Crone Ch. 03: Matchmaker

"Tuppence for plain clay roughly fired, three pence if you want it well-fired and glazed."

"Plain clay! It will see rough use and need replacing often."

"Come back near noon! I've all this bread to bake and my hired hand is absent; sleeping it off I imagine."

"Suits me; I'll be heading on to Jagersford for other things and return around noon."

She turned back to her task, effectively dismissing him.

That decided he exited to the commons, went to the well and drew a draught.

The shops here would be closed for some time. No sense waiting; he'd continue to Jagersford and hope it was more lively by the time he got there.

The girl was waiting for him.

"You were right; the baker is going to have my pot ready by noon!"

She nodded, accepting that as her due.

"You need anything else? Tinwork? Lumber? Pumpkins?" she listed it off like a barker at a fair.

"Nothing. No! I'll need a shoat and lead when I return."

"Ma's cousin's brother-in-law's sow has littered some weeks back. He'll have a shoat to sell. The lead'll come.."

"...from the tanner, right! Thanks, I'll buy that shoat on my way back through. No sense driving it to Jagersford and back."

"I'll pick one out for you! There's plain red, red with white spots, and mostly-white."

"A male! I don't need to pay the premium for a gilt."

She nodded. "A fine red boar then. I'll tell him you're coming!"

He took his leave, oriented himself by the shops, spotted the path he'd followed the week before and headed out.

Two miles went fast in the early morning. The cool air kept him from overheating and sweating, and with no load at all he went quickly.

A pity about the crock; it'd be a chore to carry back from Jagersford. But there was no helping it.

This village was much more lively. Many chimneys showed smoke, and several traders with carts were arrayed around the green.

Apparently it was some sort of market-day. Tents were being set up, youngsters were underfoot everywhere, dogs barked and everybody was generally cheerful.

His first effort was to find the potter. From there he'd get directions to the rest.

The smithy was busy, with a line of customers already. He nodded greeting to the smith in passing, who didn't pause in his hammering but tossed his head in acknowledgement.

And behind the smithy as promised was a potter, easily identified from the outdoor earthen ovens and plank racks of fired and unfired wares.

Crocks were not plentiful, but there was one of a size both big enough for the Mistress and small enough to shoulder on his trip back.

The potter was glad to show him the crocks. They were glazed, waterproof, had wooden covers and a gay lily painted on the side of each.

"One shilling!" he announced.

"I see. Well perhaps I'll have to settle for plain glazed pots then. They sell them in the last village for 3p fired and glazed. I could buy four of them for the price of this crock."

After some back-and-forth they settled on 8p for the crock. Which was exactly where Jordan knew they would. But it was important to respect the potter and do the bargaining.

After paying for the crock he arranged to leave it with the potter until he was ready to head out. No sense hauling it around all day.

He already knew where he could find cloth - the dry-goods dealer that knew his grandfather had that and more.

Returning to the green, there were a dozen traders camped already. Their carts they'd converted to makeshift shop-fronts.

He made the rounds, greeting each trader and politely examining their wares. Some were festival-stuff, paper lanterns and such, for the occasion but uninteresting to him.

Half were selling pies, cheeses and cured meats, carved to order for festival-goers.

Jordan was still quite satisfied from his early breakfast, but perhaps nearer lunchtime he'd return and try something.

His dry-goods shop was open and the shopkeeper out front. Two assistants helped customers inside, probably hired for the day.

"Jordan, is it? Welcome! Happy to see you again. Come for the fair?"

"No sir! Just a happy coincidence. I'm here for supplies."

He mentioned his list to the man.

"You'll find cloth inside, also convenient bags and pouches ready-made!

"But for shirting and trousers, see my nephew across the green.

"He's behind the butchers', and stocks useful clothing for farmers and laborers. It's his specialty!

"Mention my name, perhaps his regard for me will extend to a savings of a farthing or two!"

Going inside he found the deal cloth he needed. Most of it was in large bolts, too large for his needs and budget.

But a short bolt of mostly scraps he bargained down to 3p. It was irregular but he cared not. He would salvage pieces to make bags and covers as needed.

Crossing the square, waving off barkers with a smile, he found the butcher. A muddy alley went behind. Walking carefully, minding his cloth not get dropped, he found a gate and went into the yard.

A short shack behind, once perhaps a workshop, had an open half-door and a simple painted sign: "Livery".

