Trug de Bellême

"Well, I guess it *looks* like a house. Four walls, roof, smoke hole...," William peered at the rough sketch hanging on the wall, tracing over the lines with his long, thin fingers. "I just can't help but feel like you left something out. Any thoughts, apprentice?"
 

"Well, sir, I added in the support beams in the middle this time. And, uh," the young man standing beside William chewed at his lower lip, anxiously looking for his mistake. "I... I don't see anything wrong, sir. It looks like a normal house."

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The pair were standing inside a small lean-to made of lashed together birch saplings. The afternoon sun slanted down behind them, illuminating a few trestle tables, laden with charcoal, sheepskins, and some measuring tools. Outside the shelter, a crew of four men was hard at work, clearing away the last few remaining branches of a recently felled maple tree.

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William lightly cuffed the lad on the back of the head, and pointed at the bottom of the sketch. "Trug, you're never going to learn the trade if you can't pay attention to details. And this is a damn big detail. Branson!"

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A giant of a man turned toward the lean-to and walked over. He was wearing a simple but tough tunic made of woven wool, which was soaked with sweat despite the cool spring weather. He raised a finger to his brow in a lazy salute. "Aye Mister Belleme, what do ya need?"

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"Branson, take a look at this 'normal' house my boy here has drawn. Notice anything odd?"

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Branson looked for barely a moment and gave a light snort. "Hah! Not sure what passes for normal for ya Master Belleme," he said, cocking a thumb at the sheepskin, "but there's no fuckin' door on that thing! Most folks round these parts need one of them!" Still chuckling, he gave Trug a wink, and went back out to supervise the rest of his crew.

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Trug sat down on the low camp stool next to one of the tables, and clapped a hand over his eyes with a groan. He heard his father's footsteps crossing over to him, the leather of his boots creaking softly. William kneeled down and put an arm around his shoulders.

"Now... I know Branson's tutoring hasn't been quite as extensive as yours. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure Branson thinks tutoring is what Jack down at the King's Rest does on his occarina." A slight smile crossed William's lips. "But he still has a good eye for detail. All the teaching in the world won't help you there. You've got - to pay - attention," he chided, tapping Trug's forehead with his knuckles between each syllable, "or you might make a much bigger mistake someday than just leaving a door out. Something that could get people killed. Understand?"

A sullen-looking Trug gave his father a nod. "Yes, sir. Won't happen again, sir."

"Good," William said, standing back up with a wince, "we've still got a few hours left before we start to lose the daylight. Wash that off and try again from the start. I'm going to ride out and see how the lumber crews are doing. When I get back, we'll head over to the camp for some supper." He grabbed a broad-brimmed hat from the table, and turned to leave.

"Father? Can I ask you something, sir?"

William turned back, eyebrows raised. "Yes son, but make it quick, the daylight won't last forever."

"Why the rush, sir? I mean, you've been working for Count Gram for a while, but never anything like this." Trug pointed out across the lot, where scattered stumps littered the landscape for nearly a mile. Besides Branson's crew, 10 others just like his swore, sang and laughed as they worked at clearing a massive section of forest.

"Why the rush? Son, we've got an opportunity here that we will never, ever have a chance to get again. If we can get this settlement built for Count Gram before the snow flies..." A light seemed to kindle in William's eyes as he gazed across the fields, "then I will be able to give you and your mother the lives you deserve." A broad grin creased his face. "Someday, you'll have a town of your own, my lad. And that future is worth the rush."