Do You Want a Slice of Life from the
Thirteenth Century? If so,
Don't Fail to Read
TWO French peasants, the one young, the other old and hale and toothless, both carrying baskets and garbed in ragged breeches and tunics, gaped at the pair of horses struggling to haul the closed coach up the steep incline in Angouleme Wood.
At the instant it seemed as if the animals were about to fail. The driver, a sober youth in drab livery with undecipherable shoulder insignia, used his whip mercilessly. The lash cracked, the horses plunged frantically, while a stream of invective sped from the driver's lips.
"You pair of oafs!" he cried, finally. "Lend a hand."
The peasants willingly put shoulder to wheel. The coach gained way and topped the rise. As it did so, the two peasants set out at a run, their baskets bobbing, but a shout came from behind.
"'Ware the road, ye clodhoppers!"
The clatter of horse hoofs was upon them, they were just able to fling themselves to the side as three horsemen, presumably outriders of the equipage ahead, swept by.
The peasants gazed in admiration after the flashing figures.
"That'll be good King Philippe's riders," announced André, the younger. "Mark ye the emblems on their jackets?"
"I do that," returned Jacques, the light of understanding in his ancient eyes. "Methinks I know what brings them to the village of Peptonneau."
"And, pray, what is it that brings them to the village of Peptonneau?"
"They come to the Man in Scarlet."
At mention of the official headsman, who years before had come from near Fontainebleau to reside in Peptonneau, Jacques companion fell silent.
The old man chuckled.
"Ah! They were gay days when your old Jacques was a gardener at the royal palace. And be it known to you, lout of Peptonneau," Jacques' voice rose, "that my best friend then was old Capeluche, the very father of our neighbor headsman, who to be sure is a man of ugly temper, and