Well, that was a fancy name for peasant clothes!

Knocking at the door, a young man scarcely shaving met him with a hearty greeting.

"Friend! Here to improve your look? Impress you employer? Make time with the ladies? I have something for every need!"

He suppressed a smile, made his request for a linen shirt and duck-cloth trousers.

The fellow took a long measured look at his frame and disappeared into the dark innards of his 'shop'. Returning with a selection of shirts and pants, he draped them over the half-door.

"Try this!" he offered the first shirt, a plain linen half-tunic with very brief sleeves.

Jordan shucked out of his shirt, hung it on a branch of a straggly bush growing beside the door.

The shirt went over his head, struggling to get his arms through the right places. The linen was stiff.

It went on ok. The collar was turned leaving no rough edges to chafe. The bottom extended past his trouser waist, which was an improvement on his hide shirt which left exposed part of his belly.

Unaccustomed to this relative finery, he looked at the shopkeeper helplessly.

"It's a fine fit! For a farthing I could adjust the sleeve to hang level with the hem. Would improve the look, go from 'frugal' to 'tailored'!

He wasn't sure about that, but indicated he was happy with the shirt.

Trousers took two tries. The first pair fit too snugly over his thighs, which bulged the seams dangerously.

"A fine fit fellow! I can see we'll have to switch to the 'big man' cut!"

The second pair went on fine. With his rope belt he could cinch them around his waist comfortably.

"Another farthing, I'll hem them, you don't want to be dragging them in the mud!"

He could see the leg was too long. It would either have to be cut, in which case it would fray, or turned and sewed.

He agreed to the service. Then he mentioned the dry-goods dealer's name, asked if that was worth anything?

He smiled. "Uncle! Always looking out for me! Yes indeed!

"How about this for a deal: I'll hem the trousers for free! That's a farthing saved right there.

"Then for just a farthing more, I'll fit the sleeves, and throw in this handsome cord to cinch the waist! No more rope or rough twine spoiling the look!"

The 'handsome cord' was a bit of packing strap, but it did look better. And his 'deal' meant Jordan would be paying the same amount, but with the added touches.

He agreed; haggling over a farthing seemed petty, and this young man did know his business.

He paid his 8p for the shirt, and the further 4p for the trousers plus the farthing, and felt himself well-treated.

The shopkeeper came out with a ball of woven straw into which he had needles of various sizes with bits of thread blowing free. He had Jordan stand still, knelt in the grass and in a trice had the trouser cuffs hemmed.

The shirt-sleeves took a bit longer, each having to be adjusted then Jordan asked to flex, then adjusted again.

"There! Fit for the Duke! A handsome suit for a handsome lad!"

Jordan smiled, shucked out of the new suit and while the shopkeeper bundled them up with the cord, he re-donned his hide clothes.

Leaving with a sincere smile and a promise to 'tell his friends', he headed back out the gate and up the muddy alley, doubly mindful that his bundles not fall in the mud.

A shilling for a suit! It seemed Jordan was living in another world. All his life he'd worn homespun and hide, and glad to have it.

And what, another shilling for the crock, pipkin and cordage.

Then the hammer - most of a shilling right there. And the cloth.

That was his entire stake! but for a few farthings.

Except for his own shilling of course. Of that he'd earmarked 3p for a shoat and 1p for a lead.

Leaving him with a half-shilling 2-pence. A fortune for Jordan, more than he'd owned in his life!

Anyway he had more bargaining to do. He crossed back to the smithy and was glad to see the line much reduced. The traders and travelers had given their goods needing repair and gone to the festival, leaving the smith to his work.

Seeing Jordan he gave a nod and a grunt.

Without being asked, Jordan stowed his bundles under a bench and took the bellows handle from the Smith, began long slow strokes to keep the coals red.

The Smith turned to hammer and tongs and set-to in earnest. First heat the piece then to the anvil and shape it with the hammer.

There was a cartwheel band to weld, a horseshoe or two to shape from a blank to replace a damaged sample.

And some strange strappy contraption that was probably part of wagon hitching gear - a tree strap for a multi-horse draw perhaps.

Jordan was happy to continue pumping until the Smith repaired each in turn and quenched them in a bucket. When the bucket was full of the bits and bobs, each restore to usefulness, the Smith indicated he should stop pumping.

