Carried News

A hen clucked, and raced in front of Blondel\'s path. The minstrel nearly stumbled, eyes widening in alarm at the flurry of feathers accompanying the fleeing poultry. His eyes narrowed again as he watched the hen go along its noisy way, clucking boisterously and impeding others walking down Butcher\'s Lane.

Blondel sighed, and continued walking through the French borough, crowded with the usual bustle of the day. The fleeting chicken had pulled him from his thoughts for but a moment, and soon enough the sounds and heady scents of Nottingham faded from his meditations.

He was just returning from the meeting he had desired with Prince John. After presenting his \'Ballad of King Richard\'s Imprisonment\', he had endured a harrowing inquisition in front of the Prince himself, and his conniving advisors. Blondel was confident he had said all the right things with that silver tongue of his, but wearing the mask of an actor for so long under such a barrage of questions had worn him.

No one Blondel had encountered in his travels was more aware of the potential widespread ramifications seemingly insignificant minutiae could hold, than himself. Each of his answers were a butterfly\'s beating wings which might cause a hurricane to the southeast.

He would be glad to be rid of this Nottingham place, and find the embrace of the road again. Although just a day previous he had been grateful for something of a journey\'s end, his transient nature kept him always seeking greener grass on the other side of some far fence. A warm bed and a bath were one thing to yearn for, but he couldn\'t imagine staying in the shadow of Prince John\'s dwelling place for much longer. If he would ever settle down, Nottingham would not be his eventual nest.

Thinking on the dark eyes of Prince John, Blondel\'s fair brow furrowed. He had been allowed to leave the presence of the Prince, but his instincts told him he might be soon followed, and recalled back to the palace. His cordial nature had let him leave under the guise of an innocent player, but soon Prince John would realize that his release had been a mistake. To allow one such as he to continue on westwards, eastwards, northwards - anywhere else in England - could be a disaster.

Blondel carried news of King Richard\'s capture. What\'s worse, he intended to spread it, and quickly.

A captured King meant a ransom must be raised. A ransom being raised meant less of the coins from poor Nottingham peasantry for John\'s own coffers. Stuck in a castle tower was exactly where John would like his brother to remain, yet he had just let the man intent on rousing the people of England to patriarchal aid slip through his grasp.

Prince John was not a fool. Blondel had seen that even in their brief meeting. And as soon as he thought past the bewitching charm the minstrel had used as a cloak to hide his true purpose, Blondel would be summoned back to the castle.

He would most certainly not be permitted to leave a second time.

Not wishing to fall into the Prince\'s grasp, Blondel hastened his steps as much as he considered prudent. If he were already being watched, it wouldn\'t do to appear to be running. It would still be advisable to cultivate the aura of a meaningless jongleur traveling unawares.

He had tucked his long platinum hair beneath the hood of his blue cloak. Such a measure helped him be somewhat less conspicuous, but hardly so. Such long locks on a woman were considered vanity. On a man, absurdity and incredible luxury; especially considering how well groomed the length of it was. His whole presence could be likened to a fallen sapphire shed from a lord\'s ring, dropped into the swirling waters of a muddy river. He strode though many lives in a flash of an instant, but despite that briefness was sure to leave a lasting impression in the owners of the fingers which grasped fleetingly at him.

Around him, despite the light afternoon drizzle, peasants went to and fro. One chubby matron chased after a giggling young boy who, dressed only in tunic and sandals, was intent on going outside to play in forming puddles despite his inappropriate attire. As he strode by, Blondel watched with faint amusement, turning his head to watch the woman finally catch her quarry and grab his little arm. She raised her hand to spank him, but felt the blonde\'s eyes on her.

Their gazes met briefly, and the woman\'s plump cheeks immediately flushed. Her lashes batted unconsciously, and she smiled with teeth chipped and decayed from eating bread made from poorly milled flour, full of little grains of stone. She tucked a flyaway strand of brown hair back up under her dirty kerchief, and quickly looked away again.

He didn\'t have the leisure to linger and see if the child got its smack anyway, or if his accidental glance had changed the woman\'s spirits for the better, and spared the little rogue that punishment.

The sign of the Staff and Fleece swung lightly in the breeze which was bringing in heavier rain from the west. The wooden depiction of a clump of wool and a shepherd\'s crook was drenched darker than usual, creaking on the hinges of iron chain which held it suspended from the post.

\"You\'re back, sir!\"

Blondel\'s hand paused on the Inn\'s door, and he looked down at the young boy who had just dashed around the side of the building, from the stable at the rear.

\"Yes, I am.\"

\"Are you leaving, sir?\"

Blondel didn\'t fail to notice the woeful note in the boy\'s eyes. The innkeeper\'s son he was, who had tended his horse Blanche upon his arrival just last evening. The boy could make no attempt at hiding his thoughts from Blondel, master of reading unspoken language. He was clearly disappointed, and had hoped he would get to hear the minstrel play, and tell him tales. He had only succeeded in grooming his horse, hauling his bags, and drawing him a bath.

