CapTnCas
Member
1526, early Spring..
She was there, at her pale horse's side waiting in the road’s ditch as the throat cutters finished their wicked work. The beast labored for breath, washing over her with hot air and she leaned in to the animal, feeling the chest of the horse rise and fall at her back. The men stumbled across the field and reaped as a horn resounded. The dawn greeted those few who had been called to arms-had drawn their blade in battle that evening. Carrion birds would pick the field clean in hours long after the frost had melted, but she rose from the throes of her fatigue knowing the call. Steam wafting from her shoulders as the rider's hooves grew closer. She donned her kettle helm to return to the fray, they only had one more day’s ride North and she greeted Christoph...
Her lips cracked as she smiled from beneath the cut plate, a sour taste in her mouth but their eyes met and he nodded. There are the corner of his mouth, his lip betrayed him and he too grinned back; covered from head to boot in shit and blood. She laughed, throat dry and her amusement turned in to a sour cough. Come evening this mess would be put behind them and they would return home, and she already longed for the hearth's side. These wayward sons and brigands had faced the torch and the last of them would be hunted down though, they were so close to assured herself. There was the creak of leather as her gloves closed around the reigns and she pulled herself back in to the saddle, the shout of orders fell on deaf ears as she rode after her Lord, mud flying in the wake of hooves.
Lynnette had beguiled herself, the victim, the adulter, the villain-what else was there to do but torment herself as she had been cast out for it; sent south. When the crier had announced the coming festivities in this great city, she had not weighed the worth of opportunity at first. Had let the excitement pass sorely, she had seen many village boys gather and try over the years. Yet Adelsberg strewn flags and merchants arose around the field as the eager flocked to try their hand.
She wondered if she was betraying herself for partaking in such jovial times.
She should have left all preconceived notions of greatness to the girl she had been; young and half savage. It was not her place, her’s was to have served and served faithfully but she was without Lord to lay her head before and to receive favor. What would be more incriminating then, to ask for aid and justice-no she had fullied believed this was the only way. Lynnette had slipped from the years of her prime rapidly-the greater wounds that had taken both half her sight and motion had only been the final straw. How could she take to the field now? The polished bronze plate nailed into the stone of the wall served to remind her of the ugly marks when she peered into it.
They marked her service, and the sacrifices made on the northern plains.
In some great surge of bravado she urged the man to place her name on the lists in the final hour, the scholarly sort scribing her given when her hand trembled too much to make a clean signature. What would be worst was to say she never tried. If she could only become greater-but her’s were the hands of a tradesman, splintered and calloused but she remembered what her father had taught her. Then she had donned the heavily stitched gambeson alone, trying to imagine the trials her Lord had faced to rise to his station. The woad had faded but it still would lessen any terrible blow but she was a rider once again.
Lynnette would take the title of Squire, or any title, any scrap of influence that might lift her from the life of vagrancy. That might have given her power to return to that miserable little village and claim rights to her son; bastard or not. The Lady Faustia was not kind in her grudges, but what southern woman was? Perhaps her father may deign to look upon her, riding in under the color’s of another more respected-renown. Reality was far more jarring, as she had learned time again. The sourests of blows came when she found herself kissing the trodden mud of the field under the gaze of the Kaiser still. She had picked herself up alone, rain dripping from her brow as she sprung back into the saddle. It would not matter what she did now, she knew the weight of an infant would never bless her chest, that life may be well behind her as she led her horse down the list.
She had never bore a lance in battle and her nerves had been set aflame. Christoph had, he had ridden proudly into the arena, into battle, across the Empire-farther then she.
The flurry of blows suffered in each round mounted, but it could not rival the ache in her chest or the taste of sage on her tongue to strip herself of the signs of motherhood when it had all come to an end. The woman had mourned. The woman had wailed until her throat grew raw behind the cobble walls of her own dwelling, in solitude. When all festivities had come to their end. Thomain was still beyond her grasp, his father buried in a cairn, and family far from here. Lynnette was wholly undignified and unable to find the will to scrub even the blood from her rend nose and hands. The remains of a bassinet were easy to break over her knee when she did rise again, stoking the fire of her stove. Perhaps she had wanted to be a Knight too.
