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chilling-seavey · 23 days ago

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Disillusionment (gr63)

↳ A/N Oh wow, I am excited for this one. From watchin this video on Medieval life and sex, I was interested in writing my own take on this era as historically accurate as possible, right down to the way of speech (while still making it legible for us in the 21st century). I delved into hours upon hours of research for what was supposed to be a 'short fic' and ended up with this glorious beast. I hope you love it as much as I do! It was so much fun (and so much work!) to write!

↳ Summary: George had spent his entire life as a peasant farmer in the quiet fields of Norfolk, sheltered from much of the unrest that had gripped late 14th-century England. Choosing to leave behind the stable, modest life he was born into, he sets out for London in hopes of forging his own path among the city’s guilds. His apprenticeship master is a kind and just man—but it is the master’s eldest daughter, a fair and intelligent maiden, who begins to stir something deeper within him. Though everything seems promising at first, the lingering unrest in the wake of the Peasants’ Revolt still hangs heavy in London’s streets, and George soon discovers that life beyond the fields is far more complex—and far less kind—than he ever imagined.

↳ Pairings: Peasant!George Russell x Master's Daughter!OC; Peasant!George Russell x Nomad!Lando Norris (platonic); Apprentice!George Russell x Apprentice!Alex Albon (platonic)

↳ Word Count: 31.7k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex (well, she drinks herbal tea and jumps around a little after which was historically accurate contraception), premarital sex (aka sin!!!!), exhibitionism (not really, but outdoor/semi-public sex was all that was possible in this era), other historical accuracies that we in the 21st century may deem strange. Mentions and descriptions of violence, social uprisings, societal divide, thievery, treason, executions and death, religion/God.

In all the three and twenty years of his life, never had George once thought of a life beyond Lynn. Born unto a family of modest means in a village lying a ways beyond the eastern walls of the town, he was destined to toil for his livelihood and to serve his Lord. From there, all that he might ever think to need lay within a day's journey: the town-centre and the bustling river port for trade, a modest chapel for Sunday mass, and the wide-spread hills of Norfolk for those rare days granted to rest. To George it was but the way of things, as it had ever been; a life measured in bushels and seasons, in toil and in prayer, and in the simpleties of a peasant's lot.

At the break of day, the labour was already well begun, George and his family having been roused long before the rooster’s first crow to prepare for another grueling day. While his sisters tended to the cows and the homestead, George and his brothers took to the fields while dew still clung to the grasses and the soil was heavy beneath their feet. As spring drew closer, the farmers of England set themselves to the important task of preparing the land for planting of the crops that would feed their countrymen for the year ahead. Each soul, from man to woman, from child unto elder, had their part to play and they knew it well. There was no time for dawdling; not when the nourishment of hundreds lay upon their shoulders.

George lent his hand to the fastening of the heavy plough to the pair of oxen, and soon they set to their day’s work. Their father took up the rear, steadying the plough as its iron share bit deep into the soil, breaking the earth in readiness for planting, while the sons, ropes in hand, guided the beasts by nose and horn, coaxing them steady through the furrowed field. The sun, though yet low upon the horizon, bore down with a slow, unyielding heat, and the day stretched before them with neither promise of ease nor mercy. The Lord of their village required the work to be completed, his land to be tended to, rain or shine, and that was the way of it.

The sprawling arable land of their village had been divided amongst the families dwelling therein, each set to their allotted strip to farm. For decades, the Russells had laboured upon their share, the charge of peasantry passed down from man unto man, from father unto son. In time, when their father should be called to God—may He grant him rest—it would fall to George’s eldest brother to take over their plot of labour and provide for their family.

Being born unto this fate was grueling with little rewards to reap. Families were granted but enough pay to afford food and shelter, yet their lives were ever bound and beholden to their Lordship. Many villages and its peasants would toil beneath the iron fist of wretched and greedy Lords who took the fruit of their labours for themselves and left them with little. The Russells were fortunate to dwell beneath Lord Hamilton; a generous and kindly man who saw fit to share the blessings of their toil with those who worked his land.

And work the land they did; bathed by the warmth of the springtime sun, the labourers ploughed and sowed until the sun kissed the western horizon, nestling between the grassy hills and budding sycamores and thus decreeing the day’s labour at an end. The well-worn oxen were returned to pasture and the men withdrew from the fields to their homesteads for supper, caked in mud and in grime and in pride. The village women had prepared fresh bread with butter and stew and ale for the men upon their return and the families gathered in their respective huts to share a meal around the hearth.

Between his elder brother and sister sat George, bowl in hand, spooning thin broth into his famished mouth with dirt-stained fingers clutching a spoon of rough-carved wood. The low fire crackled in the centre of the one-room farmhouse, the embers glowing, and a veil of smoke rose, winding upwards toward the vented opening in the roof. A thin drift of ash lay upon everything within the farmhouse, cloaking every surface in a light grey, the necessity if wanting to have pleasant heat in those chilly springtime evenings.

Across the floor strewn with rushes, a tabby cat gave chase after a mouse, narrowly missing the fire that sought to snatch at the tip of its tail. In the far corner, the family cow mooed soft and slow, settling into its bed of straw beside the lowly sheep and the pregnant pig, which snorted and chomped in its muck. The women had cleared out the soiled straw and rushes from the house that day, and for a little while, the fresh sweetness of greenery overtook the heavy odour of the livestock with which they shared their dwelling. Then, when the tabby returned to the fireside with the mouse clutched in its jaws, George leaned from his low stool to give it a scratch behind the ear—yet another hand about the farm, doing her part.

The golden glow of the evening sun waned through the open wood shutters of the farmhouse as night began to fall while supper concluded. As darkness drew nearer, his mother stooped by the fire to catch a flame in the tinderbox to bring to the few candles dotting the perimeter of the room while the siblings brought their dishes to the metal basin in the corner to wash up. The eldest sister—on the cusp of being betrothed to a young man from a fine family in their same village—took her place at the basin to do the washing with the last of their well water for the day.

While he aided his sister in gathering the dishes, George caught the eye of his eldest brother, who leaned idly against the doorway, arms folded across his linen shirt. The brothers had spoken in hushed voices out in the fields of their hope to venture out after supper, for tomorrow was Sunday, and no work would be required of them. Now, burdened with evening chores, George grew restless, eager for the rare company of other townsfolk and men of his own age. He shared a knowing glance with his brother, a silent exchange of anticipation.

“Father,” his brother said, pushing away from the wall and stepping nearer to where their father prepared for evening prayer, “might George and I be granted leave to visit the alehouse tonight, for a small measure of leisure before bed-call?” ("Father, can George and I go to the pub tonight for some free time before bed?")

Their mother answered firmly in his place, “Ye shall not come to mass to-morrow, drunken.” ("You will not come to church drunk tomorrow.")

The father looked up from his preparations, his brow furrowed with quiet authority over his wife, “Aye, let them have their time. Our lads are worthy and modest.” ("Oh, let them have their time. Our sons are respectable.")

As the younger siblings mulled about in play, the eldest brothers exchanged another glance, hopefulness flickering in their eyes as they silently pleaded with their parents. Their mother, seated by the hearth with her hands busy mending one of the younger boys’ stockings, shook her head slowly without raising her gaze, her expression heavy with judgment, as if knowing her tongue was nothing against that of her husband’s.

“Go on then,” their father then waved his hand towards the door as if to shoo them out like vermin, “But I shall expect no grumbling come morn when we rise for mass.” ("Go on then. But I don't want arguing in the morning when we have to get up for church.")

A ways down the dirt road, the brothers made their way to another villager’s homestead with the promise of fresh ale and good company. The thatch roofed house—not unlike the architecture of their very own from which they came—lured them in with twirling smoke rising from the centre and a straw broom—indication that the brew was on—propped up against the mudded wall beside the door. George followed behind his elder brother into the ashy and torrid alehouse where a few other townsfolk were already gathered around a handful of wooden tables surrounded with rickety stools.

The alewife stood behind a table near the entrance, her cottage rearranged to suit the plentiful brew and the growing demand for it. She greeted the brothers warmly, “Aye, the Russell lads, good even.” ("Ah, the Russell boys, good evening.")

“Hail, madam, well met,” George returned the greeting with courtesy. ("Hi, ma'am. Good to see you.")

“Might I tempt ye with the finest ale this side of Norfolk?” ("Can I interest you in the best ale in all of Norfolk?")

George’s brother chuckled, “We came not to scrub the floors, I assure thee.” ("Well we definitely didn't come to scrub the floors.")

One to be swooned by the dazzling smiles of the brothers, the alewife let forth a merry laugh as she gathered the metal cups they had brought, then turned to fill them from the tapped barrel set behind her. When she returned, she charged them each a penny. George reached within his leather satchel fastened at his belt, and drew forth a slender silver coin to pay his due.

With cups in hand, the brothers made their way through the throng and found a bench amongst their fellows, summoned by the merry voice of a distant friend. The young men greeted each other with hearty embraces and settled round their table to drink.

The friend, long absent from their village since his journey to London the year past, now spoke earnestly about the Great Uprising. He recounted how hundreds of peasants flooded the streets of London, crying out for lessened tax, redistribution of the Church’s wealth, and the abolition of wage caps. Many men had lost their lives fighting for a better future for the common folk, yet their friend had not lost the spark in his eyes; and instead, he spoke as though he saw himself as a gallant knight.

He had returned but a fortnight past to their modest village, yet already did he speak with longing of London, eager to take his leave once more. George found himself enraptured by the tales the man told, his thoughts straying far beyond the bounds of Lynn, chasing visions of the great city and all it might yet hold. London lay many days away and the road there was treacherous for a man of his standing, never often pondered or faced by such men. Facing the trek would threaten one's livelihood should it not work out.

When the tale had drawn to a close, and the others turned their talk to merrier things, George leaned forth, his voice low but earnest, “Tell me, truly, is London fair?” ("Be honest with me, is London good?")

The friend, cup in hand, regarded him with a smile as warm as the firelight, “Aye, if thou can take up a trade…and have the coin to do so. Its walls house promise to men like we, a chance for something more.” ("Yes, if you can do a trade and have the money to do so. London's walls hold lots of opportunities for men like us, giving us a chance to do more in our lives.")

George sat back, his mind alight with the revelation. Men around him had been sparked with ideas of revolution, George, now was filled with the heat of forging his own path rather than accepting what doth been provided to him upon his birth. Much to ponder as he spent his days toiling the fields of someone else’s land, destined to labour ever for the gain of others rather than his own. It was the way of things, so he had been taught. Who was he, then, to think otherwise?

But as George lay on the straw and feathered bed between his mother and his sister that night—his prayers said and his tunic shed—he dreamt of London streets and the adventure that awaited, just beyond reach.

It was well understood that the permissions of his father and mother did little to secure his journey. Rather, it was the permission of the Lord of their village that would need to be sought; he alone held the power to grant George his leave or to forbid him from straying from his destined toil. Long and wearisome were the days spent pleading his case at home, yet the greater trial still loomed—that of standing before the nobleman who held rule over their very livelihoods.

The townsfolk saw little of his Lordship, for he was often away on business in Norwich or London, or else kept to his modest manor at the village’s heart, as though to watch over his lands and his people. He came amongst them for festivals, at sessions of the manorial court, and, of course, mass upon Sundays, yet elsewise, their worlds were vastly different and paths did not often cross. Those lives of the serfs and the peasants were starkly separate from the lives of the nobles and knights; one to work, one to protect.

Henceforth, George’s unease as he approached the guarded doors of Lord Hamilton’s manor was warranted. The armoured knights stationed at the threshold turned their gaze upon him and asked his purpose to which George requested an audience with his Lordship regarding his matter of employment. Without haste, one of the knights led him within the stone-lined home, his metal armour clanking through the vast space with every step. George, mindful of his steps, peered about the chamber they crossed—awestruck by the soaring arches and carved beams, so unlike the humble farmstead to which he was born.

Through the sitting room and into the study, the knight led George forth. There, bathed in the golden light that poured through the opened shutters, sat Lord Hamilton at his writing table of fine-carved oak, a quill resting between his ringed fingers and his desk littered with parchment. His garments were of a deep-dyed blue—far too expensive for the commoners to ever lay hands on—and the fabric was well kept and hardly frayed and dull as George’s were. For a moment, George felt as though he were laying gaze upon King Richard himself, so stately and almost ethereal was the figure before him.

Lord Hamilton raised his gaze upon their entry and he dismissed the knight to return to his post. With a modest smile to the young man who now stood before him, he turned to rest his quill back in its ink pot, “A Russell lad, art thou?” ("You're a Russell son, aren't you?")

With haste, George removed his canvas hat from atop his head and clutched it in his grimy fists as he bowed at the waist, greeting his liege with a courteous, “My Lord.”

“Pray tell, for what purpose dost thou seek my audience?” ("Please tell me, why did you want to speak with me?")

George wrung the rough fabric of his cap in his hands and shifted his weight, as he mustered his courage to speak his truth, “My Lord, I beseech thee to grant me leave to travel to London, that I might seek an apprenticeship.” ("My Lord, I ask of you to permit me to travel to London so I can look for an apprenticeship.")

“Aye, an apprenticeship?” Lord Hamilton turned towards his peasant, staring upon him as if in study, his kirtle cascading from his lap like the river’s waves. “Thou dost wish to part from our village in search of greater fortune?” ("Oh, an apprenticeship? You wish to leave our village in search of more money?")

“I am much indebted to thee and thy kindness, my Lord. I wish to see England’s fine lands and all that she doth offer. It grieveth me greatly to bid farewell to our town,” George assured him quickly, his heart racing within his chest. ("I am very indebted to you and your kindness, my Lord. I want to see England's beautiful land and all that it offers. I makes me sad to say goodbye to our town.")

Lord Hamilton’s handsome face broke into a Godly smile, “Thou art not betrothed to thy land, goodman. If thou hast the means, thou mayst venture wheresoever thou dost please.” ("You are not married to your land, son. If you have the money, you can travel wherever you want to.")

“My father hath been saving, and I have fared well in my trading this season, my Lord.” ("My father has been saving and I have made successful trades this season, my Lord.")

“I believe this to be true,” Lord Hamilton said kindly, his voice soft as the King’s finest silk, “Thou hast my blessing, lad. But tread with care, the journey is treacherous.” ("I believe you. You have my blessing, son. But be careful, the journey isn't an easy one.")

For a moment, George could not believe what his ears had heard. Lord Hamilton had always been a fair and just nobleman, caring for his workers and his townsfolk, but to permit leave so generously had George bowing to him deeply. He then bowed once more, spilling words from his quivering lips, “Aye, my Lord. I thank thee. God bless thee.” ("Yes, my Lord. Thank you. God bless you.")

“Go with God, and may He watch over thee on thy journey.” ("Go with God, and may He protect you on your journey.")

The fairest of the Russell’s trusty steeds was to be gifted unto their second-born son for his lengthy journey to the city. It was a ride of four nights from rural Lynn to the city gates, and George bore some coin in his satchel to spend at inns along the way. His mother fretted over him as his father prepared the steed, warning him of looters and marauders who often loitered in the woods, seeking to raid young travelers such as he. George assured her he would be cautious, reminding her of his archery training as a boy to pacify her as he affixed his quiver and crossbow over his back in the rare case of an altercation.

He embraced his siblings in farewell and kissed his mother, promising to write if he could soon afford some parchment upon his arrival. His father held him tightest of all, clinging a moment longer, before patting his back and taking his face in both of his hands. He murmured a prayer over him, kissed his brow, and then stepped away. George, with a tempest of excitement and trepidation stirring in his breast, mounted his steed and settled upon the padded saddle comfortably and situated his leather boots against the horse’s flank. With a soft nudge and a click of the teeth, George turned from his homestead and all he had known, offering one final wave in farewell.

The River Great Ouse guided him southward, along the well-trodden path of men having come before him for centuries. His steed’s hooves clopped upon the muddy trails at a steady canter, through winding hills, sparse forests, and the quiet richness of rural England. With nothing upon his back but his bow and a canvas bag of a singular change of garments, a tinderbox, a bowl and cup, some bread, and a sprig of lavender, George felt heartily prepared for what might lie ahead. He whistled as he rode by his lonesome, some merry tune often heard at village festivals, passing the hours beneath the grey skies of springtime.

His steed grew weary after a few hours of travel and as he came upon the next small village, George decided to rest for the rest of the evening and return to his journey come morning. In Littleport—a village not unlike his own, with thatch-roofed cottages nestled amidst fields of tilled earth—he found a quiet welcome. His satchel weighed light on his belt, a reminder of what little coin he had to spare, and as he rode through the streets of the unfamiliar village, he was faced with the travelers choice between inn or stable.

To take to the hay overnight was to risk theft, his sleep destined to be light and uneasy upon a bed of straw—but the promise of a free night's rest weighed heavily in its favour. And so, turning down a narrow, mud-soaked path behind the small village, George guided his horse toward the stretch of farmland beyond the outskirts.

The sun had just dipped beneath the horizon, and the folk of the village had taken their leave from the fields, retreating to their hearths and homes. Left to his own company, George found a quiet place to rest beside a low stone wall that marked the edge of a farmer’s plot. He tied his steed to the post and then settled himself atop the strewn straw, being cautious that the fence hid him sufficiently from potential townsfolk wandering their streets after dusk.

Without the warmth of his family in their shared bed topped with a thin stuffing of feathers, George drew his arms about himself as the night’s chill crept over the countryside. The straw upon which he lay scratched at his skin and his garments did little to guard him from the itch and the cold. He shifted and turned, seeking comfort upon the prickly bed until the moon was hung high above England.

From his side came a low whicker and a snort, followed by the dull thud of iron-shod hooves upon hard earth and the soft jangle of harness, the noise stirring George from his restless doze. With a soft click of his tongue and an outstretched arm, he beckoned the steed near and invited the loyal creature to take its rest, for the road ahead would be long come dawn.

The horse bent its legs and lowered itself upon the grass like a hound at its master’s feet, laying its great head beside the straw where George lay. A fond smile touched George’s lips as the presence of his family’s horse brought a flicker of comfort. He tenderly stroked its muzzle, and before long, sleep took him at last.

George vacated the town before the inhabitants had risen for sunup. His limbs were sore and stiff from the night’s rest upon the hay, but he counted himself fortunate for no thief had come to trouble his sleep nor lighten his satchel. His steed moved with rejuvenation, trotting proudly beside the river that wound southward like a silver thread through the land. As they journeyed on, George broke his fast with the bread his mother had wrapped for him, the taste of home still warm upon his tongue despite the stiffness of the grain.

Just past midday, the river had begun to narrow and George took his rest under the shade of the oak trees along the river bed. He tethered his horse and then rid himself of his garments before wading into the stream with a sigh of contentment. The babbling water drew him in, cool and clear, swallowing up the lowly traveler’s body in its bath of stones and sand. The springtime sun had chased the chill of winter from the stream, leaving its waters cool but kind upon the skin. They flowed down from Lynn, his home, where the mouth of the river drew its breath from the northern sea.

George bathed himself in the river then laid upon the grassy bank to dry, stretched long beneath the sun like a weary wayfarer. It certainly felt abnormal to not be spending his days toiling the land in his modest village, helping his family and his fellow townsfolk to bring in revenue for Lord Hamilton. Yet, it was a taste of freedom that was sweet upon his tongue, a part of life unexplored and readily at his fingertips.

Having relieved himself at the base of one of the many trees along the riverbank, he dressed once more and mounted his steed, ready to carry on with the journey laid before him.

Cambridge lay not far, and as the day wore on and his horse grew weary, George sought the shelter of an inn for the night. It was the safest option when facing a lively town such as Cambridge and he need not risk resting beneath the open sky for a second night—the odds against thievery would not favour him twice. He trod upon his horse across the dirt roads of the town as the inhabitants bustled to and fro from buildings and homesteads come the end of the working day.

Though not quite so famed and populus as his native Lynn, yet alone Norfolk or London, Cambridge had grown swiftly, owing to the University which had opened its doors not quite two centuries past. Only the richest of men could attend, and thus the town’s populace had begun to rise above the bounds of the lower orders that often made up the majority of inhabitants. As George rode through the outwardly bustling streets of Cambridge in search of an inn, he caught his first glimpse of the town’s shifting divide: men in finer garments, their tunics of richer fabrics and boots polished clean standing in stark contrast to the worn attire and weathered leather of the working folk.

The first inn George came upon was perched on the outskirts of the city, its courtyard being tended to by a servant when George approached. He guided his horse to halt at the gate and the servant approached.

“Good day, sire,” the young man greeted the weary traveler, “How may I be of service?” ("Good day, sir. How can I help you?")

George, having never been addressed as someone’s societal superior, paused for but a moment to gather his wits before answering, “Good evening, goodman. Might thy fine establishment have a room for myself and my steed this night?” ("Good evening, sir. Does your fine inn have a room for me and for my horse to stay tonight?")

“Aye,” said the servant, unlocking the gate with a creak, “for two pence a night, if such a fee suits ye well enough.” ("Yes, for you pence a night, if that is fine with you.")

Such a high fee gave George pause for but a moment, yet again. His hand moved to his satchel on his belt, feeling the light weight of the few coins it contained—his very livelihood until he reached London. Two pence would not be everything, yet the thought of parting with it felt as if there had been a blow to his stomach.

George offered a polite smile to the man and dismounted from his horse, “Aye, two pence it shall be.” ("Yes, two pence it is.")

The servant held out his hand to collect payment and George rifled through his satchel before placing two silver pennies in his grimy palm. The worn and dirtied nails upon George's fingers spoke plainly that he, too, was no stranger to the hardships of the lower classes. The servant gave a curt nod in thanks, and George passed him the reins. A stablehand came forth to take the steed, leading it across the modest courtyard toward the stables, whilst the servant turned and bade George to follow toward the inn.

Within the walls of the modest inn, George was surprised to find the common room quite lively. Fellow travelers sat on low stools around wood tables, metal cups of ale in hand, chattering and laughing over the toe-tapping tune floating from the lute-player in the corner. George had been familiar with local ale-houses in his small village but never before had he stepped foot in such an establishment that rivaled that of a festival.

The servant bade him onward into the rambunctiousness of the common room, and with nothing but his single canvas bag in hand, George stepped warily across the floor of packed earth, his eyes casting about in search of an empty seat. A woman bustled between the tables, bearing metal platters of bread and meat and bowls of cabbage stew, serving the travelers who filled the cramped space. She cleared their empties and refilled their cups of ale at the offer of another silver penny while delivering polite conversation to those who initiated.

Catching sight of George where he lingered beneath the wood beamed entryway, she waved him in, her words hardly heard over the flurry of lute music and drunken chatter. With a brisk motion, she ushered him toward a vacant spot at one of the long boards and nearly tossed him onto the bench between two men. Before he could speak in protest, she had vanished once more, swallowed up by the kitchen's bustle.

The fellow young travelers greeted him upon his sudden placing at their table, the group of strangers just as worn and straggly as George appeared, sharing in the communal lot of peasantry.

George offered a courteous nod to the faces turned toward him, “Hail.” ("Hello.")

The young man from his left—who looked no older than George, with unruly curly hair like the earth and and eyes like the forests—inquired, “From whence do you come?” ("Where are you from?")

“I have journeyed from a small village beyond the fair town of Lynn.” George replied simply, barely glancing up as the woman returned and set before him a plate of bread and pork. ("I have come from a small village just outside of the lovely town of Lynn.")

“Aye, Norfolk,” the newly acquainted acknowledged as George paid the woman a penny for his sustenance, “Have thee ever set foot in Norwich?” ("Oh, Norfolk. Have you ever been to Norwich?")

The rest of the men at their table busied themselves with their own conversation or toe-tapping along with the lute, ignorant to the two of them. George did not quite mind; he preferred the solitude, to avoid finding himself in the centre of a crowd if he could spare it. And this stranger seemed the perfect company to help him pass another night of his journey.

“Nay,” George replied, “Never have I left my village till now.” ("No, I have never left my village until now.")

“Never at all?” the young man echoed in surprise. “Well Norwich is ever the city—second only to London, I’d wager.” ("Never at all? Well Norwich is quite the city, almost as good as London, I bet.")

“Thou hast been?” George inquired as he pulled some meat off the bone from which he had been served. ("You have been?")

“Aye, I have journeyed to many cities across England.” ("Yes, I have traveled to many cities all over England.")

“Art thou a merchant?” ("Are you a merchant?")

The young man laughed as if such a claim were most comical before replying, “Nay, merely a wanderer—a slave to no Lord but God.” ("No, merely a wanderer, a slave to no man but God.")

