Weevil was furious, but nobody would know it to look at him: no one except his cousin, who was heard to say “Oh shit,” when the moneylender walked into the Old Thane's. Shank had only just realized his head was hurting for reasons beyond a hangover, and he had yet to properly recall the events of the night when his cousin appeared. Following Weevil was Lady Elwyn: just Elwyn that day. The tall, homely brothel owner was easily recognizable without his dress and pierced nipples.

“Everybody fuck off,” Weevil greeted the tavern.

Editha stared at him indignantly and was on the verge of telling him the same when she was dragged away by her brother. Reed waited for a sign from Eamon before retreating, taking Jon's men with him. Three drunks, who had passed the night on the floor, had already been slinking away in fear, before Weevil ever spoke. They tarried only long of to drag a still-inebriated fourth to his feet, and steady him between them. Weevil's own men then closed the doors to the hall, shrouding them in darkness, until their eyes grew used to the light of the hearth.

“You mind mate?” Weevil said to Eamon.

“No. I don't mind.” Eamon stared levelly at Weevil, raised his bowl of gruel and slurped from it loudly. He still wasn't eating anything more solid, on account of his throat, but he wasn't complaining. Editha had been doting on him outrageously, enriching Eamon's porridge with honey and cream and asking for no extra pay in return.

Weevil nodded, smiled and suddenly slammed his cousin's face into his own bowl. The smaller Welshman remained submissive and passive at first. His hands came up to rest on his cousin's wrist, but didn't seize them, nor did he appear to struggle in any way: not until the moments raced by and his silent, pleading tapping was ignored for too long, and he was in danger of drowning in gruel. Shank thrashed wildly then. Overturning his bowl, it went clattering away, spilling its contents as he gasped frantically for air: too soon; he choked on his breakfast, coughed, gagged and retched. Weevil continued to lean against him, pinning him hard and cruel against the tabletop.

“I love you cousin,” he said softly. “God help me. I love you, but if you ever threaten my business again, I'll kill you. Do you hear me?”

“What did I do?” Shank asked.

“What did you do?” Weevil echoed in disbelief. “You ought to know!” He repeated himself, screaming the words directly into Shank's ear. His cousin flinched, burped and retched dryly.

“You stomped on William of Coughton last night,” Elwyn said, when it became clear no one else would explain.

“The bailiff of the Hundred Court, you shite!” Weevil shouted.

“So?” Shank asked, foolishly defiant. “He takes your silver. So what-”

Weevil threw his cousin to the floor and kicked him savagely in the stomach. He then raised his foot to stomp, just as Shank had done to the bailiff the night before. He restrained himself. As Shank lay gasping, he raised his face to the ceiling and gestured angrily with both fists, silently cursing God for bestowing him with such worthless kin. He then crossed himself, regretting this silent blasphemy in his heart. He sat down in a huff, arms crossed, and he glared angrily until Eamon gave him a cup of ale. He took it thoughtlessly and drank half of it before he realized who had performed this considerate service. His surprise and gratitude were equally sincere, and his expression softened.

“Aye,” Weevil sighed after emptying his cup. “Willy has taken plenty of my silver. And he's rolled over and showed his belly every time we've ever had to threaten him. Here's hoping the next one is just as reasonable.”

“He's dead?” Eamon asked, surprised. The man had been badly beaten, but he hadn't even been entirely unconscious when Shank had been pulled off of him.

“No, he ain't dead. Not yet. He came by the warehouse this morning, and he brought a dozen men from the castle with him. He took coin to go away: three shillings for every tooth you broke and four for every one you knocked clean out, you cunt. But he can't be reasoned with now. Not any more, now that he thinks he can make threats. He's got to go.

“It ought to be you that kills him,” Weevil said angrily. He kicked his cousin again, but this time, it was a halfhearted punt of resentment, and not a savage outpouring of fury. “I ought to send you up to the castle in daylight and let you fight your way back out, but what would I tell Aunt Rose then? Hey?”

“I don't need to hear this,” Elwyn said unhappily. “I don't even need to be here.”

“Shut up,” Weevil told him. He then looked back down on his cousin. “So, it's like this. You're getting out of town today. But first, I'm telling you here and now in front of Elwyn: you're banned from the dye works. No more going back there. Ever. No more credit. Not even for drinks. Understood?”

