Pairings: attempted Will/Geoff, Will/Jocelyn, Roland/Christina, et cetera...
It's Chaucer's Point Of View, Post-Will/father scene, pre-'Intervention'.
I hear the first tolling of the Angelus bells(1) and a small smile spread across my face. It's been six month's since I've heard that sweet ringing. It's just another little reminder that I'm home, but I'm glad to hear it.
The sound is mixed and muted by the barking of the near-feral dogs on the docks of the River Thames, the early cries of roosters, and everything else that's trying to make its presence known on this humid morning. The sun's rays have barely touched the horizon, but by all accordance and the laws of Angelus, the good, common persons of London should already be up.
The noise has startled me out of a daze, a self-induced method that I use to ignore this lovely little headache I've had since Bordeaux. When I finally hear the ringing with my clear head and sound mind, I realize it's later than I had thought. Or would it be earlier, considering it's a new day now? The headache has left me thoroughly confused, and I'm hoping for some great enlightenment to wake me up. Angelus first rings for early morning mass –a bothersome I haven't been a part of in years- and the end of the night watch.
Speaking of the law... through the grubby windows and tattered curtains, I can just make out the figure of a lone constable prowling the streets. A brave act, considering this side of London isn't too fond of his sort. He's not the same one that I saw when I entered the tavern, though. No, that one was of a mean type, with a scar running down his face and blank eyes. This one looks rather decent in the blue and brass.
From the distance, I see he's got a cocky smirk on his tender lips. I shift in my seat and find that I'm craving to wipe it away with a tender kiss. He's maybe seven years younger than me, but I still want to devour him up. The uniform is cut quite nicely, emphasizing the right parts and revealing to me broad shoulders. He's probably from a family of relative wealth, because I notice sliver buckles on his boots and a full purse attached to his belt. It would also explain his arrogance and the lack of any sort of weapon besides the gilded dagger on his thigh and the baton he keeps twirling.
As he walks –no, he's the sort who strides- closer towards my window and a hurried man that stands near it, I calmly observe that he'd probably look even better without a stitch on. Now if only I wasn't feeling as horrid as I am... I'd probably strike up a conversation with this man. He looks the type...
I close my eyes and struggle to shake those pleasant thoughts out of my mind. Then, when I've finally clear my mind, I try to asses my current circumstances. It was raining when I first entered the tavern, but apparently it had stopped. All that was left were the muddy and garbage-filled streets. How long have I been gone, then?
Briefly, I wonder if anyone's missed me. Wat? Well, if only to try to berate and kick my shin a few good times; or as that fine man would put it, "fong me". Kate? We've been traveling together for months and I feel I still hardly know the girl. Roland? Yes, I forgot about his –err, well, our argument. Something to do with a mincemeat pie...
That left Geoff and my blond Lord. I chew on my bottom lip, thinking about my mixed emotions towards the two. With a startling revelation that makes me hate myself even more, I realize that I'm actually the former. Such a fool. And the latter... I forgot I didn't want to brood over that particular boy tonight.
What was I thinking about before than, before my little day dream? Roland's mincemeat pie? What the hell would I want with a mincemeat pie? As I'm starting to remember the reason why I've been sitting here, alone, in this miserable excuse for a tavern, I lean back in my chair. Yes, there's the creaking noise that warns me it's going to give out under my weight. It'd be best to ignore that. But pie?
"And if only I had one now...," I mumble after my belly lets out a particularly loud complaint. What shall I have to break fast, than? Instincts tell me, considering the state of this tavern and the looks of the serving girls, that anything I were to try to consume would probably taste of rat droppings, or worse. Most likely worse.
Deciding to skip the first meal, I instead take a quick survey my fellow patrons. The delightful, stinking occupants of...what was the name? I can't quite remember the picture painted on the warped sign above the main door, it appears in my mind now as a faded red splotch on a white background. But hell, I can barely remember my own name... ah, yes, the Fine Fox.
