#Roast Capon

[askwhatsforlunch]

Pepper and Capon Quiche

Today begins the VE Long Weekend, thus making it a Very Long Weekend this year, and Mum, Jules and I are taking a holiday in the Loire Valley. We --Mum and Jules, that is-- are driving there and shall stop on the road, hopefully finding a scenic spot to lunch. This Pepper and Capon Quiche makes an excellent and tasty picnic! Happy Wednesday!

Ingredients (serves 4)

4 to 5 small red and yellow Bell Peppers  

1 1/2 tablespoon olive oil

1/2 teaspoon Piment d'Espelette or Cayenne Pepper

375 grams/13 ounces Pepper and Chilli Pastry

4 large eggs

¾ cup double cream

¼ cup semi-skimmed milk

¼ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper

leftover Roast Capon (a wing or half a breast; roast chicken or turkey works well, too)

Thoroughly rinse Bell Peppers under cold water.

Heat olive oil in a nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Cut Bell Peppers into thin slices, and add them to the skillet. Cook, shaking the pan often, about 5 minutes, until Bell Peppers start browning. Sprinkle with Piment d'Espelette, tossing well to coat. Cook, 1 minute more. Remove from heat, and let cool completely.

Preheat oven to 200°C/395°F.

Roll Pepper and Chilli Pastry out thinly onto a lightly floured surface. Fit into a buttered 26cm/10.25″ tart pan, letting the pastry overhang on the edges. Prick the base with a fork. Place a sheet of baking paper onto the Pepper and Chilli Pastry and fill with dried beans or rice. Blind bake the Pepper and Chilli Pastry crust  at 200°C/395°F, 10 minutes. Carefully remove the beans and baking paper, and bake another 5 minutes, at the same temperature. Remove from the oven. Let cool slightly before trimming the edges.

In a medium bowl, whisk eggs together with double cream. Whisk in milk, salt and black pepper.

Arrange cooled Bell Peppers onto the tart crust. Cut Roast Capon into chunks, and scatter them liberally on top. Pour egg and cream mixture evenly all over.

Place in the warm oven, and bake, at 200°C/395°F, 25 to 30 minutes, until cooked through and crust is beautifully golden brown.

Serve Pepper and Capon Quiche warm or cold, with dressed lettuce.

[righteousmen]

Finally home. Gonna eat and the. I'll be on

[davidwhornii-blog]

Herb Roasted Capon

Again, simplicity is the key to many delicious recipes. In this case, a compound butter packed with fresh herbs, garlic, and lemon zest is rubbed under the skin for juicy and flavorful results.

For this recipe, please go to:

https://creativeelegancecatering.blogspot.com/.../herb...

For hundreds more delicious recipes and mouthwatering food images, please go to:

[cavepaintingmusic]

Al Capone Roast Recipe When I was young, my mother used to buy cuts of meat at a butcher shop in the north end of Boston called Al Capone's. That night she would always make her Al Capone Roast. This is a variation of my mothers recipe.

[jackoshadows]

Firstly, why is it that Sansa can only be praised by comparing her to Arya? Secondly, in what world is Arya physically strong and more than Sansa?!

The masculinization of Arya Stark by tradfems in fandom has become so commonplace that I suppose many of them imagine this is how Arya and Sansa are in the books:

In case folks don't know this: ARYA IS TWO YEARS YOUNGER THAN SANSA! She's the younger sibling!

Anyone who has read a Jon POV chapter should know that Arya is a skinny, little girl. Jon specifically makes a small, lightweight, thin sword for Arya to handle.

And Arya … he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful. - Jon, AGoT

Arya has been on the run for two years, hunted by Lannister men, a slave put to hard physical work and starved for food.

She spent the rest of that day scrubbing steps inside the Wailing Tower. By evenfall her hands were raw and bleeding and her arms so sore they trembled when she lugged the pail back to the cellar. Too tired even for food, Arya begged Weese's pardons and crawled into her straw to sleep. - Arya, ACoK

Often as not, she went to bed hungry rather than risk the stares. - Arya, AGoT

"Lommy's hungry," Hot Pie whined, "and I am too." "We're all hungry," said Arya. - Arya, ACoK

Arya watched them die and did nothing. What good did it do you to be brave? One of the women picked for questioning had tried to be brave, but she had died screaming like all the rest. There were no brave people on that march, only scared and hungry ones. - Ary, ACoK

I knew we should never have left the woods, she thought. They'd been so hungry, though, and the garden had been too much a temptation. - Arya, ASoS

"An inn?" The thought of hot food made Arya's belly rumble, but she didn't trust this Tom. - Arya, ASoS

Rabbits ran faster than cats, but they couldn't climb trees half so well. She whacked it with her stick and grabbed it by its ears, and Yoren stewed it with some mushrooms and wild onions. Arya was given a whole leg, since it was her rabbit. She shared it with Gendry. - Arya, ASoS

The biggest toms would seldom win, she noticed; oft as not, the prize went to some smaller, quicker animal, thin and mean and hungry. Like me, she told herself. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

We have the contrast of Arya having to trade some carrots and cabbages they picked from an overgrown garden to get some food and the innkeeper complaining about the lack of lemons to the sumptuous 64 dish feast in the Vale with a 12 feet tall lemon cake made especially for Sansa.

Anguy shuffled his feet. "We were thinking we might eat it, Sharna. With lemons. If you had some." "Lemons. And where would we get lemons? Does this look like Dorne to you, you freckled fool? Why don't you hop out back to the lemon trees and pick us a bushel, and some nice olives and pomegranates too." She shook a finger at him. "Now, I suppose I could cook it with Lem's cloak, if you like, but not till it's hung for a few days. You'll eat rabbit, or you won't eat. Roast rabbit on a spit would be quickest, if you've got a hunger. Or might be you'd like it stewed, with ale and onions." Arya could almost taste the rabbit. "We have no coin, but we brought some carrots and cabbages we could trade you." - Arya, ASoS

Sixty-four dishes were served, in honor of the sixty-four competitors who had come so far to contest for silver wings before their lord. From the rivers and the lakes came pike and trout and salmon, from the seas crabs and cod and herring. Ducks there were, and capons, peacocks in their plumage and swans in almond milk. Suckling pigs were served up crackling with apples in their mouths, and three huge aurochs were roasted whole above firepits in the castle yard, since they were too big to get through the kitchen doors. Loaves of hot bread filled the trestle tables in Lord Nestor’s hall, and massive wheels of cheese were brought up from the vaults. The butter was fresh-churned, and there were leeks and carrots, roasted onions, beets, turnips, parsnips. And best of all, Lord Nestor’s cooks prepared a splendid subtlety, a lemon cake in the shape of the Giant’s Lance, twelve feet tall and adorned with an Eyrie made of sugar. For me, Alayne thought, as they wheeled it out. Sweetrobin loved lemon cakes too, but only after she told him that they were her favorites. The cake had required every lemon in the Vale, but Petyr had promised that he would send to Dorne for more. - Alayne, TWoW

Arya was already a little, skinny girl smaller than Sansa when they left Winterfell. She has been worked to the bone, sleeping rough and gone hungry. Again, by what logic is this Arya supposed to be physically strong and more than Sansa?!

There is this idea that's often pushed where Sansa is some dainty, fragile princess while Arya is this strong executioner henchwoman and it's just so tiresome and toxic.

Arya is also not Brienne! They are two different characters. If you want physically strong warrior types to compare to Sansa, there is already Brienne. Arya is the smaller, younger sister. In canon and logically, it's the taller, bigger, elder sister with access to good, rich food who would be physically stronger.

The Stark looking Starks tend to be slender and quicker compared to the bigger, stronger Tully looking Starks.

He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast. - Bran, AGoT

The biggest toms would seldom win, she noticed; oft as not, the prize went to some smaller, quicker animal, thin and mean and hungry. Like me, she told herself. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

"Can't you guess?" Jon teased. "Your very favorite thing." Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: "Needle!" - Jon, AGoT

Arya was always quick and clever, but in the end she's just a little girl, and Roose Bolton is not the sort who would be careless with a prize of such great worth. - Jon, ADwD

This is one of the reasons for why Jon Snow is so protective of Arya Stark - he certainly doesn't see her as some physically strong warrior type, despite gifting her with a sword. He's scared for her because he knows that despite how clever she is, Ramsay can kill, rape and torture her - she's 'just a little girl'.

