HS&S:WT Short
May. 21st, 2008 12:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabremeisterSomething I thought up on the way back from rehearsal tonight
It was nearing midnight on midsummer’s night. In the great hall of the castle of the King of Langand, the traditional banquet was well under way. The air was smoky from the torches that burned at every pillar, and the great fire in the massive hearth behind the high table. A pair of guards flanked each door, sweating under the weight of their armour and livery in the heat of the hall. The page boys that served the food, cleared the empty platters, and kept the goblets and tankards filled were doing little better – they carried less weight, but they never stopped moving all night. The team of jesters, taking it in turns to tumble, juggle, dance and gurn in the middle of the floor, were suffering just as much. The guests, the ladies in their fine and heavy dresses, the men in their best brigandines, were raucous and sweating at the tables, drinking hugely, tearing great mouthfuls of food from whatever came to hand, talking loudly; the only ones who seemed at all at home in the heat were the serving wenches, a dozen young women recruited from the housekeeping staff, and another dozen hastily conscripted from the city and given basic training – mind you, they were wearing light low-cut blouses, that were doing their job so well that there wasn’t one of them that hadn’t had to retire for a few minutes to correct an impromptu state of dishabille. Even the minstrels in the gallery in the corner were inaudibly flagging, the noise was so great. Although, suddenly, there was one strident voice cutting through the din.
“You dare doubt my strength, sir?” The affronted vocaliser was a young man near the head of the right-hand table. He was slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and wearing on his brigandine a livery that marked him as no one all that important.
“Yes, sir, I do!” came the reply, and that quieted the racket somewhat. He was considerably older, thickset, sandy-haired, and wearing a livery that marked him as a minor relative of the King. People began to take notice.
“It is one thing to doubt the courage of one not yet tested in battle,” the younger man retorted, “but quite another to doubt his strength as well!” He sat down in a gap he furrowed out for himself between a miscellaneous Baron and a young lady, opposite his antagoniser. He rolled his right sleeve up past his elbow and thumped it onto the table. “Your arm, sir!”
The man gestured impatiently with one arm, picking up his goblet with the other. “Away with you pup, back to your end of the table!”
The younger one reached across with his left and stopped the other drinking. “I am not of no small inconsequence, sir. You will oblige me with your arm, and satisfy the slight to my integrity and ability!”
The King’s distant relative slammed down his goblet and raised the youngster’s wrist in his hand. “Yes, I doubt your strength,” he shouted. “See – the twig that is set against me!”
With a savage movement the younger man pulled his arm free. “Better a twig that bends in the storm, than a rotten old bough that breaks in the wind!” He slammed his elbow down again. “Your arm!”
“‘Old’? ‘Rotten’?”
The challenger gave a quick, mocking, glance around the room. “I see but three people who better you in years. And if not rotten, why fear my righteous challenge?”
“I am not so old that my beard has yet turned grey!” snarled the challenged, rolling up his own right sleeve. “Whereas you have yet to have your first shave, if I am any judge!” And indeed, where the older man sported a large bush-like sandy mass on most of his face, the younger had only a dark tint to his chin and jaw.
They clasped hands. The young man turned to the lady by his left side. “Milady – would you care to give us the count?”
“Why, certainly,” she replied. “On three. One .. two ... three!”
Those watching, and by now there were quite a few, put up a great shout as they two combatants suddenly tensed and strained against each other, cheering on who they favoured. Bets were swiftly placed with neighbours, even the King was showing interest. For a good portion of a minute, the two arms wavered in the upright position, then, slowly, the challenger’s arm began to move to his right. The cheering intensified, the backers of the older urging a coup de grace, those backing the younger willing greater effort. The challenger closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
“Ha! The twig tires! He despairs!” crowed the opponent.
The challenger held his breath, opened his eyes, and suddenly his opponent’s knuckles were cracking against the tabletop. He jumped to his feet, both arms raised in triumph, to a great cheer. “The calm before the storm!” he yelled. “The twig bends, but the bough is broken!”
He sat down again. Those backing him and within reach slapped him heartily on the back, a full tankard of ale was set within his grasp, and the lady who’d given the count put her arms around his neck to better kiss him on the cheek.
“Why, thank you, milady! But I do not yet know your name,” he told her, now quiet enough for only her to hear in the din.
“It is Jemima,” she replied at the same volume, “but I fear I do not know yours, either, Sir Sapling.”
“It is Samuel, my dove, but after tonight, it may become Samson!”
She laughed. So did he. “Midnight approaches,” she said, glancing at the huge hourglass set behind the high table.
“They say to see a shooting star at midnight on this night is the most extreme good fortune,” he told her.
“I know. But how are we to see such a thing in here?”
“I know the way to the roof of the high tower. And I know there will be no guards there.”
