|
|
Post by Richard Cabal on Nov 13, 2009 1:36:26 GMT
The mule was too sleepy to put up a fuss as Richard took its halter. It just blinked its droopy eyes and flicked an ear. The small amount of cooking gear they had clanked against each other with the mule's motion. The clanging was loud enough for people out of sight to hear them coming.
Richard's other hand rested on his sword's hilt, angling the sword so he didn't trip over the scabbard. When he had first been made to keep his scabbard on his belt he had often tangled his legs with it. The hills around them blocked the view to Camelot but if the peasant had been telling the truth, they would be there soon enough.
Thinking of Camelot made him cast a side long glance at his companion, Grace. Both of them were in hiding, although his past as a man-at-arms did mean he was not as prolific as his lady companion.
"Are ye in need of a rest?" Richard asked her, knowing full well that she would probably decline. They had been on the road for four seasons and it rankled deeply. His lady should not be trudging around in the dirt with him, pretending to be his serf.
"No one can see us."
|
|
|
|
Post by Grace de Beaumont on Nov 13, 2009 1:50:25 GMT
"Not yet," Grace answered automatically, eyes roaming the surrounding woods. Fingers twirling a large red maple leaf, a beautiful specimen, the young woman's eyes rose to the sky and the canopy of fall colour above their heads.
"Autumn. It came quickly, did it not?" It was a question that didn't beg an answer. Grace had always loved autumn, the heady smells of leaf and wood, the crunching underfoot, the grand banquets and festivals. But that was all in the past.
A breeze sent leaves dancing before them on the road, the dry sound both busy and mournful. Grace let the leaf in her hands fall to the ground, left behind and unwanted. Pushing wayward strands of blond hair from her face, she glanced sidelong at Richard as she walked.
"I suppose it's been about a year now," she said quietly. "I did not think it would take this long."
|
|
|
|
Post by Richard Cabal on Nov 13, 2009 2:02:45 GMT
"Aye, it came quick." Richard answered. He too, liked autumn but for more practical reasons. Autumn was when wild berries decorated the country side, a tasty snack for two wanderers and something to make their usual rabbit a bit tastier.
"It was always going to be many seasons afore we see justice." In truth, Richard was surprised they did have some information. When rumor had first been suppressed he had suspected a careful and patient hand. One that would continue to suppress rumor. Word had reached their ears however, and here they were, heading towards Camelot.
"Mayhap we will be in time for the harvest festivals. Ye could frolic like ye used to." Before the fatal attack at Hwicce, he had thought Grace a gay little thing. As lively as his daughters.
|
|
|
|
Post by Grace de Beaumont on Nov 13, 2009 2:32:45 GMT
Grace snorted a small laugh. "Frolic? I never frolicked. 'Stately glided with grace', or so my mother would preach." The memory was both profoundly sad and still amusing. It had been her lady-mother's most trying experience to stave the enthusiasm of her daughter for a festival.
Another glance, hopeful this time. "Do you.... think we can risk it? If there are festivals, that is? Being seen?" Grace had to stop herself from raising her hood again. Walking out where no one was about meant she could move about bare-headed; to be in town was to maintain her disguise.
But the idea of a harvest festival was too much temptation for the world-weary Grace, the words flooding her mind with memory. Summer squash roasted with butter and spices, crisp apples, warm sugary tarts, sweet-meats of every flavor. Sighing, Grace waved a fly away from the donkey's ears. "I would like to eat something other than dried meat and stale bread though. Wouldn't you?"
|
|
|
|
Post by Richard Cabal on Nov 13, 2009 2:46:26 GMT
"Whatever you say, milady." Richard hid his amusement at Grace's reply. There was that glimmer of enthusiasm in her eyes and it was burdened with hope. It broke his heart to see his lady hiding herself from the world.
"Aye, ye can move about the festival and aye, I would like different food. Our enemies, whoever they be, will remember a well fed and clean lady. Their memories will be relying on that since it has been a year since ye were seen. An' it'll be raise more eyebrows for ye were to stay hooded." Or they would think he was a bad master, given to beating his servant and keeping her from all that is good in life.
The mule snorted and shook her head, sending flies off her coat. Richard scratched her cheek.
"We should settle in Camelot for Winter at the least. There'll be more rumor and as ye may remember, winter travelling is not easy."
|
|
|
|
Post by Grace de Beaumont on Nov 13, 2009 3:22:33 GMT
Self-consciously, Grace rubbed fingers over her thin cheeks. What Richard said was true.... she was much changed in a year. Besides the absence of silken robes, coifed hair and jewels, there were other changes about Grace that those who knew her before could not miss. The wary narrowing of her eyes, the gauntness and muscle around her neck, Grace has lost the softness so indicative of other high-born ladies. In a way it made her sad, but she also carried it with no small amount of pride.
