Story : The Three Lions Inn
From Ars Magica
On the 18th day of April, the Sabbath, in the year of our Lord 1220, the weather in the vale of Stretton was fair and fresh. A spring breeze ruffled the grass, carrying an earthy smell.
Watling Street, an old roman road, ran southwest from Sarop down the vale, which was flanked on the north-western side by the Long Mynd, and on the south-western side by number of hills. Across the vale from Church Stretton lay Caer Caradoc, Helmeth Hill with Willstone Hill rising behind it, Hazler Hill, and Ragleth Hill, whose sides bore more of the same forest which hugged the base of the Long Mynd. In the past, the vale had been entirely covered by forest, but now a broad strip had been cleared, and the road was lined with fields.
The manor proper sat well back from the road, at the end of a broad and deeply rutted track, beside the manor's church, a sturdy stone building dedicated to Saint Laurence. At the junction where a track led off toward the manor and church, was a long, low building, in front of which stood a tall post bearing a sign with three lions; a reminder to all who passed by that Stretton-en-le-vale was now a royal manor.
Inside, the Inn of the Three Lions was warm from the heat of the cooking fire, the occupants, and the bright sunlight. The main room was busy with people sitting on benches as they ate meals from trestled tables. The travelers dined with an assortment of knives, and drank weak ale from cups of leather or clay.
Beneath one of the tables, the inn-keepers dog sat amidst the rushes strewn on the cobbled floor, watching as the tavern maids bustled hither and yon with trays laden with platters. Upon spotting travelers through a window, one of the servants shouted across the din and clatter to the Innkeeper, a portly man, who ambles in an easy fashion over to the door, to greet the new arrivals. As the Innkeeper looked up, he saw a couple just outside one of the open windows, the woman apparently calling after an older boy who had stopped to pet a stray dog. The man, by the looks of it, the boy’s brother, the Innkeeper thought, had a patient smile on his face and turned to the young lady and spoke softly into her ear just before turning and pushing open the door to enter the Inn. There was something about the man, plain as he may appear, that the Innkeeper did not like. It wasn’t anything that he could put his finger on; it was just something that made him…uneasy.
The brown haired young man pushed his way through the door and, glancing around, made his way to the empty end of the table near the cold hearth. He was dressed in a pair of tanned breeches and off-white wool shirt. His waist was girded with a belt of leather with brass discs of some type. On his feet he wore typical walking boots, though the breeched were tucked and the seam was wrapped with some type of fine steel chain. His shoulder length brown hair was pulled back and secured into a horses's tail with the same fine chain. Over his shoulder, he had slung a heavy bag that clanked slightly as he set it down by the trestle. It was clear, from the way that he looked to the timber ceiling with a sigh of relief that he had been walking quite a distance before alighting upon the Three Lions.
The Innkeeper watched the man intently. The closer he got and the more he saw, the more uncomfortable he became. The uneasiness didn’t abate – in fact, it had grown more certain, more palatable; much like grease solidifying on the top of a stew. This was not a feeling that the Innkeeper had experienced often, but his Inn was a popular one, and he knew that his instincts were seldom wrong. This man could be trouble; and trouble was something he intended to prevent. The Innkeeper saw one of the serving maids heading for the table dodging this way and that through the rowdy bunch of men at the tables near the bar counter. He had a bit of trouble catching her eye, but he did, and waved her off. He’d tend to this visitor himself.
The Innkeeper made his way through the patrons and stopped in front of the man’s table.
“Welcome da’ the Inn o’ the Three Lions,” he said without much enthusiasm. “What cin I do fer ya?” All the while, the Innkeeper was searching the man and his possessions again. Something about this man was a threat – something was not right – why couldn’t he figure out what it was?
“Thank you,” the man said clearly, despite the fact that he spoke with a quiet voice. I would like a room for my brother and I, and a room for my brother’s tutor, please. Also, some bread and stew, if you have any left, would be good. The man held up his hand with a few coins, but the Innkeeper did not move to take them. With a shrug that seemed to say, “As you wish.” the man set the coins down on the table.
