A history assignment on which we had to write a story through a minstrel's eyes; short and to the point, but not all that bad I think.

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The sound of music and laughter floated through the air. The humid summer night pushed people out into the dimly lit garden where they continued to eat, dance, and pick up the latest gossip of who was doing what to whom.
Towards one of the corners of the veranda were a few richly dressed men and women standing around entranced by the minstrel's song.

I was tired, but I kept the smile on my face like a mask. The party was nearing its end; already a few people had left or dropped where they were, ready to snore the rest of the night away. My current group was louder than the earlier ones, and more rowdy. Catcalls and comments made their way up to the wall where I sat, but I simply smiled and continued to sing. I was ridiculously tired of this song, but the people seemed to not want to hear anything else. It was always like this, the people would take a liking to one, long song and I would be forced to play it over and over the whole night through. I didn't mind if they chose favorites, but why couldn't they all just come over at once and listen to it when it was being played instead of taking their merry old time and getting me to play it ten dozen times?
The song ended and as the last chord died away the group erupted in laughs and cheers. A few of them made unsteady progress towards me and tossed some coins. Their aim was terrible from drinking as much as they had, so I held out my lute to catch them, occasionally almost overextending myself and almost falling off the wall. This delighted them even more.
The group left and another one started forward, already voicing their request (which was, of course, the same song I'd played for the last umpteen groups.). I prepared to start it again, still with my mask of a smile on, but just as I played the first note a cry of "Minstrel! Send for the minstrel!" went up and two of the guards, big husky men dressed in elaborate purple tunics and armed with sharp-very sharp-pikes appeared below me.
I hopped down (although not too elegantly, my legs were feeling cramped) and smiling placidly, followed the guards to where the lord's family sat. Chairs had been moved out for them-throne-like still of course, and they sat there under a willow tree whose branches hung low enough to scrape the pond's surface.

I bowed for them as required and looked for a place to sit. A chair hit me in the back of the knees and the servant who'd brought it apologized quickly and rushed back into the crowd that had appeared around the artificial pond to watch. I sat down and smiled up at their highnesses and asked their preference.

***
The sun had not been up long enough for the dew to have left the plants, so I decided to walk to the next town and save my money, even though the pouch at my waist was considerably heavier than before. I risked an encounter with bandits out here by myself, but I don't think I could have stayed in that manor another hour. Besides, there were always carriages or something coming down this road because out of all the roads, this one saw the least banditry, probably because of the manor so close by and the heavy security to make sure it stayed safe.
The tune from last night was stuck in my head, as they always were, so I whistled it under my breath as I walked. It was close to a festival, what kind I don't know, they always blurred together at this time. I'd perform in this town and then rest for a day or two, maybe stop at the shops and see what they had. Not like I could buy too much, I mean I can't carry loads with me, being a minstrel on the road. Afterwards, I'd go to the next town, or manor, or whatever there was and perform, move out, and then do the same thing all over again. I was running out of new music though, sometime in between I'd have to find some new material. Afterall, what good's a bard with old music?

~~~~~~~~~ A short little sequel could possibly be on it's way, depends on my mood and time, and whether this writer's block wants to let up *glares at Writer's Block* And remember, constructive criticism is welcome! ;-)