Renaissance: A Crutchie Morris x Reader

4. Ronald

Before we continue the epic saga of medieval mockery, I need to announce something. First of all, I'm sorry for being dead. I've got a lot of life stuff going on, which is why this is likely to be a very singular update. As for why, I'll tell that it's because I'm getting a baby sister in less than a month now. So thank you for your patience, and enjoy the Faire, Lads and Lasses!

(Y/N)'s POV

Good money always put me in a good mood. Call me self-centered, but I liked the sensation of coins jingling in my pockets, promising good food or perhaps a new jar of magic for my shows. This time, it would have to be food, as I'd just promised sixteen hungry looking newsboys and a determined looking young lady-who I'd assumed to be the reporter Crutchie had told me about-supper. I strolled over to one of the stalls, where I was met by Resa, who was as usual, carrying a pan of supper rolls, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead as she pulled them out of the oven and dumped the pan into a bowl. 

"Is that him," She whispered, nodding towards where Crutchie was chatting away with one of the newsboys-I thought his name was Romeo-, and grinning at me. "He's not a bad looking guy."

"What is wrong with your head?"

"I'm always sweaty on baking day, stupid."

"That's not what I meant," I laughed, slapping her arm lightly as she handed me a basket of rolls, and another with whittled wooden utensils and tiny glass jars of jam. "I mean you're mad. Batty. Positively Barmey."

"Oh, of course." Resa smirked. "I had no idea what you meant before. Well, I'll just go join the Well Wenches and leave my poor mother to run the bakery all by herself."

"Who's joining the Well Wenches?"  Mrs. Hayes, or, Hattie as she prefered people to call her, was Resa's mother and basically another one of my aunts, and I had to chuckle as she popped out from behind a curtain, handed me a basket of cinnamon apple tarts, and gestured to the group of boys who were now talking with Uncle Hugo, who'd been relieved from his box-office duties and was now mingling with the public, what we actors called street. "Not my daughter, I hope. If you keep letting in more hungry looking teenage boys for free, we'll never make a living."

"I won't promise, Hattie," I smiled, plopping a quarter into the cash register drawer. "But I have just bought dinner for the Newsies of Lower Manhattan, so I'd better go."

"Don't forget to bring back the jam jars!" Hattie called after me, and I nodded as I reached the Newsboys, setting the baskets down on a couple of stumps. 

"Here's my tolken of appreciation," I gestured to the baskets, and the Newsboys swarmed them, exclamations of amazment and pleasure leaving most of them as they bit into the not-too-hot -but-not-too-cold pastries. "Don't thank me, thank Hattie." Hattie waved from her stall, and several of the boys waved back merrily, calling their thanks over the crowds. 

"You've made yourself quite a lively band of friends, (Y/N)," I turned to see my uncle Hugo, the resident strongman of our Ren Faire and the most gentle man I'd ever met, smiling down at me. "I think the one with the crutch likes you."

"Don't make me hurt you," I threatened, grinning. I wouldn't hurt him, not really, not big, funny, Uncle Hugo, who used to lift me in the air and spin me around until I couldn't see straight, and still did, when he felt like it, even though I was nearly sixteen years old and much too large for it. 

"I'm having a hard time imagining that, Fire Dancer, but I'll be cautious anyways."

"Oi, Fire Dancer!" I looked up, and there was my eldest brother, Ron, standing on one of the many tightropes crisscrossing the fairegrounds and grinning down at me. The Newsboys, now having finished off the apple tarts and dinner rolls, looked up along with me and gasped, which they seemed to do a lot. "The Joust's starting, ya' half-witted-clotpole!" He flipped off his tightrope, landing in front of me. "Oliver's really keen for you to be there. Bring your friends."

"O'course I was bringing them, Moron. Thou hath as much brains as thou hast earwax."

"Thy face is not worthy of sunburning." Ron gestured to the Newsboys who were surrounding us now and grinning. "Do I not jest, Lads?"

I searched my brain for one of my best insults, and came up with Ron's least favorite. " Away, you three inch fool!"

"Alright, I get it. I didn't need to tell you to come. Introduce me to your friends, (Y/N)."

I was about to say something, but Crutchie's tall friend stepped foward, holding his hand out to shake. "Jack Kelly."

Ron shook his hand, smiling. "Ronald (L/N). You're those guys who went on strike last month, right?"

"Yeah, that was us." Jack looked proud that Ron knew who he was. I supposed I couldn't blame him.

"That was really something," Ron nodded approvingly, and then nodded in the direction the crowds were streaming. "I can escort you to the Joust. (Y/N), Oliver needs you for a pep talk, don't tell him I sent you."