The Debtors’ Conspiracy In the days of lace-ruffles, perukes, and brocade Brown Bess was a partner whom none could despise – An out-spoken, flinty-lipped, brazen-faced jade, With a habit of looking men straight in the eyes – At Blenheim and Ramillies, fops would confess They were pierced to the heart by the charms of Brown Bess. —Rudyard Kipling, "Brown Bess," 1911 Chapter 1. The Pursuit of Desire. “How fareth I?” You ask. Not so well, the horse is tiring and the kings’ guards are closing in. I have already shot two with my bow as they were getting a little too close for my comfort. Who would have thought stealing one tiny silver locket would have raised His Highness’s ire to the point of wanting to have meek little ‘me’ of all people slain.” I almost smiled at that thought. The climb to get into His Highnesses’ Summer Home was easy, scaling the wall near the kitchens then crossing the shingle roof to drop lightly behind the dirty moss-encrusted wash-trough. “Dinner is served,” I remember hearing faintly, as I crept quietly to the servant’s entrance. In my black trunk hose and cloak, wide brimmed low-crowned, ostrich plume bedecked hat pulled low across my masked face, I am almost invisible in the moon-lit shadows behind the shrub beside the door. Glancing left and right, I slip silently into the hall, following the scent of recent cooked food. Gliding up a long staircase, my soft dancers’ shoes, noiseless on the burnished timber floors, arrow nocked and ready, I follow my instincts to where I know my goal lies. On finding the study, no one is about so I float like an insubstantial wisp of smoke, wafting into the room silently. Opening the desk was easy: a deft twist with the spear-pointed dirk I carry had the drawer open in seconds. “It’s not here,” I think. “There was supposed to be a small metal chest with property deeds, notes of debt and similar in here.” The realisation hits me like a thunderclap. The only item in the drawer is a small silver locket, the locket in question mind you, so I pocket it and turn to leave. I am barely into the shadows in the hallway when a courtier rounds the far corner and enters the study. I break for the stairs, taking two at a time to ground level where I am confronted with two of the King’s Household Guards. “Halt!” The larger of the two King’s Guards bark at me. “How rude,” I reply briskly, my arrow taking him in the heart and he falls backwards with a surprised and pained look on his face to land on his back with a heavy thud. Casting my bow aside, I draw my blade. I see the other guard clearly in the moonlight for a brief second, “my heavens. You’re just a lad.” I exclaim in my surprise. He takes a hurried swing with his sword, I easily parry, my blade fast-rising afterwards to deliver a flat-edge slap to the side of his head. He collapses like a house of cards unmoving and unconscious beside his dying and gurgling companion. I glance down at the arrow be-struck, soon-to-be corpse, pull my bloodied arrow free as the guard spasms in his death throes, glance at the undamaged metal-tip and replace it in my quiver. “A gentleman would have said, ‘please’.” I inform the guard as to his lack of manners as death claims his mortal soul. I sheath my sword, retrieve my bow, sling it over my shoulder and make a dash for the door. The time has come to depart instanter. Exiting the way I entered, a glance outside reveals no one in sight so I make a break for the side of the kitchen, my long legs cover the ground in fast almost soundless strides. I take a running leap off the water-trough to catch the roof guttering and scramble over the edge. “Up there,” a voice in the darkness yells so I set off for the wall, crouching low and trying not to present them with a target. An arbalester bolt smacks the chimney to my right, shattering on impact and spraying me with stone chips. “Ouch,” hand rising to what I know is a sharp splinter in my soft cheek. In a blur of motion, I stop, turn, draw, aim and ‘twang’. “Argh,” greets the echo of the shot, but I was already moving before my fast-fired arrow struck, whomever it was that it struck. The din of shouts and commotion within the walls of His Highness’s Summer Mansion is rising. Re-slinging my bow across my back for ease of movement, I scramble over the battlements till I am hanging on by my arms, then drop lightly to the ground. The only sounds I could hear diminishing behind me as I raced for the forested glade where I had tethered my horse. The barked commands I could still hear faintly through the trees appeared to becoming organised. I vaulted into the saddle, pulled the reins free and set my much-trusted chestnut gelding to flight. That was a league behind and twenty minutes ago. Head down, maintaining my balance, I feel the first of my mount's shivers in my thighs, "Sorry old boy," I pant softly, urging him to better pace but knowing he is approaching the limits of his stamina. He’s snorting in time with hoof-beats, flanks covered in foam and I know from long experience, another mile or two and his distress will slow him down. Turning, I draw, aim and release an arrow, the shaft ricochets off the guard captain's shield in a flash of sparks, Eyes