Pronounceable variations of Caen are: 'Cahn', 'Shaun', 'Ceean'. Again, I plead reviews. Enjoy.
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Eleanor had screamed till she could scream no more, sitting by the fire, not comforting her hurting twins but glaring ferociously into the flames; she had woken all three younger girls with her yells, and simply petted them with no feeling, absent in her anger. Rowan came home after and hour or two, back from greeting the Prince and his group with the council; as the twins came to him, he slapped them both across their faces. He then began a torrent of shouts, telling his children that he had heard of their fight two moments before they broke up, and would have gone down and beaten them himself if it hadn't been for the Prince's arrival.
Rowan and the girls then retired to bed, leaving Eleanor and the twins. Standing stiffly, her face soured, Eleanor turned to Jehanne.
"We need meat," she said, her tone weary, yet emanating fury, "You must get it tomorrow morning; the Prince will be camping in the woods with his guards." And she left to bed.
The twins fell asleep senseless next to the fire.
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Jehanne woke early to the sparking embers of the fire and to the heavy breathing of her brother; no light shone through the gaps between the shutters, so she guessed it was around four in the morning. She stretched and held for a second, before curling in on herself into the foetal position. Nestling her head into her arms, Jehanne willed herself to go back to sleep, and ease her aching body. Mentally slapping herself, she realised she had to go hunting.
Almost crying out in the pain, she sat up; lifting her top, she revealed a sunset of darkening black-blue and purple bruises across her torso. There were almost no patches of un-bruised skin. Glancing her arms and legs over, they were all scattered with bruises and scrapes. Gulping back the bile which had risen to her mouth, she stood. The world spun and she grabbed the wall. Touching her cheek, she could feel the swelling from both her brother's and father's hits.
Her clothes were spotted with blood from the chickens she had killed and plucked yesterday and her own, and smelling the clothes themselves was considered dangerous; although aware of her brother in the room, Jehanne peeled away her clothes. Bunching them up into a ball in her hands, she crossed the room and entered the bedroom.
As she crept through the darkness, she threw the clothes onto her bed, they landed scattered across her unused bedding. Jehanne dragged a wicker box out from beneath her bed, and dug around her clothes; pulling out underwear, coarse but thick and warm deer-hide leggings, and two tops to layer upon herself, she dressed; the bed sank as she sat down, and she put on woolly socks. She exited the bedroom.
Kneeling down beside the door, Jehanne put on and laced her boots tightly, and put on her warmest cloak. She grabbed the long axe, her quiver and bow, her knife and her father's heavy sword which she could use already; she stuffed her blood-stained meat sack into her quiver. She knew there to be bread somewhere, and spent a minute finding it: when she did, she took only two slices from the large loaf to serve as her breakfast.
She left the house. As she came to the water trough, Jehanne knelt beside it and splashed her face with water; wiping her face with the cold morning water, she took a cup of it into her mouth and rinsed it around her teeth before spitting it onto the grass. Jehanne leant over into her lap and wiped her face dry with the edge of her top. Taking a few sprigs from the mint plant, she put one in her mouth and chewed, while stowing the others away in her cloak.
She got up, wincing as her scraped knees grazed the ground, and headed over to the small paddock behind the house; she whistled: short and sharp. From the corner, nestled in between bushels of hay, a horse stood up; it looked over to Jehanne, a beautiful dappled grey and white colt. The young horse shook it's head and trotted on the spot before running flightily to Jehanne.
It nudged it's face into Jehanne's neck, nibbling on her arrows.
"Oi, oi!" she called, laughing, "You've already broke two arrows doing that: not a third Caen!"
Caen continued to chew, and Jehanne had to duck away from him. As she walked away, Caen whickered after her; she ducked into a small wooden cupboard attached to the house wall, and took out a soft, worn leather saddle and thin bridle. It took all her effort to balance the saddle on her bruised shoulder and not cry out, moving quickly back over to Caen with the bridle in her hand. Hissing in pain, she swung herself over the wooden gate of the paddock. The young colt nickered and jumped playfully from side to side.
"Yes, yes," Jehanne smiled wearily, "Come here now Caen, come on."
Caen hopped backwards and Jehanne stepped toward him, and Jehanne frowned.
"Caen. Come here. Now."
He played illusive for a couple of minutes, where Jehanne stood, slowly simmering, until Caen eventually allowed for his capture. Jehanne slipped the bridle on him and brought his head sharply down to eye level, "Not again: right Caen?" she snapped, dangerously quiet. The horse shifted from foot to foot, before Jehanne frowned, tight-lipped, and fastened his saddle on.
Hooking herself over his body, she stroked his white mane for a minute, and whispered her apology quietly in his ear. He settled from his jumpiness, and almost seemed to reply to her with a quiet whinny.
It had been like this always; when Caen was first bought, a young nervous foal, he was skittish and utterly terrified of any adult, as a result of the horse breeder's mistreatment to the runty foal. Rowan had been on the verge of selling the present for the twins, Tybalt tired of the skinny horse already, when Jehanne had come home from a week long trip to her aunt's - for unsuccessful lessons on how to be more ladylike - and found Caen.
