It's raining again, of course - the sky never lets up, in its rolling solid grey sheet from one side to the other, as far as the eye can see. Lately, it never seems to stop raining. Still, there are worse fates that can occur to one, and the man known to most as 'Mad Peter' doesn't seem to much mind the wet, a thick wool travelling cloak draped over him as he and his horse clip-clop from a canter to a walk, as he comes over the crest of a once-green hill that's now mostly mud.
     His voice, of course, can be heard and recognized as he approaches - a sweet singing voice, matched by an utterly vulgar tongue. Mad Peter travels as bard as much as messenger, claiming the tradition of hospitality. While not universely loved and admired, he is perhaps grudgingly respected - messages given to Mad Peter have a way of being delivered.
     "I'm a forester in this wood, and you're the same design
     It is the mantle or your maidenhead, bonnie lassie, never mind
     Syne you've laid me doon it's come pick me up again
     An' syne ye've teen the wills o' me come tell to me your name
     Sometimes they call me James and sometimes they call me John
     An' when I'm on the king's highway Young Daniel is my name..."
     There are eyes upon the road. So many eyes these nights. They watch every message, every move. Sometimes, they bump, causing blinks between frons and leaves. But there is little noise, save the scurrying of animals and the sweet voice of a messenger who travels these roads.

     The king's highway. In this age that would make it Henry's, and it's a bloody mess. Wars in France, and sons and vassals make but sparing time for home repairs. The roads are ever the first to go, and the last to be tended. There's not much difference between this 'road' and the rest of the muddy earth about it. Perhaps called 'road' in memory of some Roman road turned path turned mess. At night, it's all one, wet, dark earth...
     What caused the mud to roll and turf to tear was not the rain, not the constant rain, but a charge now a week old. Crest the hill it did -- by day you can still see the mark it made -- and through the rain and past it to the forests. Sweeping from the northern plateau, along the ridges and down to the flatter land. Land better for open warfare.
     Do you have a message for that, Mad Peter. Or a song for the mark of hooves now being melted away, dissolved away by a week of solid rain. The blood cannot be smelled from here, nor tasted. But the earth here had its fill. But then, in Britain... what soil is free of that?
     Night is no time to be moving through the woods, and this... treacherous country whereall to take an evening stroll. Ride. Journey. The hills are open and the woods have eyes. And a road, even a bad one, is a focus for just about any man or creature, good or ill...

     It's some distance from that, no where near village, no where near town, no where near anything but wood that another man walks. Walks in the woods, clothed in a muddle of leather and wool, metal and fur. An earth colored wool cloak, thick knitted, lined with the fur of many slain foxes. And gloves of the same, layered under by more covering of wool, more to keep out the damp than the chill per se. It's the damp that seaps in the bones and the chill. He moves quietly in the darkness. Alone. Away from his men.
     For you see, not far from where a mad poet and messanger wanders there are two camps of men... waiting for messages. Some for retreat. Some for charge. Some for victory. Some for death.

     Wars or skirmishes, it's all one and the same to Peter - and really, 'Mad Peter' is just one of the names he's known by, in the various places he's been...
     It's all the same to him, in the end. Friends die, enemies die, life is short and violent, but oh, so sweet.
     But today, messages and not philosophy is his goal, and so, he rides up to the camp where he is bidden, pulling on the reins of his too-tired horse. "Whoa-up."
     Peter slides from his horse, landing on booted heels lightly, tossing back the hood of his cloak in a spray of oak-white tresses that have been bound back hastily with a leather thong, locks of hair having been braided here, tied into knots there. He is a small man, topping five feet only by perhaps four inches, and his storm-grey eyes crinkle with perpetual merriment, even know as he looks round the edges of the encampment.
     "What ho, the camp!", he calls, though thinking it unnecessary. "Messages I bear, from far-off places!"

