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I was a whole week late getting home to service poor Marion, a whole seven days, right down to the hour and not surprisingly she hadn’t waited for me.

She sent a maid out to tell me, as I clip clopped across the echoing drawbridge, that she was with Sir Cumcised now and didn’t want to see me.

“Send my apologies” I said to the maid, “it was the dragon unfortunately, that delayed me……”

She knew it was a lie and threw a pail of slops from a window in reply, without doing me the courtesy of a “Gardiloo!” Consequently my breastplate got splattered and my trusty steed quite upset.

Then Sir Cumcised grunted heartily and Marion moaned in sympathy. I heard them both distinctly but could do nothing except leave a deposit on their doorstep. At least my horse did. After it had eaten all their roses.

Someone will have the job of cleaning the hinges now, I said to myself as I cantered away. Call it a calling card if you will, a brown steaming one, one which will do the tomatoes no end of good, not to mention the fishes in the moat.

I was another whole week getting back to the tavern. My horse cast a shoe and I got a crick in my neck watching a wench with big tits screwing something in the bushes at the side of the road.

They’ve no morals, these roads, a legacy no doubt of their, originally, Roman construction.

Bess the barmaid wasn’t pleased to see me. She’d a gang of Irish navvies in her bed and told me, in no uncertain terms that there was no room for anyone else. They’d only that day completed tarmaccing that particular stretch of the road and were very thirsty. I drank the pint of old ale a minion offered, on the house thankfully, had the horse re-shod and got on my way again.

They’d cleared the dead dragon from the valley when I went back that way. Only some oil stains and a couple of scorched trees marked the spot where I’d killed it. A mile further on, at a crossroads I dismounted, put the nosebag on the horse and slunk into a thicket for a shit.

Half an hour later, defeated by constipation and with nettle stings on both cheeks I regained my composure and made ready to get on my way again.

I was another whole week getting to Martha’s cave in the mountains of north Norfolk. Another entire seven days, two thunderstorms and an argument with a stray yurt before finally and with an immense groan of hopelessness I was able to dismount and greet the lusty lass in the usual manner.

“You stink!” she informed me forthrightedy “When did you last bathe?”

That was a question I hadn’t really considered giving much consideration to. We all smelled, didn’t we. In one way or another and Martha in particular. She’d no cause to go telling anyone, me especially, about their stink.

“It’s my feet!” I said, nowhere near apologetically “My socks sort of rotted onto them awhile ago and their immersion in twenty gallons of dragons blood didn’t help the situation either!”

Martha grinned.

“Heard about it!” she informed me gaily. “All over the news it was! All over! They even said……”

“They even said it was Sir Cumference that’d done it, yes I know!” I told her. “More bloody lies in a quite literal sense!”

Martha’s grin broadened.

“I new it couldn’t have been Sir Cumference” she told me “He was here at the time. Here in this very bed!”

That was something I didn’t really want to hear but I hoped the chamber pot had been emptied since his visit and the spittoons cleaned. Brass corrodes so easily these days doesn’t it?

She’s a large lady is Martha! Large and generous with it. She didn’t mind that I was late or had lame excuses, that my feet had rotted almost to stumps or that my horse had eaten all her roses and left a large deposit on her doorstep.

“The boy’ll clear it up!” she said offhandedly “Give him something to go at with his catapult”

He was still in short trousers, that boy, even if he was sixteen and a half.

“I like watching the way his bum moves when he wields his shovel” Martha told me “And the way he wheels the barrow when it is full”

She’s a dirty minded woman, is Martha. Dirty minded, round arsed and big titted. She voted Tory at the last election instead of Lib Dems like everyone else and was most surprised when her candidate didn’t win.

I’m not so sure about the boy though. I think he’s a communist.

“Actually” Martha said thoughtfully “He’ll be eighteen next full moon and I’ve already promised to take his virginity”

“As a birthday present?” I asked.

Martha nodded.

“Give him something to remember!” she said.

It sounded a grand idea to me. He’d remember it alright if I knew Martha, if he didn’t die of exhaustion in the process. She can be voracious at times, can Martha.