The Innkeeper looked down at the coins for a few moments before deftly scooping them into his hand. “It’ll be a bit before it’s ready,” he said, turning to make his way back to the bar. The man noticed that he stopped twice on the way back – once to speak to one of the serving girls and once to speak to a man in a chair against the wall; a man that sports a royal crest upon his breast.
There was only one chair in the room, and the bailiff lounged in it at an angle, with his head propped up by one hand and a goblet of wine loosely held in the other. He gazed into the red liquid as he gently swilled it around; lost in his memories. The innkeeper began to address him, and he looked up with a start. A scowl passing across his face upon being disturbed, which quickly melted into a vague look of concern as he heeded the innkeeper's words. He looked the man, and then spoke briefly to the innkeeper, who glanced nervously back at them.
With a wave of the hand, the innkeeper was dismissed, and reluctantly headed back toward where the strange man sat. "Our bailiff bids you welcome to Church Stretton, and kindly asks where your company is bound for on this fine day." A happy and welcoming smile spreads across the innkeeper's slightly chubby face; a well practiced mask from years of working as a host. In less boisterous surroundings, Ambrosius might have noticed the contradictory, nervous rigidity of innkeeper's body that would have betrayed their true feelings.
“Salv…er,” Ambrosius looks briefly around, “I mean to say, hello there. I’m Ambrosius ex Verditius. I was hoping to meet a young lady here…what I mean is, I am supposed to meet a young lady here by the name of Mnemosyne. Mnemosyne ex Guernicus.” The Innkeeper’s expression soured ever so slightly before he recovered. Ambrosius didn’t appear to notice. “You haven’t seen her yet, have you?” Ambrosius reached down into the bag at the table leg. Iron clanked on iron as he rummaged around and eventually produced a folded parchment, creased and dusty from riding unprotected in the satchel with his meager smithing tools. “The seal….VAE! The seal broke off! It must be in here, somewhere…” Again, Ambrosius rummaged through his backpack. “Ah, here it is!” He held out the letter and the seal to the Innkeeper who eyed them both warily, but made no move to take either. “I suppose I can just fix it later….er, ask her to fix it when she gets here.” He paused for a second or two, looking up at the Innkeeper expectantly, then stuttered, “But, I’m sorry – you asked where we were bound for. Well, we are bound for, uhhh, well, here, I guess. We are looking for a home!”
The Innkeeper nearly blanched at this last declaration. As he tried in vain to produce a kind reply, he caught some of the odd glances being thrown at Ambrosius by those sat close by. "Roan!" he called across the room to one of the serving girls, "Put out some tables in the west room." He turned back to Ambrosius and said "If you'll go into the room next door, I'll have the girls bring your supper directly. There is barely any room for you to swing your elbows here." Upon having said that, he swept away toward the bailiff to report Ambrosius’ answer.
Roan, the barmaid, entered a door to the left of the entrance, and a room very much like the one they currently occupied lay beyond it. She set about placing trestles, lifting heavily scarred, wooden tabletops onto them, and once that was done, noisily dragged some long benches across the cobbles.
Two horses trotted up to a halt outside the inn. One was ridden by a large man wearing a leather helm, scale hauberk and carrying a mace hanging off his belt. A long spear was strapped across his back, but he he did not look very relaxed on the horse. The woman with him seemed even less so, riding side saddle with evident discomfort and a slightly greenish tinge around the gills. She was clad in a grey woollen dress and a travelling cloak with a hood. Both had travelling bags slung over the horses' backs.
"This is the place, mistress," said the man. "We're here at last." He swung himself gratefully down the ground and came around to help the woman down.
"Thank you, Geraldous," Mnemosyne said, thankful to be off that awful beast. She staggered slightly and the shield grog grabbed her arm to support her. As she found her footing, he quickly released her. She gave him a nod of acknowledgement.
"Are you well, mistress?" Geraldous asked.
"Well enough," she said grimly. Then relented somewhat. "I don't think I have anything left in my stomach to worry about and we're here now." He nodded and offered to see to the horses. Mnemosyne unslung one of her bags, with her most valuable possessions in it, and entered the Three Lions.