\"Yes, unfortunately. Business and the winds of opportunity drive me onwards.\"

Blondel was gentle but firm in his speech, while his eyes kept darting to the road. The rain was getting heavier, and the routes out of Nottingham likely muddier by the moment. Surely guards had been dispatched from the castle to fetch him by now.

The boy\'s lower lip quivered, and he wrung his hands together woefully. Blondel knew not what could calm the poor boy, so he simply summoned a faint smile and pushed open the door.

\"Please get my horse ready. If you\'re swift, I\'ll give you a gift before I leave.\"

The words had left his mouth before he had thought of them. To prevent the boy from seeing him wince at his own softheartedness, he quickly stepped in the door.

During the afternoon on a market day, the commons of the Inn were as empty as one would expect. Not even the barkeeper himself was at his usual place, perched upon a stool behind the main counter. Blondel didn\'t step in further, for his boots were covered in mud. He observed with dismay that his black breeches had been splattered with it, too. The end of the day would probably see all of his garments turned earthy brown and sodden.

\"Excuse me!\" In need of haste, Blondel didn\'t need to fake the concern in his tone as he called into the room, eyes upon the door which led into the cellar.

The innkeeper bustled out from that door, and grinned broadly at his most charming of customers. De Nesle opened his mouth to speak, but the innkeeper\'s gravely voice cut him off.

\"Been out in weather like this? And with your lute, too, I see!\" He jabbed one calloused pinkie at the bundle slung on Blondel\'s back, hidden by oilcloth and thus protected from the rain.

\"Yes, he is well protected, I as-\"

\"He?\" Here the innkeeper enjoyed a hearty laugh. \"That\'s the oddest thing I ever heard! Thought all instruments were fine ladies, sir.\"

\"Not this one,\" Blondel replied, one corner of his mouth lifting wryly at a distant memory.

\"Well, you\'re quite the odd one, Monsieur de Nesle.\" The innkeeper said this almost proudly, unreservedly gleeful that his establishment had seen such an intriguing figure as this Blondel. Tall, striking and alluring to the ladies, excellent of voice and skill with the lute, come from afar with tales of a King\'s imprisonment. Surely such a man would not be forgotten by history soon.

\"You\'ve been most kind, but I\'m afraid I must stave off further conversation here, kind sir. I must go with haste out of Nottingham. I\'d like to pay my debts to you immediately.\"

Blondel rummaged in his coinpurse, and brought out enough coin to pay for his lodgings last night, and a little extra.

When the innkeeper came over and took the coins from Blondel, he tried to put some back in the minstrel\'s pale hand, but de Nesle made an insistent gesture.

\"Good sir, I have wealth aplenty. Consider it payment in thanks for your trouble due to my late arrival and insisting upon a bath and a meal.\"

\"Your song was plenty enough, Monsieur de Nesle, please, take it back..\"

\"I haven\'t time to argue in petty niceties!\"

The minstrel\'s celestial eyes flashed with intensity for a moment, startling the innkeeper, whose name perpetually seemed to elude Blondel. The man knew not to trifle with the determination he had seen in Blondel\'s eyes, and flushed scarlet and nodded, tucking the coin away.

\"We won\'t soon forget you, Monsieur. Please do pay us a visit if ever you\'re near again.\"

Blondel\'s reply was a nod, and a whisper of a smile.

The minstrel left the dry interior of the Staff and Fleece, and discovered the light drizzle outside was transforming into more of a spring downpour. Luckily the stablehand had been swift, and Blanche was nearing readiness. The son of the innkeeper was not the only boy working there, and he had cleverly enlisted the help of some older youths previously taking stock in the pantry. The minstrel\'s bags were attached to the horse\'s tack, and the saddle was just being tied into place. Blondel frowned when he thought of the sorry state he and his pristine white mount were going to be in at the end of their muddy day. Sorrier still, if they didn\'t get on the road before the Prince\'s men found him. Envisioning a score of them awaiting him on the road out, his heart beat quicker with urgency.

The round eyes of the innkeeper\'s son bade him not forget the hasty promise he had made earlier. He knew already what he would give the youth, and reached quickly into one of his bags. When his hand reappeared, he withdrew a slender hawk\'s feather. Crouching slightly, he met the boy\'s eyes.

\"This feather was given to me by the King himself. It came from..a hunting bird, which he prized greatly.\" Blondel\'s mind twitched at the fact he wasn\'t quite telling the exact truth of the sordid tale, but he had little time for even this, and explaining would have been further folly and a tarnish on the king\'s character when he needed all the good repute in these times which he could get.

Unaware of the white lie, the boy\'s eyes had grown rounder with the idea that he was to be given something the king himself had touched.

\"It has brought me luck, and I hope it will do the same for you,\" the minstrel concluded briefly.

The boy took it, a smile beginning to blossom on his face. Blondel felt no loss with the giving of this feather away. It only brought to mind certain parts of the King\'s personality he did not agree with, and he imagined it would inspire goodwill in this young boy.

Before the lad could stammer up thanks, Blondel swung onto Blanche and spun her around in the stable. Hay flew, and the youth scampered out of the way when the mare thundered by, and raced out into the grey evening.