For the Record
The simple fact was: it was cold. The stream in the woods had iced over, though you could still hear the muffled trickle of running water if you walked past. The tree's boughs were bent with the weight of snow. Even the normally well maintained roads were crusted with ice.
Another plain detail was that: it wasn't Guy's fault. After all, he had been instructed by his unsavory Uncle, Beaumont (who was also in charge of him for the afternoon), to go outside and play with Irving - his cousin. Irving was about three years his senior and took whatever opportunities that particular status gave him - such as bossing Guy around. Guy Crispin bore it - he had no other choice. He could recall clearly one recent incident when he did not listen - it had not ended well, for him at least…
Another piece of evidence to add to his list was that he couldn't help being only six years of age. Now, if his parents, Lord Rodger and Lady Ghislaine, had simply had him several years earlier, he wouldn't be having this problem. If his parents had been of greater mind to wed sooner, Guy himself would have had more common sense as he would have had more years under his belt. But, alas! No such fortune could be found - Guy was still six and still didn't understand all of life's little tiresome quirks.
The black haired baby kneeled, unceremoniously, next to the frozen stream. His elbows, setting in the cold snow, were going numb. Guy was so frigid that his body was beginning to feel warm and that frightened him to no end. He had been there for a little over a half an hour and wondered how much longer he would be forced to wait. Irving had long since abandoned him and showed no visible signs of returning. Guy's only hope was that his Mother or, God forbid, his Father noticed that he hadn't come home when he was supposed to.
The two boy's hike in the forest had begun innocently enough, though the barely nine year old Irving had been irked that he had to keep an eye on his baby cousin. That fact was another thing to add: Irving hated him and would do anything to get him out of the way -for an afternoon or, Guy feared, more permanently.
To continue with the explanation, the trek was fine at first but then it took a turn… Irving had led the way to the forest stream - a place Guy was not allowed near when unsupervised. It was there that his cousin had suggested they cross to the other side. Despite the fact that Guy didn't consider himself 'unsupervised' he couldn't count how many times his Mother had told him not to cross the stream - supervised or not. He had never been taught to swim, as his Father considered it a waste of time.
He looked tentatively up at Irving and said in a tiny voice, "I'm not allowed."
The older lad looked shocked and perplexed, then his expression changed into one that made Guy feel addled, "No one would have to know, you little fool."
"But, Mother trusts me."
"And she still will - if we don't tell her."
Guy looked at the toes of his boots and said softly, "I don't think it's a good idea."
"You are such a little Mamma's boy!" Irving hollered, obviously angry that Guy wouldn't give in to his wishes.
Little Guy still stared, fascinated by his boots. He didn't say anything else.
Irving kicked a pile of snow, sending it flittering through the stiff cold air. He looked angrily at everything and then his eyes fell on the creek. The nine year old stopped suddenly and gawked, his expression changed into a sort of maniacal thoughtfulness. "Well, Guy," he started, "I suppose that since you won't do that, I'll just have to conclude that your whole family is addled."
The six year old scowled, "What's that supposed to mean?"
Irving sighed, making Guy feel even more foolish, "It means that even your Father doesn't have any sense. He says that your tongue won't stick to ice - my Father says that it will. Who do you believe?"
Guy answered hesitatingly - there was only one answer that he knew he should give, "My Father."
His older cousin scoffed, smiling down at the little fellow, "Well prove it. Prove your Father knows more than mine - stick your tongue to the frozen stream."
Young Guy's face showed a distinct look of apprehension as he tilted his head up and looked at Irving, "What?"
Pointing at Guy, Irving began, "You have to stick your tongue to the stream." And with a flourish the lad aimed his finger at the iced over water bed.
Guy eyed the frozen water dubiously, he didn't see how this conversation got started and escalated to this. He brushed back his raven bangs, that had so inconveniently fallen into his sharp blue eyes and spoke, "For how long?"
"Just for a few moments," Irving said eloquently.
Guy pressed a finger to his lips in silent contemplation. Irving interrupted Guy's pondering abruptly, "Com'mon, let's see you do it."
Guy felt pushed downwards as the other boy pressed a firm hand to his shoulder. In no time Guy was on his knees in front of the solid water and Irving was egging him on. Slowly Guy stuck his pink tongue out from betwixed his lips. Irving used his hand to persuade his little cousin further down. Soon the young fellow was only an inch or so away from the ice.
Guy's breath came heavily as he worried about his Father being wrong. Hesitantly, Guy pressed his tongue to the frozen water. After an instant he attempted to pull backwards and sit up, having done what had been required of him. With a sick feeling Guy knew that he couldn't. Panicking slightly, he tugged his tongue back to him but it pulled and hurt. Guy let out a small whimper and if he could look behind him, he would have seen his cousin smiling.
