“My feet are cold,” a boy complained to the man standing across from him. Chilled liquid submerged his feet to his ankles.
“The faster you stomp, the quicker you can get your shoes back,” the man teased.
The two were stomping grapes in wooden vats surrounded by other people doing the same. The past days had been unusually cold for the typically temperate regions of d’Gauval and the sticky liquid of the crushed grapes chilled the feet as the mid-morning air chilled the bodies.
The boy emphatically stomped quicker at the man’s advice and eventually appeared to be running in place. The exertion helping to warm him.
“Like this? Uncle Gilles?” the boy asked in an exasperated voice.
“Yes, just like that. Quicker, Valentin!” Gilles laughed, increasing his pace to match.
Valentin increased his pace and furiously stepped on the grapes and the sound of splashing echoed out of the vat. But before too long the boy leaned forward to grab the wooden edge and breathed heavily. Some of the people smiled in amusement at the boy and spoke some words of encouragement towards him. He would then stomp quickly for a few more seconds before standing still in the pool of grape must, all his energy spent.
“That’s quite enough, Valentin. Well done,” Gilles complimented before he pulled himself from his vat and walked towards the boy. He placed his hands under Valentin’s armpits and lifted him into the air, grape juice and water dripping from him.
“I can get myself out,” Valentin pouted and kicked, juices showering off of his feet and onto the ground and his uncle who had so unceremoniously moved him.
“Soon you’ll be too large to lift, so please humor your uncle for at least today,” Gilles said warmly as he fetched the pail of water.
He wetted a cloth and gestured. Valentin reluctantly lifted a foot while his uncle washed the grape remains off. Valentin kicked slightly at the ticklish sensation that enveloped his feet but managed to keep himself from flailing.
“One day you will regret the fact that you did not allow yourself to be spoiled more. I know that some days I do.” Gilles chuckled and the boy switched feet.
Valentin tilted his head and looked at his uncle with a lack of understanding. “But, Uncle Gilles, Father would never have his feet washed by another or to be picked up and neither would a warrior hero.”
“Roland is much too serious for his own good, Valentin,” Gilles finished cleaning and handed the boy a dry cloth to remove the water as he moved to clean his own feet. “Perhaps if he allowed himself some childlike joy he wouldn’t be running all over the estate like a beheaded cock.”
Valentin looked over his shoulder towards the estate. His home could not be seen through the stable but he recalled back to the beginning of the week. A messenger from Briste had arrived to deliver a scroll stamped with the seal of the Star of d’Gauval. The Steward of High Tiarna Antolo d’Gauval, Anton Tressavie, would be traveling to the Duvin estate in order to have an audience with Roland and discuss ‘matters of the court of Briste.’
The normally harsh demeanor of Roland Duvin had melted away with the spring of disbelief. He grasped Valentin’s mother’s hands and exclaimed, “Marion, we have done it!” He had even lifted Valentin in the air and laughed with the boy, an act that Valentin could scarcely remember sharing with his father before that day.
However, those moments of jubilation were short lived. The Steward visiting was far and beyond above the office that Valentin’s father had anticipated gaining the attention of. Roland quickly descended into a mad rush to not only prepare his estate’s wine, Vin du Orsulie, for the upcoming Killicia, but now he must prepare the estate itself to be befitting an envoy of the High Tiarna.
Much of the population of Orsulie was enlisted by Roland through the clink of coin to descend upon the Duvin estate. Not counting the five that worked on the estate at all times, there must have been two dozen villagers on the grounds. Every crevice of the interior was scrubbed and removed of dust. All the oak floors were meticulously polished to the point that Valentin was not permitted to walk upon them until the envoy visited. As such he had to sleep in the residence for the guest’s servants for the past few days making his home in the straw. The foliage outdoors were trimmed and the walkways weeded. The stones of the walls of the estate were brushed and washed. Every animal was groomed from the most prestigious of stallions to the lowest of mules. Rumors have it that Roland had even ordered some of the townsfolk to attempt to wash the wild deer that grazed near the estate. Valentin had overheard some of the villagers muse that if Roland could have gotten away with renovating the entire town of Orsulie, he would have.