     What ho the camp...
     Such a simple phrase sends the woods trembling. Not from men in fright knocking armored knees together, but with sudden movement. Cymri, damn near all of them red-headed with the occasional brown oddball, are swift, deft and know this forest better than anyone. While it still stands. They hold onto it, even as the encroaching Normans are cutting it down, or burning it.
     You slip off your horse, and men appear from fronds, from trees, from shadows within shadows at-hand. Hand signals are made to those nearby, and bird calls pass news from point to point. Even to the distance where the commander was taking a solitary stroll. His gloved hand palms a tree, and he holds there.
     But back to you...
     "We should give you an archer," one red-head clips in Welsh. He goes by the name of Bedw ap Gryffys. "You pass through the lines of the Normans often enough. Are you invisible, Mad Peter, to any save your friends?" There's a muddy smile. "You can give the message to me. I'll take it straight to Gwynedd's ear..."
     That would be the Prince of Gwynedd, near on the Prince of all Wales but for one brother, Rhodri, and one Norman, William, the Duke of Normandy and Comte du Poitou...
     The men nearby go back into cover, all but one other besides Bedw.
He watches you. He watches for any who may have followed you. A motion of his hands, and the woods settle again...

     Invisible? Not I... that, I leave to those who have earned unmitigated favour from those who Watch...
     He smiles, fair skin creasing as he does so, and bows slightly to Bedw. "Ah, but if I had armed men accompanying me, archers or others, I'd be the more targetted. And even if I myself escaped harm, I doubt I could promise the same for your archer."
     His Welsh is fluent. A talent for languages may well have decided this twist of his fate...
     A leather folder is pulled from the bag he carries, oiled to resist the wind and the rain. Mad Peter offers it over with another grin, the browns and greys of his clothing matching the dappled coat of his horse. "I will remain until it is known whether I am needed to carry a reply or no, then. Is there meat and drink for a humble messenger, then? Or must I run amok in yonder trees and catch as catch can, for my supper?"

     "We've got a bit muddy rabbit left. And damp venizen," offers Bedw, and taking the leather, he turns, a pivot to the northwest. His arm comes out, pointing. "Take to that birch, turn left at the first oak, look for a gathering of boulders. It's just on the other side of the center rock." Welsh directions won't change much in the next millennium...
     Bedw pats the horse, and with the sound of a bird call, moves off. He disappears in fronds, in cover, in the shadows of great trees.
     It's more to the due north that he moves, and where he encounters said Gwynedd. Leaning with shoulders to the tree, arms folded against his chest, muddied from last week's charge and this week's evasion, copper hair more mahogany without the help of the sun and summer. Or maybe that's just more mud. "I expect that'll be Rhodri's surrender," he says and he exhales. A bitter look that is. Good news and bad news both. Good, that I have but one front. Bad, that that one front now be Plantagenet. His hand comes out, "Hold here a bit..."
     The leather passes hands and he opens it, taking the message within. No one trusts poets anymore to remember them word for word, or is it such that the message is not one that can or should be spoken. Davydd ap Owain, called Gwynedd, turns and tries to find a bit of moonlight. Fat shite chance of that. Holding it close he squints, then gives up with a Cymric cussing and heads to the one fire nearby.
     Fire's a bit glorious a term. It's mostly smoke. He pulls up a log, followed close on by Bedw. And reads...

     "Muddy rabbit and damp venison. Ah, well." Peter chuckles. Not gourmet fare... but who is he, to demand better than princes, when in fields? He nods his thanks to Bedw, and follows the directions. Welsh directions are not something he is unfamiliar with, and he doesn't really want to stray in the wrong direction.
     Being mistaken for a spy - or even having his impartiality as a messenger suspected - is a deadly thing.
     Whistling, he approaches the gathering of boulders indicated. "So dauntingly gaed he..." Mad Peter looks around with bright, alert gaze, the edges of his smile still playing about his mouth. "Anyone about?", he offers genially, "After four days and nights on horseback, I could use a few encouraging words."

     Much like magic, a man rises from behind one of the boulders. "Canna man have a few minnites alone?" he asks, grinning as he stands. Of brownish hair and angled features, he looks little like his countrymen. Even his height suggests otherwise.
     But who can argue against the apparent?
     "What words can I give y'?" he wonders, moving around the front of his boulder towards you. "Llordan," he nods, giving his name as he offers his hand. No less muddy than the others, his sword sits at his side, and hands come to adjust the belt that hangs at his waist.
     "And you? You're th' messenger, eh? I heard about yer comin'..." he motions behind him to the dark woods, woods that speak.

