You want more? Here you go. On your own heads be it.
The Trials of Tansy
Parte ye Forthe.
Summary :
Our intrepid heroine, brown-eyed blondish bombshell Tansy Trollope, 834, formerly of Lesser Wassup in the West Country, has bearded the wolfie in his den, taking bath-water to Nottamun?s most notorious Bad Boy and perpetrator of deedes beginning with the letter ?r?, Sir Guy of Gisborne, 853, late of Normandy, France..
Ordered by the smouldering Lord to top up his tub with a second can-full, she has made her escape as fast as her sturdy young country legs can scarper... And in her position, who would not do likewise?
Now read on:
Tansy stood at the top of the ramp and took three deep breaths. As occasionally in life and more often in literature, there was good news and bad news. The good was it was down-hill all the way to the kitchens. The bad was she needed to string out her journey, so her innards could settle. She had just been fritted clean out of ?er second-best shimmy. Yet for fritted, she felt awful warm and fluttery. She was in such a state that she never heard the approach of the second cart, which all but ran into hers round the first bend.
??Tansy! ?? said a kindly voice. ??You look proper spooked, my dear. Are you all right??? It was ?Airry Piers. And wild about kind and cuddly ?Airry Piers though she might be, he was not the sight she wanted to see at this pertickler moment, for he was pushing two steaming-hot canisters of water on his cart, and she had counted on the long respite of going all the way down to pick some up from the kitchen hearth, and, maybe, just maybe, getting unaccountably lost on the way up again. Unless?
Tansy tucked a wayward ringlet under her cap, looked up at him from under her lashes and flashed him her winsome-est smile. ??Oh. Mr Piers, surr,?? she wheedled ??How dear of ?ee to come to a poor maid?s aid . Oi been fair flummoxed to Friday, getting this ol? water delivered, what with Mistress Pennyecuike awaitin on Oi to ?elp peel ?er pasternakes. And Oi promised to let her have moi ol? Grammer Trollope?s secret receipt for coneys in hogepoche. Be a poppet, and take that water on up to Sir Guy.?
?Airry chuckled. ?You, a domestic goddess, Tansy, my girl? Pull the other one Here!? He handed over his cart. ?I should have been back at work ten minutes ago. We?re all run off our feet. You?ll just have to take one for the team.?? And he bustled off, pushing Tansy?s empties.
For the genial ?Airry?s true function was castle security. He had a small office secreted under the front stairs, y-clept the Grydde, after the wrought iron work that protected its small window. From here he kept an eye on comings and goings with the help of his trusty turnkey, Malcolm, and a few other shifty types who favoured designer tunics, often in dark blue, and subfusc but smart gambesons.
Tansy slumped over the handles of the laden cart. She must have been a far wickeder maid than she thought, for there was going to be no peace for her. But then she straightened and set her shoulders, remembering that doughty grammer of hers, who had raised fifteen young ?uns in a hut the size of a small dog-kennel and run a three Michelin star inne and bake-house in her spare time. She, Tansy, was a Trollope too. She could do this.
She marched up the ramp, rapped on the door and barged straight in. Sir Guy of Gisborne was in the bath, with his head leaning back on a folded towel. For a moment she wondered if he were dead, or asleep, because he did not move and his eyes were shut. Moi lord! What long eyelashes you have, Mr Wolfie!
Maybe you was born with it, maybe it were some of that black stuff they ?eathens used round their eyes, she thought, with a touch of hysteria. And the steam had made the ends of his hair curl. In the dim light of the fire he looked far more like one of they archy-angels must be than the poor wan wights they showed you in church windows, droopy as melted candles. Though if ?e had wings, they?d be big ol? shiny -feathered black ones, she reflected with a shudder as his cold blue eyes shot open and narrowed, and she realised he had not been asleep, but watching her all along.
?More hot water, wench, before I freeze in here?, he growled. ??And watch where you?re pouring it. You do not want to endanger the Gisborne succession.?? His tone threatened dire punishments, and we all know what letter some of those began with. Tansy?s hands trembled so much it was all she could do to comply without transgression.
.?Now. My back. And do not dare to drop the soap. Harder woman. You are not making your pastries now?
Grammer Trollope. Grammer Trollope? Even a wyrm may turn, and Tansy?s inner warrior woman serpent stirred in her sleep. So the noble lord liked it rough, did ? e? She gritted her teeth and dug in.
Finally all her exhausting hours in the milking shed had paid off, because he said no more but sat in haughty silence while her strong fingers dealt with the grime in his pores and the dust in his hair. ?E wasn?t ?alf bad, with his mouth shut .And his skin was quite soft and silky over the muscle-y bits, she thought, dreamily. And then he went and spoiled it.
?Towel!? He grabbed her wrist and pushed her in the direction of the fireplace.
?Yes Moi Lord, straight away, Moi Lord? Three bags full, Moi Lord she muttered sub voce as she grabbed at a couple from the heap she had left warming.
? What did you say, woman??? he thundered.
And stood up.
Tansy fainted.