This last was directed at Elwyn, who nodded unhappily. It was one thing to tell Shank he was banned, but it would be something else for to enforce it. Displeased or not, Weevil was still his cousin; Shank would be able to bully his way back in. Or so Elwyn believed, until he heard Weevil's next words.

“If you ever go back there, Elwyn and his lot have my permission to sort you out however they want. I don't care if you drown him in the river. It'll be his own fault as far as I'm concerned. Are you listening Shank?”

Eamon heard it then: the disdainful tone Shank had been referring to when Weevil used his nickname. Shank's head snapped up in anger, but seeing the pitiless promise in his cousin's eyes, his own grew dull and withdrawn.

“Stand up,” Weevil commanded. Shank slowly gained his feet. “Slap him,” he told Elwyn.

“What? Me?” Elwyn asked in surprise.

“Yes, you. Slap him.”

Elwyn looked into Shank's lifeless eyes, and all the anger and loathing he felt for him disappeared. “I don't want to.”

“I don't give a shit what you want. It's about what he deserves. Slap him.”

Elwyn did as he was told. The blow was made in earnest, but it didn't satisfy Weevil. The moneylender stood up, pulled back his big arm, and unleashed it like a catapult. The slap echoed in the hall, and spittle and oats were heard to land sizzling in the long hearth. Shank sat down heavily, blinking at the light in his eyes. Weevil then dismissed Elwyn with a curt jerk of his head. He sat down across from Eamon, his back turned to his cousin.

“I wonder if you'll do me a favor mate.”

Eamon invited Weevil to ask with a suspicious look.

“I wonder if you'll take my cousin out of town with you, now I mean, with your business with Bairon unfinished. I'm not telling you to, mind,” Weevil said. “I'm asking.”

Eamon saw how much Shank resented this, and saw his hand go down to the knife in his belt. Perhaps Weevil sensed the murder in his cousin, or maybe he knew his mind well enough to guess when he saw Eamon glance down. Regardless, he half-turned and said over his shoulder: “Don't mate. Don't make me take that news to your mum.”

Shank's hand left the knife handle. He stalked away in anger, kicking an overturned bench out of his path as he went. The doors to the hall opened with a crash, and they were bathed in light once more.

“There's a devil in him,” Weevil said sadly. “Some men... they're just wee little cunts. In their souls. And they do all kinds of stupid shite to feel big. You know what I mean?”

“I do,” Eamon agreed.

“Yeah,” Weevil said thoughtfully. “You do, don't you? So, will you do it?”

“You want me to go to Cardiff?”

“Not right away. No need to go that far just yet. I'm thinking Greystone will do.”

“Lady Jouiae's?” Eamon asked in surprise.

“Aye,” Weevil nodded. “I've got some business with her. She's expecting a bag of coin from me. If you you take it to her, and ask her to put you up for a few days, I would appreciate it mate. Maybe the two of you can put your heads together and come up with an idea to take Millfort, hey?”

“You know where Bairon is,” Eamon said suspiciously, and then exclaimed in surprise. “You've known all along.”

“I would have told you if there was anything you could do, but Millfort's a proper little castle mate. You would need at least a fifty good men to break in there, or a couple hundred shite ones.”

“You know a lot about castle assaults, do you?” Eamon asked dryly.

“Aye,” Weevil affirmed matter-of-factly. “I do.

“Bairon went straight to Millfort from Shrewsbury, on the day of the trial. I expect he'll rape and rob the countryside for a while before he fucks off home, but he hasn't stirred so far. Not that I've heard.”

“How did you know?”

“His squire. He's soft on one of Elwyn's girls. He told her where they were going.”

“Which girl?”

“I forget her name. Black hair. Fair skin. Perfect tits. Elwyn would know.”

Eamon surged to his feet.

“Hey!” Weevil said, rising after him. “You didn't answer me mate.”

“I'll take your cousin and the money to Jouiae. We'll see what happens from there.”

“Hold up now. Do you have money?”

“Money for what?”

“For the girl. Here,” Weevil took out his purse and counted out three shillings. “Two for Elwyn and one for the girl if she's any good. Let her do all the work. You're likely to burst at the seams if you get carried away.”

Eamon looked from the silver to Weevil. “I just want to ask her questions.”

“Sure,” Weevil said without judgment. “But it's a brothel. She's a whore. If you're not going to be spending money on drinking or fucking, you're not going to be welcome there.”

“Being your mate doesn't count for anything?”

