Simple Life

In the course of human history, it is inevitable that things become lost, and with those things, their affairs. One such vanished thing was beyond merely a missing artifact; an entire country disappeared. That country, settled by mostly English, was named Agradien and rested in between the borders of Scotland and England. Its borders disappeared from maps by the end of the Dark Ages, and it was wholly forgotten in not much time. It is remarkable how swiftly the memory of mankind ebbs.

Though small in size, Agradien underwent the desolation of a civil war, waged between the Mauntell and Decaster families during the fourteenth century. Marsson, a Mauntell, murdered the Decaster king in a lust for power. He wasted no time in taking control of the country, and shortly thereafter Agradien was ruled by the Mauntell family. After he died he was replaced by his heir, Tobran.

The last lord of the Decasters, Lord Blair, took up arms against his king shortly after his coronation. One of Lord Blair’s vassals, Clovis, joined him in a full-scale rebellion against the Mauntell rule. Their revolt was a conquest to reclaim the throne for the Decaster family. The serfs lost count of the years of war that followed. Clovis, desperate to please his lord, began a draft of his serfs who were seventeen or older, and recruited them into the Decaster army. The manors soon felt the strain of the extra burden of both the war and the enlistment of their sons.

“I can carry that for you, you know,” said a sixteen-year-old boy to a girl who was a year older beside him, who was carrying a cumbersome bag of flour.

He had shaggy hair and soft gray eyes, and his feet dragged slightly, as he had just come from working in the fields. The girl halfway ignored him. She was hardly attractive by normal standards; her skin was tan, her hands calloused, and her face far from dainty.

“Asher,” she said to the boy, using his name for effect, “you know I can carry this myself.” A faint smirk that would have gone unnoticed by most tugged at one side of her mouth.

Asher shrugged, well aware of it. He seemed glad not to have to carry added weight. The girl shifted the sack of flour to her other arm, pretending not to have trouble carrying it. The boots under her shabby dress crunched on the dead leaves which were scattered over the path that ran through Auld Town, the serf town of Decaster Manor. They both shivered as a chilly breeze swept up the leaves and made the trees sway. The wind carried with it the scent of approaching winter.

“You’d think that my uncle would help us out,” the girl suddenly said as they continued down the path, the lowing of farm animals in the distance. “Life in Auld Town isn’t exactly

easy.”

“Clovis?” asked Asher, referring to her uncle.

She nodded.

“He’s too selfish, Jorlin,” he sighed, suddenly seeming more tired than he already was. “Did you know that he raised the quota of crops already?”

Jorlin shook her head, and shifted the bag of flour to her other arm.

“Vassal indeed,” she muttered. “I’m ashamed to be his niece, even though I’ve never met him. I’m glad I haven’t. He’s so unfair to everyone on this manor. As if things couldn’t be any worse, especially with the war.”

Asher didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and they maintained their pace on the path. The trees rustled as the wind picked up again.

He began to say, “So, tomorrow, since it’s my birthday-…”

“Ash, just don’t,” she cut him off, annoyance flaring up in her chest.

“Oh, come on,” he retorted. “My birthday’s still a day away. It’s not like they’ll come looking for me. I’m just a serf. Clovis probably doesn’t even know I exist. Stop worrying.”

Jorlin turned her line of sight to him, eyes blazing as she abruptly stopped in the road. He took a few more steps before he halted and turned around, obviously weary with her pursuit of the subject.

“You know why I’m dreading this, Ash!” she snapped. “You know that anyone at least seventeen years old gets drafted into Lord Blair’s army! They will find you.”

He took a few steps towards her, his eyebrows lowered. “You think this is only about you?” He chuckled coldly. “Don’t be so selfish. And if they do take me away I’m going to die. You know that. Everyone knows that. I’m a serf, not a knight. I’ll be lucky if they kill me and don’t take me prisoner. That’s if they actually come for me, which they won’t. So just… stop worrying, alright? For God’s sake, you’re not my mother.”

She let out an exasperated sigh, then resumed walking. Asher joined her silently. They came around a bend in the path, and the town tavern came into view, nestled against the forest and about half a mile away from the rest of Auld Town. A sign hanging from the side of the small building with the words “Boar’s Head Tavern” carved into it rocked in the wind. Asher walked with her until she stood before the door. She turned around, then set the sack on the ground beside her.

