Marion And The Bandit King

Their father had survived the plague, years of famine, and the ill will of all who knew him. Now he was dead from an excess of Black Bile. It seemed the only thing vicious enough to kill him had been his own body. Marion hoped he’d reached Hell by now, and at the same time cursed him for not living one more year.

The spring sun momentarily escaped the clouds as the ceremony ended, and Aston’s red church glowed like an ember. Its fat priest, Toby, hurried away. It was an impolite but understandable exit. Erdington lay near three miles away, and weeks would pass before he saw these distant parishioners again.

The mourners filed past Marion and her two younger brothers, the most important leading the way. All first touched their hoods or nodded to John, some then patted Clement’s head, a few had a word of sympathy for her.

Daniel was one of those, his hard hands swallowing hers. He said that her father was certain to enter heaven on the day of judgement. Mindful of an audience she held her tongue and nodded.

Eventually the siblings were left alone. Marion took Clement’s hand, “Let’s go home.”

During the burial, Jacob and his idiot brother had minded the family’s horse and cart. As John approached them they took up their spades. “A hardworking man, your father,” said Jacob. “God rest his soul.”

“Thank you,” said John, handing him a farthing. The gravediggers nodded their thanks, then left to finish the interment. The smell of damp earth accompanied them as they passed.

“Hardworking,” said Marion. “Well at least one person had something nice to say about him that was true.”

John steadied the horse while she climbed up onto the cart. Clement sat dangling his legs off the back. When both had settled, John led them onto Aston Lane.

Ahead of them their fellow villagers could be seen walking back to Erdington in small groups. Before long they’d be out of sight, and those who could afford horses were already gone. The two-wheeled hay wain moved slowly but had been needed to bring the coffin.

John led the horse silently, the hilt of their Grandfather’s sword poking out from under his woollen cloak. At fifteen he was six years younger than Marion, and just old enough to become the new head of the family. The newly inherited tunic swamped him, though extra holes in the accompanying belt helped matters. In truth, he looked like a boy playing at manhood. One more year and he might have raised a beard, another and he might have looked a man to be reckoned with. Now, their reduced family looked easy prey.

Once they’d passed the mill and the priory the road became muddier and more rutted, making the ride even less comfortable. Marion endured it. She’d refused to share the wain with her father on the way, so felt she had walked enough. Clement, the youngest of them at eleven, jumped down and prowled the roadside, swinging sticks and throwing stones.

They reached the junction and followed Lichfield Road North-East. Pasture lay on the right, sparsely populated by bored-looking lads and nibbling sheep. On the left the land lay farmed in long strips. Most of it had been ploughed for spring sowing, but lack of labour meant the remainder lay untended. The Manor Lords complained often about how much money the plague had cost them.

The Lord of Aston Manor kept his portion of Lichfield Road better maintained, so they soon reached Scrafford Bridge, a low wooden construction barely better than a ford when the Tame ran high. Clement asked to visit the Dwarf Holes, caves in the sandstone ridge beneath the Gravelly Hill road. Marion was keen to get home so refused, and they followed the path to their farm.

Their house came into view down the slope towards Hawthorne Brook. Grey smoke climbed from the hole at the end of the thatched roof. “Looks like Imelda has supper cooking,” smiled Marion.

“Good, I’m starving,” said Clement, in unison with John who had a gift for anticipating and mimicking his little brother. Clement stuck out his tongue and ran ahead, the long tip of his hood streaming behind him like a magpie’s tail.

Marion left John to put the horse and cart in the stable. Approaching the house she sniffed, frowned, then pushed through the door.

With the shutters closed to keep the cold out it was dark inside. The cooking fire cast the only light, where Imelda stood stirring the brass cauldron. The glow favoured her, and with an undyed linen veil over her greying hair, she looked not much older than Marion. Imelda straightened and rubbed the small of her back. “How did it go?”

“As you’d expect,” said Marion. “No tears, few mourners, some crows making sure he was dead. Did Clement come in just now?”

“Yes, I sent him to get some water.”

“Good.” Marion nodded at the cauldron. “Why does that smell like it has meat in it?”

“Because it has meat in it.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Well next time you’re at church you can confess.” Imelda wiped her hands on her skirt. “One of the chickens stopped laying last month. I saved her for today.”

“You wouldn’t have dared if father were still alive.”

“Which is sort of the point,” said Imelda. “You can pick the chicken out of your portion if you want. You can give it to the boys, or to me.”