"Irving," Guy's voice came out scrambled as he tried to talk. "Help me." The awkward words alarmed him even more and he struggled again to move - to no avail.
Almost choking on his own laughter, Irving managed to get out that he was going to get his Father, Beaumont. Practically biting the poor appendage that was attached to the ice, Guy called out, "Wait! Wait, don't go Irving!"
And now, he was where he was - still rather friendly with the ice. Irving was no where to be found and neither was any savior and it getting closer to a half and a quarter hour. Guy squirmed but that only caused his tongue to throb. That particular member of his body was cold, numb and ached from its extension. The lad had tried several times to pull it back into his mouth but that only led to a ripping sort of feeling and awful pain.
He had given up calling for help, as he cries only came out garbled and muted. In the recesses of his mind, Guy knew that he would be forced to spend the night stuck here and freeze solid. A sharp pang hit his heart when he thought that his Father wouldn't come to look for him, though a while ago he had dreaded that notion. Cold, fatigue, fear, and hurt welled up inside the child who, after all this time, broke down and started to cry. The tears were silent, only broken by the strangled sniffles and gasps that the tightness in his chest caused.
"Guy!"
It took a few seconds to register that his name had been called. Then he heard it again and with it, footsteps muffled by the white snow. Guy Crispin felt a large warm hand upon his back as he lay crouched next to the stream's edge. His Father, Lord Roger, bent down and craned his head to see why his son was staring so intently at the ice. The man started when he saw the problem, What on Earth?
Exhaling dramatically, Lord Rodger placed his sizeable fingers on the ice next to the lad's tongue. He didn't even bother to question Guy at this moment. Slowly he rubbed them back and forth the friction and warmth from his fingers melting his son's captor. It didn't take him long to be able to pull Guy gently free.
Shakily, Guy stood and clung to his Father. A moment of tender paternal affection stole across the man as he smoothed his son's black hair back. Alas, a moment doesn't last long and Lord Rodger lightly pushed Guy away so he could face him. Bending down to the six year olds level, Rodger took Guy by his trembling shoulders, "What, in God's name, were you doing?"
Guy shrugged pathetically, unable to come up with a good answer. His eyes drifted back to the solid water, till his Father, placing a firm hand under Guy's chin, turned him back to look at him.
"I said," Rodger stated, voice calm, "What were you doing there." Feeling unbearably stupid Guy looked anywhere but his Father's expressionless face. Angered by having to repeat the process of turning Guy's head, Lord Rodger growled into the stiff air, the breath he let out looked like smoke from a chimney. "Are you addled, Guy? What ever possessed you to place your tongue to the ice? Every fool knows that it will stick. Do you have mush for brains?" The suffocated sob that he heard, caused Rodger to stop his tirade and look at his son. Mayhap he was being too hard on him, after all he was only a child…
The Lord stood and then Guy blurted, his eyes looking like a tragedy, "It was Irving. H-he said that Uncle Beaumont said your tongue would stick to ice, but you said that it wouldn't." The little black haired lad took a gulp of air and then continued, trying hard to swallow the next snivel that came up into his throat, "I said that I believed you and he said to prove it. So, I did."
Hearing this abbreviated chain of events, Rodger's own chest grew taut as he regretted being so harsh. But, his son had to learn to be a strong man, not a coddled babe - and Rodger was the only one to teach him… The story did have a good effect and Rodger, bending down quickly, scooped little Guy Crispin up into his arms. Thus, began their journey home - where Guy could get warm in front of the blazing fire and Lord Rodger could plan what he was going to tell his brother.
Guy's legs were ridged as he was carried, he felt slightly too old for this treatment (not that he would tell his Father that). He was practically sitting upon the man's arm, the way he was positioned. But, in an odd turn, Guy felt safe. Rarely, ever so rarely, did his Father show him a emotion other than disapproval - this was stunning. These thoughts, for a child so young, were rather sad - that he should only think that his Father was forever disappointed with him.
Rodger, having shifted Guy from one arm to the other, opened the door to the family's manor and walked in with his son. Ghislaine, Guy's Mother, quickly stood from where she was seated still rocking Guy's two year old sister, Isabella. Ghislaine rushed over as Rodger set the boy on the floor, "Are you alright? Is he alright?" Before Rodger had a chance to reply his wife was talking to Guy again, "Qu'est-il arrivé mon amour? Êtes-vous bien?"
