Carried News

Title: Carried News
Author: Nom DePlume
Summary: Returning home from Crusade, Richard I \"The Lionheart\" was taken captive and held ransom. His beloved minstrel has found him, and carries news of his location to Nottingham in this fictional alternate history of England.
Rating: NC-17 for sexual scenes.
Pairing: RichardxBlondel
Feedback: Welcome.
Betas: Pengy.
Author\'s Notes: The later 2 chapters of this story were initially posted in a second story titled \'Into Sherwood\'. They\'ve been affixed to this for better continuity, and considering it is only one tale all together.
I was inspired by the folktale of Richard\'s loyal minstrel scouring the countryside to discover where the captured King was being held; he sang a song they had composed together under the window of every castle until he heard his lover\'s voice return the song. Although a little anachronistic, as the whole Robin Hood folktale is, I chose to make Blondel the flagship for notifying the English commoners of their absent king\'s whereabouts.
Disclaimer: These characters, as I present them, are mine. However, their names and the loose premise is taken from history, so I make no claim to full ownership.

************


That morning it had been but a glimmering blue ribbon viewed from upon a hill. Now the River Trent was close enough for Blondel to toss a stone in, had he the desire.

What had sparkled in the light of day now lay before him as an ebony band in twilight\'s gloom, hiding fish with cruel teeth and moist flesh. A singular bridge spanned the dark causeway of water, and it was towards this that the troubadour aimed his horse.

Once his mount\'s hooves clopped safely upon the wooden boards of the bridge, Blondel allowed himself to ease into the saddle, seeking to reinstate calm. The dangerous expanse of Sherwood Forest lay behind him, and passing through it had strained his senses and caused adrenaline to pound through his veins. Numerous brigands called the forest home, and passing beneath the shadowy trees attired as he was had made Blondel achingly aware of his chances of misfortune.

Even now, as he guided his steed within the encircling boundaries of Nottingham, he was made aware of his conspicuous appearance. Early pub-goers tottering home lifted their lanterns or squinted at him warily in the gloom, making out only a tall young man upon a ghostly white steed, attired in noble blues with a banner of pale hair cascading down his back, tied back loosely by a modest cord.

His saddlebags alone could have undoubtedly attracted the attention of any listeners in the wood. Most especially the telltale jingling of coin which had rang out within the gloom while Blondel tore through the forest at a breakneck pace, knowing speed was his only ally in a twilight passage within Sherwood\'s traitorous embrace.

He had hardly planned to arrive in the height of danger, but such things cannot often be helped when one is traveling great distances. Blondel had come far, indeed. Just thinking of his ceaseless journey only increased his weariness, and the pert posture which was a result of fear\'s last hold on him finally melted, adrenaline leaving him hollow.

In his mind, the crisp air rolling off the Alps still touched him, caressing his hair as lovingly as it set the vast plains of wheat to swaying in the afternoon brightness. Memories of grand waterfront cities with engaging scents and thrilling sounds were all jumbled in his head. Twisted threads within the tapestry of a great journey.

At last, the brilliant strands humbled into earthen hues, and led him here, to Nottingham by nightfall.

Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem Inn passed by him on the left as he guided his mount to ascend the hill. The white building stood stuck right up against Castle Rock, host to a warren of caves while Nottingham Castle perched atop the swell.

Yet Blondel had not the heart to examine his surroundings even as he entered the town, as close to a destination as the wanderer had ever found himself with. It was an inglorious entrance if ever there was one, and the thought that one day his arrival might be sung out in purple prose by future\'s minstrel\'s made the troubadour\'s tired lips lift in a small smirk. His eyes remained half-lidded, however, vision set on things within the chambers of his mind, rather than the charcoal gloom of the town he was now immersed in.

There was little for the young man to scrutinize, as darkness had fallen swiftly and only the lit windows of pubs offered illumination to the path he was upon. Now within the French borough, it was not long at all until he recognized his lodgings. The onset of weariness which often overcomes pilgrims at the end of their journey was seeping into him, making the final moments of his approach like hours.

A covered lantern hung next to a wooden sign depicting a tuft of wool, and a shepherd\'s crook to distinguish it from the other timber frame buildings pressed up against it. At last, the Staff and Fleece, where he would stay the night. He had been told the bar-master was particularly kind towards minstrels, and was decent in his bargaining. Aside from that, the Staff and Fleece was annexed to a small stable, which was a matter of importance to Blondel.