Arya deserves to be protected, same as Sansa. She is not there to be anyone's henchwoman, she does not have super strength and she is certainly not physically stronger than Sansa.

[notablenotions]

Chapter 34: Masks of Noblity 

Hans’ POV

The Baron’s great hall glittered with the hollow sheen of wealth: wax-dripped chandeliers, tapestries depicting the victories of men who had never lifted a sword, and a shallow stage occupied by a quartet of musicians attacking their lutes as if rhythm could be bludgeoned into submission. The air reeked of roast boar, tallow smoke, and the ambition of minor nobility—all choked down with sweetened wine and the sound of forced laughter.

Hans Capon had endured worse. But rarely while wearing such an infuriatingly tight doublet. Or while trying not to stare at his wife like a starving man at a feast.

Lady Jitka Capon, draped in midnight-blue velvet with a bodice scandalously snug and sleeves trailing like ribbons of ink, was currently pretending she didn’t know how to dance.

“This is torture,” she muttered under her breath as they were called forward. “You know that, yes? I’d rather skin a deer with a spoon.”

“You lie,” Hans said, offering his hand with a smug little bow. “You love the attention.”

“I hate attention.”

He took her hand anyway, smiling. “And yet here you are. Wearing a dress that should be tried for sorcery.”

The dance began—slow and sweeping, the courtly steps designed more for display than intimacy. But when Jitka moved, Hans faltered.

He had expected stiffness. Sulking.

Instead, she flowed like ink spilled over marble. Her hips shifted with calculated grace. Her chin lifted in mock defiance. When she turned, her skirts whirled with the arrogance of smoke.

It wasn’t just seductive. It was lethal.

Other men noticed. Hans saw them—eyes tracking her, mouths parting. She was his wife, and still they stared like fools.

He leaned in during a pivot, voice low and burning. “You told me you hated dancing.”

“I do.”

“And yet you move like a sin in search of a willing priest.”

She smiled with too much teeth. “That’s because Papa panicked.”

Hans blinked, thrown. “What?”

“I was eleven. Some lady of court pointed out that he was raising me like a boy. Said it was improper for us to wear matching jerkins.”

Hans nearly stumbled.

“So,” she continued, as if discussing rainfall, “since he had no wife and fewer manners, he asked his favorite courtesan to teach me ‘womanly ways.’” She twirled, arm arcing gracefully before returning to his grasp. “Dancing. Flirting. Walking like I had secrets between my thighs.”

Hans swallowed hard. “And did she succeed?”

Jitka smirked. “Depends who you ask.”

“I’d like to thank her personally.”

“Of course you would.”

They danced another slow circle. Heat coiled low in Hans’s belly. He let his hand rest just a breath too low on her back. She didn’t move it. But her eyes gleamed like blades.

“Shall we play another game, husband?” she said smoothly. “You like poetry, yes?”

Hans blinked. “I—yes.”

“Good. Then speak in verse. I find it’s the only time you’re honest.”

He grinned. “Very well.”

She went first, voice low but cutting, every word threaded into the rhythm of the dance.

“I’ve tasted no love, nor dared the flame,

My hands are clean, but not my name.

I've worn desire like a hidden knife—

I do not bleed, I take the life.

For those who love, I offer warning:

I leave them ruined by the morning.”

Hans's heart thudded, stunned by the precision of her cruelty. Her poetry was a weapon. Beautiful. Brutal. Like her.

He gathered himself, breath catching as they turned again. He met her gaze.

“Your lips speak thorns, your steps deny,

Yet here you dance, and meet my eye.

You call me fool, a flame too fast—

But I would burn if it would last.

I’ve shared my bed, it’s true, not few—

But none have ever danced like you.”

Jitka arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Then keep your flames and scattered heat—

I am no coin for you to cheat.

You want my heart, but call it lust—

I know your mouth. I know your trust.

You have the blacksmith’s heart, I see—

And you mistake his stead for me.

I will not crack for passing fire—

Nor join the line of your desire.”

Hans felt the flush rise to his ears. The verse struck too near—too clever, too cruel, too true. But he was not without weapons.

They turned. Closer. Closer.

He spoke into the hush between steps.

“The blacksmith’s arms have held me well,

In truth, he’s soot, where you are spell.

With Henry, I find rest and grace—

But you? You tear the mask from face.

If love is calm, then he is shore—

But you, my storm, I ache for more.

I’ve lied, I’ve strayed, I’ve lived in smoke—

But what I feel for you? That chokes.”

Her mouth parted—then closed. Her verse was slower this time. Almost... quiet.

“Your hunger flatters. Your tongue is sweet.

But sweet turns sour beneath deceit.

You say you burn, that I’m your vice—

Yet leave your mark on others’ thighs.

I know your nature, Hans Capon—

A rake, a rogue, a passing dawn.

My heart is steel. My soul is flame.

I will not answer to your name.”

The music slowed. The last spin began. He drew her in as tradition demanded—hands firm at her waist, her breath hot against his throat.

He whispered, so only she could hear:

“I’ve touched too many. I won’t deny.

But none have ever made me try.

I want your laughter. I want your scorn.

I want the girl your pain has sworn.

If I’m a fool, then let me be—

The fool who kneels before you, see.”

They held the final pose.

Jitka’s eyes were unreadable.

“Bold words, husband,” she murmured, voice like velvet over broken glass. “But I’ve no intention of being one of many.”

“I never said you were.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She broke the hold and curtsied.

The crowd applauded.

Hans bowed. But he was watching her the whole time.

And Jitka—Jitka walked away with the grace of a woman who had never once tripped over love.

And left Hans standing in the center of the floor, drowning in it.

[jandrichov]

🗳️ Dry Devil Quote Appreciation Day

Because Further – Part VII is mostly Henry in emotional freefall — and then Devil showed up like: “What if I just roast Capon?”

Not the main character. Not the romantic lead. Just a gruff bastard with a whetstone and a talent for saying exactly what everyone else is too polite to.

[love-for-carnation]

Still life with a roast capon, fruit and drinking vessels, ca. 1630 Gotthardt de Wedig (1583-1641, German) or attributed to Gotthardt de Wedig

[princeofpirkstein]

Hans!!! How are you doing? Is Hanush being nice to you? 👾

“I beg your ignorant pardon? That’s Lord Capon to you. Honestly,” he huffs, throwing his hands about, “I’m imprisoned in a grimy old swill of a castle for less than a week and everyone forgets who I am.”

Frustrated, his shoulders drop and fingers slide to embrace a tankard of spirits, the rim swiftly meeting his lips as he takes a generous swig. Bitter as piss and unsatisfyingly stale—a true Raborsch delicacy.

Mention of Sir Hanush brings a complicated smile to his face. “My uncle? Nice? Ha! That entirely depends on your definition of nice. If I’m not ‘useless’ one day, I’m ‘pig-headed’ the next.”

Hans fiddles with his half-empty tankard, pouting and mumbling like a child, “At least my pig-head could be of some use. Roasted, carved and served on a platter.”

[askwhatsforlunch]

Savoury, Apple and Cider Roast Capon

This beautifully fragrant Savoury, Apple and Cider Roast Capon was la pièce de résistance of our Christmas Lunch yesterday, its skin gorgeously crisp, its flesh delectably juicy! And this big bird offers plenty of leftovers for today, whether you want to warm it again or make sandwiches to munch on whilst playing a board game! Happy Boxing Day!

Ingredients (serves at least 6):

5 rashers smoked streaky bacon

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 small onion

2 medium apples, rinsed

1 large garlic clove, minced

2 tablespoons apple brandy

a bunch fresh Summer savoury

3 thick slices stale bread

1/2 teaspoon fleur de sel or sea salt flakes

½ teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper

1 cup Cider

1 (3.5-kilo/7.70-pound) fresh capon (preferably free-range)

½ teaspoon salt

½ freshly cracked black pepper

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

1/2 cup cider

In a large, deep nonstick skillet, cook bacon rashers over medium-high heat, a couple of minutes. Transfer bacon rashers to a plate; set aside.

Add olive oil to bacon fat. Peel and finely chop onion, and add to the skillet. Cook, 1 minute.

