Flight From Blithmore (3 page)

Three
-

Oslan Manor

Henry
lived
on Shop Street, the busiest area of the city. Shop Street had the reputation of
selling the finest goods in Richterton, the capitol city of Blithmore. In the
late afternoon, Shop Street often caught the shadow of Germaine Castle looming
in the north. It was clearly visible on this bright, robust day, but Henry set
his sights on a closer goal: the next street up.

Shop Street, lined with modest but lovely homes, was never
quiet from sunup to sundown. Nearly all the houses were attached to a shop,
some even two. Lots of people. Lots of customers. Lots of life. Henry loved
that about the city and the street. At this moment, tinkering sounds from old
Master Franklin’s silver shop played a background noise to his thoughts, where
he practiced again what he would say to Lord Oslan. None of the words in his
head sounded right. He hoped this was because of his nervousness. In the back
of his mind, he heard his father’s voice saying the same words Henry often
repeated to Brandol:
Don’t fret, do the best you can. If you make a mistake,
it can be fixed
. Henry had gotten past his fear of doing bad carpentry, but
he’d never gotten over his fear of Lord Oslan.

As he passed by the silver shop, a blast of hot air hit him
accompanied by a whiff of molten metal sweating out its impurities. It was a
scent he grew up with and knew as well as the difference between pine and oak.
The heat added a fresh layer of perspiration to his forehead, and he mopped it
with his handkerchief.

“The big day, Master Henry?” the croaking voice of Master
Franklin called out. The old silversmith stood in the open door of his shop
wearing the same heavy, stained apron Henry had seen for years. Ever since
Henry could remember, he’d seen Master Franklin perched in that doorway
watching the streets with a hawkish fervor. Being called “Master” by the old
silversmith still took getting used to. Barely twenty-one, Henry’s title of
master was still a novelty.

 “Very big, Master Franklin,” he answered, squinting into
the shop from under his handkerchief. “One of the biggest.”

“I think you look well-dressed for the occasion.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t put that there, you idiot boy!” Franklin screeched
as he turned to check on his apprentices. “Are you trying to burn down my
shop?”

“I—no—I,” a voice inside struggled to answer.

Henry could not remember the boy’s name, but sympathized
with him nonetheless. Master Franklin was a good man, but his wrath came both
swift and strong.

“Stop stammering and clean it up,” the silversmith said.
Then over his shoulder he added, “Good luck, Master Henry!”

Henry picked up his pace, hoping as he did so to outrace
the traces of doubt and doom trailing after him. He passed other stores, each
with their own sounds or smells he could name by heart: a tailoring shop,
several blacksmiths of different specialties, a masonry, and a potter’s shop
where three journeymen sat pumping wheels and shaping clay while the
apprentices assisted them. Most of them knew his name and many called out to
him. He either waved or responded with a short greeting. A sharp clatter came
from a wagon wheel shop, and several wheels rolled out followed by two
apprentices trying to catch them. Henry would have stopped for a minute to help
them gather up the merchandise, but time was his greatest enemy. He rounded the
corner, walked one block north, and turned east up Richterton Lane, the city’s
main street.

The scenery changed at once.

Gone were the shops. Houses, stables, and gardens ruled the
landscape. The homes had two or three more stories with larger tracks of land
between each. Not the finest homes in Richterton—they stood too close to the
guild district for that—but they were finer nonetheless. Henry paid them no
attention. Their luster had worn off long ago. Only the one near the end of the
row concerned him. His heart quickened to a faster beat.

“Don’t be a coward,” he told himself. A trickle of sweat
ran down his nose, and he deftly flicked it away. He turned around and peered
the way he came. The road back home seemed quite welcoming.

