Lindovor sat on the edge of the small bed and looked around the room. It was close quarters, more like a hunter's shed than a cottage. The bandages that had been wound around his head had been removed that morning, and while the echo of an ache remained at the back of his head the world remained steady to his gaze. The man called Wil Carver leaned against the doorpost, regarding him with a disapproving crease in his brow.
"'Tis too soon. Yer not fit enough..."
"I'm fine. I've taken your bed for too long."
The lanky young man with shaggy locks shrugged his shoulders.
"I've rested well enough, "
Lindovor carefully rose to his feet and picked up his shirt from the foot of the bed.
A leather-bound tome of parchments lay on the small table placed in the corner of the small room. Lindovor stared at it as he balanced unsteadily on his feet and slowly pulled on his doublet.
"What is that?" he asked.
The lanky young man who leaned against the doorway watching him answered,
" She left it fer ye...," the carpenter moved a shaggy lock from in front of his eyes. "Tak' care now...go slow. Yer bandages only jus' come off..."
Lindovor scoffed, but put a hand back to steady himself with the bedpost. Wilbe Carver made one step forward, then stopped as he saw the man regain his balance.
"Yer welcome t'stay here. There's no rush.."
"I've been here long enough....Where have you slept all these nights, anyway?"
Carver closed his lips stubbornly but couldn't help glancing at the small, wooden chair that stood by the fireplace.
Lindovor smirked, "I thought as much..." And he reached first for his belt and scrip, then for his cloak and lute. Walking over to the table, he placed his hand upon the leather binding. Lifting the cover, he saw a parchment written in a neat, scholarly hand.
"They be yer father's writings, Milady said."
Strange that the rough young man would refer to the whispering old woman in such terms. Lindovor looked more closely at the writing. He saw the words, " Ramas Echor" , "scouting party"... It seemed to be a journal of sorts.
Lindovor closed the tome's bindings once more.
"My father?"
"Aye"
"She left it fer ye t'read...," the carpenter moved a shaggy lock from in front of his eyes.
Lindovor once again put a hand out to steady himself, waiting a moment to assure himself of his legs' strength. Tucking the leather bundle under his arm, he reached into the scrip tied to his belt and took out a piece of gold, extending his arm and offering the coin to the young carpenter. Wilbe raised an eyebrow.
"Nay, keep yer gold....ye owe me naught."
Lindovor kept his arm extended, though his brow darkened with displeasure. The lanky carpenter gave him an arch look under his shaggy locks.
"So the sayin's true then: 'tis easier for a goose t' swallow a hammer than a noble t' swallow his pride..." he said, leaning against the doorpost with his arms crossed.
Lindovor reddened, then put the gold coin back in his money bag. Drawing himself up, he gave the young man a formal, courtly bow.
"Thank you for all you have done for me."
Wil Carver grinned, "Yer most welcome"
Lindovor started slowly for the door. "So, the Warhorse, then?"
"Aye," said Wilbe Carver. "Just up t'hill..."
*
__
*tracing based upon the sign for "The Black Horse" Pub.
