I'm at 25% today, so I was going to call this Forging Ahead. I hate puns - but I suddenly have this urge to make the titles look like fish and chip shops or hairdressers. (What is that about? Mind you, I quite like The Merchant of Tennis.) Anyway, research can be fun: and here's me putting an iron in the fire ( See? ) at the Weald & Downland museum. It's helpful for me to get the atmosphere right when I imagine a fictional place, even though the exact smell and temperature can't be literally passed on. But I hope the authenticity makes the work immersive. An extract for my supporters:
The smith rubbed his hands on a sooty piece of sacking and then used it to wipe the sweat off his brow. Both face and hands were left looking more grimed.
'I didn't know you were home,' he said. 'I've had my head in the furnace and banging away on these farm tools all morning. Asa says I'm deaf as a post already.'
‘Are you so old?'
He grinned at her with clean, even teeth. ‘Old enough to know when I’m being baited.'
'Then I'm glad I've brought you nothing to make you more grumpy. This is for the baby. In case she's as sour as her papa.'
Dellingr pretended to cuff her and she ducked, laughing. He regarded the piece of walrus blubber on its stick and frowned.
'It'll get filthy here. Why not give it straight to Asa? She'll be that pleased. It'll keep littl'un quiet, that's for sure. He's on her breast every whip-stitch.'
His fond voice of concern made her sick with jealousy. The soother was only an excuse to be here, feeling safe with him, not visiting his wife and the gaggle of womenfolk come to drool over the baby.
Perhaps it showed on her face.
Dellingr said, 'I expect you're busy, just getting back and that. I'll get the lad to clean himself and take it over. Wrap it up in its cloth again while I fetch him.'
The bellows boy came out to the pump, already stripped to the waist. He threw a bucket of water over his head, which streamed blackness over skin that was as white as a drowned man's. The second bucket revealed red spots and scars where the fire had got the better of him. He stood, shivering, keeping his back turned to Bera. It pleased her that he showed no sign of being beaten. It was comforting to find her trust was well placed. Not many masters failed to strike their boys.
'Dry yourself on this,' said Dellingr.
He threw the lad a sack. The boy made a poor job of it and pulled on his spark-holed smock before he was dry. Bera held out the parcel and he grabbed it and made off.
They were alone.
