A Horse and Rider
Only Chapter
One balmy spring day, forty score and five years ago, a beardless youth rode across the sunlit plains of Southampton. He looked every bit the genteel noble in his gold-embroidered silk robes, with a huge, baudy ring on every fat finger. He sat astride his impertinent mount, struggling to bend it to his will with little success. Eventually he cast the matter off as hopeless and resolutely made his way ever forward, letting his spirited mule of a horse be his guide.
A light zephyr sprang up, tossing its mane and tail to and fro. An inspection of the horse under greater proximity, by any finer man than this haughty rider, would reveal that it was in fact quite an amiable companion, under usual circumstances. However, this bilious, hateful little man on its back rarely ceased to deprecate what he perceived as its poor quality and breed, save to catch his malodorous breath or partake of a rather pungent liquid from his wineskin. As one might imagine with no great difficulty, this did not endear the man to his mount overmuch.
Very carefully choosing its steps, in order to find its way free, this wily beast managed to make its way to a particular camp where its rider most certainly did not want to be. The smell of cooking meat, and blood, was too strong for the horse to mistake, but its burden, surrounded by his own aromas, did not realize just where his horse was taking him until he had no hope left.
Having fallen asleep in the saddle, he woke with a yell as he flew through the air. Staggering to his feet, he found the source of his brief disagreement with gravity to be galloping away, having bucked him off. Bellowing great oaths and curses, he caused such a cacophony that none who had any ears within a mile could fail to hear it. To his great discomfort, he soon discovered this to be a mistake, as the bandit camp his mount had so neatly deposited him near arose to the promise of new plunder. They did so with a zeal that showed this ignoble noble that he would not survive the night. His last sight was of a horde eager for a treat, and a horse in eager retreat.
A light zephyr sprang up, tossing its mane and tail to and fro. An inspection of the horse under greater proximity, by any finer man than this haughty rider, would reveal that it was in fact quite an amiable companion, under usual circumstances. However, this bilious, hateful little man on its back rarely ceased to deprecate what he perceived as its poor quality and breed, save to catch his malodorous breath or partake of a rather pungent liquid from his wineskin. As one might imagine with no great difficulty, this did not endear the man to his mount overmuch.
Very carefully choosing its steps, in order to find its way free, this wily beast managed to make its way to a particular camp where its rider most certainly did not want to be. The smell of cooking meat, and blood, was too strong for the horse to mistake, but its burden, surrounded by his own aromas, did not realize just where his horse was taking him until he had no hope left.
Having fallen asleep in the saddle, he woke with a yell as he flew through the air. Staggering to his feet, he found the source of his brief disagreement with gravity to be galloping away, having bucked him off. Bellowing great oaths and curses, he caused such a cacophony that none who had any ears within a mile could fail to hear it. To his great discomfort, he soon discovered this to be a mistake, as the bandit camp his mount had so neatly deposited him near arose to the promise of new plunder. They did so with a zeal that showed this ignoble noble that he would not survive the night. His last sight was of a horde eager for a treat, and a horse in eager retreat.