Free Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom by S.B. Davies Page A

about it. Think that may be today is
the day to run or the day to fight. You may even have it in you to
be a warrior.’
    ‘Not me, I am a
lover not a fighter.’
    Boadicea looked
down.
    ‘Being a
warrior is not about fighting. It is willingness to fight if
needed. It is taking beating and humiliation if that is best for
kith and kin. It is standing back when food is served and standing
in front when trouble comes. It is being honourable and most of you
humans are not good at it.’
    Fergus snorted.
‘All that bluff and honour is part of another age, excuses for the
testosterone fuelled outrage of the frustrated.’
    ‘No it’s not,’
said Boadicea, ‘It is part of being, part of life. An important
part. Learn to be a warrior if you want to walk at my side Fergus
Loaf.’
    Fergus studied
his wine for a moment.
    ‘I can learn,’
said Fergus quietly, ‘But hitting people with swords isn’t what I
want to do with my life.’
    ‘Yes, but you
let other people do it for you. Isn’t that hypocritical?’
    Fergus felt the
conversation was going wrong. Not the slick, funny chat he planned
in his head; time for an emergency change of conversation.
    Shoes? No, she
wore sturdy leather boots. Hair? Not that either, it was a long,
braided plait. Clothes? Ah yes, clothes.
    ‘I like your
outfit,’ said Fergus, admiring the figure hugging leather cat suit
that made her seem wild and rebellious. It looked expensive too,
with ornamental gold metalwork on the arms and legs.
    Boadicea
smiled; a lovely thing to see.
    ‘It’s
ceremonial and bit tight now; I had it fitted when I was seventeen.
It’s also hot and sweaty.’
    She reached up
to her neck, pulled the zip right down and shook air into the top
of the suit. Fergus had a clear view of her shapely breasts. His
mouth went dry and the blood left his face; it was needed
elsewhere.
    ‘What’s the
matter? Never seen boobs before?’
    ‘Um, sorry,’
said Fergus, ‘didn’t mean to stare, but they are truly
magnificent.’
    Boadicea looked
into his eyes. Fergus drowned. He reached out and pulled her
forward into a kiss. It went on for three score years and ten.
Fergus reached inside her top and cupped her breast. After a short
while she broke away and gently removed Fergus’s hand.
    ‘I have to go
soon,’ said Boadicea.
    ‘Coffee
perhaps? At your place?’ asked Fergus.
    ‘That would be
lovely, but you’d never get past Mrs Yorkshire.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mrs Yorkshire,
the housekeeper. I live in St Catherine’s Hostel for Young
Ladies.’
    Fergus knew of
St Cats, a magnificent Victorian mansion converted into a hostel
for daughters of the great and the good. The rules were strict, the
residents strange and aloof. It was a Shangri-La of lovely women,
entry was impossible; Coffee was not a prospect.
    ‘In any case,
you’re not a warrior yet.’
    ‘And how do I
get to be a warrior? Adopt a menacing look and stomp about in a
bearskin loincloth?
    ‘Well, you
could do worse than talk to Dave or at least read his book.’
    ‘His book?’
    ‘Yes, it’s a
big hit off-world. You know the thing; a prophet is never
appreciated on his home world. Dave is considered a master in the
ways of the warrior.’
    ‘Could’ve
fooled me, he just seems like a grumpy old man in a cardy.’
    ‘To cause your
enemies to underestimate you is the act of a great warrior. Never
let them see you coming. In this one thing you act like a warrior,
Fergus Loaf,’ said Boadicea and grinned.
    ‘You mean I
hide my light under a bushel?’
    ‘I doubt you
would get that under a bushel,’ said Boadicea and nodded toward
Fergus’s tented crotch.
    Fergus raised
his eyebrows, ‘Well, you have that effect on me.’
    ‘Mmm, shame I
don’t with our men. They are more interested in the battlefield
than the bedroom.’
    ‘And yet you
want me to become a warrior?’
    ‘Yes, I am
woman, I want it all, and I’m worth it.’
    Fergus looked
at Boadicea.
    ‘Yes, you
are.’
    Boadicea
sniffed then reached