rivers_bend

Title: A Squire's Tale
Fandom: A Knight's Tale
Characters: Wat/Chaucer
Words: 1,452
Rating: adult
Written for lordessrenegade for 2006's yuletide challenge.

There's rhyming couplets, true, but hey, it's about Chaucer! And there's not that many, and the rest of the story is prose...

psst. fallen_arazil, lordessrenegade writes great Due South slash... if you've not seen it, go to her journal



Upon the road to Roan travel fine men.
But none so fine I'd seen as those who when
Did meet a writer fallen on hard times,
Who'd nothing to his name but skill with rhymes,
Agreed to feed and clothe the wretched man.
To take from him in payment no more than
He was able with his skills to give.
Though for fair they first thought him a knave.
Twere three in total, one a jolly man,
Easily could one hide in his span.
And a second one who claimed to be
A knight, though it was plain for all to see
That his charm and cheek and courage were rather
More in evidence than claim to noble fathers.
With these men travelled one with hair so bright
Who felt quite sure that he was always right,
Who threatened men with fongings and with fists
And yet I'm told the writer did insist,
That this man was his favourite of the three
Though granted, it took time for him to see
That violence and all the talk thereof
Hid feelings twixt the two of them of love.

Geoffrey Chaucer sat at his desk, ink and parchment to hand, and contemplated his words. Somehow they failed to capture how that time had been. His mind drifted back to the heat and the dust and the thorn that had made itself at home in his foot on the day he met William and Roland and Wat. The day that changed his life for a few years so long ago.
**

What struck him first about the man with the wild red hair was his apparent indifference to Geoff's lack of clothing. Boiling over with anger he couldn't adequately articulate, he rained violent words down upon Chaucer's ears, waved fists in his face, and never once looked below his neck.

Nor had Wat seemed to notice more than Chaucer's misdeeds when next he saw him unclothed -- stripped again of more than his dignity by the summoner and the pardoner. More than words rained down at that encounter, and then Wat had merely walked away in disgust.

The third time however, that Wat had come upon Chaucer stripped of his vestments, he was unable to tear his eyes from the sight.

It happened after Wat returned from delivering Will's missive of love to Jocelyn. Geoff had watched him deliver Jocelyn's reply; watched Wat's face twist in revulsion as his lips brushed against Will's, and his heart had clenched in his chest. Wat missed only his kitchen girls. He did not lie, trying to sleep, head inches from Geoff's, wishing that they were alone. He would never, as Geoff had every night, long to reach out and touch the face of the man lying next to him. Gently. His hand open for a change, not curled into a fist. Geoff fingered his nose, his chin, the angle of his jaw, and vowed to stop playing at a game he couldn’t win. He would cease inviting the touch of that fist, now that he knew that there would never be a softer touch to follow.

When they'd moved on towards the next tournament, Will had been overjoyed at the prospect of seeing Jocelyn again. Kate and Roland had been satisfied that things were as they were and that life would go on in its way. Wat had been angry. Wat was always angry, perhaps the only way he knew to be. Geoff had covered his own loneliness with glib remarks, amusing anecdotes and pretty words.

Will and his entourage had set up camp the first night on a rise overlooking a willow grove. The grove hid a deep pool in the curve in the river that followed the road.

It was a jolly night with fire, food, and drinking leading to jokes at everyone's expense. Eventually Kate made her way to her tent, Will and Roland yawned and stretched, and Wat went to see to the horses. The moon was low and full and ice white in the sky. "I'm going to bathe," Chaucer announced to no one in particular, and made his way down the hill.

There was a grassy stretch and a curve of sandy gravel between the trees and the pool. Geoff stood for a moment watching the moon play on the water before stripping off his clothes. The night air was cool but he had become overheated from the fire, and possibly the ale. He stepped into the water, sinking down so that it covered his head. Gooseflesh pebbled his skin, pain lanced through his skull from the cold, and he shot up out of the water, shivering. He turned to retreat back to his clothes, but stopped still when he saw Wat standing on the grass at the edge of the beach, staring.

He looked neither angry nor confused. Geoff wasn't sure he recognised the expression, but then he remembered Wat's reminiscing about food and kitchen wenches. Wat looked wistful. Wistful and hungry. Geoff felt a stirring of hope in his breast, and despite the cold, it was not the only stirring. He continued towards the beach, watching Wat watch him.

"I came down to get water for the horses." Wat's eyes shot up to Chaucer's face for a moment and then continued their appointment with the region south of his waist.

Geoff looked around. "Where's the bucket? Did you plan to carry the water in your hands? Or your mouth perhaps?" His eyes focused on the front of Wat's britches. "Or is that a bucket hidden in your trousers?"

Wat's familiar posture of rage returned, his fists clenched at his sides, and he began to sputter. "I… you… I… Don't…"

Geoff crossed the small beach to where Wat stood on the grass. He held out a placating hand. "I didn't mean --" His words were cut off by a sharp punch to the chest. Wat turned to go, but Chaucer grabbed his wrist. Wat lashed back, trying to land another blow. Geoff tripped him, tackling him to the ground, with an arm around Wat's neck, a knee in his back, trapping one hand underneath Wat's chest where he'd fallen on it, and holding one held fast over his head.

Chaucer had the advantage of surprise, but that is not an advantage that lasts long against an opponent who has the advantage of weight, anger, and a long history of scrapping on his side. In a trice, Wat had flipped Geoff onto his back and landed his full weight on top of the naked man. He'd tried to gain control of Chaucer's wrists, but missed one. Geoff used his free hand to catch hold of that fiery hair and force Wat's mouth onto his own.

Regardless of his earlier protests, Wat too might have been dreaming of such contact, because he didn't pull away; he didn't stammer in rage and ask what Geoff was doing. His fingers tightened on the wrist he had pinned to the grass as his mouth opened to suck in Chaucer's tongue. He twined his free hand round the back of Geoff's head, tilting it to a better angle, swallowing the moan he elicited. His aggression melted into possession as he used both hands to pull Chaucer closer, used his tongue and teeth and lips to lay claim to Chaucer's mouth.

Geoff felt his organ scraped by the rough linen of Wat's trousers, felt it crushed beneath Wat's hip. He tried to protest, to shift Wat's weight, remove his clothes, but Wat just took what he wanted. When he finally lifted his head and gave Geoff space to breathe, Geoff could only say, "Naked. You. Now."

Wat smiled. It was a sight brighter than the moon. "I've long wondered how to make you speechless. I'd begun to think it wasn't possible."

"And yet kissing seems to render you a man of words. You are a man of many wonders, squire."

"More wonders than you've yet learned, herald."
**

It had taken more than that one night for Chaucer to learn all the wonders of Wat Falhurst. They had argued and loved and fought and laughed until Geoffrey Chaucer had been called back to England in service to the King.

He'd left Wat behind, landlord in his own pub. He swore that one day he would return. He wrote and travelled and loved his wife and children. He served God and King and country.

He'd passed near to the village where Wat had settled, but never near enough. On more than one occasion, he’d spotted a shock of red hair and felt a familiar skip in his chest, but he never saw Wat again, except in his dreams.