     There's a bit of quiet laughter from the fonds. Beats mud, old man. What do you think we've been eating? The king's pheasant? But the laughter dies down with the next wind. It holds the smell and the promise of additional rain...
     More rain... just what we need. Lord Jesu, in your mercy, I ask for one day of sunshine. Bah. Davydd holds the message up to the meager light, his muddied gloves spotting and even smudging a part of it....
     Bedw picks off the last bit of rabbit flesh from the plate nearby, flicking away a leaf in the process. He doesn't speak to his commander and prince, not while the man's trying to digest his news. He looks into the glow of the fire, brown eyes showing weariness. I am half sick of war...
     The envelope's opened, the vellum inside pulled out for examination by flickering firelight. It's ... well, whether it is good news or it is bad, depends on points of view, but few could say it to be unalloyedly one way or the other. In a different era, it'd be a black-bordered telegram. A missive, from Rhodri's lands...

     Regretfully informing of Rhodri's disappearance from the field, and that the Normans have laid claim to his person - his wife ill and dying, it is believed, though a witchwife sent for. A desperate plea for aid from his advisors, who, lacking a king, cannot long hold the Normans at bay, nor hold their own men...
     But Mad Peter need not worry at such news, after all, a quizzical grin on his face, accepting the hand while ignoring the mud. "Most men about these parts know me as Peter, or Peter the Mad, or Mad Peter," he laughs. "Call me whichever you like. Aye, I'm the messenger, and if I can resist being on horseback for a little while yet, my loins will thank me."
     He reclaims his hand after the brisk, firm clasp, pushing his cloak back a bit and looking about. "I was told I've a choice of mud rabbit or of drenched deer," he says in amusement. "I could do with a bit of that, if you've some to share."

     A sharp nod. "That I do," Llordan states, reaching to a small nook between two rocks and fishing out a bag. "Here, take as y' need," he states, offering you the sack. "I have a fire not so far," he motions to a clearing behind the boulders, but before the trees. "You're welcome t' it," he states, moving over in that direction.

     Rhodri missing from the field...
     Taken...
     Good...
     "I shall have a reply for Mad Peter," Davydd says and he rises. "And you to go with him, Bedw, to see it carried. I trust it to your keeping most of all. Go with Mad Peter to Powys. Tell our barons that ... enmity between brothers is lain aside when brothers are ta'en. I will forgive them their uprising," A large hand claps on Bedw's shoulder, "...if they rise now with me. If not, when I am done with Plantagenet, I will continue southward." They have a choice. Rule by Welsh or rule by Norman law. He has no doubt which those lieutenants shall choose. "When you get the men that are left, bring them north. We will likely be meeting half-way."
     Davydd moves from the fire, tucking the message in a gathering of clothing at his waist, held snug in his belt.

     Oh, now, the messenger's only too willing to follow Llordan to the clearing. A fire... he's dreamed of such warmth, for days now. Nights, especially. A fire, and food...
     "My thanks to you," he responds, good-humouredly still, reaching into the bag, eyes shrewd as he considers options. Oh, food... sweet food...
     Pulling a strip of meat from the bag, he tears off a bit in his teeth, chewing energetically and swallowing as he enters the clearing. Peter then pauses. "Will you mind if I ask, to satisfy native curiosity, or is the asking liable to be taken as insult?" His grin remains, the light of interrogation in his eyes.

     "Ask on," the man says, his hazel eyes flickering from the fire's reflection. For a man in the middle of a war, he is oddly calm and congenial. "Never's wrong in th' askin," he states, picking up a bag and turning it up at his lips as he takes a seat by the flames.
     After his own swallow, the heavy bag is offered to you.
     Oh, bliss...

     Peter accepts the bag with the simple pleasure of someone who's been living off watered wine that tastes like piss, and hardened beef that's been salted and cured beyond recognition. He takes a long swallow, then offers it back.
     "For this hospitality, much thanks. - So how is it, anyway, that one finds a stalk of wheat growing among the daisies, such as you among all these?" A quick grin's offered, eyes empty of malice, though alive with endless curiosity.