front and I reach beside my left leg where I hung my quiver, drawing another arrow and looking ahead to judge when the next suitable place to shoot may be. Pounding across a narrow wooden bridge, an intersection looms ahead in the moonlight. Turning once more, aim and shoot; the guard Captain tumbled slowly from his horse, drilled through the neck with my cloth-yard shaft to land bleeding, gasping and dying in the soft English grass. Head down and eyes front again, an arrow whistles past over my head. “The lads are improving,” I think to myself. I know I only have three shafts left. “Bring more next time,” I softly suggest to myself, never ever considering the possibility there may not be a next time. Choosing the wider road to the right as it curves in the same direction I wish to travel, I see the chance for another shot. Glancing back, I try to judge when I will be lost to their view as the hard-packed well-travelled surface curves around a craggy butte. Turn, aim and: A sudden thunder of hooves flashes past me going the other way on my blind side. That was the first real fright I had had on this escapade and my aim shifted, centred on the mystery rider’s back. “Mercenary,” The thought flashes briefly in my mind and curiosity grows. These battle-hardened veterans sell their sword to whoever has gold to pay. But once bought, their loyalty to their employer is until victory proclaimed, or death doth claim. I see a tall, broad-shouldered, figure mounted on huge black stallion, the moonlight reflecting off his armour and chain mail, shining broadsword held high. Something stayed my hand and I eased the draw, I hadn’t heard him coming and that fearsome looking sword in that giant’s hands could have carved my horse in two as he flashed by, let alone dainty me. As I still sit here, unharmed, one must assume I am not the intent of his haste. Reining around in a half-circle to a halt, I am in time to see this giant of a man collide, there was no better description, collide with the remaining guards, de-horsing two in the initial impact. That magnificent sword he wields with such ease descends in a whistling arc, slicing through armour, mail and man within. I am amazed to see his stallion’s strong jaws, clamp onto a guard’s arm, dragging the man screaming from his saddle and then delivering a flashing kick from a rear hoof that shattered the man’s skull as the momentum of the bold charge carried man and beast clear. Whirling the stallion around, fore-hooves pawing the sky, he charged the survivors of his first onslaught and I had the pleasure to watch a brutal display of how these mercenaries earned such a fearsome reputation. With consummate ease, his shining blade, drawing crimson and silver arcs in the moonlight, gashed and shattered bodies. The guards began falling to his deft strokes like a field of wheat falls to the reaver. For the briefest of moments, I almost felt sorry for the King’s men until I reminded myself of my most likely fate had I been caught, Heaven forbid the thought. Sparks flew like lightening, blows rolled like thunder and those remaining guards stood not a chance against his onslaught; it is no sight for the meek or faint-of-heart,
“T’is but a good thing I am not meek or faint-of-heart,” I muse softly to myself with an inner smile at a personal memory, eyes fixed on the spectacle of a small field covered with the fallen. Riding at a slow walk back towards me, I cannot recall ever seeing a more impressive specimen of a man before. Long dishevelled, mattered, dark blonde hair, bound about the forehead with a broad band of coarse-weave material. I noticed in the fight, a, long braided pony tail hung down his back, wrapped with strips of leather. Biceps as large as my legs, and legs, thicker than my waist, barrel-chested and looking like some ogre from mythology returned to the world of men, this was a fighting man to be reckoned with. Stopping two horse lengths away from me, his eyes glancing from mine to the nocked but not drawn bow in my hands, his blade still red-spotting the ground, he spoke. “Here’s me,” he begins in a deep baritone. “A more peace-loving and good humoured man, yer’d travel ten counties to find the better of, forced to go against me gentle and loving nature and commit murder.” His eyes are both holding my stare and appraising me. “I hope the blood isn’t off-putting, ‘My Lady’. That deep baritone holds sarcasm in his tone this time, apparently and his gentlemanly bow, little more than a nod. “The sight of a few dead King’s men worries me naught.” I muse “I have slain a score that number, aye, some with a dagger to the heart, watching their eyes fill with death as mortal life flees.” I inform my rescuer but he cannot know of my hatred as the last thing the targets of my wrath see in this mortal world is my smiling face. “Handsome,” I think, watching his cautious approach, “In an oafish, rugged sort of way.” A few scars mar, what would have been a handsome young face, but now hardened by time and the elements. Watching him dismount and the way his eyes never left mine tells much about the man. “Bold, yet cautious,” I think, “both admirable traits in a man.” Lifting my shapely