They turned a corner and Grace stopped in her tracks. "Oh Richard! Look!"
Beyond the last tree, across an expanse of emerald-green fields rose a mighty fortress and castle. The sun shone off the white towers so they seemed ivory sculptures, flags whipping in the wind. The sight was magnificent.
"We can really stay there? For the whole winter? It may be expensive.... " Grace's look turned sly. "It may take more money..... you know what that will mean...."
|
|
|
|
Post by Richard Cabal on Nov 13, 2009 3:34:13 GMT
"It will mean that I will get a job," Richard answered stubbornly. "If I let ye work in a tavern yer family will come back from the world beyond an' have my head on a pike. Let me and them be at peace." Usually, he would let Grace have her way but not on this matter. She had no notion of how she would be treated and what would be expected of her.
"Ye can learn to sell herbs. Or stitch clothes. Yer ma taught you about that didn't she?" Roughly, Richard pulled the mule onwards, his jaw set. He barely glanced at Camelot's castle.
|
|
|
|
Post by Grace de Beaumont on Nov 13, 2009 3:52:15 GMT
Scowling mightily, Grace huffed and crossed her arms, boots scuffling pebbles on the road. "You're as stubborn as an old goat," she retorted. "Honestly.... I've been out in the world for a year now, you've been supporting me the whole time. I feel as useless as a threadbare cloak."
She kicked a rock. "And.... and you said it yourself. There's only so much information that a companionable ale can buy. You can't sit down and drink with every person in Camelot -- it will be noticed. If I was a serving wen- uh, girl.... " Grace avoided using the word 'wench'; it tended to set Richard off into one of his tiresome lectures. "...I could overhear things, valuable things. You're being unreasonable."
Her chin rose in equal stubbornness. "I embroider, not sew. I haven't an inkling how clothing goes together, our maids always did that part.... and you've seen what a wretched business I make of our mending. And careful of Daisy's mouth!" Grace made a grab for the donkey's halter. "She's sensitive!"
|
|
|
|
Post by Richard Cabal on Nov 13, 2009 4:08:43 GMT
Richard scowled when he heard out Grace's argument and released the halter, letting Grace take the mule. Soft souled, unskilled, wide-eyed nobles.
"Daisy is tougher than ye think," Richard scowled. "If we stay at Camelot, people'll give us gossip whether we drink with 'em or buy their eggs." It was true that Grace's sewing was below the standards he had expected, but then his wife used to take care of the darning and she had been the daughter of a textiles merchant.
"Then sell herbs. Ye ain't working in no tavern or inn. It wont be right." An idea was starting to bake in his head and his step faltered. He could take Grace to a tavern, the worst tavern he could find. Maybe that would scare Grace off her hare-brained idea.
"Mayhap ye can come with me to a tavern. The serving girls may like speaking with ye."
|
|
|
|
Post by Grace de Beaumont on Nov 13, 2009 4:50:19 GMT
Pursing her lips, Grace let Daisy mouth her fingers. Now that the road was winding through the grassland, the creature tugged at the ropes, wanting to graze.
"I suppose," came Grace's grudging reply. "We've housed inside inns before, is that not right? Taken supper in the great rooms. Surely a tavern can be no different from that? It's crowded, yes, but then so were the banquets back home." She had no idea why Richard was being so spooked about this. Her title meant precious little now. In truth, Grace was becoming quite discouraged of late, despairing that she would ever know the lifestyle to which she had been raised, Perhaps she would spend the rest of her life as a fruit seller or laundress, her back becoming bent from labor, her hands gnarled from hard work.....
No. Grace pressed her lips together, chin lifting. She was Lady Grace de Beaumont, and she was on a quest to discover the murderers of her family. Whatever it took to reach that goal, she would do it, whatever the cost. Even if it meant continually placating the one protector she had in the world.
"As you will, Richard. I'll take your counsel as always. You've never led me astray.... as insufferably vexing as that may be." She tried a smile. "And I apologize for calling you a goat. Though with your new beard, you could certainly play the part well." Her voice taking on a teasing tone, Grace's step lightened as her feet turned toward Camelot.
|
|
|
|
Post by Richard Cabal on Nov 13, 2009 5:05:19 GMT
"You'll see," Richard warned. "The inns and yer banquets are completely different to a tavern." He remembered going to a banquet once, he had been standing guard at the entrance while the richer folk ate exotic looking food covered in unfamiliar stuff. It had indeed been crowded.
"My sweet wife liked it." Despite how long it had been since his wife had died, Richard still found himself making decisions depending on her opinion. His stomach twisted at the thought, great longing tightening around him. When she had died it had been shock. Not so much the death -- as sad as that had been to him, but it was the absence. The sudden absence where she had once been.
