LANCED-A-LOT
By: Silenos
This story is a work of fiction and involves teenagers in sexual situations. If that offends you, don't read it. If you are underage, don't read it (like that's going to happen). This story belongs solely to the author and may not be copied or reproduced in whole or in part without permission of the author.
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The following tale came to me from a wealthy friend who found it bound in his family's extensive bookshelves. Nobody could read it as it was in a strange hand and written in a mix of the common tongue and Norman French of its day. His family has lived in the same place, if not home, for centuries and are what one might consider landed gentry. My friend brought it to me in hopes I might be able to transcribe it into the English of our own time as that sort of thing is what I do. I have updated it only in that I have made such things as measurements, expressions, and such understandable by our reckoning today. What I found in my labors was quite startling. It would be wise for the reader to remember that mores were different then, and that the perception of "age" was as well. Average life expectancy was about 33 years, and people were smaller too, the average height being about 5'7". Insofar as I can tell these pages were written after the Norman conquest, but not by much. England, Scotland, Wales and Cornwall were all very much their own kingdoms, with petty kingdoms within, and Vikings could still be something of a nuisance in some parts even though history says their terror ended in exactly 1066.
LANCED-A-LOT: Chapter 3
On entering the Inn we found Idris in a corner, a jug of ale in hand. Nearby the man at arms who had been our guide was heading for his cups, with the few other villagers listening raptly as he sang the praises of Sir Idris who had single handedly (?) dispatched six outlaws. The Smith and I ignored him and went straight to my master.
"Sir," the Smith nodded his head in deference "your squire is bleeding. I have sent for Agatha, who knows the healing arts. Idris looked up, shocked to see the blood seeping through my shirt. I put a copper in the Smith's hand and he stepped away to join the others in the room.
"Are you alright boy?" Asked Idris, motioning me to sit, a worried look on his face.
"I will be fine Sir, it is merely a scratch." I said, though I was beginning to feel a bit dizzy. More likely several days lack of sustenance than a silly cut; but one works with what material one has. "That third one wouldn't have touched me if I'd been closer."
"Third one?" the Innkeeper had come over with ale for Idris and myself.
"Yes," my master replied, helping me pull off my Tunic and leaving me naked but for the improvised bandages. In the great halls of castles, and where the upper crust paraded, that might seem scandalous, but in a hovel like this it was not to be remarked on. We of the peasantry worn born and buried naked and spent half our lives in rags or mud. More attention was paid to the size of the weapon betwixt my legs than; but that was just a bunch of old bulls sizing up the new young one in the field. "In spite of what that fool is saying I slew but two, the other four were this lad's handiwork." The Innkeeper looked at me in awe, doubting his ears at the thought a sprite like me was capable of such a thing.
"I couldn't have done it without you my lord," I blushed. "Nobody expects us little ones and your holding them at bay was what saved the day."
Thomas came in with an old woman who did not wait on ceremony proclaiming "I am Agatha, I will need water, vinegar and a mug of ale." Thomas scampered away to do her bidding as the woman crouched by me, her hands hesitated before she touched me. Plainly she had seen one of my secrets, one I preferred to keep. "I will tell no one." She hissed in my ear as she pulled off my bandage.
She tut-tutted while examining the slash announcing "it isn't deep, just one that bleeds. You'll be sore for a few days." With that she splashed some vinegar over it which Thomas had returned with. The stuff stung! She then cleaned the wound with hot water before applying more vinegar, a poultice and from a bag she'd brought a clean bit of linen to re-bandage me.
"Now you keep replacing the bandage over that poultice every day until it starts to itch, then wash off the poultice." She ordered, spinning round and picking up the tankard of ale she'd demanded; this she seemed to drain in on gulp.