black hose-covered leg over the gelding’s neck, I drop lightly to the ground, slinging my bow over my shoulder as I do. I ease my blade free of its scabbard, letting it hang low, beside my leg and stand my ground. “Forsooth,” my mind exclaims, but my emotional control is experienced enough not the give any sign of my surprise. Seated astride, I could plainly see that he was a big man. Standing on the ground and even though I am considered tall for a woman, I doubted the top of my head would reach his chin. He is a veritable giant among men. “And what would ye have done had I nary arrived, ‘My Lady’?” He asked, that sarcasm I heard before in his usage returning as before, when he mentioned my title, “Run them through with that dainty blade?” he asked, indicating my fine Spanish steel sword. I like my sword. This much-trusted weapon was hand-crafted for me in better days, balanced for my style and had served me well in many a desperate scrape. I held my tongue and remained expressionless. I suddenly realised, I still wore the bandana, pulled down over my nose with embroidered holes so I could see, and worn to retain my identity’s secret. “Three shafts remain in yer quiver; surely this would have set them fearful and a’running?” He further asked, beginning to irritate me regarding my armament selections. “T’was but a good thing I happened along then, aye ‘My Lady’.” He chuckled this time, the smile almost touching his eyes, his whole frame moving in time with his mirth. “And what gives you the right to deny a lady her pleasures?” I asked, instantly regretting my final word choice. “Pleasure is a two-edged sword.” I remind myself. The mere mention of the word oft-times lays both opportunity and threat at my feet. Many are the times, such a word, spoken in the ear of the wealthy, will return more than limp-lipped kisses and weak questing hands. Lust-driven men rarely consider the tale of my ailing mother may perchance be a fraud. Property, mortgages, jewellery and wealth undreamed of by honest folks have found their way to my possession, all due to careful use of the word when men are at a most vulnerable time, aroused. My leather-gloved hand made a casual wave in the approximate direction of the blood-splattered field. “This little fracas,” ‘fracas’ being the only indication of my knowing that eight men had died there. “T’is merely a woman’s diversion,” I mention casually. “I merely sought escape from the drudge of daily life hereabouts.” I added, as if fleeing and fighting for one’s life was an everyday occurrence, which of course it is, but this oaf knows not of that. “Woulds’t thee deny a lady, dalliance with men of conviction?” I quickly added. “Men of conviction?” This time, the giant belly-laughed for a good ten seconds and on regaining his composure, continued. “Was I to wager, as to whom the conviction would favour, methinke the Old Bailey’s Whigs woulds’t cast a stern glance yer way, ‘My Lady’.” “Are you besmirching my honour, Sir?” I asked, the indignity in my tone apparent to even my ears. “I demand satisfaction, Sir.” Lifting my blade and adopting a stance, the upturned fingers of my left hand beckoning him forward. “Sheath that pretty sticker of yours before you hurt yourself,” the giant orders and takes a step towards me. “I think not,” I disagree. “Sheathed may be my blade’s destiny, half a yard of this fine Spanish steel sheathed in your guts is the most-likely outcome.” “Many have tried, pretty one,” he stretches arms rising, dragging in a deep lungful of air, arms up and out, his sword pointing to the distant stars and my first thought is that someone has dumped an animated mountain before me. “He’s not just a giant, he’s gigantic.” I feel almost insignificant, remembering the ease with which he despatched a half score soldiers. His blade lifts as he approaches. “En-guarde’” I challenge. With blade extended, he enters my killing range, but I wait. I can see it in his eyes, ‘no woman ever was a swordsman.’ He swings a gentle slash, aimed at nothing more than that of determining my level of expertise. Feigning clumsiness, I parry late, the touch of the blades a soft bell, unlike the hammer-on-anvil blows I heard when he was engaged in the recent bloodletting. This time, he feints high, but I see the change of balance in his stance, allow the feint, then when he attempts the follow-through, I half-turn, throw a feint of my own, and with a brief flash of sparks, his heavy sword sails over a nearby bush and lands in the dirt, point-first. Regaining my balance, I glide left a fast step closer and my flashing blade finishes against his throat. “Yield,” I bark, small triumph in my voice. I knew a man like him would never consider a woman would possess the skill with a blade that the countless hours of tuition from master swordsmen had provided me and those master’s had honed my skills sharp. Continuous usage of said skill over these five years just gone, with life and limb at stake on a continuous basis has raised my talent yet higher still. What happened next is the greatest shock I have received in a long time. His hand snaps out and grabs my sword end, his hand apparently untroubled by razor sharp edges.
