Favourite Demon (The Entire Bloody Boring Fourteenth Century Part I)

December 1311 CE, Dover, England

DECEMBER, 1311, DOVER, ENGLAND

Angel,

Bored in Flanders. Coming home. I still have some tea. If you don't hurry up, I'll drink it all.

Your Serpent

At this point, Crowley felt he had crept surreptitiously back into England so often that he could do it without engaging his brain. He slid into snake form and up the dark cliff path.

Still, the sight of a knight, balanced precariously on horseback and scanning the undergrowth, gave him pause. The red and white livery declared him a Hospitaller of the Order of St John's, which was probably all right. Searching for exiled Earls wasn't their usual pay grade. Too busy slaughtering the heathen, healing the ill and doing good. Their swords were still pretty pointy, and Dagon had been quite scathing about carelessness and waste the last time Crowley had to apply for a new corporation.

He slithered onto a tree branch and weighed up whether the knight was more likely to attack a man or serpent. Maybe a woman. She'd probably be safe with a Hospitaller. Probably.

Why was the knight alone at night, anyway, and what was he looking for? Hopefully something, or someone, he shouldn't. It had been ages since Crowley had been able to report undermining a member of a religious order. A waste of time, really, tempting human by human, when it was easier to disrupt the top of the food chain to cause havoc all the way down. Still, the medium brass seemed to like him showing a bit of personal effort here and there.

If the knight was on the brink of sinning, he might appreciate a little push in the wrong direction. Crowley considered sliding into human form and approaching peacefully.

There was definitely something familiar in the awkward posture on the horse. He sympathised. Horses were awfully hard on the buttocks, and there was a faint luminescence to the figure, softly glowing like mother of pearl in the moonlight.

Crowley dropped from the tree and landed on the knight, winding around his shoulders. "Hullo, Aziraphale."

"Crowley! There you are!" Aziraphale extended an arm and let Crowley slide behind him onto the saddle, changing into human-presenting form on the way. "I've been looking for you for hours."

"Well, you found me," Crowley said, winding his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders hopefully, ostensibly to keep his balance. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Send you away, with luck. My dear fellow, have you quite lost your mind? What are you doing back in England?"

"You've no idea how boring Flanders is," Crowley pouted. "Unless you're fascinated by weaving and religious artwork."

"You've only been there two months! Crowley, this is ridiculous. You've been exiled three times in four years. Can't you at least stay away until things calm down a bit?"

"No, it's fine. I worked out what I did wrong this time," Crowley said confidently. "I can charm the King into sinful extravagance and cause all kinds of resentment without calling his other advisors rude names. I was quite witty, though."

"I don't think calling someone a black dog is particularly witty when you're a black snake."

"Well, that's nasty," Crowley said, trying to wriggle closer and discovering that chain mail was distinctly uncuddly. He had forgotten that. "I've some really pretty red bits, too."

"What about cheating at tournaments?"

"I wasn't really cheating. I just happened to count my men on the field badly. I'm a snake. Counting doesn't come naturally to us. Humans have ten fingers, we have one tail."