The little lad nodded his head and at the same moment his Mother guided him over to the fireplace. Guy stood, his little hands out in front of him, soaking up as much warmth as he could from the red and orange flames - his tongue still felt like the ice it had been stuck to. Meanwhile, Rodger was telling Ghislaine the circumstances surrounding Guy's recovery. Cradling Isabella in the crook of one arm his Mother glanced over at Guy, hand pressed to her mouth.
Laying a hand on her shoulder, Rodger reassured her, though his teeth were slightly gritted, "Don't fret. Irving will not go unpunished. I will not have anyone make a fool of my son. Wait here."
Despite the fact that he did not want his son to act childish, Lord Rodger displayed this very same behavior in some ways. Namely that he wouldn't allow anyone else to make a fool out of his son, but it was perfectly acceptable for him to make Guy feel addled. The Lord stormed out of the manor and into the chill of the evening - he was out to find his brother and nephew. Fortunately he knew where to look and within a short period of time was pounding upon Beaumont's door.
The younger brother came at a dawdled pace, raising Rodger's rancor even more. Without formal procedure Guy's Father lashed out at Beaumont, "Where is that brat of yours?"
Stuttering around, Beaumont said, nervously, "What's this about?"
"This? Well, dear brother, this is about what Irving did to Guy - my son and your future Lord."
Beaumont visibly cringed at the unpleasant mention of Guy's elevated status. "I don't know what your talking about."
Slamming a fist onto the door post and creating a loud bang, Rodger continued, "Irving made Guy stick his tongue to the ice on the stream and then left him there!"
"Well, if your son was ridiculous enough to do such a thing - you would do far better to holler at him."
"Guy is only six years and doesn't yet have the acumen to discern when people - especially his own family - are trying to pull the wool over his eyes!" Rodger was seething and spittle flew out of his mouth and into Beaumont's face as a result of their close proximity.
With exaggerated effect, Beaumont used his right hand to drag over his face in effort to wipe away his brother's angry juices. Using a broad shoulder, Lord Rodger shoved his sibling aside and stomped past him into the house.
"You can't come into my house and attack my son," Beaumont called after his brother's back.
With a swiftness that made the younger shrink, Rodger spun around on his heal and faced his brother, "Then go fetch him."
The righteously indignant Father watched as his nephew was collected and stood in front of him. Rodger had been racking his brain how to punish the lad for what he did to Guy - he thought he had finally come up with the perfect solution, "Irving, you will go to the stream, this instant, and break up all the ice. I don't care if you get cold or wet or if it takes you all week. As a matter of fact," Rodger paused, "Every day this week, you will go and break up the ice and deliver the scraps outside my barn. Understand? Because if you don't - you will suffer a far worse fate than this, I assure you."
Red in the face, Beaumont said, "You can't make him do that! It's inhuman."
There were many things that Lord Rodger could have said but he only said one, "For the record: he isn't."
When Rodger made his way home the sky was very dark and the cold was even worse. He was glad to get indoors and very eagerly stepped in. He was met by something akin to pandemonium. Isabella was in the middle of the floor howling, Ghislaine was no where to be seen, and he could hear, what sounded like Guy, sniffling. "What's going on here!" Rodger yelled, instantly causing Isabella to stop her own screams of frustration, look at her Father and smile. Well, that was one problem solved, though the harried man didn't know how.
His wife's voice rang from the other room, "Guy burnt himself."
Rodger mouthed the words to himself, one moment the boy's half froze the next he's burnt himself. "How did he manage that?"
"He scooted too close to the fire and burnt his backside."
"He burnt his what?"
"You heard what I said Rogie."
Rodger opened his mouth to retort something but shut it quickly as a flicker of a memory flashed through his mind. Something about him and Beaumont as children. It involved a fire place and himself getting too near to the open flame and - well, he pushed it out of his thoughts. No use dwelling on the past, but how, oh how could Guy manage to do the same thing? Rodger did call in again, "Don't speak of this to anyone - especially Beaumont!"
With a spark of anger, Ghislaine yelled from the other room, "Bien sûr que non! I wouldn't do such a thing to Guy! That wretched man would never let him forget it!"
"No," Roger muttered to himself as he lifted Isabella into his arms, "He wouldn't let me forget it - again." For the record: how did I end up with a son capable of repeating history?
A/N Hello! Thanks for reading! I would really like to hear what you thought of this little tale (that's a hint to click on the review button!). You have to feel sorry for poor little Guy - I mean he had to have misplaced a few taste buds on that frozen water… And even if you wouldn't review for me, do it for him. It will make him feel a lot better, I swear! Oh, he also doesn't want to hear that he wasn't thinking properly, he was only six you know. Thanks again.
What happened my love? Are you alright? - Qu'est-il arrivé mon amour? Êtes-vous bien?
Of course not! - Bien sûr que non!