Without anything else to say, Richard began to zig zag across the road and over the grass on either side. Without the mule, he could do a better job at looking and listening, not that he expected trouble on the road. Not long after, he heard wheels turning on a bad axle and the heavier clop of a large horse. Richard got off the road and waved for Grace to follow.
|
|
|
|
Post by Grace de Beaumont on Nov 13, 2009 5:44:14 GMT
Grace glanced over at Richard in sympathy. Gruff though the older man may be, but his heartache over his own lost family was never far from the surface. She vaguely remembered meeting his goodwife Clarine several years before at a public feast day, a serene woman with a warm smile and sable-brown hair. Her ready laughter was a total opposite of her husbands..... in fact, Grace couldn't ever remember hearing Richard laugh aloud.
Months together on the road had trained Grace to obey the older man instantly, so when Richard gestured, she tugged Daisy off to the side. Instinct had her grabbing for the cowl to her cloak but Grace stopped. Richard had said they were safe here, and though her heart hammered in her chest, she lowered her arm.
A cart lumbered into view, a farmer with an older son handling the reins bringing a wagon heaped with pumpkins to the city. The man gave a nod to Richard, the son -- who could not have been more than six and ten -- gave Grace an appraising look, touching a finger to his forehead. "Good day, lass!" he called as they moved on by. Grace returned a wane smile, blushing deeply.
"Well," she said as the cart moved down the road. "Since we're nearing town, perhaps I should do something with this hair...." Looping the donkey's rope over an arm, Grace began digging through her skirts to look for her comb.
|
|
|
|
Post by Richard Cabal on Nov 13, 2009 5:53:06 GMT
Richard narrowed his eyes after the young lad's back. His older daughter, Naula had been no older than ten and one before she died from the pox. Rhona was but a year younger. He had not had the chance to scowl at hopeful men.
"Looking for a winter tumble?" Richard asked, "should I be looking certain herbs?" A bastard child would not put too much a wrinkle in Grace's future he supposed, but there was no good in going looking for trouble.
When Grace found her comb, Richard took her hand and gently took the comb from her.
"Stand still milady." Richard stepped around and set about tidying Grace's hair. He might be able to weave some coloured thread and braid it through her hair later. A little joy would do his little lady good.
|
|
|
|
Post by Grace de Beaumont on Nov 13, 2009 17:44:36 GMT
Greatly shocked, Grace stared at Richard. "Looking for.... for what?!" She pushed herself to stand erect, shoulders back, head held high, grey eyes snapping with ire. "I am a gentlewoman and a Lady, armsman, and I'll thank you not to forget it! From a long line of nobles, my bloodline has remained pure. What you suggest goes against all honour and duty, and.... and...."
The man was positively insufferable at times, making her lose her words that way, and Grace nearly stamped her foot in anger. Then all the fiery emotion trickled out as Richard pulled one of his infamous about-faces, turning into gentle hand-maiden. Grace sighed in exasperation even as she stood still while he combed her hair. Last winter, Grace had suffered through three nights of a fever, only to awaken and find Richard combing her filthy, sweaty hair as tenderly has she'd imagined he would do with his own daughters. The small gesture had brought enormous comfort to Grace, and she hoped it had with Richard as well. It was with bittersweet realisation then that Grace knew they had each looked to the other to replace their dead families.
"You really can be quite an ogre at times, you know that?" she sighed again. "Ow..." he had hit a tangle, ".... If you had talked that way around father, he would have had you horsewhipped in the stables.... ow!..... despite your family's long service to us." Tugging away when he seemed near finished, she deftly wove her long hair into a single plait down the back.
"There. Do I look like a proper country servant following the master to the city? Do I need to add some bruises again?" Grace looked around. "I don't see any raspberries about to smear on my skin; those make me look really nasty and make you look like a brute. Remember, you should kick me a few times in the market. That always looks terribly authentic."
The castle walls were nearing, and a thought occurred to Grace. "Will you have trouble getting inside with your sword?"
|
|
|
|
Post by Richard Cabal on Nov 13, 2009 20:43:04 GMT
Richard barely held himself as Grace went on her little tirade. Nobles were wide eyed it seemed, with little sense for practicality. Still, he kept his hands gentle enough in her hair, reminding himself that the girl was way out of any situation she had been trained to expect.
"If we're going to be living with these folk we best not have too many lies. I'll kick ye, but no bruises. I do not know the laws of this land -- do ye think we're to expect trouble?" Richard passed the comb to Grace as they begun walking.
"I am sorry for offending you. Yer da would have had me whipped for my words, but as well as a noblewoman, ye're a proud a woman and I am tasked with protecting ye." Richard glanced side long at Grace to make sure he was not offending her again.
"Your ma should be having this talk with ye, I must stand in her stead." The castle walls were closer now and the gates yawned open. Keeping his hand easy on the hilt, Richard strode ahead with a straight back towards Camelot.
|
|
