Chapter 1

I had to admit, I had been pretty sauced the night before, so I didn’t quite recall what happened yesterday, but I knew that this wasn’t my bed. I felt a God awful headache, splitting, even, as I rose to relieve myself, only to be stumped when I noted the very dim light and the absence of any kind of restroom whatsoever. Stumbling around in the darkness, I smelled something rather unpleasant and stared down to find an old-fashioned chamber pot, which had already been used once. Knowing that this was my best option, I pissed into the damn thing, and then walked as far from it as I could go.

Looking around the room, I realized that I was naked, too. Damn, where were my clothes? I scratched my head and then recalled that I had shaved it just last night, on a bachelor party dare. Yes, you see, it had been my best friend’s bachelor party, and well, he had dared me to shave it, so I had. I was naked, bald, and in total darkness, and evidently, I had help removing both my head and facial hair in the process. That made sense, as I was obviously too drunk last night to do the honors.

Now, really confused, I reached for a door, only to open it and find that I wasn’t alone. A smelly woman, rather grungy in appearance, with stale, musty clothes, greeted me with a smile full of crooked and rotten teeth. I knew that I had been drunk, but drunk enough to bed her? What was I thinking and how did I get here? That was when I recalled the gag gift from the night before, a strange silver necklace that I had put around my neck, with an amulet in the form of a brazen hourglass. It was the most bizarre thing that I had received, but I had taken it in good humor and worn it to bed. What the fuck ... it was still on me! Where the hell was I?

I stared at the woman a bit longer and realized that she was actually rather young, maybe more of a girl than a grown lady. She was also rather pretty, aside from her dingy appearance and poor dental hygiene. Where the fuck was this, some Third World country? Had I been abducted in my sleep and taken somewhere else? Looking closer at her, I also noticed that her eyes were a rather dark blue and showed more than a little fear in them. Not being sure what she feared, I looked around and tried to think of something, until it hit me. She was afraid of ME!

“Who ... are you? Where ... am I?” I asked her, causing her to look at me with confusion for a bit, before she apparently got the gist of what I meant.

She mumbled something in an almost ethereal tongue that I could barely make out, and then pointed to herself, saying quite plainly, “Derwa, m’lord.”

Lord, I thought? What was this “lord” business, and what the hell kind of name was Derwa, anyway? I cleared my throat and gestured for my clothes, only to put a smile on her face by doing so. Her smile grew wider and she shrugged before winking at me, as if to say that I didn’t have any clothes anymore. I became a bit agitated before she finally brought out some a rather rough, woolen cloak, which I put on in desperation, feeling the itchiness of the cloth on me. The way that I reacted clearly amused her, as she giggled upon seeing my face.

“What amuses you so?” I inquired, confusing her a bit, before I imitated a laugh and then gestured a question.

“That ... this,” she spoke English for a change, though it was rather accented, broken, and had a surprisingly deferential tone.

That was when Derwa fell to her face in front of me, kissing my feet in abject fear, as if afraid that I might be angry with her again, even saying, “Pray be not wroth with me, m’lord.”

It was quite clear to me, now, that a few things were in play here. One, I was not in Cleveland, Ohio, anymore, or any other part of the USA. Two, I was not, perhaps, in the present time, which was truly bizarre. Three, I was in the presence of someone who didn’t quite know what I was, any more than I knew about her. To play it safe, she had assumed that I was a lord or nobleman of some kind, due to the amulet. Given the potential risks for her, that made a great deal of sense. She just wanted to survive, that much was clear. It had to be scary for a lowborn woman, or damsel, in this case.

“Are you a serf, a thrall? Or are you a wench?” I asked her, curious as to who she was and where I was.

“Smith’s daughter, m’lord. Derwa, daughter of Kenal, m’lord. Me dad’s got the smithy in town, m’lord. Me mum’s dead. Had the shits and died last year,” Derwa explained, using more words than I got out of her thus far.

Dysentery, I thought. There must be a lot of that going on, more than people realized in my own time. I knew that it claimed the life of Edward the Black Prince, so why wouldn’t it take that of a blacksmith’s wife, too? Sanitary conditions being so poor, it probably killed far more people than most people in my time or hers were aware. Add to those bad living conditions a shortage of meat among the medieval peasants, that could be rather rough indeed. Malnourishment could lead to pellagra, another killer, and too much of a starchy diet also to diabetes, which untreated could cause blindness, sepsis, and renal failure, hence death. Lack of vitamin C could bring on scurvy as well.

