My Man Godric by R. Cooper

My Man Godric
     
    By R. Cooper
     
     
     
    My Man Godric
    Copyright 2012 by R. Cooper
    Published by R. Cooper at Smashwords
     
     
     
    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is
entirely coincidental.
     
     
     
     
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    Table of Contents

    Part One
    Part Two
    Part Three
    Part Four
    Part Five
    Epilogue-Honey Cake
    About the author
     
     
     
     
    For Jane Davitt
     
     
     
     
    Although
Bertie had lived this moment over and over in his mind during the
past two long months and dreamed it to keep himself warm at night
and to stay hopeful during the day, the moment itself was a blur of
sick worry, dizzying weariness, and the one overriding thought that
he must look a mess.
    Not just a mess, but a wreck. The crazy
disaster that he was known for being, even if he had never before
in his life been so dirty, or so tired, or dressed so terribly. Not
even as a child had his hair been so tangled and stiff with dirt,
his fingernails broken and stained, his clothing rough. He had not
even had the time to attend to the fit of his borrowed clothing and
the sleeves still did not reach past his wrists, leaving his hands
numb and red with cold.
    Distantly, he was still somewhat upset about
that last point though he was aware it was shallow and stupid to
fret over the fit of clothing borrowed from kind people and worn
for the sake of survival. But there was almost nothing in the world
so lovely as fine, soft clothes made from cloth bright as a
butterfly’s wing. At home he would have embroidered the detail of
robes and breeches, and cut and sewn his attire himself to his
height, and mad and useless though he was, no one could deny that
he had looked beautiful enough to have his pick of lovers.
    But rainbow-hued weaves of satin didn’t suit
hiding in dark forests and wild mountain ranges anymore than thin
linens suited the icy air that signaled winter’s approach.
    He would have had to resort to borrowed
clothing in any event, as his finest cloak, alas, was now in two
pieces and draped over the shoulders of the Widow Flanders’ two
small children, his second finest over the Widow herself. Noble
though the cause, his skin itched and burned with every step where
it had been rubbed raw by coarse material and it was one more
reason aside from his vanity to lament the loss of his things.
    His very first day in these clothes he had
decided that he would see to better clothing for his own servants
the moment the opportunity was available, and he reaffirmed that
decision to himself now. His people should be dressed in material
that was warm and thick and soft and fitted to them, so no children
went cold and no one else was driven crazy by the rough scratch of
this horrible brown wool.
    Ahead of him was the largest tent in the
camp, the door flap already partially opened and spilling orange
light over Bertie and the people waiting behind him. With so many
waiting for him to move, it was even more selfish and shallow and
stupid, but he wasted another moment hoping there was a vast and
soft feather bed on the other side of that door flap, along with
water for a hot bath. He wanted those more than he wanted food
though his stomach was making a nuisance of itself once again.
    He patted his chest soothingly and then
threw aside the thin cloak that had been loaned to him by one of
the three stern soldiers that rode guard around his far too small
band of survivors. He immediately