The morning air was cool and crisp as Oswald and Robin descended the hill, trodding carefully down the rutted track, its edges feathered with clusters of primroses. Oswald cast a glance over his shoulder, scanning for the glint of steel of some watching spy. He pulled his cloak tighter, the cowl settling low over his brow as Robin strode beside him, the faint crunch of leaves underfoot.
Robin. We'll keep off the turnpike, too many eyes.
He nodded towards the wide road that wound through the valley below. Instead, he veered them into a thicket of trees, half-hidden by bracken and shadowed by a line of twisted hawthorns. The sound of running water grew louder as they approached a small stone bridge arching over a chattering stream. Nearby, a weathered watermill loomed, its wheel creaking lazily as it turned, churning the current into a frothy white.
Oswald paused on the bridge, resting a hand on the rough parapet, and peered down at the water rushing below. The stream caught the sunlight in fleeting, silver flashes, and for a moment, he let himself breathe, the tightness in his chest easing slightly. Robin stopped beside him, folding his arms.
Robin. Here's the lay of it, my lord. To claim your throne, you'll need more than a name and a pretty pendant. No man will throw in his lot with a ghost of a boy, hidden away for a decade. A name alone is not enough, not when Lothaire's got his boot on the kingdom's neck. Your father had the blood, the wit, and the arm to back it. You have the blood, aye…but the lords will need more, and you will need the lords.
Oswald frowned, shifting his weight.
Oswald. If I declare myself now, the king's spies will have me dead before I reach the next shire.
Robin. Before then, even. No, we can't march in with banners flying.
Oswald. Then how do we win them to our side?
Robin gestured off beyond the wood, beyond the hills towards the wider world ahead.
Robin. By proving yourself. Not yet as a prince, but as a man. As a warrior, leader and diplomat. You'll be a wanderer, a hero in the shadows. Prove your worth to them, your strength and wisdom. Win their favour one by one. Only when the time's ripe, when you've got enough behind you to stand tall, do we reveal who you really are.
Oswald scoffed, dropping a stone into the water below.
Oswald. A hero?
Robin. Indeed. Oh, you may be foul paper now, but I will make of you a masterpiece! It's in your blood, is it not, my lord?
Oswald. If you say so.
Robin. I do. But for now, we are but wandering errants, looking to make a name. And a name you'll need! Jack, we'll call you.
He clapped him on the shoulder and Oswald frowned.
Oswald. Jack?
Robin. Jack the Giant-Killer, Jack-of-all-Trades, and Jack the knave if needs be.
Oswald managed a faint smile, tugging his hood lower until the fringe brushed his eyes, concealing the pale gleam of his face. "Jack," he murmured, testing the sound of it, then leaned over the bridge to catch his reflection in the stream, glimpsing the rogue he'd become.
They pressed on, the trail winding gently down to Barrow Gurney. The woodland opened into wide fields, divided by idle rhynes, the soil rippled with the undulating lines of ridge and furrow. Grazing sheep lifted their heads to watch the wayfarers pass, while in the distance, a lone herder leaned on his crook. A few weathered cider barrels rested near a barn, and a tattered scarecrow with a turnip for a head, leaned drunkenly in a fallow field.
As they neared the village, the old grey-stone walls came into view, thick with ivy. The cottages were squat and sturdy, their roofs thatched thick and golden. Smoke curled softly from chimney pots and the windows gleamed with the warmth from inside. Well-tended gardens brimmed with bounty in rows of mangelwurzels alongside patches of winter greens like cabbage and kale. One porch bore a wooden bench, a basket of rosy apples beside it. Another had a line of washing strung across, shirts and aprons fluttering. In a window, a clay pot held a spray of dried lavender, while a tabby cat blinked lazily from the sill. A few villagers paused in their work as the strangers passed, offering a nod before returning to the rhythm of their lives, mending nets, stacking logs, or leading a plodding Shire horse to stable. Robin broke the quiet, nodding ahead.
Robin. We'll need horses if we're to roam the country proper. The tavern's our best bet.