Halve, core and dice apples.

Stir in diced apples into the skillet. Cook, 3 minutes. Stir in minced garlic, and cook, 1 minute more, Pour in apple brandy, and reduce heat to medium.

Finely chop Summer savoury; stir about three-quarters into the skillet. Finally, cut stale bread into dices, and add to the skillet. Season with fleur de sel and black pepper.

Stir in Cider. Once almost all the Cider is soaked up, remove from the heat. 

Preheat oven to 240°C/465°F.

Remove pockets of fat inside the capon. Season the inside and outside of the bird with salt and black pepper. Rub the seasoning and butter gently all over, and stuff with the apple and bacon stuffing. Tie the legs with twine, if necessary, so the stuffing doesn’t spill out.

Sit stuffed capon into a large roasting dish, and sprinkle with remaining chopped Summer savoury. Add Cider, and place in the middle of the oven. Cook, at 240°C/465°F, 10 minutes. Then, reduce oven temperature to 170°C/340°F, and cook, 2 hours and thirty-five minutes*. Regularly baste the capon with its fat .Collect some of the fat in a bowl each time you baste it, and use it to make Ruth’s Roasted Potatoes.

Once cooked, carefully remove from the oven, and cover with foil. Let sit, a quarter of an hour, before serving and carving.

Serve Savoury, Apple and Cider Roast Capon with Apple-Cranberry Sauce, Ruth’s Roasted Potatoes, Rosemary Baked Apples and Chestnuts, and feast merrily!

Capon Fat: Once the roasting juices and fat have cooled, place the roasting tin in the refrigerator, covered with cling film. The following day, remove from the refrigerator and, with a tablespoon, gently scoop out the cream-coloured capon fat and spoon it into a clean, sterelised jar, making sure not to scoop the congealed juices of the capon. Close tightly; it will keep for a few months (up to six) in the refrigerator, and will make delicious Roasted Potatoes, Confit Duck or make a tasty, hearty alternative to olive oil all Winter long!

[lucidbreams]

she who swept away the scales / brienne of tarth

brienne x f!oc - lesbian awakening - oneshot - smut

summary: fed up with the riverlands, brienne inadvertently discovers that she's allowed to like women. happy brienne week!

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The Riverlands were interminable. Brienne thought back to the most heat-blurred days of her childhood, when even Septa Roelle would do little more than sweat through her robes and wave flies away as she supervised her reading. Essos, no more than words and maps on a page, had seemed impossibly dreary. A land of dust, stone, and sand was a horror compared to the fresh greens and blues of Tarth. But now, having travelled the Riverlands for what was beginning to feel like her whole life, Brienne was cursing every dripping branch that grazed her face, and every spray of muddy water the horses sent onto her armour. Even Pod wasn't beyond her reproach, since his inexplicable fall into a particularly wet thicket of grass while attempting to piss. Now he was sat silently on his horse, damp and forlorn. He was probably hungry. He had a habit of shutting up when he hadn't eaten in a while, no doubt to contemplate old memories of roast capons, leeks, and warm bread. That was probably what boys his age did, anyway. 

Nevertheless, the inn that gradually came into view was a welcome sight. It was not quite evening yet, but she was tired of journeying and merely wanted to sleep, and The Shepherd's Staff seemed adequate from the outside, at least. 

"The Shepherd's Staff," said Podrick, unhelpfully. 

"What about it," replied Brienne. 

"We're out of food, and the horses could use some straw, maybe even some oats, ser. My l-"

Brienne cut him off, yielding to the excuse to turn in early for a change. "Excellent idea, Pod. A knight must always take care of his horse."

Pod grinned bashfully, proud of himself. Perhaps I should encourage the lad more.

The inn was fairly busy, with the usual buzz of conversation and clinking tankards in the air, but not as packed as they were used to. Why, they might even be able to have a table all to themselves, and a room that wasn't the draughtiest leftover corner of the hayloft. Brienne considered the thought of stretching her legs under the full length of the table, rather than remaining cramped and constrained on one cheek's worth of bench, and decided that she was happy they'd stopped here. She scanned the room, but nobody seemed to be the owner of the Staff, and so she walked over to the ale counter and stood resolutely, waiting for somebody to show up. 

The lack of activity set her mind wandering, and she soon found herself pondering bowls of stew and roasted birds, and even the comforts of a good feather bed. A tap on the back brought her back to her wits, however, and her sword had nearly found its way out of its sheath by the time she whirled around to face her assailants. 

"Podrick, don't startle me like that!"

Podrick stammered something that fell on uninterested ears as Brienne sized up the woman accompanying him. 

The woman spoke. "Is he yours, then? I found him in the front, standing there all gormless." She was roguishly charming, with a strong jaw and smooth, oak-coloured skin. What had seized Brienne’s attention, though, was the pair of pretty blue-green eyes staring at her. Renly's eyes, she thought. A disarming notion.

"I — yes, he's my squire."

"Is that so?" She glanced at Podrick, her eyebrow twitching. "What's your business here, then, Ser..." 

"Brienne. Of Tarth. We're looking for a place to sleep, and something for our horses too, if you would."

"I would, if you're paying," she said, walking around to the other side of the counter. "Does everyone of Tarth look like you, then?" 

"No," she muttered, throwing an unclear quantity of silver onto the worn wood between them. "Take whatever you require as payment for a room and provisions."

"More's the pity," smiled the woman, her right cheek dimpled as she picked through the coins. "Your squire can stable the horses. I'll see about a room. Call out for the barwench if you need something, though I prefer Elyn." She left two cups of wine on the counter, and vanished into a back room without another word.

More's the pity? What did that mean? Flustered, she took a deep swallow of the wine and made her way to an empty bench in the corner. A musician, armed with a lute, entered the inn singing. It was a song that Brienne didn't know, and she listened despite herself. It was rare for her to encounter a tune she hadn't heard before. From how raucously everyone was singing, though, it was evident that the ditty was well-known to the local smallfolk. 

Oh, run her down 

Oh, chase her home 

Oh, tease her ‘till she laughs

For there's none so fair

Or of such good cheer 

As the maid of The Shepherd's Staff!

The song devolved into loud whoops and cheers as Elyn re-emerged, bearing more drinks. 

“Ho, Elyn! Harrik the Hale has something to ask you,” said a red-nosed, sun-weathered man. 

“Still after a wife, Harrik?” Elyn looked bemused, and ignored his outstretched hand as she unloaded the flagons onto the table. “You shatter the hearts of the girls who chase you through the Seven Kingdoms.”

Harrik winked at her. “Oh, but it's a woman I seek, Elyn!”

She rolled her eyes as he broke into another song — one Brienne knew this time, though she was preoccupied, for Podrick Payne had returned from the stables bearing all their worldly possessions. 

Elyn caught sight of him at the same time, and shouted for someone named Rosel to take over dealing with the customers, before ushering him upstairs. Brienne stalked her way through the tables and followed them. She had finished all the wine — a mistake on an empty stomach — and nearly knocked her head on the lintel as she climbed the stairs. Staying alert was paramount, but this evening it felt like less of a priority than the insistent pulse within her breeches. 

“Two rooms then, Ser Tarth? It'll cost you.”

“It's just Tarth,” said Brienne. “I mean, Brienne. And I'll only need one. Podrick will take the truckle.”

“Done,” said Elyn. “You can have this back, then, since you won't take two.” She reached into the front of her dress and pulled out a silver coin, and half a handful of breast with it, too.

The coin was warm in Brienne’s hand, from Elyn’s body or from the sudden, full-body rush of heat Brienne was feeling. It was as though all the blood in her veins had suddenly decided to make its presence known. “Keep it, to pay for whatever food and drink we take,” she said, levelly as possible. 

“Then you'd best put it back where it was, Tarth,” replied Elyn, gesturing to the tight gap wherein she'd retrieved the coin.

It occurred to Brienne, in that moment, that she loved this girl's wit and eyes in a way that was almost sickeningly different to whatever she had felt to Renly. Travelling singers spoke of love as a chaste, gallant thing for heroes and maidens who were pure of heart. And what purer reason to love, than deep and mutual respect? Everyone had assumed her love for Renly after their dance, so confidently that she herself had accepted it as fact. But she had never once looked at him with a desire to even see what lay under his armour, let alone touch. This Elyn, on the other hand, had sent her thoughts galloping in many directions, and none of them chivalrous. 

