The best part of a living history event is after hours, when the public goes home and the re-enactors relax into a kind of limbo between their chosen historical period and the modern world. It probably looks odd to those more used to a world of tracksuits and take-aways, seeing all these people sitting around a campfire in thick layers of wool and linen, drinking ale flavoured with bog myrtle or coriander rather than the modern hopped beers, swapping stories of how they were killed on the tourney field that day.
In the small hours, when the ale and mead have done their work, you'll see these half breeds perhaps singing a strange medley of current and traditional songs - generally out of tune - but hey, who cares amongst friends, right? Sometimes you even get liaisons of a kind you might only dream about tucked up safe in your warm centrally heated house.
This had been a perfect show in many ways. The weather had been sunny, the public free with their cash, and not too many smart-arses telling me how no-one ever washed in the middle ages or that everyone was short back then. I'd spent the day demonstrating natural dyes and herb use, and as usual, most of my conversations had been with older ladies who remember different ways of household management, and who all had stories of their own to tell.
The old men amused me, there was a generation out there that grew up on the silver screen historicals, when a girl in a wimple and tightly laced dress hinted at volumes, although all that the cinema viewer saw was the close lipped kiss as the violin played in the background. I actually enjoy seeing their eyes cross my body, see that moment of nostalgia as they remember the old films and the yielding heroines. It's not a threat. I choose to see it as a compliment. I'd flirt mildly with them, always deferring to their wives with whom I exchange a knowing glance: It's their age, humour them.
Most of the men my age were hardly worth the effort. The ones who come in as public visitors to the show were too detached from the past, too hung up on everything new. While, most of the re-enactors spend too much time on the ale and not enough time practising to wear the armour they tried to swagger around the tourney field in.
This year though, there was a new face, a new body encased in layers of quilted linen and steel. And he's not your typical re-enactor. This one had the tent kitted out with replica furniture, the custom made suit of mail and plate, the banner and the collection of assorted weaponry. But he didn't have the swagger, he didn't have the hangers on or a girlfriend in an elasticised shift, he didn't have a group to be matey with. He was an enigma, and I was intrigued.
I watched him surreptitiously today, out on the training field with the other wannabe knights. He trained hard, gave in with grace when he was beaten, showed no quarter when he's got the advantage. After all these years I thought I was immune to the boys in the tin suits, but I have to admit I was impressed.
If I was a giggling maiden, I'd have offered him a favour to tie onto his sword pommel. But since I'm not, I just watched.
There were some strong fighters on the field today, and the bright sun made it hot going. Even though he was a skilled swordsman I can see him take a few batterings as the visiting public wander back and forth, believing that they are taking in history when all they were getting was themed entertainment.
Eventually they go home. The re-enactors disperse to their tents and gradually reconvene by the campfire. I sat, quietly watching the comings and goings, while drinking a glass of birch sap wine. I felt as if I was waiting for something, but it was a languorous feeling after a long day on my feet.
Suddenly I can see him, buying a pint of ale at the bar. I realised that I was more than intrigued by this man. He'd been stripped down to shirt and hose, and with his sleeves rolled back above the elbow I was very conscious of the musculature of his forearms. This happened to be one of my favourite parts of a man, those strong muscles, the broad hands and the suggestion of hairiness. If the hair on the arms was too thick, I could tell that he's probably a bit of a gorilla, but the hairiness was just right though. It told me that the possibilities were tantalising.
He sat down not far from me, finding a spare log to relax against. I could see now that below the collar of his shirt he'd received bruises and abrasions from the tourney earlier. The healer in me pushes aside my desire to watch him quietly.
"Looks like you took a few knocks today," I said, nodding at him over the rim of my glass.
He smiled and shruggged, a gesture that charmed me more than any description of the days exploits ever could.
I pulled myself to my feet, then standing beside him, I suggested. "Here, let me take a look at those."
His skin was hot against my fingertips, and I pulled aside the neck of his shirt to examine his slightly grazed skin. "Nothing serious, but you're going to feel them in the morning, I suspect." I probed the skin with my hands, feeling for the knots of muscle and tension, enjoying the scent of him, a pleasant mixture of hard work, campfires and the soap with which he clearly had a quick wash before coming to the bar.