Oswald followed his gaze. At the heart of the village stood the White Hart Inn, its thatched roof sagging comfortably over thick stone walls. The faint hum of voices spilled out, growing louder as they approached. A weathered sign swung gently above the door, the painted hart rearing proudly despite the chip and fade of its antlers.
Robin pushed open the heavy oak door, and they stepped inside. The tavern was alive with cheer, a bustling hive of laughter and song. The low-beamed ceiling hung close, while the walls were adorned with old horseshoes and saddles. A fire roared in the wide hearth, casting a golden glow over the crowded room. Villagers packed the benches and tables, red in the face with their sleeves rolled up, clinking mugs of scrumpy. In one corner, a trio of lads strummed a battered lute and scraped a fiddle, their voices rising in a rough but joyful chorus, while an old man with a clay pipe puffed clouds of smoke, tapping his foot to the rhythm. A barmaid, her apron dusted with flour, darted through the throng, balancing a tray of frothy mugs with a grin that never faltered.
Robin leaned close to Oswald, his voice cutting through the din.
Robin. We'll have transport in no time, my lord. These folk love a good haggle on a Sunday.
He steered Oswald towards a spot near the fire, where the heat seeped into their bones after the morning chill.
The crowd's song swelled and Oswald settled onto a bench, watching with a faint smile as they wove their voices together.
"Oh master and missus, are you all within?
Pray open the door and let us come in.
O master and missus a-sitting by the fire,
Pray think on us poor travellers, a-travelling in the mire.
For it's your wassail and it's our wassail,
And it's joy be to you and a jolly wassail!
Oh where is the maid with the silver-headed pin
To open the door and let us come in?
Oh master and missus, it is our desire
A good loaf and cheese and a toast by the fire.
For it's your wassail and it's our wassail,
And it's joy be to you and a jolly wassail!"
The hearty tune bounced off the walls and Oswald felt a flicker of warmth in his chest. These were simple folk, their lives bound to the seasons and the soil, far removed from the intrigues that had shaped his own. He straightened, feeling brave enough to test his new persona, Jack, the wandering everyman. With a deep breath, he leaned towards the innkeeper, a stout man with a grizzled beard and red nose, joining the chatter with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. Thankfully, Robin led the conversation.
Robin. Bravo! A good old song from the good old days! Oh, but they're long gone now, I fear, buried with the better kings.
The innkeeper paused mid-pour, wiping his hands on his apron as he squinted at Robin with curiosity.
Innkeeper. Kings? Now there's rich whimsy from beyond our shires! But what's changed, merry fellow? We've our ale, our friends, and our song. Pray tell, what could we be missing?
A farmer nearby, his hands rough as oak-bark, leaned in, cradling his mug like a treasure. His voice was slow and thick with the West Country burr.
Farmer. In this far corner of the world, there's no old nor new. We live now as we ever 'ave and ever will…God-fearing, in need o' naught but fair weather and strong backs.
The barmaid, weaving past with her tray, flashed a cheeky grin, her dark curls bouncing as she nodded in agreement.
Barmaid. You see, master, the folk here entertain an indifference for beyond our hedgerows, the rest of the world and its affairs.
Innkeeper. Mmm, but that's owing to the good opinion we entertain for our own portion of it! He thumped the counter with a laugh, sloshing cider from a nearby mug.
Farmer. By my troth, if I ever die, it'll be in Somerset! Hahar! And I'll not ask for more than a patch of green earth to call my own!
The room erupted in chuckles, mugs raised in a lazy toast. Oswald shifted, trying to find his footing in the banter.
Robin. Surely, though,there's value in knowing what stirs beyond? A king's rule shapes even the smallest hamlet, does it not?
The farmer blinked at him, brow furrowing, while the innkeeper tilted his head, sizing him up.
Robin. See, I've crossed each league of this country, from the Holy Island to Land's End. I've seen just how quickly this country has fallen into ruin.
The farmer snorted, turning back to his drink, and the innkeeper waved a dismissive hand.
