Chapter One: Throp

"Throp!"

Nineteen year old Throp looked up from the pile of hay he was pitching into his wheelbarrow. The early afternoon sun beat down on his bare back and he squinted toward the house. His mother was calling.

“ThrooOOOOOp!”

He speared another small pile of hay with his pitchfork, which he dropped into the rusty wheelbarrow, then pushed the whole thing across the five acres of their land, up to the house where he found her waiting outside. Hazel was a short, stout woman with graying black hair she kept tied in a bun at the back of her head.

“Saddle up Clara for me, would you?” she said. The barn next to the house was small and riddled with holes and rotting planks of wood and housed a single animal, an ancient, ash colored mule. Throp dumped the contents of the wheelbarrow at the mule’s feet and she began to eat languidly as he slung the pack over her back and adjusted it. He helped his mother fill the pack with the pies she baked that morning, each wrapped in a strip of burlap. He leaned in to sniff one and wrinkled his nose.

“Rhubarb mostly,” she said. “But a couple of beets. I saved one for supper.” She smiled and Throp kissed the top of her head.

“Love you,” he said. “Have a good day at market.” Hazel sucked her teeth.

“Actually,” she said. “I’d like you to come with me today.” Throp groaned, his shoulders sagging. “Now now,” Hazel said. “I don’t ask you that often.” It was true. She went to market at least five days a week and only asked him to accompany her once a month at most. He scrambled for an excuse.

“Uh, I was gonna chop some firewood.” Hazel peered around him to the wood pile, which was stacked high against the side of the house. She raised her eyebrows.

“Your mother wants some company,” she said. That did it. Throp sighed.

“Lemme get a shirt,” he said. He stepped inside the small, one-room house and picked up his shirt from his bed, a straw mattress that sat on the floor.

A ferret leaped out at him.

“Agh!” The ferret hit him in the chest and fell to the floor. It tried to dash away, but Throp reached down and caught him by the back end.

“Nib, what are you doing out?” he asked the ferret, who swiped a paw in protest. Nib was solid brown except for his muzzle, which was white and the tip of his tail, which was black. Throp carried Nib to the hutch in the corner of the room. Made of sticks tied together with twine, the hutch housed seven ferrets but Nib was the only one who managed to escape on a regular basis. Throp tossed Nib back inside and tied the door closed tightly.

“And stay in there,” he said sternly.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, then pulled it on. It smelled like ferret musk, but then, everything in the house did. It was also uncomfortably tight. After a series a growth spurts that added six inches to his height and three to his torso and arms, he was left with shirts that cut into his armpits and stretched around his chest and pants that stopped just below his knee. Just one of many reasons he hated venturing into the market.

After harnessing Clara and leading her out of the barn, he and his mother started the half hour walk to the market. The market was situated just inside the inner wall of Larowyn castle. Farmland stretched out on either side of the road and the castle sat on the horizon, growing steadily larger as they walked. They passed by the cluster of small houses and then joined the crowd of people who were streaming into the castle’s outer yard. Throp looked up as they passed through the arched entryway. There hadn’t been a war in Larowyn in over a century and the portcullis was rusted inside its frame. Still, Throp had always been wary of it, believing since he was a child that it would fall as soon as he stepped through and pin his body to the ground. He held his breath and only exhaled once they were inside the courtyard.

The market was busy. Carts and stalls stretched out on either side and villagers were everywhere, trading and haggling with each other. Throp, used to the solitude and silence of his own farm, found it loud and overwhelming.

“Look at this,” his mother said. She pointed to a notice nailed to the wall next to them.

CONTEST it read in large letters at the top. Throp skimmed it, something about “pride of the kingdom” and “physical prowess.”

“Mhmm,” he said, uninterested. His mother stared at the notice for another moment, took Clara’s lead from him and nodded to an empty corner.

“You can look around if you want,” she said. “But meet me back right there.” He nodded and she wandered down the courtyard with Clara, greeting friends and neighbors as she went. Throp had no desire to look around. He had nothing to trade and he feared he would only end up getting lost in the throng. He leaned against the wall in the corner - another notice was nailed there and he looked around, seeing several of them. He settled against the wall and watched the stall across from him. Two young children chased each other around a tired looking women as she haggled over a bag of salt. A wiry man with a thin mustache sat on top of a barrel, filling smaller casks from it. Throp noticed a few castle guards milling around, their light blue tunics standing out against the brown-on-brown clothing worn by most of the villagers in the market.