George had never met such a person in his life; someone so free and aloof. In his village everyone played a crucial role in the daily toil, everyone with a purpose. The thought of doing anything but filled George with curiosity, “Pray tell, how dost thou earn thy bread and keep?” ("Tell me, how do you afford food and shelter?")

Leaning in closer until they were shoulder to shoulder, the lad had a glint in his eye as he held up his hand and gave his fingers a wriggle, “Nimble fingers.”

George nearly choked on his bread at such a bold confession. Was he truly breaking bread and sharing ale with a thief? The very sort of person his mother had warned him about upon the commencement of his journey?

As though sensing the unease his admission had brought, the lad clapped George upon the back, “Peace, goodman. I steal not from your kind. Nay, I take from the lords—the very men who forged this wretched order and condemned the likes of us to a life of misery and servitude. With this University, Cambridge is rife with wealthy men whose pockets hang loose.” ("Relax, man. I don't steal from your kind. No, I take from the lords, the men who created this society and doomed our kind to lives of work and servantry. With this new university, Cambridge is full of wealthy men who are easy to pickpocket.")

Coughing, George lifted his cup of ale to his lips to clear his lungs from the shock.

To maintain the peace, the thief offered out his hand like an olive branch, “They call me Lando, of the town of Bristol.” ("I am Lando, from Bristol.")

George set his cup down and clasped the offered hand, “George, from Lynn.”

“Well met, George of Lynn.” Lando grinned with a boyish smile that met his eyes. ("Nice to meet you, George from Lynn.")

The lute-player entertained the crowd whilst George ate his supper; meat being such a rarity that he feasted heartily, feeling like a king. His fingers were coated in fat by the time he sucked the bones clean and he licked them off one by one, satisfied.

“Say, how hath thy journey been since departing from Lynn?” asked Lando with his elbows atop the wood table and his metal cup clutched in both hands. ("Tell me, how has your journey been since leaving Lynn?")

“Has been fair,” George answered whilst he reached for his own cup to rinse down the tough pork, “I slept upon straw last night in some small village to save coin. But thankfully, I was not disrupted.” ("It's been fine. I slept on straw last night in some village so I wouldn't have to pay for an inn. Thankfully, I was not bothered.")

“Nay, nay, nay,” Lando pushed himself back from the table to sit up straighter, addressing his new friend seriously, “Sleep not in the open air! Find a Monastery where they are required by God to feed and house weary travelers. They may turn away idle chatter, save for that of the Bible, but they will offer food and a bed without charge.” ("No, no, no. Don't sleep outside! Find a Monastery where they are required by God to give weary travelers food and shelter. They won't appreciate casual chatter unless you talk about the bible, but they will offer food and a bed for free.")

George raised his eyebrows, “A Monastery? I dare not impose upon the men of God.” ("A Monastery? I don't want to bother the men of God.")

“Nay, it is their duty,” Lando assured him, “They are pleased to be of service and to lend the charity of the Lord unto His people. I have lodged with them many a time in my wanderings.” ("No, it is their job. They are happy to help the Lord's people. I have stayed with them many times on my journeys.")

George pondered this for a moment and, knowing the lightness of his satchel and the heavy fee for another nights stay at an inn, he relented in taking up his new friend on his suggestion. The promise of safety and food and a bed while also offering an opportunity to connect with God and His servants was not easily refused.

The newly acquainted shared their table and spoke of their travels well into the evening, even as the other travelers took to the sleeping chamber and the lute-player's tune dwindled to silence. Lando, ever generous with his coin, beckoned the alewife time and again, bidding her to bring forth more cups of ale for them to share. George, though curious, held his tongue and dared not ask how a man of equal means to himself had come by such coin—he reckoned he already knew the answer.

Lando sat with his leather boots kicked up upon the wooden table, eased into the worn back of his chair with his cup nursed in hand. He spoke to George about his adventures—his journeys into many of towns and cities that England had to offer, and all the interesting folk he hadst stumbled across. George soon came to see that Lando had lived many lifetimes in his two and twenty years. Born to a family of peasants not unlike George’s own, Lando had instead grown up beneath the rule of a cruel and unrelenting Lord, where the folk were sworn to their land and left with naught to provide for themselves.

He had fled at but fifteen years of age, leaving his family behind, and took to the streets to carve a life of his own merit. Modest thievery and the kindness of strangers kept him afloat, and Lando found his calling in aiding those who, like his family, did suffer. He stole for the greater good—to take from the wealthy and give unto the poor—seeking a world where men did divide their coin rather than hoard it. In the year past, Lando had even taken part in the infamous Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, when the working folk rose up and stormed the streets of London to cry for the end of unjust taxes, the abolishment of serfdom, and the redistribution of the Church’s riches. He had stood, too, amongst the crowd that came face to face with King Richard himself, who had come to quell the unrest.

George listened to Lando’s tales with wonder in his eyes and a blossoming of hope in his chest. He had been lucky to have been born unto a family under Lord Hamilton’s name where life had been kind and just, but he could see the fractures in his reality as Lando went on. Was his life truly as fair as he had assumed it to be? Perchance his choice to journey unto London had been rightly made.

The young men retired to bed together, treading quietly over the floorboards into the communal bedroom filled with their fellow wayfarers, trying not to let the effects of their plentiful ale haze their balance in the darkness. Mattresses of straw and feathers were set across the floor around the central hearth, each left bare without linens, a precaution to limit the spread of bedbugs. Lando and George removed their outerwear and boots and shared a vacant corner of the room, nestled in near a man who snored like thunder.

At first light, George rose with the sun, well-rested and peaceful. Beside him, Lando stirred, stretching so far he struck George's jaw with an elbow, muttering an apology with his voice slurred with lingering sleep. Around them, the communal chamber was already stirring; several travelers had gathered at the wash basins to cleanse themselves for the journey ahead. George rose at his own pace, exchanging easy words with Lando as they donned their outer garments and freshened themselves amid the thinning crowd.

They broke their fast with a small serving of bread and cheese in the common room and George observed in quiet astonishment as Lando drifted behind a distracted nobleman seated nearby and discreetly slipped the man’s coin-satchel from his belt without breaking stride. The act was so easy, so practiced, that it nearly seemed an art. Returning to the table, Lando sat with a grin and without a word split the silver coins evenly between them, offering George his share as though it were a parting token.

He hesitated to take it but Lando insisted, curling his fingers around the coins and pushing it towards his chest, “To start thy life in London.” ("To start your life in London.")

George couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

They embraced in parting, the kind of farewell shared by those who had, in only a night, become kindred spirits. George offered to take Lando with him, to ride together into London, but the young rogue only shook his head, “If God wills it, we’ll meet again,” he said simply. And it wasn’t in George’s heart to doubt God’s will. ("If it's in God's plan, we will meet again.")

With ten extra pence tucked into his satchel—courtesy of Lando’s so-called generosity—he retrieved his steed from the stables, mounted, and turned southward once more. Cambridge faded behind him with the promise of all that London had to offer on the horizon.

Four days after leaving the outskirts of Lynn, George arrived at the Walls of London. The gatehouse—Bishopsgate—upon which he approached from the northward paths was loosely guarded by knights but they bade George no trouble upon his arrival. Instead, they stepped aside and permitted him to canter through the large oak doors that welcomed him into the infamous London.

After having spent the night in a Monastery in a village halfway between Cambridge and London, George reached his destination well fed and well rested and still with a comfortable amount of coin in his satchel. The springtime sun warmed the streets as he steered his steed through the winding dirt and stone paths between multi-storeyed homes and intricately carved buildings. George had been into the heart of Lynn on occasion for trade, and so was no stranger to the bustle of a populous town—but nothing he had known could compare to the splendour of the illustrious London.

Inhabitants bustled to and fro along the streets—peasants and noblemen alike—some leading livestock or carrying goods or engaged in conversation with fellow kin. The city rang with noise, far livelier than Lynn had ever seemed, and George found himself struck by the feeling that London bore a true heart, the very soul of England. The spire of St. Paul’s rose high above the rooftops, drawing him toward the city’s centre where the jagged lanes gave way to the expanse of the main square. There, merchants called out from their stalls, tempting him with artisan craft or fresh produce, but he rode on, too awestruck by the towering architecture and the astonishing truth that he had, at last, arrived.

As much as George longed to gawk at the marvels around him, he had come to London with a purpose; and time was money. He dismounted beneath the shade of a great oak at the edge of the square, tying his steed to one of its stout branches. Back on solid ground, he cast his eyes over the bustling crowds of the city, familiarizing himself with his new reality, as he straightened his cloak and retied his belt and the laces of his weathered leather boots. Catching his reflection in a polished glass window of the opulent St. Paul’s, he ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair in an effort to look somewhat presentable after the long journey behind him.

It was known that George had not been blessed to have been born unto a family of wealth or trade and, so, in order to achieve an apprenticeship, he would either have to pay a generous sum to a master of said trade or, more realistically, be incredibly convincing at selling himself as an apprentice. George knew himself to be a diligent worker at heart, but as a common peasant, he was well aware that earning the favour of a man of higher station would be no simple task. It was to be a long day ahead.

Donning his best tunic and cloak, George walked his steed through the streets of London to begin his task of finding himself an apprenticeship. He approached the first guildhall: that of the chandlers—candlemakers, an impressively important trade as the men who provided light to all of England. He knocked upon the wood door, politely greeted the servant who answered, and requested to speak with the master of the guild.

When the well-dressed gentleman met him at the door, George straightened up formally and offered him a smile, “Hail, good sir. I am George, son of Stephen, of the town of Lynn. I come humbly to request the honour of an apprenticeship at thy fine shop. I possess no coin, but—” ("Hello, sir. I am George, son of Stephen, from the town of Lynn. I am here to politely ask if you are able to offer me an apprenticeship in your fine shop. I have no money but—")

He got no further. The door was shut in his face before the sentence left his lips.

Startled, George blinked at the wood now sealed before him and took a small step back, uncertain whether to knock again or turn away entirely. Not wanting to be a pest, he decided on the latter. There were plenty more guilds to pitch to, after all. This was London! The city of opportunity.

With a click of his tongue, he guided his horse back to the street and they continued on their way. Soon, they stumbled upon the Grocer’s guild hall; the lavish building housing those who were in charge of the importing and trading of spices from the continent. As he had done previously, George knocked upon the door, asked to speak with the guild master, and barely got his introduction from his lips before the door was yet again shut in his face.

He had known it would be difficult to earn an apprenticeship without coin, but the sheer inhumility of those he had encountered thus far left him more rattled than he cared to admit. He had journeyed so far and his spirits were already starting to sink.

And still, he went on. He tried the mercers, the drapers, the butchers, the blacksmiths, the goldsmiths, the saltiers, and even the bakers and the clothworkers. Every guild master replied to him like the man before: with a refusal and a firm shutting of their door.

The sun was beginning to set, and George had time to visit one last guildhall before he would need to find an inn for the night. His steed was growing tired as he guided it by the reins through the cobbled streets, its hooves clinking against the stone and earth in a solemn rhythm behind him, as if the beast could feel the desperation and wallowing of his master. George gave his horse another encouraging tug as he approached the facade of the final guildhall for the evening: the carpenters.

The hall was not quite as elaborate as many of the others George had visited and, instead, it almost blended right into the many other standard buildings that made up London. It stood within a modest garden surrounded by four other cottage tenements and George crossed the path beneath the shade of the buildings and the foliage that grew within the courtyard. It felt as though he had stepped outside of London for a moment as the noise of the lively city gave way to the serenity of the garden and the faint chirping of birds from the trees’ budding branches. George peered up towards the sky that peeked between the thin canopy of trees, finding solace in the momentary shade and calm.

He tied his horse to one of the trunks and it let out a tired snort and a stomp of its hoof against the earth. George patted its side and then made his way up to the front doors of the guildhall and, with a defeated sigh, he raised his fist and knocked upon the wood. As he had countless times that day, he greeted the servant and requested an audience with the master of the guild, then waited patiently upon the stoop.

An older gentleman of no more than five and forty years appeared in the doorway, his dark hair and beard peppered with white of seasalt and his deep set eyes housed a hue of seafoam green. His garments were not that of a nobleman but certainly more tidy than that of George’s class, donning crisp edges of fabric and colourful sleeves, even with the dusting of wood shavings that littered the front of his tunic. He was a broad gentleman but there was a sense of warmth about him that George caught onto immediately, something almost paternal that set him apart from the other guild masters with which he had spoken to that day.

As always, George straightened up and offered a respectful smile and recited his pitch with practiced ease, “Hail, good sir. I am George, son of Stephen, of the town of Lynn. I come humbly to request the honour of an apprenticeship at thy fine shop. I possess no coin, but I offer honest labour, willing hands, and a quick mind in return for thy tutelage.” ("Hello, sir. I am George, son of Stephen, from the town of Lynn. I am here to politely ask if you are able to offer me an apprenticeship in your fine shop. I have no money but I offer good work, eager hands, and intelligence in return for your guidance.")

“From Lynn? My, quite the journey, lad,” the man replied, his voice low and gravelly. ("From Lynn? My, that's quite far, boy.")

“Four days, sir,” George nodded once, almost as if in a brief bow, “I have heard naught but praise of London, and I carry dreams far greater than Norfolk can hold.” ("Four days, sir. I have heard nothing but good things about London and I have dreams bigger than what Norfolk can offer me.")

“Aye,” the guild master acknowledged before asking with measured curiosity, “And what werest thou doing in Lynn, lad?” ("I see. And what were you doing in Lynn?")

“Working the land, sir. My father is a farmer, as was his father before him,” George said plainly, “But I seek to learn a craft—to build a life by my own hands in a city that might make use of them.” ("Farming, sir. My father is a farmer as was his father before him. But I want to learn a trade so I can build a life for myself with my own hands in a city that would find me useful.")

“And thy dream to join me and my fellow carpenters, George?” ("And your dream is to join me as a carpenter, George?")

“In all honesty, good sir, I seek an apprenticeship of any kind. I would be most indebted were you to grant me the means to a life and an honest trade in this fair city.” ("To me honest, sir, I want an apprenticeship of any kind. I would be indebted to you if you would offer me an income and training in this fair city.")

The man chuckled, the sound deep from within his chest, and when he smiled at George’s words, there was a glint of something kind in his eye, “Your honesty is admirable. God hath surely blessed thee.” ("Your honesty is admirable. God has blessed you with it.")

“I have naught but truth and my dedication to offer thee, sir.” George insisted, his voice thick with resolve, as though he might drop to his knees in plea, “But I swear upon God Himself—I shall bring no strife to thy door. I would give my very soul to thy guild and to thy craft.” ("I have nothing but truth and dedication to offer you, sir. But I swear to God, I will bring no annoyances to your household. I will give my soul to your guild and your trade.")

“Thou art a brave man and thy hast persuaded me, lad. I shall accept thee into my guild as an apprentice, provided thou apply thyself earnestly and conduct thyself with humility, dignity, and honour under my roof.” ("You are a brave man and you have persuaded me, boy. I will accept you into my guild as an apprentice, only if you apply yourself to the work and if you show humility, dignity, and honour in my house.")

For a moment, George could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Could it truly have been that easy? Had his day of toiling through the streets of London finally paid off in the eleventh hour? The kind gentleman before him—now his master—wore the face of a man to be trusted, and George moved swiftly to bow.

“Thank thee, sir. God bless thee, sir,” he said, with all the gratitude he could muster. ("Thank you, sir. God bless you, sir.")

“Come in now, out of the dusk. I will urge a servant to tend to thy steed.” his master instructed and ushered him inside. ("Come in, out of the dark. I will have a servant take care of your horse.")

Stepping over the threshold into the entry room, George was captivated by the timber framed interior that surrounded him and the wood floors beneath his leather boots—regal underfoot compared to the packed earth and rushes he had always known back home. A large brick framed hearth took up a majority of the far wall and chairs draped with furs and wool were positioned in front of it. Directly across from the door was a narrow wooden staircase—a feature George had never before seen in a home before—and he tried to peer up the staircase’s sharp bend as it vanished into the upper floor before turning to follow the gentleman onwards.

They crossed the reception room and passed beneath the rise of the staircase, where a low passageway opened into a smaller sitting room. A writing desk sat beneath a narrow window—likely the master's office—and George eyed the stacks of parchment and bound books along the other surfaces. George followed him onwards, into a cluttered cooking room and then right through the adjacent door that led them into the dining room. There, a group of people were gathered around a central table, their faces lit by candlelight and the glow of a crackling hearth. Ten heads lifted from their meals to watch him enter.

With a hand on George’s shoulder as if he were showing off a prize pig, his master introduced him, “May I introduce my newest apprentice: George of Lynn.”

For a moment, George was more struck by the fact that they dined at a proper table—something he had never known in his village, where families took their meals around the hearth, balancing them in their laps. At once, he urged himself back to his new reality as his master gave him a friendly nudge forward to find a spot at one of the benches at the table.

On the side where George sat, there were three other young men, no older than he, dressed in humble garments much like his own and they gave him courteous nods of greeting, though none spoke a word. At the far end of their line sat a young lad and lass, likely the master's youngest children, while, on the opposite side of the table, the five eldest children were seated in what appeared to be the order of their years, with the eldest taking the place nearest the head of the table, where their father was sure to sit.

“Father,” said the eldest of the lads, likely a few years George’s elder, “I knew not we were in want of another apprentice.” ("Father, I didn't know we wanted another apprentice.")

“We were not,” replied the master, settling himself at the head of the board, “Yet this young man moved me well, with good speech and solemn vow of industry.” ("We were not, but this young man convinced me with good words and a promise of hard work.")

The second son, seated close beside his brother, cast George a dubious glance but addressed his father as well, “Willst thou take him without fee, then? For nothing?” ("Will you take him without payment? For nothing?")

“Pray thee, judge not, son,” the gentleman warned, his voice steady but firm, “For as long as I draw breath, this house and this shop shall be ruled by mine own hand.” ("Please, don't judge, son. For as long as I am alive, this house and this shop will follow my rules.")

George shifted uncomfortably upon the far end of the bench, where he sat distanced from his master, urging himself to focus on the gentleness of the man, rather than the suspicious gazes of his heirs.

“I am indebted to thy family’s kindness, sir,” spoke George at last, “I will do my best to not burden thee.” ("I am grateful for your family's kindness, sir. I will do my best to not be a burden.")

“I have utmost faith in thee, young George,” the master smiled. ("I trust you, young George.")

He then took it upon himself to make proper introductions. The table, though crowded, bore warmth in its company. Three apprentices—Alexander, Andrea, and Oliver—were named as George’s new companions, both in labour and in lodging. With a touch of pride in his voice, the master spoke of his own brood: seven children in all, a blessing in these times when many did not survive beyond infancy. He did not shy from sharing that the birth of his youngest had cost him his beloved wife, yet his words held no bitterness. The child, merely eleven, with braids woven like a crown upon her head, was spoken of as a jewel most dear—so precious that none could place blame upon her for the sorrow that marked her birth.

The master went on to name each of his children in turn, and George did his best to mark their names and ages in his memory as they came. The two eldest sons, those who had voiced their misgivings towards his arrival, regarded him in silence, their stares not unkind, but rather, measuring. Yet it was the third born, a daughter—just a year shy of George’s own age—who caught his eye. She had said not a word since his arrival, but there was a gentle sureness in her that drew him, and when her gaze met his, he felt the air shift near imperceptibly, as though the room had grown warmer for it.

Her hair was as golden as the morning sun, plaited into two long braids that were folded upward and fastened just above her ears with white ribbons, framing her porcelain face with an air of quiet grace. Freckles dotted her nose and the apples of her cheeks like constellations and the warmth of her hair was contrasted by the striking blue of her eyes like winter’s first frost, gazing upon him with an intensity that rose shivers along his arms. Norfolk had many fair ladies but never before had he seen a woman so beautiful, so graceful, as though she had been shaped by the very hand of God, made not merely for the world, but for him and him alone.

The gorgeous Guinevere. A name fit for a queen.

George was torn from his reverie by the voice of his master, who bade his second daughter fetch a bowl of stew for their newly arrived guest. When it was set before him, he offered the girl a grateful nod and a soft word of thanks. Yet when his eyes sought the eldest daughter once more, he found her gaze lowered, her bashful smile now turned modestly to her own bowl. He bowed his head himself and smothered his rouged cheeks behind a spoon of his meal.

George was settled into his new home quite swiftly, and though the two eldest sons had shown some wariness at first, he soon found his place with comfort among the household. The fourth storey of the home was where the four apprentices slept, each upon a single bed of straw and feather, clad in simple linen and with modest pillows. The bed assigned to George lay in the far corner beside a small dormer window that gave view to the bustling London street below. As the days passed and the air grew warmer, he would often unfasten the shutters to draw in a breeze and ease the closeness of the attic chamber.

He got on well with the other apprentices with whom he was to share much of his waking and sleeping hours. Oliver and Andrea were but seventeen and sixteen years of age, respectively, and their families had paid for their apprenticeships, as was common for boys of reasonable fortune. Their youth had allowed them to form a bond in the year past under their master's roof together, and their impish antics did sometimes keep George from his rest after nightfall.

Alexander, the third apprentice, was nearer to George’s own age at four and twenty and his late entry into apprenticeship came from his seeking of a new beginning after his young wife had perished in childbed when they were but twenty, the babe lost with her. The sorrow of losing both his beloved and their firstborn had him quitting their small town to begin anew in London. George was fond of Alexander and his humility and brotherhood he had shown him since his arrival and they confided in each other often.

The apprenticeship itself pleased George greatly. He found much worth in labouring with his hands in the carpenter’s shop, learning from the master how to wield the tools and fashion goods of needful use for the people of London. On slower days, the master would teach his apprentices techniques and helpful mathematics that helped in their trade through hands-on application. When not labouring beside the master in the shopfront or tending to folk who came to purchase wares, the apprentices were set to their tasks in the loft above, toiling steadfastly on honing their craft.

George knew well that his place in the apprenticeship was granted by the grace of God, and thus he did not dare idle; often was he the last of his fellows to depart the workshop, retiring to his bed well after the sun had set. One particular evening, George had chosen the shop over dinner, toiling until the moon blessed the sky. The crowded house soon grew quiet as its inhabitants retired to their chambers for the night and George was left entirely to his lonesome in the shop. His hands were rough from working the timber and wielding his tools, wood shavings scattered over the tabletop and his lap as he sat atop a stool at the workbench, focus narrowed on the small forming shape in hand in the flickering candlelight.

Having taken no supper, he soon grew weary and knew he ought to put an end to his toil until daybreak. George put away his tools and his project and swept the workbench and the floor free of scraps and shavings, disposing of them in the bucket in the corner to be later used for kindling. Having blown out the candles, he left but one alight in its candelabrum to carry through the darkened homestead.

The floorboards groaned beneath his feet as he stole downstairs in search of a bit of bread and cheese before he would take to his bed. In his careful hand, the candlelight flicked across the walls, dancing with the moonlight that filled the reception room from the large courtyard window at the base of the stairs. Just as George turned to cross the chamber toward the cookroom, his gaze was drawn to a figure bathed in candlelight within the modest office set just off the hall.

Guinevere was nestled upon a fur-draped chair in the corner of the chamber, surrounded by melting candles and stacks of parchment, a leather-bound book held in hand from which she read most intently. The skirt of her kirtle flowed about her feet, the plainness of the garment lending her an elevated elegance in the golden glow of the flame. The dark blue dye of the cloth near shimmered like royal purple, and George thought she might well have passed for a lady of King Richard’s own court. Never had he seen someone as effortlessly graceful as his master’s eldest daughter, never had someone caused his heart to race just so.

She looked up from her pages upon hearing his cautious approach across the creaking floorboards and she smiled at the sight of him, lowering her book to her lap.

“Good evening, George,” she greeted in a voice as smooth as satin. George would never tire of it, “Is all well with thee?” ("Good evening, George. Is everything okay?")

He stopped in the opening to the study to share in her polite greeting, “Good evening, Miss Guinevere. I hath not expected thee. I had stayed late at my labours and came now in search of a morsel before I take to my chamber for the night.” ("Good evening, Miss Guinevere. I was not expecting you here. I had stayed up late working and came downstairs for something to eat before I go to bed.")

“Aye, I had thought as much. We all missed thee at supper.” ("Yes, I had thought so. We all missed you at dinner.")

George leaned against the doorway, candelabrum still held in one hand and a fond smile on his face, “Thou flatter me, Miss Guinevere.” ("You flatter me, Miss Guinevere.")

“Tis the truth.” ("It is the truth.")

There was a moment of silence between them as they simply stared at each other in the dim candlelight. George took in the sight of her in her comfortable kirtle and stockinged feet as she relaxed in the comfort of her home after dark, her feminine hands resting delicately on the book in her lap.