Racking his tools and sitting on a stool, the Smith drew on a quart flagon of something beery and looked across the green.

Jordan let him have his break, said nothing but just watched the goings-on as well.

A youngster was harassing a few geese, trying to drive them into the crowd to create mayhem. He was not succeeding, as the geese were more skittish of the crowd than the stripling.

Two young brats were chasing one another among the festival-goers pell-mell, weaving in and out, laughing constantly and falling over frequently.

By some complicated rules he couldn't fathom, the quarry and the hunter would change roles periodically.

In any case the adults were quite tolerant, laughing along with them.

A juggler was wandering among the stalls, snagging items and juggling them. First apples then pumpkins then handkerchiefs, really quite skillfully.

At one point the juggler began to take a bite of an apple each time it came around until she was juggling two apples and an apple core.

She finished by catching both apples and knocking the core with one foot to the geese, who fell upon it squabbling as geese will. The crowd laughed and applauded.

The tradesman didn't seem to mind the loss of the apple; in any case nothing was said to the juggler who bowed and moved on to another cart.

Some of the audience turned into customers when the show ended which was probably why the juggler was there, hired to keep the crowd entertained and spending their coppers.

Jordan was startled from his reverie by the Smith.

"Whatcha need?"

Taciturn as before, Jordan replied in kind.

"Mason's hammer. Rebuilding an old wall, dressing some stone. Stones long as my foot and a hands breadth thick."

The Smith nodded, stood carefully as if sore. Going into the smithy he soon returned with a blank, a chunk of iron large as Jordan's palm with a hole through.

"3 pound, straight peen?"

Jordan thought that sounded about right.

"Half a shilling?"

That was the going rate, and Jordan had no objection.

Back to the forge, the Smith dropped the chunk of iron directly into the center of the coals. Looking pointedly at Jordan, he stirred himself to take the bellows again, started his slow steady rhythm.

Shifting the iron with a prod to even out the heat, the Smith soon had one end fairly hot.

At the anvil he began shaping it longer and narrower, and flattening one end - the 'straight peen' would be a wedged-shaped striking surface made to break stone cleanly along a line.

It took three heats and hammerings until the Smith was satisfied. One more to re-shape the hole with a hard tapered steel rod. Dropping it into the quenching bucket, the steam rose furiously from the hefty chunk. There was a lot of heat to steam away.

Sitting again, the Smith took up his flagon and turned to gaze at the crowd.

A merry lass was circulating among the stalls, chatting companionably to each trader and whomever should be standing nearby.

Clearly a confident woman, with dark hair and curiously bright eyes, she cut a sweet figure among the fairgoers.

Jordan saw the Smith following her with his eyes. Guessing at the interest, he ventured an innocent comment.

"A happy crew out today! So cheerful and friendly! Particularly that bonnie lass."

He let that comment sit there a while.

The Smith stirred "Candice."

So now he knew; the Smith had a crush. That was as expressive as he got Jordan supposed.

Well it would take a bit more to catch the attention of a woman like that.

"I'll be back!" Jordan announced. The Smith grunted.

Circulating among the fairgoers, he contrived to end up at the same stall as Candice. It was sweets of various colors, simple stuff of rock sugar and maybe a little herbal flavor.

"I'm partial to the mint!" Jordan announced to nobody in particular.

Candice looked up from perusing the jars.

"Too sharp for me! I favor Rowanberry. Just a hint of bite.."

"...and a mellow finish!" Jordan completed for her.

Candice smiled, looked a Jordan curiously.

"Have we met?"

"No ma'am, and sorry to be so forward. I'm from down past the next village, in the glen."

He did not elaborate, as some might find his association with the Crone worrisome.

She nodded, offered "Candice" and held out her hand.

He took it, returned "Jordan. At your service!"

She smiled, took her hand back. She ventured a neutral comment.

"How are you finding the fair?"

"Oh much grander than I'm used to. This is a bustling village, with many trades and skills! I'm just here to gather necessaries for my work."

"So you weren't expecting to be mobbed by a holiday crowd?"

"It's not a burden. Merry children, cheerful decorations, fine goods such as these sweets. I'm enjoying myself."

He decided to take the step.

"I've been deputized to buy you a farthing of sweets, by that fellow over there." He pointed at the Smith, who was glowering at Jordan. Clearly upset he'd selected Candice to chat up, the girl he'd set his sights on.

