The Smell of Horse and Leather

I could still see those disappearing horses, so faint in the distance as I twisted my head to look away from the rising sun, holding tight to the ash trunk while, with his usual swollen exuberance, Thurgis drove his ready prick deep inside me and began, urgently, to rut.

* * *

The early afternoon found me heading home, only the best withies in the bundle at my back, my brain still whirling. The fuck with Thugis had been like getting drunk on strong mead: it had taken me somewhere else for awhile, my troubled mind soothed, but as always there was the next day, or in this case the noon hour as my feet found the path and turned toward Millow.

There was horse-shit in the path. I'd never seen that before.

On cue, too, I now heard the steady, calm clop of hooves behind me. I cursed in my mind as I stopped and swung around, thinking of the billhook. Horses on the lane, all my life, had always meant excitement: Godmer being summoned to the hundred court, or to service with Earl Gyrth. Now, since hearing of dead King Harold and the new King Bastard, the sound meant fear.

I found that the fear was not lessened by the memory of Bernard watching me from his horse a couple hours ago.

So it was a wary, furtive beekeeper that the squire found as he rounded the corner by the copse, riding easy with his usual satisfied smile. He was still leading the knight's horse behind him, and now I could see a dead deer heaped across that horse's back.

I got the clear impression that he'd been aware of me long before I'd been aware of him. "Not easy to find game in February," he said cheerfully, seeing my eyes on the deer. "It'll be a month or so, yet, before the animals wake up and wander about. Right now, they're still choosing their mates. Like the birds."

I thought about Thurgis. "That's what February's for, right enough." He reined in, which I thought was polite. But I didn't really want to talk to him, not after he'd watched me cum. "You'd best get back and deal with your meat."

He laughed easily. "Our meat, beekeeper. Sir Geoffrey and I can't possibly eat all this ourselves, and besides? You're vassals. We owe you a few obligations, here and there." I frowned, and he laughed again. He seemed so comfortable, so at ease. I felt rustic. Young. "Throw your sticks back with the deer," he added, nodding casually behind him. "Why carry it when the horse can do it?"

I cocked my head suspiciously, but felt my cheeks warming. Reddening. I wasn't ready for this man to be kind to me, I realized, not after what my father had said about rents and taxes. "Because... I've always carried it?" I shrugged. "It's not my horse."

"It's not mine, either," he pointed out, and it slowly dawned on me that he wasn't planning on moving again until I'd thrown my bundle onto the damn horse. So I did, the deer still warm with a little speckle of blood beside its neck. It stared reproachfully at me with one big, dead, glassy eye.

"Thank you, uh, Bernard," I ventured.

"You found out my name! Good." He looked down at me as I patted the deer. "I asked your father about you last night. I guess you asked him about me."

I shrugged. "Why would that surprise you? I'm powerless. You're powerful. Of course I'm curious."

He laughed again. "I'm not powerful. I'm just a squire." He peered ahead, toward home. "I'd offer to put you on my horse with me, but your family might get the wrong idea." He winked. "I'd assume, too, that you've done enough riding for one morning?"

"I beg your pardon?" It burst out of me, whatever dignity I had in this sudden, strange new world whisked away by his earthy chuckle. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about!" But my face gave me away, I knew, feeling that tingly warmth grow there. I looked down, making sure my shawl was tight about my face.

"I know what I saw," he replied calmly. "No need to get uptight about it. You're a young woman whose life's been turned upside-down, then shaken." He patted his horse's neck. "You've got to take your pleasures where you can in this world, beekeeper."

Shocked, I looked back up at him. Apparently, being a Norman meant you could read minds. No wonder King Harold had lost his battle with these people. "Merewyn," I corrected automatically.

"Merewyn he beekeeper," he repeated with a courteous nod. "I'd forgotten. Walk with me," he said suddenly, jumping off the far side of his horse. "My mount could probably use a rest, anyway, after carrying my fat ass around all morning."

I giggled, still nervous. "Looks like he's more than capable." I could see a small bow, unstrung now, strapped beneath his saddle. No spear, though, and no sword. I hesitated. "I'm sorry you saw me. Earlier," I told him, my face burning.

"I'm not," he replied candidly. He shrugged. "This has been a strange autumn. It's been awhile since I saw someone just letting go and enjoying themselves." He winked again. "Don't worry. I won't tell."