“You’re going to be even worse now he’s gone, aren’t you?”

“You’re in charge now Marion. It’s up to you what I get away with.”

“John’s head of the family.”

“Of the family maybe, but you’ll run the household. You should have been doing so for a while now.”

Marion sighed, taking off her black hood and undoing the tassels securing her mantle. She wasn’t in the mood for Imelda’s borderline insolence.

“So who were the crows?” asked Imelda. She hooked the cauldron off the flames and onto the clay hearth.

“What? Oh, de Erdington himself, the bony bastard. Morris the Reeve in his finery, new fancy spurs probably bought just for the occasion. A couple of their men. Bate and Hankin I think.”

“Did one of them have the tip of his nose missing? That’s Bate.”

“I don’t know,” said Marion. “Daniel came…”

“No wonder you didn’t notice Bate’s nose.”

“I barely spoke to him. Richard and Ann showed up…”

“Did Reuben?” asked Imelda.

“The miller? No why?”

“He’s sweet on Ann.”

“Oh really?” said Marion. “I’ll have to ask her about that.”

“Planning to visit her then?”

“No reason why I shouldn’t now, is there.” Ann’s father Richard was another freeman, and a hated rival of Marion’s father. Any friendship between the families had been forbidden.

“Another reason to celebrate with a good meal then,” said Imelda.

“You’ll get me sent to Hell, you wicked woman.”

Clement came in with an ewer of water and placed it by the fire. “Good lad,” said Imelda, “now set the board please Sprout.” Clement was dutiful when food was at stake. He took the trestles from their wall hooks and set the board across them. Marion called John in from outside.

They all washed in the fresh, cold water, and Imelda laid the canvas tablecloth over the board. She set the salt and dragged the bench forward through the floor rushes. Marion ladled the pottage out into bowls, then sat on the bench between Clement and Imelda. John set the bread and ale in front of him at the head of the table. He’d taken that seat the day father died.

Clement fidgeted and sniffed at his bowl as John said Graces. As the prayer finished, he scooped up a steaming spoonful.

“Wait,” said John, staring into his bowl. Clement froze, mouth open.

“This has chicken in it,” said John.

“And oats and cabbage,” said Imelda.

“But it’s Wednesday. No meat on Wednesdays, everyone knows that.”

“It’s been a big day. God won’t begrudge you a bit of chicken on the day you buried your father.”

John’s jaw clenched, and a flush reached up his neck. “No meat on Wednesdays.”

“Listen to me John, son of Peter. I’ve fed you near your whole life. I’ve also cleaned your arse, wiped your nose, kissed your scrapes, and beat your head. If you think I’m going to throw away good meat on your say so…”

John’s spoon trembled, but he held his ground. “Father’s gone. This is my house now.”

Imelda laughed. “You’re 15. I’m nearly twice your age.”

“You’re our servant, not our mother.”

“Servant? Let me tell you…”

“Shut up Imelda,” said Marion. “John said no meat on Wednesdays.” She pushed her bowl away.

Clement looked horrified. “Marion no. I’m starving hungry.”

Imelda pursed her lips, then looked straight ahead and shoved her bowl across the board. She sat back and folded her arms.

Clement looked at his brother with real tears in his eyes. “John, please. Just this once. I promise I’ll confess it, and be sorry, really sorry.”

John looked into his bowl, then reached to push it away.

“It’s a sin to waste food,” said Clement, “everyone knows that too.” That stopped John. He glanced at Marion, and she gave the smallest nod.

“Very well. The meal is made, and it would be shameful to feed it to the pigs. We will eat it. But” he said, pointing his spoon at the air above the table, “from now on, no meat on Wednesdays. Fridays and Saturdays too.”

Clement nodded vigorously, then shoved his laden spoon into his mouth. Marion retrieved her bowl and started to eat. The pottage tasted sweeter than usual, perhaps it was the sin.

John relaxed his shoulders, then poured a tankard of ale for each of them. Imelda remained staring straight ahead, until Marion kicked her under the board. Imelda flinched, took the rye bread that John had cut for her, and soaked it in her bowl.

Clement always finished first, but this time he raced through his food. He sipped his ale while the others finished at a slower pace. No one spoke, so the crackle of the fire was their only accompaniment.

Afterwards, everyone attended to their last outdoor jobs of the day. John checked on the animals while Clement fetched firewood to last the night. Imelda carried the cauldron outside for cleaning. She used water from one of the butts placed under each corner of the thatched roof to collect runoff. Marion rinsed the bowls and leather tankards beside her.