“Podrick, squire,” said Elyn, “Go downstairs and tell Rosel that the lavender room is bought for the night, and that you'll be needing dinner.”

Podrick rushed out of the room like a boy starving. You'd think I never fed him, Brienne thought fleetingly. 

“Your coin,” she said, holding it out. 

“You're no fun,” retorted Elyn, brushing a stray spiral of curls from her eyes. She grabbed the silver and tossed it. “Dash the coin.”

It had landed on the bed, and Brienne picked it up and handed it back to her host, who poked her in the chest; a gesture so surprising that she found herself sitting on the mattress in disbelief. Puzzled, she looked at Elyn and made to stand up. 

“No — don't. We're of a height now, and I see that your eyes are brilliant like an evening sky.”

“Thank you,” she replied, though her stomach was coiling the way it had with those knights, back in Highgarden. 

“Aren't you sweating in all that mail?” Elyn was unbuttoning the bodice of her dress and loosening the scarf that served as her makeshift partlet. “I know I am.”

Brienne didn't know where to look. She was sweating, and it wasn't on account of the weather. She was damp all over. But there was no need to remove her cloak and mail, even if it was beginning to feel as constricting as a girdle under Elyn’s gaze. The road here had been quiet, and there was little sign of those they were tracking, or the destruction they left in their wake, but they needed to be ready to leave at any moment. One could never be too sure. “I’ve a knight’s training. Sweat is of little concern to me.”

She took a step closer, nudging her knees further apart. “Nor to me. But what does concern you, Tarth? There’s confusion in your pretty eyes. I’m not after your coin,” she said laughingly.

“It’s… improper. I must find my squire, it’s late,” she replied, tripping over the words. Mere minutes had passed since Podrick had left in search of his supper, and the sky was only just beginning to fill with sunset shades of orange.  

“Well, have it your way.” Elyn smoothed out the rumples on the faded purple coverlet where Brienne had sat. “A shame. A woman like you rarely comes through our doors.”

Downstairs, Brienne found Pod eating, a look of pure contentment on his face. She racked her brains for something to say. “Did you feed and water the horses?”

“Yes, ser. My lady.” 

“Good,” she said. “Eat up. I should, too.”

“The woman, Rosel, had offered me some for you. But I—” Podrick reddened. 

“You what? Speak, squire,” she said tersely. 

“I thought — I thought, ser, that you’d be a little longer seeing to the room. My lady.”

“It has been seen to.” She left in search of more of whatever stew Podrick was inhaling, but found herself thinking that perhaps she should have taken a little longer seeing about the room after all. She’d never considered that she might be charmed by her own sex, the way Renly had been. And who could blame her, when Elyn’s brown cheek was dimpled so, and her breasts were soft and spilling from her clothes? She decided that she had been hasty, and regretted it.

Night had well and truly fallen, and Harrik the Hale had ceased his lusty singing. There’d been no trouble, except a minor drunken brawl that Rosel and a solid-looking youth had quickly put an end to. Brienne had concluded by now that she could have foregone her mail for the night, and experienced a little more in that room than panicked confusion. The more she thought about it, the more annoyed she became with herself, and the pent-up frustration was seeping out of her. Still, there was nothing to be done now. Podrick was yawning in the corner, and it would probably be best if she retired too. There was nothing else to do.

“Podrick, you can go to sleep. I’ll check on the horses.” 

He mumbled a sleepy goodnight as he left. She stood up and headed to the stables, stretching in the muggy night air. The sky had cleared, and a practically full moon cast a pale glow on the green of the Riverlands. Her father had once told her that the gods were in the stars, watching over all. But there hadn’t been any clouds the night Renly died, and since then she’d foregone many nights of sleep wondering whether they watched to protect, or merely observe.

The horses were asleep, alive, and secured. Velvety in the gleam of the lantern she’d brought. All was well. 

“Do they speak to you?”

“What?” Brienne felt a hot blush race across her upper body. She turned, lamp raised, to see Elyn outlined in its glow just a step away.  

“I am sorry. It was merely a jest.” She reached out and placed her hand on Brienne’s arm. “Will you not follow your squire to bed?”

“Yes,” she responded, making her way to the door. 

Elyn followed. “Am I no more than an upturned face to you, Tarth?”

“Most I meet are upturned faces, if they deign to look at me at all.”

“I always longed to see things from a different height. Perhaps that of a low-flying sparrow,” she mused. 

“Have you ever ridden a horse?”

“Not for many years. My father was a knight, and he once visited us here when I was a girl. He sat me on his mare and led me along the lane. I was so scared that I paid little attention to the view.”

“They say Hightower is the tallest building in Westeros, so great that one can see the Wall from its peak.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Not yet.”

“Well then,” Elyn sighed, “whatever are we to do?”

It was at this point that Brienne took leave of her senses and picked her up, aligning their faces in the light of the lantern, the inn, the stars, and the moon. 

She kissed her. Clumsily, to be sure, but it felt as she imagined the Baratheon host must have, in the brief moment before they exploded into green flame. 

“I didn’t expect that,” said Elyn, “but I’m glad we’re of a mind,” she clarified before Brienne could apologise and place her back on the ground. She bent her head forward, her free hand tracing the collar of her jerkin toward the line of her jaw. “You never did take any of this off,” she whispered. 

“I could,” Brienne suggested despite herself, ducking back into the stables, towards an empty stall at the back. She pulled at the fastenings with practiced hands, stripping it all away until only her neatly mended undershirt remained. 

Elyn watched from the floor, leaning against straw heaped in the corner of the stall. “And mine.” 

Brienne complied, unlacing her kirtle to expose the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Unsure what to do, she leaned in to kiss her again as Elyn guided her hand inside her dress. Her finger found the edge of her nipple, stiffening as she gently circled it. She kept going, increasingly aware of her own wetness as the girl’s breath grew faintly ragged. 

“Come,” she said, pulling the unmailed knight towards her by the waist of her unadorned breeches. Their legs intertwined, bunching Elyn’s skirts around her thighs. “Touch me. Please,” she whispered. 

“Elyn, I’ve never…”

“I’ll help you.” She eased her hand along the inside of her legs and to the point at which they met. Brienne held her breath as her fingers felt a tangle of hair, and the wet gap of Elyn’s cunt between. She worked softly at the part she knew to be the most sensitive, rewarded by the feeling of her pushing back against her hands, searching for more. 

She couldn’t say how long this had gone on for when Elyn mustered up enough breath to speak a full sentence again. “Don’t tease me anymore, Tarth. Put them in me.”

She cringed. “Tarth is my father. Don’t call me that.”

“Brienne. I’m sorry,” she breathed. “But I need them, and kiss me too, while you’re at it.”

Hesitantly, she slid a finger into Elyn, and then another. She cried her name like nobody had before. Brienne bent and kissed her. She was aching, hot for her and the way she was using her whole body to fuck herself on her fingers. But she had no relief of her own until Elyn’s knee suddenly wedged itself between her legs, startling her into moaning directly into the girl’s mouth. 

“Yes?”

Brienne nodded, lost in a haze of pleasure. 

Elyn continued to grind into Brienne’s palm, dictating the speed as she pleased. Before long, she felt her flex around her fingers, so tight that she could hardly move them as her body shook beneath her. 

When she stopped moving, breathless, she smiled up at Brienne. “You’re good, you know.”

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No.” Elyn sat up and gave her a look that made her weak. Before she had the chance to form a thought, the girl had spun her onto her back and planted herself on Brienne’s hips, winding her hand under her shirt, mapping the muscles beneath. Her mouth was all over her chest, leaving smudged red blooms as she went. They kissed again, mingling spit and sweat and the fire of nascent want. 

Brienne’s body was stuttering under Elyn’s touch, and only continued as she finally slipped past the lacing of her breeches and entered her. She felt as though the sun was rising within her, teased up into the sky of her body by the girl above her. It didn’t feel like this when she did it herself, and she feared the pastime was forever ruined now. 

“You’re as wet as the Trident,” Elyn purred. She brought her fingertips to her mouth and sucked them brazenly. The lantern was burning ever lower, but Vrienne could make out the wanton look on her face. “But you taste like the ocean.” 