Robin. We all suffer here in silence while King Lothaire's done nothing but fill the pockets of his friends!
Innkeeper. Well, that's a step towards charity, ain't it?
He grinned wide, and the crowd burst into laughter. Robin forced a chuckle, leaning closer.
Robin. Aha. A fine jest, but speaking of charity—my friend and I need horses to keep on our way. Is there a man here willing to part with a sturdy mare for a fair price?
The innkeeper shrugged, pouring another mug.
Innkeeper. Horses? Aye, we've got 'em, but they're our lifeblood. No coin's fair enough to leave us afoot.
Farmer. My old Bess'd sooner kick ye than carry ye, and I'd not sell her for a king's ransom. He took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A wiry man by the fire piped up with a slur. "Got a mule, but he's lame in one leg and mean as a wasp. Ten shillings, if ye're fool enough!" The room laughed again, and Robin's smile tightened as he looked around.
Robin. Come now, good folk, a pair of Christians need aid. Two horses, sound and swift…surely someone's got a spare?
The barmaid shook her head, resting her tray on her hip.
Barmaid. Ye'll find no spares here, master. Try Chew Magna down the drang and over the common, they've long enough purses to go without a nag or two.
She turned away as the song picked up again. Robin's jaw clenched, but he kept his tone even.
Robin. Fair enough. Enjoy your wass-whatever, then.
He returned to Oswald, who'd retreated to a quieter corner, and dropped onto the bench with a scowl.
Robin. Not even a one-horse-town, these yokels are of no help at all! Most Englishmen really are walking stomachs…there must be panda bears with higher ambitions! You know, the Latins have a quip about us: 'While they were still swinging in trees, we already laid with men,' they say.
He huffed, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed.
Robin. But never mind them, my lord. You'll set your sights higher than this rabble.
Oswald nodded absently, his gaze drifting back to the carefree singers. The firelight danced in their eyes. He envied their small, certain world, untouched by the shadow he carried. "Jack" felt flimsy here, a mask that didn't quite fit, but Robin's words lingered. Higher sights, the king's path. He quickly drew his legs in beneath the bench as a great, shaggy deerhound padded past, then loped towards the counter.
The heavy door creaked open, admitting the cool air and a burst of raised voices. A party stumbled in, their colorful cloaks marking them as a troupe of traveling players. At their head was an older man with a crumpled cap, his face flushed with indignation. He waved a gnarled hand, gesturing wildly, while his wife trailed beside him, her gentle voice rising to soothe his temper.
George. Stand-ins? Ha! You might as well ask me to train a pair of pigs to tread the boards! We're halfway through the tour, Edith, and those fools have left us high and dry!
Edith's kindly eyes crinkled with patience as she laid a calming touch on his arm.
Edith. It's alright, Georgie! Truly. We'll find stand-ins for them both, you'll see. The show's not sunk yet!
The innkeeper perked up at their entrance, a grin splitting his grizzled beard.
Innkeeper. Alright there, George? What's got you in such a twist?
He reached for a pair of mugs, pouring with a practiced flourish. George slumped onto a bench, dragging a hand down his face as Edith settled beside him, patting his knee.
George. Giles and Cuthbert, the pair of clodpoles. Up and left us in Butcombe, ran off to join a troupe of jugglers, all for some lass! Giles took one look at her tossing an apple and catching it with her foot, and swore he'd wed her. Berty followed, bleating he'd not let Giles plight his troth alone. Now they're juggling fruit to charm her kin, the lovesick fools!
Edith. Oh, they were always more fond of capering than our craft. We'll manage without 'em, love. Just see.
The innkeeper slid the mugs across the counter, shaking his head with a laugh.
Oswald, drawn from the reverie, glanced towards the window as George's rant continued. Beyond the warped glass panes sat two caravans, their wooden frames weathered and splashed with faded paint. Each side was adorned with curling script proclaiming "The Compton Martin Players." A pair of sturdy horses, one chestnut and one dappled grey, stood hitched to them, munching lazily on a pile of hay. He nudged Robin, who had been nursing his own mug in silence, and tilted his head toward the scene outside.