Valentin had almost felt a sense of relief that he was dragged away from his manic father by his uncle to crush the grapes for next season’s wine. The pressure released from his father had felt almost suffocating with little hope of lessening before the arranged meeting. He now toiled away at the grapes that would ferment into next year’s wine supply. A beverage that at his age was purely ceremonial.
Petulant thoughts flowed through Valentin’s mind. What could be so important about the presence of this envoy that Valentin wasn’t allowed to walk freely within his home? This man was not the High Tiarna himself, why must he be treated as though he were one?
“And as for warriors,” Gilles continued, bringing Valentin’s attention back to his uncle. “I’m sure if you asked them if they would like their feet washed, they would agree. I have it on good authority.”
“Speak for yourself, Uncle Gilles. I’m sure all the warrior kings were strong and could do everything on their own. Would any of your fellow warriors allow themselves to be spoiled?” Valentin responded with childish indignance. The boy made a show of putting on his sandals by himself and stood up with a satisfied puffing of his chest.
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Gilles looked upwards momentarily in reminiscence, the life of his past flowing by his eyes. Valentin never understood Gilles. He was a warrior of enough favor and talent to join a renowned warband and tour the far reaches of the continent. Why anyone would stop to tend to grapes was beyond him.
“You know, I never asked. Maybe one day you can ask them yourself,” Gilles said with a smile.
“I’m not sure that mother would approve of that,” Valentin said somberly. Valentin’s eyes dimmed as quickly as they had lit up at the suggestion.
“I’m sure that Marion wouldn’t complain if it was for a delivery. After all, even if my former employer is a ‘blood-thirsty mercenary’,” Gilles reasoned, making a point to use Marion’s tone mockingly when describing the warrior. “He’s still a figure of renown. I don’t think my brother could stand to deny the patronage of anyone with even a scrap of gravitas.”
“If we go then I can help you protect the delivery!” The boy excitedly replied. Full of renewed hope, Valentin shifted his feet and assumed a swordsman’s stance. He pantomimed swings and thrusts towards his uncle as he shifted from foot to foot.
“I find it more likely that Jeanne dresses you head to toe in armor so thick that you cannot move,” Gilles chuckled.
Valentin deflated and let out a sigh. “If I had more siblings, I could go on adventures like you did.”
Gilles’ visage quickly changed but returned back to being warm and inviting. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder, gripping it tightly. “You know they fret over you because they love you, Valentin. You are the only son of the Duvin family.”
“I know,” Valentin responded weakly. The words did little to assuage the boy’s grievances. It had always been this way.
“I’ll finish things up here,” Gilles gestured over to the vats. “You go off and enjoy yourself for a little while. Be sure to be back before zenith, however. We were told that Steward Tressavie would arrive in time for dinner and I don’t want to know what happens if you are not present upon his arrival.”
Valentin nodded his understanding and ran off. He ran by the villagers continuing to stomp away in the vats. Some of them waved a farewell to him as he passed by. He hopped over the low wooden fencing, through the field of grape vines, and up the hill. The further uphill he reached, the less maintained the area was. Long grasses brushed along his thighs and the sounds of the working below began to fade away.
He did not stop running until he reached the hill’s summit. As a reward, a chilled sea breeze penetrated the fabric of his jacket and the tunic underneath and attempted to flatten the grass surrounding him. He faced the sea in front of him, a pool of tranquility that spread out endlessly into the horizon. The cloudless sky allowed for the rays of light from the Great Flame, Ortus, to shine down unimpeded and created an azure shimmer on the waters below. Valentin could spot some small fishing vessels casting their nets below. However, to his disappointment, there were no silhouettes of the large sailing ships on this morning.