I palmed her a silver coin I had slipped from my purse (within it I had two other purses, one for gold, one silver and the coppers in the main bag), which I had been sitting on. With a wink and a broken grin she picked the small satchel she had brung and spun around, leaving us all a bit stunned. Surely that woman was a witch of some sort. I certainly hoped so, as only they knew the magic of healing and of preventing the freezing disease that comes from rusting blades. Whether witch or wise woman, I knew I would be seeing much of her again.
The Innkeeper re-appeared with more ale as well as some sort of stew and bread. Slop really, as one finds in such places, but food none the less and I had, had worse. Thomas, who had disappeared was suddenly back. He had a sheepish smile and held out some garments to me.
"I went through some old things." He blushed, "I had them from when I was smaller, they should fit you for now."
Grateful for his generosity pulled him to me in an embrace of thanks, whispering in his pretty ears "I saw you in the Smithy," he blanched, "Not to worry, I won't betray you. Did you like it?" Nervous and shaking he pulled back and nodded. I grinned saying "me too. Does he find your spot?"
"Every time."
"You should find a safer place." Most people would think nothing of it but these Normans had brought Priests who railed against the carnal doings of men with men and boys. Nonsense really; everyone knew what went on behind closed church doors.
"It won't be long. The Smith's wife is dying of a wasting sickness, when she is gone we will have the house to ourselves. If there were not so many hen-wives running in and out to care for her we'd be there now." I gave his comely arse a playful swat, happy for him. Not everyone enjoyed our sort of play, and those who did not enjoy or understand would well comprehend two men sharing a bed as body warmth was cheaper than wood.
"Where is Sir Idris?" came a roar from the doorway. "There you are!" The recently dubbed Captain had spotted us and barged forward very excitedly. "We got them all, thanks to your plan Sir Knight! Ten of them appeared as you said they would, we followed them back to their lair and got the lot! Thirty or more! Ha-Ha! The road has been cleared of outlaws without the loss of a man, a few cuts and bruises but..."
"You have wounded?" Idris rose, silencing the odious man.
"Just outside..."
"Boy," Idris commanded Thomas "fetch that woman back and..."
"I know Sir, vinegar, water and ale." Thomas said before heading off.
"Agatha is the local healer" Idris explained to the Captain as the Innkeeper approached rather timidly.
"Sir Knight," the man cringed "I am afraid we have but two rooms and after you and your squire there will be none for the Captain."
"Not to worry, lay some blankets at the foot of the bed where my loyal squire shall sleep as he always does." Idris clapped the relieved man on the shoulder sending him on his way, while the Captain beamed and went to tell his men to kip in the barn or anywhere else they could find. For my part I began to ponder the benefits of this "squiring" business. Sleep on the floor? I'd rather be in the barn with the men.
Idris spotted my rather sour look and whispered "Don't worry Bug, once the door is bolted you shall share my bed." My lance stirred at the thought. "Do you have another name? Squire Bug does not seem quite suitable for a knight's squire."
I saw his point responding "Jack, Jack Foolson."
"Foolson? You are the son of a fool?"
"My father was a travelling jester," I explained and he relaxed somewhat.
"Well Jack Jester, or even Jack Motley will not do." He puzzled for a moment before his eyes brightened. "I know, we shall call you Jack Gwenyn*, after all a bee is a bug, only from the way you dealt with those bandits today you are a bug with a sting." I was quite pleased with that, as well as learning he had the Welsh language, as well as the common and Norman French tongues.
"Tonight, when we are alone, we will talk and learn more of each other." He winked at me.
"I hope in more ways than one Sir, an mayhap you will also learn more of this bees stinger." I winked back. Under the table his hand slid underneath my newly acquired tunic to probe my hardening nether regions.
"I am sure we will." He smiled, withdrawing his hand as the Captain returned to us.
The rest of the evening was spent listening to the blowhard Captain as he regaled us with tales of his derring-do which seemed to grow more outrageous with each re-telling; the number of bandits growing accordingly as the evening passed. Finally, after many more rounds of ale, we were able to escape to our room.
*Gwenyen is Welsh for Bee.