Not wanting to part quite yet, George inquired, “What art thou reading?” ("What are you reading?")

Guinevere gently tapped the cover of the book, “I read last month’s ledger, that I might ensure Father’s business runneth smoothly.” ("I am reading last month's ledger so I can make sure father's business is running smoothly.")

George had learned, in the weeks since his apprenticeship began, that Guinevere—being the eldest daughter and in the aftermath of their mother’s passing—served as the bookkeeper for the master’s trade. She kept the ledgers, overseeing the accuracy of orders placed by the cityfolk, the payments received, and the taxes duly paid. Though her bearing was gentle and graceful, she was a resolute and steadfast steward of the accounts, standing firm for her father against customers and tax collectors alike. Behind the scenes, she also worked closely with the wives of other guildmasters to ensure their shared affairs proceeded as they must.

“For that, I admire thee,” George stated. ("I admire you for that.")

“I admire thee for bearing the assiduity of my father day by day.” ("I admire you for dealing with the perfectionism of my father every day.")

They shared soft laughter at her discreet and playful dig at the stubborn work ethic of her father.

George merely shook his head fondly, “Thy father is a man of great worth, and I hath learned much from him.” ("Your father is a very skilled man and I have learned a lot from him.")

Guinevere leaned back in her chair comfortably, “Aye, perhaps ’tis not long before thou wilt aid me with the ledgers?” ("Yes, perhaps it's not long until you will help me with the ledgers?")

“Nay, thou hast the blessing of literacy.” ("No, you actually are lucky enough to be literate.")

It was a rare gift to read, granted only to the wealthiest who could afford tutors or the halls of university. Most folk’s labours needed no learning, and thus, reading was often a pastime for those with leisure and money. Since his coming to London, George perceived that his master held education in high regard for his children and, indeed, for any whom he might aid. They were no noble house, yet the gain from their prosperous carpentry trade granted them some added comforts and opportunities beyond most common folk.

Guinevere’s eyes softened at George’s simple reply, and she offered graciously, “Perchance I might tutor thee?” ("Maybe I can tutor you?")

“To read? Latin?”

“Some,” she shrugged, “mainly ledgers, so that when thou becomest a master in thine own right, thou mightst structure well thy business.” ("Some Latin, mainly ledgers, so when you have a business of your own, you will be able to run it smoothly.")

George’s teeth sunk into his bottom lip as if to smother his flattered grin, “Thy predict my mastery?” ("You think I'm going to be a master?")

“No other apprentice doth skip supper to carve.” Guinevere replied with a knowing smile. ("None of our other apprentices skip dinner to work.")

“Very well,” George relented, unable to turn down an opportunity for more time with his master’s beautiful daughter, “I graciously accept thine offer of tutelage.” ("Very well, I will happily accept your offer to tutor me.")

“’Tis wonderful. I look most forward to it. Might we read together after supper most nights? When the chores are done and the household hath taken to bed, that we be not disturbed?” ("That's wonderful, I am looking forward to it. Maybe we can read together after supper most nights? When chores are done and the family has gone to bed so they won't disturb us?")

“Aye, after supper it shall be,” George agreed. ("Yes, after supper sounds great.")

Guinevere’s lips held the softest of smiles; something that seemed as effortless as breath to her. Everything she did appeared so graceful, so righteous, that George near felt the need to kneel and bow before her.

They lingered in a quiet, gentle gaze until at last she spoke, “I dare not keep thee from thy bread and cheese.” ("I don't want to keep you from your snack.")

George blinked himself back to the present, almost forgetting why he had come downstairs in the first place, and he stepped away from where he leaned against the wall. He was reluctant to part, for he had found great joy in her company and their discourse, yet he would not overstay his welcome. With a tender smile, he offered, “I thank thee, Miss Guinevere. God keep thee.” ("Thank you, Miss Guinevere. Be well.")

“God bless thee, George.” ("God bless you, George.")

Since their moonlit discourse in the study, George and Guinevere had grown nearer still. Though he kept steadfast to his duties as an apprentice throughout the daylight hours, upon sundown—once supper had been taken—he would often spend his evenings with her in the reception chamber by the hearth with parchment, open ledgers, and inked quills lay scattered before them.

At first, he felt himself a fool, unable to make sense of the symbols and markings she read with such ease. Yet she bore great patience and did not hurry him, guiding him gently through each letter until they became known to him as well as the tools in the workshop. Their shared evenings became most dear to him; not solely for the broadening of his knowledge, but for the quiet ease it brought after a day’s hard toil in the shop. Her presence soothed him in ways he could scarcely put into words, and on certain nights, they spoke at length rather than studied, their discourse flowing as freely as the fire crackled in the hearth.

George spoke of his youth and what it meant to be born unto a family of peasants, offering the city-dwelling maiden a glimpse into the labours of the farming life. In turn, Guinevere shared of her mother’s passing and the burdens she bore as the woman of the house, and what excitement youth in London entailed. They found common ground in the sorrow of lost siblings—taken by the cruel fate of infant death, so frequent in their world that neither wept at the telling, though their hearts lay heavy. Yet laughter too was shared over favoured jests and good memories from local festivals. One night in particular, their merriment in shared tales grew so full that their laughter stirred the master from his chamber above, and he came down from his chamber and bid them both to bed at once.

Over the weeks, George found himself engraving his wood blocks with letterforms and words, employing his carpentry tools to etch decorative symbols and shapes into the surface. He practiced what Guinevere had taught him whenever he could, tying in literacy with his trade. Yet he would not take from her without offering payment, no matter how gracious she was in giving of her time and knowledge for no fee. Instead, he repaid her with quaint carvings and figurines fashioned in the shop, and she was ever honoured to receive them. Those, too, did grow more intricate as time wore on; from a modest box wherein she might keep her hair ribbons, to a simple comb for her hair, to a simple carved bird with its wings tucked at its side and its beak turned towards the sky.

One day, as he passed by the daughters’ chamber on the second floor of the homestead, he saw the door set slightly ajar, and within, there upon the window ledge beside Guinevere’s bed were his gifts, set out proudly in the sunlight for display.

Another Sunday drew near and, as was their custom, the family took their respite from labour for a day of prayer and rest. The apprentices accompanied the family to the local church a few streets over, trailing behind them respectfully in the pleasant summer sun. George could not deny that Guinevere looked absolutely ravishing in her Sunday best, the rich blue dye of her kirtle standing out against her pale skin and over modest linen shirt like ink upon fresh parchment. Walking behind her alongside his fellowmen, George found himself drawn to her every step as she strolled with the hands of her two youngest siblings in hers, the skirt swishing around her legs and caressing the cobblestones beneath her leather boots. George almost felt inferior in his faded blue tunic, frayed at the edges and having faced many a season on his back.

During mass, George was trapped between Guinevere and Alexander in the pew, seated so close in the cramped church that their thighs did touch. As always, Guinevere lifted her voice in hymn with the choir, singing with such grace that it seemed the very angels had lent her their tongues. On his other side, Alexander joined the song as well—though his voice, God love him, was ever out of tune but he was a man of faith and sang proudly to the hymns as if willing his voice to reach Heaven.

George kept his eyes dutifully upon the altar, though it was no small task with Guinevere’s voice floating beside him like incense in the air—sweet, clear, and wholly distracting, contrasted almost in jest by the unflattering notes of Alexander. He knew the Lord called for humility and so he prayed—first for forgiveness for the errant thoughts that stirred whenever he sat so near to Guinevere, and then, perhaps more earnestly, for strength not to grin every time Alexander tried to hit a note and missed tragically. He bit his cheek and feigned focus on the Gospel.

The church bells tolled, guiding the faithful from the quaint stone chapel, its people spilling out into the streets beneath the late-morning sun. It was a blessed relief to take a breath of fresh air after so long within the cramped confines of the nave and on such a beautiful day, most would gladly prefer to pass their hours beneath the open sky. As the family gathered upon the cobbled streets to speak of the sermon and ponder the day’s leisure, George lingered near to Guinevere within their familiar cluster.

He craved for more of her company outside of their nightly lessons and his heart raced in his breast with the need to have her for a moment to himself, desperate to find an escape from the presence of the entire family. Knowing he had no right to speak up against the will of the master of the house, his protest could only be given by a gentle touch of his finger against Guinevere’s wrist. She glanced at him with the limited space between them in their cramped cluster and their eyes met knowingly, a thousand words shared in but a glance.

Guinevere turned back to their gathering and spoke above her bickering siblings, “Father, might George and I take a turn through the square to behold the vendors before we return home?” ("Father, can George and I go for a walk through the square to look at the vendors before we go home?")

The master cast but a brief glance upon the pair, his attention divided between all seven of his children at once, and he granted them permission of leave with a wave of his hand and a passive, “Aye, if ye must.” ("Yes, if you must.")

George scarcely had a moment to realize Guinevere had taken his hand before they were hastening down the street together, far from the church steps, leaving the family well behind. Once they had disappeared from view, they slowed to a leisurely stroll and Guinevere slipped her hand from his, desiring not for the town’s gossip to be laid upon them. They fell in step together as they strolled aimlessly through the London streets which were far more hushed upon a Sunday than on days of toil.

“I am sorry if I hath torn thee from thy day with thy kin,” George said gently. ("I'm sorry if I took you away from your day with your family.")

Guinevere simply scoffed out a lighthearted breath, “Nay, I see no need to squander yet another Lord’s day amidst such tiresome company.” ("It's fine, I don't want to waste another Sunday with their exhausting company.")

“Thou holdest me to higher standing, Miss Guinevere?” George teased. ("You like me better, Miss Guinevere?")

“Certainly, sire,” she said right back and slid her hand into the crook of his arm as if she had been doing so all her life, “Thy company is most blessed.” ("Certainly, sir. Your company is most lovely.")

George stole a glance at her, letting her words and her playful honesty settle between them.

They walked arm in arm awhile longer until they came unto the Wall of London at Aldgate, where they paused upon the threshold, gazing forth across the rolling green hills of England’s fair and fertile lands beyond. They had not been permitted to venture forth beyond the city walls, yet the call of privacy and a sweet summer’s walk drew them out, and they strode in step together as they departed the bounds of the city.

The quiet of the outskirts of the city walls were a welcome change from the hustle and bustle that was ever present on the London streets within. Conversation flowed between them with the ease and warmth of their evening lessons, now exchanged as they walked side by side along the earthen paths. The air smelled of summer and its rich soil and flushing foliage, carrying with it birdsong and the hum of insects.

Along the bank of the Thames, a little ways off from the Tower of London, a quiet collection of willow trees lured them closer into the shade of their branches. In respite from the summer’s sun, George and Guinevere took rest upon the grassy brink beside the river, sheltered beneath the cool shade of ancient trees and, together they watched the water’s current, swift and sure, haste in its course toward the sea. As George sat upon the grass, he watched as Guinevere hoisted up the hem of her kirtle to kick off her boots so she could wade, barefoot, into the shallow rocky edge of the river.

She appeared to him as Eve in Eden, fashioned by the hand of God and in perfect harmony with the green splendour of the earth. George lay reclined upon the riverbank, propped upon his elbows, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watched her crouch low to trail her fingers through the rushing waters, the current dancing around her hand like it, too, was drawn to her grace. Her golden hair fell around her shoulders and in waves down her back, free from her usual tidy braids and plaiting, and George craved to run his fingers through it to know if it felt as soft as it looked.

When Guinevere did receive her fix of the cool stream, she carried her boots back up the riverbank and joined George upon the grass. She tucked her legs beneath her and rested back upon one hand, appreciating the serenity of the quiet summer afternoon as the warm breeze flitted through the ends of her hair. George tried not to stare at her beauty and, instead, he, too, kept his eyes focused forward on the impressive Thames that rushed past them.

“Father is seeking a suitor for me,” Guinevere said plainly, suddenly, breaking their calm. ("Father is looking for a husband for me.")

Something unkind stirred in George’s breast, and he kept his gaze fixed upon the river, unwilling to let her glimpse the wound her words had struck upon his heart.

“Hast thou heard?” she asked, casting a glance in his direction, “I had not thought he would see me wed to some gentleman, not whilst I remain his bookkeeper. Yet perhaps, once my eldest brother taketh the shop, his wife shall be made to keep the ledgers and I shall be left with nothing.” ("Have you heard? I thought he wouldn't marry me off to some gentleman, not while I'm his bookkeeper. But I guess my eldest brother will be taking over the shop and then his wife will be in charge of the ledgers and I will be left with nothing.")

“Nay, speak not of such woes,” George tutted, at last turning his gaze upon her. “Thou hast intelligence beyond measure—thy worth is not bound to ledger nor shop, thou need not tether thyself thereto to prove it.” ("No, don't talk like that. You have so much intelligence. Your worth is not tied to the ledgers or the shop and you don't need to be stuck with them to prove it.")

Guinevere pursed her lips in thought as she gazed out upon the river as if letting his words soak through her like water, her expression steady but her eyes holding a hint of unease. She did not quite acknowledge his sentiment and, instead, replied with a plain, “Father hath enough coin to betroth me to a nobleman. ’Tis a fine prospect for the shop, to bind us to a name of strength and standing.” ("Father has enough success to marry me off to a nobleman. It is a great idea for the shop as it will bind us to a name of strength and title.")

“A nobleman,” George echoed.

She glanced back upon him, “The few suitors I have met thus far hath been dreadful bores.” ("The few men I have met so far have been so boring.")

The heaviness of her initial confession lifted with that statement and George’s lips pricked up at the corners into an amused smile. Squinting in the shaded sun as he glanced up at her lounging beside where he lay, he spoke, “Aye?” ("Yeah?")

“The suitors have not worked a day honest in their lives, nor held labour in any proper trade. They scarcely can keep a conversation—nothing upon their tongues but talk of coin and standing—and lend no ear to what I might wish to say.” she insisted, turning her body so he could lounge herself upon her stomach with a gentle sigh, settling upon her forearms beside him on the grass until their eyes met, level and unhurried in the hush of summer. Finally, she added softly, “Not like thee.” ("The men have not worked a day in their lives or have had any proper job. They can barely keep a conversation unless it is about money or titles and they don't care to listen to what I have to say. Not like you.")

George smiled faintly at her addition, watching the way her words were formed by her pinkened lips, before he replied honestly, “I do take thy words with much delight, Miss Guinevere.” ("Your kind words make me happy, Miss Guinevere.")

Her slender fingers played with the blades of grass beneath her, plucking strands from the grasp of the Earth to caress them soft and tender. She appeared younger in that moment, bathed in the shade of the willow tree and the fractured haze of sunlight that slipped through, her boots cast aside and her stockinged feet swaying to and fro in the breeze. George desired to never return home, to stay in their sanctuary of river and tree together for the rest of time.

Lounging back upon his forearms beside her, George reached forth with one hand to pluck a wildflower from the patches that grew along the riverbank. He turned it between his fingers a moment, admiring its bright yellow petals and dainty leaves, before he summoned the courage to reach for Guinevere’s golden hair, tucking it behind her ear and secured it in place with the blossom. Her diamond eyes rose to meet his with a fond smile at the gesture, and as his hand began to move away from her cheek, she caught it gently in her own.

“Forgive me,” she breathed, gazing into his eyes as she held his hand to her cheek, “I have been taken with thee since thou were first welcomed into our home.” ("I'm sorry but I have been admiring you since you first stepped foot into our home.")

George broke into a bashful grin and cast his gaze down upon their joined hands, his thumb grazing over her knuckles. “‘Tis I who must confess, Miss Guinevere; I have been plagued by thoughts most unseemly toward the daughter of mine own master, for I have been wholly captivated by thy beauty. I do yearn for but a moment of thy time…and of thy affections.” ("It is me who has to confess, Miss Guinevere. My mind has been filled with salacious thoughts about my master's daughter as I have been in awe of your beauty. I crave even just a moment of your time or attention.")

Guinevere’s lashes fluttered as she drew a faint gasp at his confession, her gaze unwilling to part from his. Her voice, timid in a way he had not yet heard from her—like a maid too fearful to raise her hopes—came soft, “Is it so?” ("Really?")

“Aye,” George’s thumb brushed across the apple of her cheek, caressing the light dusting of freckles that kissed her porcelain skin, “When the Divine Being made you, He left nothing undone.” ("Yes. When God made you, he gave such attention to every little part of you.")

“I cared not to tutor thee,” she spilled out, as though in a hurried penance, “I did so only that I might steal a moment alone in thy company—to speak with thee, to behold thy fair visage by firelight, and to take to my bed visions of thy lips.” ("I didn't care about tutoring you. I only offered so I could spend time with you; to talk with you, stare at your handsome face by firelight, and to go to sleep with thoughts of your lips.")

George, with a racing heart and his gaze locked with hers, guided her hand away from her face to dust a cautious kiss to the back of it. He was testing the waters, the limits he could push with the daughter of his master who had just confessed that she had been taken with him, likely just as strongly as he had been taken by her over the few months they had shared. Guinevere did not flinch at the touch of his lips against her skin, rather, she watched with awe as his lashes fluttered shut and he left another kiss to the inside of her wrist.

When his eyes opened once more, her wrist still resting against his cheek and her hand held tenderly in his own, he found her already watching him as if to tempt him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. They sat so near that as he turned his head from her hand in his, his nose brushed her cheek, his breath warm upon her skin. His fingers toyed shyly with hers, the roughened touch of a tradesman tracing the softness of a feminine palm. The simple graze felt as if embers of a hearth sparked between them wherever his skin caressed hers.

She intertwined her fingers with his, taking hold of his hand and he returned the favour with a kiss most tentative upon her cheek, slow and lingering, like a breath of morning fog. And then another, to the corner of her mouth, wandering, testing. What they were doing was incredibly risky, a trespass upon all that society did deem proper and right, and, perhaps most grave of all, a defiance of her father’s will. But this was Guinevere—the most elegant maiden George had ever had the pleasure of knowing—and who was he to resist such temptation as the Lord Himself had placed before him? He was but a sinner, as any other Christian soul in all of England.

Let it be known that she did kiss him first. She was the one to lunge for his lips with her own, closing the mere breath between them with an intensity like no other. George made an embarrassing little sound at the sudden contact, a squeak of surprise as his eyes screwed shut and his hand tightened in hers. Neither of them moved for but a moment before, finally, they broke apart just long enough to move in for another searing kiss. George pulled his hand out of hers to grasp the side of her face in his calloused palm, pulling her deeper into their kiss and her palm fell against his chest.

Her lips were as soft as flower petals, as fair to feel as they were to behold, and George found himself aching for more—more of her, her lips, in any manner she might grant. She shifted closer still, almost leaning atop him, side by side, and her hand against his chest slid up to the side of his neck. It was a dream as they laid there on the riverbank, kissing languidly in the privacy of the willow tree shade, no one around for miles.

After a moment, Guinevere broke away from his lips for only a breath, her nose brushing against his as her fingers traced the edge of his jaw, “Is this wicked of us? To succumb to something not yet ours to take?” ("Is this wrong for us to do? To give into this temptation that is not ours to take?")

George’s thumb swept lightly across her cheek while his gaze took in every inch of her soft face in their close proximity, “If it be wicked, then let us both fall together, for I would sooner sin with thee than live righteously without.” ("If it is wrong, then let us both break the rules together, because I would rather commit a sin with you than not have you at all.")

And then she lunged at him once more, crashing their lips together with enough force that pulled a startled gasp from his breast and his hand tightened on the back of her neck, fingers tangled in the back of her hair. Their kisses turned feverish, near frantic, born of long weeks gone without—of withstanding the natural pull that drew them nearer, as though their very souls yearned to meet. It was everything so wrong, so sinful, sharing such closeness and intimacy outside of the promise of betrothal. But, with the first sweet taste of what they craved, even God Himself could not part them.

George moved off his forearms to rest flat against the grassy bank beneath him and Guinevere followed earnestly, as if parting from his lips were an unthinkable idea. His hands could not get enough of her as they traveled over her back and shoulders and tangled in the luscious golden strands of her free-flowing hair. Her leg then slipped over his, drawing herself closer still, her hips pressed up against his thigh and her hands pressed against the grass on either side of his head.

Guinevere then drew back from his kiss, her lips wandering soft over his cheek as she breathed a dreamy, “Ah, I burn for thee. Deep within my very soul.” ("I crave you, deep within me.")

George felt it too, that unearthly heat which seemed to stir beneath his skin wherever she laid her touch, and deeper still within his body, in some place strange and sorely tender. It was a sensation unlike any other, raw and unrelenting and so incredibly fierce, impossible to ignore.

“Miss Guinevere,” George breathed like her name was a prayer, his long lashes fluttered atop his rouged cheeks, nose nudging against hers, “I crave thee in every way known to man.” ("Miss Guinevere, I need you in every way imaginable.")

His hands slid down her back and gripped her waist, pressing his fingers into the curve of her hips as if to draw her impossibly closer. Her lips pressed firmly to his—once, twice, thrice—and then she drew back to gaze into his eyes, her finger trailing slowly along his bottom lip, “I am utterly besotted with thy lips.” ("I am addicted to your lips.")

“They are thine,” George nearly promised in a whisper, his thumb trailing slow along her hip over the flowing blue-dyed fabric of her kirtle where it draped across his thigh, “Take from them what thou wilt.” ("They are yours. Take from them whatever you need.")

And so she kissed him again, right down against the summer grass, her arms encircling his head as if to swallow him up completely in her embrace. He held her just as passionately, strong arms of a farmer locked around the city girl’s waist, clutching her to his body as if he willed her never to part from him. They kissed until they were dizzy and their lips were tingling with sin and the heat of their bodies outpowered that of the summer sun above them.

George had never felt this intensely before and the stirring in the depths of his stomach was something almost unparalleled, something he subconsciously craved to chase more of. When Guinevere shifted beside him with her leg still draped between his two and her hips rutted against his thigh, causing her to let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard right against his lips. His hands drew downwards, grabbing onto her buttocks to pull her body close again, encouraging her to move against him just so once more.

The need that swelled within him made him near ill with longing, and he lifted his head from the grass to press his mouth to hers once more—harder now, desperate to ease the red-hot coil of tension that burned within him. Guinevere drew back from his kiss and a string of spit broke between them as she sat upright, straddling his thigh. Breathless upon the riverbank, George gazed up at her with wonder, the summer sun crowning her head like a halo, its light dappled through the rustling branches of the willow above.

Her soft hands trailed down the breadth of his heaving chest and, upon reaching his waist, she threaded his long leather belt between her fingers. George could not break his gaze from her, utterly entranced by the sight of her in such a position and by the way she allowed her hands to wander his clothed body—right down to the swelling of his loins, where the fabric of his outerwear strained with want. He had known such arousal before, for it was a natural affliction of the flesh, yet never had he dared act upon it. The Church and its teachings had long made it clear that to touch oneself in such a manner was a sin most grievous.

To engage in such actions outside of wedlock was, too, a great sin and George felt a glimmer of guilt somewhere in his soul, as if his local priest were whispering in his ear to not be tempted by the forbidden fruit. However, once Guinevere lay her hand upon him, cupping the inflated front of his groin, all Holy sensibility vanished from his brain like smoke. His head fell back against the grass with a dull thud, a strangled gasp falling from his lips as he stared up towards the canopy of willows filtering the blue sky.

“Doth it pain thee?” Guinevere asked in a whisper just as uncertain, just as inexperienced. ("Does it hurt you?")

“Nay,” George choked out, heaving his head up again to steal a glimpse of her hand rubbing the shape beneath his garments, “Nay, ‘tis most…pleasing.” ("No, it feels pleasurable.")

A proud smile did come to Guinevere’s lips from his praise and encouragement. She stayed straddling his thigh with her hand rubbing over his groin for a moment longer until she began to hike up the fabric of his tunic and undershift, exploratory fingers itching for more. It was not uncommon for lovers to seek such delights by day—in gardens, in alleys of the city, or amidst the fields—ever longing for but a moment of seclusion. Yet the manner in which they now lay together, unbetrothed and in secret, bore the weight of great scandal. George glanced up the riverbank towards the path to confirm their isolation.

By then, Guinevere was pulling at the drawstring around his breeches to loosen the linen undergarments, her kiss-swollen bottom lip trapped between her teeth in eager anticipation. George’s chest was heaving as she reached within the linen fabric and guided out his cock. Her hungry gaze was all over him, taking in the sight of him and how her fingers wrapped around it like he was made for her to touch. No one had seen him in such a manner and neither had she seen a man in such a state of undress and they took but a moment to get used to the circumstance.