She struggled inwardly for a moment before she mumbled, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t worry or be selfish.”

Asher managed a smile, then replied, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” She knew his confidence was feigned, but she decided not to pursue it. He looked up at the sun descending towards the horizon and added, “I should be going.”

“Alright,” she said, returning the smile and looking down at her feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” When she looked up, his smile was gone, replaced by an expression she didn’t know how to read.

He waved farewell, then turned and walked northwards towards the rest of town. She picked up the sack of flour, then without another thought she entered the tavern, also her home.

A warm, stuffy atmosphere and the stench of liquor greeted Jorlin as she stepped into the tavern. The flames atop the candles scattered about the room flickered and cast wavering shadows throughout the room buzzing with chatter. Behind the bar counter her father stood cleaning dirty mugs. He had balding black hair streaked with gray and a close-cropped black beard. He was wearing an old, stained apron over his stocky frame, and his face lit up when he looked to see Jorlin setting the sack on the counter.

“Thanks, Jorlin. Appreciate the help,” he mumbled.

She didn’t bother responding, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Her mother sat on a rickety chair before the fireplace, sewing holes in Jorlin’s only other dress, which didn’t look much better than the one she was wearing.

“How was your day?” her mother asked, not looking up from her work.

Jorlin shrugged, knowing full well how empty the question was, and stared into the bright flames of the fireplace from where she stood.

“I know you’re worried about Asher, but everything will work out the way it’s s’posed to,” her mother said, causing the chair to creak as she shifted.

“That’s what you’re supposed to say,” Jorlin muttered. “This blasted war-…” Her voice trailed off; she didn’t bother to finish the sentence.

“You know very well why this war is necessary,” her mother interrupted, her voice emotionless. “The Decasters are rightful to the throne. If Lord Blair and Clovis win this war, then we might have a better life.”

Jorlin chuckled to herself, shaking her head bitterly. “Your brother is already making it hard enough to scrape by. I don’t see how winning this war will make him any less selfish.”

“Jorlin!” her mother scolded, finally looking up from her sewing. “You have no right to speak about my brother that way; he’s your uncle, but also the vassal of this manor.”

“I have plenty of right to speak about him that way!” she snapped. “He’s driven this manor into poverty by sucking the money out of everyone’s purses, not only for the war, but also for his own selfish indulgences! If it wasn’t for him, then there wouldn’t even be a draft, and maybe we would be able to keep up with his insane demands if he hadn’t taken away everyone so they could die needlessly in battle. If it wasn’t for him, things would be a lot better around here.”

Her mother glared at Jorlin, then looked down again as she picked up the needle and began sewing again. “I brought you up better than to act like this, like such… a brat. One day you’ll look back on yourself and realize how foolish you are.”

“You’re Clovis’s sister, aren’t you?” she challenged, not willing to back down so easily.

“Of course I am."

“Then why are we serfs? It doesn’t make sense that we should live this way if Clovis really is who you say he is,” Jorlin demanded. “We could have the ‘better life’ you speak of if we lived with Clovis.”

Her mother’s eyes hardened. “I was banished from his castle, because when I was your age I acted just as rashly and immature as you.”

Jorlin struggled for words. “So I’m of royal blood?”

Her mother nodded absently.

“Then why am I forced to grow up here? Why do I live like the rest of the serfs on the God-forsaken manor? It’s not fair!”

“You’re forced to live here because I was forced to live here,” her mother snapped, “and you act just like I did back then. Perhaps if you acted with a measure of dignity I would consider letting you live with your uncle.”

Jorlin clenched her jaw, frustrated at her lack of an immediate comeback. “I would never want to live under the same roof as such a despicable man,” she snapped, storming into her room. After she threw herself onto the hay mattress, she took the dagger she had made Asher for his birthday off of the floor and studied it, trying to get her mind off of the anger boiling in the pit of her stomach. She was looking forward to presenting it to him the next day. She took off the sewn rawhide sheath and ran her finger along the flat end of the blade. Jorlin had acquired scrap metal from the blacksmith in town and whittled a handle out of wood for it. Overall, she was proud of her work, and planned out what she would say when she would give it to him. The words floated around her head as she stared up at the ceiling, forcing herself to ignore anything else.