“Thank you,” said Brienne, though somewhat puzzled. 

“No need to thank me, green one.” She began to fumble at the laces of her breeches. 

“Let me.” Brienne unravelled the complex knot she always tied for safety, and pulled it all away, ignoring the pinpricks of the hay on her exposed skin. Soon enough, Elyn had resumed her attentions, her lips exploring her body, pale in the thin streaks of moonlight. She kissed her way down the trail of fine blond hair that bisected her stomach, and when she reached the end and took Brienne under her tongue, she choked on her breath. It was as though she was being shaped into something new. “Please don’t stop,” she gasped. Elyn did not stop fucking her with her mouth, each swirl of her tongue sending sparks through Brienne’s core. Her hand gripped Elyn’s head, and they moved as one until suddenly she was half falling, half flying off a cliff edge. Her whole body ached vaguely as she came down from the rush. 

Afterwards, when she had kissed the sour-salt off Elyn’s lips and cheeks, they lay curled up in the hay together, talking in the last flutters of the lamplight. 

“I’d like to see the tower you spoke of. See the world from such a height.”

“I could take you, after my oath is fulfilled.”

“Your oath?”

“I’m looking for a maiden of three and ten, with auburn hair, and accompanied by a fool.”

“I’ve not seen her. But I wish you well.”

“Do you like it here, Elyn?”

Elyn paused. “Well enough. But I would like to visit Dorne. They say everyone loves freely there, and a woman can make her own way in the world.”

“It is true, from what I have heard at court.”

“Well,” Elyn sighed, “in all likelihood I will die in this village just as I was born here.”

Brienne considered a life in the Dornish sun with her, unknown and happy in each other’s company. She was wont to burn in the sun, but that did not matter so much. Nothing the Riverlands had to offer compared, and she began to feel that she should make it her mission to return to The Shepherd’s Staff after this turmoil was over. “Perhaps I could take you there.”

Elyn squeezed her hand. “Tell me about your home,” she said, and Brienne obliged, the flimsy stable walls vanishing as she rambled about all the details of the island that nobody else had cared to ask before. 

They set off early the next morning, the grey sky impossibly close and dreary as she rode further and further away from the inn. The night could easily have been a dream, so impossible did the moonlit fantasies feel under the stark clouded sun. No star was in the daylight sky, but Brienne found herself praying that the Seven were watching anyway, watching in protection. 

[pwurrz]

dante: “..well?”

eiden: “‘well’ what?”

dante: “what’s with the hat?”

eiden: “oh, this. it’s nothing.”

kuya: “it’s the loudest nothing i ever saw.”

dante: “you can’t just mosey in here with a brand new hat and act like you aren’t wearing a brand new hat.”

kuya: “mmhm.”

eiden: “look, i’m trying something new, okay? just take it easy.”

rei: “he’s right, guys. let’s not go down this path. it’s ugly.”

rei: “kinda like that hat- *bursts out laughing”

eiden: “i got this from a nice store!”

dante: “what store? the one you leave before you exit the ‘al capone’ museum?” *smug chuckle*

karu: “what’s up, human slave number 1? did you just finish bling ringing bruno mars’ closet?” *laughs an evil little laugh because he’s so proud he came up with that roast on his own*

eiden: “i’m being brave, okay? you guys are sheep. you may wanna take a long, hard look in the mirror.”

karu: “better us than you! you look like a park ranger from a cartoon!”

everyone: *starts snickering*

eiden: “do you think the hat looks bad?”

olivine: “oh, uh.. me. um… i- i wouldn’t say it was bad. i think it’s just different! like something you’d wear in indiana,”

eiden: *blinks in confusion*

olivine: “……jones and the temple of bad hats.”

(on that wonderful day, rei and kuya had never been so proud of olivine)

[foundtherightwords]

The Minstrel, the Maiden, and the Knights of Hellfire - Chapter 4

Pairing: Hellcheer, Medieval AU

Summary: England, 1139: the civil war between King Stephen and Empress Maud looms large, threatening to tear the country in half. For Ed and his band of traveling minstrels, however, the more pressing matter is how to survive the upcoming winter, now that they were tossed out by their latest patron. When they stumble upon a naïve pageboy looking for warriors to escort the lady Christiana to safe haven in Wales, Ed comes up with a daring plan - pose as knights, take the job, and collect the reward. After all, how hard can it be? What Ed doesn't count on is endless battles, treacherous roads, marauding bandits, Lady Christiana's pompous fiancé, and his own growing attraction to the fair maiden herself...

Chapter warning: none

Chapter word count: 4.8k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Leaving behind the salt marshes of Chichester Harbor, they turned the wagon north and headed for the old Roman road that led from the southern ports to the inland. In a village outside of Chichester, Christiana bought some plain woolen gowns and a wool cloak to replace her silk and brocade, and stout boots to replace her embroidered slippers. At the inn of the same village, over veal pies, a roasted capon, and leek pottage, a luxurious supper of which Tadhg heartily approved, they discussed their route. Winchester would be their next stop, Ed decided. It was a big town, and there would be crowds enough on the road for them to get lost in.

"Have you been there?" asked Christiana.

"Oh yes, many times," Gareth said eagerly. "Though we usually go earlier, around September, in time for St. Giles' Fair... ouch." He yelped as Ed kicked at his ankle under the table in a vain attempt to remind him that, as supposed knights-errant, there was no discernible reason for them to attend the largest fair of the country and with such regularity. Christiana didn't seem to notice the slip-up.

"I've never been anywhere," she said wistfully. "The longest journey I've ever made was from my father's manor in Exeter to Chichester. Have you travelled much in the country?"

"We've been around most of the south, yes," Ed said, to prevent Gareth from giving them away.

"All in the past two years?"

Belatedly, Ed remembered that according to the tale he had concocted for Christiana, he and his friends had only returned to England two years ago. Now that he had convinced Christiana of the need for their "disguise", it was much easier for him to be himself around her and treat her courteously. And Christiana, in turn, was also talking to him more freely, more openly. It was as if, by putting on the mask of knighthood, Ed had discovered gallantry and good manners within himself, whereas Christiana, in shedding her finery, had been liberated from the trappings of her nobility. She had even insisted that Dustin and Maxime share the table with them, saying that it would look strange if her "brother and sister" had to eat somewhere else. But that meant she was asking more questions than ever, questions that threatened to pull at the threads of Ed's story, and he had to be careful if he was to maintain his knightly façade.

Seeing Ed fumble for an answer, Geoff said, "You've been traveling long before that, haven't you, Ed? Go on, tell Mistress Chrissy about your service under Sir Giorgio."

Ed gladly seized upon this. "My mother died when I was a boy," he began, "and my father was—was killed in the Holy Land. I was brought up by my uncle. When I was ten years old, I became squire to an Italian knight, Sir Giorgio of Sicily." Here he gave Geoff a subtle nod of thanks for the prompt; he wouldn't have come up with "Sir Giorgio" with Christiana's distracting eyes fixed upon him. "He took me all up and down England, as far north as Hadrian's Walls, and as far west as Aberystwyth in Wales."

It wasn't an outright lie, it wasn't. Just an embellishment of the truth, what he'd always done. Ed had told many versions of his origin over the years to draw the audience's interest or gain their sympathy. In one version, his father had perished in the wreck of the White Ship, the very disaster that had robbed Henry I of his heir and led to the civil war threatening them at this moment. In another, his father had been the court minstrel to Henry I himself and died when Ed was a boy. In yet another, his father had been a Crusader who met his mother in Antioch. The only constant in these stories was that his mother had died when he was a boy. It was the one truth that Ed couldn't bring himself to embellish.

Still, he couldn't stop guilt from prickling at his insides when Christiana turned her wide, trusting eyes upon him.

"Is that where you met Sir Gar—I mean Gareth?" she asked. "In Aberystwyth?"

"Uh, yes," Gareth said, finally cottoning on to what Ed was doing. In truth, they had met much closer to home, three years ago, in a darkened alley of Oxford, where Gareth had been set upon by some ruffians and had his tabor broken. Ed, Tadhg, and Geoff had saved him and fixed the tabor for him, and they had been inseparable ever since.

