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Book: The Cole Trilogy: The Physician, Shaman, and Matters of Choice by Noah Gordon
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Authors: Noah Gordon
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He thought it especially fine, though Barber pronounced the meat overdone and grumbled at lumps in the mashed turnip. Afterward Barber brought onto the table a chart of theBritish island. It was the first map Rob had seen and he watched in fascination as Barber’s finger traced a squiggly line, the route they would follow over the coming months.
Eventually, eyes closing, he stumbled sleepily back to their campsite through bright moonlight and made his bed. But so much had happened in the past few days that his dazzled mind fought sleep.
He was half awake and star-searching when Barber returned, and somebody was with him.
“Pretty Amelia,” Barber said. “Pretty dolly. A single look at that wanting mouth, I knew I would die for you.”
“Mind the roots or you’ll fall,” she said.
Rob lay and listened to the wet sounds of kissing, the rasp of clothing being removed, laughter and gasping. Then the slithering of the furs being spread.
“I had best go under, because of my stomach,” he heard Barber say.
“A most prodigious stomach,” the girl said in a low, wicked voice. “It will be like bouncing on a great comforter.”
“Nay, maid, here is my great comforter.”
Rob wanted to see her naked, but by the time he dared to move his head the tiny bit necessary, she was no longer standing, and all he could see was the pale glimmer of buttocks.
His breathing was loud but he could have shouted for all they cared. Soon he watched Barber’s large plump hands reach around to clutch the rotating white orbs.
“Ah, Dolly!”
The girl groaned.
They slept before he did. Rob fell asleep finally and dreamed of Barber, still juggling.
The woman was gone when he was awakened in the chill dawning. They broke camp and rode from Farnham while most of its people were still in bed.
Shortly after sunrise they passed a blackberry bramble and stopped to fill a basket. At the next farm Barber took on provender. When they camped for breakfast, while Rob made the fire and cooked the bacon and cheese toast, Barber broke nine eggs into a bowl and added a generous amount of clotted cream, beating it to a froth and then cooking without stirring until it set into a soft cake, which he covered with dead-ripe blackberries. He appeared pleased at the eagerness with which Rob downed his share.
That afternoon they passed a great keep surrounded by farms. Rob could see people on the grounds and earthen battlements. Barber urged the horse into a trot, seeking to pass it quickly.
But three riders came after them from the place and shouted them to a stop.
Stern and fearsome armed men, they examined the decorated wagon curiously. “What is your trade?” asked one who wore the light mail of a person of rank.
“Barber-surgeon, lord,” Barber said.
The man nodded in satisfaction and wheeled his horse. “Follow.”
Surrounded by their guard, they clattered through a heavy gate set into the earthworks, through a second gate in a palisade of sharpened logs, then across a drawbridge above a moat. Rob had never been so close to a stately fastness. The enormous keep house had a foundation and half-wall of stone, with timbered upper stories, intricate carvings on porch and gables, and a gilded rooftree that blazed in the sun.
“Leave your wagon in the courtyard. Bring your surgeon’s tools.”
“What is the problem, lord?”
“Bitch hurt her hand.”
Laden with instruments and flasks of medicinal, they followed him into the cavernous hall. The floor was flagged with stone and spread with rushes that needed changing. The furniture seemed ample for small giants. Three walls were arrayed with swords, shields, and lances, while the north wall was hung with tapestries of rich but faded color, against which stood a throne of carved dark wood.
The central fireplace was cold but the place was redolent of last winter’s smoke and a less attractive stench, strongest when their escort stopped before the hound lying by the hearth.
“Lost two
Eventually, eyes closing, he stumbled sleepily back to their campsite through bright moonlight and made his bed. But so much had happened in the past few days that his dazzled mind fought sleep.
He was half awake and star-searching when Barber returned, and somebody was with him.
“Pretty Amelia,” Barber said. “Pretty dolly. A single look at that wanting mouth, I knew I would die for you.”
“Mind the roots or you’ll fall,” she said.
Rob lay and listened to the wet sounds of kissing, the rasp of clothing being removed, laughter and gasping. Then the slithering of the furs being spread.
“I had best go under, because of my stomach,” he heard Barber say.
“A most prodigious stomach,” the girl said in a low, wicked voice. “It will be like bouncing on a great comforter.”
“Nay, maid, here is my great comforter.”
Rob wanted to see her naked, but by the time he dared to move his head the tiny bit necessary, she was no longer standing, and all he could see was the pale glimmer of buttocks.
His breathing was loud but he could have shouted for all they cared. Soon he watched Barber’s large plump hands reach around to clutch the rotating white orbs.
“Ah, Dolly!”
The girl groaned.
They slept before he did. Rob fell asleep finally and dreamed of Barber, still juggling.
The woman was gone when he was awakened in the chill dawning. They broke camp and rode from Farnham while most of its people were still in bed.
Shortly after sunrise they passed a blackberry bramble and stopped to fill a basket. At the next farm Barber took on provender. When they camped for breakfast, while Rob made the fire and cooked the bacon and cheese toast, Barber broke nine eggs into a bowl and added a generous amount of clotted cream, beating it to a froth and then cooking without stirring until it set into a soft cake, which he covered with dead-ripe blackberries. He appeared pleased at the eagerness with which Rob downed his share.
That afternoon they passed a great keep surrounded by farms. Rob could see people on the grounds and earthen battlements. Barber urged the horse into a trot, seeking to pass it quickly.
But three riders came after them from the place and shouted them to a stop.
Stern and fearsome armed men, they examined the decorated wagon curiously. “What is your trade?” asked one who wore the light mail of a person of rank.
“Barber-surgeon, lord,” Barber said.
The man nodded in satisfaction and wheeled his horse. “Follow.”
Surrounded by their guard, they clattered through a heavy gate set into the earthworks, through a second gate in a palisade of sharpened logs, then across a drawbridge above a moat. Rob had never been so close to a stately fastness. The enormous keep house had a foundation and half-wall of stone, with timbered upper stories, intricate carvings on porch and gables, and a gilded rooftree that blazed in the sun.
“Leave your wagon in the courtyard. Bring your surgeon’s tools.”
“What is the problem, lord?”
“Bitch hurt her hand.”
Laden with instruments and flasks of medicinal, they followed him into the cavernous hall. The floor was flagged with stone and spread with rushes that needed changing. The furniture seemed ample for small giants. Three walls were arrayed with swords, shields, and lances, while the north wall was hung with tapestries of rich but faded color, against which stood a throne of carved dark wood.
The central fireplace was cold but the place was redolent of last winter’s smoke and a less attractive stench, strongest when their escort stopped before the hound lying by the hearth.
“Lost two
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