     The man shrugs, then grins as if to say You're lucky. "It's all way easy t' find what you're lookin' for, if yer pure of spirit an' know what y' seek," he offers. Llordan chuckles and reaches for his bag again, other hand holding a stick that he uses to poke at the fire.
     "See, over there," the men in finer linens than he, yet nothing like the finery of the Normans, "...that's th' Prince. Ach, a fine man," he nods eagerly. "An' y' saw his lieutenant," a new word in these lands, "...Bedw." He nods for him too. "So, there's much here in our lil camp," he smiles proudly, a man who believes he's on the right side...already referring to Llewelyn as if he's won.
     "An' you? You like bein' a messager?"

     Princes and Kings... sides of a line drawn in the dust...
     It must be comfortable, to know one is right, know a right from a wrong...

     Peter settles onto the ground a bit stiffly - hours on horseback have left him a bit sore. "I cannot speak for the purity of my spirit, I confess," he chuckles in his even tenor. "I doubt I am any better or worse than the next, after all..."
     "I like it well enough - it is a job which needs doing. And better one such as I, who can travel without fear, or with less fear, thanks to the desire in men's breasts for my muse." A spark lights his eyes again, and he reaches for another strip of meat.
     "You've been here from the start, then?"

     "Aye," Llordan says, looking down to the flames, "I been here from th' start." He shrugs again, his mudded boots moving to a more comfortable position. As he pokes the flames, sparks fly. Free hand adjusts the cloak at his collar. "Things are changin'," he notes, glancing to where the officers congregate around the prince. "Right now, they change fast. An' then, it will slow."

     That gets a nod. Of course - such is the way of battles, of change, of power. Of life. Of death. "Do you look forward to it, then?" The bard's curious, in his own way - reaching back, he unties the thong holding his hair - maybe he can dry out a little, at least, with this fire's aid. "Of being able to see an end to it, and moving on?"

     The nod comes again and hazel eyes are bright over a smile as Llordan turns his gaze upon you. Summer rests in it. "Ah, I do," he confesses, sighing and grinning at you. "War don't feed a fam'ly, it don't make wheat grow. It makes most men hard," he glances at the officers again. "Aye, some, it raises, but most...'tis more than any of 'em should ever see."
     "I have a farm," Llordan says softly, "...an' tis quiet. I like it. Near..." he begins, "...well, further nord." A grin for the place kept secret.
     More than men should see...

     Peter stirs, an echo in his head. He knows. And Knows too, but that's not something he'll readily confess to.
     "Yes, that's true... it does. Nine pieces of wood," the bard says mutedly, then shakes his head, grin returning. "Further north? No fear - I'll not ask what you're not willing to tell. And, well, I can keep confidences, but you're wise to be wary." He winks.

     Llordan smiles, "Ah, ever'one should be," obvious stated. He exhales and takes another drink from the bag, then offers it to you again. Stick continues to push at the small flame, sending glowing ash upwards.
     "Have you been nord?" he asks.

     "North, south, east and west - wherever the winds do call." It's more true than his light tone lets on.
     When the Winds call... I answer...
     "Lovely countryside, in its own way. A different sort of beauty than here." Peter smiles again, though a little more tiredly. "It is more of a surprise, hence, to see one such as you, here..."

     "Such as me?" Llordan's head cocks to the side. "I don' unnerstand..."

     "Men do not travel, as a rule, without very strong reason." Peter tugs one knotted strand of hair - elf knots, three in all. "You were called by war, and by the prospect of peace. You stand out here, you know, to one entering as I did."

     Llordan ohs and nods, lips pursing together after the realization. "Why wouldn't I come?" he wonders. "My lord Owain call'd us, t' help against th' invaders," he tries to explain, using words given to him. "He said we were free Cymru, an' so we had t' fight." Nod comes again. "I hop'd it'd end soon," he recalls. But that was then. This is two years later.

     Owain... A name to tuck away, behind his grey eyes. He nods easily. "Time ... it does not fly, but it spends itself in ways great and small. Have you a wife and children, then?"

     "No," Llordan says softly. "Not now. Had a wife," he explains, "...but she died four winters ago." And there you are. He puts the bag down, stuffing the cork into it. "What of you? Y' have a wife?"