"Have you been to London?" Christiana continued.

Ed nodded with a grimace. The capital had been a formidable, overwhelming place, too many buildings, too many people, too noisy, and with tumblers, jugglers, storytellers, and musicians coming from all over the country and even from France and Italy and the Low Countries to compete for attention, provincial minstrels such as themselves stood little chance of finding an audience. They had almost come to blows with some of the rivals. Afterward, Ed had vowed to stick to the smaller towns and villages. "It's not my favorite," he concluded.

"Still, at least you've seen it. Everything I know, I've only read in books." She looked around the smoke-filled room, as though searching for some of the adventure and romance those books had promised. "And what of the Holy Land? What is it like?"

Damn. Why was she asking so many questions? She'd barely even looked at him the day before, and now she was drinking up his tales and gazing at him like he was Saint George himself. What could he tell her? Ed wracked his brain, trying to remember the stories he'd heard of Outremer. Most of the soldiers who were fortunate to come back from it only complained of the heat, the flies, and the sand that stuck to everything. Not the romantic image of the Holy Land that Christiana was looking for.

Thankfully, Ed was saved from having to answer by the sound of bickering from the other end of the table, where Dustin and Maxime were sitting. "If we're supposed to be brother and sister," Dustin said, "then I should be the elder."

"That's rich," sneered Maxime. "I was born in April, whereas your birthday is in October! I'm a full half-year older than you!"

Christiana turned back to Ed, embarrassed. "You must think us dreadfully provincial."

"Not at all." He grinned, then quickly changed the subject, lest she remember her question about the Holy Land. "I do think you should be more careful with your coin, though," he said, gesturing to their supper. "Minstrels could not afford veal and capons, you know."

"Oh!" Christiana's cheeks reddened. "I merely thought—since you are doing me a great service—it was the least I could do to make sure we travel with some comfort."

"And for which we are grateful, aren't we?" Ed looked round at his friends. Gareth bowed over Christiana's hand. Tadhg, his mouth stuffed with pie, nodded. Only Geoff, ever the cynic, remained untouched. "But it would not do to announce it to the world," Ed continued. "It would only draw unwanted attention to ourselves. So at our next stop, I suggest that we do what minstrels do—sing for our supper."

"Aww, must we?" moaned Gareth.

"Yes, unless you want to be robbed by every brigand from here to Hadrian's Wall," said Ed sternly. "Besides, it would look rather strange for a troupe of minstrels to not be performing, wouldn't it?"

"I think it would be quite merry," said Christiana. "I shall look forward to it."

And so it was decided. This done, they retired to their rooms—another luxury. Usually, Ed and his friends counted themselves fortunate if they were allowed to sleep in the stables or the barn.

The next morning, they set out for Winchester. The mood was high after a restful night and was further lifted by the good condition of the road. Here they could walk on smooth gravel instead of dirt and mud, and the verge on either side of the road was kept, by law, cleared of trees by the length of a bow shot to avoid ambush, allowing them a view of the crystalline blue sky and the vast countryside, all golden and crimson under the autumn sun. It was a beautiful day for traveling, crisp in the morning but getting warmer as the sun climbed. They passed fields where farmers were hurrying to bring in the last of their harvest. The swish-swish of the scythes mingled with the honks of geese flying overhead, calling each other to their nesting ground in warmer climes, while on the field, not having to worry about the winter, buntings and blackbirds dashed after the reapers, picking up dropped grains of wheat, barley, and oat. The sweet, dusty smell of straw permeated the air.

They were joined by other travelers, merchants bringing their goods to harvest fairs in the north and the west, people fleeing the imminent fighting around the ports, pilgrims making their way to the various shrines and churches, praying for the saints to relieve them of whatever suffering that was burdening them, be it physical, mental, or spiritual. St. Swithun at Winchester, St. Cuthbert at Durham, St. Etheldreda at Ely, Our Lady of Walsingham, St. Wulfstan and St. Oswald at Worcester, all these and more were constantly on the lips of these people, who believed with a fervency that was quite incomprehensible to Ed. He had been wandering up and down the country for twelve years, since he was a lad of barely ten years old, and in that time, he had seen enough of suffering to know that no amount of saints' bones or saints' blood could relieve it.

Still, he and his friends were grateful for the company, for surely no bandits would dare attack them in such a crowd. Even Geoff, who had been so wary of this enterprise from the start, had become so untroubled that he brought out his rebab, a Saracen instrument his parents had brought over from their homeland, the evidence of his Moorish legacy, and treated them to a lively tune. Gareth and Tadhg also brought out their tabor and pipe, and when Ed joined them with his gittern and his voice, the other travelers soon followed in an impromptu performance, much to their enjoyment. Saints and pilgrimages were very well for the soul, but the body and the heart needed nourishment as well, and entertainment on the road was scarce.

Ed kept glancing at Christiana as he played. She, too, seemed to have become more lighthearted. She was walking along the wagon, not singing—the song was probably too common and ribald for her to even know—but she was smiling and clapping with everyone else. Then she caught Ed staring at her, and it was hard to tell which cheeks were redder as they both turned away, flustered.

By the time they stopped by a brook to have their dinner and let their horses and mules rest, the travelers had become friends. They all passed their food and drinks around to share, from the simple oatcakes, cheese, and ale to the more scrumptious white bread, sweetmeats, cured ham, and wine. At Dustin's urging, while they ate, Ed regaled them with tales of the very road they were traveling on, how the Romans built it to bring supplies from the coast to their settlements, the battles that would break out all along it, and of Boudicca's uprising against the invaders.

However, this talk of fighting and warrior queens was too much for some of the travelers, who had witnessed first-hand the clashes between the forces of King Stephen and Empress Maud and were even now escaping from them, and they started to wander off, not wishing to be reminded of the horrors. Not used to having his audience walking away from him, Ed trailed off, bewildered and embarrassed.

At that moment, Christiana, who was sharing some spiced cakes with a pilgrim, a wizened old dame, asked, "I've heard that Winchester Castle houses the Round Table of King Arthur and his knights, is that true?"

"What's that, my dear?" the dame said loudly, tilting her white head. "What's that you said about King Arthur?"

This stopped their fellow travelers in their tracks. The tales of King Arthur and his heroics, as recounted by Geoffrey of Monmouth in his Historia regum Britanniae, had captured everyone's attention since the book's release three years ago. Ed longed to read it—what rich material it would give to his tales!—but he didn't even have his English letters, let alone Latin. Christiana, on the other hand, had clearly read it. As the travelers flocked to her, demanding that she tell them more about King Arthur, she looked up at Ed, bewildered, silently asking him what to do. 

Ed gave her an encouraging nod. In her clear, high voice, haltingly at first, then becoming more and more confident as she went on, Christiana told their fellow travelers the stories of the legendary king of England, of Merlin's prophecies, and of the Island of Glass where Arthur supposedly slept, to wake one day and return, bringing peace and prosperity to their country.

Ed watched her, enraptured. She didn't have his theatrics—her voice may be sweet, but her manner was too timid to draw in a crowd—yet there was something in her poise and her words that charmed the listeners. Ed brought people into his stories with wild gestures and sensational phrases, whereas Christiana's simple telling made her stories real.

"Well, looks like there's someone to rival your storytelling prowess, eh, Ed?" Gareth said in his ear. Ed realized he was staring at Christiana again and turned away, irritated.

Later, as they set out once more, Christiana fell into step beside Ed and asked, "Were you displeased with me?"

"Not at all, my la—mistress," he said, remembering to correct himself. "What would I be displeased with you for?"

"For telling the tales of King Arthur, for drawing attention to myself."

Ed looked at her. Clad in one of her plain gowns, with her hair in a single braid down her back and hidden under a linen veil, she still drew the eye, the unadorned clothes lending her beauty an unusually austere charm, turning her handsome rather than just pretty. He still couldn't fathom how anyone would think her a mere merchant's daughter.

"Nonsense," he managed. "You did very well. I would love to hear more of those tales when you have the time."

A blush of delight tinged the snow of Christiana's cheeks. "You haven't read Geoffrey of Monmouth's book then?" she asked.

Now it was Ed's turn to blush, only his was from shame. He didn't want to admit that he didn't know how to read. He'd learned all his songs and stories by rote.