The foal was flinging itself around the paddock, bucking as Rowan attempted to catch the animal; Jehanne stood on the bottom beam of the fence and watched her father's pursuit of the horse. After five minutes, Rowan stopped: panting, he rested, leaning back against the fence. He glanced over at her daughter, then back at the foal.
"What do you think?," he asked, "Do you like him?"
"Why?" Jehanne said seriously, not taking her eyes of the horse, "What does it matter what I think?"
"Didn't your mother tell you?" Rowan replied, his eyebrows raising, "We got the horse for you and Tybalt to share."
Jehanne's eyes widened, and a smile formed at the corners of her lips. "Really?.."
"Don't get too excited," Rowan sighed, "If we can't tame him, we're selling him on to the Burghes."
"The Burghes?" Jehanne gasped, "Don't! I want him!" Her small, bird-like frame quivered with resentment, "I hate Patrick Burghes!"
Rowan rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter if you detest the lad or not, it doesn't tame the horse!"
"Then let me!" Jehanne scowled, jutting her small chin forward. Rowan looked her over, glanced at the bucking foal and shrugged his shoulders.
"You're welcome to try," Rowan shrugged, waving her forward. "Just don't tell your mother."
Jehanne sniffed and swung herself over the fence into the paddock. The colt backed away into the corner, rolling it's eyes and shrieking; it bucked and kicked the fence twice. Jehanne didn't look into it's eyes, and moved toward the creature: it screamed in protest as she edged up to it. Five metres away, Caen stopped kicking and fell silent, seeming to even glare at the girl as she approached.
Flitting forward, Jehanne took the horse's face in both hands, and quickly stroked its grey cheeks; the horse seemed confused for a second, before relaxing - but not quite fully un-stiffening the tension coiled in its body - and giving into the little girl's gentle strokes. It nickered after five minutes of persistent petting, and shook out its white mane; Jehanne smiled and softly touched the thick, coarse hair.
Rowan watched as she leant in and kissed its head, right beneath the ear, hearing only catches of the soothing words his daughter whispered. Shaking his head in wonder, he hauled himself over the fence and walked into the house. Eleanor stood at the table, chopping carrots: Rowan hugged her from behind.
Eleanor gasped lightly in surprise, before leaning back and resting against her husband. "So are we selling the colt?" she asked, turning to lay her cheek against his chest.
"Nope," Rowan replied, stroking her hair. He could see the frown lines on his wife's forehead appearing, and he kissed them away.
"Stop it, you old fool!" she laughed, "Why not? The thing's a menace: no one can ride the beast!"
"Jehanne can."
Eleanor turned round to face Rowan, her eyebrows high in contempt, hands on hips. "Can she now?"
"Yes!" Rowan chuckled, taking Eleanor's waist and swaying her to imaginary music, "Now be quiet and let me kiss you." Eleanor smirked, and wrapped her hands around his neck,
"Only if you promise me two."
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Jehanne nudged her heels into Smithie's sides, and he stepped up into a trot; as they passed through the silent, empty Market, Jehanne avoided eye contact with the cobbles where she and Tybalt had raised riot last night. She sniffed abashedly, and looked away into the distance, licking her lips carefully.
They crossed the bridge over the Lyone; Jehanne checked the water levels suspiciously, and sighed when she found no difference in the worrying height. The path faded from path, to patches of cobbles, to pebbles, to muddy grass track; the shrubbery backed away from the track, then rushed back inwards: brambles swiping at Caen and Jehanne. It was an amiable ride, and Jehanne was onto her third mint leaf, chewing slowly and happily. The gate peeked up round the curve of the bend, and she was just about to poke Caen again to speed up, when she heard the shout of her name.
"JEHANNE! Jehannnne!"
Jehanne pulled back on the reins, stopping Caen bluntly, and turned him around to face the voice; two hundred metres away Rowan was limping along, red faced, and breathing big white clouds into the air. Laying a hand on his chest, he looked up, the bellow of his daughter's name on her lips, when he saw her sitting astride the horse: blank, slightly irritated confusion slack on her face; he beckoned her, and leant over, hands slapped onto his thighs, holding himself up, head hanging.
Casting an irritable glance to the sky, Jehanne clenched her jaw and urged Caen into a gallop: resisting the urge to run over her father, Jehanne slowed the horse and looked down on Rowan, her lips pursed tight. "What is it?"
Rowan straightened himself out and raised his eyebrows curtly. "Not so sarky, you hear missy?" he snapped, "Less of the cheek, eh?" Jehanne sighed, looking away, and Caen picked up his feet in eagerness to go, itching to go, and swung his head back and forth.
Rowan took the reins from his daughter and shook them, and told his daughter to get off the horse.
"What?" Jehanne spat, snatching the reins back and flicking them: Caen reacted and shifted away to the right, away from the man. "Why?!"
The large man stood, control of his breathing regained, although his face was now red again, "Because my say so should be enough, girl!" he cried, seizing and reins and tugging on them hard, "Now get off the horse!"
