Chapter Nineteen
The Spinsters
Her cloak whipped behind her as it caught on another gust of wind blowing down the row of tarpaulin-covered stalls.
Eleanor’s stolen bodice was an extra layer over her thin tunic, otherwise she’d have risked flashing the surrounding traders.
It was a shame she wasn’t near the pie sellers.
Eleanor smirked to herself; she was sure she’d get a free pie for flashing them her tits.
This part of the Cloth was prone to changing stallholders, rather than the main clothier and jeweller rows.
Those stalls had their own shops elsewhere in Solas or in Breninsol itself, but they’d found patrons preferring to frequent the markets rather than the shops.
These last few rows worked from their homes and came to sell what they’d been busy making.
Much like the stall Eleanor was veering towards through the organised rows of stallholders.
These traders could have travelled for days or weeks from towns or villages outside of Breninsol and for them to trade for one day could mean taking home a month’s worth of money.
The accents created a curious blend of voices; the more guttural and nasal sounds from the mountains mixed with the over elongated vowels from the coasts.
Eleanor liked that even though they all had their distinct accentual differences, they all formed a similar lilting, rapid cadence.
People only spoke Solacian, although hearing different languages would have been more interesting.
There were no foreigners in the Kingdom of Solas.
The First King’s ancient decree keeping the ports closed remained in place.
A policy of solitude or isolation, depending on who spoke about it.
The ships could only trade on the dockside and sailors were not permitted to come ashore.
Bitterness bit at her heels, as Eleanor recalled her attempt to steal passage on a ship, an attempt thwarted by being forced to stay in this damnable kingdom. She hadn’t wanted adventure like others who’d managed a successful voyage. She had just wanted to leave.
Eleanor shook herself back to the Cloth, in time to narrowly avoid bumping into someone wrapped in a black cloak rushing past. She swore under her breath for her lack of awareness but realised she’d come to the stall she’d been heading towards.
The stall held a wooden table at the front, covered by a plain brown tarpaulin.
Woollen items, weighted with small stones lined the table.
There was small wicker baskets filled with jewelled colours and different weighted woollen skeins.
The wooden stool behind the table was vacant, but as Eleanor approached, the woman at the spinning wheel greeted her with a smile, pulling wool through the wheel.
“Rin gone for pasties?” Eleanor asked, inquiring about the noticeable absence.
“Eleanor,” the spinner greeted her with a smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes but kept an even pumping of her foot on the treadle.
This covered stall was owned and run by sisters, at least that’s what they’d told her, and they made a profitable trade in wool.
The spinsters bought sheep coats, and washed, dried, spun, and dyed the wool into yarn to sell.
Rin usually sat on the little wooden stool tending to the stall, while carding the wool for the wheel, or knitted items for them to sell, while Han was the spinner.
Eleanor didn’t know if those were their full names, but that’s how they’d introduced themselves to her.
“Eleanor,” a young voice echoed.
From under the table, a small brown-haired girl popped up, causing Eleanor to smile down at her. “Hello Haesel.”
The girl’s hair was in a messy bunch, and she gave a cheeky grin, much like another little girl Eleanor knew.
The pair would be firm friends and would get up to all sorts of mischief together.
The girls shared a similar worldly curiosity.
Eleanor’s heart clenched at the thought that they could never meet.
“Mama’s ill,” Haesel replied to Eleanor’s earlier question about Rin’s absence from the stall.
“Oh,” Eleanor took in the strain around Han’s eyes. “I hope she gets better soon.”
Han nodded and gave a smile to match her deep eyes, all the while pushing her foot on the treadle to keep the wheel in motion, while the yarn spun round. “Thank you, we do too.”
“I’m making her this to keep her warm,” Haesel said, raising a ball of cobalt blue yarn and a small set of polished wooden needles in her hands.
“It might take a while to finish,” Eleanor replied.
The short piece of knitting looked as though Haesel had only begun. With a large sigh, Haesel slumped onto the stool, her forehead crinkled as she looked at her knitting as if it’d mightily disappointed her.
“It takes time to craft something with love, Sellie. I know Mama will love it even more knowing you made it,” Han said to soothe Haesel’s upset.
Han’s encouraging words seemed to rally Haesel anew to her knitting project.