"There isn't much time on the road for books," he said awkwardly, and was thankful when Christiana made no further mention of reading.

***

That night, they stopped at Bishop's Waltham, just outside of Winchester. The boys bedded down with the other travelers in the inn's communal hall, but the private rooms were all occupied, so the girls had to sleep in the wagon. Ed told them, apologetically, that it would be safer and perhaps more comfortable as well. Christiana didn't argue—she certainly felt better not having to take her bags out of the wagon. Ed procured some blankets and even pillows from the landlord, scratchy but clean and warm, and Christiana and Maxime settled down for the night in the stable yard at the rear of the inn.

"This is degrading," Maxime complained, shaking out a blanket. "You could have paid the landlord extra for one of the rooms."

"Ed—I mean Sir Edmund advised me to be more careful with my coin, and I agree," Christiana said primly.

"This place reeks." The stable yard did smell rather strongly of horses, but the sweet smell of hay helped to offset that somewhat. Besides, Christiana had been inside the communal hall, and she would gladly take the smell of horses over the smell of fifty unwashed bodies crammed together in one room, not to mention the fleas...

Maxime was unrelenting. "But what if there should be an ambush?"

"We're at the back of the inn. We should be safe enough... or at least have time to flee."

It was a small comfort, and as Christiana lay down in the wagon, listening to the soft whickering of the horses and the swishing of their tails, she forced herself to believe that no harm would come to them, that Vecna was busy scouring the southern ports and would not think to look for her here.

It was late—she'd just heard the Compline bells—when a rustling sound made her sit up, clutching the blanket about her shoulders in a panic. Careful to make as little noise as possible, she slid open the lattice cut into the side of the wagon and looked out.

The moon had risen, bathing the yard in its silver light. By that light, Christiana could see Ed spreading some hay on the ground by the side of the wagon before unfolding a blanket on top of it and lying down. Perhaps he, too, wanted to escape the stench and the vermin of the communal bed. Or perhaps he wanted to make sure the wagon was safe. Or perhaps—dare she even think it?—he wanted to make sure she was safe. Whatever his reason, Christiana was thankful for it. The hammering of her heart slowed, and eventually she slept, secure in the knowledge that Ed was right outside, watching over her.

The next day, they arrived in Winchester. Christiana stared at the rising town walls in awe as they approached. Not only was it much larger and more populous than any town she'd known—almost four times the size of her hometown of Exeter, both in area and people—but it also had the stately air of an old capital and the busyness of a bustling market town. The King's Gate was wide open, showing off the imposing steeples of the Old Minster, which rose above the thatch and slate roofs of the townhouses, and beyond that were the towers of the New Minster, the two abbeys, and the palace of William the Conqueror. Houses and shops lined the streets. The roads leading to the King's Gate and the nearby South Gate were teemed with pilgrims, farmers carrying their freshly harvested crops to the market, and merchants, some from as far as Normandy and Flanders, coming up the Southampton port via the River Itchen, bringing with them wine, spices, silk, and all sorts of goods, and Winchester welcomed them all with open arms.

Perhaps not quite so open. As the travelers drew near, they noticed soldiers standing by the gates, stopping people with their spears. Pilgrims were waved through, while others had their carts and packs checked. Grumbling voices floated down the line, complaining of the delay.

When it came to the turn of Christiana and her companions, they found themselves face-to-face with a sergeant, leading two armed soldiers and a little man carrying a slate and a huge scrip on his girdle.

"What's this?" the sergeant barked. He had a face rather like a hatchet. "What'd you have in that cart?"

"Our instruments and costumes," replied Ed. "We're minstrels."

"Minstrels, eh?" The sergeant waved at his men, who immediately threw open the door to the wagon and started going through the trunks and bags piled inside. Christiana's knees shook. She could only pray that they would not look too closely and find the hard lumps of coins and jewels in her clothes. Next to her, Maxime tightened her grip on the dagger hidden under her cloak, though it would do little good against the soldiers' spears.

"And what is your intention in Winchester?" the sergeant asked, while the soldiers continued their search.

"We're going to do what minstrels do, sir. We sing, we dance, we entertain."

The sergeant's eyes moved over Christiana and her servants. "All of you?"

Ed glanced at Christiana. "No-o," he said slowly. "This is my—wife." Christiana stared at him, trying to hide her surprise. "And her siblings."

The sergeant's eyebrows went up at this unorthodox arrangement. A married minstrel is not unheard of, but the life of a traveling entertainer doesn't lend itself well to matrimonial and familial tangles. Seeing the suspicion on that hatchet-like face, Christiana quickly stepped in.

"If you please, sir," she said, "our patron had his castle seized by"—here she remembered that the Bishop of Winchester, Henry of Blois, was the younger brother of King Stephen himself, so Winchester must be loyal to the King—"Empress Maud, or rather, her half-brother, so we had to leave. We're going to—Bristol, to stay with my mother for the winter."

Christiana's calculation was correct. At the mention of the Empress, the sergeant's lips curled up contemptuously. "That woman is no Empress," he spat. "Only a pretender." His suspicion now diverted, he nodded at the soldiers again to stop their search of the wagon and turned to the little man with the slate. 

"If you intend to earn money in Winchester," the little man said in a squeaky voice, "then you shall have to pay a toll. One shilling."

Ed and his companions erupted into indignant protests.

"A toll? What toll?"

"We've never had to pay a toll before!"

"A shilling? We're not earning a shilling even if we stay here for a week!"

Christiana was about to speak up, to remind them that they could afford the toll—that she could afford it—but she checked herself in time. As Ed had said, she shouldn't be flaunting her coin. If they paid, it would no doubt raise suspicion as to where the money came from.

Ed was waving a hand to quieten his friends. "What's this, sir?" he asked the sergeant. "We've been through your good town many times before, never had to pay any toll. We're not merchants looking for trade. We're only minstrels."

"Sheriff's order," said the sergeant implacably. "The town's being garrisoned against the Pretender, we need the money."

Christiana went cold all over, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. If Winchester had to prepare against the Empress, it meant the fighting must be close. They couldn't afford to linger.

She tugged at Ed's sleeve. "Perhaps we ought to move on, um, husband," she said. "What if there should be a siege?"

Ed sighed. She could tell he had been looking forward to Winchester; they all had. Though their stay at Bishop's Waltham had not been uncomfortable, Winchester was the promise of rest, even a bath to wash away the dust of the last three days on the road, and a chance to put on a real performance, to make real money, not some roadside show that only earned them a pie here or a flagon of ale there. For Christiana, it was the first town of consequence she'd ever been to, and she had hoped to see its sights, the palaces and abbeys built by Alfred the Great, the mythical touches of King Arthur. But not at the price of their safety.

Ed understood, for he smiled at her and said, "Of course, sweetheart. Let us go."

Christiana's heart jumped. Pull yourself together, girl, she told herself sternly. He's merely acting the part. But she couldn't help thinking that there had been genuine warmth in his smile and in the easy way he'd called her "sweetheart". 

It was with heavy tread and heavier hearts that they turned the wagon away from the gate of Winchester, now no longer looking like welcoming arms but rather like the gaping maw of some terrible beast, ready to swallow up everyone who came through it. They turned west, skirting the town walls. At the West Gate, they stopped again, at a loss. Now they have two choices—to continue west and head for Bristol via Salisbury, or to turn north and push for Gloucester, where they could cross the River Severn into Wales. But west, to Christiana, meant her erstwhile betrothed as well as the menacing Vecna and his men, not to mention the difficulty of securing passage to cross the Bristol Channel. The dwindling of their travel companions was another factor—the pilgrims who had come with them from the south were all stopping at Winchester, while those leaving it were turning east for other pilgrimage sites like Walsingham and Ely, some even going as far north as York and Durham.

"Why don't we take a barge?" asked Dustin. "We can go on the Avon all the way to Bristol and cross the Bristol Channel from there. It would save a lot of walking," he added hopefully, sitting down on the grass and rubbing his feet. Christiana was sorry for the boy. Like herself and Maxime, Dustin was not used to walking long distances, but unlike them, he could not use the excuse of their fairer sex to climb on the wagon whenever his legs were tired.

"Oh, what is it, are those widdle feet tired from a widdle bit of walking?" Gareth said, wrinkling his nose at Dustin.