“What was her name, Derwa?” I asked her, just being curious and learning what I could about where I was ... names could be a good clue.

“Wenna, m’lord. She had me, me two brothers, and me two sisters. Me sister Elowen died in childbed last month, had me nevy Cenmin, who lived thus far. Me sister Delen just wed. Me elder brother Resmen was hanged by the king’s men last year. Me twin brother Guaedret smelts steel like me dad at the smithy,” Derwa rattled on, seemingly encouraged by me.

“Where are we?” I asked her now.

“Me husband’s. He went off to fight the king’s men, more fool him. I told ‘im, that damn fool Mortimer’s no better than de king, and he’ll no better rule us, him nor that whore queen of ‘is. Even if they win, so what? He thinks they do us Cornish folk any better than de rest o’ da lot? ‘Em kings is all de same, ye ask me, not dat ‘e would,” Derwa unwittingly revealed where and when we lived now.

It had to be some time late in the reign of King Edward II, who fled the kingdom with his good friend Hugh Despenser the Younger in 1326. I also realized that I wasn’t in England proper. I was in Cornwall. Derwa was Cornish, as was her whole family. She was married, too, at least for now, and she thought that her husband was an idiot for going off to join Roger Mortimer’s host against the king. It wasn’t that she thought that Mortimer would lose per se, but that he would be no better of a ruler than Edward or his favorites.

“Your husband, what’s his name?” I asked Derwa now, trying to ignore her stench.

“Oh, ‘im? He’s Corentyn, best poacher in ‘is part o’ Cornwall. Lot better than me brother Resmen, who got caught poachin’ de bishop’s deer. Bishop licked king’s arse pretty well, I guess, given de king’s men came after Resmen and hanged ‘im. Kings, barons, bishops, they’s all de same. All de same. Forgive me for sayin’ it, m’lord, but the lot of ye is robbers. All of ye robbers,” Derwa sighed, half expecting me to hang her, but she had gotten angry and spoke too frankly before remembering that I could be highborn.

“What else does he do, besides poaching?” I had to wonder.

“Tanning hides, which is what he should be at right now, but no, e’s got to run off and join that traitor Mortimer. Man’s just another rebel baron. Even if ‘e wins, he won’t lift a finger for the likes of us, and me husband should know that by now. So, since I know a wee bit of tanning by now, I’ve been at it me self so as I don’t starve for me husband runnin’ away from de bishop. Say, what’s your name, m’lord? Ye never told me,” Derwa turned the tables on me, now that she felt safer.

“Oh, me ... I am Robert Bouchard of Hereford, you see,” I lied, knowing that she’d never believe the truth.

“Ah, Hereford. So you’re an English knight or baron, just as I thought. Or maybe a priest or monk?” she asked me, already convinced of the answer.

“You’re very perceptive, Derwa. I was a friar, but I ran afoul of Mortimer and had to flee. You don’t mind if I stick around here, do you? Seeing as my priory’s in Hereford and the Bishop of Hereford is Adam Orleton, one of Mortimer’s arse lickers, well, you get the idea, don’t you, Derwa? I’m not too friendly with the new regime. Not that I was too happy with the Despensers, either. Greedy lot, those fellows, father and son alike. I got defrocked for my trouble, so I’m not really a friar anymore, you see,” I offered her a touch of intrigue and conspiracy, just to see if it would take, in spite of her worries about her husband’s adventures.

“Hey, don’t expect me to put my neck in the gallows, but for now, you’re far enough away from Winchester that we’re probably safe, What shall we call you for now? What’s a good Cornish name for you? Aedan, yes. Your name is Aedan, and you’re a deaf-mute, agreed, pray, m’lord? Let’s not get me slain for your spat with Mortimer. What did you exactly do to ‘im, anyway, to make ‘im so wroth with you,” Derwa probed, truly curious.

“Preached at him, of course. Denied him the Eucharist. Accused him of forcing the queen to bed him. He didn’t like that, not much at all, so it was folly. Just as much folly as Saint John the Baptist rebuking Herod Antipas for taking his brother’s wife. He lost his head for it. I only hope that I don’t end up worse than that. Thank you for hiding me from the bishop’s wrath, Derwa. And there is no bishop out this way, anymore, not with Walter de Stapledon ambushed and slain, him being the one who had your brother hanged for poaching,” I continued at length.