Two days later, when I left, there were no rose bushes left and the boy was still shovelling shit.

It took me a week to get to Manea Bridge in the Great Ouse valley. A whole damned week across a stinking marsh and when I got there I found it was closed for repairs so I couldn’t cross the river.

“A Rushian scrap iron ship hit it” the bridge keeper said “Out of Wizbeach on the spring tide. You’d have thought the pilot would have known better. He must have been blind!”

I could see what he meant. The bridge was big enough to see, even by a Rushian. And it was painted pale blue.

The bridge keeper’s wife made me some tea and asked me if I’d like a full English. Thats the one with a large sausage which I give to her not her to me. I love sausages and striped aprons on a woman! Especially on a bridge keepers wife when she has nothing on underneath it.

We let him splash petty blue paint onto the scratches on the bridge while we attended to the breakfast, and my dear horse paid scant attention to anything except the roses around the windows and the maps of treasure island on the curtains both of which he ate with equal equanimity.

She’s a skinny bird, that bridge keepers wife. Long legged and as fit as hell. It all that running back and forth across the river that does it.

“That’s the only way to avoid the tax inspectors!” she informed me cheekily. “whichever side I’m on they’re always on the other”

They’d catch her sooner or later I thought, patting her belly and suspecting she might be pregnant. It wasn’t mine, or my horse’s so I didn’t care.

“When you get too big to move quickly” I said “What will you do to escape them?”

“Easy!” she said “I’ll take my knitting and go and sit in the middle”

“What about all them Rushian ships trying to get into Wizbeach?” I asked. I knew the Rushian economy was in a bad way and blocking their ships up in a river wouldn’t help it any.

“They’ll have to go a different way” she said. “They don’t like the colour of the bridge anyway!”

Now Marion has Sir Cumference in her bedchamber. Chained to the ceiling. Martha has a cave in mount Burnham Market and the bridge attendants wife has another man’s child in her belly. Someone has obviously been busy but it wasn’t me. I’ve no time for that sort of thing, what with all the dragons that need killing. So I spent a little time picking my nose and wondering about beetroots, cheese and the increasing cost of decent halva and before I knew where I was I’d won a tenner on the lottery.

Clearly it was time to celebrate.

There is a particularly disreputable brothel in Market Harborough, Market Drayton or do I mean Market Deeping? Whichever, it took me a whole damned week to get there. Then I found it was Market Rasen.

“The rain delayed me!” I said lamely, slime dripping from my hat.

The doorman looked at me quizzically. I had no necktie and my feet were beginning to stink again.

“What you after?” he growled “This ‘ere’s a reputable establishment!”

“Pussy!” I said “What else”

It was a stupid question to which I gave a stupid answer.

Actually I’d just as well had a boy as a girl but I thought it unwise to tell him that. My horse had already eaten the roses in the window box while we stood there with the rain dripping inexorably down my neck.

He let me in, thankfully and arranged to have my horse stabled for the night at no extra cost. On the condition that I washed my feet, both of them, you understand.

Now I knew the brothel of old, knew some of the ladies too, even one or two of them by name. At least by the names they used while they were working there. It was pleasing then, gratifying even, to be offered a session with a new girl, one I’d not encountered before.

“She’s new here!” they said “Newly qualified and all that!”

She had the scars and bruises to prove it.

And a framed Sir Tificate.

I don’t mind a noisy woman, don’t mind a quiet one either but I do object to one who cries the whole time I’m screwing her. And telling her beads about it is worse! She wasn’t even all that forthcoming, kept her bra on and one ear ring in. In fact, for a fiver, a whole fiver, I’d say she was a bit of a swizz. An old man in a homberg had her after me and he thought much the same.

He even kept the homberg on while he was with her.

They must have realised I was unhappy ‘cos they offered me tea and biscuits afterwards. A nice young man offered to dunk them for me.

“Do you come here often?” he asked.

It sounded a reasonable enough question.

“I come here whenever I can” I told him.

It sounded a reasonable enough answer.

