkened his face but he gave a hand gesture and the men tossed Sonya aside. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief.
It was short-lived, though, as they grabbed the beautiful tapestry.
“This’ll serve as payment towards her debt — and for your lives.” And they left, slamming the broken door behind them.
Arthur shook his cane at the door with a growl, but his shoulders slumped.
Three months of work. The hope of a farm within the year.
All because of some nasty bookie fellow who couldn’t stand not getting what he wanted.
Well, they’d make do like they always did. They might not be young but they weren’t that old yet.
Sonya got to her feet, glaring at the door, but moved to make sure he was alright.
He sighed, meeting her eyes. “Well, ye get back to that weaving and I’ll get to work on findin’ and dyin’ new threads for ye.”
And life went on.