He slid from his horse\'s back, and landed heavily upon his own legs. After a full day of riding, the ligaments had stiffened. Allowing his muscles to slowly realize it was now their duty to support him, Blondel stroked Blanche\'s neck and leaned in against the horse for a moment. He silently thanked the mare for being a constant heroine, bearing him with steadfast steps across long distances, across paths of danger. Her sides were still faintly heaving from their swift flight through the forest, accompanied by the alarming scent of her master\'s own fear and dangerous creatures in the underbrush.

He calmed Blanche and himself by kissing her neck softly, rubbing his palm along the velvet of her nose. He had slept beside her oftentimes in the field, and the sound of her great breathing with the reassurance of her equine scent was comforting enough to lull the weary traveler into motionlessness.

Amidst his reverie, he had been noticed through one of the tavern\'s thick windows. Soon he found the flickering light of a lantern infringing upon his senses, drawing him up from lassitude. Opening his eyes to source the pinpoint of light shining beneath his eyelids, he found that a young boy stood near the tavern entrance, expression expectant. After a moment, the boy warily piped up and asked if he was looking for lodgings for the night. Blondel turned his face away from the horse\'s neck to smile tiredly at the youth, and mustered his voice.

\"Yes, please. I\'d like a room for the night, and a stall for my friend here. I do hope the kitchen has not already closed...?\"

Now on his own two feet, the musician had realized how hollow his stomach was feeling, and pined for any fare which would warm him and fill him.

The youthful groom looked this potential patron over, from the bulging saddlebags to the craftsmanship of his clothes, to the noble lines of his face which rested in a tired expression currently.

The innkeeper\'s third son was shrewd, and knew not to turn this one away even if it was somewhat of a nuisance to have another horse to groom, when he was just getting ready to eat his own late supper.

\"Yes, we\'ve food left. And a bath, if you\'re looking for one.\"

Blondel managed to restrain a small frown. He must look even worse than he felt, to be freely offered a bath at such an hour. Or perhaps the Staff and Fleece was more reputable and generous than his tip had implied.

Blue eyes refocused on the lad, and Blondel nodded lightly. It took a bit of consideration to muster courteous words after a day of silence, but Blondel prided himself on manners and would not allow weariness to defeat him. \"I\'ll go in and see the proprietor while you take care of Blanche. Please be especially kind to her, she was a gift, and is a very fine horse.\" Perhaps without as much flare as he would usually like, he dipped his fingertips into his satchel and withdrew a penny to ensure the young man didn\'t shirk his duty as soon as he was out of sight. It was also as thanks for the swift offer of a bath, which would be something of an inconvenience at any time, let alone this hour.

Blondel didn\'t doubt the integrity of the young groom, but he had been a youth not so long ago, and knew how creatively corners could be cut on any task, even one initiated with utmost sincerity and zeal. A penny from his purse was nothing to him, but incentive enough for the youth to treat Blanche rightly.

The penny was pocketed with well-trained briskness, and a light smile of thanks as the boy warmed slightly to the journeyer in blue. \"Of course, sir. I\'ll have these bags of yours sent up to your room.\"

\"Thank you. Ah, but you needn\'t bother with this one,\" the troubadour murmured somewhat hastily, claiming one securely-fastened satchel before the groom could hardly lay eyes on it. The bag was carefully slung over his shoulder as he mounted the two stone steps and pushed open the wooden door of the Staff and Fleece.

Watching the newcomer\'s retreating back, the innkeeper\'s son observed the head of a lute poking out of the pear-shaped satchel\'s drawstring neck, and grinned.

Within, the tavern proper was quiet. A fire crackled somewhere, hidden to Blondel by a cluster of men gathered around a table. Still on their first glasses of wine, their voices had not yet begun to rise over a convivial murmur. Even this noise ceased when he entered, and five pairs of eyes turned to indiscreetly scrutinize the newcomer.
Blondel sensed no direct animosity, and returned their wondering stares with a brief smile, and little else.

He rested his arm against the long bar where the proprietor was lounging, vacantly watching the small handful which graced the commons of his inn. The appearance of a tall young man in simple finery woke him from his thoughts, and he sat up straighter.

\"What can I do for you, sir?\" His mouth split into a grin revealing two missing teeth when his grey eyes darted over one of the minstrel\'s shoulders and saw the head of the lute there.

Blondel allowed his own lips to lift in more of a smile, pleased that his informant had rang true in his suspicions of the innkeeper\'s favoritism.

\"Your groom is already seeing to my horse and luggage. I hope for a meal, and a bath. I\'d like to stay this night, perhaps more, if I find the room and price agreeable.\" The troubadour was experienced with wit and tone, and delicately injected just enough insinuation into his voice to make it known that bargaining for his musical services along with coin might be an option.