     "Ah... I'm sorry." Peter's voice is genuinely sympathetic, though he's able to shift truth on and off like a blanket, in his voice. "No, no wife... women prefer a man who can settle, and I'm not one of those."
     As well... there's few maids who'd long lie besides me... Mad Peter is my name, here, and though I am sane, it is not a mortal sanity.

     "They do," Llordan agrees, both hands coiled around the stick with which he taunts the fire. He smiles at the idea, pushing white shards of wood around. "So," he wonders, "...is that all y' do? Take messages back an' forth? Innit full of danger?"

     He tilts his head back into a laugh, quick and bright as the sound is - but it fades quickly. "It has its dangers, aye," Peter agrees readily, shredding a piece of venison with absent fingers. "I am bard as well as messenger, though. I go from pillar to post, court to court, city to town, and then ... why, then I start all over again. Few will harm a bard, though, for fear of bad luck." Peter winks. "You do know why it's bad luck to harm a bard, aye?"

     He's heard this saying, but shakes his head as to the reasons why. Llordan blinks at you, expecting the answer.

     "Why..." Peter's amusement grows. "If you harm a bard, and it's found out... you'll suffer all spring, summer, fall and winter long, with never another bard coming by to visit, and break the monotony, with music and song and gossip and news, of course."

     Well, of course. Llordan nods, smiling. "We all wait for th' bard t' come," he notes, thinking of gatherings back home. "Where we are, they only come once-a-whiles."

     "Far from roads and from other towns and settlements?" Peter's curiosity sounds idle, though in actuality, it's perhaps not so.

     "Aye," Llordan nods and shrugs. "Tis not so bad," he offers, "...but is good when a singer comes." Llordan reaches over to pick up a piece of wood at his side. Leaning up, he settles the fresh cutting at the edge of the flame. "I should get this ready f' tonight," he observes, looking up. "Mebbe th' heavens will bless us an' not give more rain..."

     "The heavens have been certainly cursing us long enough," Peter agrees. "If nothing else, I'd dearly wish for a dry bit of bedding for the night. But... beggars cannot be choosers."

     Llordan grins, laughing a little. "Well, I canna help ya wit' that, friend. I only have me things," he motions to a pile in the darkness. "Hard t' carry too much," he explains. "But," he looks at the officers, whose discussion seems to be breaking up, "...since yer th' messenger, I bet th' lords can give y' somethin' fer now. You can use m' fire, ifn you like. I ha' some duties t'night, so..." it's all yours for a while.

     "My thanks. If there is anything I can do for you, in exchange... ?" Some deeds have a price, and while this was freely offered, the bard takes obligation seriously. "If it is within my power..."

     Do? Why, maybe. Eyes glance to the prince still standing with a few men. "When y' sing of this time," Llordan stands, offering you the stick to tend the flame, "...be nice t' ap Owain. An' t' those Cymri an' northers, who..." he thinks a second, "...dinna ask for this."
     "An..." he looks down, not sure of this next part, "...an' sing somethin' nice about th' Norman too." He is not sure why, but Llordan asks anyway. Maybe Plantagenet needs a good song.

      A rich chuckle comes from Peter at the request.
     I who cannot take sides...
     "I'll do that," he agrees. "Gift me with a name for you, and I'll put you in it, as well?"

     He is unsure of the humor in what he's said. Llordan picks up the pouch of drink, slinging it over his shoulder. "Nae, nothin' on me." I am no one. A man of light hair and hazel eyes. Of height not like the others. Of aquiline features and curved nose. "Y' do me best if you sing well of us here, an' th' man from over th' sea." He is rather serious about this, and moves around the flames to go.
     "Mebbe I'll see you in th' morn," he explains. "Y' can use meh bed till then, if y' don't find anythin' from th' lords."

     "If I remain here, and am not sent off, I will do so," Peter voices the promise with due gravity. There's reasons he's called Mad Peter...
     "Good eve to you, then, and good luck with your appointed tasks, then." He shifts closer to the fire, almost too close, hungry for its warmth. "And if you've need, let me know..."

     "Aye g' luck t' you, singer of songs," Llordan smiles. He slogs through the mud heading towards the main body of the Cymri camp, eventually disappearing among the milling throng of tired soldiers.

Posted by rowan at September 07, 2003 03:53 PM