“It'll get you through the door. Take the money. No loan, no interest, just a favor between mates, hey?”

***

The bouncer that answered the door at Lady Elwyn's was friendly enough. He bade Eamon wait in the parlor, where he had first met the proprietor the previous day; he then disappeared to go and fetch him. It was plain Elwyn who appeared, still in his tunic, trousers and hood. He looked at Eamon suspiciously.

“My lord,” he began, without much enthusiasm for the deference he was obligated to show. “I know you're a knight, and a friend of Weevil's, but this place is a dye works by day. We don't do that other business until evening: preferably not before dark.”

“I'll keep that in mind in the future,” Eamon replied. “Right now, I need to talk to one of your girls: the favorite of a Norman lad, named Phillip, who might have come in the company of Bairon of Anjou.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“Talk to her?”

“Aye.”

“What's this about?”

“That's my business.”

“Well the girl is my business,” Elwyn replied.

“I'll pay for her time if I have to, but I really just want to talk.”

“Talking or fucking, it's all the same to me. Have you actually got coin this time?”

Eamon gave him one of Weevil's shillings. Elwyn's hand remained outstretched, so Eamon gave him a second, but he only made a discouraging face when the pimp's hand remained extended for a third. Elwyn grunted unhappily, but he pocketed his coins and told Eamon to wait.

Eamon wasn't surprised that it was Alys who came to him; she was the only girl he had seen at the brothel that looked anything like Weevil's description. She was dressed far more modestly than she had been the night before: in a plain brown peasant's dress, splattered with dark stains. Her thick black hair was pulled away from her face by a simple band of cloth. She was somewhat breathless from her haste to greet her visitor, and rather disheveled from her labor.

“Oh, it's you,” she greeted Eamon in surprise, and without any obvious indications of her disappointment. “Sweetie will be so mad you didn't ask for her.” Her heart didn't appear to break for Sweetie however. She exuded an air of satisfaction and triumph as she turned away from Eamon. Her profile was proud, but her backside was nothing but sultry as she began ascending the stairs.

“It's not like that,” Eamon assured her, falling in behind. “I only came to ask you questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“I wanted to ask about Phillip,” Eamon said.

“Who?”

“The squire in service to Bairon of Anjou.”

“Oh him,” she said. “What do you want with him?”

“Just tell me about him.”

“He's a foolish boy,” Alys said patiently. “He brags, like most men who come in here. His mother is rich. His father is powerful. He's going to be a knight some day. Blah blah blah.” She waved her hand, as if she didn't harbor secret hopes that Phillip might come back with enough money to buy her from Elwyn. He was every bit the foolish boy she described, but he was sweet, and a peasant whore of Shrewsbury could do a lot worse than attach herself to a noble young fool like him: a lot worse. “He's not like you. You're the first man to ever come in here who didn't brag. We kept trying to get you to talk about it, to gloat and tell us all what great a knight you are. And you didn't. You didn't say one word about your victory over Ogier. Help me take off my dress?”

“There's nothing to brag about,” he said.

They were in her room now, and Eamon hesitated only slightly before reaching for her belt. She rested her hips against his and applied a gentle, pleasant pressure as she swayed against him. The leather thong dropped to the floor, and her swaying paused as he hiked up her skirt. Once he had lifted her dress over her head, she pushed him away, and set about washing herself from a basin she kept by her door.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, and her dark, narrow eyes seemed to glow with eager sin as they peaked over her shoulder.

Eamon sat down on her bed, and began to undress. After giving herself a quick, but thorough wash, Alys brought the wet cloth over to Eamon, who hissed in surprise at her touch.

“Cold!” he said.

“Well if you'd come at a reasonable hour we would have had hot water ready,” she chided with a smile.

Alys kissed his chest as she scrubbed and tugged between his legs, and soon she tossed the washcloth aside. When she shivered however, Eamon grew conscious of his own goose flesh, and set aside his lust. He threw aside her blanket, forcefully pulled her into spoons and then covered them both. She hardly knew what to do or say as his passivity dragged on. She was intimidated at first: uncertain and uncomfortable. Eamon's manhood was as hard as a board between her buttocks, and the irresistible strength in his arms was terrifying, given his strange behavior. It soon became clear that this wasn't a prelude to anything even more bizarre however, and she relaxed. Not long after, she ceased shivering. As the warmth between them grew, she began to feel quite comfortable even.