The idea and hope for music had already been in the innkeeper\'s mind. \"You\'re a troubadour, I see,\" he said, wasting no time in jerking his head towards the evidence of Blondel\'s lute indicatively. \"I\'ve some patrons who might like some song this evening, and I myself haven\'t heard any new tunes for a time.\"

\"You may be in luck,\" Blondel said serenely, rising to the bait easily. This polite banter was the sort he was well experienced with, and while his lips moved on their own, his mind slumbered and drowsily noticed pithy details in the world around him. The conversation of the men at table behind him had resumed, and he caught wind of some title of respect which suggested at least one of them might be a castle worker, likely a guard or patrol officer enjoying his night off. \"I\'ve come far and acquired a fair few tunes,\" his mouth modestly intoned. His repertoire of songs was extensive, and he increased it often with melodies of his own design.

\"You\'ll have a whole bed to yourself in one of our rooms, sir, and supper can be heated up in exchange for a tune or two.\" Blondel was relieved that this bar-master was devoid of suspicion, thoroughly charmed by his occupation. He was too tired to even bear the thought of having to utilize some of his more willful tact and conniving arts. For once, a simple transaction at journey\'s end. God bless that man who had guided him here. God also bless the fortune that would give him his own room. Often he had had to share a vast room with many other noisy patrons who snored and farted in their sleep.

The innkeeper\'s gravely voice broke Blondel\'s vacant stare after a moment of mutual silence. \"What might I call you?\"

\"Ah, pardon me for not introducing myself at the first. I\'ve been speechless atop a horse all day, you see,\" the musician murmured, velveteen voice and drowsy, charming smile begging and accepting easy forgiveness from the barkeep. \"Blondel de Nesle, good sir.\"

\"De Nesle? Ah, in Picardy!\" The Norman exclaimed, voice and eyes alight with recognition. \"They are building many cathedrals there just now, I hear, and that the air is sweet and the women beautiful.\"

Blondel\'s smile turned wry, and he glanced away to hide it. Almost every man on earth waxed poetic about his homeland or another\'s in such a way, envisioning fair women and gorgeous landscapes supporting a life of simplicity. The latter was of some aesthetic interest to Blondel, but hardly the former.

Clearing his throat gently, he summoned a smile. The innkeeper\'s enthusiasm suggested the perfect first song for the evening. \"I\'ll play some songs of Picardy for you, if it should please.\" Knowing it would, Blondel was already shrugging off his lute bag as he spoke. Slender fingers plucked at the drawstring, loosening it. He wrapped his hand around the neck, and drew forth his instrument.

The thin strings offered a faint hum as the fabric of the satchel fell away, and Blondel tucked it aside. Ignoring the feel of eyes boring into his back, he drew a chair close to the bar and immersed himself in tuning his instrument.

\"A minstrel once told me lutes are like women. Tricky, need tuning all the time,\" the innkeeper said, chuckling over Blondel\'s idle twangs. The troubadour paused with his ear tilted towards his instrument, and smiled thinly.

\'No, not like women. Like men; easy to please and make music with, once you\'ve gotten the fingerings down properly.\'

Blondel chuckled softly to himself at his thoughts. The innkeeper joined his mirth, thinking it was a belated reaction to his own quip. The blond let him think what he would, and closed his eyes again.

It was tempting to fall asleep here, but he had a supper to sing for, and soon enough, news to spread. With the presence of the men in the room, an opportunity to plant the seed of the news he had brought presented itself. Blondel\'s mind, although sleepy, was that of a trained minstrel. He had not missed the title of respect murmured to the bearded man, nor had his eyes failed to take notice of the fur lining the cloak draped across the back of his chair. A necessity in winter, perhaps, but a frivolous sign of stature and political wealth as spring waxed in the air. Surely such a man had the ear of Prince John of Nottingham.

Opportunity noted, Blondel\'s thoughts now dared to flicker against the bath being made ready for him in his room upstairs, and the straw-stuffed mattress which would seem a treat after being horseback for a day.

He had to clench his jaw to stifle a yawn once or twice while his fingers worked, but at last his ear told him that each strike of the quill plectrum against the strings rang true. His left hand cradled the neck, fingertips roving the board without the intrusion of frets, while his right hand deftly manipulated the quill to pluck the eight strings above the ornately carved rosette there.

The sound of occasional lute notes had turned the men at the table from their talk, to regard the minstrel. Blondel\'s eyes were slightly watery from his stifled yawns, and the moisture only added a preternatural illumination to his heaven-blue irises, struck askance by the firelight. Noticing attention was on him, he mentally swept away tiredness, and smiled.