“Forsooth Woman,” He laughs softly at my reaction to his fast-done move and begins easing my blade slowly away from his throat with his big hand’s firm but relentless pressure. Try as I might, I can neither pull my blade towards me nor push it away and attempting to twist it free achieves nothing more than making me realise I am defenceless save for dirk and dagger. Somehow, looking up into his grim face, I doubt either of those weapons would suffice to lay this gargantuan man low. “Is this to be yer due for slaying these rogues for yerself, ‘My Lady’?” He asks, surprising me with a wink that accompanied his words. Before I can think up a suitable retort, a soft whistle leaves his lips, bringing the biggest, blackest, meanest-looking horse I have ever seen in my sweet young life, walking to nuzzle his outstretched hand. “Nary mind him My Lady.” His words begin, but for the first time since despatching the soldiers, he looks away from me and at the horse. Those hands, so big and so menacing, move across the animal’s sleek neck in a manner so gentle, I have trouble consoling the reality from the imagined. “This is Achilles, the most cross-grained, ill-tempered, stubborn creature that ever drew breath.” He introduces the animal, a magnificent seventeen-hand fighting-man’s destrier and I admit, the pair are suited to each other, big, coarse-grained and fierce. “And who might you be?” I asked, softened by the tender display of genuine affection between man and animal. “Some call me one thing, some another.” The giant replied laconically, his eyes and hands caressing the stallion, obviously checking for possible injury. Checking the far side of the horse I noticed that it almost took an object horse-sized to conceal him. Popping up, he continued “mostly they call me when trouble is about.” “I can see why, my good man” I replied with a soft laugh, softening to this ferocious warrior. I realise now, as a professional fighting man, seeing what at first glance was a ‘lady-in-distress’, he would hope a monetary reward as befitting his chosen profession would be offered upon successful conclusion by said lady. “Lucretius, Ma’am, at thy service.” What he did then may possibly have been confused for a bow by the unknowledgeable, but I smiled as a lady should at his sincere attempt. “T’is but a name, My Lady; Luke if yerself prefers.” Doffing my hat, the bandanna coming off at the same time, a shake of my head reveals my hidden long blonde hair. For some reason, the sudden inhale of a short breath by the brute at the appearance of my hair was rather pleasing to my ears. What before had been naught but a black clad silhouette with a feminine-sounding voice in the shadowy moonlight was now, blatantly obviously a woman, “a rather beautiful one at that.” I mused to myself. Heart shaped face, soft white skin, softly tanned by ‘just enough sun’ for the look of youthful health and vitality to radiate from and my full ripe lips complete the picture: ‘lips made for kissing’ as one particular ‘Gentleman’ mentioned to his financial detriment. I now have a name for the brute, Lucretius, but herein rises the dilemma. Do I give the name of the person who would hire him or would the giving the name of the one he would work for be better? Being the holder of both identifiers, no one could make that decision but me. I chose the latter. “Lady Aleese, if I may.” I offered him my ‘working name’ for now, until I knew the intentions of the man before considering the other. “Heard of yerself I have.” The oaf replied but I resisted letting even a twitch of movement onto my expression. He did not react either, save for a low conspitorial smile. ‘That’s odd?’ I think instantly. ‘My ‘work’ is done at the highest levels of society, albeit with the basest of human intentions, deception, seduction, theft and murder; how could this battlefield ogre possibly know of me?” My keen mind races for a likely reason. “Nothing too scandalous, I trust?” I ask enquiringly, slowly turning away so he gets the complete impression of my full breasts and womanly curves, “I do have a reputation to consider.” I asked over my shoulder as I retrieved the reins of my horse. ‘He just murdered to save you.’ My thoughts remind me. A bolt of fear hit me when he grabbed my blade: bare-handed leaving me defenceless, save for the poniard in my waist band, and the spear-pointed dirk hidden in a calf sheath low in the right legging hose. Here I am, knowing I am considered a beautiful and alluring woman, apparently defenceless and helpless, standing an arm’s reach away from a powerful man with obviously powerful emotions, and he calls his horse? “I must be losing my touch.” “Beg Pardon, M’lady?” I must have spoken out loud. “I hear tell, fighting is thirsty work.” I mention, thinking of the White Heather, an inn half a league to the north. The owner is a friend of ‘Lady Aleese’, and had, on several occasions passed along information of great assistance to me. On one occasion, he hid me for a day and a night while Sir Guiliend and his retainers searched for ‘his valuables’ and, in his words, not mine, ‘that blasted thieving damnable slut’, unquote. He obviously was no gentlemen and I often prayed his wife never found out that his coach’s encounter with ruthless highwaymen was in fact, a lie even though, at a glance it appeared almost correct. His coach was involved, the fact the valuables were stolen by the person his coach stopped for gives this part of his statement a rather truthful air. And it is true that a highwayman did do the stealing but here is where the absence of two details changes the whole complexion of the encounter. Firstly, this was no roadside use of force and everything from that moment the coach stopped and I hopped inside was done willingly without duress. The actual location of the robbery was a boudoir and the thief was in actual fact a highway-woman; me, the Lady Aleese.