“You shouldn’t talk to John like that,” said Marion. “Especially not now. Yes, it’s strange having him at the head of the table but…”

“It’s not him becoming the man of the house that’s the problem,” said Imelda. “He spoke just like your father. I had hoped for better from him.”

“Come on. I warned you about the chicken. He had to say something.”

“But…”

“And then you defied him, talked about smacking his arse for pity’s sake. What else could he do?”

Imelda shook the water off the cauldron and placed it on the grass. “I know, I know. Men and their pride.”

“It’s not his pride I’m worried about,” said Marion, cleaning the spoons. “John needs to be seen as a strong man, worthy of respect. You know what happens to widows and orphans around here.”

Imelda shrugged but Marion persisted. “You remember the Great Plague better than I. All those families who lost their men. De Erdington picked them clean, whatever little they had, he took.”

“Yes,” said Imelda, scratching a callous on her hand. “He would do that. He has done that.”

“De Erdington wouldn’t rob us while father was alive, but now we’re alone. Ready or not, John has to be the man now. If you or I defy him he looks weak. Even if no one sees it, he feels weak.”

“And our Lord of the Manor smells weakness,” said Imelda. “You are right. I will apologise.” Marion put an arm around Imelda and squeezed. Night was falling, it promised to be clear and cold.

“I’ll cast a ward,” said Imelda when they separated. “Tomorrow’s the 24th of March. The end of the year and a good day for magic.”

“It can’t hurt,” said Marion. “I’ll gladly take your spells and John’s prayers, but I’m not convinced one is any more use than the other.”

“Fair enough,” said Imelda. “Faint hope is better than none.”

The dream started, as it always did, with Marion hiding in the barn.

She watched Mark through the gap between the open door and the jamb, keeping her breathing steady. A gasp could give her away. He looked in her direction and she drew back.

Mark entered the barn, the summer sun casting his shadow across the dirt floor before her. He’d stopped just inside, listening perhaps. Marion clenched a hand over her mouth to stifle any sound. If he looked behind the door, he’d find her.

After a few seconds he went back outside. She watched him again through the crack of the door. In her dream he was not 19, but a mature man. Muscled, broad-shouldered and tall, with a close-cropped beard instead of a wispy moustache. He looked about and scratched his head, then set off towards the woodshed.

Marion kicked the barn door and it rattled and shook like a runaway cart. He spun round, saw her spying, and smiled. She shrieked and ran deeper into the barn. She found no sacks or barrels to hide behind, just fresh hay in the corner. She turned, heart hammering. Mark stood in the doorway; his arms spread to block her escape.

Unable to hold it in any longer, she let out a strangled laugh. She ran towards the furthest corner, but squealed as he caught her. They fell into the sweet-smelling hay with a grunt and an ‘Ooof!’

They wrestled for a few seconds, but he soon got on top of her. She tried to throw him off, but he proved too heavy, too strong. He pinned her wrists above her head, heightening her awareness of her body. She had been 18 back then, but in the dream, she wore her current form.

“Caught you,” he said, panting.

“Yes, you have,” she said, “so what will you do with me?”

Uncertainty flickered across his face. She smiled, parted her lips, and waited. He kissed her, and she kissed him back.

Mark’s beard was softer than the hay that scratched her hands, but his kisses were hard. He released her left wrist, allowing her to slide fingers through his hair.

He pushed his hips against her, and her body reacted. His free hand moved up her arm, then to her shoulder. He squeezed, and paused. She willed him on, and he slid his hand to her breast.

Marion kissed him fiercely then, and he hesitated no more. Shifting his weight, he pushed his knees between hers. She felt a hard ridge inside his hose grinding against her, and her dampness turned to wetness.

Letting go of his hair, she ran her free hand up his back beneath his tunic. Warm smooth skin covered hard muscle that stretched and contracted. His lips left hers and he breathed hotly into her neck. She dragged her fingers down his back and he moaned softly.

Mark kept her one wrist pinned but let go of her breast. Gripping her cote, he pulled it upwards exposing her thigh. He seized the bare flesh, just as she reached down and gripped his arse.

He groaned loudly this time and they locked together, stroking, squeezing, rubbing. Marion wanted more but feared moving on in case the intoxicating sensations slipped away.

It couldn’t last. Mark released her completely and pulled her skirt above her waist. She did not need clouts that day, and having her cunny exposed made her head swim. His rough hose scratched her inner thighs, and the scent of hay and manure filled the air. Her breath started to rasp, and she raised her knees.