“You told Weevil that Phillip was fond of you,” Eamon said as they settled.

“He asked me to marry him,” she said without enthusiasm.

“He must like cold feet.”

She snorted a laugh through her nose, utterly surprised. Eamon had such a dull, almost unfeeling way of speaking. The very idea of his uttering a joke seemed impossible. Any icy block of a heel ran up between his calves: an invitation to play, that Eamon accepted by flailing his own legs like a child. She laughed again, pleased. “You are so odd.”

“You're the one who shaves her quim.”

“Elwyn makes us. He says it helps with the dirty smell of our traps.”

Eamon grunted, surprised. “I suppose you can't be a pimp without being some kind of bastard,” he mused.

“He's not bad exactly, just... He...” her explanation of Elwyn abruptly ended. She hardly knew how to explain him. She changed the subject. “The woman who used to run this place was much worse. At least to the girls. She would beat us for no reason. No reason at all.”

“Where is she now?”

“Who knows? Elwyn went to Weevil one day and the next she was gone. I hope she's dead in the river,” Alys concluded bitterly.

“Elwyn used to be a whore?” Eamon asked after a while.

Alys grunted in the affirmative. “He's hung like a horse. People used to pay just to watch him.” She shifted a little to get more comfortable. She pulled his erection down and sandwiched it between her thighs. She then began to lightly toy with that part of him that throbbed before her.

“I'm surprised Phillip likes you,” Eamon said.

“Oh really?” she asked defiantly. Her fingertips stopped their caressing.

“I assumed he was a sodomite I mean. There's something girly about him.”

“Would you rather he was here now instead of me? You can call me Phillip if you like,” she teased. Alys rolled over to face Eamon, and her playful smile wilted. She blanched at the horror of his face. Laying there with her back to him, she had forgotten all about the bruises, the scabs and the stitches. This close to his face, his injuries were that much more grotesque.

She hastily kissed Eamon on the ugliest part of him: the mangled corner of his mouth. She hoped it might inure her to the rest of his hideous face, but she was wrong. “My poor knight,” she said, and she forced herself to kiss him again.

“Never mind,” Eamon told her. He pushed and pulled her back into spoons. She was relieved when he embraced her again. She closed her eyes, hugged his arms, and sighed contentedly and she wiggled back into her comfortable place.

“Why do you keep asking about Phillip?” she asked, stroking his arm.

“I mean to kill his master, but I can't get to him. I was hoping you might know something that could help me.”

“Like what?”

“I honestly don't know,” Eamon admitted.

“I'd like to help you,” she said.

“You are helping me,” he assured her, and he massaged the firm, pleasant mound of her belly. As they spoke, his hand continued to lazily roam her tummy and thighs: round and round, hinting at probing the growing moistness of her loins, but always skirting the issue.

“Did he tell you how many men Bairon has under arms?”

“No, nothing like that,” she said regretfully.

“What about this place they ran to? Do you know it?”

“Millfort? I was born there. My uncle is the miller. He's the one who sold me...” Hearing the bitterness in her own voice, she trailed off. Most customers don't want to know that their whore is unhappy; that was one of the first lessons beaten into her.

“Do you hate it here?” he asked.

“Not right now,” she said, and that was more or less the truth. Eamon was gentle and clean, and not exactly revolting, for all the horror of his face. She would rather be with him than go back to labor she had been doing: stirring a boiling cauldron of wool and dye.

“We can get dressed if you want.”

“Later,” she said, and tried to push his hand down. The moment she thought his fingers would finally touch where she wanted, they spread apart, and ran to either side of her loins. She sighed in frustration.

“Tell me about this castle, Millfort,” he asked, and his other hand cupped one of her breasts. They really were perfect. Eamon marveled at the contradiction in his hand: soft and yet firm. His hands were calloused, but gentle and unhurried. His rough thumb ran circles around her nipple for an eternity before touching it, ever so lightly.

“It's not a castle,” she said. “It's just a little village, with a wall.”

“The garrison?”

“I don't know.”

“Take a guess.”

“I haven't been there in years,” she said, somewhat irritably. She didn't even know what a garrison was. “If I had known you would come asking, I would have asked more questions for you.”