I prefer no innocent blood be spilled in my self-appointed tasks but on occasion, fate presents me the opportunity to repay those who trampled the ‘Gainesbury’ name in the mud, a sharp knife becomes the weapon of choice rather than the charms of a beautiful woman’s body. No one paid any attention to the tousle-haired thirteen year-old girl clinging to her Father’s side as the foreclosure notice was read. That tousle-haired girl paid unblinking attention to the ones who cast us into the street though. That was more than ten years ago now but those faces are burned onto my consciousness forevermore. There they will remain until hell’s fires consume the last of the fiends or death’s embrace claims me. Please do not misunderstand me, I do rob coaches, traps, sedans and buggies in the traditional fashion, I have waylaid travellers, hawkers, gentry and affluent masked and armed. I have committed no end of small scale larceny and crime. Lady Aleese costs little to support, a few shillings here and there to cover the expenses of getting to and from the variety of places my desires take me. Maintaining my other, far more peaceful guise is what costs plenty and this is supported by my larcenous pursuits. On several occasions, my larceny has turned up the possessions of others, either illegally or immorally obtained such as mortgage deeds and debtors contracts. Where ever possible, I return these to the rightful owners. I know all too well the feeling they have experienced. This trip was for just such items. His Highness was known to buy at-risk debtors contracts from money lenders to put pressure on people to support his various agendas. I had learned the location and contents of the chest that was supposed to be in the desk drawer from one of those money-lenders in person on a foray several weeks ago. That yielded the actual existence of the contracts and how they came to be in His Highnesses’ possession but did not yield a location. All that finding that out required was simply to find a man, high in the King’s court with a roving eye. Petty men in high places love bragging to an attentive and very impressed seeming pretty girl, just to make sure we know how important they are. “Women are not very bright or very knowing about such things.” he informed me in his imperious tone. He was sure I would be so thrilled at meeting such an important man, I would go willingly to his bed just for the honour of doing so. I am happy to admit, it is a talent that I use to my unswerving advantage. If Lady Aleese sleeping in the arms of such a man advances the cause of seeing honour and justice restored, one does what one must for the better good. “Aye, M’lady, that it is,” Lucretius replies in a tone that makes me think; the inn may lack sufficient liquid supplies to quench this man’s thirst. “Was I asked, I’d be saying we’d best be elsewhere in case any more of the King’s stout minions make an appearance.” Though spoken in a light-hearted way, his warning was no more than the similar thoughts coursing in my mind. “To horse then, and let us leave the field to scavengers.” I reply in sure tones, my foot finding the stirrup as I speak. Swinging into the saddle, I await the big man’s pleasure. “To the north lies an inn of good repute. Should you be of a mind, perhaps accompany me there. Perchance, a proposition I have in mind may offer employment.” His soft chuckle at the mention of ‘proposition’ cut short when employment was mentioned. I saw the recognition of an opportunity of a different kind than what I know first entered his head, set a sparkle in his eyes. “Proposition eh? As long as the ale is cold and the company pleasant, these ears will listen to any tale.” “Well said, Lucretius.” I laughed, my laugh a sweet song compared to his booming base mirth. “Let us away then, “I quip over my shoulder as I wheel my horse in the direction of intended travel. “I do have one stop to make before the inn and quite useful you may yet prove be.” I mention cryptically thinking of the saddle bags I carry. We ride in silence a while, him a half-length to my rear, and I imagine my rear is the reason for the half-length, perchance he enjoy-eth of the view. He is also demonstrating to me, he understands his place in the scheme of things, a position of trusted subservience. Battle-tried as he obviously is, warrior beyond pale, his position in the field where conflict is resolved would be under the command of a leader. Honour decrees, a leader must lead, even a half-horse-length offers this due. Lucretius, come, ride beside me,” I beckon. “I woulds’t have words e’re we arrive at the inn.” A short three-stride trot puts him alongside before returning to match my canter and glancing across, ‘alongside’ is poor description, ‘above’ would seem a better word choice. With his stallion a short sword taller than mine, and by a similar length, he above me, my direct stare to my right is at his muscled forearm. I feel I am in the stalls, talking up to the dress-circle. “Mercenary, perchance?” I ask, almost sure of his answer. “Aye M’lady,” his reply. “Would thy services be, at present, contracted?” I ask nonchalantly, as if but the idle whim of dull conversation. “To that I woulds’t need truthfully say nay. After that little skirmish in York, I find I must need’s seek opportunity a’fresh.” He replies in an apparently thoughtful tone. I find myself turning to face him at his casual mention of the word ‘skirmish’. Two estates became embroiled in conflict over some perceived insult and a battle lasting three days and two nights ensued. Three and a half score lay fallen at the conclusion of that strife, both estates finishing ruined and bankrupt. “That explains his lack of an employer,” I thought, understanding why now. Both estate owners died in the fighting, leaving the surviving mercenaries with neither employer nor payment. “Word came, His Highness seeks battle pawns. I rode south, curious to see what task was on offer.”