Oswald. Robin. Over there…
Robin's sharp eyes followed, and a single eyebrow arched as a slow, calculating grin spread across his face.
Robin. Well, well…there's our steeds, gift-wrapped and tethered.
He set his mug down with a soft clink and straightened, brushing crumbs from his beard.
Robin. Watch me work, my lord.
With a stretch, he then rose and sauntered over, Oswald trailing a step behind.
George. I'll not have my King Nicolas played by some half-wit who can't tell a soliloquy from a sow's ear!
Robin. —Pardon me, good fellow, but I couldn't help overhearing your woes. Robin is my name and this here's Jack. We're a pair of wanderers with a bit of acting in our blood from village greens to market squares, you name it. If you're short a couple of players, we'd most happily join you on the road.
George paused mid-sip, lowering his mug to squint at them over the rim. His weathered face creased with skepticism, his bushy brows knitting together as he sized up the pair of them.
George. Acting experience, eh? You don't look the sort. What's your pedigree? Some mummer's troupe out of Bristol, I take it? Or just a pair of rogues who fancy a lark?
Edith. Now, Georgie, don't be so gruff. They've a willing air about 'em.
She offered Oswald a warm smile, with her silver hair and worn shawl she could have been a gypsy herbalist with rosemary and sage in her skirts.
Robin. No rogues, I assure you. Though I've played my fair share of devils. Young Jack here's a quick study, he'll know his lines before you can say "tuppence for a tankard!" We're headed cross-country ourselves; your tour'd suit us fine.
Oswald nodded, forcing a grin he hoped looked earnest. George huffed, setting his mug down with a thud.
George. Well, I s'pose beggars can't be choosers… Fine, fine. Curse me for a fool, but you're in. Mind you, I'll not suffer slackers. You'll haul props, mend costumes, and learn your parts sharpish. We're headed west tomorrow, following the Wring. Step out of line, and I'll have no qualms leaving you by a crossroads.
Robin's grin widened, a glint of triumph in his eyes.
Robin. You've our word, Master George. We'll be model players, eh, Jack?
Oswald. Aye. Model players.
Edith beamed, clapping her hands together.
Edith. There, settled! Welcome to the Compton Martin Players, boys. I'm Edith, how do you do? Oh, you must meet the rest! Kit, come here!
The players gathered round, mugs in hand, and a burly figure pushed forward, blonde curls and a face weathered by sun and laughter. He clapped Oswald on the shoulder with enough force to make him stumble.
Kit. Well met, new boy! What's your tale then, runaway monk or lovelorn plow hand?
Oswald blinked, his tongue tangling as shyness crept up his throat.
Oswald. Er, I'm—uh—
Before he could muster more, Kit's eyes darted to the corner, where the singing lads had struck up a new tune, their voices lilting over the scrape of a fiddle. With a whoop, he bounded over, snatching a battered tabor as he joined the chorus. Sheepish, Oswald sank back onto the bench. He glanced at the other players milling about and his gaze snagged on one figure in particular. A shorter boy, about his age, stood apart, leaning against a beam with a hat pulled low over his brow. A dark ponytail trailed down his back, tied with a scrap of twine, and his slim frame was draped in a patched tunic that hung loose but graceful. Oswald's breath caught in his throat. The boy was… pretty, in a way that caught him off guard. With youthful, freckled features, sharp cheekbones softened by a delicate jaw, eyes like shadowed pools under a stern brow. There was a quiet intensity to him and a wall of reserve.
Their eyes met. Oswald froze, caught staring, and the boy's expression tightened. He crossed his arms and straightened his back.
Boy. What're you gawping at, eh?
His voice was high and strange, almost strained, as if forcing itself lower.
Oswald flinched, heat rushing to his cheeks.
Oswald. I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—
His hands fumbling in his lap as he stammered and dropped his gaze to the floor. George waved a dismissive hand vaguely at the boy.