He’d a stiff little prick, pink and nicely curved without the saggy foreskin that some men have. His bum was smooth and already lubricated and he wriggled gently to allow me in.

Like I said, I come here whenever I can.

It took me a whole week to get to Rising Castle, along the coast road from Lynn. They’d had floods and a famine and the streets were still knee deep in drowned dwarfs and dead locusts that nobody had had the time to clear. A small bird, a goldcrest I think, attempted to make a nest in my beard but I was having none of it. Birds mess can cause havoc to one’s armour plate, what with all the lime in it.

The Mad Woman wasn’t at home when I rang the bell of the Castle.

“She’s gone shopping” the maidservant informed me as she let me in.

Well the rain had stopped by that time but I was wet through anyway, drenched to the skin and shivering.

The maid showed me to a room in a turret. A room with an iron ring in the wall instead of a bed and a queer device like an iron pot with blazing charcoal in it.

“New idea from B&Q!” the maid elicited “Brazier or something, they call it!”

She put a copper kettle of water on the top of it and smiled as I waited for her to make tea. I love a maidservant who can make tea in a castle turret. Self sufficiency coupled with efficiency makes me feel warm all over. As does getting a firm pair of breasts in my hands and feeling the way the nipples stiffen. Those on the maidservant in Rising Castle were particularly good at that.

The Mad Woman came back later, in a taxi with a wooden leg. My horse had eaten all her roses by that time and was about to start on the tomatoes but she led him away saying too much lycopene would only give him wind.

“You don’t want him to get colic do you?” she screamed.

She was supposed to be locked up for plotting against the king but they always let her out on Mondays to go shopping. They did it in such a way that she could stay out until Wednesday, so long as she shopped in Lynn and went to The Woolpack in the market place for her dinner.

“Bloody dump!” the Mad Woman screeched “That’s given me fleas!”

She’d open crotch bloomers on under her skirts, all the better for displaying acres of pale, blue veined thigh patterned with flea bites.

“Look at this!” the maidservant cried pulling several saveloys out of her mistresses handbag.

“Free samples!” the Mad Woman told us, heatedly denying she’d stolen them.

We knew better though, the maidservant having seen the brochure. They were the lead free ones, now banned as a foodstuff by the EU and when the Mad Woman began to foam at the mouth we carried her up to her room, put her straightjacket on and took her to bed.

“Free samples!” the maidservant scoffed “Infected fleabites more like!”

“Or too much cock!” I offered.

The maidservant shuddered.

“It’ll be than sullen Duke of Nedford!” she said “they say he has a big one……”

“Want him!” the Mad Woman moaned.

The maidservant nodded resignedly “Just as I thought!” she muttered.

She wanted him too, evidently.

We fried the saveloys in sunflower oil and had them for our dinner, along with mustard pickle. They made a nice change and gave me the impetus to go and visit another of my relatives, Aunt Strange who lived five miles away on the edge of The Wash.

Needless to say it took me a week to get there, highwaymen and coned off sections of bridleway being what they were. The maidservant didn’t help me much either, insisting it wasn’t safe to leave until the dark of the moon. We had three joyous days together, she and I before I finally left her contented in the Mad Woman’s second best bed.

“Do you really think anyone will read this rubbish?” she asked me as I packed my suitcase.

“I don’t care of they don’t!” I told her. “It isn’t written for that reason.

The gardens of the castle were rose free by that time but the flower beds were well fertilised and the maidservant had decided she’d be topless when she waved me goodbye.

“The air is good for the twins” she jiggled bovinely.

I got a crick in my neck watching her, for half an hour over my left shoulder until Rising Castle was quite out of sight.

“Altruistic!” she’d whispered, the taste of her lingering like a new variety of cider “That’s what you are……”

After a week of pondering I bought a dictionary. It was one I’d read before but it didn’t matter because having a regard for others wasn’t really my scene. I wrote to please myself, not to satisfy the mangled mores of the masses. Altruism doesn’t come into it and if you’d asked me right at the beginning I would have told you that. Altruistic? I’d rather be ambidextrous.

In fact I am.

© Aahlu 270711.

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