We're a lovely bunch, those of us in this particular tavern. Even though it's nigh five o'clock in the morning, it has patrons. The serving girls are still prancing around the common room with their puckered lips and powdered faces—to hide the bruises or the pox, I haven't decided which yet- though they are more dour and weary than before. They've been serving all night and are waiting for the next shift so they can go home and soak their calloused feet.
The last of the Cyprians are lined up in the middle of the room, each more suggestive than the last, still trying to attract a potential john. Or if they finally have one, they're sitting on that man's lap, smiling wide, trying to hide the syphilis they've contracted because of their very work.
The real gents –the young, grinning princes- with their embroidered tunics and polished swords sit together in the middle, not too far off from the women or the bar. These are the ones who decided to go slumming for the night and then well into morn'. While they've been sampling the local brandy –a vile concoction that I've managed to choke down more than once- they've attracted all forms of the pickpocket because they forgot to hide their golden splendor. It makes me smile a little more. At least I won't be the only one suffering later on because of a night in the Fox.
And there are other men here, too, besides the foolhardy lord-lings. They are common men who sit around crowded tables, enjoying a pint with their friends after a long evening on the night shift. I despise these men, for they seem to hold no imagination at all. They follow the same routine nearly everyday –wake, set off to their respective jobs, slug one back at the Fox, go home, beat their wives into submission, sleep. Except for the occasional brawl, that is all they ever do. At the moment though, I don't know who to pity more though, them or me...
Least common in the Fox are those like me- men without girls in their arms or friends at their sides. We take up the individual tables along the wall, staring into our rum or ale, wishing we weren't. I've studied each of these men, just as they've considered me. We're the kind of men who don't like our own breed. We're the ones who pray for a knife in a dark alley to slice our throats and end that particular misery known as life.
I run a hand through my short locks and act as dramatic as I can. I let out a sigh and swirl the contents of my mug around; I'm really caught up in the moment now. The real reason why I was here was because I didn't want anybody I knew to see me like this. I just couldn't take it anymore, and with a straight face.
He's probably out with his lady right now... I let my finger trace over one particularly annoying engraving on the table. And why shouldn't he be? He's happy isn't he; a lot more happy than he'd ever be with me. My fingernail follows the mark all the way up to where my mug of ale is sitting. With a dejected sigh, I pick it up and finish it off in one last swig.
As the last few droplets pass over my tongue, I notice a group of men circled 'round a table in a darker corner of the oh-so-luminous tavern. They've got a particular look to them -anxious, restless, and apprehensive. My look. I've indeed found a group of brothers. Men, who otherwise wouldn't talk to each other, united with one common passion –gambling.
I take another quick glimpse around the common room. I've found that after years of gambling, I could figure out what game was popular just by the appearance of the tavern. Seedy, frayed wall-hangings, chipped dishware, and a distinct, foul odor I can't quite place... like rotting fish and pig shit. That's the one. And according to this grubby little portion of London that we're located in, I'd bet they're playing Put & Take. I mentally run the rules over my head. It's been a while since I've been allowed to gamble –thank you m'lord, let alone play a decent game.
Spin the top –or rather, the scopperil(2), and according to how it landed, you either put a copper piece in, depone; take one out, aufer; do nothing, nihil; or win the whole pot, totum.
It's an easy game, I'll admit, but it was starting to get to me. I could hear their scopperil hitting the table, and the men rubbing their silver and copper pieces together, for luck. To play or not to play...it's so tempting. I'm fighting the overpowering urge to relocate myself to a seat at their table and join in on the gaming. I can feel my own well-worn scopperil piece in my purse. The letters are nearly faded, but it could still hold up for a few more rounds. I finger it, for luck.
I stare down at my own table and try to ignore how my fingers are twitching and that my heart's beating faster than normal. I draw in a few shallow lungfulls of air and convince myself that I really am trying my best to resist. Where's Wat when you need him? A good fonging would suit me right about now. Or where's Roland or Kate for that matter? Or Wil-at. Wat. What the hell am I doing in this tavern all by myself, anyway?