Dustin jumped to his feet, spoiling for a fight like a cockerel. "Mock me, will you?" he said. "I was merely thinking of my lady—"

"Leave him be, Gareth," Ed said sternly, earning him Dustin's eternal gratitude. "It is a good idea... the only problem is, can any of you swim?" Dustin, Christiana, and Maxime all shook their heads. Although her father's estate was located on the River Exe, Christiana's mother had deemed swimming unladylike and never let her learn. "Right," Ed continued, "so if this Vecna tracks us down somehow, I wouldn't want to be stuck on a barge with nowhere to go. We stay on dry land." None of his companions voiced opposition. No doubt they were used to Ed at the helm and always deferred to him on the matter of their destination.

"So we're for Gloucester, then?" Geoff asked, tightening the strap of the rebab on his shoulder.

Ed gave Christiana a questioning look. "What say you, Mistress Chrissy?"

Christiana faltered. Was she now at the helm? Was she to decide their fates? She had never held such heavy responsibility, and it frightened her. What if she should lead them into danger? Then she looked into Ed's eyes and remembered how he'd slept on the ground outside the wagon to keep her safe, and her fear quietened.

"Gloucester it is," she said.

***

As the bells sounded for Vespers, the sergeant of Winchester signaled for his men to close the gates. It had been a successful day—the toll coffer was full to bursting. The town would be well prepared against the Pretender's forces, should they arrive.

Just when the heavy gate was being pulled shut, a group of riders came thundering up the road. "Halt!" the sergeant shouted to the newcomers. "The gates are closed for the night. If you wish to enter, you must wait for morning."

"We do not wish to enter," said the leader of the group. "We merely seek information."

"Ask away, sir," said the sergeant, for he had glimpsed the crusade cross on the riders' tabards.

"Have you admitted into your town today a party of three, a young lady with a girl and a boy? The young lady is very fair and handsome, the boy dark with curly hair, and the girl a redhead."

"We haven't," said the sergeant slowly. Then he added, enjoying the momentary power he had over the stranger, "But I have seen such a party. Traveling with her husband, the young lady said."

"Husband?" The rider's eyebrows went up.

"She's too pretty a lass to be married to such a scarecrow of a boy, I thought. And he said they were minstrels."

"Minstrels?" The rider turned thoughtful. "Are you sure they didn't stay?"

"Didn't want to pay the toll, did they? They went on. To Bristol."

"Bristol?"

"That's what the young lady said."

The rider nodded. "Much obliged." He nodded to his companions, and, as one, they turned their horses around to gallop back the way they came.

It wasn't until the rider turned his left side toward the setting sun that the sergeant caught the blind eye shining white and pale like a malevolent hag stone under the rider's helmet. He shivered and barked at his men to hasten with the gates, not relishing the thought of such creatures lurking outside the town walls.

Chapter 5

[askyourking]

what’s your favorite food

Hmm... I don’t quite obsess over food the way some people do. But if I had to choose—A well-made chicken broth, or a proper roasted capon—those do nicely. And I do have a soft spot for the occasional tart. ☺️

[notablenotions]

Masks of Nobility – Chapter 20

Henry found Hans buried in blankets, sulking with all the grace of a disgraced prince. A wine bottle teetered precariously on the edge of the bed, and the infamous sketch—the one from the village brawl—was clutched to Hans’ chest like a religious relic.

The room was strewn with crumpled parchments—plans, by the look of them. Henry stepped over one titled “Operation Feathered Revenge” and sighed. Loudly.

Hans didn’t look up.

“No one appreciates me, Henry,” he muttered, eyes dark with purpose. “Not my wife. Not you. Not the serfs. No one.”

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hans—”

“I named a pig. That’s all. And now the entire realm thinks I’m a goose. You should hear them outside, Henry. Listen.”

From the street below came cheerful voices: “Good day, Sir Hans!” Followed by honking.

Hans lurched out of bed, storming to the window, and leaned out.

“I AM NOT A BLOODY GOOSE!” he bellowed. “AND THAT BIRD IS NOT YOUR LORD!”

A confused peasant waved up at him. “We meant the real Sir Hans, milord!”

Hans slammed the window shut with the righteous fury of God.

“That’s it,” he declared, eyes wild. “I’m having the foul beast cooked, seasoned with the finest herbs, and fed—force-fed—to Bartosch. Feathers and all.”

Henry blinked. “You’re not serious.”

“I am Sir Hans Capon. I am always serious.”

He threw on his doublet, strapped a sword—a sword—to his hip, and stormed out.

Henry hesitated. Then followed, because of course this was his life now.

---

The goose had been roaming the courtyard, surrounded by adoring peasants, pecking grain off cobblestones and honking with authority. Hans spotted it and charged, cloak billowing, yelling something about noble dignity and roast goose.

The bird fled, honking madly, weaving through the streets of Rattay with Hans in pursuit, flailing wildly, scattering townsfolk. Children screamed with glee. Merchants cheered. Someone bet ten groschen on the goose.

“Stop it!” Hans shouted, knocking over a barrel.

The goose turned a corner. Hans followed.

Henry ran after them, dodging crates, villagers, and whatever remained of his pride.

---

At last, Hans cornered the goose near the market square, panting, wild-eyed, triumphant.

“I have you, you feathery bastard!”

He lunged, catching it in both arms, raising it above his head like a trophy, a conqueror of birds.

And froze.

Because there, watching in stunned silence, stood Sir Radzig Kobyla and Lord Hanush, flanked by their guards, looking like they’d walked into a fever dream.

Radzig tilted his head. “Hans... is that a goose?”

Hanush squinted. “In... yellow noble garb?”

Hans lowered the goose slowly, eyes wide. “I can explain.”

Radzig rubbed his temples. “Of course you can.”

Henry, arriving breathless, looked between them all.

“Milords,” he gasped. “Please don’t ask.”

The goose honked triumphantly.

Hans wept internally.

[shredsandpatches]

WIP tag game

Rules: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word.

I was tagged by @heartofstanding and I'll tag @itsa-me-cavaradossi, @oldshrewsburyian, and @ghostpoetics.

Your word is BOAT. I dunno why, just because.

My word was PEAR. Quoth @heartofstanding: "I would like to pretend it's a reference to Augustine but really it's because I was looking at a box of Pears soap." But hey, don't we need spiritual soap to scrub our souls clean of sin, as exemplified by Augustine's youthful fruity crimes?

ANYWAY. I cheated on the first sentence here and discounted a definite article. Also it's gross. On the plus side, Faustus says the elaborated theory of witchcraft is bullshit!

The papist inquisitors and the more credulous laypeople of all creeds tell lurid tales of witches' sabbaths, of wild naked revelry in the mountains, of blood sacrifice and diabolical orgies and obscene kisses to seal the unholy pact and ointments distilled from the rendered fat of unbaptized infants and tribes of clandestine sorcerers secretly gnawing at the heart of Christendom. The truth is more prosaic. Faustus has lain with a demon who wore his own face.

(untitled followup to not half so fair as thou which was mostly occasioned by me going "hey maybe I want to play around more with the whole master/servant thing?")

Even after ten years, there's something almost touchingly naive about Faustus in moments like these. His misguided affection for a demon has brought him to dizzying heights of idiocy; it gives Mephistopheles a feeling that he suspects is what heartburn would feel like, if he had a real digestive system. Or a heart.

(sexy consensual demonic possession fic; working title is Two Sickos, One Body but I'm gonna change it because it won't suit the tone of the whole fic. The line about heartburn is a tip of the hat to the Murnau film)

After the mass there is feasting, hours of it—pike with wine and ginger and lamprey in galantine; capons and pheasants; pork pies with eggs and prunes and chicken stewed with rice and almonds; roasted kid and roasted peacock; wild boar and venison with frumenty; coneys with onions and quails with bacon and pigeons with garlic and oysters in herbs and vinegar.

(from the novelthing, Richard and Anne's wedding. This goes on for like three more sentences because I really wanted to get my George R.R. Martin on)

Richard is quickly coming to mistrust beautiful days in June. Richard’s father had died in June, as well, and the weather had been nearly as beautiful then.

(also from the novelthing -- this passage is set immediately after the death of Edward III, so Richard has many terrible days in June ahead of him)