Lady Celina

Morgana led him back to a sheltered water worn gully, where she gathered a few scattered twigs as kindling. Then with her staff held close to hide the heat strike, she quickly started a fire. Pulling a pot from her pack and filling it from the stream, she set it to boil while she examined the hand.

The skin was dirty, and with the flesh badly burnt it had already started to fester. Without the use of her abilities, the boy would most certainly lose the use of his hand; though it was far more likely he would sicken and die.

Once the water was boiling, she mixed her usual mixture of herbs and powders to make a smelly poultice, the one she used as a cover for what she really did. Only then did she begin using her other abilities to defeat the infection, and encourage a fresh growth of skin.

 It still took ten days before Bard as he was called, was ready to return to his family, where he proudly took Morgana to start her new life as a healer and wise woman among his people. Morgana was also ready to have words with the father who had held his son’s hand in the fire.

 

JANE.

 

The early years that Jane spent at home were filled with long days playing with her brother Jonathan. Jonathan was two years older than Jane almost to the day, and it seemed that he knew everything, especially how to get into trouble.

He knew the best places to pick blackberries, and how to sneak into the church orchard without being seen. Summers seemed to last forever, and sharing them with Jonathan had only made them better.

Wintertime also held special memories for her; she recalled being pulled on Jonathan’s sledge, or more likely than not pulling his sledge.

At other times she would watch her mother in the warm kitchen, savouring the smells as large and delicious meals were prepared. Christmas memories were of sitting around the fire eating chestnuts, or her mother's Christmas pie.

The spring weather had turned cold and wet, as the ringing blows of a hammer on steel drew Jane like a magnet towards the forge. This was somewhere she was always being told, was no place for a girl.

Standing peering around the door she stared in wonder, seeing the hot coals and the glowing iron taken out of them. Jane watched fascinated as the metal took shape in a shower of fiery sparks.

Her father, who was busy shaping the end of a bar of iron for the Cathedral’s organ loft, became aware of a feeling of being watched. Missing a beat of the hammer he looked towards the door. Seeing the blond-haired head of his youngest daughter peering around the doorpost, he asked.

“Well little Miss, what are you doing here?” Coming further into the Smithy, and watching the rapidly cooling bar of iron her father had been working on, Jane asked.

“What’s tha doing Daa?” Her father having pushed the iron back into the fire, turned to his daughter, and with a disapproving look said.

“If you speak properly I will tell you, now what did you say?”

“I’m sorry Father, but my friends all make fun of me, and it’s just that I forget sometimes.”

“Well you’re five now and long past that common talk. Some day you will find being well spoken will be of a great advantage, so just you remember that. Now what did you ask me?”

“I just wanted to know what you were making, and if I can watch?” Her father studied the long skinny frame of his youngest child, and then turning back to the forge and starting to pump the bellows he said.

“It’s a part for the staircase to the organ loft at the Cathedral, and if you don’t get in the way, yes you may.”

Jane watched, studying every move as her father pumped the bellows and turned the iron in the fire.

“Why do you do that Father?” Jane asked pointing to the bellows.

“To make the fire hotter, fire is like a horse. It needs to breathe if it is to work hard, and the bellows push air into the fire making it burn hotter and stronger.”

Jane watched as the glowing iron was laid on the anvil, and with blows of her father's hammer drawn out to a point. Reheated and twisted into a spiral before being put among the other finished work.

That night lying awake in the bed she shared with three of her older sisters. In her mind Jane relived what she had seen and been told, and to work iron like her father seemed to be the most magical thing in the world. Lying there in the dark, Jane decided that she would be a blacksmith.

The following morning Jane was back sitting in the smithy, watching as her father and his striker Simon loaded the wagon with the finished ironwork ready for Simon to take to Ripon.

Without his striker, Jane’s father started on the numerous small tasks that had been put aside while he finished the heavy iron work for the Cathedral staircase. The little things like hinges for the oak doors, brackets for the torch and candle holders, and many other items.

Jane watched and took it all in, seeing her father struggling to work the bellows and hold the iron in the fire. The way he used his hammer, Jane felt it was like a fist beating the iron into submission, and then gently teasing it into shape. It fascinated her, and she found her fingers itching to help.

As the days lengthened passing from spring into summer, Jane became a useful addition in the smithy. Fetching, carrying and generally helping with the small things that needed doing.

It was towards the end of harvest time. Simon was out, and her father was putting the final touches to several large hooks before finishing for the night.

Seeing her father struggling with the big bellows; and at the same time trying to keep the iron turning in the fire, Jane decided it would be far easier if she worked the bellows and her father worked the iron.

Once the decision had been made there was no stopping her. Jane was off the sack she had been sitting on saying.

