The Merries
Little John's Tale: Lost and Found
A small grey shape moved through the underbrush. Tall dark ferns brushed it's wool, snatching tufts from the lamb's sides. The sun ducked behind the trees as soft bleats shivered through the chilling air. A shadow, massive and eternally patient fell over the trembling figure. Large warm hands gathered the lamb into wide, strong arms. John Little of Haversage raised the lamb to his shoulders as he emerged from the forest's edge like a white-topped human tree on the crest of the hill.
The village of Haversage huddled in the valley at his feet, a handful of huts clustering together like a child clutching at his mother's skirts.
Striding down the hill he approached Haversage from the left. Lifting the lamb above his head, it was hot and smelled of wool and forest. He lowered it into the rickety pen that leaned against his weathered dwelling, where it's mother nuzzled it, bleating soft and low.
The roof was limp with age, the thatch drooping slightly where a smoke hole pierced the center. John pushed open the sagging door which almost fell inward on the worn leather hinges. A lopsided pallet stood in a rickety frame on the far wall. At the other end of the hut a rough hewn trestle with two wide benches dominated the remaining space. Kicking old rushes and the remains of last night's dinner into a corner, he pushed back the far bench with his foot and settled onto it with a sigh. Grabbing the table's lone ornament, a clay jug, he glanced around, his eyes settling on a mug which balanced precariously on the bench end. He filled it with small beer and drank, grimaced and topped it again. It was going to be a hard year. One of the lambs had died, and the strip of land behind the hut was unlikely to yield enough to keep him from starvation, let alone pay tithe and tax.
A slight breeze blew around the warped doorway, and a rustle caught his ear. A handful of dried flowers lay on the bedpost, an oddly sentimental gesture in a spartan space. A year earlier, at the Wickham Blessing, a young woman with flashing brown eyes and hair that escaped all confinement thrust them into his hand as they danced around a bonfire.
Meg.
Meg of Wickham. He had been struck dumb, his feet and hands suddenly clumsy and awkward as the world whirled around him.
Memory shattered with a scream. John shot to the doorway, the bench protesting, and scanned the horizon. Swords, crossbows, men cloaked in dusk and darkness riding into the village like wind on a field of wheat. The cries of terrified neighbors in his ears, John sprang, grabbing the first of them and hauling him out of the saddle. A glimpse of a gold pattern beneath the cloak, stamped into the cote-harde.
Bellame.
Sweat trickled down his temple into the edges of his beard.
Bellame. Rumor. Sorcerer. Devil worshipper. Evil. Death.
He broke into a run. Hoofbeats pounded with his heartbeat. Then a blow and darkness.
....
The darkness lifted. John could hear a waterfall, taste blood on his lips. He opened stone heavy lids. He caught a glimpse of a wet Lincoln green under a brown hood. Eyes the color of spring grass after a rain, set in an angular face both sympathetic and assured, water streaming off shoulder length black hair. John's hand shook slightly as he raised it to his face, squinting into the brightness like one emerging from scattered forest shadows of a forest into a sunrise.
Little John's Tale: Lost and Found
A small grey shape moved through the underbrush. Tall dark ferns brushed it's wool, snatching tufts from the lamb's sides. The sun ducked behind the trees as soft bleats shivered through the chilling air. A shadow, massive and eternally patient fell over the trembling figure. Large warm hands gathered the lamb into wide, strong arms. John Little of Haversage raised the lamb to his shoulders as he emerged from the forest's edge like a white-topped human tree on the crest of the hill.
The village of Haversage huddled in the valley at his feet, a handful of huts clustering together like a child clutching at his mother's skirts.
Striding down the hill he approached Haversage from the left. Lifting the lamb above his head, it was hot and smelled of wool and forest. He lowered it into the rickety pen that leaned against his weathered dwelling, where it's mother nuzzled it, bleating soft and low.
The roof was limp with age, the thatch drooping slightly where a smoke hole pierced the center. John pushed open the sagging door which almost fell inward on the worn leather hinges. A lopsided pallet stood in a rickety frame on the far wall. At the other end of the hut a rough hewn trestle with two wide benches dominated the remaining space. Kicking old rushes and the remains of last night's dinner into a corner, he pushed back the far bench with his foot and settled onto it with a sigh. Grabbing the table's lone ornament, a clay jug, he glanced around, his eyes settling on a mug which balanced precariously on the bench end. He filled it with small beer and drank, grimaced and topped it again. It was going to be a hard year. One of the lambs had died, and the strip of land behind the hut was unlikely to yield enough to keep him from starvation, let alone pay tithe and tax.
A slight breeze blew around the warped doorway, and a rustle caught his ear. A handful of dried flowers lay on the bedpost, an oddly sentimental gesture in a spartan space. A year earlier, at the Wickham Blessing, a young woman with flashing brown eyes and hair that escaped all confinement thrust them into his hand as they danced around a bonfire.
Meg.
Meg of Wickham. He had been struck dumb, his feet and hands suddenly clumsy and awkward as the world whirled around him.
Memory shattered with a scream. John shot to the doorway, the bench protesting, and scanned the horizon. Swords, crossbows, men cloaked in dusk and darkness riding into the village like wind on a field of wheat. The cries of terrified neighbors in his ears, John sprang, grabbing the first of them and hauling him out of the saddle. A glimpse of a gold pattern beneath the cloak, stamped into the cote-harde.
Bellame.
Sweat trickled down his temple into the edges of his beard.
Bellame. Rumor. Sorcerer. Devil worshipper. Evil. Death.
He broke into a run. Hoofbeats pounded with his heartbeat. Then a blow and darkness.
....
The darkness lifted. John could hear a waterfall, taste blood on his lips. He opened stone heavy lids. He caught a glimpse of a wet Lincoln green under a brown hood. Eyes the color of spring grass after a rain, set in an angular face both sympathetic and assured, water streaming off shoulder length black hair. John's hand shook slightly as he raised it to his face, squinting into the brightness like one emerging from scattered forest shadows of a forest into a sunrise.