Candice looked slyly without turning. "Gregor? The Smith? Really! I'd not have guessed he would be so bold."

"Oh Gregor's a bold one! But loath to press himself upon a decent girl without leave.

"So, my charter. Which sweet would you prefer? The Rowanberry I imagine?"

She nodded, smiling just a little. Jordan took the nod as his cue.

"Good sir! A farthing of sweets for the lady!" Jordan offered the coin, got a paper twist of Rowanberry candy in return, offered it to Candice.

Candice took it, unwrapped the paper, popped a pinkish rock into her mouth. Grinned at Jordan.

"Delicious!"

She turned in the direction of the Smith, raised the packet in salute, nodded her thanks with a pretty smile.

Gregor stood gape-mouthed, clueless to what had just happened. He'd been invisible to Candice one moment, and receiving her smile and thanks the next.

Jordan gave her a parting wave, wished her the happiness of the fair, and made his way back to Gregor.

Gregor was staring after Candice when he got to the smithy. Candice had continued to another tradesman, was fingering fine scarves in gay colors.

He broke his gaze, turned to Jordan.

"What..." he was speechless.

"Gregor, it's best to say something when you favor a girl. She's not to know otherwise! Can't read your mind like a carnival mystic!

"So now you have to go over to her, ask her how she's liked the sweets or some such."

His look turned to panic.

"I can't! I don't have anything to say!"

"Then say nothing! Ask her simple questions about the day or the fair or the wares being hawked.

And listen to her answers! Let her talk! It's not difficult!"

Clearly Gregor didn't agree.

"I...I have to work."

"Mine was your last commission. Everyone is enjoying the day now.

"You can take a moment, walk over to the next stall, wait for Candice to arrive and ask about the sweets.

"I said they were from you."

Gregor looked unsure.

"Or you can let every other young blood at the fair entertain her with their silly jokes and clever comments. You decide."

Indeed two young men were currently dogging her, just hanging around, following her from stall to stall but like Gregor too timid to talk.

That decided it for him. He put down the flagon, wiped his hands on his apron, scanned the crowd and lumbered off toward the pie stall - the next one Candice would come by.

Jordan felt he'd done a good deed today. However it turned out, Gregor had taken the first step.

Thinking what was next for himself, he saw he'd made an error in planning. He wanted the mason's hammer ground, and the Smith was now otherwise occupied.

He couldn't just take it unfinished, especially since he'd not yet paid!

Well, no matter. It would be simple to occupy himself among the fairgoers and townspeople. Those sweets had looked wonderful. Jordan's diet so rarely ventured so far as sweets.

But his stomach growled, reminding him that lunchtime was near. It would take something more substantial to quell that growl.

Remembering the last time he'd been here, he wandered off looking for the small inn that'd fed him before.

He soon found it, crowded with people. The tables were packed, the landlady wore a harried expression, carrying beer and stew back and forth.

She had a young lad to pick up after folks and a washtub set up behind the kitchen for bowls and flagons. The fellow could barely keep up, the tub full and his arms laden with more crockery.

Jordan gave that up as hopeless.

A pie it would have to be!

He arrived at the stall just as Gregor walked off beside Candice. She was talking at length about scarves, and he was nodding and smiling a goofy smile.

"What for a pie, good pie-man?" Jordan asked in a fine humor.

"A penny for a half-pie and a half-wineskin! A good lunch, you won't find better!"

Jordon thought that likely. Pointing at a porkpie that looked a little larger than the rest, the pie-man deftly halved it with a short pastry knife, handed it over.

Jordan juggled his half-pie, fumbled for his penny, traded it for a thin wineskin.

Standing to one side, he alternated bites of pie with draughts of wine. It was clearly sack - wine cut with water and ginger. Jordan didn't mind as it was a little early in the day for strong drink.

And getting hotter. The ginger wine tasted cool and refreshing.

The pie was still warm, succulent with more turnip than pork but spiced generously. And it filled the empty gap in his stomach.

Once the skin was drained he handed it back, for the pie-man to dunk in a bucket to rinse for the next customer.

Nibbling at the last piece of crust and licking his fingers, he wandered off toward the back of the vendors, determined to examine their carts and gear.

He was still thinking he'd need a cart himself eventually, and was interested in reviewing the options for wheel, load bearing joint and methods of drafting.