"Here we are in the frigid morning of mid-autumn. The Sheriff in his not-so-usual habitat, atop his sturdy steed, freezing his bollocks off because he forgot to pack an extra cloak." George huffed through chattering teeth.
"Ah—truly a fine specimen of poor decision-making, right, Lord William Percival the Third?" he said, pulling his cloak closer.
The horse flattened its ears, clearly judging his life choices. It nickered softly, tail swishing a little too aggressively.
"Yes, I know I'm a moron, but it doesn't give you the right to judge me," George sniffed. He lifted his nose in the air, looking down at his horse as if it had personally offended him.
If his horse could talk, it would sound exactly like Mother—high-pitched, nose-up, dripping with disdain.
It was a normal day in mid-autumn Europe. Endless grey clouds stretched over the horizon. Bursts of yellow and red leaves cut through the gloom. The path opened into a field overgrown with tall grasses, shrubs, and runaway vines. Everything looked dull under the overcast sky.
A sigh escaped him, breath misting in the cold air. He had to leave his home for Nottingham, trading the coast for whatever that city had to offer. If Aunt Gertrude was right, Nottingham would be crowded, smelly, and riddled with knaves. Nothing like the little coastal shire he'd worked in. That place smelled of sea salt and herbs. He would miss it.
Strange how he could tolerate the smell of the sea but not fish. Maybe it was their eyes—the way they stared at people, as if the people were the ones flopping around.
"Mark my words, George, the fish are judging us," Aunt Gertrude's voice assaulted his mind. High-pitched, with rolling R's, like she was trying too hard to sound Spanish and ended up Scottish instead. "MaRrrk my worrrds, GeoRrrge." It grated on his nerves.
George shook his head. He was spending far too much time with Aunt Gertrude. He could practically hear her beside him—unacceptable. They were just fish. Delicious when cooked. Not judgmental aquatic creatures.
"Curse you, Aunt Gertrude, and your fish theories," he muttered.
It took a while to reach the main route. His horse—the bastard—had gotten distracted by a strawberry patch. The stubborn beast refused to budge until he'd eaten every last berry in sight.
"Really now, Lord William Percival, you just had to stop for a snack. We're on a schedule, you daft bastard," George hissed, side-eyeing the horse as it trotted along innocently.
The main road was suspiciously empty. George's gaze swept left to right. No carts. No travellers. No witnesses. A perfect setting for an ambush. Just a wide, paved road with tall grass on either side. His eyes narrowed. If someone was hiding in that grass, it would hardly be his fault if they met God today.
They pushed onward, taking the main road toward the first village. He would pass through three in total before reaching Nottingham. Thankfully, there was a shortcut that ran through Sherwood Forest. A few days of riding, give or take—assuming Lord William Percival didn't discover another snack.
By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, they'd covered a decent amount of distance—despite the setbacks. Lord William Percival kept a steady, lazy pace. George swayed along with him.
It was getting dark. They would need to stop for the night. Even a snack-obsessed menace like his horse needed real rest.
George ran a hand through the horse's mane and squinted ahead in the fading light. Near a bend in the path stood a large tree, its gnarled branches drooping like Rupert the big fat dog's heavy belly.
"Come on, boy. Let's rest there," he said, tugging the reins.
The tree was massive. Ancient, by the look of it. Scorch marks on the ground—others had camped here before.
"This'll do," he muttered.
He dismounted in one graceful movement, boots hitting soft grass. He shook his head hard. Long hair whipped across his face—tangled, wind-stiff, flecked with pine needles.
"Bloody rat's nest. A pox on this wind."
George stood under the tree, hands on his hips. He bared his teeth—disgusting. The ground was littered with trash: food scraps, broken pottery, and something that might have been bread once.
Pigs, all of them, he thought.
This was like the time he'd accidentally entered Old Man Thornhill's hut. Let's just say, his breakfast made a dramatic escape.
"Well, beggars can't be choosers," he sighed as he worked on clearing the place.
—---
It was cold.
The fire did little to stave off the chilly night. An extra cloak would have been amazing. Alas, even geniuses occasionally forget they're human. He leaned against the tree, its bark digging into his back. This would surely leave a mark—he didn't care. The long, rough ride had done his back no favours. His back felt stiff, his legs rickety—like one of those ancient chairs no one dared to sit on.
He'd be walking like an old man with a bad hip. There goes his dignity. Trampled. Buried. Gone. At least for a few days, he hoped.
George stretched his legs with a grunt. His back arched, and a satisfying little pop answered.
"May the devil take me now," he hissed.
It was ridiculous. A man in his prime thirties, trapped in the body of a 60-year-old who had been through several wars and two disappointing marriages. He even sounded exactly like Aunt Gertrude during her morning stretching exercises.
At least Lord William Percival the Third was enjoying his dinner, munching away like the goat he so clearly aspired to be.