“Perchance, yonder field we left behind put paid to your curiosity then?” He chuckled at that. “Was your word given, an appointment arranged?” I further enquired. “Nay M’lady. I travel un-promised, merely following a hunch.” Had he given his word to attend, only his death or misfortune of the most grievous kind would have seen a rendezvous missed. “He’s not asking why either,” I think. I’m warming to this giant bear of a man. “He knows when to speak, but more importantly, knows when ‘not’ to speak. “At times, a Lady has need of a strong protector.” I mention, remembering the times I had let chance go by, deeming the risk exceeds the reward. “I’d be thinking, that’d be yer husband’s task.” He looks at me this time when he speaks. My conversation to date has been with a man, his far-seeing eyes on everything but me. In the circles I frequent, this is a pleasant but surprising occurrence. Drawing men’s eyes to me yields an equal share to the times when bow, blade and mask serve me in better stead. In fact, with equal shares, romance and robbery, romance offers the lesser risk in most circumstances. I can only imagine what tales wives must hear whence comes the time to account for time and fortune, often both, lost. “He just asked me if I was married.” “Husbands are oft times, shall we say, untrustworthy?” There are far more damned loyal ones who cannot be swayed, no matter the temptation I offer. “This lady’s choice be, parchment, quill,” I pause for two heartbeats before adding, “and gold.” I just offered the big oaf a job. Brutal he may be, terrifying in appearance, full of gusto and his love red conflict apparent, he may even be of barbarian descent, but he has offered respect, rarely found in my experience. He is no lecher. He was even willing to risk life to come to the aid of an unknown woman under dubious circumstances, I already trust him with my life and my honour more than any man I know save ‘Pater’. I chuckle at that thought. “Aye, gold,” he begins, also pausing as I did. “Oft times, the lure of it makes an offer worth considering.” That was not what I expect to hear. What I did expect was a rather brisk acceptance to be followed later with enquiries about details. To hear him ask about the job, albeit in a quite respectful way, so he could decide he wanted to accept it, I had to stifle the urge to bristle with a Lady’s indignity. I just increased the offer, whatever it is that we may agree on. I had made up my mind, and also, I hated loosing especially to a: man. ‘Should we agree,’ I had to remind myself. ‘Lift your aim, girl.” I reminded myself, besides, it was good practice. “The score is, armed, the man took the round. We barter, and in negioations, that damned man has taken the round: again. By my score, that’s two rounds he’s scored against my zero, “forgive me for upcoming sins Father, but I really need to rise to the occasion. “Midnight?” I enquired, and without altering anything he appeared to do or be doing, “half the hour past, a touch more I’d be inclined to think.” His reply sent my eyes ahead seeking a place suitable where I can cease being me, ‘Two mile markers ahead lies the inn’ so the small sign at the crossroads informs Lucretius. I already knew exactly where I was now. The road ahead is oft-travelled by myself on a regular basis, mostly at night. ‘I’d probably get lost in the daytime, truth be told.’ I mused wryly. “Lucretius, ahead on the left is a small grove, we shall stop there; that stop I mentioned previously?” Pausing speaking until I saw his nod, “we’ll be having just a brief delay on our way to that tankard I promised you,” “Aye,” he replies. Apart from the noise of his horse’s hooves, his silence is deafening. His curiosity is there though. My woman’s instincts tell me so. That much I’d stake my life and reputation on and in fact, I am about to. We drew rein and slowed to a halt, Lucretius beckoning me to wait as he slow-walked his horse into the small glade. Now having a fair measure of the man by now, I was not surprised to see, under his left hand holding reins, his right gripped the hilt of his sword. He obviously had no need to draw the fearsome blade and he beckoned me approach, I scanned the area with my eyes as well, and when I did finally look at Lucretius, he nodded. Dismounted, as he walked to take my reins, he lifted my saddlebags off the geldings back and offered it to me. “I believe he is starting to understand.” I thought. “Thank you, Lucretius,” I replied with a grateful and soft smile. As I turned towards the shelter at the rear of the grove, I watched him turn away, the reins of two horses in his left, blade gripped in the right. ‘You’d need an engine of siege to shift him,’ I thought: suddenly, I felt grateful. Many were the times I had done this alone and many were the times I was fearful, it would be a bad time to be surprised. I carried two simple costumes, or guises, one, a peasant girl, the other, that a Lady-in-Waiting. One offered chance to mingle with the gentlefolk, the other made access to and from fine houses easier. In a small recessed nook at the rear of a common roadside glade, a transformation began. My hat and bandanna I fold a certain way, brims against crown, then with the tug of a small lace cord within, I pull the hat closed. It no longer looks like a hat, rather as a clutch purse, cord becoming shoulder strap. Next, my dance shoes, hand crafted by a family friend, a master cobbler of long-standing and they offer sure grip on stirrup, stone and shingle are removed and tucked one in the other to save space in the saddle bags. Black trunk-hose follow, skin tight silk, full-toed and tied at the hip follow and I am left clad in what the good women would call ‘immoral’, waist to thigh bloomers. Goose flesh rises in the chill night air. Again, more black hose joins the discards, my tight-wristed, neck high, laced at the front, double-breasted style blouse. Beneath this and last, a laced-front black cotton undergarment, laced horizontally, snugged up under my breasts and tied to offer support when engaged in activities of a physical nature. Instantly my nipples stand erect in the cool zephyr gently blowing in this brisk early-spring night. I glance towards Lucretius, but he is an unmoving sentinel, save for the head, turning about, listening and watching for any who may seek to approach. That just left me to look through the few trees and across the small crop farmland beyond, A chest-tied strapless bodice came first, soft cotton but of the finest quality to offer warmth. Gay-coloured, the off-the-shoulder puffed short-sleeved blouse followed the undergarment. Removing the simple peasant shoes from the hard-to-find pouch in the saddle bags left room for my dance shoes to fill the space. All these items took up very little of the interior space. All had been crafted to take up less space than similar looking garments, even the final items had too pack in minimal space but there are limits to how far three bulbous petticoats and a peasant dress will squash. Rubbing my breasts with both hands, I’m trying to get my extremely hard nipples to relax a bit. It’s starting to become uncomfortable. Finally, I flick my long blonde locks over my head, by looking between my legs, roll and curl my hair into a flat-looking pad shape resting on my crown, my free hand pulls a curved pin from its slot in the bags and once pinned, makes me look short-haired. Flipping the saddle bags over, the leather cross piece is actually a hidden pocket, disguised to look like a thick pad, as if it may need bear heavier items, padded for sake of the animal. This holds two items, a wig, hair as long as my own, a dark brown, cut a bit scruffy but from one of the finest wig-makers on the Continent and a curious looking hook-shaped piece of leather-wrapped timber. There were pockets and pouches holding string, lace, pins, ribbons, rings, earrings, black dye, in case I ever lost my wig and items for manicure, fine scissors and small mirror for grooming and red rouge and talc, to give me an ‘excited-to-see-you’ look. Three sheets of fine parchment, a truncated quill, several inks in small glass jars, a small wax mould and oil softened wax, useless for seals, but perfect to make duplicates of heraldry found on ring and seal.