“God above,” she whispered, her voice near trembling with wonder, “I had not imagined thee thus—but now I find I cannot look away.” ("Oh my God, I had not imagined what you would look like this, but now I can't look away.")

George could only reach a hand up towards her and she followed his silent invitation to lean down and meet his lips in another searing kiss. His fingers tangled in the back of her hair and his lips locked with hers in heartracing symphony while her hand stayed firm around his dick and began to stroke him tentatively. He pulled in a shuddering breath and curled his fingers in the roots of her hair for something to grasp onto, his other finding the fabric of her kirtle over her waist.

No sooner did he melt into her kiss did she pull away again and she moved down his body just enough to wrap her lips around the head of his cock. George’s fingers tightened in her hair as his entire body twitched in surprise, eyelids fluttering as his eyes struggled not to roll with the unfamiliar pleasure. His head dropped back against the grass and he swallowed thickly, struggling to keep himself composed as she gently sucked on him with that sweet mouth of hers.

He had heard the tales often told by village friends at the alehouse—of their ventures to the brothels at the heart of Lynn and the pleasures the women there offered—but never had he reckoned to find himself upon the receiving end of such delights. And delight it was as he held the privilege of having the most beautiful woman in all of England treating him like the King himself. Guilt was the furthest thing from his mind as his hand, tangled gently in the back of her hair, guided her shallow motions up and down, whilst his other arm lay folded behind his head so he could gaze upon her through eyes heavy with pleasure.

“Never hath a man been so blessed,” George exhaled thickly, “Sweet mercy, Guinevere, thou makest me mad with longing.” ("I'm the luckiest man. My God, Guinevere, you drive me made with how much I want you.")

Guievere drew back with a proud smile as radiant as the blue skies above them and she left one more kiss to the head of his cock before she was standing up between his legs. For but a moment, George was stricken with panic and rose upon his forearms, near expecting her to take her leave then and there; it was clear he was in no fit state to return to her father’s house. Instead, he was privy to the way she grabbed onto the skirt of her kirtle and the white linen chemise beneath and hiked them up to bunch them around her waist.

His breath shuddered in his breast as he stared upon her skin revealed before him in the sunlight. Her blue-dyed stockings ended at her calves and were tied there with their drawstrings and contrasting her milky legs that continued higher and higher until they reached her feminine hips. With her chemise, her sole undergarment, drawn up out of the way, George held his gaze upon her naked figure, the first female body he had seen in such a manner.

Guinevere crouched back down towards the Earth, one leg on either side of his lap, and as she did, he sat up to meet her, craving to touch her and explore her how she had done with him. She straddled him and rested upon raised knees, their lips meeting instinctively, and his hand found its way between her glorious thighs, brushing through the coarse hair upon her mound before his fingers slipped lower. The soft gasp she breathed into his mouth from his touch had his dick twitching against his abdomen and he let instinct guide him as he caressed the source of her wetness.

She was leaking upon his fingers like water from the river that flowed past them, her hips moving with his hand as if seeking more of him. The awareness that no one had touched her like this had George’s heart racing in his breast, a sense of pride bursting within him, and his desire to make it enjoyable for her stirred in his very soul. It was the pleasure of sex that the Church deemed to be a sin but from stories from friends about their excursions to the brothels, it was nothing to shy away from. To be desired, to take pleasure, and to delight in life was no cause for shame. And as Guinevere framed his face in her delicate palms and kissed him with passion unspeakable, he wanted all of that and more with her.

With fingers blessed by her wetness, George reached down to wrap a hand around his stiff cock and helped to angle it where he knew it needed to be. He knew how it worked from life on a farm and from stories from friends and the shamed teachings of the Church, knowing to connect their bodies together in the most intimate way. Guinevere held one hand atop his shoulder and the other kept her skirts up as they worked to get themselves situated together until he was teasing across the heat of her cunt.

He had always been told by the world that man was the warmth and woman the cold—but as she lowered herself upon him, he swore that he had never felt heat like that of her body ever before in all his days. Guinevere gave a soft cry as she sheathed herself upon him, little by little, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic where it lay across his shoulders and back, her forehead pressed to his. George held her close, seeking to offer comfort and quiet assurance, though his mind nearly failed him for the sheer wonder of how tightly she gripped him.

“It aches,” Guinevere spoke vulnerably, her breath against his cheek, “but I want thee still.” ("It hurts, but I don't want to stop.")

George gazed up into her diamond eyes, his hands roaming tenderly over her hips as she sank fully upon his lap, and he answered her in a breath half-stolen, “Is this how it is meant to be? Then let it never end.” ("Is this what it's supposed to feel like? I don't want it to end.")

Her smile was beautiful and he tasted her euphoria upon her lips with a searing kiss, fingers pressing into the bunched up fabric of her skirts around her waist as if to draw her ever nearer. She moaned like heaven into his mouth and curled her body towards his, grinding against his lap in a way that had him coiling tight with pleasure. Their breaths fell as one, panting, longing, thrilled on their secrecy on the riverbank. It felt so good, he wanted more. Needed more. There was no going back now.

With cautious guidance, his hands at her waist began to move her in tender, shallow rises atop his lap, each motion gentle and unsure, while their breath mingled in gasps, mouth to mouth. George felt the searing pull of pleasure tightening in his loins, each of her movements driving him nearer to a peak almost too great to bear. He knew not what this fierce stirring within him truly was, and as much as it frightened him, some part of him, unspoken and wild, craved to chase it.

Only moments later—scarce five gentle bounces atop his lap—the fire within him rose to a terribly sweet pitch, and with a sound half-cry, half-prayer, he gave himself over to her wholly. Guinevere gasped as he spilled within her, his body drawn taut beneath her, the two of them clinging to one another with a desperation born of pleasure. George held his face buried in her neck, in her hair, holding her in place for a moment longer as he let himself return to Earth.

Neither spoke as their lips sought solace in one another, exchanging tender kisses between their breathless sighs, until at last she began to draw away. George’s hands remained at her hips, steadying her as she rose from his lap, leaving him limp and spent upon the grassy riverbank. Though they knew well there would be no consequence—for it was commonly known that both partners must find their peak for a child to be conceived—Guinevere still gave a small hop in place, as if to coax what remained from within her.

With her skirts still gathered in her fists, George watched as a pale, creamy substance—like that of smooth buttermilk—dripped from within her and onto the grass between her feet. But it was the smear of blood upon her thighs and between her legs that held his gaze most, the faintest trace, yet proof enough of what they had done. For a moment he hesitated as if guilty realization settled within his breast, knowing that once she were to be married off, she would no longer be able to provide proof of virginity, putting shame upon herself and her family name. It was a harsh truth, cold and unforgiving, and yet George would not dwell upon it. Instead, he let himself be soothed by the heavenly press of her lips as she leaned down to grant him a kiss, sweet and unburdened.

“We must return home,” Guinevere whispered between kisses, her skirts falling softly about her legs as she cradled his face in her dainty hands, “Father will be expecting us for supper.” ("We have to go home. Father will expect us there for dinner.")

“I know not how I am meant to go on,” George confessed, his voice low and sincere, “with my thoughts so sweetly plagued by the memory of thee.” ("I don't know how I'm supposed to carry on as normal when my thoughts are now filled with the memory of you.")

“We must go on in secret,” she vowed, “for I cannot bear to part from thee now that I have known thee so.” ("We must continue in secret because I can't imagine not doing this again.")

And who was George, to turn away such a vow as that?

Their quiet evenings of tutelage soon gave way to stolen kisses by firelight, the two of them tangled together upon the floor amidst scattered parchments and ink-stained quills, pouring their passion into one another with breathless restraint. Yet they dared not revisit the intimacy they had shared upon the riverbank, for never was there a moment when they were truly alone. Even during their evening sessions, the threat lingered—a creaking stair, a voice from above—the ever-present risk of a family member emerging unannounced.

Instead, they explored many pleasures together in other ways: wandering hands beneath clothes by the hearth, grinding together in a secluded corner of the guild’s courtyard, and stealing kisses in passing whenever possible. George repented often during his nightly prayers, knelt by his bed in the attic, hands clasped together, and praying for forgiveness to the Lord. It was perilous of them, but they could not stop. It was easy to believe they were destined for one another, and that made all seem right.

But reality fell upon them like an iron fist. George had found himself in the reception room one afternoon, having been sent to retrieve lunch from the cooking room for his fellow apprentices in the shop. On his way, as he so often did, he had crossed through the office to find Guinevere in his moment of respite from his toil. When she was found to be missing from her bookkeeping, he moved to the front window to look out upon the courtyard.

There, strolling side by side, was Guinevere and a nobleman not much older than he. He donned rich red garments and impressively pointed boots with the lengthy toes curled upwards, revealing his wealth and status through the most stylish footwear one could have. His Earthy hair was neatly bound beneath a matching crimson hat, and his handsome face was framed by a modest beard along a chiseled jaw. From the window, George watched as Guinevere walked beside the man, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm, speaking with him politely.

The nobleman admired her as they strolled, stealing glances at her beautiful face in the sunlight. George swallowed thickly, unease tightening in his breast at the sight. He had been aware that his master had been finding suitors for her but never before had George bore witness to such goings on. Now, stood at the window, he was filled with the realization that their shared passion in secrecy was unsustainable. It was only logical that her father should wed her to a man of noble standing, to ensure the shop’s prosperity and grant her a life of ease. Though Guinevere’s family dwelt among the better-off commoners, they were not rich, and so such an alliance was deemed most necessary.

Yet, as logical as it was, it felt not fair in the least. George had toiled the land since the day he reached his twelfth year, fated to a life of hardship and struggle as many in England were. He knew himself a steadfast worker, a worthy provider, and an honest man — and yet, none of these merits could weigh against the ease and splendour of noble birth.

His thoughts drifted to Lando from his brief stay at the inn in Cambridge, remembering his confession to thievery from the rich to give to the poor. For the first time in his life, George felt as though he understood. What had this nobleman in the courtyard done to deserve such a wonderful lass? He would merely take breath and the pleasures of the world should be bestowed upon him, while George and the majority of England toiled long days and still saw no such rewards. The feeling was evil in his breast.

Outside of Guinevere’s afternoons with her suitors, her time with George progressed like it always had. Between their lessons, he still carved her presents from his work in the shop, determined, if nothing else, to win her heart with the intricacies of his craft. For days, he set himself to the task of crafting another figurine, wielding his tools with quiet devotion and whittling with utmost care. At last, he presented to her his most treasured creation: a finely carved little horse. With a flowing wood mane and tail, it stood in proud stance upon whatever surface it was placed. Guinevere, upon receiving it, was all awe and delight—grinning by the hearth on yet another evening they stole together—and declared it her favourite of all he had made.

And, as always, it was presented proudly on her window ledge with all his other presents—silent tokens of affection lined up like a row of unspoken promises.

On a rare evening where they were not set to meet by the hearth, George took leave of his lodging to visit a local alehouse for a change of scenery. He had frequented a few since his arrival in London on those rare evenings where work was sparse and he found socializing with locals to be most enjoyable. Sometimes his fellow apprentices joined him but this particular night, he ventured out alone.

As he stepped over the threshold, the scent of spiced meat and ale hung thick in the air and the crowded space was filled with clinking of mugs and boisterous conversation over the lively lute being played in the corner. George kept mostly to himself as he navigated through the chaos to the bar and paid the alewife for a serving of brew with a single silver coin. With his metal cup in hand, he scanned the crowd for a vacant seat but he did not get very far before a hand came down upon his shoulder.

Startling, George spun around to see who had come up behind him, only to find himself face to face with a grinning Lando. His acquaintance grinned at him, “George of Lynn! God’s mercy, but it is a joy to see thee!” ("George from Lynn! My God, it is nice to see you!")

“Lando of Bristol,” George smiled and wrapped his arms around him in a friendly greeting, “What wind blows thee to London?” ("Lando from Bristol, what brings you to London?")

Lando laughed, “Thou didst speak of it so grandly, I thought to come again and see if thy praise held true.” ("You spoke so highly of it. I thought I'd come back to see if what you said was true.")

“It hath been treating me grandly.” ("It has been treating me well.")

“Come, let us sit and speak of our travels,” Lando offered. ("Come, let's sit and talk of what we've been up to.")

George followed him across the alehouse to a small table in the corner, away from the centre of chaos and noise, somewhere quieter for them to catch up. It had been a few months since they had first met at the inn in Cambridge and there was a lot to share. It was nice to see a familiar face in the bustling city of strangers.

Over ale and bread, Lando listened intently as George spoke of his arrival to London and the struggle to find a guild willing to take him in for no cost. He spoke highly of his master and the generous chance he took with him to welcome him into his home and his shop and how he had been learning so much as a carpenter. Entrusting of Lando, George also told him the basics about Guinevere, his master’s eldest daughter, and simply how he was infatuated by her since the moment he first laid eyes on her but she was expected to be betrothed to a nobleman.

Lando listened patiently to his every word, nodding or chiming in where the conversation allowed. When George was done, Lando set his cup atop the table in front of them.

“Thou lovest this maid, yet she is promised to another?” Lando questioned. ("You love this girl but she is promised to another guy?")

“A man hath not yet been chosen, but ’tis to be one of noble birth—for the good of the shop and to grant her a life of ease,” George replied flatly, his fingers idly tracing the wood grain of the table. ("A man hadn't been chosen yet but he's going to be a nobleman to benefit the shop and to promise her an easy life.")

“Nay, fie on that,” Lando scoffed, “Thy master singeth thy praises as a man and a worker—how can he think to wed his daughter to any but thee?” ("No, fuck that. Your master talks so highly of you as a man and as a worker...how can he think to marry off his daughter to any one but you?")

A flattered smile grazed upon George’s lips at the support and kindness of his friend, “I hath been thinking often about what thou hast told me in Cambridge; how the nobles steal from us commoners without thought.” ("I have been thinking a lot about what you told me in Cambridge; how the nobles steal from the commoners without thought.")

If for but a moment Lando’s face twitched into a smirk, George scarcely missed it. Instead, he continued.

“I cannot bear to think of them stealing love from me.” ("I can't stomach the idea of them stealing love from me.")

“It is not the nobles alone,” Lando replied coolly, “Thy master, too, be not without blame. Standing on the threshold of nobility with the wealth of his guild behind him—he holdeth power that thee and I may scarce comprehend. He is a man of trade, driven by coin and standing, as hungry for honour as any lord.” ("It's not just the nobles. Your master is also to blame. He's standing on the cusp of being a noble himself with how well off his guild is; he holds power that you and I can't even understand. He's a man for trade, driven by money, and he's as hungry for a title as any Lord.")

George pursed his lips in thought for a moment, letting Lando’s words settle over him. He had known that his master’s family were not nobles, were not blessed with a bloodline of riches and status, but they were at the upper end of the commoners; with a house in London and a successful shop and opportunities not often seen by many others. The reality of that realization settled heavy over George’s shoulders.

“But my master hath been most kind to me—he took me in as an apprentice when he had no cause to,” George protested, clinging onto the last shred of humility. ("But my master has been really kind to me. He took me in as an apprentice when he didn't have to.")

“Aye,” Lando acknowledged with a shug, “I say not that he is wicked—but he is blind to his own wealth, as any nobleman might be. He taketh thee in without coin, true, but neither doth he pay thee, nor would most masters. Yet think on it—he reaps the fruits of his apprentices’ labour and spendeth it as he will, for his own gain.” ("Yes, I'm not saying he's wicked, but he is blind to his own wealth as any nobleman. He took you in without payment, yes, but he doesn't pay you, neither would any other master. Think about it; he takes the rewards of his apprentices' labour and he spends it however he wants for his own benefit.")

George could only blink, “Nay…” ("No...")

“These guild masters make their fortunes on the backs of unpaid apprentices. ‘Tis free labour, no better than the toil of serfs in the fields. Our hands do the work, yet 'tis they who take the harvest.” ("These guild masters make their money on unpaid labour. It is free labour, no batter than the work of the slaves in the fields. Our hands do all the work but they take the rewards.")

“He giveth me a roof over my head and food to fill my belly,” George protested, though the surety in his voice had waned. ("He provides me with a home and food.")

“Aye, and thus thou art bound to him,” Lando returned smoothly, as though he had spoken such truths a hundred times before, “Leave, and thou risk hunger and a bed of cobbles in some piss-stained alley.” ("Yes, and so you are bound to him. If you leave, you will risk starving and sleeping on the street.")

George looked out across the alehouse, watching the cityfolk laugh and dance and talk amongst their groups, carefree, as society held so many fractures. So many of the men and women around them were workers just like them, just like most of the population of England, spending their last penny for a cup of ale and good company. Where were the rich? The guild masters, the nobles, the lords? Busy with their own folk with infinite ale and bread and fresh meat that was not a luxury as it were for the working class.

As though he sensed the unrest stirring within George, Lando laid a steady hand upon his shoulder. “’Tis why we rose up, why we set London alight last June and drew the King from his hiding place to heed our cries. ’Tis why Watt Tyler, the captain of our revolution, was struck down before mine own eyes, his head set upon a spike upon London Bridge. We give our lives for the cause of fairness, George. We seek not their suffering—but their respect. Man to man, as equals.” ("It's why we revolted, why we set fire to London last June and drew the King from his hiding place to hear our demands. It is why Watt Tyler, the captain of our revolution, was murdered before my eyes, his head put on a stick on London Bridge. We give our lives in the fight for equality, George. We don't want them to suffer, but we want their respect. Man to man, as equals.")

There was a fire that burned in George’s heart, one vastly different from the kind of heat that filled him on the riverbank a few weeks prior but no less intense. It was anger, anger stemmed from unfairness and the desire to chase justice. He knew he was not as brave as Lando, he could not outwardly storm into cities to demand change, but at the same time, he felt so helpless. Helplessness and anger fueled him strongly, craving to set things right in society but also in his own life. If he were seen as an equal, perhaps Guinevere could be betrothed to him.

George looked to Lando with sureness in his gaze, “What can a man like me truly do?” ("What can someone like me even do?")

Lando gave George’s shoulder a squeeze and then leaned closer, an elbow on the table and his hand falling to the back of the chair on which George sat. He spoke in a whisper tinged with hope, with blind sureness, “I am yet among bands of rebels who labour to uncover the deceit of the rich, but we lack proof to lay before the King’s court. Perchance thou mightst gain access to thy master’s ledgers and transcribe some of the entries—names of nobles, false taxes, bribes, aught and everything that might serve to condemn them and reveal the wrongful sharing of wealth.” ("I am still part of some groups of rebels who work to uncover the lies of the rich but we don't have proof to show the King. Maybe you can steal some of your master's ledgers and copy out the entries-names of nobles, false taxes, bribes, anything and everything that might help to reveal their hogging of wealth.")

The first thing that came to George’s mind was Guinevere and her meticulous keeping of the books for her father’s shop; her careful penmanship, her organized lines and ledgers, watching her scribe by candlelight. It would be betrayal to her and her family to steal her ledgers and hand them over to the rebels, but what choice did George have? Did he have a choice? Where did he want to lay his loyalties? With his people or with the woman he fantasized about but could never have?

“Think on it well,” Lando said, breaking through George’s restless thoughts, “Shouldst thou choose to aid us, I shall await thee by the blacksmith on London Bridge in a fortnight, after the sun hath set. Bring with thee copies of all thou canst find that may serve our cause.” ("Think about it. If you want to help us, I will wait for you by the blacksmith on London Bridge in two weeks, after the sun has set. Bring copies of all you can find that might help our cause.")

George nodded mutely and raised his cup to his lips for a measured sip.

Lando had made sure that George knew that he was not pressuring him to partake in this act of defiance which was appreciated but it only made George more unsure of what he should do. For a few days after they had met in the alehouse, he was plagued by the decision he was to make. He had always been one to follow the rules as laid out by society he was born unto and committing an act of utter defiance felt utterly wrong. He had known of the Peasants Revolt that Lando had partaken in the year prior and it was nationally known that the rebels did not succeed in achieving their demands they had fought for. So what would some measly papers from a carpenter’s shop do to make a difference?

Lying in his bed one night, George gazed upon the wooden beams of the attic where the apprentices slept, his mind thick with uncertainty. From the bed beside his, Alexander snored softly in the pale bath of moonlight streaming through the two small dormer windows above, and across the uneven floor, Oliver and Andrea had long since fallen into their own slumber. George tossed and turned, plagued by the weighty choice he was forced to make and how his decision would affect everyone he knew in different ways.

His troubled mind was broken by the creaking of the round staircase at the far end of the cramped attic, and George lifted his head from his pillow to gaze in that direction. In the darkened space, he could faintly make out a figure climbing the staircase and emerging into this chamber. He could recognize Guinevere’s silhouette anywhere.

She tiptoed across the floor to his bedside in the corner, and George cast a glance toward his fellow apprentices to be certain they still slept and would bear no witness to the master’s daughter coming to see him after dark. He drew back the thin sheet and bade her welcome, sharing daring smiles in the pale moonlight as she joined him. The straw and feather mattress rustled softly beneath her as she settled close beside him, tucked in the narrow space, face to face.

“What art thou doing here at this hour?” George whispered. ("What are you doing here so late?")

“I could not find rest,” Guinevere confessed just as softly, “I missed thee.” ("I couldn't sleep. I missed you.")

He smiled warmly, “I missed thee even more.” ("I missed you more.")

“Impossible,” she murmured with a playful tut, then leaned in to press her lips upon his before he could utter another word.

It was certainly one way to distract his mind from its internal noise and indecision, focusing instead on pouring his emotion into her kiss and the feel of her body against his. She grasped the back of his neck while his arms wrapped around her figure, melting into her touch and their familiar dance of lips. In only her chemise, Guinevere was so easy to touch, to feel the warmth of her skin through the linen, and to encourage him to bunch up the fabric a little more to get his hands on her properly.

He touched her everywhere he could beneath the thin sheet of his narrow bed, roaming her waist and hips and buttocks, bodies pressed chest to chest, until he guided her thigh closer to entangle her with him. His thigh went between hers like second nature and she pulled herself against it with a secure grasp around his shoulders, smearing wetness across the hem of his linen shift. George’s breath shuddered at the feeling and he pushed his mouth upon hers with unrelenting intensity as if he were willing himself to be pulled into her very soul.

The rustle of the straw mattress beneath them sounded like thunder in the silent attic, dipping and shifting beneath the faint ministrations of Guienevere’s hips. George could not stop touching her as if his hands were sewn to her body, addicted to the feeling of her bare, wet cunt against his thigh. He drew back from her lips to, instead, trail kisses down her neck and she tilted her head back to permit him wherever he pleased.

“Wert thou thinking of me in thy bedchamber?” George asked in a breath against her throat. ("Were you thinking of me when you were in bed?")

“Aye,” she near purred as quietly as she could muster, threading her fingers through the back of his hair to guide his head into the crook of her neck, her eyes fluttering shut at the feel of his lips and breath upon her skin, “and thy fair form…and all thou canst do with it.” ("Yes, and your body and everything you can do with it.")

“Mm, I can feel it—how wet thou art.” ("Mm, I can feel it. How wet you are.")

The words had barely passed his lips before she was pulling his mouth back to hers and swallowing up the lewd praises he spoke to her. In an instant, George shifted them under the sheet so she was laying beneath him, mouth to mouth, trapped between him and his bed in the attic of her father’s house. Her fingers tugged gently at the roots of his hair, as though to keep their lips joined and their limbs entwined beneath the sheets, until neither could tell where he ended and she began.

George could feel that unmistakable burning tension swelling within him again, the kind that only rose when Guinevere was near and when he had her like this: pliant and at his mercy. She did not complain and often—as was this very night—she was the one to be initiating such illustrious scandal between them. He would never deny her such pleasures, nor would he deny himself.

Their breaths fell shallow between fervent kisses, and they tried in earnest to keep silent, for the sake of the three other apprentices slumbering in the beds nearby. But their need was far too great to deny, and the mattress whispered beneath them as he drew her chemise up about her middle. He pulled his shift over his head in a smooth tug, desperate to rid himself of the suffocating linen, and she parted her legs for him while her hands caressed down his chest and he settled himself between her thighs. Without a word, he guided the head of his cock between her plump lips before finally easing himself within her with a trembling breath.

Guinevere stared up at him in the moonlight, her arms nestled beneath his, hands splayed across his shoulder blades, and a soft gasp escaped her lips as he sheathed himself within her. He held her gaze as he filled her wholly, their bodies, their very souls, joined once more. It was different this time, with him above her, than it had been by the banks of the Thames those weeks past. There was a tenderness in it, a deeper heat, and George felt his heart quicken in his breast at the way she clung to him and at the way she gazed at him from beneath her lashes.