Jehanne hissed through her teeth in fury, and swung herself off Caen; she stalked furiously around the horse, hands clenching and unclenching, her jaw set, teeth on edge.
"Why did I need to get off the horse?!" Jehanne shouted, swinging her hands out in explosive frustration, "What possible reason is there to stop me from going hunting?! For putting FOOD on the TABLE?!"
"Now you stop it!" Rowan bellowed, "Stop it right now!" He poked his finger into Jehanne's collarbone, "You have been fighting with Tybalt again, and not just your usual stunts - no -; you had a preposterously huge fight in the middle of the MARKET!"
"And now!" he continued, getting up onto the horse and glaring down upon his daughter, "And now - you just had to do it now, didn't you?! Just when I have to ride to Ryme - the next village over, to find some sort of gift to give the Prince, to apologise for your inexcusable behaviour- you go and take the horse!"
"Why aren't you telling Tybalt this?!"
"Because! He hasn't done anything!"
Jehanne screamed in fury and the injustice, and slapped Caen on his rump, sending the colt galloping off down the path.
"You'd better be home by 9am for the Prince's welcome ceremony, or your mother and I will cuff you!" Rowan roared over his shoulder as he sprinted off.
Jehanne stamped her feet in rage, and punched the air repeatedly: wanting to feel the connection of fist to solidarity, but too scared to punch the tree for fear of scraping her already bruised knuckles. Hissing at her own cowardice, Jehanne stormed to a tree and punched it, over and over again, tenderising her knuckles and leaving blood on the tree. With another vehement cry, she turned away.
She was halfway across the field; the morning light had still yet to seep across the dark sky. Anger was still strung up and down her arms, her blue veins tight and pressed close to the skin; Jehanne was too furious to be anything but physical. Ignoring the easier, gentler slope at the sides of the fields, she climbed swiftly up the bank wall: breathing unevenly as she stretched out her bruised, swelling muscles to reach the grips in the softening mud. She hauled herself up and sat on the ledge, taking a moment to regain her breath. Jehanne stood.
Stroking her downy fringe close to her forehead, she fell silent, and crept forward; she entered the sparse forest, hooking an arrow onto her bow and poising it to shoot. Not a sound broke the silence as she moved silkily through the trees. She reached the point where she could only just see the bank and the field, and looked around the greenery. Nothing as yet, Jehanne put away her bow and climbed a tree.
Her anger had melted away into the silence of the woods, and her blank mind allowed her to climb higher than she intended; she dropped down a couple of branches, two from the bottom and barely above ground. Jehanne crouched, and reapplied an arrow to her bow, set, waiting for her prey. She stayed there, surveying for some time.
Her hunting ears picked up a small crunch: turning with practised skill, she spun rapidly on the branch and let her arrow slide out of the bow. It hit a rabbit: caught it right through the eye. Jehanne smiled and leapt the small height from her perch, retrieving the animal and putting it into the sack; it would be a nuisance to hunt with the sack in her hand, so she tied it to her belt. She knew her mother would want more meat than a rabbit, so she decided to hunt longer; Jehanne pondered stalking, but returned to her preferred style of hunting: climbing a tree and waiting for the prey to come to her. She was better with a bow from height.
Climbing the same tree, but higher, she again sat, and waited. It was longer this time, but eventually game came. Her mouth slacked slightly as she took it in; a huge buck deer: an unusually large adult male with an incredible, wide set of antlers. With it, came presumably it's son: a child buck, just edging into puberty: soft, downy stumps rising from it's head.
She had to make the choice. The male: amazingly big with the best set of antlers Whinge had seen for the past decade; but she would not be able to carry it. Just from a glance, she knew that it weighed double her own weight, maybe double and a half; her brother was one thing, and maybe, if she had been in her very physical prime, maybe she could of: but battered, bruised and beat, no. The decision made, Jehanne weighed the bow in her hands and aimed for the buck; it was a long shot, they were maybe one hundred and fifty metres away.
With grace, she stood slowly on the branch, and released the long, lazy shot. It hit the buck in the skull. She had no hesitation, and jumped the nine feet out of the tree, her cloak flying out behind her. Landing in a crouch, Jehanne threw herself into a sprint, eyes fixed firmly on the buck.
The adult hadn't realised anything had happened, until the buck fell to it's knees and tipped onto it's side, revealing the long wooden arrow stuck into it's head. The adult then saw Jehanne running toward then, brayed loudly in exclamation and panic, turned, and galloped away. Jehanne ignored it and checked the buck's pulse, which was non-existent.
Jehanne allowed herself a smug smile, before beginning her work. Like the last time, she removed the arrow and put it back in the quiver, and began relieving the deer from the burden of it's limbs. Quickly, it was sacked up with the rabbit, and there was nothing to the suggest their prolonged stay apart from the now vaguely reddish earth and grass. Pursing her lips in pleasure, she decided she had enough meat with the buck and the rabbit.
It was early, and she was looking forward to coming home to be hopefully in her mothers favours once more. The sun had leaked into the sky and it had become a watery grey; unappealing, but not especially forewarning rain; Jehanne pondered the likes of her return, and how much meat she should sell if -
Snap.