After a little while, a lyre player made his way over to Throp’s corner and sat down against the wall near him. He started playing a tune, an old folk song that Throp recognized. He didn’t know all the words and this was the first time he had never heard it played on an instrument. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the music, letting it block out the noises of the market. He found himself humming along to the lilting tune until he got to the chorus.

“I heard my love, beyond the hill, her voice it was so clear

‘Long time I have been waiting for the coming of my dear.

Sometimes I am uneasy and troubled in my mind.

Sometimes I think I’ll find my love and tell him to him my mind

And if I should go to my love, my love he will say nay,

If I show to him my boldness, he’ll ne’er love me again.”

A thump at his boot shook Throp from his reverie. A bit of hard bread sat at his foot. He looked up to see a small crowd had gathered around him and the lyre player and he realized he had been singing loud enough to be heard. A few coins littered the ground and the lyre player reached over to retrieve them, then smiled at Throp and looked down at the bread. Red-faced, Throp picked it up, tossed it to the lyre player and quickly took off in the direction his mother went. He found her trading her last pies for a bolt of cloth. Clara’s pack was already full of other goods she had managed to barter. When he approached, she looked up and smiled.

“Bess, you know my Throp,” she said, handing the cloth over to him. Bess, a matronly woman with blonde hair smiled and ever so slightly batted her eyes. Throp reddened again and busied himself with loading up the cloth in Clara’s pack. Another reason he didn’t like going to market.

His mother was finished with her business and they set towards home. She was unusually quiet, her eyes focused far ahead of her as if her mind was somewhere else.

“Good trading today?” Throp eventually asked.

“I think you should enter that contest,” she said.

“Uh, what?” Throp asked, confused. She looked at him as they walked.

“The one on the notice, in the market,” she said. “Did you even read it?” Throp shrugged and Hazel rolled her eyes.

“It’s for the princess,” she explained. “They’re looking for strong man to escort her. For her wedding.” Throp wrinkled his brow.

“To Berabeth?” he said. He knew the teenage princess was betrothed to the prince of Berabeth, the kingdom directly on the other side of the Impassable Mountains. The announcement was made weeks ago and his mother arrived home all atwitter at the news. Throp didn’t care for gossip but his mother loved to share over dinner the information and rumors she picked up at the market.

“No,” she said. “Just to port. She’s taking a ship to somewhere and then a coach to Berabeth. Whoever wins the contest gets to chaperone her.” Throp was still confused.

“Why not just send her with guards?” he asked.

“Maybe they can’t spare them,” she said. Throp thought it was unlikely. Larowyn was mostly peaceful and as far as he could tell, the guards only served to wander the marketplace and quell he occasional disturbance.

“The point,” his mother was saying. “Is the winner also gets quite a lot of money as compensation. We could buy a horse. That would save you so much time on the tilling and carting. You might have time to fix the barn.” A horse would be nice, Throp thought.

“And there’s the prestige,” Hazel added.

“What do I need with prestige?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe help you meet a nice girl,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.

“I already have a nice girl,” he countered and put an arm around her.

“That’s sweet,” she said. “But it’s really time to settle down.” Throp knew that wasn’t what she meant. He was as settled as a person could be. What she wanted was a daughter-in-law to share the sewing duties with and grandchildren to play at her feet while she baked.

They reached the house and Hazel stopped and looked at him, her eyes softening.

“It’s been almost two years since little Maddie got married,” she said gently. “It’s time for you to move on. This could be your chance.” She put her hands in his and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Just think about it.”

They unloaded the packs and took them inside. Nib was on the table, his tiny hands digging into the beet pie that was to be for their supper. Hazel chuckled and Throp groaned.

He stabled Clara and looked around at the worn barn and the old mule who had to come in the house on winter nights to keep from freezing. Prestige he could do without, but money could make quite a difference. Maybe having a proper work horse and a roof that didn’t leak when it rained would keep his mother happy for a while and stave off the nagging to get married. He sighed and headed back into the house.

“Okay,” he said to his mother. “What do I have to do?”

Chapter Two >