As though drawn by some transcendent force, George began to roll his hips against hers in slow, measured thrusts and the flutter of her lashes and the catch in her breath at each movement sent a thrill of pride down his arms. He cradled her there upon the linen-lined mattress and kissed her with all the fervour in his heart.

When breath was needed, they parted only so far as to rest their brows together, remaining close as he ground into her with slow, tantalising thrusts. Though they strove to remain quiet, Guinevere could not help the soft sounds that slipped from her lips—angelic ahs and gentle mms in time with each deep thrust as he filled her fully—and he had not the heart to bid her silence. He merely hushed her softly to remind her the importance of their discretion; they were not alone.

Even still, his hand slipped down between them, finding its way to where they were joined, and he pressed his fingers firmly to the rise of her flesh. Her breath caught in her throat, as though the touch alone pleased her so greatly it took her by surprise, and her hands clutched tighter onto him as he began to rub her generously. George near thanked Heaven for all the raunchy alehouse chatter and the talk among men of how women much delight in being rubbed between their legs, for the way such a simple thing made her clutch at him and writhe against his bed was unlike nothing else he had ever known.

She was warm and wondrously tight around him, and yet as he kept his hand moving in time with the slow and consistent press of his hips, she only seemed to grow tighter still. His breath grew ragged, his control slipping fast, for it was growing ever harder to keep on as the pleasure began to crest within him like a wave nearing its break; inevitable. George bit his lip so hard he almost drew blood, desperate to keep himself quiet no matter how intense it all felt.

Regardless, Guinevere let a soft cry break from her throat as her head tipped back against the bed and her nails bit into the flesh of his back. George muttered a curse beneath his breath and swiftly pressed his palm to her mouth, striving to smother her whimpers and heavy breaths, to not risk waking his fellow apprentices. Her snug, quickened heartbeat throbbed between her thighs, drawing him swift into the height of his pleasure, and he sank his teeth gently into the flesh of her shoulder to muffle his own sounds.

They shared a quiet moment of respite, catching their breath and letting the silence linger, that the slumber of the three young men across the attic be not disturbed. After but a moment, George withdrew from her and turned onto his back beside her, and without a word, she nestled at his side like a contented cat.

George did not wish to let her return to her chamber now that he held her beneath his arm. For a while, they felt unburdened and true—her head upon his chest, his fingers idly combing through her silken hair, their breasts rising and falling in time—free to be as one. Beneath the hush of moonlight, in the dust-laden attic, and with the quiet that came from the slumber of his fellow apprentices, they were not wholly alone, yet it was the nearest they had come to solitude in many weeks.

Guinevere seemed in no rush to return to her bed either as she relaxed in his arms and traced shapes over his bare chest with her fingertips, tracing the faint dusting of hair between his pecs and swirling circles around his nipples. Her touch felt so gentle, so right, and George could have laid there for years, just holding her and being touched by her. His mind was empty apart from thoughts of her and only her.

To silently seal his devotion, he turned his head upon his pillow and placed a lingering kiss to her flushed forehead. He could feel her cheek turn up with her smile against his chest.

“I shall need brew an herb-tea come the morrow,” Guinevere said softly, breaking their quiet contentment. ("I'll need to brew a herbal tea tomorrow.")

They both knew well the risk they had taken by meeting their peaks in unison; risking conception of a child out of wedlock. The only safeguard lay in a certain concoction of tea passed down through generations of women. Many ladies had sworn by its power, and George had heard whispers of it in the towns and along the city streets.

“Mm, perhaps I shall take a cup with thee,” he murmured into her hair. ("Mm, maybe I will have a cup with you.")

Her quiet laugh was as sweet as honey on the tongue.

“I adore thee,” she breathed, as though the words were a vow, “I would lie with thee for a thousand summers more and couple so sweetly it would stir envy in all of England.” ("I adore you. I would lay here with you for a thousand more summers and make such passionate love that all of England would be jealous.")

George chuckled faintly into her golden hair, whispering in reply, “How that would please me greatly, my fair one.” ("I would love that, my darling.")

Guinevere tilted her head back upon his shoulder so as to be able to admire his face in the darkened attic, sharing in his content smile before she stole it with a kiss. His arm tightened around her, drawing her nearer, pacifying her with his lips until she was satisfied. They stared into each other’s eyes, tangled beneath his sheet, before his hand found hers and he intertwined their fingers.

“Thou wouldst make a lovely bride,” George confessed. ("You would make a lovely bride.")

It was a thought barely more than a whisper, almost unheard if she had not been watching his lips move.

“Thou wouldst make a lovely husband,” she echoed, as though she knew just what he yearned to hear to quiet his thoughts, “More than any noble who might seek to woo me with gold or silver.” ("You would make a lovely husband. More than any noble who would try to win me over with gold or silver.")

“Dost thou mean it?” asked George. It was almost embarrassing to him how timid his voice sounded, so unsure. ("Do you mean it?")

Guinevere gave his hand a squeeze in hers, “Certainly.”

He knew it was perilous to speak such words to her—to utter a vow that would bind them as man and wife, had there been a witness to avouch it—but the truth of his heart spilled from his lips, “I will take thee as my wife.”

There was a moment of silence as if Guinevere was allowing his words to settle, to war with herself whether she dare risk the response. She did not take her eyes away from his gaze as she replied, “I will take thee as my husband.”

George’s heart was racing within his breast and he pulled their joined hands to his mouth to rest a kiss upon her knuckles before leaning in to take her lips with his. Her arm wrapped around his shoulders to draw him nearer and they sealed their declarations of marital bliss with a passionate kiss. George meant what he said, he really did, and although society was trying to will them apart, he would have broken a hundred laws just to keep her heart in his hands.

Guinevere had to return to her bedchamber a while later, needing to sneak out before the household would rise at sunup. George chased her lips as she stood from the bed as if not wanting to bid her leave and she smiled into his kiss and pacified him every time. With one more squeeze of hands, he watched her tiptoe back to the curling staircase and disappear below.

With a sigh, George laid back upon his pillow and folded his hands across his chest, feeling the racing of his heart beneath his palm. His cheeks felt warm from smiling, from sharing such lovely words, and from holding his beloved near. He would do anything for her; and if that meant bringing down the strict rules of their society to do it, then so be it.

From a few paces away, the mattress beside him rustled and George held his breath to feign slumber. But Alexander, who had turned to gaze upon him from across the moon-bathed floorboards, was already long awake. He tucked his hands beneath his cheek, housing an amused smirk.

“Well, lad,” spoke Alexander, startling George greatly, “thou playest a bold game indeed.” ("Well, mate, you're playing a dangerous game.")

George stiffened, the realization of being found out sending a chill down his spine and he dare not speak in fear of incriminating himself farther. He had always gotten on well with Alexander but would he be one to trust with such a secret?

“Prithee, tell no soul of this,” George pleaded in a rushed hush. The last thing he needed was for Oliver and Andrea to rouse from across the attic and lend their ears to the matter. ("Please, don't tell anyone about this.")

Alexander played with him a little more, as if enjoying watching George squirm, “Hast thou taken leave of thy senses?” ("Have you lost your mind?")

George propped himself upon one elbow on the mattress, turning to Alexander in desperation. “Nay, we are drawn together with such force—as though the Lord Himself hath ordained it. It meaneth no harm. Speak of this to no soul, I beg thee, Alexander.” ("No, we are drawn together as if God made us for each other. There's no harm. Don't tell anyone, I'm begging, Alexander.")

“Lying with our master’s daughter outside of wedlock? ’Tis a sin, George; a sin against God, and a sin upon this house.” Alexander’s tone was serious but not angry, as if he were an elder offering sound life advice. ("Sleeping with our master's daughter outside of wedlock? It is a sin George; a sin against God and a sin upon this house.")

“We have yet to find a remedy, but we shall,” George said softly, “In time, we hope to wed.” ("We haven't decided what we're going to do but we hope one day to get married.")

Alexander tutted but his small smirk gave him away, amused by the sneaky goings-on of his friend, and as he rolled back over to return to his slumber, he assured him teasingly, “Thy secret shall stay with me, yet I fear for thee both—and for thee most of all. Tread carefully, else our master shall have thee hanged in the square.” ("Your secret is safe with me, but I'm worried for both of you...and you most of all. Be careful or els eour master will have you hanged in the square.")

True to his word, Alexander spoke not a word of what he had seen and heard that night in the attic to anyone in the household. In an unspoken way, the secret seemed to draw the two young men closer, and they came to lean on one another more often between the long hours in the workshop and the quiet evenings above. And, because of Alexander’s honest warnings of what a sin George was committing, George felt even stronger about punching holes in the upper echelon of society that was risking to take his beloved from him forever.

No more than a week later, George found himself, once more, awake in the middle of the night. Yet it was not restlessness that kept him from slumber, but rather the stirring anticipation of what was soon to transpire. Once he was certain the household slept soundly, he rose from his bed, padded softly across the creaking attic floor, and descended the staircase to the main level of the homestead. By grace or fortune, he was not intercepted.

The study was just as it always was: neatly tidied after the end of the day. George knew he must be cautious of what items he took and exactly how he would put them back to avoid suspicions in the morning. So, he took one leger at a time, opened it upon the writing desk in the moonlight alongside a fresh piece of parchment, and readied the quill. George repeated this routine nightly, copying one page at a time from ledgers or business books or anything else he could find in the study that could help the cause, and then hid his copied parchment beneath his mattress.

It felt like a whole new world now that he could make sense of words; being able to open pages and understand the things he was seeing. Despite Guinevere’s generous tutelage, he wasn’t quite yet completely literate and fluent but he copied everything anyway; even making sure the words he did not know were copied in shape and form. He wondered if Lando—who had come from means worse than he—could even read what he would be giving him or if he had a whole group of people who could read it for them.

A fortnight since he had come across Lando in the alehouse, George readied himself for his journey to meet at their scheduled time and location. Having been permitted to excuse himself from the family dinner with the reasoning that he had a desire to go for a stroll instead, George was upstairs in the attic while the family dined. Guinevere’s concerned gaze had followed him out of the room.

George packed his satchel with the copied parchment, tied in a roll with twine, and made certain it would not slip free from his belt during his journey. With quiet haste, he slipped out to the guild stables, where his steed had been kept and the stablehand helped him ready the horse. Once he had mounted, George rode off toward London Bridge without so much as a backward glance. He dared not dwell upon the weight of what he bore at his belt. Part of him prayed there was worth in those pages for Lando and his company—and yet another part clung to the hope that his master was as innocent as he had always believed.

As assured, Lando was waiting outside of the blacksmith’s shop on the bustling bridge when George approached. Lando housed a smile as he pushed himself away from the wall to greet George as he dismounted, “I had not thought thou wouldst come.” ("I didn't think you'd come.")

“Nor had I,” George confessed. ("Neither did I.")

He took the reins of his steed in hand and followed Lando down the narrow alleyway between the two buildings until they were shadowed by the structures. Once they were out of view from the public, George unfastened his satchel from his belt and drew forth the rolled parchment, placing it into Lando’s outstretched hand.

His friend pulled at the twine and unrolled his offering to give the context a brief glance. With a furrowed expression of concentration, Lando read a few lines before his face began to mould into a proper smile. He rolled the parchment once more and tucked it hastily into the satchel at his side, “This is wondrous, George. I thank thee.” ("This is great, Goerge, thanks.")

“There is more,” George confessed softly, casting a glance about in case any ears lingered near, “If thou hast need of it.” ("There's more, if you need it.")

“Aye,” Lando replied with ease, “Anything thou hast for me.” ("Yes, anything you have for me.")

George nodded once.

“Shall we meet here once more in a fortnight’s time?” Lando asked. ("We'll meet again here in two weeks?")

George gave another nod, as though his tongue had forsaken him, his thoughts instead held captive by the words Guinevere had once whispered to him in the stillness of night. It had been told to him that this cause was meant for the greater good of the common folk—but in his soul, it felt anything but right. Lando did not seem to notice his hesitation and, instead, his eagerness to leave was fueled by the gift now tucked within his satchel. He bade George take his leave and promised to meet again for another delivery before he disappeared into the darkened city and the crowds that filled its streets.

The family had already gone to bed by the time George returned home, settled his steed, and slipped quietly upstairs to the attic. He remembered not the journey home nor the climbing of the staircases, nor even the saying of his nightly prayers before resting upon his narrow mattress. Additionally, he scarcely recalled the following day in the workshop, as the hours blurred between carving and whittling and idle talk with his fellow apprentices, his mind torn and at war within itself over the choice he had made.

Even still, he found himself copying more ledgers by the moonlight in the office that following night, his hand moving as if by its own nature, and easy routine. The words no longer made sense, the numbers were useless to him, and his mind shut him out of the process entirely. If there was no connection to his task, perhaps he would feel less guilty.

“George?”

The ink smudged across the parchment with how strongly George startled and his head turned briskly to look over his shoulder towards the passageway to the office. There, with a candelabrum in hand, stood barefoot Guinevere in only her linen chemise, her soft face furrowed in confusion. George felt as though he had been dunked in the river in the dead of winter. He sat there, frozen.

Guinevere took a step into the room, her voice tentative but firm, “What art thou doing?” ("What are you donig?")

George glanced back at the writing desk where he sat, parchments strewn before the open ledger from which he had been copying. The quill was still clutched, guilt-ridden, in his hand. He parted his lips to speak, but no words came—only the rustle of trembling fingers as he began to shove the papers beneath the book, as though to hide them from sight.

By then, Guinevere stood at his side, already peering over his shoulder.

“I, uh,” George stammered, “I am practicing our lessons.”

“Nay, thou art copying my books whilst the house slumbers.” ("No, you are copying my books while everyone is asleep.")

She reached past him to grab one of the half-filled parchments he was trying to work on and he dare not stop her. Instead, he hung his head, guilty, as she read the lines he had copied in his messy penmanship. After a moment, she tossed the parchment back onto the writing desk.

“Why art thou copying our ledgers?” she demanded, her voice firm, unwavering. ("Why are you copying our ledgers?")

“Miss Guinevere,” George faltered, words tangled on his tongue as he looked up at her, “I—I did not mean—”

“Speak not a lie to me,” she cut in sharply, her gaze burning into his, candlelight flickering across her face, “I would sooner hear the cruelest truth from thy lips than suffer a falsehood.” ("Don't lie to me. I would rather hear the cruelest truth from you than have you lie to me.")

George drew a steadying breath before he spoke, his voice low with the weight of confession, “A lad I met upon my journey to London...he hath ties to the rebels who still fight in the wake of last summer’s Revolt. He seeks to bring to light the wrongs done unto the common folk—buried beneath coin and title and the unpaid labour of apprentices, bound to their masters. He asked me for copies of the ledgers, to aid him in his cause against such mistreatment.” ("A man I met on my journey to London, he has ties to the rebels who still fight in the wake of last summer's Revolt. He wants to bring awareness to the wrongdoings done to the commoners; buried beneath riches and title and the unpaid labour of the apprentices who are tied to their masters. He asked me for copies of the ledgers to help him fight against this mistreatment.")

“Mistreatment?” Guinevere echoed, “Mistreatment unto whom? My father was generous enough to take thee in without asking a penny in return—and this is how thou dost repay him?” ("Mistreatment? Mistreatment of who? My father was generous enough to take you in without demanding a penny in return and this is how you repay him?")

“It is not about thy father, it is about the exchange of money in all of England, the nobles and the wealthy guilds who take from us as commoners.” ("It's not about your father, it's about the exchange of money in all of England; the nobles and the wealthy guilds who take from us a commoners.")

“And what of me?” she continued, “I entrusted thee with my body, my heart, my very soul—and behind my back, thou takest all I have given thee, even the learning I shared with thee, and use it to strike at my family? To wound the very house that sheltered thee?” ("And what about me? I trusted you with me body, my heart, my very soul, and you went behind my back to take all that i have given you, all that I had taught you, and you use it to go against my family? To hurt the family that cared for you?")

“Nay, Miss Guinevere,” George turned upon his stool to face her, taking her hand gently in his own, “Thou art most dear to me, and all that I spoke to thee the other night—I still mean it, deeply and truly.” ("No, Miss Guinevere, you are the most important thing to me and all I that I said to you the other night I still mean, deeply and truly.")

She drew her hand away from his with a force that felt as though she had struck him. George recoiled slightly, staring up at her firm expression in the darkened study by the light of the candle in her grasp. Perhaps this was all a dream and he would wake up to the ceiling of the attic above him rather than the heartbreak etched into every line of his beloved Guinevere’s features by his own hand, his own choice.

Steady and chilling, she spoke down unto him. “How canst thou claim to speak truth when thou hast gone behind my back in such disgraceful manner? Our shop survived the fires of last year’s rebellion, and now thou wouldst set them alight anew within our very walls.” ("How can you tell me you spoke the truth when you have gone behind me back in such horrible ways? Our shop managed to survive the fires of last year's rebellion and now you want to light them again from the inside?")

“They take everything from us!” George cried, his voice edged with desperation, pleading with her to see his side while cautious not to raise his voice enough to rouse the rest of the household, “Our livelihood, our coin…our love. Thy father swears to betroth thee to some noble—one of those men thou canst hardly stand—for the sake of business. But what of us, Guinevere? Why can I not live for mine own sake? Why canst not thou?” ("They take everything from us! Our livelihood, our money, our love. Your father promises to marry you off to some noble-one of those men you can hardly stand-for the sake of business. But what about us, Guinevere? Why can't I make my own life? Why can't you?")

“It is not that easy, George,” Guinevere sighed heavily.

“Then make it so!”

As if snapping under his pressure, Guinevere replied sharply, “I cannot! I am a woman!”

George shut his mouth, staring at her flushed cheeks in the candlelight, the fierceness in her gaze staring upon him like glass. The study fell into a silence broken by nothing but their emotional breaths.

Guinevere took a cleansing inhale before continuing, softer, “Our fellow commonfolk—thy fellow peasants—may indeed have little say beside the nobles, this is true. But I? My fate is not mine to shape; ‘tis scribed by my father, my elder brothers, and one day, my husband. I cannot even dream of saddling my steed and venturing across England to start anew, for I am bound to men. I cannot refuse my father when he chooses whom I shall wed, not when he sees good fortune in the match. I do not wish it so...but it is.” ("Our fellow commoners-your fellow peasants-might have little power against the nobles, yes. But me? I have no say in my life. It is chosen by my father, my elder brothers, and, one day, my husband. I can't even dream of getting on a horse and traveling across England to start fresh because I am bound to men. I can't refuse my father's decisions when he chooses who I am going to marry, not when he sees good fortune in the match. I don't like it, but it is what it is.")

George bowed his head at her explanation, his heart aching in his chest at their reality; their reality that he could try so hard to change but he was powerless to do just that.

She continued, “I am fortunate that my father hath been generous in his matchmakings, and I have thus far been allowed to decline the men he hath chosen. But I know not how long such grace shall last before he begins to insist. I wish to spend what time I may with thee—fervently, wholly—before that hour comes. But I beg of thee, do not make it harder than it must be. Pray, do not.” ("I am lucky that my father has been generous with my matches and he's allowed me to decline some of the men he has chosen. But I don't know how long he will allow me to keep declining before he starts to insist. I want to spend what time I have left with you before that time comes. But I beg you, don't make it harder than it has to be. Please, don't.")

Tears burned at his eyes, heavy and unyielding, and George shut them tight, willing them not to fall. His heart ached for her as if she were slipping through his fingers in that very moment, how everything he had thought was right to keep her had failed. Was she giving up on him? Giving up on a possibility of a future with him like they had whispered about in his bed that one night? He could not bear it.

“Prithee, George, commit not such a betrayal,” Guinevere pleaded when he did not speak in turn, her voice trembling with hurt, “I swear unto thee, my father doth run an honest trade—I know it well, for I keep his books with mine own hand. He giveth fairly to the Church and lends aid to those in need. Do not lay his head upon the block for false cause, I beg thee, or I will have no choice but to turn thee in.” ("Please, George, don't commit such a betrayal. I swear to you, my father runs an honest business. I know this because I keep his books myself. He donates to the church and those in need. Don't put a target on his back for no reason, please, or I will have no choice but to turn you in.")

George gazed up at her with pleading in his shimmering eyes, “I know thy father to be kind and just—I know him to be a good man. I expect no foul harm to come to him, nor to thee.” ("I know your father is kind. I expect nothing bad to come to him or to you.")

But Guinevere was firm and unrelenting in her request, “Swear to me that thou wilt not continue to copy the ledgers nor provide them unto the rebels.” ("Promise me that you will not continue to copy the ledgers to give them to the rebels.")

George hung his head, his hands still clutching hers. The ache in his chest spoke to his guilt of deceiving her so and it reminded him of the unsettled feeling that stirred within his breast once he had passed over the first sets of parchment to Lando.

His silence cast doubt in her, and she spoke cautiously, “George…didst thou already pass word unto the rebels?” ("George...did you already pass information to the rebels?")

He nodded, still holding her hand in his, pressing it to his forehead as though in penance, head bowed low with shame. She lowered herself before him, that she might meet his gaze in the severity of the conversation. The candle she held cast a warm glow upon his face, lighting the tears that welled in his eyes.

“Thou didst not scribe thy name or our family name within those pages…didst thou?” she asked him seriously. ("You didn't write your name or our family name on those pages, did you?")

George shook his head.

Guinevere let out a sigh of relief, “Good. So they cannot trace the betrayal back unto thee.” ("Good. So they can't trace it back to you.")

“I meant thee no harm, Miss Guinevere. I only did what I believed to be right; but I see now I was mistaken.” George whispered earnestly as he met her eyes. ("I meant no harm, Miss Guinevere. I only was doing what I thought was right. I now see I was wrong.")

She slipped her hand from his to cradle his cheek with her warm palm, “I know. Only, I cannot bear to lose thee, George. Thou must tread with care, do not be swayed by the speak of the rebels. Thou art in good hands with us, I swear it upon my soul.” ("I know. I just can't imagine losing you, George. You have to be careful, don't be tempted by the talk of the rebels. You are in good hands with us, I promise.")

“Forgive me, my fair one. I cherish thee more than words can tell.” ("Forgive me, my darling. I cherish you more than I can explain.")

Guinevere leaned in and pressed her lips to his, sealing his apology with a kiss. George breathed her in, a mixture of relief and adoration flooding his chest, and he framed her fair face with his callused hands, as if to hold the moment still. He lingered in the silence of her mercy, unmoving, until she drew away first.

He watched as she rose to her feet and reached for the parchment upon which he had been writing. Without a word, she held its corner to the flame in her hand and, together, they watched as the fire took it—curling its edges, blackening ink and fibre—until it vanished to ash and fell upon the floorboards at their feet, leaving not a trace of the scribe behind. Even that simple action left a flicker of ease over George’s spirit, as if she had destroyed his betrayal and was allowing them to start afresh.

“I shall never betray thee again, so long as I draw breath,” George swore earnestly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her gently to stand between his knees. He looked up at her, chin against her chest, eyes glassy with promise, and she reached down to brush her thumb across his cheek. ("I will never betray you again as long as I'm living.")

“I know,” she whispered.

The Sunday sun blessed the city of London, drawing George and his fellow apprentices from the confines of their abode to the cobblestone streets on their day of rest. The four young men—with their limited means—meandered through the depths of the city and explored the various market stalls that were dotted throughout the various clearings and squares between winding streets.

George had felt more at peace since Guinevere had discovered his secret and they had a moment to share in the moonlight where he had promised her that he would never again lift his quill against her father’s name and business. She had not spoken a word of his betrayal to her father, and she had made it plain to George that so long as he kept his word and refrained from further scribing, the matter would remain between them. Additionally, in the week since, he had thought often of Lando and had resolved that he would still meet him at their agreed-upon time—though only to tell him that he could no longer provide what was being asked of him. The last thing he wanted was to wrong Lando too and, above all, his friend deserved the truth. George knew he would understand.

If anything, the venture to the city square offered a well deserved break for George and his fellow apprentices from their weekly toil in the carpentry shop after morning mass. As they walked through the stalls, George looked out for something to buy for Guinevere as a kind token of his appreciation and, between the two of them, of his apology and his admiration. A booth of freshly cut flowers caught his eye and he paused to offer the gardener a courteous greeting before stooping to smell their colourful blossoms.

“George!”

The call from Alexander pulled George from his momentary reverie and he looked up to where his friend was walking briskly over to him.

“There was an execution this morning,” Alexander told him hurriedly once he approached, his voice disconcerned, “the criminals have been left to hang in the middle of the square with a note from King Richard.”

“King Richard?” George’s eyes widened and he peered past Alexander as if to try and see what he was speaking about. Without another word, he rose from the cobblestones and followed his friend farther into the main square of London.