\"Good eve, gentle men of Nottingham. I have the pleasure of playing some tunes for you this evening, if it pleases.\" The polite introductory words flowed from his lips like second nature, while he worked the quill to strike flowing arpeggios as a soft background to his melodious voice. \"Our patron expressed an interest in far Picardy, so I shall sing a ballad born in that region, about the splendid coastal shoreline, and the men who sail from there leaving fair ladies behind.\"

Blondel could well remember those shores, for it was not so long ago that he had been one of those sailing men, though he left no lass behind. The minstrel had been borne across the English Channel toward Nottingham and away from his childhood home. He was always coming and going, swept about by the currents of whim and politics like a dandelion puff in the blue. For a brief while, he had found a snarl - another personality strong enough to ground him temporarily. But, just as it had entangled him, a puff of breath sent him away again. And yet, the impression made was strong enough that still, Blondel served his lover on this distant shore. He could not attribute his mission to patriotism. It was love, affinity, and such feelings that many had harbored for the Lionheart...

His mind lapsed in memory as he sung, accompanied by a low background melody. The song was one he knew instinctually. It was almost in his blood, so oft had his lips given birth to the lyrics before. The swaying country melody displayed well the qualities of his tenor voice. Clear and sweet like the sea air in Picardy of which he sung, but with an accompanying masculine richness which soothed listening ears like the inviting caress of flannel.

The men continued their small games of chance, dice rolling from one palm and then the next, a mental tally kept of who owed whom what. Some bets were payed immediately in the form of more wine ordered from the barmaster, while others remained in the mental realm.

Of course, bets paid in wine contributed to the waiving of other tallies, and in a score of minutes the game of dice disintegrated into simple drinking, and listening to the minstrel as he played upon his lute.

The ballad of Picardy\'s shores had long since faded, and other ditties filled the space. A brief break allowed Blondel to at last fill his stomach, and gather a second wind when strength began to fail him, and his fickle muse threatened to leave him permanently for the evening. The eel pie and accompanying wine were decent enough, but Blondel was hardly eating for his tongue\'s sake and barely noticed the taste.

The eel pie wouldn\'t have been his first choice for supper, as the thick sauce and flaky pastry resiliently lined his throat, which would impact his voice. But due to the lateness of the hour, and his own hunger, he didn\'t care to make complaint. He simply combatted the thickness of his throat by taking copious amounts of red wine, paving the way for song again.

A glance to those men gathered at table told him now would be a good time to lay the foundation for his news. Their eyes were glossy and vacant, marking them as horribly receptive to anything he should sing now. His keen mind had not forgotten the detail of a murmured title of respect, and a fur-lined cloak draped upon a chair. One of these men was connected directly to the Prince himself, Blondel presumed, and if important news slipped into an official\'s mind now, likely it would be regaled upon the Prince hastily. This would open the door for him more swiftly than singing in the square, hoping peasants rushing about their daily tasks would pay heed to him.

His heart was doubly gladdened, for he decided that after this last, all-important song, he would seek the comfort of his room upstairs. Although he had been singing for perhaps an hour, it seemed like so much longer. He only prayed that the bath would be kept warm for him. He had no idea of the Staff and Fleece\'s amenities, but hoped the small establishment was nevertheless armed with quick-witted aides with the foresight to wait for their patron to head upstairs before taking the boiling cauldron of water from the hearth and emptying it into the wooden tub.

\"The song I shall now sing is a song of truth, gentlemen.\" He saw to his faint dismay that he only had the glassy-eyed attention of one of the drinkers, while the other three were still chuckling to themselves over a bawdy joke just told. The minstrel was forced to lift his voice and inject power to it, cutting to the quick. \"Your King\'s prison has been found!\"

He accompanied it with a bold, dissonant strum of lute notes, and it was enough to cut through the drinkers\' mental haze. Eyes sought out the minstrel, alternating annoyance and confusion at the sudden clamor from one who had been so quiet and pleasant thus far.

Before ire could take over the patrons, Blondel launched into his song. He had devised it on the long road from Germany to England, honing it into a repeatable melody peppered with lyrics which would hold fast like burrs in the mind. A potent refrain was the key to conveying his startling news of the king\'s imprisonment.

He sung of something he had witnessed, imparting his most crucial news to these men in the inn this spring night. With his song, he remembered how his heart had caught when the voice of Richard Plantagenet had sung back the chorus of one of his songs from a high castle window he passed beneath. That voice was one he could so easily place, there had been no doubt in his mind that he had found the castle holding England\'s absent King.

That voice was quite familiar to him, indeed. He could remember it, calling his name from across a crowded field. He could remember it, gently reproaching him for momentary bouts of doubt or fear. He could remember it, whispering softly against his ear in elegant French.