Closing his eyes, George listened. The sound of his own breathing felt loud in the silence. Leaves rustled, mixed with the creak of heavy branches. It was relaxing. On nights like this, back home, he'd be in his little office with a cup of mead or wine, quill gliding and scratching along parchment.
"What atrocities await me in Nottingham," he muttered softly. "Probably a messy desk, mountains of paperwork, maybe a few officials I need to kick out. Right, Lord William Percival the Third?"
His horse whined softly, ears flicking back.
"Oh, come now, old chap! Don't be like that. How much work could Nottingham possibly have?" George huffed, waving a hand dismissively as he sealed his fate and settled in for the night.
George was very aware that he was in a dream. It felt strange, like he was watching everything while submerged in water.
He was in a brothel. The very same one his father had taken him to at 18. "George, tonight you will be a man!" he'd cheered, clapping him on the back, nearly toppling him over.
He didn't, in fact, become a man that night because it was the very same night his Mother found out his father's plans. She burst through the brothel's door like an avenging angel and dragged them back to Somerset, an ear pinched in each hand. They looked like children being scolded for sneaking honeycakes before dinner.
The scenery changed from the brothel to a carriage. Father was beside him. "Georges, awake thee anon, for þe hors doth licke thee."
"What?" He frowned.
"Georges, bestirre thee, for þe hors hath y-leyed his tunge upon thy face." His father's voice sounded like a person gargling water while speaking.
"Huh?" He blinked.
Suddenly, he was in a forest—one similar to the woods near Somerset. He had a vague sense that someone was chasing him. His muscles felt like stones, and they were gaining ground. He looked back, and he was carrying Aunt Gertrude on his back. "George, hurry, dear! We're going to be late for your birthday party!" her voice rang.
The forest opened into Somerset's living room. He was now sitting with his legs crossed, reading beside Aunt Gertrude. She leaned in with her green, glassy eyes staring into his soul. "Don't trust men in green—they'll eat your socks," she said before yelling, "Wollowollwollowollowloo!!"
Something brushed across his face. It felt like a wet rag—but slimy, like spittle. A warm breath puffed on his face. His nose scrunched up. It smelled like grass and extreme judgment.
Another swipe of that wet rag had George sputtering.
George jolted awake, just in time for another tongue to assault his face. "Bloo—" Lord William Percival's tongue went into his mouth.
A muffled scream pierced the quiet morning. George gagged and spat. Scrambling backward out of the horse's reach—and its tongue.
"Assault! Help! Someone! My horse is assaulting me!" he yelled, furiously wiping his face with his sleeves.
If a horse could laugh, this one was. The loud nicker, the upper lip curled back—damn good indicators the daft bastard found this amusing.
"Ha-ha, laugh it up, you bastard," he grumbled.
Somewhere above him, birds chirped—it sounded like mockery.
"A pox on your nest!" George scowled.
He spat a few more times for good measure, then stood up. Oh, how he immediately regretted it.
"Oh! Blasted back! Blasted ground! Blasted horse!" he huffed.
Arching his back, he felt the tight muscles pull. He shuffled toward his horse, one hand pressed to his lower back for support. The bastard had gone back to eating grass.
"Well, at least your priorities are still intact," he muttered, lifting his arms and reaching high until something popped.
Relief.
The morning light broke through the treelines, and warmth bloomed across his face. His eyes closed, savouring the heat. It felt like the palm of his mother's hand.
Soft and warm.
Safe.
"Be careful out there, darling. Come back to me in one piece," she'd said, during the morning of his departure.
"I'm getting too sentimental. Probably a sign of aging," he thought.
He walked toward his horse, unstrapping the leather strap of his saddle bag. Pulling out a waterskin, he shook it—half empty. The water sloshed dangerously low. Uncorking it, he took a swig, getting that awful taste of grass and horse out of his month.
"Damn horse." He glared at Lord William Percival the Third.
"Come on, boy. Let's go find some water," he sighed, taking the reins and pulling the horse toward the forest.
—-----
The cheese he packed tasted like it had marinated in his father's armpits. George grimaced, lips pulling back as the taste hit. He gagged, spitting out the rancid cheese. Scooping water into his bowl, he drank, swished it around quickly, and spat it back into the stream.
"Bloody hell, tastes like unwashed wool and bad descision" he muttered, taking another gulp to rinse the lingering taste from his mouth.
He sighed. The stream was about knee-high and freezing cold. Water rushed past, carrying little fish that darted around his legs. Some had taken a liking to his feet. The clear water made his complexion look as pale as a sheet. Maybe that was the reason the fish found him interesting.
Wiggling his toes, a few fish scattered, breaking whatever conversation they'd been having. They were probably mocking his pale skin. Or maybe they thought he was some kind of weird fish. His thoughts drifted to Aunt Gertrude.
Oddly enough, the only thing he remembered from his dream was that vague warning.
"Don't trust men in green," she had said.
"But what does that mean?"
