It was a dark and stormy night; the rained poured in angry onslaughts of misery, the wind howled with agony and gut-wrenching tragedy, and the thunder thundered thunderously.
Hidden away in a corner of the realm on this fearsome night, all the good men and fair ladies of the Cavall estate were tucked snugly in their –
ononono
Squire Owen was in an idyllic place – content, and deep in reverie.
Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Squire Owen?"
Tap tap tap tap tap. Tap tap.
Thunk-WAP-THUNK.
Squire Owen of Jesslaw bolted out of sleep and bed, very alarmed; someone, or something, was trying to get into his room. And it sounded very fierce.
In wary silence, eyes wide with fright, Owen crept slowly over to the door.
He turned his head to one side and put an ear against the insubstantially thin door. Coming from the other side, he could hear impatient breathing and loud mutters of frustration.
At that moment, the thing lurking in the hallway had the nerve – the audacity – to try the doorknob.
Owen's pulse quickened but luckily, he had locked his door before going to bed. Really, he had thought on more than one occasion, it would be an awfully awkward situation should one of the Cavall daughters wander innocently into his room, to be accused of unchaste activities.
Thump. Thump.
Oh, but it must have been an evil thing to come for him in the middle of the night! And especially on a night so nasty and miserable as that one, then.
As far as Owen was concerned, there was only one kind creature despicable and vile enough in nature to stoop to such depths.
"Bandits!" He gasped in horror. Owen had always known the day would come when he would have to face his fears, but really, he had hoped it would be later than sooner.
"Squire Owen?" A familiar voice queried from the other side of the door.
Teresa?
Teresa!
Gods be cursed, thought Owen in a panic, the bandits – they had Lady Teresa!
"I'll be right there, Milady!"
Abandoning all plans to hide under his bed until the bandits gave up or moved on, Owen grabbed his sword from his bedside, and rushed at the door, pausing only to gather courage. And, of course, to open the door.
ononono
Teresa of Cavall took a quick step backwards as her father's squire appeared in the corridor, half-dressed and wildly flinging his sword about.
She waited a moment, eyebrows raised, as a profound look of bewilderment settled across Owen's face.
"Where did the bandits go?" He asked urgently.
"Bandits?" Teresa nearly choked on the word, trying to contain a mad giggle.
Owen didn't notice though, he was too busy looking around the hallway, scrutinizing every shadow.
"The bandits," he repeated. "Left or Right?"
A small smile tugged at the corners of Teresa's lips. "Oh, those bandits. Left."
The words had barely left her mouth before she was watching Owen tear down the corridor in his stocking feet.
Teresa sighed, her conscience catching up with the situation. She couldn't do this - it was like stealing a chew toy from one of the newborn puppies.
"Owen, come back," she said, but Owen continued tearing down the hall.
"Squire Owen. Sq -- JESSLAW."
Owen stopped dead and turned around, obeying the barked order that approached the tone that Lord Wyldon used so often.
"Yes, sir - " Owen gulped, "- Milady?"
"There aren't any bandits," offered Teresa apologetically.
"No bandits?" Owen's features were scrunched in confusion.
"Mm."
"But the. You said..."
Teresa unconsciously tapped her foot. "I said what?"
Owen cringed from past experience, foot tapping warranted an immediate response. "You said that they went left."
Teresa shifted uncomfortably. "Well, They didn't."
Owen paused, troubled, as he visibly worked out all the options. "Then they went right?"
"No."
"Oh."
"…"
"So which way did they go?" Owen asked.
Teresa took a deep breath to calm herself, rather than scream in frustration – it wasn't his fault that the Gods had forgotten to give him part of his brain.
"There are no bandits, Squire Owen. None at all."
Owen grinned. "I knew that, actually."
Teresa started; his smile looked suspiciously like a smirk. Squire Owen did not smirk. Indeed, smirking was a most unlike Squire-Owen-thing to do.
It must have been the dim lighting. Yes, the dim lighting.
"No you didn't," taunted Teresa, mostly to put her world at balance once again. "You, squire, would have torn the castle apart to find these 'bandits' had I not stopped you."
Owen pouted at her. "You lied."
Teresa primly averted her eyes and changed the subject.
"You, Squire Owen, are wearing a deplorable lack of clothing to be in the company of your knight-master's daughter."
Owen jumped, indignantly. "You woke me up! And then pretended to be bandits!"
"Mm," Teresa's eyes remained fixed on a patch of air, a foot to the right of Owen's head.
Owen shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his bare chest and squinting at Teresa in the candlelight.
"You though, milady, are wearing enough clothes for the both of us. Where are you planning on going?"
"We, Squire Owen, are going to The Turtle's Tail."
"We?" squeaked Owen, his voice rising into a falsetto. "Oh no, no no. Are you insane?"
"…"
"Milady," protested Owen, hurriedly. "I told you that I'd rather not go."
Owen's protest were met with silence and he reflected ruefully that Teresa had the uncomfortable ability to say more with her silence than most people could say in an epic ballad.
Owen thought fast and hard – or as fast and hard as the said Squire could think, which by Teresa's standards, wasn't all that fast or hard – maybe appealing to reason would work; Teresa liked reason.
"Have you looked outside? The weather is horrible." Owen stressed the last word, drawing it out with relish.
Teresa grinned, finally returning her gaze to Owen's face "All the better, I should think; fewer people will see us then."
All things considered, that did seem reasonable to Owen.
"Lady Teresa?"
"Yes, Squire Owen."
"What are you carrying?"
Teresa grinned wickedly. That, in Owen's experience was never a good sign.
ononono
"No. There is no way. Absolutely not." On a good day, Owen of Jesslaw was not whiny. This, as far as he was concerned, was not a good day.
"Come on, Squire," urged Teresa. "It's getting late."
