There is a notch in the wood by the doorframe to the kitchen. He remembers it well, though it sits lower than he remembers; perhaps he has the memory of a boy, running down through the stairwells to pinch the bread before it finished cooling. It is busy now, with all the hubbub of the Lords due to assemble. He takes a drink from the skin on his hip; a rather bitter red, but beggars canβt be choosers, and he is a beggar now, not the young son of this house, but a priest without a parish, a messenger without his patrons.Β
So many people have gone, replaced by younger, firmer folk. Somehow he had kept it all preserved in his mind, as if he had pressed the flower of his youth between the pages of the book of life to return to later. That these were fresh seedlings, probably younger than he was when he left β or, to be more accurate, was sent away β stirred something in him that he couldnβt quite name. Easy to push it to his cock and be done with it.Β
He looks around for a worthy partner, since he is still in his wits enough to care about such matters. There is a comely young maid darting through the halls, and he watches her shapely behind as she takes two stairs at a time. Then, as he looks again, through to the stores, he sees her.
She looks old, haggard even. Her deep eyes, once so beguiling, now sit within heavy dark circles, her hair covered of course, but he remembers how it was dark and thick and sat long against her breast. Madeleine. He hasnβt forgotten, and heβs proud of that, before he realises that he only remembers so clearly because he used to beg her for pastries on saints days when they were young together. He, he realises, must be as old as she, and he doubts he wears it anywhere near as well.
He drinks again, the last of the wine barely touching his tongue.
