The rub, if I may make use of a sexually suggestive turn of phrase, was both simple and complex. I was dealing with three brothers, all of whom were of loutish cast, and all of whom had professed carnal intentions towards my lord's daughter and only child. As none of this threesome of beasts masquerading as common village folk were of respectable quality, I was set to teach them a lesson one after another, much as though they were a row of vertically placed gaming pieces. You tip the first, the rest would fall like clockwork.
I am merely the fool for the court of the region's lord, yet possess a vindictive streak. That aspect of myself was most useful, as being the castle jester, I often was paid to play pranks and impolite jokes upon any who displeased my superiors. Occasionally, my lord, or other high ranking members of his retinue would pay me to perform acts of vengeance upon citizens of the surrounding village. It was the deeds enacted by the siblings of which I have already spoken that had gifted me with three nights worth of extra employment, which would earn me a pouch of silver to be handed over upon each following dawn.
I approached the stack of hay in which the first brother had crawled to sleep off a night's drinking. The majority of his person was hidden beneath the moldy straw, yet one hand and forearm dangled free, just as I had hoped. This one was well known to the village folk for crawling into such bedding when the mattress of a tavern wench was not available, so it was of no surprise to find him thus. This would make my lesson all the more poignant.
Beneath my tunic I carried a leather bottle, its contents made tepid by my body's heat. I removed that container and tugged its stopper free with my teeth. Grasping the louts conveniently placed hand, I then slowly poured the bottle of warm water over it, taking great care to ensure the stream of fluid lasted over the measure of a dozen or more heart beats. As I did so I smirked, imagining the resulting flow of liquid from this one's bladder.
Soon what I took to be the desired reaction came, indicated by the spluttering choking and cursing from the depths of the hay stack. Thrashing soon followed, sending fragments of dried and rotting grass into the air, where they drifted lazily upon the fog of sour ale fumes exhaled by my victim. Soon the lout stood before me, teetering awkwardly under the influence of the vast quantities of ale he must have consumed. His blood shot eyes attempted to focus upon me and at best seemed to only be able to take in a rough outline of my figure. That played greatly in my favour, as I wore a dark cloak with a heavy black cowl. The depths of that hood hid my face and I fancied gave me a reaper like effect in the gloom of night time's surrounding shadows.
I enhanced my ominous heir by deliberately wheezing, as though my breath scraped through my throat to weakly inflate sagging, flaccid lungs. Punctuating that rasping inhalation with a hoarse chuckle, I spoke. "Ye be mine young one." The joke in my words was that this lout was at least five years my senior. Mocking his youth merely added to my portrayal of that ever so feared, darkly hooded, immortal taker of souls. My pretence of agelessness seemed to be the nail in the emotional coffin as terror stricken my pray staggered and stumbled backward attempting to escape what he believed to be his approaching doom. His motions were heavily addled by the vestiges of drink, and after a step, possibly two he lost his ability to remain upright and collapsed upon the ground, where he proceeded to drag himself a few paces further from me.
I allowed this, standing there watching his labored progress for some moments before at last deciding to advance. Stepping slowly with exaggerated, deliberate placing of my feet, I ambled towards the fool. He whimpered most pitifully, and I extended my hands outward as I drew nearer to his prostrate form.
His progress across the earth grew more and more frantic, and needless to tell you, less and less productive. Soon, he lay at my feet writhing upon the ground, trying to drag himself away from me. I arrested his motions by bending over him and entwining my fingers in the grimy hair upon the back of his head. Moaning in terror now in a most unbecoming fashion he attempted to turn his head to the side so as to look up towards me. He largely failed in that ambition and as my gaze met that of the corner of his nearer eye, which bulged from fright, he fainted dead away.
Loosing my grip, I let his head thump limply to the ground, heedless of any injury he might receive from the outer reaches of a patch of nettles in which his face came to rest. Had his final sound of terror been unbecoming, then so was the girlish, gleeful giggle that escaped from between my lips. I did so enjoy tormenting the deserving and bottling my amusement inside was a challenge I often could not meet. I'd once even been known to perform a jig of foolish and uncoordinated quality, after scaring the wits from a homophobic villager bent upon spreading hate filled gossip about a cherished friend of mine. I'm sure any witness to such unskilled dance stepping would have been horrified, so it was best I prayed upon my targets when they were alone.
My lord required that I bring back some token or trophy to prove the completion of my night's work, so I pushed aside my memory of that past victim to focus upon the task of finding a possession of this lout's, worthy of taking. I rifled through his pockets, attempting to be as systematic as possible. However my efforts were somewhat impeded by the fact the figure before me lay upon his stomach. I did not wish to roll him over, as repositioning him brought too great a risk of returning the consciousness I had stolen.
Growing mildly frustrated, I gritted my teeth as I searched the man's filthy person. The foul stench, a mix of sweat, drink, smoke and a body gone unwashed for a fortnight or longer assaulted my sense of smell. How one could allow themselves to become so repulsively unclean I would never know. Even his tunic and leggings stunk as though he had not bothered to remove them since he last bathed.
Finally, I came upon something in his pocket. It felt like a cross formed of metal. Drawing that object out, I studied it, thankful that at that moment, the overhead cloud cover parted sufficiently to allow a fragment of moon light to illuminate the thing cupped in my palm. It was a shamrock or clover, fashioned from copper, now greening with the tarnish born of ill care and age. I forgot the man at my feet for some moments. This had once been a piece of fine craftsmanship, and how such a swine had come to own such a thing was beyond my ability to discern at that time. Eventually I came to my senses, and pocketed the metal before returning to my diminutive mare for the ride home where I would claim my payment for the night's work.
Continued next week...
Your Thoughts:
This is the fourth in my series of short fiction pieces, and is a three parter. As always I look forward to your thoughts in the comments below or on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on my Twitter page at: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).
I humbly await your return next monday. Cheers my good readers!
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