“You do?”
“I do, milady. I do.”
Midsummer
It was nearing midnight on midsummer’s night. In the great hall of the castle of the King of Langand, the traditional banquet was well under way. The air was smoky from the torches that burned at every pillar, and the great fire in the massive hearth behind the high table. A pair of guards flanked each door, sweating under the weight of their armour and livery in the heat of the hall. The page boys that served the food, cleared the empty platters, and kept the goblets and tankards filled were doing little better – they carried less weight, but they never stopped moving all night. The team of jesters, taking it in turns to tumble, juggle, dance and gurn in the middle of the floor, were suffering just as much. The guests, the ladies in their fine and heavy dresses, the men in their best brigandines, were raucous and sweating at the tables, drinking hugely, tearing great mouthfuls of food from whatever came to hand, talking loudly; the only ones who seemed at all at home in the heat were the serving wenches, a dozen young women recruited from the housekeeping staff, and another dozen hastily conscripted from the city and given basic training – mind you, they were wearing light low-cut blouses, that were doing their job so well that there wasn’t one of them that hadn’t had to retire for a few minutes to correct an impromptu state of dishabille. Even the minstrels in the gallery in the corner were inaudibly flagging, the noise was so great. Although, suddenly, there was one strident voice cutting through the din.
“You dare doubt my strength, sir?” The affronted vocaliser was a young man near the head of the right-hand table. He was slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and wearing on his brigandine a livery that marked him as no one all that important.
“Yes, sir, I do!” came the reply, and that quieted the racket somewhat. He was considerably older, thickset, sandy-haired, and wearing a livery that marked him as a minor relative of the King. People began to take notice.
“It is one thing to doubt the courage of one not yet tested in battle,” the younger man retorted, “but quite another to doubt his strength as well!” He sat down in a gap he furrowed out for himself between a miscellaneous Baron and a young lady, opposite his antagoniser. He rolled his right sleeve up past his elbow and thumped it onto the table. “Your arm, sir!”
The man gestured impatiently with one arm, picking up his goblet with the other. “Away with you pup, back to your end of the table!”
The younger one reached across with his left and stopped the other drinking. “I am not of no small inconsequence, sir. You will oblige me with your arm, and satisfy the slight to my integrity and ability!”
The King’s distant relative slammed down his goblet and raised the youngster’s wrist in his hand. “Yes, I doubt your strength,” he shouted. “See – the twig that is set against me!”
With a savage movement the younger man pulled his arm free. “Better a twig that bends in the storm, than a rotten old bough that breaks in the wind!” He slammed his elbow down again. “Your arm!”
“‘Old’? ‘Rotten’?”
The challenger gave a quick, mocking, glance around the room. “I see but three people who better you in years. And if not rotten, why fear my righteous challenge?”
“I am not so old that my beard has yet turned grey!” snarled the challenged, rolling up his own right sleeve. “Whereas you have yet to have your first shave, if I am any judge!” And indeed, where the older man sported a large bush-like sandy mass on most of his face, the younger had only a dark tint to his chin and jaw.
They clasped hands. The young man turned to the lady by his left side. “Milady – would you care to give us the count?”
“Why, certainly,” she replied. “On three. One .. two ... three!”
Those watching, and by now there were quite a few, put up a great shout as they two combatants suddenly tensed and strained against each other, cheering on who they favoured. Bets were swiftly placed with neighbours, even the King was showing interest. For a good portion of a minute, the two arms wavered in the upright position, then, slowly, the challenger’s arm began to move to his right. The cheering intensified, the backers of the older urging a coup de grace, those backing the younger willing greater effort. The challenger closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
“Ha! The twig tires! He despairs!” crowed the opponent.
The challenger held his breath, opened his eyes, and suddenly his opponent’s knuckles were cracking against the tabletop. He jumped to his feet, both arms raised in triumph, to a great cheer. “The calm before the storm!” he yelled. “The twig bends, but the bough is broken!”
He sat down again. Those backing him and within reach slapped him heartily on the back, a full tankard of ale was set within his grasp, and the lady who’d given the count put her arms around his neck to better kiss him on the cheek.
“Why, thank you, milady! But I do not yet know your name,” he told her, now quiet enough for only her to hear in the din.
“It is Jemima,” she replied at the same volume, “but I fear I do not know yours, either, Sir Sapling.”
“It is Samuel, my dove, but after tonight, it may become Samson!”
She laughed. So did he. “Midnight approaches,” she said, glancing at the huge hourglass set behind the high table.
“They say to see a shooting star at midnight on this night is the most extreme good fortune,” he told her.
“I know. But how are we to see such a thing in here?”
“I know the way to the roof of the high tower. And I know there will be no guards there.”
“You do?”
“I do, milady. I do.”
