All the while Figaro watered his team of horses and the riding horse tied to the wagon, the young woman and the portly older man watched. Figaro sensed rather than saw that their eyes were focussed on him rather than on his wagon or horses. In this he was correct, but his senses were lacking in one significant aspect.
The girl's eyes were accompanied by an expression of shy curiousity, while the older man's eyes were accompanied by an expression of alert defense... and something else. There was a keen probing sharpness barely discernable in his stare. Nonetheless, Figaro increasingly could feel the growing presence of the man as if he were physically nearer with each passing moment, though the portly man did not move from where he stood at all.
So it was with some relief that he finished watering the horses and turned them about so he could return to the road. Once again he passed closely by where the two cottage-dwellers stood. As he approached, the girl shifted her footing so as to place herself closer to the man. A very shy one, thought Figaro. He halted the wagon.
"Greetings, Sir," Figaro said to the portly man. "I wish to thank you for permitting me the use of your creek."
"I did no such thing, young man. Twas the girl who gave permission. Thank her." The older man's frown of disapproval remained where he posted it. Figaro understood the message.
"I am corrected, Sir, without offense. Young lady, it is to you I owe my thanks. You are obviously kinder and far more courteous than I have been pointed out to be."
"You are welcome, Sir... Jester."
"Well, I shall be on my way now. My thanks again," said Figaro. Just as he was about to snap the reins he felt the first drop of rain strike his face. He looked up at the cloud filled sky and realized that this would become a thoroughly soaking rain and not a simple passing shower. The heavens echoed his thoughts by opening assunder and beginning a deluge.
The girl shrieked and dashed for the items hung on hemp rope to dry. At the same time the portly man ran to a wood pile to capture a few logs of dried wood before the rain took the option away. Figaro handed the reins to Fredo, jumped down from the wagon bench and dashed over to help the man with the wood. He grabbed an armfull of wood and carried it into the cottage, standing just inside the doorway waiting to be told where to place the logs. The portly man dropped his load by the galley fireplace and looked up to see Figaro standing in the doorway.
"Well don't stand in the doorway with rain on your back, man! Bring the wood here!" he bellowed at Figaro. The jester didn't hesitate, but hurried over to place the oversized load of wood onto the floor before he dropped it directly on his own toes. Just then, the young woman entered the cottage, her arms loaded with clothing and other drying goods. She too stood in the doorway more so in surprise than anything else at the sight of Figaro standing there.
Again the older man bellowed, "Quit gaping girl and get those things inside. You'll catch your death standing in the doorway like that."
"Yes, sir," she responded haltingly. And she scurried to one of the cottage rooms to deposit her rescued goods.
"Uhhh... I, uhhh... must go back outside, Sir... to my wagon... uhh, my apprentice is... Uhhh, we have to travel to..." Figaro was interrupted by the portly man.
"In this weather? Where do you think you will go? In another 15 minutes the road will be impassable until midday tomorrow. No... You best secure your horses and block the wheels of your wagon. I'm afraid you are going nowhere for the next half day."
"I shall move them from your property first, Sir."
"No. Not necessary. Your wagon is fine where it is. It's far enough from the creek on a rise. It will be fine. But I think your apprentice... the boy I saw... he is more than likely soaked. Best do what I suggest and get him under cover and dry."
"I shall... and thank you." Figaro bowed slightly and turned to hurry outside. The boy was sitting on the wagon seat shivering in the cold rain. Figaro quickly gave Fredo some instructions and together they secured the horses, placed blocks of wood behind the wagon wheels, pulled down the stairs to the back of the wagon and climbed into its cold but dry interior.
They did what they could about finding dry clothes, but the rain outside prevented their building a fire to generate some warmth, nor could they do much about a warm cooked meal, so they each ate a biscuit and waited for the cloud hidden sun to sink below the obscurred horizon and for the coming of the evening.
A soft knock on the wagon's door interrupted their silent thoughts. Figaro opened the door to find the young woman standing there framed by the gray of dusk. She looked at him briefly, then shyly looked aside or at the ground instead of directly at Figaro. "Sir Jester, the master invites you to come inside the cottage for a warm meal." There was an added smudge of ash on her face that must have found its way to her cheek during the course of preparing supper. Figaro found her shyness to be a compelling curiousity, and the ashes on her face something of an amusement though he decided he would say nothing about them.
"Master? Not your father?"
"No, Sir Jester. He is not my father. Will you come inside, you and the boy?"
"Do you invite us as well?" asked Figaro. Fredo squirmed and frowned. His stomach growled telling him what answer should be spoken by Figaro immediately. Why all of this talk. Let's eat!"Yes, though it's not my place to..." Figaro interrupted the girl.
"Then we shall be pleased to accept your invitation," he said. The girl blinked and looked like she was going to say something, but instead she turned about, made her way down the stairs and dashed as quickly as her dainty feet would carry her to the cottage doorway, where she stopped to hold it open for Figaro and the boy who closely followed.
Inside the cottage a fire burned strongly in the fireplace and the modest wood hewn table was set for four. It would be stew that evening the girl announced and would they all like to stand by the the fireplace to warm up before she served. Indeed they would, and that was where the portly old man found them when he re-entered the center of the cottage from a doorway leading to a room Figaro had not noticed before. This time the old man smiled and approached Figaro directly. "I am Roberto del Strego, Sir Jester. Welcome to my cottage." Just then the girl reentered the room carrying a basket filled with warmed bread rolls. "And this is my apprentice, Bianca."
The girl smiled (for the first time) and curtseyed. Figaro smiled back and said, "My name is Figaro. There is no 'Sir' given to me as a birth name. Simply Figaro. This is Fredo, my apprentice. I am indeed a jester, in fact, the appointed jester of Duke Ricco. I am honored to make your acquaintance (he bowed both to Roberto and to Bianca) and to thank you for your hospitality.
"Let's try the stew first, and then you may decide to thank me or not." Roberto gave forth an unexpected hearty laugh as he pointed to the table. "When you are ready, Ceneri..." he said to his apprentice; and she hurried off to place an apron over her skirts and to serve supper.
"Ceneri?" asked Figaro.
"Oh yes, a nickname I gave to Bianca." Roberto pointed to his own face, a twinkle in his eyes. "Haven't you noticed?"
Figaro took a moment trying to draw the inference. "Oh... the ashes."
"Yes, the ashes... always, it seems."
Figaro said nothing, but smiled and nodded as if in agreement. Just then Bianca entered the room with a serving pot to fill from the kettle on the galley fire. Yes, there were the ashes. Two spots on one cheek and one on the other. Smudges they might seem to be, but Figaro saw something else about the face to which they adhered. Beneath the ashes was a young woman's face that one could say was... well is... yes is... pretty.
LANCER
One word deserves another.
[This message has been edited by Lancer (edited 06-03-2002 @ 07:05 PM).]