This has been lying around unpublished for some time. It was my attempt to write a historical story, using rather archaic language. I hope you like it. (Thanks to snoopercharmbrights for reviewing).
Carcassonne - Bad Hobbit ©
Chapter One – One Night, One Room, Two Ladies
It is strange, the way fate turns, is it not? By the time I was thirty I had travelled the seas of the East and far to the West. At eighteen I walked in the Americas, taking my share of loot and women as I saw fit with my fellow conquistadores. At twenty-five, aboard a Portuguese trader, I landed in the Indies, and spent five years with a Siamese woman, learning simplicity, love and cleanliness – before she was taken from me by malaria. Returning to Spain a wealthy man, I fetched up first in Cadiz, and then worked my way to Malaga, now a man of means – and not a little guile. But I could not settle among people so uncouth, having seen what I had seen, and I had little time for those who showed so little real civilisation, who so readily defiled the beauty the Moors had left them, who lived in filth, squalor, intolerance and ignorance.
I met Rodrigo in Almeria. Although ten years my junior, like myself he was a man of humble birth and a wanderer who saw the world for what it was – a sorry thing, directed by vile men who understood little and cared less. Like me, he had scant respect for the aristocrats, who were simply the many-generationed bastard offspring of pirates and brigands who had themselves taken their grand estates and lofty titles from the rightful owners by force. Equally, he hated the priests who used superstition and invented ritual which had little to do with the teachings of our Lord to justify their fat and meaningless existences.
With little persuasion he fell into the role of my manservant, companion and confidant, and we learned much from each other.
I tutored him in Portuguese, while he in turn taught me French. Our mutual facility for languages became useful as, more for sport than enrichment, we slid effortlessly into a life of trickery and deceit, aimed purely at those we despised. Wealthy merchants, landowners, bishops, cardinals, dukes and minor royalty were all charmed by the
gentilhombre
and his faithful companion, telling fascinating tales of strange places and wild adventures. More than a few young women fell under our spell, and while I charmed and seduced the wives and daughters of grandees, Rodrigo consorted with the maidservants.
Leaving Barcelona in some haste, due to a misunderstanding over the maidenhead of the Duke of Bilbao's daughter and some trifling missing gemstones, we crossed the border into France, and descended into Carcassonne. The citadel was impressive, and we fetched up at an inn selected more for its anonymity and seclusion than for any obvious merit of meat or drink. (We suspected that the Duke was not a forgiving man, and we anticipated pursuit.) Nonetheless, the place was clean and comfortable enough, the food wholesome and the wine certainly better than passable. The beds were large and well-tightened, the feather mattresses clean and apparently free from vermin, and the rooms well-swept.
The establishment was run by a woman of perhaps thirty-five years, who looked rather care-worn, with just a young serving girl and a pot-boy to help her. That night we were the only guests staying, although a few locals were drinking in the quiet and subdued atmosphere, in sharp contrast to the more boisterous places on the main street. By the look of the landlady's clothing, business was not good.
I sat with Rodrigo, enjoying what was undoubtedly the best wine we'd tasted in a week, watching the serving wench at her work. She was pretty, blonde, with a sweet smile and a graceful manner. As I watched, the landlady came to our table.
"Good evening, monsieur. Are you enjoying our wine?"
"It is good, thank you madame. Where is it from?"
"The local vineyards at Roussillon. The owner selects only the best for us. And the food? Was it to your liking?"
"Excellent thank you."
"And how do you like my daughter?"
I felt a pang of concern here. The mother was about to warn me to stop admiring the young wench. But I looked from one woman to the other and smiled.
"Surely this girl is not really your daughter? For one thing, you are far too young to have a girl of her age as your own." She smiled at the compliment. "And secondly, I see little family resemblance. The girl looks more as if she hails from much further North – Alsace, Bavaria perhaps – whilst you have the rich, dark good looks or this region. I see no shared features in your appearance."
"Monsieur, you flatter me, but you are clearly no fool. Marie is my foster daughter. I took her in when her mother died – she came from the North, as you say. But she is a beauty, do you not think?"
"Indeed, a very pretty girl."
"For a gentleman of refinement such as yourself, she would make a merry bedfellow."
"I doubt it not, but I suspect I am rather too old for her tastes. She will prefer young boys her own age."
"Ah, sir, but for a mere five francs she will gladly overcome these shallow preferences for this evening, and show her appreciation of a man of quality."
"Five francs, madame!" Rodrigo interjected with some scorn. "There are stews aplenty in this town where one can find a buxom lass for a franc or two. Is she a virgin?"