Oslan Manor was much smaller than the other houses on the
row and set farther back, as though it had been tucked away so as to not spoil
the grandeur of its neighbors. In Henry’s youth, the blue paint had been much
brighter, but only a trained eye could spot it now. Cracked latticework surrounded
the lower front windows. Tall grasses and weeds sprouted everywhere,
surrounding the withering trees that had once born blossoms and budding fruit
this time of year. This season, Isabelle had only been able to coax one red
rose to grow from the bushes, but the rose stood out proudly among the thorns
and leaves. To the left Henry saw the stables, empty but for one horse, Esmond,
an old gray beast who still clung to his haughty air.

Despite his familiarity with Oslan Manor, Henry felt like a
stranger, or worse, an intruder. He crossed the dry lawns on a bare cobblestone
walk and came to the large front doors made of oak splitting with age and
neglect. Henry had offered more than once to refinish and stain them free of
charge, but to no avail. Taking one of the wolfhead knockers in hand, he
brought it down gently on the metal plate. Almost immediately, the door opened
to reveal an ancient man in a servant’s attire dabbling at his long drooping
nose. Moisture adorned the baggy skin around his eyes and mouth, too, but the
signs of his age failed to conceal the bright hazel shine of life in his
squinting eyes.

“Master Henry,” the servant said in a kind, but low,
breaking voice. “Lord Oslan is in his den. You may meet him there.”

Henry took several deep breaths as he tried to force the
terror out of his bosom. “Thank you, Norbin. Where’s Isabelle?”

“In her room,” Norbin answered, dropping his voice to add,
“but she asked me to tell you that she has every confidence in you today.”

“And Lady Oslan?”

Norbin sighed and gave Henry a grave glance. “In bed. Her
condition continues to worsen.”

He led Henry to the den. Because Norbin’s spine was bending
more and more to the weight of time, his pace rivaled that of a tortoise. Henry
reminded Norbin that he knew the way to the den, but Norbin explained that Lord
Oslan insisted on the formality. The house, unlike the grounds, was well-kept
despite the out-of-style, threadbare furnishings. Henry remembered the time he
and Isabelle had left a trail of greenish mud through the kitchen and dining
room. Lord Oslan’s reaction to the mess had been tempestuous.

Quicker than he wanted, Henry was at the den, a room he had
seen many times. The room stank of old tobacco and vinegar. The mantle at the
hearth was large and ornate with four magnificent portraits hanging above.
Henry guessed a swipe of a finger along the mantle’s length would yield little
dust, if any. The occupants of the portraits were the members of the Oslan
family: Lord and Lady Oslan both appearing stately and well-groomed, their
eldest son James with his stiff, military mannerisms, and their daughter
Isabelle. Even in the portrait, her exquisiteness shone. Henry had always found
it ironic that a person such as Isabelle could come from a man like Lord Oslan.
He glanced again at her portrait and found strength.

The doors shut tightly behind him, leaving him alone with
the master of the household. Lord Oslan sat on the best chair in the house,
wearing his finest clothes, and smoking his favorite pipe. Henry rarely saw him
not smoking. Sunlight shone through the window behind the chair, enveloping
every feature of Lord Oslan’s thin frame in shadow. The tendrils of pipe smoke
curled and clung around his head like a crown of snakes.

“Good afternoon, Henry.” Lord Oslan’s voiced reeked of
overcooked geniality. “Please take a seat.”

Henry sat carefully in the chair closest to Oslan and made
sure to keep his back straight. Oslan looked on with such apathy that Henry
squirmed. When Oslan saw this, he smiled and took another long drag from his
pipe, puffing it out in spurts with his chuckles.

“So why are you here today, Henry?”

“What do you mean, sir?” Henry leaned forward because he
was sure he had not heard properly.

Oslan puffed again. “To what do I owe the incident of your
visit?”

“You don’t know why I’m here?”

Lord Oslan shook his head, causing the smoke to writhe as
if the snakes were now moving. The perspiration gathering under Henry’s arms
and around his neck was thick and hot. He cleared his throat and shifted his
shoulders to create separation between his body and his clothes. Lord Oslan
must be lying, how could he not know?

“
Ahem
, well sir, I admit I came here today under the
assumption that you understood the purpose of our meeting.”

