Nolsby and Edmund were infamous for villainy across the Barony of Timdilly. As boys, they led a poorly supervised existence near the charcoal kiln where their fathers scratched a meager living. Occasionally they pilfered goods from freehold and tenant farmers nearby; more often they indulged themselves in churlish pranks. On one occasion they snuck into Sir Louvel's own pastures and painted erect phalluses on the flanks of the cattle. The stunt elicited covert laughter from the common folk nearabout; however, Sir Louvel could not ignore the affront to his dignity and issued an ordinance to the effect that the perpetrators be publicly thrashed with a switch. Although most of the locals suspected Nolsby and Edmund, their guilt could never be proved. As young men, the two miscreants took their places at their fathers' charcoal kiln. They supplemented this work by selling cords of firewood to the folk of Timdilly Town. The profit of this venture was ensured by a series of onerous regulations designed to halt the remorseless destruction of the woodland where Sir Louvel hunted with his dogs.
On one morning in early summer, the two men traveled north along Timdilly Lane toward the forest where they planned to cut firewood. They went in leisurely strides leading a small pony and rickety cart. Rounding a bend in the lane, they noticed the approach of Torman, a tenant farmer who lived on a farmstead nearby. His son Tawncy walked by his side; the boy stared with admiration at butterflies as they flittered through a field of ripening barley. Torman came up at an easy pace and stopped to give a salutation.
"Well then boys, where are you going today? I figured that you would not return to the kiln for a few days."
Nolsby responded wistfully. "We are for the forest to cut wood. Naturally, we would prefer to stay in town for more wine bibbing. But we must not idle, lest we die in penury."
"That is commendable and industrious of you. My boy and I are bound for the hayfields. Sir Louvel anticipates a few days of fine weather and he wants the mowing done before the rains come and rot the stores."
Nolsby and Edmund looked at each other for an instant. "That is sensible policy. You will be absent for a day or two then?"
"Even with all hands, there is much scything and bailing. I expect we will be away for three days at least. Alison will have to manage on her own for a while."
Nolsby and Edmund stood looking at each other for a moment after Peter and Tawncy went on with their business. Their chatter grew exuberant as they continued along the lane. After an hour, they turned off Timdilly Lane and made their way down a narrow, rutted track. In due course, they arrived at the fenced yard in front of Torman's cottage. The yard was in pristine order; hens had been turned out to peck at the ground. A pig snorted noisily as it picked through a pile of acorns. The cottage itself was whitewashed and crowned with fresh thatch. The front door hung ajar, and all the windows were open to admit the morning breeze. From inside the hut, the boys heard the rhythmic thrush whoosh of a broom; Torman's wife, Alison, was singing a buoyant melody as she went about her chores.
--
Before dawn, Alison awoke in her family's pallet near the hearth of their cottage. The embers had burned low; the features of the room were obscured in inky darkness. Torman snored gently; Tawncy, lying crosswise at their feet, made no sound at all. Alison rose with sluggish resolution. She tossed a few slender branches to the embers; their burning suffused the room in flickering orange light. She pulled a red frock over her undergarments and tied up her mussy, raven hair with a strip of wool cloth. Bucket in hand, she went into the paling darkness of the yard. A trail at the back of the yard brought her to Timdilly Rill.
When the warble of running water grew audible, Alison turned off the small trail and squatted by a nearby tree to ease her bladder and bowels. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as urine and shit tumbled into a puddle between her legs. Utilizing a few handfuls of straw, Alison wiped her puckered anus and went down to the creek. She undressed and stepped gingerly into the cold stream to wash. With clammy fingers, she scrubbed the doughy flesh of her thick thighs and heavy shoulders. Her nipples, crowned on massive, drooping breasts, stiffened in response to the cool water. Alison's mind wandered when her fingers fluttered over the lips of her pussy. Her fertile time was at hand and it brought wistful moods. She rarely thought about her husband at such moments. Their lovemaking was infrequent and generally terse. The faces of handsome strangers came to mind, causing a skip in her chest.
On any other day, she might have lingered by the stream, pleasuring herself indulgently before an audience of dragonflies and songbirds. But there was preparation to be done for Torman's departure. Alison promised herself that she would finish what she started when the chores were done and the cottage empty. In the meantime, the sky had turned a wan yellow. She dressed, filled the bucket with cool water, and returned to the cottage.
Back at the cottage, Torman was awake and loading the donkey in preparation for his departure. Alison packed linen sacks with ham, dark bread, and hard cheese to last Torman and Tawncy several days. She broached a cask of ale that she had laid to mature in the cupboard. She nodded approvingly at its tawny color and bitter taste. She filled several skins and helped to load the victual on the donkey's back. When all was done, she exchanged affectionate kisses with her husband and son and waved to them as they disappeared along the track toward Timdilly Lane.
Alison went about her chores with fervent industry. The eggs were collected, and the hens turned out into the yard. The cow was milked and the wooden bucket, brimming with chalky milk, set on a cool shelf in a cupboard. Alison weeded the vegetable garden, threw acorns to the sow, and opened the windows and door of the cottage to admit fresh air. While sweeping the hearth, she began to sing. Lulled by her own voice and the rhythmic thrush of her broom, she presently fell into a trance of pleasant daydreams.