It wasn’t often that criminals were captured and so when they were, public execution was used as a way to deter the public from committing the same crimes or else they would risk facing the same fate. George had never seen a real execution before nor the results of one and so his curiosity was piqued to see the results that were heinous enough to require written warnings from the King himself.

Oliver and Andrea were already amongst the thin crowd gathered in front of the wooden gallows, staring up at the three deceased men who were suspended by ropes around their necks. Their ankles were tied together and their wrists were bound behind their backs, heads bowed as if facing God with their penance and all of their garments were frayed and faded as if they were, too, peasants. George barely fell to a stop beside his friends before his gaze fell upon the ill-fated young man on the right of the trio of criminals, his head of unruly curls lolled forwards with the break of his neck. From where the sun cast its rays upon his pale face, George’s suspicions were sealed.

Lando.

Without thought, George pushed his way through the crowd towards the gallows to read the parchment tacked to the platform by hand of the king. In formal penmanship, it read:

He tore his gaze from the note and lifted his eyes to the three men strung up before him, his stare drawn—unwillingly, painfully—to the one on the right: the friend he had known for only a fleeting moment in time. Part of him wanted to slice the rope and pull him down from the gallows and breathe life back into him but he dare not be questioned as an accomplice. And that was exactly what he was: an accomplice. He had provided Lando with the documentation that held the intention to go against society, against the Crown. It could have been him up there, hanged beside him, lifeless eyes staring into the Sunday crowds of the city square.

Guinevere’s words echoed in his mind, asking him if he had written his name within the pages he had passed on to Lando. He knew he had not, but the thought of what it might have meant for him if he had sent a chill down his spine. George stared into Lando’s unblinking hazel eyes, so devoid of the impish glee they once held. A man might believe himself invincible until the moment the reminder of death looked him in the eye.

A hand came down heavily upon his shoulder and George startled just as Alexander’s voice cut through the midday silence, echoing in his ears, “George? What is the matter?”

George could barely manage a reply, his tongue betraying him, no words seeming to be suitable for the circumstance. He had not realized how much he had risked by joining Lando’s team and suddenly, despite his desire to fight back against the nobility and their ability to take everything from George’s hands without remorse, nothing felt worth it. Yes, he would give his life up for Guinevere, but this was not the way. It was a startling reminder of where his loyalties lay.

“Didst thou know him?” asked Alexander, now flanked on either side by the concerned Oliver and Andrea. ("Did you know him?")

Swallowing back the bile in his throat upon his final glance of his deceased friend, George turned on his heel and pushed past his fellow apprentices, and broke into a run back towards the homestead without a look back.

London brushed past him in a blur of stone and timber and nothing but the sound of his boots hitting the cobblestones filled his ears in steady time with the rapid beating of his heart. George felt like he was suffocating, like his loose linen outerwear was squeezing his throat by the hand of God. It could have been him hanged there in the square for all to see. Maybe it should have been him. The thought kept repeating in his mind over and over like a hymn.

The courtyard of the carpenter’s guild felt like an oasis the moment he crossed beneath the stone archway into his shadowed gardens. Panting and flushed, George pressed a palm against his breast, feeling the thud of his heart against his ribs as if trying to break through, and he steadied himself with his other hand against the trunk of a tree. His eyes were narrowed into eery tunnel vision as he stared down at the cobblestone path and trimmed foliage of the gardens by his feet, the city spinning around him and stealing every breath from his body.

He could not get Lando’s lifeless stare out of his mind.

In fact, he was so shaken that he had not even noticed that he was not alone in the courtyard. Across the gardens, upon one of the wooden benches handcarved by the guild, sat Guinevere with her most recent suitor—the same gentleman in red as George had seen with her previously—and both of them were eyeing him in concern. When she called his name through the summer breeze, he did not hear her.

Instead, his body lurched forward and he bent at the waist as he emptied his stomach into the flower bush at his feet. George spat loudly into the soil to rid his tongue of the bitter taste left behind and he wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand.

“George!”

The sound of Guinevere’s voice rang loudly in his ears and the hurry of her feet across the path followed soon after. He could not manage to raise his head, keeping himself bowed in shame against the tree that kept him rooted in place.

Guinevere rested a hand upon his back, her other grasping onto his bicep, her touch a relief after the sickening shock the day had brought, her voice soft as silk, “What aileth thee? Art thou unwell?” ("What is the matter? Are you ill?")

“Nay,” George rasped as he stood once more, not wanting to worry her, “I am well enough.”

“Surely something ails thee, to make thee cast up thy breakfast upon the roses,” Guinevere said, concern laced in her voice. Her hand held firmly to George’s arm as he stood as if to offer him balance, unbothered by the watchful eye of her nobel suitor standing just a pace beyond. ("There most be something wrong to make you vomit in the rose bush.")

Yet, the man held an expression of equal concern as hers, and he offered, “Might I fetch my doctor? Perhaps some bloodletting or leeching might be of help to restore thee to full health?” ("Should I get my doctor? Maybe some bloodletting or leeching might help restore you to full health.")

“Nay. Nay—pray, leave me be,” George murmured as he stumbled past them, his hand pressing gently to the man’s chest to guide him aside, “I am well enough. I ask only for rest.” ("No. No, please, leave me alone. I am fine. I just need rest.")

“George—” Guinevere called helplessly as she watched him hurry himself towards the house on ungraceful feet and he disappeared inside but a moment later.

George dreamt of Lando from the moment his head was laid to rest upon his pillow that afternoon. He had not been around his friend much since their first meeting but the grief still lingered and weighed upon him like lead on his heart. It was not a fair way to go; not for a young man who meant so well, who only wanted to aid the populace. He had met a cruel fate and one that George could not stomach.

No one bothered George the rest of that Sunday, leaving him to rest, alone, in the attic. Guinevere likely had told the family of his ailments and, the generous people they were, did not protest his slumber. Instead, by sun down, as the brightened attic faded into orange and pinks through the light from the small windows, the stairs finally creaked.

George turned his head to see who was coming, only to see Guinevere emerging with a bowl cradled carefully in her hands. He could not help the eased smile that grazed his solemn lips at the mere sight of her. When she saw that he was awake, she, too, shared in his moment of contentment with that soft smile of hers that could light up his days.

“I have brought thee supper,” she said gently.

He sat upright as she perched upon the edge of his bed, reaching out for the bowl of steaming stew she offered. The scent alone reminded him how long it had been since he last ate, and he let out a soft groan of relief, “Thank thee, my fair one.”

She watched him raise the bowl to his lips and take a gracious sip before she said, “Alexander hath told me thou and the others did see an execution in the square today. Was it that which unsettled thee so? My heart was heavy with worry.” ("Alexander told me that you and the others saw an execution in the square today. Was that what made you so unsettled? I was worried about you.")

George kept his gaze downcast into his bowl as he struggled to find the words to affirm her suspicions but, finally, he offered a nod. He raised his gaze to her sweet face, dusted pink by the fading sunset, and he spoke, “Aye, the lad I met upon my journey—the one I told thee of the other night—was hanged for treason. For conspiring against the Crown…and the nobility.” ("Yes, the man I met on my journey-the one I told you about the other night-was hanged for treason. For conspiring against the Crown...and the nobility.")

“Ah,” Guinevere hung her head, her eyes closed for a moment as if letting the heaviness of his words wash over her. When she lifted again, she said, “And thou didst think it might have been thee?” ("Ah. And you thought it might have been you?")

George could only nod and he hid his emotion behind another sip of his soup.

Guinevere continued, “’Tis why I bade thee cease all dealings with him. I would not have thee suffer a fate so tragic.” ("That's why I told you to stop the deals with him. I don't want you to have the same thing happen to you.")

“‘Tis not fair,” George choked out as he clutched his bowl in his hands and stared down at the warm broth within. “He was no wicked man.”

“I do believe that he was not,” Guinevere assured him as she reached over to wrap her slim fingers around his forearm, her thumb caressing the tender skin there.

The two sat in silence for a moment as if sharing the grief that lingered between them. Even her company alone eased the weight in George’s chest and he appreciated even the faintest of her touches to ground him back in steady reality, staring down at how her thumb stroked the dip of his elbow so kindly.

And then, as if he had not heard enough on that day, Guinevere spoke plainly, “Charles wishes to wed.”

George looked upon her with slight confusion, not recalling the name she had spoken.

“The suitor from today,” she told him in a breath, her voice faint and her face void of any strong emotion as if to leave him to reckon the weight of her words, “He has been visiting me often and he declared that he wishes to wed and father now insists that I may not decline his offer.”

“Nay,” George exhaled in disbelief and moved suddenly to place his bowl upon the small table beside his bed, allowing him both hands to clutch hers, “Hast thou agreed?” ("No...have you agreed?")

Guinevere stared at his hands holding desperately onto hers as if never wanting to let her draw away and she replied softly, “Nay, not yet. Not formally, at the least.”

“But wilt thou?”

“I must.”

“Thou must not,” pleaded George. He took his hands out of her to grasp her face instead, swiping his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks in the quickly fading light of the dusty attic in which they sat, staring into her eyes as if to catch any hesitation in her diamond irises. “Prithee, my fair one, give not thy heart to another.” ("You must not. Please, my darling, don't give your heart to another man.")

“My heart hath ever belonged to thee, my beloved,” she murmured and grasped his wrists as he framed her face. ("My heart has only ever belonged to you, my beloved.")

They leaned in together until their foreheads touched, and they shut their eyes tightly, silently willing the world, their circumstances—everything—to be less cruel than it was. After but a moment, George closed the space between them, pushing his lips onto hers in a tearful kiss and she clung onto him with all the passion she could muster. Fingers pulled at clothing, skin, hair, anything to will their lover impossibly closer, wanting to accept each other as one being for the rest of time. They had bound themselves together in lust, in sin, and now were being torn apart by the cruelness of their society.

Had George not loved God so, he would have cursed Him for cursing him to a life such as this.

George knew that no words he could offer would be enough to sway society’s order or win him Guinevere’s hand. He had come perilously close to sharing the same fate as Lando, and ever since, his mind had been a storm of thoughts—desperate schemes to turn everything around for the sake of the woman he loved. Nothing felt quite right, everything fell short. It was easy to doubt your worth when you had nothing compared to the grandeur of a nobleman.

So, as life returned to some semblance of painstaking normalcy, George threw himself back into his work, spending long hours in the shop and toiling along with his fellow apprentices. Besides, the labour was a welcome distraction from his heartbreak—or at least, it was, until his hands, moving on their own accord, continued to craft gifts for Guinevere. He carved her figurines of all her favourite things, each one a quiet confession he had been silenced from speaking aloud. They were proof of his heartbreak that came with the reality that they would never be truly able to be together. It was a realization that George knew he had to accept, no matter how painful.

But soon his workman's hands were whittling something far more precious than any figurine, moving as if by the guidance of God, carving and sanding and polishing to perfection. Within two days, a small wooden ring was polished in the palm of his hand, engraved with hand-made carvings of branches of a willow tree and, on the inside, etched with his name. Just a glance at his creation had his heart thudding within his breast as he sat at the workbench, surrounded by his fellow apprentices—each as clueless as the next to the tempest stirring within him.

Alexander was focused on the piece of furniture he was constructing at the opposite table, Oliver and Andrea talking amongst themselves about how to achieve a design they had been working on together at the tool bench, and George knew that in that very moment, Guinevere was about to leave to house to be betrothed to a man that was not him. The realization hit him like a strike of lighting and the speed at which George stood from his stool sent it toppling over with a crash. The other apprentices looked over at him just as he rushed to the staircase and hurried down them.

George knew that without anything to his name, it was unlikely her father was to be swayed, but, even still, he would not back away without a proper fight. If it ended with him banished back to Norfolk then it must be God’s will.

Guinevere and her father were in the reception room, preparing to leave, when George emerged from the shop with such haste that both of them looked over in surprise at the interruption. Now that he was there, face to face with the both of them, George froze. He had not thought this out, not written talking points or arguments or anything he knew he wanted to say and should say. Instead, all he had was the wooden ring clutched in his palm and all the love in his heart that he wanted to pour out to the woman before him.

His master spoke first, “Is something amiss, lad?” ("Is something wrong, son?")

“Thou canst not go,” George said earnestly. ("You can't go.")

Guinevere stood at her father’s side with a gentle expression on her face, staring at George almost as if she could anticipate what he was about to do and, yet, being equally as terrified for what he was about to do and what its outcome would be. Although George was there to face her father, he could not take his eyes off of her, drowning in the seafoam eyes that he had fallen for so strongly. He could not bear to let her walk out that door to be betrothed to another man. He would not be able to live with himself had he not tried; he would sooner be strung up in the city square.

Looking between them, his master asked, “We cannot go? And why ever not?” ("We can't go? And why not?")

George took a steeling breath and turned his focus to the gentleman to whom he owed everything and to whom he now risked bringing great dishonour. Squaring his shoulders, hands clasped behind his back, he began, “Sir, thou hast been most kind and gracious to me since mine arrival at thy threshold last season, and I hold myself ever in thy debt for such generosity. The courage with which I did knock upon thy door that day hath granted me the honour of labouring in thy esteemed shop beneath thy wise instruction, and so it is with that same resolve that I come now to stand before thee.” ("Sir, you have been so kind to me since I came to your home last season and I consider myself forever in your debt for such generosity. The courage it took to knock on your door that day allowed me the honour of working in your shop, under your wise instruction, and so it's with that same courage that I come now to stand before you.")

“Very well, lad. Speak thy mind—but be swift about it.” the master replied as if his own mind were already half out the door and in the details of the impending betrothal. ("Okay, son. Speak, but make it quick.")

There was no turning back.

“Sir, I am in love with thy daughter and it would be my greatest honour in life if thee would allow us to wed.”

Guinevere, although partially expecting such a declaration upon his brash entrance into the reception room, still let out a soft gasp of surprise. Immediately, her gaze flicked to her father.

George did not back down as he watched the way his master’s expression changed from calm and casual to something uneasy, something almost unreadable. Despite the racing of his heart and the churning of his gut, he held the man’s gaze still, unmoved, though the silence between them throbbed like a festival drum within his ears. For a moment, George might have believed the man to strike him by the way his countenance furrowed into that of distaste and he shifted his weight almost menacingly.

Not wasting a moment wherein the gentleman might speak him down, George pressed on, “I have naught to offer but mine heart and mine hands, this well I know. In all manner, I am unworthy of thy precious blood. I am but naught when set beside the noblemen thou wouldst see her wed unto and I cannot promise a life of riches nor title.” ("I have nothing to offer but my heart and my worker's hands, I know. Because of this, I know I am not worthy of your family. I am nothing compared to the noblemen that you would rather marry her off to and I can't promise a life of riches or title.")

His master’s voice was firm, “George—”

“Nay, sir, I pray thee,” George broke in, desperation trembling in each word as he presented unto them the modest wooden ring he had carved and engraved that week in the shop, “I have naught to offer, yet I vow before thee and the Lord that I shall love her until He calleth me home. I shall love her with all that is in me; I shall labour without cease that she be fed and kept in comfort. She shall be the greatest blessing of my days, if thou wouldst grant me the honour of thy consent.” ("No, sir, please. I have nothing to offer but I promise before you and God that I will love her until I die. I will love her with everything in me. I will work tirelessly so that she is fed and comfortable. She will be the greatest blessing of my life, if you will give me the honour of your consent.")

Guinevere gazed upon the ring in his hands as though he was presenting to her the Holy Grail itself. Yet in truth, it was but a humble piece of carved wood—the edges still jagged in proof of his unskilled hand—and yet, the weight it bore far outweighed any royal jewel or sacred relic. He saw in her eyes that she had not foreseen his declaration, as though she had resigned herself to their secret love being forever put to rest, but the faintest curl of a smile upon her supple lips eased the tempest within his breast.

By then, their seclusion in the reception chamber of the city house was broken as Guinevere’s six siblings peered from around corners and from the chambers above, eager to catch word of the commotion. Even Alexander, Oliver, and Andrea had drawn near from the shop, lingering at the threshold of the study to lend their ears. Despite the gathering crowd, George’s focus remained on his master as he stood his ground, ring outstretched between quivering fingers, watching how his lips were drawn tight with mounting emotion.

Then, the gentleman took a step closer to George and in a voice low and firm, with a demand to be heard and understood, he spoke, “I took a chance on thee when thou didst beg for apprenticeship, and I gave up much that thou mightst stay and learn beneath this roof. I have permitted thee to consort with my children, to wander the streets at thy leisure, and to share both meals and mass with this family. I have granted thee far more than a man of thy lowly station could ever have dreamed, and yet here thou standest before me, to declare that it is still not enough?” ("I took a chance on you when you begged me for an apprenticeship and I gave up a lot so that you can stay here and learn. I allowed you to interact with my children, to wander the streets whenever you pleased, and to share meals and mass with my family. I have given you far more than any man of your means could have ever dreamed and yet you stand here and tell me that it's not enough?")

George swallowed, forcing out, “‘Tis more than enough, sir, I do not wish—” ("It is more than enough, sir, I don't wish-")

“Then speak not!” his master scolded.

His sudden raise of voice caused George to flinch, though he did not shrink away. Rather, he held himself firm and upright as though he were a knight bound for battle, unyielding in his presentation of his gift. Even as his master stepped forth again, pressing into his space, George did not step aside.

The gentleman stared George right in the eyes as he warned him with a voice like venom, “Thou hast no right to meddle in the affairs of our house, nor to dictate what we should or should not do. To betroth my daughter to a nobleman is a fortune few of our standing do attain. I shall not allow a lowly serf to thwart such a worthy match.” ("You have no right to meddle in the affairs of our house or tell me what we should or shouldn't do. To marry my daughter to a nobleman is a fortune that families such as ours would be lucky to have. I will not allow a stupid slave to ruin such an important opportunity.")

Despite the blow his words did cast upon George’s breast, he could only turn his gaze upon his lover with pleading desperation in his eyes, “Guinevere—”

“Nay! Speak not unto her!” his master cut in once more, his voice loud and echoing through the timber-trimmed homestead, “She is thy master’s daughter, and thou shalt address her with due honour!” ("No! Don't speak to her! She is your master's daughter and you will address her with respect!")

A pace or two behind her father, Guinevere could only bow her head, her eyes shutting tightly as if to will this moment to be over. She knew her place well; in society and in her home. She had everything to lose. Despite this, George had nothing to lose and he did not lower the hand in which he held the wooden ring, presenting it, still, towards the chest of his master.

George did not avert his gaze, neither from Guinevere nor from her father, and when he spoke, his voice was low but unwavering, “With all the honour in my soul do I address her, sir. For she is not merely thy daughter, she is the keeper of my heart. I seek not to shame thy house nor rob her of fortune, but to offer her a love that no title nor gold could weigh against.” ("I address her with all the respect in my soul, sir. She's not just your daughter but she is the keeper of my heart. I don't want to shame your house or steal her from a life of fortune, but I want to offer her a love that no title or money could compare to.")

“Thou showest no honour unto my daughter, nor unto this house,” his master rebuked with a sneer, “’Tis plain I have been too kind to thee…treating thee as a son, placing trust where none was due. I did strive to turn mine eyes from it, but thou hast brought shame upon me and the kindness I did extend and thou still beg for more.” ("You show no respect to my daughter, or to this house. It is clear that I've been too kind to you, treating you like a son, trusting you where I shouldn't. I tried to ignore it, but you have brought shame to me and my kindness I gave you and you still beg for more.")

The papers his master then drew from the satchel at his belt made George step back in shock. There, within the gentleman’s grasp, were the parchments upon which he had copied the ledgers, the very same he had entrusted to Lando but days before his execution. The papers were tossed to the floor at George’s feet. Guinevere made almost a pained sound, as if she could not bear to witness this any longer.

The master declared loudly, “The mayor hath returned these copies unto their rightful owner once the traitors were taken; I would not believe there dwelt another within my very walls. I defended thy name and kept thee under my roof despite this. I should have handed thee over, let them string thee up in the market square!” ("The mayor returned these copies to their rightful owner once the traitors were taken. I couldn't believe that there was another traitor within my walls. I defended your name and kept you in my home despite this. I should have handed you over and had them hang you in the square!")

“I made a grievous mistake, and I shall bear its burden unto my dying breath, sir,” George replied, his voice both loud and laden with earnest plea, “Yet, though my past be stained, my heart is true and steadfast. I beseech thee, grant me to wed thy daughter so that I may honor her all my days and prove my worth by my love and service.” ("I made a horrible mistake and I will face that until my last breath, sir. But although I have made this mistake, my hart is true. I plead with you, allow me to marry your daughter so I can honour her for the rest of my life and prove my worth through my love and devotion.")

George had scarce let the final words escape his lips when the gentleman stuck him across the cheek with such might that his head was forced to turn. The sound echoed through the homestead and George paused but a moment before raising his fingers to touch his reddened cheek.

The words his master spoke echoed in his ears as he nursed his stinging cheek, “Thou hast brought shame upon my household. Thou shalt return to Norfolk at once and never speak of this family again, or else I shall see to it that thou meetest the same fate as thy friend.” ("You have brought shame onto my household. You will return to Norfolk at once and never speak of my family again or else I will make sure you meet the same fate as your friend.")

“Father!” Guinevere all but sobbed over his show of anger, clutching onto his arm as if to physically restrain him from laying another hand upon the young man before him.

George raised his eyes unto his beloved, and in their meeting gaze, it was as though both did grasp their fate in that very moment. It had all gone far too wrong; there would be no salvaging themselves from the wreckage. Not like this.

“Sir.”

The sound of Alexander’s voice cutting through the tension was an unexpected reprieve.

As the eldest and most seasoned of the apprentices within the household, Alexander bore his position with solemn pride, never once daring a misstep that might tarnish his standing. Yet now, as he stepped forth from the study where he and the others had lent their ears, the confidence that often marked his countenance gave way to a grave and weighty seriousness. He spared George but the briefest of glances.

“I would not overstep mine own place, sir, yet I find myself in a trial of conscience and must speak a truth I do know—one that may well alter thy judgement in this matter.” ("I don't want to overstep, sir, but I find myself needing to speak the truth as something I know might change you mind.")

The master—still red in the face with fury—eased but the slightest to hear him out, “Speak, lad.”

Alexander cast a fleeting glance unto Guinevere, then another to George, as though measuring the weight of the moment, as though pondering whether they had any knowledge of that which he had long kept to himself and, if by hope, what he said was going to help them in their pleas. George, overcome and laid bare by sorrow, could summon no thought as to what his companion did now allude to.

So Alexander spoke, “Upon a night wherein I found no rest, I did bear witness to thy daughter stealing into the attic, where she and George did exchange those sacred words meant only for the sacrament of marriage. By making myself a witness thereto, I am afraid to say, good sir, that by law and holy rite, these two are already wed.” ("One night when I couldn't sleep, I witnessed your daughter sneaking into the attic where she and George exchanged those specific words meant only for marriage. Because I witnessed this, I am afraid to say, sir, that by law and by God, these two are already married.")

The master’s face stiffened, his brow furrowing and countenance darkening as the truth of Alexander’s words took hold. His gaze darted between Alexander, his daughter, and the man he had all but cast out.

In a word, low and laced with near fury, he echoed simply, “Wed?”

No one dared to speak as the man processed this revelation. George and Guinevere exchanged a silent glance as if waiting for the axe to fall, Alexander right with them in fierce duty to protect. He knew full well what it was to have one he loved torn from his grasp. Though it were under other cause, he dared not allow such a thing to befall another.

The master turned to Guinevere then, the betrayal in his eyes sharper than steel, “Didst thou think thy father's roof so low that it might shelter deceit? That thy heart was thine alone to give, without heed to name or duty?” ("Did you think so poorly of this household that you thought you could lie? That your heart was yours to give without thinking about your name or your duty to this family?")

“Father, prithee—” Guinevere started. ("Father, please.")

But the man was not finished. He then turned upon George, who stood as if awaiting his judgement, “And thou, who camest to me with nothing—I gave thee place, labour, and shelter. And in thanks, thou dost not only share my ledgers with rebels, but takest my daughter as well; without my word, without my blessing?” ("And you, who came to me with nothing. I gave you purpose, work, and shelter, and in thanks, you not only share my ledgers with rebels but you take my daughter as well without my blessing?")

George rushed out his reply, “I meant no harm, sir. I love thy daughter more than life itself—”

“Thou will speak of this to no one,” the master cut in, his voice demanding, speaking to those in the room and those who were lending their ears from around corners and up staircases, “Everyone in this family will take this to their graves. And thee—” ("You will tell no one about this. Everyone in this family will take this to their graves. And you.")