“Father I could do that for you.” Her father stopped pumping the bellows and wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he said.

“No Jane I don’t think so, its hard work even for a grown man.” Jane’s face immediately assumed that stubborn look. The look that both he and his wife knew her intention was to do something no matter what, so with a condescending smile her father stepped aside.

Jane as she had seen both her father and Simon do, spat on her hands, and then with both hands she took hold of the arm of the bellows. With a look at her father that said.

‘I told you so.’ Jane pushed down on the arm. Her father wanted to laugh knowing that she probably hadn’t the weight, never mind the strength to push down the arm of the big bellows, but he stood watching as Jane came up onto her toes as she pressed down, and then settled back onto the flat of her feet.

To his amazement, the arm went down and then up as Jane worked the bellows. Watching her he could see it was hard work, but she was working them steady and sure.

After possibly six or seven operations of the bellows, Jane stopped, and wiping her brow just as she had seen her father do, turned and with another. ‘I told you so’ look, she waited for him to take up the part-finished hook.

It was later that night after the children were in bed. John and Wendy were in their own bed when Wendy, who had been worrying about Jane's spending so much time with her father asked.

“Do you think its right for our Jane to spend so much time in the smithy? After all it’s not the kind of thing a girl should be doing.”

John lay silent turning over in his mind what he had seen that afternoon. Until just as Wendy was about to ask if he had heard her, he said.

“How much would you say our Jane weighs?” Wendy puzzled considered the question before replying.

“Well she’s tall for a girl her age, but skinny with it, so possibly a little underweight, why?”

“Would you say our Jane was particularly strong for a girl of her age?”

Wendy turned on her side to look at John as he lay frowning up at the ceiling, and now curious with the question she asked.

“No, why do you ask that?” John turned to face his wife.

“I think I’ve seen the impossible today.” Wendy hearing this and becoming even more puzzled asked.

“What do you mean you’ve seen the impossible?”

“Our Jane worked the large bellows for me this afternoon, and if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I would never have believed it.” Now it was Wendy’s turn to think; could Jane be that heavy? Wendy couldn’t believe it.

“You mean she pushed them down.”

“No, I mean she worked the bellows for me to finish what I was doing. Do you know what I think? I think she could have talent.” Wendy with a shake of her head confidently replied.

“No, Lady Mary would have known. After all she’s seen our Jane often enough when you have spoken to Lord James at church.”

Over the next few weeks John kept an eye on Jane, and finally decided that she was strong for her age but nothing more.

As the weeks passed and the time approached for Jane to start school, she pestered her father into letting her work with some hot iron, and in doing so surprised both Simon and her father how quickly she learned from them.

As the days turned into weeks they both found themselves having to admit that she had a natural ability in the craft. With the months passing, and as Jane became more skilled, her father found that word of his girl apprentice had spread, bringing in extra work from far and wide just to see Jane at work.

It was cold and wet, Jane who having just celebrated her twelfth birthday, and having received as her present her very own leather apron from her mother and father, now wanted to wear it, but it was a Sunday.

Her father may not have been a particularly religious man, but he had a rule. No work on a Sunday. Now feeling bored, she was walking along the beck away from the smithy so as not to be tempted.

In front of her where a group of willows overhung the beck she could hear voices raised in excitement, It was as she drew nearer that she recognised them as belonging to two of her elder brothers. Albert who was five years older than her, and Ernest, who was a year younger than his brother were standing on the bank.

As she came around the willows Jane found Andrew, a boy of seven from the shop in the village knee-deep in the beck, and being kept there by her two brothers who were refusing to let him out.

Jane didn’t know how Andrew had come to be in the water, but seeing her two brothers keeping him there set her temper to boiling.

Jane walking up unnoticed behind Albert pushed him in the back, almost sending him to join Andrew in the beck as she said.

“Don’t you think you’re a little old for bullying a seven-year old?”

Taken by surprise both Albert and Ernest spun around. It was Ernest who recovered first. Pushing his face close to Jane’s, and copying her speech he said.

“Well if it isn’t our little miss high and mighty, all hoity-toity with her posh voice.” Then with a shove he said. “Tak yer sen off afore I push yu in wi’ im.” Jane caught off guard slipped on the muddy bank, catching Albert a dig in the stomach with her elbow as she recovered her balance.

“Watch what yu do yu silly lass.” Albert gasped pushing her back into Ernest, who had just turned to stop Andrew climbing the bank. With Jane bumping into him, Ernest found himself stumbling down the bank to join Andrew in the water. Seeing his brother in the water, Albert grabbed Jane by the collar of her coat saying.

