Oh say, gentle maiden, may I be your lover?
Condemn me no longer to moan and to weep
Struck down like a hawk, I lie wounded and bleeding
Oh, let down your drawbridge, I’ll enter your keep
Enter your keep, nonnie nonnie, enter your keep, nonnie nonnie
Let down your drawbridge, I’ll enter your keep.
Stumbling along as they sang, John broke into a falsetto to sing the maiden’s part. Stepping in front of Michael, he dipped into an exaggerated curtsy.
Alas, gentle errant, I am not a maiden
I’m married to Sir Oswald, that cunning old Celt
He’s gone to war for twelve months or longer
And he’s taken the key to my chastity belt!
They sang the raunchy ditty as the sprinkles turned into large drops, which in turn grew to a torrential deluge.
Warmed from the inside, the men marched onward.
Ducking his head to shield his eyes from water streaming down his face, Michael caught sight of his feet. How very odd! Toes he rarely paid heed now peeked through his torn and bloodied stockings.
“Halt!” he ordered drunkenly, holding out one ducal hand. His comrades staggered to a stop, and Michael stripped off his stockings. Gawking at a few gruesome lacerations, he was amazed he hadn’t noticed any pain. “Damned bloody pansy-ass holes—hose.” The other men’s more serviceable stockings offered their feet far greater protection. Michael removed his stockings and threw them into the woods. With a flourish, he then swept his hand forward, indicating they resume where they had left off.
As the miles passed, each took a turn composing his own lyrics while the others sang the nonnie nonnie part repeatedly. And, as men were wont to do whilst drinking and separated from genteel company, they invented lyrics unfit for anyone’s ears but their own.
Their hearty laughter echoed off the trees around them.
Michael hadn’t participated in such uninhibited raucousness in years, and all in all, he found the day to be rather refreshing—except for the losing of his coach and boots and years’ worth of work, that was.
A sign up ahead! Thank God! Michael had never been so happy to come upon an inn as he was in that moment. A petrified-looking wooden sign directed them off the road to a small clearing in the trees and the Forty Winks Inn and Tavern. They had been trudging through the mud for nearly six hours.
Six bloody hours!
Hoping to see his other coaches, the ones which carried his trunks and other servants, Michael peered into a long carriage house that lined the drive. Only a few smaller buggies, a small cart, and an unfamiliar carriage were parked inside. Hmm…A rather inauspicious sign. Nothing to worry over, however. Michael was a duke.
Dukes were never turned away.
Donning his noble demeanor, Michael shook off the remaining effects of the liquor, brushed at his shirt, and ran his fingers through his hair. What the hell? He glanced at his hand in confusion. It had come away with bits of grass and dirt. His valet was going to have conniptions over this.
If he could find him, that was.
Before departing from the Three-Legged Dog Inn earlier that morning, his valet, Duncan, had ascertained Michael was appropriately attired in his necessary ducal finery. In addition to preparing His Grace’s unmentionables, Duncan had skillfully tied Michael’s ivory linen cravat, carefully brushed the perfectly fitted wool jacket and breeches, and polished Michael’s timeworn favorite hessians to a high shine. There was an image to be maintained, and Duncan’s reputation as a gentleman’s gentleman was at stake.
Michael didn’t feel very ducal now.
With the arrogance acquired by one in such a position, however, he surmised his very manner, his bearing, would alleviate any doubts as to his identity. He opened the door to the open sitting area, identified the innkeeper behind a wooden bar, and strode forward with his normal self-assurance.
The innkeeper eyed him warily. “What can I be doing for you?” he asked suspiciously.
Michael didn’t hesitate. “I am Cortland.” He barely slurred his words at all. “The Duke of Cortland. My servants and myself require five rooms. A private suite for myself, of course.” It wasn’t a question, but a command. Rather, a statement of fact. Martin stood beside him, in pleasant agreement, while John, Arty, and Cam swayed unsteadily near the door.
The innkeeper, a robust older gentleman, looked from Michael to Martin and the men across the room, and then aftera short pause, burst forth in uncontrollable laughter. Bending over, the provoking man slapped his leg several times. After finally catching his breath between chortles of mirth, he wiped a few tears from his eyes.