I sighed. "This is Millow. As you'll soon find out, everyone knows everything here." I brushed a stray hair back under my shawl. Fucking elflocks. "Thurgis and I have been fucking since he turned eighteen. I imagine everyone knows by now. Why shouldn't you?"

"You've been married?" He glanced swiftly over at me. "Pardon me for asking; in my land, you'd probably be someone's wife by now."

"My father can't afford to marry me off," I explained, my blush stubborn on my cheeks. "And I'm not in the mood to settle for the likes of the men around here, anyway."

"But children?" I wasn't sure if he was needling me. "You don't want your own little beekeeper to raise?"

I felt my usual mulishness rise, the mulishness that people were always saying would get me into trouble someday. "I've got sisters, a step-mother. My brother's wife. They can shit out babies. I'm not in a hurry." I glanced sidelong at him. "You? You're older than my father, probably. I wonder how many little beekeepers you've left scattered around." I should have felt nervous; I was daring much, talking to him this way. But I sensed that I had nothing to worry about, really.

It was hard to see him murdering me in the woods.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he admitted with a carefree shrug. "Honestly? It's not something I worry about much. When you've moved around as much as I have, it's not like you grow too... too... attached? To anyplace." He laughed again. "If Bernard the squire has left bastards in Brittany, or Normandy, or back south in London even? Nobody would know."

"So noplace feels like home?" It was a strange concept to me. I'd never been more than ten miles from Millow in all my life. "My father says you're here to stay, you Normans."

"But I told you, I'm not a Norman." He nodded as I shrugged; that wasn't the point, and he knew it. "Sir Geoffrey is here to stay, yes. Lord William of Eu, maybe even his father the Count. Me? Maybe. Maybe not." He glanced shrewdly at me. "Probably, I should just take what I can from your country, and then go on somewhere else and take what I can from there."

"Probably," I snapped, hoping I didn't sound too bitter, "but if you were planning that, why share your deer with us?"

"Why, indeed." He spat in the path. I could see the smoke rising now above the trees in front of us. "Perhaps not every Norman is as kind as Sir Geoffrey? Or even his father? Perhaps there's a chance I can find a place to stay? Maybe even produce little beekeepers?" When I shot him a withering look, he winked once more. The man had confidence, at least, and it was difficult to argue that he didn't enjoy himself. "Or little farmers, little soldiers, whatever. You're right, though. At a certain point, I'll be too old to fight wars anymore." He crossed himself, for luck. "Perhaps I already am."

"How old are you?"

"As you said, old enough to be your father, girl." He pondered. "I'm forty, more or less."

I paused, wondering how far I should push this. Whether I even wanted to. Why I wanted to. Ribaldry had always been a part of my life, though, so in the end I couldn't stop myself. "And your horse is sick of carrying your fat ass. Obviously."

He sighed, but his smile never left him. "See? It is as I feared. I am too old already to be a soldier. I should leave it to younger men, like the one you were entertaining earlier, by the tree." I flushed hard, but this time I didn't look down. I even managed a smile for him. He patted the horse again. "I should teach you French. You're amusing. You'd be even more amusing in my own language."

"If it's amusement you're looking for, Millow might not be to your liking," I sighed. "Truly, the most exciting thing that ever happens here is when I get stung."

"In my language," he nodded, "sting is the same word for prick. So, yes. I'm sure it's exciting when you're pricked."

"Shame!" I cried, but I knew I was smiling. In a sudden warm flush, I began to think he liked me. Enjoyed my company, anyway; I smiled. "You're not teaching me your language, squire. It has made you into a pervert, I'm afraid."

He shrugged. "We're all perverts, probably. I meant no offense, beekeeper, but I can see that you took none."

I considered that and realized he was right. The manor was in sight now, our little houses awake and smoking through the thatch. "If you do stay around here," I muttered at last, "you'll find I'm difficult to offend."

He tutted at the horses as we turned out of the lane and into the manor. "I'll remember that." He nodded down at me. "It's been an eventful morning, Mademoiselle Merewyn. We'll see each other again soon, but it might not be as interesting."

Again, I found I could not resist. I thought about how he'd looked at me, that warm flush I'd felt as I'd decided he wanted me to flirt with him. "Might not, might be." I smiled. "Good day."

* * *

Dad seemed pleased after talking again to Sir Geoffrey. "He told me he was going to give us some venison for supper!" I hid my smile as I twisted my withies for the new skep, listening for what my stepmother needed. "I just wish he hadn't taken me out of the fields to tell me so."

