Post by Nicholas Miller on May 26, 2017 22:27:22 GMT -5
Having been dismissed from his meeting with the Lord Marshal, Sir Nicholas Miller only had a few things on his mind. He knew Cuddy would see the men fed and bedded down, and that their horses and gear would be seen to. And his own, for that matter. After all, even though he was a knight, Nick did not have a squire to call his own, nor did he have his own servants as many men of knightly rank did. And with the knowledge his men would be seen to and that he had discharged his duty to report, he could take time to look after himself.
Even within the warmth of the castle, he was chilled to the bone. Despite his lanolin-rich cloak, his gambeson had become sodden, as had the clothes beneath. In fact, he was wet to the skin; and these last two days without rest and less than adequate food had taken his toll upon him. He wanted a hot bath, something that had become much of a common happenstance for him once he had joined the royal bodyguard as a mere archer but had once been a luxury; he wanted some food in his stomach, and some warm mulled cider to warm his bones.
But mostly, there was one more duty he needed to discharge before that, and that was one he was thoroughly looking forward to: keeping a promise to Gabrielle Delacroix, the promise he would come back to her. And that was the thought that buoyed him as he made his way towards the chambers they had shared with their mistress. His back was aching; his legs were burning from too long in the saddle. He was shivering. His harness felt as though it was its actual weight several times over. But still he was spurred forward. Upon entering the apartments, he immediately took a turn into the room he occupied, one that was normally reserved for a servant; his bow, helmet and arrow bag had already been delivered, and he wasted little time in divesting himself of the belt from which his falchion hung, then the one that supported the well-worn hunting knife he carried as other knights bore a rondell dagger. Then his coat of plates, his mail shirt and his gambeson. And it was in his sodden cotte and chausses that he exited his room and went in deeper, and he knocked on the door of the room Gabrielle had shared with their mistress. "Gabrielle? Are you awake?"
Gabrielle Delacroix
Even within the warmth of the castle, he was chilled to the bone. Despite his lanolin-rich cloak, his gambeson had become sodden, as had the clothes beneath. In fact, he was wet to the skin; and these last two days without rest and less than adequate food had taken his toll upon him. He wanted a hot bath, something that had become much of a common happenstance for him once he had joined the royal bodyguard as a mere archer but had once been a luxury; he wanted some food in his stomach, and some warm mulled cider to warm his bones.
But mostly, there was one more duty he needed to discharge before that, and that was one he was thoroughly looking forward to: keeping a promise to Gabrielle Delacroix, the promise he would come back to her. And that was the thought that buoyed him as he made his way towards the chambers they had shared with their mistress. His back was aching; his legs were burning from too long in the saddle. He was shivering. His harness felt as though it was its actual weight several times over. But still he was spurred forward. Upon entering the apartments, he immediately took a turn into the room he occupied, one that was normally reserved for a servant; his bow, helmet and arrow bag had already been delivered, and he wasted little time in divesting himself of the belt from which his falchion hung, then the one that supported the well-worn hunting knife he carried as other knights bore a rondell dagger. Then his coat of plates, his mail shirt and his gambeson. And it was in his sodden cotte and chausses that he exited his room and went in deeper, and he knocked on the door of the room Gabrielle had shared with their mistress. "Gabrielle? Are you awake?"
Gabrielle Delacroix