“Calendula. Can you get more of it?” Eleanor asked, as she looked over the knitted items on display: mittens, socks, shawls, and blankets, in the same colours as the skeins in the baskets.
“I’ll see what I can get for you next month,” Han replied without looking at her wheel.
The pace and evenness in the wheel’s speed showed her years of practised efficiency.
Han must have been spinning from an early age, maybe as young as her niece, Haesel, as she had no lines on her face, nor had her brown wavy hair lightened in the time Eleanor had known either of the spinsters.
“No sooner?” Eleanor asked. She was keen to replace what she’d used for Lauressa’s black eye. While her herb collection was paltry compared to what she was used to, she made do with the limited supply.
Han shook her head as her foot kept an even up and down action while the wheel kept spinning. “Not with Rin ill.”
Eleanor nodded in understanding. She’d have to be satisfied in waiting, otherwise she’d have to find the flower herself.
Apothecaries were her only other reliable option, as she doubted the manicured noble gardens held any.
But women weren’t healers in the Kingdom of Solas, and if she became too frequent a visitor to the only apothecary she somewhat trusted, the guards would arrest her before she could take a breath outside.
“I’ve forgotten again,” Haesel moaned to her aunt.
Han flicked her eyes towards her spinning wheel and her basket of wool on the floor. “Wait a minute, Sellie.”
Haesel ignored her aunt and came up to the table holding up her knitting. “Can you show me?”
“If…” Eleanor looked at Han, who nodded her permission. “Sure,” she replied to a beaming Haesel.
“She’s right-handed,” Han supplied.
Ducking into the covered stall, Eleanor settled on Haesel’s mother’s stool, positioned the girl between her knees, and re-wound the excessively long yarn.
Eleanor quickly checked the stitching and found a few minor flaws in her knitting, but she didn’t want to disappoint the girl again.
Eleanor held the small needles in each hand, with the cobalt yarn unravelling from the girl’s bag across her body.
“This hand stays still,” Eleanor said, waving her left hand.
“While your right, it does all the work. Got it?”
Haesel nodded.
Eleanor did a few slow stitches for Haesel to watch, but her forehead furrowed in confusion.
“Okay, imagine this needle is your sword,” Eleanor said, shaking her right hand.
Haesel twisted her head around as her copper brown eyes widened. “A sword?”
Eleanor nodded. “Yes, and the wool is your enemy.”
A snort escaped Han, but she kept an even spin on the wheel and an eye on the stall front.
Haesel returned to her yarn with a grin. “Okay.”
“You need to stab them,” Eleanor said, while pushing the needle into the yarn loop behind the stagnant needle.
“Strangle them,” she wrapped the yarn around the needle, “drop the body.” She pushed the needle through to the front of the needle.
“Dump the body out the window,” she finished by pushing the sword up, so the yarn slipped off the stationary needle.
“And same again,” Eleanor said as she started stitching, repeating herself as she made each slow stitch.
Han chuckled as Eleanor continued reciting the words, while slowly going through a few stitches, then Haesel added her smaller hands to the needles.
“Stab them…strangle them…drop the body and…and dump the…body out the window,” Haesel repeated eerily in her much younger voice.
“I swear there’s supposed to be something about a rabbit.” A deep amused voice came from the stall entrance, making her startle at the sudden arrival of the pair of city guards.
They both wore the well-known bronze and beige armoured uniform of the city guard: a bronze breastplate, stamped with the king’s crest, that stopped halfway down their chests, showing a clean long beige tabard, interrupted by a strong thick belt—with another crest on the buckle—which held their tassets in place to cover their thighs and hold their swords.
Bronze armour covered them from their feet to their knees, and padded beige gauntlets covered their hands to their elbows.
Any sign of a guard’s officer ranking was stamped in chevrons on their bronze pauldrons on their shoulders.
“Good afternoon, Eleanor, Han, and Haesel,” the two city guards greeted, setting them at relative ease.
“No. This is my sword now,” Haesel replied adamantly, correcting their rabbit comment.
As both men’s lips tightened in a shared response, Eleanor caught a glimpse of their eyes, identical in their mirrored mirth, gleaming beneath the bronze of their helmets. The guard on the left had three chevrons on his right arm’s pauldrons, identifying which of the pair was Ryland.
“Sergeant Ryland and Becker,” Eleanor greeted.
“Anything I can help you with?” Han asked, ever the trader.