"I'm not sure they quite understand the lives of normal people," I mused, arching an eyebrow. I watched him as he took a drink of beer. "Are you still worried? About how things are going to be?"

He shrugged. "I'm going to try to go over and talk to Aldmer tomorrow or the next day." Aldmer was one of Dad's friends. He'd been a free man under King Harold, but like Dad had said last night, it seemed nobody was all that free anymore under the Normans. "This Geoffrey seems all right. The other man too; he seems steady." He glanced at me. "You need to watch out for Winfled. She's only thirteen, and I want her protected."

"I do too, Dad." I smiled. Elfrith was the lady of the house, of course, but I'd been there longer. And my father knew me better. "I agree with you. I don't fear these two." I hesitated, the throb of my bees never far away. "Can you ask Aldmer if he knows where there's a priest? I'm really worried."

"Yeah. Our souls are all in danger," he sighed, biting his lower lip. "I think these Normans are Christians too. They must have priests?" He shrugged. "Too bad about Godmer and Felix leaving, but I guess I'm not surprised."

I spat. "I expected better, honestly."

"He was wounded, up at York just a few months ago. I don't blame him for not wanting to fight. And Felix was always close to him."

"Godmer was our thegn. He was supposed to protect us," I pointed out. I wasn't ready to feel okay about being abandoned. "Now we have to rely on these foreigners to do it. That's not right."

"Maybe so," he shrugged, "but if they keep bringing us meat? I won't complain." He nudged me with his toe. "Cheer up, Mer. We'll take each day as it comes. We'll work hard. We'll survive."

I watched him go back out to the fields, stopping to piss on his way, before I sighed and went back to my skep.

* * *

He came to me the next morning after breakfast, after I finished. "Good morning," he nodded, pleasantly enough.

"Hi." I was sitting on the new skep, a test I did to make sure it was sturdy enough. If it could take my weight, I figured the bees would be safe. He watched, amused, as I lifted my feet off the ground and balanced my butt on the wickerwork. I glanced up at him. "What is it? Are you hoping today will be as interesting as yesterday, maybe?" I felt a flutter in my cunt as I remembered how he'd smiled watching me with Thurgis.

"Hard to imagine how." He yawned, stretching high. The Normans dressed almost like us, but with shorter tunics. And they seemed to use a lot more leather than wool. Thick leather, too: his boots and leggings alone looked like they'd used half a cow. I glanced idly at them, my eyes stopping at his groin. Where a bulge pushed at the dirty leather. I must have done something with my eyes or my face, because he laughed. "What are you looking at, beekeeper?"

"Merewyn," I corrected, blinking as I looked away. I nearly tumbled off the skep, my head moved so fast, but I glared up in no mood for games. "You know quite well what I'm looking at, squire."

He didn't stop laughing. "Well. Maybe today will be as interesting as yesterday." Behind me I heard Elfrith moan in the house.

"What do you want, Bernard? I'm busy today." My blush, damn thing, faded slowly as he stood there.

His laughter faded just as slowly. "I need you to tell me where your old lord got his sand from."

"How the hell would I know?" I was feeling cross now, and I was also trying to avoid looking back up his legs. I scrambled off my skep, summoning every shred of dignity I could find. "He didn't regularly consult me about sources of sand," I muttered, brushing at my dress. "Why do you need sand, anyway?"

"For cleaning Sir Geoffrey's chainmail," he replied, his tone suggesting I should already know something so basic. "We found Godmer's cleaning barrel, but I need sand for it. Oh, and a shovel. To get the sand."

I laughed in his face. "So demanding."

He arched a shaggy eyebrow. "I mean, we are your lords now..."

"You're not," I retorted, but once again I felt that warning fire flash through my mind: be careful how much license you take, Mer. "My dad has the best shovel, but I don't know about sand. Usually, you find that shit down at streams? Right?"

"Usually." He sniffed. "Where Sir Geoffrey and I live, the sea is about... five miles distant? A bit less?" He shrugged. "Sand is not much of a problem."

I nodded, thinking. "How much do you need?"

"As much as possible."

"Then I suppose you'll need to go to the river," I shrugged. It was a mile away, at least, past Biggleswade. "With the barrel on a horse; our cart is broken."

He said something in French that sounded like a curse, then saw my confusion and clarified. "Shit," he offered helpfully.

"It's Godmer's cart," I added, watching him. "Thegns do things for their tenants. Like provide carts. And fix them."

"Then he should have fixed your cart," Bernard said diffidently.