“Please,” Oslan said with a polite smile, “do not hesitate
to tell me.”

Henry cleared his throat again. The house was too quiet,
and Henry had the impression that every ear bent to hear his next words.

His voice dropped to a near whisper, and he shattered the
silence with his fumbling words. “I—I, sir, I have come to—to ask for your hand
in marriage.”

Oslan paused on his pipe for a long moment, holding the
smoke inside his lungs as a smile grew around the stem exposing his short
yellow teeth clamped down on the bit, making a tapping sound. As he began to
laugh it started strong, but ended up in a wheezing cough as the smoke from his
lungs escaped in bursts.

Henry closed his eyes tightly as the noise continued. “What
I—” He swallowed hard and tried again. “What I mean to say is that I wish to
ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

For some reason, when Henry said the words he originally
intended, Lord Oslan’s mirth grew. His dark green eyes widened as his body
convulsed, coughing and laughing and wheezing. Two large veins appeared on his
forehead, converging over the bridge of his nose, and bulging each time he
gasped for air.

“Excuse me,” Oslan choked out, composing himself in a
dignified manner. “I have not been so amused in quite some time.”

Henry tried offering a humoring smile, but it didn’t sit
right, and he knew it. He quickly stopped before another fit of laughter hit
Lord Oslan. He rummaged around the corners of his brain for the eloquent
phrases Ruther had helped him prepare. None of them seemed adequate anymore.
All he could hear was his father’s voice telling him to stop fretting.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Henry said. “My tongue slipped. As you
might guess, I’m all nerves this afternoon.”

Whatever traces of humor were left on Lord Oslan’s face
vanished with a quickness that scared Henry. Oslan took the pipe from his mouth
and held it rigidly. “It’s not only your stammering that amuses me, it’s also
your pretentiousness.”

“My pretentiousness, sir?” Henry repeated the words much
softer than he meant.

“I think I’ve tolerated your vain imaginations long enough.
Look around you, boy. This street isn’t filled with markets. No shops here.
This is a manor, and for far too many years I have permitted you to enter it on
my goodwill.” Lord Oslan’s voice grew in volume as his speech continued. “I am
insulted that you have even considered the possibility of entering my home and
asking for my daughter’s hand in marriage. It should never have even crossed
your mind . . . or hers.”

“Sir, she’s nineteen.”

“I’m not referring to her age, but her station. I care
about my family—the honor of my family. If you cared about my daughter you
would relinquish her from your petty lust and allow her to marry someone of
respect and regard.”

Henry’s face flushed at Lord Oslan’s statement. He did not
know whether to be angry or afraid, but he knew whichever he chose, he could
not respond without emotion getting the better of him.

“Don’t you understand the way things are?” Oslan’s eyes
searched Henry’s face as he clutched his pipe. “You should, given your family’s
. . . history.”

Henry’s cheeks flushed until they burned from heat. “With
all respect, Lord Oslan, and I truly mean with all the respect I have, your
daughter and I are deeply in love.”

Lord Oslan’s eyes blazed at the mention of the word
love
.
He leaned closer and the chair beneath him groaned loudly.

“And what do you think that is? Playing games as children
and whispering through hedges as adolescents? If so, then we are both fools.
You for believing in such frivolous fantasies, and I for allowing myself to
think that giving my daughter an education from a family of rubbish would not
tarnish her view of the world around her.”

Family of rubbish
. Henry closed his eyes to
keep a level head after such an insult. Fury would not serve him here—he knew
that—but what could he possibly say?

“Sir—please—sir, can we leave our station out of the
conversation for now? I would speak to you man to man.”

“Is that a challenge, boy?” Suddenly the pipe snapped in
Oslan’s hands and the stem clattered to the wood floor. His eyes narrowed and
his voice dropped to a visceral growl. “You suggest we set aside our stations.
What kind of preposterous talk is that? Your lesser mind thinks only of lust
and greed and pride. That’s why you want my daughter—to satisfy your every whim
on her female flesh and my family’s coffer!”