(This story in regards to the medieval English county of Sussex 1400s has no relation to Meghan Markle or her husband)
The year is 1475. The Hundred Years war has been raging in France for over a century, whilst rebellions and revolts trouble the nobles at home in England. With the country's knights abroad, it has been left to the women of England to manage their husbands' households whilst they are away at war..
Tools rose and fell in the wheat fields of the Duchy of Sussex, mass swathes of farmland manned by peasants who earnestly tilled the land like ants. Watchmen strolled along the perimeter of these fields; local militia or mercenaries who happened to own arms, hired to oversee the production of supplies in such a turbulent time - and deter any unrest within the peasantry.
The Duchess of Sussex was taking no chances.
She placed her hands against the grand balcony of her husband's manor castle, her dark brown hair trailing down the back of her dark blue dress in a neat, meticulous ponytail. The Duchess did not wear the fashionable womens' headdress of the time; this inhibited her efficiency.
"Valet!" She called out. A grey-haired senior servant, a veteran of her husband's, stepped near, wearing a blue and yellow tunic.
"Milady?" He had tired eyes. Obviously overworked under the Duchess' temporary administration.
"I wish to inspect the local village. Prepare my horse and carriage."
**
The valet was in fortune: the Duchess had much to rant about as the carriage clattered over the cobbled village path.
"..so as you know, Archibald, I've had the village Reeve round up some men-at-arms to ensure the security of the peasantry," The Duchess drawled on.
"Aye, Milady.. I follow." Archibald the valet replied witheringly.
"..yet of course, their own loyalties and dedication are in question, since they as well-"
"Aye, Ma'am."
"-are recruited from the very peasantry they are charged to enforce!" The Duchess of Sussex's cheeks were puffed, passionate in her rant. "My - dear - husband took all the reliable soldiers off to France, and thus I am left with scum and old men."
"Of course, Miss." Archibald wiped his grey brow as he drove the carriage past a plot of potatoes.
"Anyways.. stop here, if you will."
"Aye."
The carriage halted at a relatively large ploughed field, with peasants scattered over the soil at their toil. Two militia, in dark green tunics and capes, stood by the side of the road. They raised their hands in a slight salute.
"Morning, Duchess Milady!"
"Good morning, guardsmen." The Duchess leaned out of the window of the carriage, half beaming at them, half sneering. "I see you have been diligent at your watch, you two!"
"That we have Milady!" One of the militia, wearing a kettle helmet with a bec-de-corbin polearm slung over his shoulder, spoke up. "Yet, if I may, Miss.."
"Yeees..?" The Duchess squinted her hawkish, grey eyes at him.
"We have been here five hours straight. May we be dismissed?"
"No."
Now the other militiaman blustered. "Th-the archer's been off for an hour chatting up the village fucking maids - Ma'am!" His face went red, now realising he had sworn in front of nobility.
"How dare you sw - wait, what archer?" Her face darkened. Personnel of the Duchess' own militia - slacking? The treacherous thought appalled her.
"A-aye Madam."
"Lead me to him."
**