She was there, at her pale horse's side waiting in the road’s ditch as the throat cutters finished their wicked work. The beast labored for breath, washing over her with hot air and she leaned in to the animal, feeling the chest of the horse rise and fall at her back. The men stumbled across the field and reaped as a horn resounded. The dawn greeted those few who had been called to arms-had drawn their blade in battle that evening. Carrion birds would pick the field clean in hours long after the frost had melted, but she rose from the throes of her fatigue knowing the call. Steam wafting from her shoulders as the rider's hooves grew closer. She donned her kettle helm to return to the fray, they only had one more day’s ride North and she greeted Christoph...
Her lips cracked as she smiled from beneath the cut plate, a sour taste in her mouth but their eyes met and he nodded. There are the corner of his mouth, his lip betrayed him and he too grinned back; covered from head to boot in shit and blood. She laughed, throat dry and her amusement turned in to a sour cough. Come evening this mess would be put behind them and they would return home, and she already longed for the hearth's side. These wayward sons and brigands had faced the torch and the last of them would be hunted down though, they were so close to assured herself. There was the creak of leather as her gloves closed around the reigns and she pulled herself back in to the saddle, the shout of orders fell on deaf ears as she rode after her Lord, mud flying in the wake of hooves.
Lynnette had beguiled herself, the victim, the adulter, the villain-what else was there to do but torment herself as she had been cast out for it; sent south. When the crier had announced the coming festivities in this great city, she had not weighed the worth of opportunity at first. Had let the excitement pass sorely, she had seen many village boys gather and try over the years. Yet Adelsberg strewn flags and merchants arose around the field as the eager flocked to try their hand.
She wondered if she was betraying herself for partaking in such jovial times.
She should have left all preconceived notions of greatness to the girl she had been; young and half savage. It was not her place, her’s was to have served and served faithfully but she was without Lord to lay her head before and to receive favor. What would be more incriminating then, to ask for aid and justice-no she had fullied believed this was the only way. Lynnette had slipped from the years of her prime rapidly-the greater wounds that had taken both half her sight and motion had only been the final straw. How could she take to the field now? The polished bronze plate nailed into the stone of the wall served to remind her of the ugly marks when she peered into it.
They marked her service, and the sacrifices made on the northern plains.
In some great surge of bravado she urged the man to place her name on the lists in the final hour, the scholarly sort scribing her given when her hand trembled too much to make a clean signature. What would be worst was to say she never tried. If she could only become greater-but her’s were the hands of a tradesman, splintered and calloused but she remembered what her father had taught her. Then she had donned the heavily stitched gambeson alone, trying to imagine the trials her Lord had faced to rise to his station. The woad had faded but it still would lessen any terrible blow but she was a rider once again.
Lynnette would take the title of Squire, or any title, any scrap of influence that might lift her from the life of vagrancy. That might have given her power to return to that miserable little village and claim rights to her son; bastard or not. The Lady Faustia was not kind in her grudges, but what southern woman was? Perhaps her father may deign to look upon her, riding in under the color’s of another more respected-renown. Reality was far more jarring, as she had learned time again. The sourests of blows came when she found herself kissing the trodden mud of the field under the gaze of the Kaiser still. She had picked herself up alone, rain dripping from her brow as she sprung back into the saddle. It would not matter what she did now, she knew the weight of an infant would never bless her chest, that life may be well behind her as she led her horse down the list.
She had never bore a lance in battle and her nerves had been set aflame. Christoph had, he had ridden proudly into the arena, into battle, across the Empire-farther then she.
The flurry of blows suffered in each round mounted, but it could not rival the ache in her chest or the taste of sage on her tongue to strip herself of the signs of motherhood when it had all come to an end. The woman had mourned. The woman had wailed until her throat grew raw behind the cobble walls of her own dwelling, in solitude. When all festivities had come to their end. Thomain was still beyond her grasp, his father buried in a cairn, and family far from here. Lynnette was wholly undignified and unable to find the will to scrub even the blood from her rend nose and hands. The remains of a bassinet were easy to break over her knee when she did rise again, stoking the fire of her stove. Perhaps she had wanted to be a Knight too.
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