Disclaimer: I do not own anything of, or remotely pertaining to A
Knight's Tale. If I do, most of the cast in the movie would probably
be gay. So there.

Rating: PG-13 to eventual NC-17 (tastefully done, of course)

Pairing(s): Chaucer and Wat, Will and Jocelyn

Archivable? Hell yes! ^_~


And now, without further adieu-do...



Troubles In Paradise



Prologue



It hadn't even been three years since the famed 'Lord Ulrich' had won his lady fair, and already there was trouble brewing in paradise.

Or maybe a better phrase I should use would be 'storming'.

 Not that it's really any of my business and all, I mean I'm just his former squire, and honestly don't have any place in mulling over the poor bloke's personal life.  But whenever I see 'im standing there, that wounded, doe-eyed look planted on his face that he gets only when his Lady's displeased with 'im, I just feel this queer, motherly need to go over and shove his face full 'a cream puffs and a good pint of ale to ease his pains. (At least, that's what works for me when I'm chewing on something tough.)

It's not like our Will to be so bloody unoptimisitic. Believe me,  that's saying something when William Thatcher, believer, dreamer-extraordinaire, former squire like Yours Truly, and would-be-knight that somehow, by some amazing stroke of fool luck, managed to get exactly what he wanted, gets depressed.

I'm not talking about the pouty, lovers-quarrel type 'a depressed, but the real deal.

The bloke can't even stand the sight of 'imself in the mirror anymore, that's how bad it's got. Some days Roland'll even coax me into trying to talk some sense into him, maybe convince 'im to go out for a good 'ol fashioned night-on-the-town like we used to when we hadn't a care in the world 'cept accumulation of the coin we earned that week, or when it was we'd eat next. Pitiful thing it is when all he'll do is shake his head all moppy-like and pretend like he doesn't hear you, or mumble to himself about 'that woman' like you're not even in the bloomin' room anymore.

I've given up, Roland's certainly given up, and Kate's even given up; she's a woman for Christ's sake. They love squeezing words out 'o us until the blood spurts from our ears. Like talking really helps much.

Oh damn, I didn't mean to use the Lord's name in vain. Oh shite, I said 'damn', didn't I?

Ugh,  I should probably just stop thinking all together. My dear mum always said I was better with my fists then my brains, anyway. A remarkable scots woman, she was, and packed a brawny fist like no other. If I didn't inherit her red hair and temper, it had to definitely be that last she was known for.

Bear with me ladies and 'gents, I wouldn't be losing my train of thought and thinking at all for the life of me, if I didn't have such an important story to tell.

Er, at least an interesting one, anyway.

I'm no writer or poet 'o 'course,  not like that limp-wristed, bug-eyed, smug little nonce that's still constantly loosing 'is cloths to gambling to this very day. No, I'm your average, run-of-the-mill englishman that just happens to have the right connections and some right good friends. Though Geoff did tell me that I've got a certain...er, how was it that Miss Fancy Pants had said it? Oh, I remember! A certain "plebian charm with words. Simple and utterly, loathesomely straightforward and to the point."

Don't really know what that means for sure, but he doesn't need to know that. Sounds pretty though, whatever it was. I think it might've been the first compliment he's ever given me.

Oh, but I'm losing sight of my tale again. Alright, take a deep breath and start at the begining, Wat. I mean, where else would you start, it's not like you could start at the end and make the end your beginning, then go to the beginning and make that your end, that'd just be stupid. You gotta start at the beginning beginning, or else no one'll get it, not the end beginining...