I have observed, and rather obviously I might add, ‘one gets invited to more places if one writes one’s own invitations’, right? I reminded myself and many an escapade was simply to make a copy an actual invitation sent by the invitee. My actual self does the attending the ‘soiree’, ‘gala’ and ‘lawn-party’ side of the arrangement. The person I am has never yet been turned away, and in fact, had become one of the more highly sought-after guests at any noble gathering. Lady Aleese had just vanished as well, the insubstantial wisp she had appeared to all to be. All that remains is Evee’, “Pronounced ‘Ee-Vay’, if you please,” a voluptuous brunette, very aware of her alluring feminine charms, her story that of a dark-haired niceguy in her teens, from the continent, background unknown, an orphan, raised in a convent but who rebelled and is out to make friends and have fun. The tale had been told sufficient times, oft times it was hard to believe it was naught but another guise, so convincing was the telling. Evee’ had stood bar in taverns, worked in Gentleman’s establishments, guest houses of greater or lesser repute, even as a quay-side brothel slut, albeit an expensive one, so expensive, only a sailing-master could afford my exclusive services. The cost had been a few whisker-scrapes on bosom and neck, but fifty pounds was fifty pounds, the name of one of the less-scrupulous money-lenders I obtained, I count as being well-worth the intimate times and immoral acts required. I wonder for a brief moment, where that good Captain may be these days. With the small mirror, in the limited moonlight, from what I could see, I appeared to be somewhat presentable; the small scratch on my cheek could be explained as an encounter with a thorn whilst travelling to the inn. After repacking the saddlebags, a search of the area revealed nothing visible forgotten. After straightening my dress, and a hip wiggle to get comfortable, collect the bags and it was now time to introduce Lucretius to Evee’. “Lucretius,” I said in my usual voice. I know he heard me, and I realise he’s taking a longer scrutiny of the road in both directions. Once satisfied, he slow-turned and finally, I had managed to get a reaction. I saw his eyes widen, just a little, his big forehand twitched towards his blade as if ambushed. “Which of course, he just was; two games to one.” I smiled and the next voice he heard was Evee’s. “Lucretius?” “By my stars, M’lady, that’s uncanny.” He replied, the small surprise effect gone and curiosity moving to the forefront. “Uncanny?” My mind blurted silently. ‘I mean to say, ‘uncanny’? ‘Outstanding’ would have been nice. In maintaining Evee’s guise, M’lady’s stylish accent has gone being replaced with a higher pitched twang, “yes Lucretius. It’s me.” The stylish walk of an elegant and refined lady was gone as well replaced with a more aggressive swagger that a woman possessing far looser-morals might display. Skin was there for viewing as well. Shapley shoulders, toned through training and exertion, arms, slender, feminine, but with strength many men would envy. With undergarment adjusted just-so, my already well-shaped breasts are pushed higher, size exaggerated by the laced garment beneath and the deep valley of my cleavage exposed and enhanced. My calves, sleek and firm, a dancers legs and visible from just below knee to well-turned ankle stepped out in a livelier gait. My whole persona had altered; my movements more free-swinging and gay, hands reaching and touching where once were kept in demurely attitude at my sides on poised on my lap; even my soft and feminine laugh was now a hearty cackle. “Lucretius, this must seem strange to you,” I began in the more familiar ‘Aleese’ voice. “I am not foolish so much as to think to beguile you. I credit you with having guessed that far more than a girl-on-the-run is at stake here. I also credit with you having guessed an offer of martial employment is to be offered as well. I believe we both knew this was the likely outcome almost from the beginning of our association, far different in manner and approach, but alike in determination, loyalty and respect.” His small nod of acquiescence told me that he had held similar thoughts. “Oft times a guise must be worn and should the terms of an agreement be acceptable, you will soon enough learn why circumstances cast before me make it so.” That got me thinking, what manner of disguise would one select, was Lucretius be the one disguised? Few animated things came instantly to mind with the exception of larger farm beasts: I’d have to give that one some thought. “Give me your arm,” I commanded. And as soon as he did, I clamped on to it like the brazen hussy I portrayed and continued. “We’ll enter as newly-weds, hearty and happy,” and then a thought popped into my head. “Can you be hearty and happy, even just sufficiently to convince someone that the gallows’ pole is not your destination?” Grim of expression is a fine attribute on a battlefield no doubt, but on a honeymoon, something a little less threatening would seem more appropriate. The big man surprised me yet again, scooping me up suddenly in his bear-like hands, twirling me around and then like a roll of thunder, a deep bass laugh rumbled