“Nay, but I don’t think that it ‘ill take that raper Mortimer long to find ‘im a new one, one more to his liking. Probably still hang poachers, anyway. Even if me husband does fight for Mortimer and lives to tell of it, he’ll be hanged for poaching all the same, whenever it suits the new bishop’s fancy. Since you’ve got bad blood with Mortimer, it won’t be ye as bishop now, will it, a lowly, defrocked friar, fugitive from the likes of Adam Orleton, the lord Bishop of Hereford himself?” Derwa asked me shrewdly.

“No, I’m just Aedan, a Cornish deaf-mute and tanner. Since my life’s already forfeit, and we have no bishop just yet, I can do some poaching myself, I suppose,” I offered, though I was nervous about that idea.

“Perhaps, but I doubt that you’ve ever so much as poached a pheasant, let alone a stag. Might be that you can join me a poaching, and being both deaf and mute, not say or hear a thing about it,” Derwa waxed rather cunning, even as I started to leave the small house, barely more than a hut, for the shop, “Oh, no, m’lord friar. You’re not to leave just yet. You’re to lie with me. Me husband’s run off and deserted me, so if he lives, he can wear the horns, and if he dies, he won’t know any different, will ‘e?”

“What would you say to him if caught?” I asked her, now quite disturbed by the idea of lying with a smelly, grungy woman, even if she was pretty.

“I’d tell him to go find some whore or wench if he wants to repay me in kind and get his revenge, but he shouldn’t have just left me here, anyway. Besides, I didn’t choose him. Me dad chose him for me. I just put up with it, that’s all. Didn’t have much say. Mind you, he barely touches me, the mad fellow. How’s I suppose to get with child, if he’s too busy drinking, feasting, poaching, and God knows what else? For all I know, he might be a bugger, like that Despenser chap that the king likes so much. Rumor has it the king himself’s a bugger, but he has sons and daughters. So does Despenser, or so I’ve heard. Anyway, I sometimes think that me husband might be a sodomite. What do you think?” Derwa asked as she insisted on undressing me all over again and then taking off her own clothes.

I started to protest again, but she was having none of it, as proved when she lowered her head to my groin and began to work on it with her lips and tongue. I felt ill at the sight of her, on her knees, given how awful she smelled, but her mouth worked magic on my dick nonetheless. I wondered if she would notice the lack of a foreskin, but then again, maybe she would write it down to me being a nobleman, clergyman, or something. I doubt that she had bedded what she thought of as a lord before, nor a friar or priest, for that matter.

“Oh, m’lord, what’s the matter? Is it me dirt and smell? Sorry, m’lord, but us common folk don’t bathe much. We have little water as it is for other things. Little to spare for that. I can wash up for ye, if it makes ye want me more, but how to get it without stealing it from someone else? If you’re to pass for a lowly, deaf-mute tanner, you can’t be choosy about wenches and wives. In fact, if you’re to fool anyone, you’d best get to bedding a lot of wenches and wives. No one with any sense will believe that the likes of ye would turn down a damsel of any rank if offered to him.

“A poacher is even more likely to poach other men’s wives, which is another reason I wonder if ‘e’s a sodomite. If he’s not poaching the wives, he’s probably buggering pages, squires, pickpockets, and apprentices. Probably off bending over for Mortimer, or the lord bishop, or some fat abbot with a taste for a young man’s arse. That or taking the Devil’s pitchfork up his bum for being such a fool and dying unshriven, likely his luck. Could be roasting in Hell or Purgatory as we speak,” Derwa rattled on before she pushed me back onto the bed and started to engulf my prick with her slick pussy.

Her breasts were very nice, if not very clean, and they swung in my face more than once as she rode me, not taking no for an answer at all. Derwa used me furiously, impaling herself repeatedly and ravenously, with a hunger clearly born of deprivation. I wasn’t sure what got her hooked on a steady diet of dick, but from the way she spoke of her husband, it wasn’t him. Whoever it was, she had developed an appetite for the male of the species and she wasn’t one for starving herself, near as I could tell. If she would just clean up, then, well, I wouldn’t have an issue at all with bedding her, even though she looked to be no older than sixteen.

Apparently, my cock didn’t have the same issues as my mind, at least not once lodged in a warm, wet chamber that felt velvety smooth to it. It enjoyed itself immensely, being backed up due to my brief mistake of dating a Mormon girl. She, unfortunately, had taken the abstinence pledge and meant every word of it. I had just broken it off with Elaine, swearing off monogamy, marriage, and the like when I attended Tyrone’s bachelor party and got worked up by the stripper, Danielle. As far as I knew, though, this was my first lay since I began dating Elaine. Danielle probably didn’t do side work, given that she was engaged herself, though one couldn’t be positive.