Owen remained behind the dressing screen, not moving.
"Did there really need to be this many frills?" he asked.
"Oh yes," replied Teresa earnestly. "Cousin Milly is from the Port Caynn. Everyone knows that frills are all the rage in Port Caynn."
A sad moan came from behind the screen.
"Let me see," demanded Teresa. "It can't be that bad."
"Can't it?" asked Owen pitifully. "I'm not sure that I've put some of these garments –" a very un-ladylike retching sound " – on how they were meant to be."
"If you don't come out after three," Teresa threatened unsympathetically. "I'm going to come and drag you out by the frills."
"I thought that a lady, such as yourself, wouldn't use something so vulgar as threats of violence." Owen implied a smug 'ha'.
"True. But ladies such as myself, seldom have to deal with Squires such as you." Teresa grinned evilly before continuing.
"Oh and Squire? That wasn't a threat: it was a promise. And everyone knows that ladies, such as myself, always keep their promises."
So of course, Owen had to leave the safety of the screen once it had become a matter of squirely pride. Although, Owen was fairly sure that squirely pride also dictated that one must not dress up as a girl.
"One… Two…" Teresa began to count menacingly before clapping her hands over her mouth in shock.
Owen stood dejectedly, a scowl on his face. "See? It is that bad."
"It's not that it's bad," said Teresa after a moment of stunned silence. "You just don't look very –"
" – Girly?" Finished Owen.
"Maybe if I gave you some face-paint," she concluded doubtfully.
Owen backed away quickly, "No."
Teresa looked relieved. "It would probably wash away in the rain, anyways."
"Yes, I'm sure it would."
Teresa's eyes widened suspiciously. "You're sure, Squire Owen, are you? You have experience with face paint then?"
"No, of course not." Owen looked appalled.
Teresa considered, "Well, there is the whole tradition down in Corus."
The blood drained from Owen's face. "What tradition?"
"Lady Alanna did masquerade as a boy for eight whole years," stated Teresa in her most matter-of-fact way.
Owen thought about this for a few moments. "It isn't quite the same."
"It's your voice," exclaimed Teresa who had been eying Owen carefully.
"My voice isn't quite the same?" Asked Owen, bewildered. His episodes of absolute confusion were rapidly becoming both more frequent and closer together.
Owen could feel a headache lurking somewhere close by.
"Last time I saw her, cousin Milly's voice was higher." Teresa explained patiently, as if she were talking to a small child. "Milly shouldn't sound like she has laryngitis."
Owen grumbled, "I have a lot of things that cousin Milly shouldn't."
Teresa managed to look both suitably appalled and innocently naive.
"Excuse me?" she asked, finally.
"I said," sulked Owen, " that cousin Milly is about to walk over four miles in a thunder storm. Maybe she can get laryngitis."
A pointed Teresa silence.
"Fine," Owen's voice came out high pitched and breathy. "Is this any better?" Owen twirled a finger through the hair of his brown, curly wig and batted his eyelashes charmingly.
Teresa narrowed her eyes as she moved to straighten his skirts. "Squire Owen, did you just by any chance giggle?"
Owen looked perfectly horrified and his "No!" came out low, and growly.
Teresa coughed pointedly.
"A-hem," amended Owen in his Milly-voice. "Of course I giggled, Teresa darling. Girls like myself – the frill wearing sort – love to giggle."
Insert frivolous giggle here.
Teresa handed Owen her sister's cloak and backed towards the door. "If this hadn't been my idea, and a brilliant one, I'd say that you're beginning to frighten me."
Owen brightened immediately and twirled towards the door, hampered only by his strained efforts to wrap himself in the cloak that Teresa had given him.
Undaunted, Owen bantered playfully. "You say such mean things, Cousin. I'm crushed."
"Oh," Teresa smirked. "Is that why your posture looks like that of a country-bred adolescent boy?"
Owen scowled before pushing back his shoulders. It was going to be a long night.
ononono
Wyldon woke up with a start, without knowing why.
He tossed and turned.
He rolled onto his left side.
Then he turned right.
And then left.
And back.
"Wyldon?" Vivenne's voice was thick with sleep.
"Did you hear something, too?" asked Wyldon worriedly.
Vivenne groaned. "Go back to sleep, dear."
Wyldon stared at the ceiling and tried counting sheep.
One…
Two…
Three…
ononono
"That is the fourth time," declared Teresa through clenched teeth as they snuck past the last sentry on Cavall grounds, "that Squire Owen has managed to run into me. His grace and elegance astounds us all."
Owen pouted; it wasn't easy running in skirts.
Owen was singing to himself, over the rain and wind.
"Oh, oh, oh.
Milly was so frilly,
that people called her silly.
And then…
Then she married Billy!
Oh, oh, oh."
Teresa snickered, and although it was thundering thunderously, Owen distinctly heard her ask "Billy? Anyone that I might know?"
Owen stopped singing.
ononono
It was a dark and stormy night, when two weary travelers were swept with a gust of wind, into the little tavern that the locals called 'The Turtle's Tail'.
As the door banged open, the two, cloaked figures were silhouetted by an ominous flash of lightening. The moment was some what ruined, as absolutely no one in the tavern looked their way.
"Close the door, then. You're letting the heat on out."
"Yar, and the dry too."
Teresa made a face at Owen and closed the door before taking of her cloak. "Evening, Dal."
"Tessa, Tessa!" the barman beamed. "It's been a very while, hasn't it?"
Teresa nodded as Owen gaped. He'd called her Tess before. Once, and had almost be maimed for doing so.
"Who's yer friend?"
Teresa smiled sweetly. "This," she said, "is Milly."
Owen managed half of an awkward curtsy before passing out on the floor in a dead faint.
Fenella