Beckwith stables

Grainger paused in his shoveling of the stable muck to spit out some stray matter that had found its way into his mouth, spitting out some curses along with it. He reached into his pocket and found a filthy handkerchief which he wiped across his face, and that was when he noticed one of those damn Frogs. He scowled at the man. "What the hell are you lookin' at?"

"Ah, go f*** yourself," Jarreau muttered. Across the aisle from him a shovel was resting against the door of an empty stall and, after a moment's consideration, he picked it up, testing the weight in his hands. It had been a while since he had done proper work.

Grainger tensed up, lifting his own shovel defensively in case he had to use it as a weapon. What was the bastard Frog saying? Dammit, he shouldn't leave things lying around where the prisoners could grab them! "Now you just put that down, now," he said, trying not to sound nervous.

Jarreau frowned. "Do I look like I speak your damned language? Maudit Anglais."

Grainger lifted his own shovel threateningly and shook it at him. He was no soldier himself, and would much rather run from the stables to call a guard than fight to defend himself, but the French bastard was blocking his way. If only one of the horses could be prevailed upon to kick the man in the head...

Jarreau regarded the Englishman with a mixture of incredulity and contempt. A shovel? Really? "Put that away, for Christ's sake," he snapped.

The Frenchman did not sound threatening, Grainger thought. More just irritable, which he had no right to be. But what did he want in the stables? "Why can't you speak bloody English? Leggo o' my shovel." He pointed his own shovel at the stolen implement.

"I liked you better when you didn't talk," Jarreau growled, picking up his shovel and moving -- warily -- past the Rosbif until he came to the pile of dung and hay which the fellow had been working on.

"You keep the f*** away," Grainger said, backing away from the man and the dung pile until he felt a warm nose on his neck. He yelped a little in surprise and nearly dropped his shovel, though he knew immediately that it was only Auld Sorrel. "Dammit, Sorrel, not now," he muttered, reaching up with one hand to give the horse a reassuring pat.

Jarreau laughed, a short, harsh sound. "What d'you do with this, then?" he demanded, sticking his shovel into the muck.

Grainger was a bit embarrassed now. "Oh shut yer gob, you shite," he muttered, lifting a spadeful of muck into a wheelbarrow. Hopefully the man would get bored and wander off. At least he had put down the shovel. Grainger crossed a few steps and snatched it away, scowling up at the man. "Why'nt you just bugger off now. Though I suppose it's where you belong, right in a pile of shite."

"Oh, very clever," Jarreau muttered, quickly grabbing for the shovel and yanking back. "Espece de connard."

Grainger gasped and stepped back again. Damn, now he was in for it. He stepped to the other side of the wheelbarrow, holding his own shovel up for protection as his eyes darted around for a more suitable weapon. The pitchfork for hay! He snatched it from the wall and pointed it at the intruder. "Get outta my stable!"

Jarreau checked in the middle of scooping up a shovel full of dung. He looked appraisingly at the pitchfork, then the man, then tossed the contents of his shovel at him.

Grainger saw it coming and managed to jump out of the way, missing most of muck. He was already covered in the stuff anyway, so it hardly made much difference. But now he was indignant. "What the f*** are you doing? I'm tryin' to clean up in here!" He gestured to the stable floor as if it would bear witness to his toil. "I oughta run you through!" Damn Frogs. No sense of decorum at all. Their stables were probably filthy. No wonder their horses ended up getting eaten; their feet were probably rotted through.

Jarreau's next shovel full landed in the wheelbarrow. Yap, yap, yap... the Englishman was still nattering. No wonder the place was such a mess.

Well. That was better. The man was actually shoveling into the barrow like a Christian. Grainger was surprised to say the least. He watched and stared for a moment, and then, with cautious deliberation, hung his pitchfork back on the wall and resumed work with his own shovel, scarcely taking his eyes off the Frog for a moment. "Aye, that's the way tis done in England. Yer lousy bastard."

Jarreau continued to work and the Englishman continued to talk.

"Will you shut up?"

"You know I can't understand nothin' you say when you talk that damn Frog talk," Grainger muttered. He threw another spadeful of muck onto the pile. "Them horses make more sense'n you do," he added, nodding his head at the creatures in the stalls.

Jarreau thought about this for a moment, then nodded. "They're fine animals."

Grainger looked at him sharply. "Now that almost sounded like a word. Did you say animals?"

What? Jarreau's brows drew together. "Animaux, ouais."

Grainger laughed. "So you do know how to talk, ye daft bastard! Whyn't you say so?"

The Englishman seemed pleased, or else amused, Jarreau couldn't tell. He tossed another scoop of muck into the wheelbarrow before asking warily, "What?"

This work was going quicker with an extra pair of hands, so there was no harm in taking a little break. "C'mere then, damn Frog. I got a bottle in me pocket." He left his shovel standing in its place and crossed to where he had hung his coat, fishing out a carrot and then a stoneware flask. He handed the first to the prisoner. "Here, hang on to that carrot. It's for yon Daisy what's in foal."