“Look what y dun y silly lass, now thee can go in wi im,” pushing Jane towards the bank's edge.

That was it; Jane bunched her fist and struck with all the strength in her young body. Albert lurched backwards clutching his eye and screaming.

“Yon’s put me eye out…. Yu blinded me.” Struggling up the bank and seeing this Ernest made a grab for Jane. Getting a hold of her shoulder, he pulled her around. Only to receive a right hook under his chin that took his head back with a snap. His knees buckled and down he went not moving.

Beckoning to Andrew, Jane grabbed his hand and dragging him out of the beck she hurried him away, risking a quick look back at her brothers, to see one still laid on the bank and the other on his knees covering his face with his hands.

 

****

 

Jane was looking forward to her thirteenth birthday, as it meant she could leave school and be able to work with her father every day.

After the marriage of three of her sisters, Jane had inherited a bedroom and a bed of her own. She had just climbed into bed when her mother came in. Sitting on the bed her mother said.

“Jane I know how much working with your father means to you, but it will have to stop.”

Jane felt her heart freeze; she could see her mother was serious, though she knew of no reason why her mother should say this. With a throat that had closed she asked.

“Why Mother, father never said anything today?” Her mother sat looking at her hands as she fiddled with the thin eiderdown, and then looking at her daughter she said.

“It has to do with the day you were born.” Jane now sitting up in bed shook her head; it didn’t make sense. Why would something that happened thirteen years ago mean she couldn’t work with her father?

“You were born on the same day as Miss Celina, did you know that?” Jane hadn't, and it still didn’t make any sense to her, but her mother was saying. “It wasn’t just the same day Jane; it was at the same time; and I mean exactly. You and Miss Celina both took your first breaths and cried together just as if it was only one cry.”

Jane, who could still see no reason why this should stop her working in the smithy, listened with a sick feeling as her mother said.

“Not long after you were born, Lord Carvel asked if he and Lady Mary could see you. Well, a Lord and Lady…. I couldn’t say no, and then after seeing you they were so taken with you, that they asked that when your schooling was finished for you to become the companion of their daughter and live at the hall.” This left Jane sick and desperate as she said.

“I can’t mother; I can’t live in the hall. I want to be a blacksmith just like daa.” Jane fell silent, even as she said it she knew she had no choice, and now she said.

“Oh mother, I so wanted to be a blacksmith.” Then knowing in her heart that there was no hope she asked. “Does it have to be Mother?” Her mother with a nod took a quietly sobbing Jane into her arms.

It was on her last morning at home while working in the forge with her father, that she came to ask about a sword that had hung on the wall at the back of the smithy for as long as she could remember.

“Father,” she said pointing at the sword. “Who did that belong to?” Her father looking over his shoulder replied.

“No-one lass.” He reached up and took down the sword. It was in a plain leather scabbard, with the upper scabbard locket and the chape at the scabbard tip both fashioned in brass.

The sword’s pommel capping the hilt and its cross guard were also made in brass, inset with polished black jet, while the grip was bound with black leather. A leather belt with two bolts to hold the scabbard in place was taken down too.

Jane had never seen it taken down before, and as she ran her hands over the leather belt, she found there was no dust or dirt on it. Indeed despite its great age the metal and leather were all as shiny as new.

“Has it belonged to no-one father?” she asked again. Her father held the sheathed sword turning it as he said.

“It was made many years ago by one of my great-great-grandfathers. He made this sword as a test at the end of his time as an apprentice.” Then seeing Jane’s puzzled look he explained.

“It was expected of a journeyman in those far-off days to show he was a capable sword smith. When it was finished the man who had commissioned it never came back to collect it, so it was offered to one of Lord Carvel’s great-great-grandfathers.

It was strange; you see when that Lord Carvel tried to draw the sword he found he couldn’t; yet my great-grandfather could draw it with ease.

Lord Carvel said the sword was waiting for its rightful master, and should remain with its creator until that man arrived.”

Her father snapped the scabbard back onto a beautifully worked leather belt as he said. “It has resisted all attempts to draw it by any other but the head of our family right up to myself.” Taking the sword by the grip, he withdrew it. Jane watched wide-eyed as the blade sparkling and shining in the light from the forge slid from its scabbard.

“So,” her father said. “It hangs there waiting for its true master,” and with that he re-sheathed the blade and replaced the sword and belt back high on the wall. While he did this, Jane's eyes large and round followed his every move.

“Now little miss we had better be started as we have work to do…. that is if you want me to be at your birthday celebration.”

The following day Jane and her mother walked to Brimham Hall, with Jane nervous to the point of almost being sick. It was as they approached the Hall itself that Jane began to feel about two feet tall. Finding herself looking up