He turned upon George then once more, pointing a furious finger at him.

“Thou wouldst do well to say thy prayers, for I shall turn thee over to the authorities—and thou shalt hang as a traitor…a thief to this house.” ("You better say your prayers because I will be turning you over to the police and you will be hanged as a traitor and a thief to this house.")

George thought another strike might have wounded him less as the agony his master’s threat thrust through his heart was unbearable. He staggered back a pace, and Alexander, powerless to defend for he held no moral high ground against their shared master, laid a hand upon his back to steady him. Hath this been the end to which it hath come? Hath George journeyed all the way to London to meet his early fate? He would have given his life for Guinevere, though never had he thought it would come so soon.

“Father!” Guinevere all but shrieked, putting herself between the master of the house and the man she loved. “Thou canst not!” ("Father, you cannot!")

He was unmoving, brushing her off with a cold, “Step aside, Guinevere, thou art in no place to speak on this matter. Thou hast shamed me and sullied the name of this house. Consider thyself lucky if Charles still doth wish to wed thee given the hysteria with which thou hast composed thyself.” ("Step aside, Guinevere, you cannot speak to this matter. You have shamed me and tainted the name of this house. Consider yourself lucky if Charles still wants to marry you given the hysteria you have composed yourself with.")

Guinevere was not one to be told off easily, not in matters she held dear to her heart and Goerge had learned that quickly about her over the months they had spent together. Instead, she raised her voice louder, raising her voice to her father, “I will speak to this matter! Thou shalt not send George to his execution—I forbid it!”

There was a pause as the intensity of her words settled upon the household.

Her father’s eyebrows raised in disbelief at her tone and his reply was like fire, low and collected but laced with bitter poison, “Oh? Thou forbid it? What madness hath seized thee that thou think’st to speak this way to thy father?” ("Oh? You forbid it? What madness has come over you that you think you can speak to your father this way?")

“Love, Father! Love hath seized me! I love him just as much—if not more—than thou didst love Mother all those years ago, when thou didst fight for her!” Guinevere thudded her hands upon her father’s chest in desperation, fingers curling within the fabric of his cloak, “’Tis not right to be so cruel to him now, not when he hath been so brave to come forth and face thee.” ("Love, father! Love has taken me! I love him just as much, if not more, than you loved mother all those years ago when you fought for her. It is not right to be so cruel to him now when he has been so brave to confront you.")

His response was immediate, “Bring not thy Mother into this—God rest her soul. She would be ashamed of the way thou hast behaved.” ("Don't bring your mother into this-God rest her soul. She would be ashamed of how you are behaving.")

“No, she would not! Mother loved thee! She loved love itself, and she often spoke to me of how I must find someone I love to wed as she had done. I do not love Charles. He is a fine man, a kind man, but I do not love him!” ("No, she wouldn't! Mother loved you! She loved love and she told me often how I must find someone I love to marry like she did. I do not love Charles. he is a fine man and kind but I don't love him!")

Her father grabbed her wrists in his hands, pulling hers away from his chest and the way she had tugged upon his garments, “And thou hast gone behind my back to utter wedding vows to a man without my blessing. Thou knowest full well the weight of such words, and yet thou didst it regardless.” ("And you have gone behind my back to share wedding vows with a man without my blessing. You knew the weight of those words and you said them regardless.")

“Aye!” Guinevere pressed on, her voice near hysteria, fanning the flames, not backing down for even a moment, “I spoke vows to him, I took it upon myself to kiss him in shadowed corners and couple with him in secrecy, and I knew he copied the ledgers and kept silent. I am as guilty as he. If thou must have him hanged, then hang me with him!” ("Yes! I shared vows with him, I kissed him when no one was looking, and I had sex with him in secrecy! I knew he copied the ledgers and I kept silent! I am just as guilty as he is. if you must have him hanged, then hang me with him!")

Her father's face drained of colour, as though her words had struck him across the chest. For a moment, George might have thought his master would fall unconscious as Guinevere laid everything out for him to bear witness to.

“God above…” her father breathed, near staggered, “Dost thou even hear thyself, child? Hast all sense left thee? Thou wouldst cast away thy name, thy station, thy very soul—for him? Thou speakest of coupling in shadows and swearing secret vows as though it were naught but sport. Hast thou no shame? No honour? Thou gave away thy maidenhead to a man to whom ye were not betrothed? Under my roof? I raised thee better than this, Guinevere. I raised thee as a woman of God, of respectability. ("Good Lord...do you even hear yourself, child? Have you lost your mind? You would throw away your name, your standing, your soul, for him? You speak of sex and vows as though it were just some game. You gave away your virginity to a man you were not married to? Under my roof? I raised you better than this, Guinevere. I raised you as a woman of God, of respectability.")

“Were I to do justice, as I ought, I would have thee locked away for thy disgrace. But I shall not hang thee, daughter—not for his sake. Nay...he shall bear the weight of what thou both have wrought, what he hath stolen from thee and from this family. Perchance I shall find mercy enough to spare his life, but he is no longer welcome beneath this roof. I shall cast him out at once, to return to Lynn with haste, before my mercy wavers. ("Were I willing to do what I should given the circumstances, I would have you locked away for disgrace. But I will not have you hanged, daughter, for for his sake. No, he will carry the weight of you both have done, what he has stolen from you and from this family. Maybe I will find mercy to save his life but he is no longer welcome under his roof. I will send him back to Lynn as soon as possible before I change my mind.")

“As for thee? By week's end, thou shalt be sent to the priory, there to worship no man but God, and to reap thy penance for thy sins and thy shame. The sisters shall see to it thy life is set upon a holier path.” ("And as for you? By the end of the week, you will be sent to the priory where you will worship no man but God, to reap penance for your sins and your shame. The nuns will make sure your life is set on a holier path.")

“The priory? Father, I would rather be hanged!” Guinevere shrieked.

“Enough!” the man boomed, “Not a word more from thee, child!”

Guinevere, finally, held her tongue. She turned then upon George with a countenance of sorrow, tears in her diamond eyes, and he felt his heart ache at their reality. Neither spoke a word more.

His master closed the conversation with a firm demand of his newest apprentice, “George, I shall spare thy life for the sake of my daughter and her madness. Yet thou shalt depart at once. Gather thy things and be gone before the hour is out.” ("Goerge, I will spare your life because of my daughter and her madness. But you will leave at once. Gather your things and be gone within the hour.")

“Aye, sir,” George bent at the waist in a feeble bow before turning on his heel and brushing past a stunned Alexander towards the staircase. The younger siblings were hidden around the corner at the top, having listened in, but George did not spare them a glance on his way by, his head hung in agony and shame.

No one joined George within the attic as he packed his satchel, not even his fellow apprentices. Instead, he stood at his bedside alone, wood shavings still clinging to the material of his tunic as he clutched the wooden ring in his hand and stared down upon its delicate engravings. Never before had he felt such pain as this, such agony in his breast as if his heart had been stabbed. His life might have been spared by Guinevere’s pleas to her father but perhaps death might have eased the pain with which he was plagued.

The sound of footsteps creaking upon the stair had George frantically tucking the ring into his satchel, and he called over his shoulder, “I make haste!” ("I'm hurrying!")

“’Tis but I,” said Guinevere, her voice so meek it scarcely sounded her own. ("It's just me.")

George turned at the sound of her voice, gazing upon her as she drifted cautiously over the floorboards towards him. He longed to reach out, to draw her near for one final farewell, yet he dared not, lest he provoke her father further. Instead, he spoke softly, “Thou shouldst not be here, alone with me.” ("You should not be here alone with me.")

“My sisters keep watch for me,” Guinevere whispered, “Father hath gone to speak with Charles—to call off the betrothal.” ("My sisters are keeping watch for me. Father has gone to speak with Charles, to call off the betrothal.")

“I am sorry,” George exhaled, bowing his head, “I should not have made such a reckless declaration. I hath ruined thy life.”

“Nay,” Guinevere’s hands framed his face, her touch warm, familiar, and she guided his head up to meet her gaze, “Thou didst no such thing. There is naught more romantic in all of England.” ("No, you did no such thing. There is nothing more romantic in all of England.")

George scarce could summon a smile at her gentle words, gazing deep into her eyes as his hand took hold of one of her wrists, his calloused thumb soft upon her tender skin.

“I mean it,” he spoke, “I love thee. More than all things in God’s fair land do I love thee.”

“I love thee too,” Guinevere echoed, drawing his face close, that she might steal a kiss from his supple lips.

When they drew apart after but a moment, they pressed their brows together, eyes closed, as though striving to hold fast the memory of their lover’s touch.

Guinevere spoke once more, “Take me with thee.”

George drew back with a timid smile at her bold plea, his hands falling to clasp hers between them, “I would not stir thy father’s wrath further.” ("I do not want to make your father more upset.")

“I cannot bear to live without thee,” Guinevere begged, her voice steady and sure, “Nor can I endure to spend my days as a nun, now that I have tasted the blessing of thy body. I need thee, my beloved—prithee, take me with thee.” ("I can't bear to live without you. And I can't bear to spend the rest of my life as a nun, now that I know what it is to experience the pleasure of your body. I need you, my beloved, please, take me with you.")

“Take thee with me back to Lynn? And then what?” George questioned. It was a fair thought in theory, but how might reality bear it? To bring her home to be a farmer’s wife, when she had been raised with such generous means in London?

“I know not, nor do I care,” Guinevere insisted, wrenching her hands free to cast her arms about his shoulders, drawing his body close to hers, “I care not where we go nor what we do. I want nothing but thee—all of thee—in any manner.” ("I don't know and I don't care. I don't care where we go or what we do. I only want you -all of you - in any way.")

George’s mind spun with ideas of how to make sense of this, how they were to make a life for themselves from this. He had not even completed a year of his apprenticeship, although he had learned much in the months he had been present, and she was literate and a great bookkeeper. Nothing felt sure, nothing felt easy.

“I hear Lynn is a prosperous tradestown,” she continued, dreams and hope bright in her voice, which George ached to grasp, “Or Norwich? ’Tis almost as great as London. We could go anywhere, George—prithee, say we shall.” ("I hear Lynn is a prosperous tradestown. Or Norwich? It is almost as great as London. We could go anywhere, George. Please, say we can.")

With his arms around her waist, hands splayed across her back, he asked in a breath, “Is it true that we are wed?” ("Is it true that we are married?")

“We spoke the sacred words to one another. Those words do bind man and wife, no matter the place or circumstance. And though we might have been pretending, with Alexander as our witness, there is no doubt.” ("We spoke the sacred words to each other. Those words bind man and wife, no matter the place or circumstances. And we might have been pretending but with Alexander overhearing, there is no pretending anymore.")

George’s eyes traveled all over her soft face, taking in every freckle across her nose and cheeks, the shine of her eyes, the colour of her lips. His wife.

He drew away and turned toward his satchel, then drew forth the wooden ring he had carved for her. Without bidding, she held out her hand, and he slipped upon her finger the token of his love, before closing her fingers about it and drawing them to his lips to place a kiss upon them. With the ring upon her hand, their matrimony was sealed in that dusty attic in the sweltering summer heat of London.

“I want to make a good life for us,” he confessed earnestly, “I want to make right by thee.”

“Thou shall. I know it.” Guinevere assured with ease.

“Wilt thou give up all for a life with me?” ("Will you give up everything for a life with me?")

“My father hath already forced me to give it up. I would rather have only thee than naught at all.” ("My father had already forced me to give it up. I would rather have only you than nothing at all.")

And so he kissed her again with every ounce of passion and life in his veins.

When they parted, she hurried off to her chamber to pack her own bag, leaving George to finish his. Despite the pain of ending his apprenticeship early on such soured terms, his heart raced in his breast with the thrill of what was to come; to spend a life with his beloved.

They met once more in the reception room where her siblings and the other apprentices waited, her sisters standing watch by the front window to spy their father’s return. As if all were on their side, well-wishes were exchanged and tearful goodbyes shared. George and Alexander embraced longer than was common, and even Guinevere’s eldest brothers—who had taken time to warm to George’s unexpected presence in their shop—bade him farewell with kindness.

The steed was readied by the stablehand and George mounted it before he lent a hand to raise Guinevere behind him upon the saddle. Alexander, the only one who had joined them outside, passed up George’s bow and his quiver of arrows and helped get him sorted for their journey. And, as if that were not enough, he then held forth his small satchel of silver coins as a parting gift.

“Alexander, I must not,” George declined politely, knowing full well how little apprentices earned.

“Prithee, George, I insist,” Alexander pressed kindly, “So that thou mayst live the life I could not.” ("Please, George, so that you can live the life I could not.")

George relented and accepted the coin and Guinevere helped him fasten the satchel to his belt as he thanked him with a soft, “Thy kindness and friendship are much obliged.” ("I appreciate your kindness and friendship.")

“God bless thee,” Alexander smiled, stepping back from their steed to grant them leave in haste.

With a final glance back at the homestead where their paths had first crossed, George and Guinevere set forth upon the London streets, their course aimed toward their new life beyond. They carried with them nothing but the necessities: coin, some bread and lavender, a change of garments, and, of course, safely tucked within Guinevere’s own satchel, the collection of tokens and figurines George had made for her.

The greenery of rural England welcomed them from the stone confines of the city walls, breaking out into rolling hills and lust forests beneath stunningly blue sky. Despite the tumultuous afternoon they had experienced, a sense of peace settled over them, putting distance between them and the people who threatened to rip their love apart. George could only trot onwards.

Guinevere’s arms were around his waist, holding tightly onto him as they rode through the countryside, wooden ring on her hand and her head resting against his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her body against his, the gentleness of her embrace, and the protective swell in his breast gave him purpose. He truly would give it all up for her—and he did—and what a lovely thing to know that she would do the same in return.

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novaursa · 3 months ago

Text

The Second Daughter (to shatter a kingdom)

- Summary: You were born as a second daughter under the watchful eye of a full moon. And just like the moon you were beautiful—and cursed to exist only in the dark.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Note: This is the last chapter. Thank you for reading my story. ❤️

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: the road to ruin

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @l3thal-l0lita @alkadri-layal @ninihrtss @barnes70stark @scarletdfox @idenyimimdenial

The dawn sky was painted in streaks of blood-red and smoke-gray, as though the gods themselves had foreseen the carnage that would unfold beneath it. The banners of House Lannister and House Targaryen fluttered in the bitter morning wind, stretched taut against the breeze as Jason’s forces advanced upon the city walls. His banners bore the roaring golden lion of the West, and beside them, the black and red of the dragon flew high—a declaration of allegiance and wrath.

King’s Landing stood before them, its great walls lined with archers and defenders in green-cloaked armor, banners of House Hightower fluttering defiantly from the ramparts. The gates were closed, barred, and reinforced, but Jason had not come to knock politely.

“Catapults forward!” Jason commanded, his voice ringing out over the clamor of his men.

At his word, siege engines were dragged into position, their wooden frames groaning as they were set up. Rocks the size of oxen were hauled into their cradles, their edges rough with the weight of impending devastation. The first stone was loosed, sailing through the sky with a hollow whistle before smashing into the outer walls of the city, sending stone and dust cascading down upon the defenders.

Another strike followed, and another, the deep, resonant crashes shaking the very foundation of King’s Landing. Lannister infantry, clad in red and gold, pressed forward with shields raised, arrows raining down upon them from above. The clatter of steel upon steel filled the air as they clashed with the city’s defenders in the narrow passages leading toward the gate, blood staining the cobbled streets beneath them.

From the River Gate, Daemon's host surged forward, his men clad in blackened steel, their banners flaring in the wind. The knights of the Vale, sworn to Rhaenyra’s cause, fought alongside them, their lances tearing through Green defenders with unrelenting force.

And above them, the sky belonged to dragons.

A great shadow swept across the battlefield, blotting out the rising sun as Vhagar, the oldest and mightiest of the living dragons, descended with a roar that sent even the bravest men stumbling in fear. Aemond One-Eye sat in her saddle, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his single eye burning with cold fury as he surveyed the field below. He would not allow his uncle, nor Jason, nor any man to take this city from him.

Then came the answering shriek—a deep, guttural roar, like the tolling of a war drum.

Caraxes.

Daemon’s red wyrm twisted through the air like a serpent, his long, sinewy body cutting through the sky as he streaked toward Vhagar. Their roars met like clashing thunder, shaking the very heavens as they barreled toward one another.

The dragons collided mid-air with a force that sent a shockwave through the battlefield below. Vhagar snapped her massive jaws at Caraxes’ neck, but the Blood Wyrm was too fast, twisting away, his claws raking deep into the older dragon’s side. Scales the size of shields were torn free, crimson blood raining down upon the streets of King’s Landing.

Aemond pulled hard on Vhagar’s reins, forcing her to wheel around. He spotted Daemon, his uncle’s expression a mask of cold determination. There was no fear in his eyes, only the certainty of a man who had already decided his fate.

Below them, Jason’s forces continued their relentless advance. A battering ram, its great iron head shaped like a lion’s maw, was wheeled toward the Gate of the Gods. Lannister men pushed it forward, their shields raised against the onslaught of arrows from above. The ram swung forward, slamming into the thick wood of the gate with a deep, resonant boom.

“Again!” Jason bellowed.

The ram struck again, splinters flying from the impact, but the gate held. Jason turned to his men, his sword raised high.

"Hold the line!" he shouted. "No retreat! The city will fall before the sun sets!"

The clash of swords and shields continued, the cries of the dying and wounded mingling with the roar of fire overhead. From the Red Keep, plumes of smoke began to rise as the outer city burned, the siege tightening its grip upon the capital.

Above, dragons circled like vultures, their battle still raging. Vhagar struck out with her tail, catching Caraxes mid-turn, sending the Blood Wyrm spiraling through the sky. But Daemon recovered swiftly, urging his dragon upward once more, gaining altitude before diving down upon Aemond with all the fury of a falling star.

The city trembled beneath their war.

And inside the Red Keep, locked away behind its stone walls, you listened. You felt the tremors in the floor beneath you, the distant echo of battle reaching your ears.

Your husband was coming for you.

And fire and blood would follow.

The walls of Maegor’s Holdfast trembled as the siege outside raged on. Distant screams and the clamor of steel upon steel carried through the heavy stone, muffled but unmistakable. The scent of smoke drifted in through the narrow window slits, carried on the wind that howled through the Red Keep like a wailing specter.

You sat upon the thick cushions near the hearth, but the warmth of the fire did nothing to ease the chill in your bones. Your fingers trembled against the fabric of Aegon’s tunic as his head lay heavy in your lap, his once brilliant hair dull in the dim light. He had curled himself against you like a wounded animal, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, his voice slurred from drink and pain.

“You need to let me go,” you whispered, your voice barely above the crackling fire. “Aegon, please. Jason is coming. If you do not release me, the city will burn.”

Aegon let out a breathy chuckle, his lips pulling into something like a smile, but it held no mirth. His arms tightened where they rested upon your legs, his fingers curling against the skirts of your gown as if anchoring himself. “You always say the same things,” he murmured. “Always warning, always knowing. But tell me, sister, what did you know of me? Did you ever truly see me?”

Your throat tightened, your unseeing gaze shifting toward the ceiling. “I saw you, Aegon.”

He hummed in disbelief. “Did you? Or did you see what our father wanted you to see? A firstborn prince, a disappointment wrapped in silk and wine, a boy with too much weight upon his shoulders and no will to carry it.” His voice wavered, raw and unguarded in a way you had not heard since you were children. “I used to watch you, you know. The way father doted on you. The way he held you close while he barely looked at me. The way you—” He swallowed hard. “The way you were allowed to be free, even when you were caged.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers threading through his hair, an old, familiar habit from childhood. “Aegon, you were never a disappointment.”

He let out a harsh laugh, shifting slightly but still refusing to lift his head from your lap. “Then what am I now, sister? King? Ruler of ashes? A man who cages the only person who ever truly cared for him?”

The words stung, but you pressed forward. “You must listen to me, Aegon. Jason and Daemon are at the gates. The city is falling. If you hold me here, there will be no peace, only fire.”

He sighed, a deep, shuddering breath, his body growing heavier against you. “And if I let you go?”

You hesitated. “Then there is still a chance to end this before it consumes everything.”

Aegon was silent for a long moment, the weight of his sorrow pressing against your thighs like a tangible thing. Outside, another explosion rocked the Red Keep, sending dust from the rafters cascading down like snowfall.

Still, he did not move.

Instead, he whispered, “Do you remember the times we would hide in the gardens? When you would tell me stories of dragons you could never see?”

You closed your eyes, grief settling in your chest. “I remember.”

He let out a slow, bitter chuckle. “I used to wish we could run away. Just the two of us. Far from all of this.” His voice was barely audible now, a drunken confession laced with pain. “But you ran from me, didn’t you? You let him take you.”

Your stomach twisted at the implication, but you did not correct him. It would do no good now.

Another tremor shook the castle, and this time, the faint sound of roaring reached your ears.

Dragons.

Jason had come.

You tensed beneath Aegon, but he remained as he was, heavy, unmoving, caught somewhere between past and present.

“They won’t stop,” you whispered. “Not until they burn the city to the ground.”

Aegon exhaled shakily and finally, finally, he lifted his head, his tired violet eyes meeting yours.

“But don’t you see, sweet sister?” He smiled, sad and weary. “It was always going to burn.”

The battlefield was chaos. A storm of steel and fire, of clashing armies and the deafening war cries of men who had long since abandoned fear. The air was thick with the scent of blood and smoke, the ground a churned mess of mud, trampled corpses, and discarded banners. Jason rode at the head of his forces, his crimson cloak billowing behind him, his sword already slick with blood as he cut down another soldier wearing the green of Aegon’s cause. The roar of war surrounded him, but through it all, his eyes were fixed on the sky.

Vhagar.

The monstrous she-dragon moved through the air like a serpent of death, twisting and diving, her great maw spewing fire that turned entire formations of men into writhing columns of flame. Upon her back, Aemond Targaryen was a pale shadow against the darkness of battle, his single eye alight with the bloodlust of a man who had already embraced destruction. And then, from the east, came another roar.

Caraxes made another turn.

Daemon Targaryen and his lean, wicked beast tore through the sky, the Blood Wyrm screaming its challenge again as it shot toward Vhagar with terrifying speed. The air trembled with the force of their impact, the two dragons locking in a deadly spiral of teeth and claws, their riders nothing more than small figures clinging to their saddles as the monstrous creatures tore into one another.

Jason felt the breath leave his lungs as he watched the battle unfold above him. This was a fight for the ages, a battle between the greatest dragons alive, a reckoning that had been coming for years. But before he could process the magnitude of it, a sound split the sky—a deep, earth-rattling bellow, one that sent his blood running cold.

Vermithor.

His heart stopped.

And then he saw her.

Alysera.

His daughter, his fierce, headstrong daughter, streaking across the sky on the back of the mighty Bronze Fury, flying straight into the maelstrom of death that was Caraxes and Vhagar’s battle.

Jason’s roar of horror was lost in the din of battle. “No! Alysera, no!”

She could not hear him. She would not have listened even if she could.

Vermithor, old and wise, let out a great, earth-shaking roar as he drove toward Vhagar, his massive wings propelling him forward with terrifying speed. Jason watched as his daughter moved with precision, guiding her dragon like a seasoned rider, positioning herself to strike at Aemond’s exposed flank. Vhagar twisted, trying to meet the new threat, but Caraxes struck again, forcing the ancient beast to divide its attention.

Jason felt his stomach turn as the battle in the sky intensified. He wanted to stop her. He wanted to rip her from the saddle, to command her to flee, to do anything but fly toward certain death. But he could not. He was powerless, forced to watch as his child, his flesh and blood, threw herself into a battle she could not possibly win.

His hands tightened around the reins of his destrier, and rage surged through him. If he could not protect her in the sky, he would ensure that no Green soldier lived to see the end of this battle.

He turned his horse sharply, his voice a roar above the chaos. “Forward! Cut them down! No mercy!”

The Lannister forces surged at his command, a tide of red and gold crashing against the Green armies that stood before them. Jason led the charge himself, his blade flashing as he cut through the enemy like a man possessed. The battlefield became a blur of steel and blood, of men screaming and dying as the Westerlands forces carved their way through.

Above, the battle of dragons raged on.

Jason had always known this war would cost him everything. But never, in his darkest nightmares, had he imagined it would cost him his daughter.

The walls of Maegor’s Holdfast trembled, dust falling from the cracks forming in the ceiling above. The air itself seemed to quake with the force of the battle raging in the skies, the deafening roars of dragons shaking the very foundation of the Red Keep. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the thick walls that imprisoned her, you heard the distinct cry of Vermithor—a deep, rumbling sound that made the stones beneath you tremble as though the earth itself feared his presence. Your heart clenched at the realization.