"He would have," I grated, "if he hadn't had to go to York to fight for King Harold."

He shrugged, a hard shrug for a hard world. "Bad timing." We stared at each other a moment, then he sighed. "I'll add that to my list of chores," he muttered at last, "fixing the lord's cart for the vassals."

I chuckled. "No. There's a man who does that, over in Biggleswade. A cartwright. Your Sir Geoffrey will simply need to pay for it." I yawned. "You can go see him while you're down at the river, collecting your master's sand."

"Our master's sand," he said softly, and something about the way he said it made me shudder. There was insistence there, backed by force. By menace, even.

I'd found how far I should go, apparently. "Our master's sand," I nodded, my voice small, and he grudged me a short nod.

"I'll need someone to introduce me to the cartwright," he went on. "You may join me."

"Oh, may I?" My lip curled, saucy, but it wasn't the worst idea in the world. I'd not been out to the town in weeks.

"Yes." He was already walking away. "I'll get the horses ready. Can you ride?"

"No!" I snorted. Me? Ride? "Your horses will simply have to keep it slow."

"They can do that."

And so it was that my footsteps haunted the depleted willow copse again, walking the frost-hard path, my nose wrinkling at the smell of the horse dung. It was different from what I was used to, with our oxen, and so was walking alongside this tall, leather invader. A part of me hoped I wouldn't see anyone as we walked, but a wilder part of me hoped I would. Seeing me, lanky Merewyn the Beekeeper, abroad with an actual Norman!

Especially that slut Cyndred, from Langford.

"Your mother makes good bread," he offered as we trudged past the stream. His horses seemed happy enough to be out, and I was even happier he hadn't insisted on me being on one of them. He led them both, his handling of both animals confident. Gentle.

I hesitated, never quite sure what to say at these times. "She's not my mother. Elfrith." I glanced over at him. "My father married her when I was young. My mother... well, she died. Bringing forth Winfled."

"Ah." He didn't need to say any more. Mothers died in childbirth in Brittany too, it seemed.

"I was seven." My first grief. "Elfrith has always been good to us, but... well. She's not my mother."

"Indeed." Even now, alone with me on a quiet path in midmorning, Bernard's eyes moved constantly. Intent. This was a man, I reminded myself, who'd spent his life learning to be cautious when on the move. "So she's the youngest? Your sister?"

"Winfled?" Had he not noticed my half-brothers rolling around in the fields with Dad? "Elfrith has two sons, and another child coming. God willing."

"God willing," he agreed.

"Winfled is thirteen." I darted a sudden scowl toward him, my mind going suddenly dark. "Thirteen, Bernard. Don't get any ideas."

He laughed then, his usual bubbling chortle. "She's at no risk from me." He glanced down at me.

"I've heard that some soldiers aren't particular," I pressed.

"Some soldiers are assholes." He shrugged. "War is awful enough. It doesn't need to involve children. Nor women, either," he added with a meaningful nod at me. "I've never needed to worry about rape, in any case."

"Most men don't," I snapped.

"That's not what I mean, Merewyn. I mean I've never needed to take a woman by force."

I felt myself blush again, but held my tongue as we walked. Finally I felt I had to speak, simply to fill the silence. "I'll bet," I muttered, thinking about the lump beneath his leather.

"Well, thank you," he chuckled. "And Sir Geoffrey?" He paused, thinking about what he should say. "Sir Geoffrey and his father are very, very religious men. I think he's probably not too interested in fucking."

"He's religious?" I felt my heart pump fast, and hoped I didn't sound desperate as I laid an instinctive hand on Bernard's arm. "Does he have a priest? I mean, he must. Right? Nearby?"

When Bernard reached his other hand over to pat my fingers, he did it naturally. So naturally I barely noticed, though it comforted me. "His father brought a chaplain," he nodded, "but I don't know where the father is, you see." He looked curiously at me. "Why?"

I felt myself frown. "I need a priest," I sighed.

He nodded. "Who are you marrying?"

"Very funny, squire," I frumped, taking my hand out from under his.

"Well, I mean, I assumed... your young man from yesterday, at the tree..."

"Shut up!" I was smiling despite myself, though, because so was he, that wide grin in his weathered face. "He's a boy. Only a bit younger than me," I clarified hastily, "but he doesn't really act like a man, yet. He's not the sort you'd marry, that's certain."

"So? Why does such a clever woman waste her time with him?" He was still grinning when I looked up at him, wondering whether I should lie.