The best part of a living history event is after hours, when the public goes home and the re-enactors relax into a kind of limbo between their chosen historical period and the modern world. It probably looks odd to those more used to a world of tracksuits and take-aways, seeing all these people sitting around a campfire in thick layers of wool and linen, drinking ale flavoured with bog myrtle or coriander rather than the modern hopped beers, swapping stories of how they were killed on the tourney field that day.
In the small hours, when the ale and mead have done their work, you'll see these half breeds perhaps singing a strange medley of current and traditional songs - generally out of tune - but hey, who cares amongst friends, right? Sometimes you even get liaisons of a kind you might only dream about tucked up safe in your warm centrally heated house.
This had been a perfect show in many ways. The weather had been sunny, the public free with their cash, and not too many smart-arses telling me how no-one ever washed in the middle ages or that everyone was short back then. I'd spent the day demonstrating natural dyes and herb use, and as usual, most of my conversations had been with older ladies who remember different ways of household management, and who all had stories of their own to tell.
The old men amused me, there was a generation out there that grew up on the silver screen historicals, when a girl in a wimple and tightly laced dress hinted at volumes, although all that the cinema viewer saw was the close lipped kiss as the violin played in the background. I actually enjoy seeing their eyes cross my body, see that moment of nostalgia as they remember the old films and the yielding heroines. It's not a threat. I choose to see it as a compliment. I'd flirt mildly with them, always deferring to their wives with whom I exchange a knowing glance: It's their age, humour them.
Most of the men my age were hardly worth the effort. The ones who come in as public visitors to the show were too detached from the past, too hung up on everything new. While, most of the re-enactors spend too much time on the ale and not enough time practising to wear the armour they tried to swagger around the tourney field in.
This year though, there was a new face, a new body encased in layers of quilted linen and steel. And he's not your typical re-enactor. This one had the tent kitted out with replica furniture, the custom made suit of mail and plate, the banner and the collection of assorted weaponry. But he didn't have the swagger, he didn't have the hangers on or a girlfriend in an elasticised shift, he didn't have a group to be matey with. He was an enigma, and I was intrigued.
I watched him surreptitiously today, out on the training field with the other wannabe knights. He trained hard, gave in with grace when he was beaten, showed no quarter when he's got the advantage. After all these years I thought I was immune to the boys in the tin suits, but I have to admit I was impressed.
If I was a giggling maiden, I'd have offered him a favour to tie onto his sword pommel. But since I'm not, I just watched.
There were some strong fighters on the field today, and the bright sun made it hot going. Even though he was a skilled swordsman I can see him take a few batterings as the visiting public wander back and forth, believing that they are taking in history when all they were getting was themed entertainment.
Eventually they go home. The re-enactors disperse to their tents and gradually reconvene by the campfire. I sat, quietly watching the comings and goings, while drinking a glass of birch sap wine. I felt as if I was waiting for something, but it was a languorous feeling after a long day on my feet.
Suddenly I can see him, buying a pint of ale at the bar. I realised that I was more than intrigued by this man. He'd been stripped down to shirt and hose, and with his sleeves rolled back above the elbow I was very conscious of the musculature of his forearms. This happened to be one of my favourite parts of a man, those strong muscles, the broad hands and the suggestion of hairiness. If the hair on the arms was too thick, I could tell that he's probably a bit of a gorilla, but the hairiness was just right though. It told me that the possibilities were tantalising.
He sat down not far from me, finding a spare log to relax against. I could see now that below the collar of his shirt he'd received bruises and abrasions from the tourney earlier. The healer in me pushes aside my desire to watch him quietly.
"Looks like you took a few knocks today," I said, nodding at him over the rim of my glass.
He smiled and shruggged, a gesture that charmed me more than any description of the days exploits ever could.
I pulled myself to my feet, then standing beside him, I suggested. "Here, let me take a look at those."
His skin was hot against my fingertips, and I pulled aside the neck of his shirt to examine his slightly grazed skin. "Nothing serious, but you're going to feel them in the morning, I suspect." I probed the skin with my hands, feeling for the knots of muscle and tension, enjoying the scent of him, a pleasant mixture of hard work, campfires and the soap with which he clearly had a quick wash before coming to the bar.
"Mmm," he leaned into my hands. "That's fantastic, I didn't realise I had muscles inside those aches." He looks round and caught my eye. "I thought I needed a squire to help with all the armour, maybe I need a healer instead."
His look said even more, underlying the genuine gratitude for a moment's kindness was more than a flicker of interest. Just for a second I debated the wisdom of taking this further, then I realised my hands were still on his body, idly caressing the back of his neck, and the moment decides itself. "Right then," I said, trying to appear nonchalant in front of the others round the fire, several of whom are watching this exchange from behind their drinks. "If you're going to be fit for tomorrow we need to work these knots out. I've got a herbal oil that will help. Buy me another drink, and I'll try to sort you out."
I rushed off to my tent, wondering if I'd gone mad, and decided by the time I get there that if I've misread the situation I can still enjoy touching that torso, then go back to the fire later. I fetched a bottle of herb infused oil from my tent, and looked round to see him heading for his own pavilion with a couple of fresh drinks. By the time I get there, the place was lit by candles, and again I was impressed by the quality of his equipment.
Half close your eyes and you could imagine yourself in another time.
I was particularly impressed by the bed. Most of us disguise an inflatable mattress, but he had a proper wooden bed, with a canopied drape to keep out the chills, and his armour chest was placed to the side where it could double as a table. The wood gleamed softly in the candle light, and the rich colours of the drapes and bedding created a sense of luxury. Of course, we were still in the middle of a field surrounded by carousing re-enactors.
"Take your shirt off," I instructed him, shamelessly staring as he fluidly pulled it over his head.
I was right about the arms, and the rest was just as beautifully muscled with just the right amount of crisp hair across his broad chest. Now he was wearing just his hose and boots, and the fitted garment clung to the curves of his legs. The metal tipped laces at the top edges of his hose, defunct now but normally used to tie doublet and hose together, served to draw my eye to his waist - good, flat middle, nicely defined muscles, the trail of body hair made me want to explore further.
Sure I was flushing now, and aware that he'd seen the look on my face, I thought it best to brazen it out. "Would you rather sit or lie down for this?" I enquired politely, trying to keep to the first business at hand.