Before I could contemplate this any further, a man comes bursting in through the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I see it is the very constable I had been admiring earlier. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wild. Everyone in the rundown tavern seems to realize that something was amiss because suddenly everything goes still. Even the lord-lings stop their petty flirting to see what the matter is.
The young constable still stands there in the doorframe, panting as if he's trying to catch his breath. To some minor disappointment, I see his smirk is gone and his luscious lips are instead stretched into a repulsive grimace. I realize he's, in all probability, nervous. We –the gathered scum of London- are all staring intently at his lone self.
"Well," I say softly, but with enough force to be heard throughout the room. "Spit it out then."
He stammers on about something, and I find he's not quite as striking as I had originally thought. He doesn't have my gift of speech; though many people don't, but he could at least talk above that ghastly whisper if he wanted people to hear him proper...I'm starting to ignore my man when a few chance words catch my ears,
"Lord...found out he's not, he's not who he's been claimin'... He's a sham, a liar. They saw he's a Thatcher's son." He says these last words bitterly, and at once I know who he's talking about.
After my heart falls to the floor, there's first the sound of three copper pieces hitting the wooden table and then the tavern bursting into an outrage. Suddenly, I find myself stalking across the common room and brushing past the constable. If I had cared, I would have noted that he really wasn't that appealing to me now, kind of ugly in fact, but those nasty thoughts were long out of my mind. I do stop, however, to ask a brief question,
"Did they arrest him yet, man?" I try not to let the urgency slip in.
"Wha-what?" He manages to stutter. He's baffled and confused and probably doesn't know the answer to my question. It doesn't hurt to ask though...
"Lord Ulrich, or what ever his proper name is; did they catch him? As in, is he in jail?" my voice cracks over the last word and I wince.
He's eyeing me up and down, as I had done earlier to him. I'm sure he's starting to remember me from the parade. He at least has to recognize the coat. How many other men in all of London own one of these, and then actually wear it in public(3)?
Luckily, he doesn't say as much. My man merely shakes his head. I hold my hand out to his, and when he touches mine, I let two more coppers pass from my palm to his. My purse is a lot lighter than I intended it to be when I first walked into the Fox.
He's confused, I can see. He's lot younger than I thought if he doesn't understand the game, yet, wealthy or not. I release his hand, though, and continue out onto the muddy streets.
The sun had nearly risen over the horizon, illuminating the puddles, making them seem like large teardrops. The heavens knew... they were crying for him last night. When I'm in a state like I am now, I start to become highly over dramatic and my mind makes connections that otherwise never would have occurred to me. It's great when you're a writer, but horrible when you're trying to live out life.
My headache's gone. I calmly note as I step over a sizeable brook that's collected in the middle of the street. And then with a clear mind, I start to wonder how we're going get him safely of this fix. So they've finally figured us out. I've got to find everyone... get everyone out of London. Especially him. I need to get him out of London. It'll be the stocks first and then the gallows, and I refuse to let that happen to him, or to any of us.
I've made promises to myself before. I was going to stop gambling. I was going to be more faithful to the wife(4). I was going to, well, I was going to confess my feelings to a certain blond-haired knig- No, I shan't be using that word- My blond William.
No, but this, this was a real promise. A vow, a pledge, an oath. Pick any word, none of them would suffice. This was much bigger. I would not see him hang...But then, how do I save him?
Jocelyn. She'll know what to do.
1. Real. Not quite what they used in the movie post Will/Father scene –zooming into stadium but I think it still applies :)
2. Also known as a teetotum or a jenny-spinner, they look like the Jewish dreidel.
3. I love that coat. It is seriously pimpin'
4. Deleted scenes on the DVD or in any biography of Geoffrey Chaucer... Knowledge Is Power!
Disclaimer: A Knight's Tale belongs to Columbia Pictures, not me. "Let Forever Be" belongs to the Chemical Brothers. All other characters, unless noted, are mine. Yah for creativity! Yah for people who review/hint