George. Fret not, Jack, lad. That's young Will…prickly as a hedgehog with everyone at first. He'll thaw when he's good and ready.
Will snorted, folding his arms tighter. Oswald risked a sidelong glance, his heart stuttering as he took in the boy's profile again…the slim neck, the faint curve of lashes against rosy skin. His cheeks burned hotter, and he turned away, flustered.
Edith rose and clapped her hands once more.
Edith. Right, then. Finish up everyone, we're off!
The players drained their mugs and filed out the door as the tavern's warmth gave way to the brisk midday air. They spilled out into the courtyard where the caravans stood, their wooden frames creaking faintly in the breeze. Kit bounded ahead, still humming the lads' tune, while Will lagged behind.
George. You two, in this one, mind the axles!
Edith ushered them towards the second caravan, its door swinging open with a groan and musk of old leather and horsehair. They piled in, a cramped tangle of elbows and knees. The interior was a traveler's trove, a cramped yet cozy nook carved from polished wood. Overhead, a low ceiling pressed close, strung with loops of hemp rope where costumes hung—velvet cloaks brushing against patched tunics, their hems brushing the shoulders of those below. A narrow bench ran along each wall, padded with threadbare cushions stuffed with straw. A battered lantern swung gently from a hook, unlit but promising warmth when night fell.
Oswald squeezed onto a narrow bench, Robin wedging in beside him with a grunt, their shoulders brushing Kit's broad frame. Across from them, Will folded himself into a corner, knees drawn up, his stern gaze fixed on the floor while Edith hummed softly near the door, her shawl draped over her lap like a blanket. The caravan rocked as the horses stirred, and with a lurch, they rolled forwards. The White Hart Inn, Barrow Gurney and the nunnery on the hill began to shrink behind them.
The tight quarters pressed Oswald closer to Robin.
Robin. A fine start, my lord.
Kit. So, Geoff, was it?
Oswald. Oh, no. It's Jack.
Kit. Jack, then. What's yer story then? What's a wiry thing like you been up to afore joinin' us? Robbin' peddlers or serenadin' the Mendip maids?
Oswald shifted against the cushion, his mind racing to stitch together "Jack's" life.
Oswald. Oh, er, not much robbin', I reckon.
He tried pitching his voice rougher, though it still wobbled at the edges.
Oswald. Grew up in a little hamlet not far from here.
Kit. Oh? Where to?
Oswald. Sedgemoor way. Mud and wood, ye know. Da was a thatcher in fact, hands like bark, always smellin' of reed and sweat. Me, I was runnin' barefoot after the geese 'til I got too big for 'em to chase.
Kit barked a laugh, slapping his thigh.
Kit. Geese! Fierce little bastards, mind! Bet they taught ye to dodge quick and all!
Oswald nodded, warming to the lie. Robin gave him a nod of encouragement.
Oswald. Aye, that's right. Then I took to wanderin'. Hauled sacks at a mill in Wraxall once…near broke my back 'til I scarpered. Fell in with some peddlers headin' to Exeter, tradin' pots and trinkets. Slept under hedges more nights than I can count, but I've seen the land…moors as far as you can see, rivers twistin' like er…eels.
He paused, risking a glance across the caravan.
Will's eyes were on him, dark and steady beneath the brim of his hat, piercing through the cramped space. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked. Then, as if caught, Will jerked his head away, staring hard at the floor, his slim fingers tightening around his knees. Oswald's cheeks warmed, and he ducked his head, fumbling to keep the tale going.
Oswald. Yeah, anyway. Been scrapin' by, pickin' up what I can. Nothin' grand, just a lad keepin' his belly full, you know.
Kit. Scrapin' by's the makin' of a man, lad! You'll slot right in, ye've already got more tongue than our Willy over there, dour as a monk, that one. And it's a grand life, it is, this mummer's game! We roam every corner of the realm…every stop has green grass to strut, lasses to wink at, and drink to be drunk!
Oswald managed a shaky smile. The caravan rocked on, the clutter of costumes and trinkets swaying around them, a little world rolling on to the unknown.