Alysera.

A shuddering breath escaped your lips as you lifted your head, your blind eyes searching the void around you. She had disobeyed Jason’s orders. She was up there, fighting, against all odds, against Vhagar and the beast who rode her.

A violent tremor rattled the chamber again, and Aegon groaned where he lay against you, his head resting on your lap. He had made no move to rise, nor had he spoken of the destruction raining down around them. He did not seem to care. The battle outside, the city burning, the fall of his own reign—it was all distant to him. Instead, he turned his face toward you, pressing closer as if seeking solace in your presence, just as he had done as a child.

"Sing to me," he murmured, his voice raw, heavy with exhaustion and pain.

You flinched as another blast shook the Keep, the sound of stone splintering somewhere above them. "Aegon—"

"Sing," he repeated, cutting you off, his fingers clinging weakly to your skirts. "Like you used to. Like you did for your dragon."

The words struck something deep within you. The memory of Silverwing, of the song you sang in the quiet hours, the melody that once made the great silver beast bow her head to you. The lullaby that had calmed even the most restless of creatures.

You swallowed thickly. "Aegon, I cannot—"

"You must," he insisted, his grip tightening, his voice laced with desperation. "I always knew Jason would kill you. I knew it the moment he married you. And now he's come for you, hasn't he?"

Your breath hitched at the weight of his words, but you had no answer to give. You could not see the battle outside, but you could hear it. Jason was out there, fighting to reach you.

Aegon exhaled shakily, his fingers ghosting over the scars on his face, the burns that marred his once-proud features. "He won't stop until he tears this city apart." He let out a bitter laugh, more of a rasp than a sound of mirth. "And neither will Aemond. That is why you must sing, sweet sister. Before the world collapses around us. Before everything ends."

You felt his weight shift against you, his head pressing closer to your lap as though he longed to disappear within the folds of your cloak, to retreat into the safety of a world that no longer existed.

The walls shuddered again, and above them, the ceiling groaned in protest. The battle outside was intensifying. The Keep would not hold forever.

You knew you had no choice.

With a shaking breath, you parted your lips, and the melody that had once soothed the great beast of Silverwing slipped past your tongue, soft and aching, laced with sorrow. It was a song of old Valyria, of dragons and fire, of home and loss.

Aegon’s breathing slowed, his body curling against yours as though he were a child once more, clinging to the one thing that had ever brought him comfort. His fingers went slack against your skirts, his burned face turned toward the heavens, as if he could still see something beyond the destruction closing in around them.

And so you sang.

Even as the world burned.

The halls of the Red Keep trembled with the weight of war, the sounds of chaos rising beyond its walls like a great beast shrieking into the night. The bells tolled frantically, their desperate cries swallowed by the screams of the dying and the clash of steel against steel. The city was burning. Alicent could smell the acrid smoke seeping through the cracks in the stone, curling into the air like ghostly fingers.

She hurried through the Keep, her heart pounding, her mind racing with the knowledge that the walls were closing in. Helaena and the children had been ushered to the farthest, safest chambers, the Queen Dowager ensuring her only daughter was locked away from the carnage, away from the horrors that already haunted her fragile mind. She had begged Helaena to go without protest, and for once, her daughter had listened, holding her children close as she allowed the guards to lead her away.

But Aegon…

Alicent’s lips pressed together as she reached the chamber doors, the weight of her years pressing upon her. Criston stood before them, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his expression as still and unyielding as the steel he carried.

She didn’t hesitate. "Ser Criston, we must take Aegon and—"

"No," Cole cut her off sharply, his voice as cold as the winter winds of the North.

Alicent’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her gown. "No? What do you mean no?"

Cole did not move, did not falter. "He will not leave, my Queen. He has given his command. He will remain in the Red Keep until the last man falls, or until he burns with the city."

Alicent felt the breath in her lungs turn to ice. She stepped forward, her voice lowering into a fierce whisper. "Jason’s men are within the city. Daemon’s forces press from the Riverlands. The Gold Cloaks have turned against us! The gates will not hold! Do you not understand what will happen if they breach the Keep?"

Criston’s jaw twitched, but his expression remained impassive. "I understand, my Queen. And so does Aegon."

Alicent swallowed the bile rising in her throat. "Then he is a fool!"

Criston did not argue with her, nor did he lower his gaze.

Aegon was not leaving.

A tremor passed through her, fear clawing its way into her bones. She had spent years fighting for her son, maneuvering, scheming, sacrificing everything for his crown. And now he was content to throw it all away, to burn with his throne rather than flee and survive.

The distant roar of a dragon sent another tremor through the Keep, the sound of its great wings cutting through the air like a death knell. Flames illuminated the sky beyond the windows, the distant glow of Vermithor’s fire bathing the towers in an eerie golden light. Jason’s armies tore through the city, the Gold Cloaks had turned traitor, and the streets were painted red with the blood of those who had once sworn loyalty to her son.

And yet, Aegon would not flee.

She felt her hands trembling as she pressed them to her temples, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. She turned away from Cole, staring out beyond the Keep’s walls to the city below, to the chaos and destruction that had descended upon them.

"Jason will kill him," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cole did not respond.

Alicent turned back to him, her eyes burning with desperation. "If Jason reaches him, Aegon will die. And if Daemon reaches him first…"

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. The fate Daemon Targaryen would grant her son was far worse than a clean death.

She exhaled sharply, her fingers curling into fists. "What of the Princess?"

Cole’s expression did not change, but something flickered in his dark eyes. "Aegon will not release her."

Alicent’s stomach twisted.

If Jason did not kill Aegon, then the Princess’s fate was sealed.

A sudden, violent tremor shook the Keep once more, and Alicent gasped as a portion of the ceiling above them groaned in protest. Cole took a step forward, steadying her as she nearly stumbled.

"We must leave," he said, his voice firm, unrelenting. "The city is lost."

But she remained frozen.

Aegon would not leave.

And neither would his sister.

The sky was alight with fire and ruin, a battlefield of winged titans locked in a brutal dance of death. Vhagar, ancient and monstrous, bellowed in fury as her massive claws tore into Caraxes, sending the Blood Wyrm spiraling through the air. The red dragon twisted violently, struggling against the force of the blow, and for a moment, Daemon was lost amidst the storm of scales and fire.

Alysera barely had time to react before Vhagar shifted her attention to her. The great beast’s maw opened wide, revealing the inferno within, but instead of fire, she struck with her sheer size. A monstrous tail lashed out, colliding against Vermithor with the force of a collapsing mountain. The massive bronze dragon was flung backward, his great wings folding awkwardly as he crashed into one of the Red Keep’s towers, stone and mortar crumbling beneath his weight.

Alysera let out a strangled gasp as the force of the impact sent her hurtling forward in her saddle. The leather straps held—barely—but then came the sharp, gut-wrenching snap as the rope binding her to her seat gave way.

The world tilted.

For a heartbeat, she was weightless, suspended between earth and sky, the roar of battle a distant hum in her ears.

Then she fell.

The wind howled around her as she plummeted through the air, the towering spires of the Red Keep a blur as she tumbled toward the city below. Her fingers clawed at empty space, desperate for anything to hold onto, but there was nothing.

Nothing but the endless drop.

Alysera did not scream.

She closed her eyes, the image of her father’s face flashing before her mind.

And then—darkness.

Jason had seen many things in his life. He had witnessed men torn apart in battle, heard the screams of those who burned alive beneath dragonflame. He had seen brothers turn against brothers, had fought through blood and steel and madness.

But nothing—not war, not politics, not even the years of holding his House together—could compare to the horror that gripped him now.

He had been on foot, cutting through a skirmish in the streets, when his gaze was drawn upward—first by the monstrous sound of impact, then by the unmistakable shape of his daughter, falling from the sky.

For a moment, his body refused to move. His mind refused to understand what he was seeing.

Then—

“No…”

Jason shoved forward, his voice raw, desperate, as he broke into a dead sprint. The clash of battle faded into the background, the screams and roars of dragons nothing but distant echoes. He pushed past his own men, past enemies who barely had time to register his presence before he cut them down in his frantic charge.

“Alysera!”

He could see her now, her golden hair fanning out around her like a halo, a cruel mockery of the angel she had been.

His daughter.

His child.

Jason reached her just as she hit the ground.

The sound of impact sent a violent shudder through his bones. He fell to his knees beside her, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Alysera…” His hands trembled as he reached for her, cradling her broken form. Blood stained her pale skin, her lilac eyes half-lidded, barely seeing. A small, shallow breath shuddered from her lips.

Jason’s vision blurred.

“No, no, no—stay with me, my girl, my strong girl—”

Her fingers twitched, barely brushing against his hand. Her lips parted, and for a moment, he thought she might speak.

But then, the light faded from her eyes.

Jason let out a sound that was not quite human. It was torn from the depths of his soul, a raw, anguished cry that echoed across the battlefield, louder than the clash of steel, louder than the roar of dragons.

His men stopped.

The battle stopped.

Even Vermithor, still clinging to the shattered remnants of the Red Keep, let out a long, mournful wail, his great body shaking with grief.

Jason clutched his daughter to his chest, rocking her gently, as if he could somehow will life back into her.

But she was gone.

His Alysera was gone.

The battlefield swayed in Jason’s vision, blurred by the heat of fire and the sting of grief. His arms were locked around Alysera’s still form, his hands cradling her golden head, as if by holding her close, he could somehow undo what had just happened. The world had shrunk to nothing but her—her broken body, her blood staining his hands, her lilac eyes that would never open again.

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Jason,” Damon’s voice was rough, urgent. His uncle had fought through the chaos to reach him, his sword still slick with blood, his armor dented and scratched from the melee. “You need to stand. We need to finish this.”

Jason did not move.

The battle raged around them, but for him, it had already ended. What more was there to fight for? His daughter was dead. His child, his pride, his little girl who had always been the boldest of them all—gone.

Damon shook him harder. “Jason, by the gods, I know—” His voice cracked. “I know. But you cannot fall now. Do you hear me? We are not done. Alysera did not die for nothing. If we do not take the city, if we do not end this now, more will follow her.”

Jason swallowed thickly, his body shuddering. His mind fought against the truth, against the sheer weight of his loss, but Damon’s words rang true. He knew them to be true.

And yet, how could he rise? How could he leave her here, in the dirt, amidst the carnage?

Then came the sound that tore through the sky like the wail of the gods themselves.

A monstrous, keening roar—one of rage, of pain, of vengeance.

Jason’s head snapped upward just in time to see Vermithor, his great bronze form locked in a deadly spiral with Vhagar, the two dragons clashing above the ruined city. The battle between them had shifted, no longer just another skirmish in the war, but a reckoning.

Vhagar, the largest and oldest of them all, roared furiously, her tail lashing as she tore into Vermithor with claws the size of swords. The elder dragon bellowed, the sound vibrating through the very stones of the city.

And then, with terrifying strength, Vermithor struck.

His powerful jaws latched onto Vhagar’s left wing. His teeth sank deep, puncturing flesh and sinew, holding fast even as the she-dragon thrashed and bellowed in agony. Blood rained from the sky in thick, dark streams, splattering across the Red Keep’s shattered rooftops.

A deafening crack echoed through the air.

Vhagar’s wing ripped away from her body, torn from its socket. The great beast let out an ear-splitting shriek as she lost control, her immense form twisting wildly as she plummeted, her remaining wing unable to keep her aloft.

And on her back—Aemond Targaryen.

Daemon was upon him in an instant.

Caraxes coiled around the falling dragon, his long, sinuous body twisting like a viper ready to strike. Daemon did not hesitate. With the precision of a man who had always known how he would die, he cut the leather bindings that held him to the saddle, his sword drawn, his body steady.

Aemond saw him coming.

The prince’s one remaining eye widened, and for the first time, there was fear there.

Daemon grinned.

A heartbeat later, he leapt from his saddle, Dark Sister gleaming in the firelight. He landed on Vhagar’s back, right behind Aemond, and in one swift motion, drove his sword through his nephew’s skull.

The blade burst from Aemond’s eye socket, crimson staining silver, the sapphire he had placed in his empty eye socket glinting one last time before it dulled forever.

The two men tumbled together as Vhagar spiraled downward, her final death throes shaking the very heavens. They fell past the broken towers, past the burning battlements, past the screaming men below—until, with an earth-shattering impact, the great beast crashed into the wreckage of the castle, sending stone and fire billowing into the air.

Silence followed.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Jason felt his breath leave him, his fingers still tangled in Alysera’s blood-matted hair.

Then—cheers.

Daemon had done it.

Aemond was dead. Vhagar was dead.

The city was theirs.

But Jason did not cheer.

Damon’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Jason. We end this now.”

Jason’s eyes flickered from the burning wreckage to the city beyond, to the Red Keep, where his wife was still held captive.

His grief hardened into something else.

Something cold.

Something merciless.

He laid Alysera down gently, pressing one final kiss to her golden hair. Then, he rose.

And with his sword in hand, Jason Lannister marched toward the Red Keep.

The air inside the ruined Red Keep was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, the remnants of battle still clinging to the shattered walls. Jason stood in the heart of the great hall, his armor splattered with the filth of war, his sword heavy in his grip. Behind him, his men fanned out, their blades glinting in the dim torchlight, their faces grim. They had stormed the castle, cut through the last of the resistance, and now, victory was within his grasp.

Before him, rounded up like sheep for the slaughter, stood Queen Dowager Alicent, her face pale but composed, her green dress streaked with soot. Beside her, Otto Hightower, his features drawn tight, his aged hands clasped before him as if he still commanded some measure of power. There were others—Ser Criston Cole, his white cloak stained red, his jaw clenched; a handful of lords and knights sworn to the Greens, their gazes wary and uncertain.

But Jason did not care about any of them.

His mind was consumed by only one thought, one demand that burned through him like wildfire.

"Where is my wife?" His voice thundered through the hall, echoing off the stone walls. His green eyes burned with fury, his breath heavy with the weight of battle. "Give her to me, and I might consider letting the rest of you live."

A tense silence followed. The assembled Greens glanced at one another, hesitation flickering in their eyes. Alicent, for the first time, looked away, her lips pressing together. It was Otto who stepped forward, his spine stiff, his gaze meeting Jason’s with something dangerously close to defiance.

"We cannot," Otto said.

Jason's grip on his sword tightened. "You cannot? Or you will not?" His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "I am not a patient man, Hightower."

Otto's lips twisted, his face etched with something unreadable. "We cannot," he repeated, and this time, his voice was raw. "Because she is gone."

The world tilted.

Jason’s breath hitched, his fingers going numb even as his sword remained clutched in his grip.

"You lie."

Otto shook his head. "I do not."

Jason's chest heaved, his heart pounding so violently he thought it might shatter his ribs. He turned to Alicent, his fury twisting into something frantic, something desperate. "Where is she?"

Alicent did not meet his gaze. Her hands trembled at her sides, her eyes shadowed with grief.

"She was with Aegon," she whispered, and Jason felt as though his heart had stopped beating altogether. "When Vhagar fell."

The words struck him harder than any blade ever could.

Jason stumbled back a step, his vision blurring at the edges.

No.

No, it could not be.

Not her.

Not his wife. Not Y/N.

The air seemed to thin, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to speak, to force the words past the lump in his throat, but nothing came. His body felt frozen, trapped in a waking nightmare he could not escape.

"She is not dead," he said at last, his voice hollow. "You’re lying. She is not—"

Alicent inhaled sharply, but it was Otto who answered. "We do not know," he admitted. "The entire Holdfast collapsed. No one has been able to reach the ruins. But if she was inside when it fell—"

Jason lunged forward, grabbing Otto by the collar and yanking him close.

"You dare," he snarled, his voice shaking with rage, with grief, with something he could not name. "You dare stand before me and tell me my wife is buried beneath the rubble of this cursed castle?"

Otto did not flinch. "I tell you the truth."

Jason could hear his men behind him, could feel their gazes, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered except the gaping, endless void yawning open inside of him.

She was not dead.

She could not be.

Jason shoved Otto away, his hands trembling, his mind screaming at him to act.

He turned to his men. "Find her," he ordered, his voice hoarse. "Search the ruins, turn over every stone, dig through every scrap of debris—I do not care what it takes. Find my wife!"

Damon Lannister stepped forward, his expression heavy. "Jason—"

"Find her!" Jason roared, his voice raw with agony.

The hall fell into silence, thick with the weight of grief and uncertainty.

Alicent lowered her head, her shoulders trembling, and for the first time since the war had begun, Jason saw not the Queen Dowager, not the woman who had plotted against his wife, but a mother mourning her own broken son.

But Jason did not care.

His wife was out there.

And gods be damned, he would find her.

The world had become a hollow, lifeless thing.

Jason Lannister stood amidst the shattered remains of Maegor’s Holdfast, his once-gilded armor dulled by soot and blood, his eyes vacant as they stared at the bodies before him. The air was thick with dust, the acrid scent of burned stone and flesh mingling with the cold sea breeze that swept through the broken Red Keep.

Two bodies.

One draped in golden-red, her long curls splayed out over the dust and ash, the delicate fabric of her dress torn and stained, her hands still curled as if reaching for something—or someone. The other, slighter, a once-proud crown toppled from his head, his body broken and burnt from the fires that had consumed them all. Aegon. The king. His wife’s half-brother.

His Y/N.

Jason could hear voices—his men murmuring behind him, soldiers shifting uneasily, Damon’s heavy presence at his side—but they all faded into nothing. The world had narrowed down to this, to the two lifeless figures that lay before him.

He did not move.

Did not speak.

Did not breathe.

A sound tore from his throat—something raw, something wounded, something inhuman. His hands clenched at his sides, nails digging into the flesh of his palms until they drew blood, but the pain did not register.

This was not real.

This was not happening.

She had fought so hard. She had always been strong. She had been the fire in his chest, the warmth that had pulled him back from the brink time and time again.

But now, she was cold.

Now, she was gone.

Damon shifted beside him, the weight of his uncle’s silence pressing down on him like a mountain. Jason did not look at him. He could not. There were no words that could be spoken.

A horn sounded from the harbor.

Jason barely reacted, though he heard the murmurs ripple through his men.

“Queen Rhaenyra’s fleet has arrived,” someone said.

It did not matter.

Nothing mattered.

Rhaenyra could take the city. She could sit on the Iron Throne. She could burn it to the ground for all he cared.

His wife was gone.

His daughter was gone.

His world had ended.

Damon exhaled sharply, glancing at Jason. “We need to—”

“No.” Jason’s voice was hoarse, his throat raw, but there was steel in it. He tore his gaze away from Y/N’s lifeless form, turning to his uncle with something dark and unreadable in his eyes. “There is nothing left for me to do.”

Damon’s brows furrowed. “Jason—”

“I came for her.” His voice was hollow, emotionless. “I did not come for thrones, or crowns, or any of this.” His gaze flicked to Aegon, to the ruined, broken Keep around them. “I came to bring my wife home.”

Damon’s jaw tightened. He hesitated, then said, carefully, “And what of Rhaenyra? What of the war?”

Jason let out a bitter, empty laugh. “The war?” He gestured around them. “Do you think I care about the war? Do you think I give a damn who sits on the throne? My wife is dead, my daughter is dead. What more can this war take from me?”

Damon had no answer.

Jason took a step forward, kneeling beside Y/N’s body, his hands hovering just above her as if afraid to touch. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his entire body trembling. Slowly, reverently, he traced his fingers over her hair, brushing the strands away from her face.

She looked peaceful.

That was the cruelest part.

It was as if she had merely fallen asleep, as if she might wake at any moment and smile at him, whisper his name in that soft voice of hers. But he knew better.

She would never wake again.

A sharp inhale sounded from behind him. Jason turned his head slightly, enough to see Alicent standing a few feet away, her face pale, her eyes wide and filled with horror as she took in the sight of her son’s body.

She staggered forward, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out.

Jason looked away.

He could not find it in himself to care.

“Take them,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Damon frowned. “Jason—”

“Take my wife and daughter back to the Rock.” His voice hardened, his grief buried beneath something colder, something unyielding. “They belong with their family.”

Damon hesitated, then nodded. He gestured to the men behind them, and slowly, carefully, they stepped forward to retrieve the bodies.

Jason did not move.

He simply knelt there, watching, as the last pieces of his heart were carried away.

The horns sounded again.

The war was ending.

But for Jason Lannister, the battle had already been lost.

...

The Lion’s Lament

Accounts of the Aftermath of the Dance in the Westerlands, as recorded by Maesters, Lords, and Mummers.

From the Recollections of Mushroom:

"The great Jason Lannister rode back to the Rock not with banners held high, nor with the pride of conquest, but with the weight of death upon his back. His wife, the fair Y/N Targaryen, was lost to the fires of war, and his golden daughter Alysera lay cold in her grave. Oh, how the mighty had fallen! Once a man full of mirth and arrogance, the Lion of the West returned to his den not as a conqueror, but as a mourner. And if the men whispered of his grief, the dragons roared it for all to hear. Silverwing, once the gentlest of beasts, was said to have perched upon the cliffs of Casterly Rock and wailed for a fortnight, her sorrow echoing over the Sunset Sea, refusing to eat, refusing to fly. Even the stones of the Rock seemed to weep for the loss of its Lady."

"It is said that when Jason laid his wife to rest, he stood before her effigy for a night and a day, unmoving, unblinking, refusing food or drink. No one dared disturb him. When he finally left, his face was a mask of stone, and he was never seen to laugh again. Even his sons and daughters, his precious cubs, could not stir him back to life."

From the Chronicle of Maester Halford, in service to House Lannister:

"Lord Jason Lannister returned to Casterly Rock not in triumph, but in mourning. The war had claimed much from the West, but none so much as their lord himself. He rode through the gates with his banners still unfurled, but there was no celebration, no cheers of victory. The gates were silent, the halls were dark. His people, his family, his vassals—none could meet his gaze, for in his eyes was only loss."

"The funeral of Lady Y/N and Lady Alysera was a solemn affair. No songs were sung, no toasts were raised. The banners of Targaryen red and Lannister gold hung side by side, but the wind did not stir them, as if even the gods mourned their passing. Lord Jason ordered statues to be erected in their honor—two figures carved from the finest marble, to stand within the halls of the Rock for all eternity. It is said that he would sit before them in the dead of night, speaking words only the dead could hear."

"His children fared no better. Alysera’s twin, Rhaelya, never smiled again after her sister’s death, and she abandoned all pursuits of dragonriding, refusing to go near Vermithor. Aemerys, the eldest and heir to the Rock, was the only one of Jason’s children to keep his dragon, but even he rode less and less, burdened by the weight of his family’s grief. The younger ones, still but children, shied away from all talk of dragons, and none of them ever sought to claim one."

"And yet, even in grief, there was still duty. Lord Jason demanded that Queen Rhaenyra return his daughter Aelina to him, for he had no more trust in Targaryen ambitions, no more patience for the games of dragons. But though she promised, the Queen delayed. And when the war was done and the Iron Throne was secured, Aelina was still on Dragonstone, and she was still promised to Prince Aegon the Younger. A union forged in blood and duty, not love, unlike her mother’s before her. When the time came, she was wed, and thus the Lion and the Dragon remained bound."

From the Writings of Septon Eustace:

"Grief does strange things to men. Lord Jason, once a man of laughter and indulgence, became a shadow of himself. The great feasts of Casterly Rock, once known to be as lavish as those in King’s Landing, were muted. No music played. The halls of gold grew cold. It is said that the servants would find him alone in his chambers, whispering to the air, as if speaking to his lost wife. He kept her memory alive in stone, in words, in deeds, but never in joy. The Rock became a tomb, not just for the dead, but for the living as well."

"And the dragons mourned, too. Silverwing remained at Casterly Rock, but she flew less and less, as if searching for something that would never return. When she did take to the skies, she did not fly high, nor did she breathe fire. The once-gentle beast had become a specter of sorrow."

"In the end, war had not taken the Rock’s wealth, nor its might. But it had taken its heart."

From a Letter by Lord Tyland Lannister to the Queen’s Council:

"My brother is not the man he once was. He does not laugh, nor does he drink as he once did. He speaks little. His children, those who remain, tread carefully around him, afraid to stir his temper, afraid to remind him of what he has lost. I do not know how to reach him."

"He does not fight me when I tend to matters of state in his stead. He does not argue when I make decisions on the affairs of the Westerlands. He simply… exists."

"He is Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, a lion among men. But he is also a husband who lost his wife, a father who lost his daughter. And I fear that he has lost himself as well."

"The war may be over, but I do not know if Jason Lannister will ever return from it."

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