up from deep within his barrel chest. The strength of the man is quite terrifying really. He shifts me at will in his grasp and even my strongest efforts have absolutely no effect. I find myself slung over one giant shoulder and then with an almighty whack, he smacks me as one would an errant child. “Ouch,” I screeched, he really hit me and I know the area in question will now sport a large red hand-shaped mark. Before I could recover my wits, he was placing me back on the ground and stepping back. “Forgive the laying on of me hands M’l.. Evee’, actions speak louder than words and as you may have noticed, I am not a great talker.” Words of curse that a lady of my standing and position would not know, were freely available in Evee’s’ anger. I checked myself before speaking any though. Instead I rubbed my stinging posterior and smiled. “Yes Lurcretius, just like that.” I said. ‘Frightening, just frightening,’ I thought. Three games verses my sole credit, and I still don’t like losing. “Evee’” Lucretius spoke: he actually initiated a dialogue this time. “I understand the happiness of a husband; I buried a wife.” For the briefest of moments, I wanted to hold this hurt and wounded bear. I knew we already had an understanding, if not an actual agreement. In a very short time, we could well be forced by circumstance and fate to rely on each other. By actually stepping forward, looking up into those far-seeing eyes, almost of their own accord, my arms began to offer that embrace, I wanted to give. Emotions flashed like sparkles in a pond in his eyes and I know that one thousand and more memories stood boldly at the forefront of his view. More than anything, I was showing him that as much as I was going to have to trust him, he had mine as well. Then I realised with a start, even my long slender arms did not reach all the way around this gargantuan man. Even with what I knew now filled his heart, his arms could never return that embrace. Why that saddened me, I will think more on this another time. The coarse woven sash Evee’ wears about her midriff has a slot that accepts and conceals the blade from my ankle sheath. But as far as armament went, that solitary blade was my sole defence, save that with which I was born. The now cloth-wrapped sword I tie to the cantle with leather thongs, hoist the saddlebags onto the horses back and walk around to the off-side. Here, a piece of decorative leather under the stirrup and the stirrup are removed and the stirrup is also cloth-wrapped and tied together with the sword. Taking up the leather-wrapped hook-shaped piece, I loosened a buckle at the foremost part of the off-side of the saddle, the wooden piece inserted in a slot and attached, the buckle re-tensioned and I tested it by hanging from it briefly. The saddle was now effectively a side-saddle, such as a lady might use or as would a bride choose as transport to a honeymoon. The unbuckled flap from the near-side, shared a buckle with the one on the right, extending the protection a lady’s dress might need to avoid staining on sweaty horse flanks. Last, I take up my bow and secure it the unencumbered near side for ease of access, quiver hanging from saddlebow, I show Lucretius how to assist a lady in mounting a saddle designed specifically for female rider, and after a few moments while he mounted, I lead off towards the Inn of the White Heather.
This was so good. I absolutely loved it! I love how sarcastic he is, how cocky he comes off and yet at the end find myself going "aww what a charmer" after helping Lucretius. Love. Love. Well done!
Would you like chapter 2? I best warn you, it does start to get a bit sexual. This is a writer's cunning ploy to get the readers turning pages. Edit: I should probably check how 'sexual' posts on this forum are allowed to be. I'd hate to overstep the mark with my vivid erotica.
Porn might get the guy going but I'd rather excite her. Most girls prefer erotica over porn. (As my 'contact the author' inbox e-mails inform me.)
You're correct. I prefer erotica highly over regular porn, but porn does the job when im too exhausted to use my own imagination.
Now you see why I asked for literature to be included. So far, there is me posting like a loon, 1 slim post/poll about techno (I voted, no (Or I would have had there been that option)) and no art or films. Maybe literature needs its own section?
I couldn't bring myself to be interested enough to read it all through, but I like your language. 10/10 for vocabulary.
Thanks for the compliment. Its been a journey, and there is always further to go. I'm actually self-taught. Having failed English at high school, my old English teacher must be turning over in her grave. One thing she always said has stuck with me my whole life. Language is what separates humans from the lower life forms. How well it is utilised defines how great the separation. That is not meant as a critique, its simply a personal motivator. Above my desk hangs a plaque, and it serves the same purpose, motivation. Success flourishes in perseverance, ceaseless, restless perseverance. Baron Manfred Von Richthoven. EDIT: I still haven't heard about what level of erotica is permitted here hence the lack of a follow-up post with chapter two.