Supporting his weight with one hand he undid his belt with the other. He pushed his hose down to expose linen braies. Quickly, Marion slid her hand down their front and found his cock. He froze, eyes closed, mouth open.

She moved her hand up and down experimentally. When alone, the village women discussed their husbands intimately. Often they mimed this action, either while joking or as an education for growing girls. Mark almost collapsed on top of her.

With a heave, Marion rolled him onto his back. She had him helpless. Unwilling to release him from her spell, she awkwardly unfastened his underwear with her other hand. Pulling them down, she stared at what he had.

She’d seen her little brothers naked, and watched men piss against a tree. But seeing one so close, erect, having it hot in her hand, was quite different.

Instead of a pink worm, a wrinkled waterspout, she held a red spear. A veined shaft, its rounded head the colour of an old bruise. Ugly and beautiful, liquid formed at its tip as if it were weeping. Marion gently spread the tear with her thumb, and the cock twitched.

Mark grabbed her arm with one hand, and a fist full of hay with the other. His breath slowed, becoming deeper and more regular, his hips moving in time. She released him, and smirked as he whimpered.

When he opened his eyes, she lay back on the hay. Smiling, she pulled her skirt back up around her waist.

Mark tried to roll onto her but having his hose around his knees and a stiff cock made him clumsy. Eventually he managed to get on top, and his hotness pressed against her stomach. He rubbed against her, making Marion worry he didn’t know what to do. Then thankfully he lifted, shuffled down, and jabbed, but missed and swore. She reached down and guided him into her.

He pushed hard and grunted, while Marion cried out in pain, surprise and delight at the feel of him. He lay his full weight on her and buried his face in the hay. She savoured the moment. Sex at last.

After a few seconds Mark began to thrust. She sighed in response, partly out of pleasure, partly to encourage him. He tried to pull himself up, pushing with his feet, grasping for a hand hold. She grabbed his arse to help, spreading her legs wider.

She laughed and gasped as he worked, feeling something happening inside her. It was a familiar approach, experienced before when alone and safe from prying eyes. Her friends had been wrong, sex was wonderful.

Something moved behind Mark, and then he screeched as his head was wrenched back. He lost her and rolled onto the dirt, hobbled by his underclothes. Blood ran through his fingers as he clutched his head.

Marion tried to scream at the sight of the man towering over her, a scrap of Mark’s scalp in his bony, bloody hand. It was not her father as he had really looked that day, heavy, red-faced and ablaze. Instead he appeared as he had on the day that he died. No meat on his bones, sores covering his arms, his face a skull papered over with yellow skin. He was a standing corpse, but his eyes lived with rage.

He may have been just skin, sinew and anger, but he hauled her up as strongly as he ever had. “Whore,” he hissed, and spat in her face. Then he drew back his fist.

In every previous dream Marion had woken before the blow landed. This time she felt her nose break, and tasted hot coppery blood running down her throat.

Heart pounding, she opened her eyes, and forced herself fully awake.

Her breath slowed as the nightmare faded, her fingers tracing her crooked nose. Moonlight edged the rafters above her. She laughed bitterly. Even with the old man dead she was not free of him.

Marion pushed back the bedclothes and got up. She eyed the bed, the one her father had died in. Could it be haunted?

No. She’d had the same dream many times in her old bed, though granted this one was more frightening than any before it. Maybe she should let John have this bed and go back to her old one. The new man of the house probably should have got it in the first place.

Clement snored in Marion’s old bed, which he’d wanted as it was nearest to the ladder. John had stayed in the bed against the end wall, having it all to himself now. They had both been so happy. John had said he wouldn’t miss Clement’s cold feet. Clement had said he’d be glad to escape John’s farts.

Marion went to the window and took off her nightcap. She splashed cold water on her face from the jug on the sill. Experience told her sleep would not return for an hour or so, which suited her well. She’d climb down the ladder and watch the fire for a while. That always calmed her.

She noticed the full moon and opened the shutters to admire it better. It was a clear night, making a silvery ribbon of Hawthorne Brook. The stream ran through the small valley and marked the western boundary of their farm.

From this window the privy, the tool-shed, and the stable were all visible. It took Marion a few moments to notice there was a dim light glowing inside the stable. It went out.

As she watched, the stable door opened, and three men led out two horned beasts. Someone was stealing their oxen.