with his bow and quiver ready. There was good money to be made in those days, knocking a pigeon from its perch. All a lad needed was an arrow with a blunted tip, and the birds would fall nice and easy, straight to the ground. A fellow had once seen him dulling his arrow, cutting it flat and fitting a thick leather patch to it, and had laughed. He’d said Richard was wasting his time. Richard was content to take his word, and passed him a new arrow.
‘But if you kill a bird, you eat it, and if I kill one, I eat mine,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to pay a forfeit instead.’
Out in the woods near his home at Epping, the fool drew and let loose his arrow. It passed through the bird and stuck in the tree’s limb above. The arrow was lost forever. At least the bird fell, but the arrow had passed up from beneath, piercing the guts. The slamming force of a yard of English Ash did not merely puncture the bird’s bowels, it burst them, squirting the contents through the entire carcass. The creature was ruined. Richard Blaket took his own arrow and walked on a short distance. At the top of an oak he saw another pigeon. He drew, loosed his arrow, and the heavy, padded tip snapped into the pigeon’s throat, breaking its neck and sending it and the arrow toppling to the ground.
The man had to pay Richard a penny not to eat his bird. Richard gave it to a fox that had been raiding his chickens at night, and when the animal was scoffing thebait, he slew it with another arrow he had not modified.
Memories such as that were a delight when a man was standing in such misery. Not so warming, though, as the memories of last night, of Alicia’s soft, warm lips against his own, or the feel of her hips under his hands, the sweet roundness of her breasts …
This was the trouble. A man was plagued with the most delicious thoughts when he was standing guard in the middle of the night. And yet he had reason to be extra watchful. All knew that the Queen’s life was in peril, in God’s name, and it was his solemn duty to protect her. He must concentrate on that, not keep harking back to Alicia’s gorgeous body in the candlelight, the orange glow making her form so beautifully shadowy before the fire. The feel of her arms about his neck, her breath against his mouth, her throaty chuckles, her gentle fondlings and squirmings under him …
There was a rhythmic swishing sound, and his attention was brought instantly to the present, all memories of last night flying from him as he recognised that obscene noise. It was coming from the chapel itself, and he turned to listen, his polearm levelled even as his eyes narrowed.
It was instantly recognisable, of course: the sound of a stone sweeping along a sword’s blade. Except there should have been no such sound here.
Gripping his staff firmly, he walked silently towards the sound.
There were some who said that they cared nothing for the woman, but so far as he was concerned, the Queen was his own mistress. It wasn’t that he was in love withher – God’s teeth, no! His Alicia would have something to say about that! – but he felt some compassion for her. She had been a powerful, wealthy woman for all her life, and now she was brought so low, and yet she suffered all the indignities with stoicism. As her household was broken up and dispersed, she joked with them about when they would all be free to meet again; when the King reduced her income, she laughed that soon he would have her as a pauper living in his hall and would have to save his alms for her. Never did she bemoan her fate before Richard, and that made him warm to her courage. He would do anything for her.
The noise was louder. Standing outside the chapel, he peered around the door which stood ajar, and took a deep breath, preparing himself. Steady, steady, deep breath … and shove the door wide! All at once the timbers creaked, hinges complaining, and he was in the chapel’s vestry.
‘What is it, guard?’ Peter of Oxford
‘But if you kill a bird, you eat it, and if I kill one, I eat mine,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to pay a forfeit instead.’
Out in the woods near his home at Epping, the fool drew and let loose his arrow. It passed through the bird and stuck in the tree’s limb above. The arrow was lost forever. At least the bird fell, but the arrow had passed up from beneath, piercing the guts. The slamming force of a yard of English Ash did not merely puncture the bird’s bowels, it burst them, squirting the contents through the entire carcass. The creature was ruined. Richard Blaket took his own arrow and walked on a short distance. At the top of an oak he saw another pigeon. He drew, loosed his arrow, and the heavy, padded tip snapped into the pigeon’s throat, breaking its neck and sending it and the arrow toppling to the ground.
The man had to pay Richard a penny not to eat his bird. Richard gave it to a fox that had been raiding his chickens at night, and when the animal was scoffing thebait, he slew it with another arrow he had not modified.
Memories such as that were a delight when a man was standing in such misery. Not so warming, though, as the memories of last night, of Alicia’s soft, warm lips against his own, or the feel of her hips under his hands, the sweet roundness of her breasts …
This was the trouble. A man was plagued with the most delicious thoughts when he was standing guard in the middle of the night. And yet he had reason to be extra watchful. All knew that the Queen’s life was in peril, in God’s name, and it was his solemn duty to protect her. He must concentrate on that, not keep harking back to Alicia’s gorgeous body in the candlelight, the orange glow making her form so beautifully shadowy before the fire. The feel of her arms about his neck, her breath against his mouth, her throaty chuckles, her gentle fondlings and squirmings under him …
There was a rhythmic swishing sound, and his attention was brought instantly to the present, all memories of last night flying from him as he recognised that obscene noise. It was coming from the chapel itself, and he turned to listen, his polearm levelled even as his eyes narrowed.
It was instantly recognisable, of course: the sound of a stone sweeping along a sword’s blade. Except there should have been no such sound here.
Gripping his staff firmly, he walked silently towards the sound.
There were some who said that they cared nothing for the woman, but so far as he was concerned, the Queen was his own mistress. It wasn’t that he was in love withher – God’s teeth, no! His Alicia would have something to say about that! – but he felt some compassion for her. She had been a powerful, wealthy woman for all her life, and now she was brought so low, and yet she suffered all the indignities with stoicism. As her household was broken up and dispersed, she joked with them about when they would all be free to meet again; when the King reduced her income, she laughed that soon he would have her as a pauper living in his hall and would have to save his alms for her. Never did she bemoan her fate before Richard, and that made him warm to her courage. He would do anything for her.
The noise was louder. Standing outside the chapel, he peered around the door which stood ajar, and took a deep breath, preparing himself. Steady, steady, deep breath … and shove the door wide! All at once the timbers creaked, hinges complaining, and he was in the chapel’s vestry.
‘What is it, guard?’ Peter of Oxford
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