Alys sighed heavily through her nose when he finally touched her where she most wanted to be touched. He wet his fingers in her depths, and slowly began to massage the hard little button at the apex of her loins. She half-turned towards him, hooked her calf over his and guided his manhood inside. She gripped his buttocks and silently urged him into action, but he remained utterly immovable, but for the slow explorations of his hands. She tried gyrating her own hips, but everything was too awkward and uncomfortable.

Alys sucked her teeth in frustration. When she tried to change positions, he wouldn't let her. The tension in her loins kept rising steadily. After an agonizing, wonderful eternity, her toes finally curled, her fingernails dug furrows in his buttocks, and she convulsed. It was too much; the pleasure was so strong and her sensitivity too great; his rough finger became as painful as it was pleasing. She groaned deep in her throat as she frantically tore his hand away. Then he thrust deep inside, and she wanted to scream. All she could do was lay there and shudder. After she had calmed, Eamon nuzzled her ear with the tip of his nose; it sent powerful shivers of delight down her spine. Alys seized his hair and pulled his head over her shoulder, so that she could kiss him. He then rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him as he went. He cupped her breasts as she rocked her hips.

Later, Alys lay on her belly next to Eamon: breathless and sweaty from her exertions. She had done most of the work in the end, as Weevil had advised, but even so, Eamon had been worried his face would open like a flower. He felt his wounds pulsing with every hammering beat of his heart, and he imagined every droplet of sweat he felt to be a trickle of blood.

Alys reached out and delicately stroked the edge of a wound in his throat. He looked at her and saw her frowning thoughtfully.

“What?” he coaxed.

“Nothing,” she said, and buried her face in her linens, until she was no longer angry and resentful.

“What is it?” Eamon pressed. He had seen her anger.

“Are you going to kill Phillip?” she asked, raising her head again.

“Not if I don't have to,” he told her. “It's his master I'm after. It's his master who wants me dead.”

She thought about that. “I could get a message to Phillip,” she suggested.

“He would come see you?”

“I think so,” she said. “If I asked him to.”

“I would like to talk to him,” Eamon admitted, rolling towards her.

“Then I'll send for him.”

“When?”

“When would you like?”

Eamon pondered this: how much time it would take to get to Millfort and come back to Shrewsbury. He didn't know where the place was exactly, but he assumed it couldn't be more than a full day's journey. Jouiae's demesne probably wasn't any larger than that, if her modest little castle was to scale with her holdings. How long would it take to get to Cardiff? He would have to ask Weevil. He had never made the journey. “As soon as possible,” he told her.

“Then come back at dawn after tomorrow,” she told him quickly: knowing the distances better than he. “He may not be here, but I'll have his answer at least.”

Eamon studied the face of the woman lying next to him, and wondered why she would want to help him. He wasn't vain enough to believe that she had suddenly fallen in love with him, or even that she liked him.

“Promise me you won't hurt him,” Alys requested, and Eamon had his answer.

“I promise,” Eamon said. “I won't hurt him if I can possibly help it.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“It means that if he comes at me with a blade, I'm not going to just stand there and take the hit,” Eamon said. “Talk to him before I get here,” he suggested. “Convince him I mean him no harm.”

Alys agreed.

Eamon rose up from the bed shortly after, and declared his intention to go. The usual sighs, oh noes, and do you have tos came bubbling up automatically, but she said none of them. She quietly slipped into her dress, and helped Eamon with his boots.

“The next time you come back, you really should ask for Sweetie,” she said, giving in to a sense of obligation. It was the only enticement that came to mind: the only thing she could make sound sincere. “She really does like you.” And that wasn't a lie. Though Eamon hadn't set out explicitly to avenge her brother, he was revered no less for having done so. All that morning Sweetie had been defending his looks from the others, and telling them how attractive his scars would be, once his face was healed.

“I would like that,” Eamon said, and that too was honest. Beautiful as Alys was, he earnestly regretted Phillip's taste in women, and wished it had been the jolly, freckled, buxom Sweetie he had come to see that morning instead.

“Do you mean it?” Alys asked.

For answer, Eamon gave her the last of Weevil's coins. She kissed him. He kissed her back, and even though they had just dressed, he began to touch her all over again. He didn't know if he would ever get another opportunity, so he seized the one he had. Why was she so firm and soft everywhere? How was that possible? He reached under her skirt and cupped her buttocks. She reached into his trousers. He stood, lifting her up with him. Standing there in the center of her room, he had his way with her again, but this time it was all for himself. She didn't complain about his selfishness.