How he wished that he could be on one of those imposing vessels. Recent tales of intrepid ship captains began to trickle to the rural ears of Orsulie. If he could join a ship with Renaud Vestin or Emile of Roucotte, perhaps he too could see all of the joys of a world yet fully discovered.
However, his one weakness to a life on the seas was his weak stomach. Even a jaunt on a rowboat with Vincent had made his stomach twist in knots and left him ill for much of the rest of the day. The life of a warrior was best after all and Uncle Gilles was a silly man for leaving such an exciting life behind.
He gazed down at the coastline below. Driftwood bleached by Ortus washed ashore by higher tides stacked upon on the wet sands. Valentin knew that these were the proper conditions and there would be an ideal stick sword down below. It would be a weapon befitting his aspirations and give him the crucial edge over the other village kids.
Knowing that the others would be busy with the festival, Valentin descended the hill onto the sandy ground below to claim his prize. The dry dusty sand turned to wet sand that began to sink his feet into the shore if he stood still for too long.
Hands and eyes pored over the prospective weapons that were haphazardly spread out along the beach. Unfortunately, the wood was too large or too bent or too splintered to make an ideal sword.
That was until he saw it.
Dried to the perfect white, an ideally straight stick slightly smaller than Valentin’s arm sat upon the beach. Such an arrangement was unbefitting of a stick of this nature, an insult to a master craft weapon. The weight was light and made a satisfying swish when he swung it. Thoughts of the stick cracking with lightning and rumbling with thunder set his imagination alight. He would be the envy of all, a swordsman beyond compare.
He glanced around furtively to ensure that none had snuck up on his treasure. Seeing that he was safe, he scurried back up the hill from whence he came. Holding his prize in both hands, he grinned widely. However, he could not bring this back to the estate. If Father found it, it would surely be destroyed for being a waste of time. For now, he should keep it here, out of sight.
From this vantage point, Valentin could see his home and much of the surrounding village. Orsulie resembled a half circle that slightly sloped down the hillside towards the farmlands to the north. The Duvin Estate occupied much of the Southern edge of the settlement. A large stone structure standing in imposing contrast to the diminutive wattle and daub homes that loosely bordered it. Stretching northwards was the singular road in and out of Orsulie and the direction that the esteemed Steward of d’Gauval would be arriving from and the road he and the rest of the village would tread tomorrow for Killicia.
On the outskirts of the village were two mills, a small animal powered mill and a large windmill. If there was any source of discord within the village, it was down at the mills after every harvest. The local Tiarna managed the mills at a fee and fights occurred without fail over the order of who got to use the mill. The Duvin family’s prominence within the village allowed them to have priority on usage every cycle which Valentin was always thankful for. However, he never could shake the dirty looks that wandered his way through the crowd at being assisted first.
Valentin sighed over the thoughts and decided to lie upon the grass and close his eyes, allowing the sounds that surrounded him to pass over him. However, he quickly decided against it. The coverage provided by the long grass would lead towards the inevitable passing of sleep. An ill-timed slumber on this day may well spell the end of all days at the hand of his father.
Valentin descended the hill and back towards the village below. He quietly slipped around the vineyard to avoid any stray eyes commanding him to do more work. He did not see anyone at the moment but he was not willing to risk the valuable temporary freedom that had been gifted to him. He was well aware that there was plenty more that still needed to be accomplished.
There was little activity along the dirt streets of Orsulie. Most of the villagers were either tending to the flock and field or in Roucotte making preparations for tomorrow’s harvest festival. Those that remained in town were grinding wheat or checking the barns for mice. Valentin could see some wisps of smoke from cooking fires emanating from behind some of the huts. It was nearing zenith and many would be returning for a meal before finishing their daily tasks.
Valentin reached the main road that entered the village and looked down it. Soon, the envoy would arrive and something would change. The nature of that change was lost on Valentin.