Lord William Percival the Third whined, breaking his thoughts. His head whipped towards him and the bastard threw his head back, splashing George in the face. He puffed out a breath, water sprayed, glaring at the devil himself.
"Lord William Percival the Third! I swear to God, I'll put you in time out once we get to Nottingham!" he bellowed.
He waded through the water and approached his horse. Taking the reins, he tugged him toward dry land.
"You're a menace to society," he hissed. "But you're my menace, unfortunately."
The horse nickered softly, bobbing his head as if he agreed. George rolled his eyes. He was stuck with an asshole. Though it was a match made in heaven—he, too, was an asshole.
"We're made for each other," George smirked. "Just two bastards on the same wavelength."
He found elderberries. Thank God for small mercies, George thought. They tasted fine—a bit sour for his liking, but beggars can't be choosers. Of course, Lord William Percival the Third loved them. Honestly, the horse would eat anything if he was hungry enough. Lord William Percival was like a black hole, consuming everything and anything in his path—including someone's hat once.
That incident was a complete disaster.
His horse had spotted the hat from a distance. The damn bastard quietly trotted over like a cat burglar and snatched it from the man's head. It took George and his father all their strength to pull it from his mouth. Sad to say the hat was completely ruined.
Poor fellow.
Probably wanted to show it off to some maiden, but alas, Lord William Percival the Third thought it looked better in his stomach. Father had to buy the poor man a new hat.
Around mid-morning, George finally reached the first village. It was named after a Baron, he believed. Something that started with an "S" and sounded garbled and slightly fancy. Wrinkling his nose, he really should get familiar with the names of the villages.
The village smelled like a wet dog—specifically like Rupert. That damn mutt hated water and sometimes went unwashed for days. When he did get a bath, it was a nightmare of both scent and sound, howling about like he was being butchered alive.
"You and that damn mutt probably came from the same hellscape," he muttered. "Sent to make my life hell."
The village was small. It was cozy in that everybody-knows-everybody way. He paid no mind to the stares. In fact, his narcissistic side approved of the attention. His father once said he was exceptionally handsome. A few of his lovers agreed enthusiastically. Though Aunt Gertrude once said he looked like a disgruntled wet cat.
"She doesn't know what she's talking about," he scoffed.
When they reached the market, George dismounted his horse and proceeded on foot. Lord William Percival the Third's rein held securely in his hand. He didn't want another hat-eating incident. Though knowing his horse, it was just a matter of time before it happened, George thought.
They moved through the stalls. The market had a surprisingly good amount of foot traffic. Merchants hawked their wares. Children laughed, weaving around strangers legs. A few farm animals scattered about. One rooster flapped its wings and crowed loudly—right into George's ears.
"Damn you, bird!" He glared.
As he continued through the market, George came across a predicament—a very tasty and good-smelling predicament.
The aroma of freshly baked bread tantalized his nose. Steam curled up from the loaves like a hand crooking its finger, saying, "Come here."
George's stomach grumbled, he hadn't eaten anything beside those elderberries they found this morning. With a sigh, he gave in. Well. Bread 1, George 0.
"Fine," he said, pulling Lord William Percival the Third's rein along toward the bread stall.
The baker was a big man—not tall like George, but wide. Not wide like a pompous noble who'd forgotten the word "control" existed. The man was more stocky and burly, like one of those viking men in the sagas Aunt Gertrude read. Those arms looked like they could crush a man's skull.
"Good morning," George greeted.
The man smiled brightly. I like this man, George thought. Anyone with their teeth intact was good in his book.
"What can I do for you, m'lord?" the baker asked.
He hummed thoughtfully, scratching his hairless chin. The bread smelled devine, rye, if George was right. Fresh from the oven some were still piping hot. They sell a lot of things, surprisingly. Apples look red and fresh, chestnut roasting under amber. Woven basket hanging on the side beam.
"A loaf of bread and six of your apples for my steed," George said, pulling a few coins from his leather pouch.
"Sure thing, m'lord." The baker packed everything with great care in a simple clean cloth.
"Here you go m'lord."
"Thank you!" George said, as he paid for the bread and apples with coins he knew were more than what they cost.
It was a habit he'd picked up from his father. The old man wouldn't say why he did it, but they all knew he had a soft spot for hardworking individuals. Mother would always turn a blind eye whenever it occurred. She wouldn't comment on it either. So George just went along with it.
He'd better leave before the baker noticed the extra coins.
"Come on, boy," George said, pulling the reins.
Except he pulled on air. He froze. His hands were empty—and he'd sworn he was holding the reins tightly.
George abruptly looked up, eyes wide in equal parts shock and worry, because there was no horse behind him. His mouth opened in disbelief, brows furrowed. The realization hit him like a slap to the face. HIS HORSE WAS ON THE LOOSE!
"OH GOD!!"
A scream tore through the market. George's head whipped toward the noise. Heart pounding. Breath held.
George's eyes widened.
"Lord William Percival the Third! Put that hat down, this instant!" .