Story : The Three Lions Inn
From Ars Magica
Ambrosius
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 Innkeeper's 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 horse'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.
Behind him came the young woman, modestly dressed in a simple kirtle over her undergown, though the kirtle was mudstained from the road. What could be seen of her face beneath the wimple was open and appealing and intelligence sparkled in her eyes. She dragged the young boy with her, he was apparently more interested in something outside, but she remonstrated with him sternly, "Llewys, there is a time and place for that, and this is neither. Sit. Conjugate 'to love' now."
With a sigh, the boy began, "Amo, amas, amat ..."
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?
"Salv…er," Ambrosius looks briefly around, "I mean to say, thank you. I'm Ambrosius ex Verditius. I would like a room for my brother and I, er… myself…er, me, and a room for my Alicia. She’s, ah, my brother's tutor, you see. We’d love some bread and stew, if you have any left. We’re really very, um, you know, hungry." 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 its 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 sporting 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, that 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 spread 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.
“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.
Usually a very attentive man, the Innkeeper could only hope that he was off his game this day because of the oddness of this man Ambrosius, but it was until the man held out the letter and seal that he noticed that Ambrosius’ right hand was very badly scarred, as if it had been dipped in molten steel. If he hadn’t already had the shivers, he’d have them now, for certain.
"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 and 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's 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.
Mnemosyne
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 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's 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.
As she entered, she was greeted by a girl in a grass green gown. Her enthusiastic smile, beer-splashed clothing, and the rather large earthenware flagon of weak ale she held, all marked her as one of the barmaids. "Hello madam, and welcome to our Inn. What can I fetch for you?" she said with well-practiced ease.
Through the open doorway behind her, Mnemosyne could hear Geraldous talking to the inn's stablehand about their horses.
"An ale to start off with," replied Mnemosyne looking around at the inn's patrons. "Something to wash the taste of the road from my mouth." The serving girl nodded a little less confidently. Something about this woman made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up a little. As she turned away Mnemosyne stopped her with a gesture. "Oh... and I arranged to meet some companions here. Do you know if any of them have arrived yet?"
The barmaid took a slight step back, so as to not be quite so close to Mnemosyne. "Well, most folk arrived yesterday, and are taking leave from their travels on account of the Sabbath. 'Part from this man here," she said, gesturing to a man seated not far from the door, "and the Bailiff an' his men," now pointing across to the far side of the room, "I can't say I know."
Across the room, the Innkeeper could be seen talking deferentially to a man seated in a high-backed chair. Nearby, at a small table placed close to the head table, were seated four men who could scarcely be anyone other than the Bailiff's men. As Mnemosyne watched, the Innkeeper finished talking with the Bailiff, and began picking his way back across the room to greet another fresh arrival.
Mnemosyne had originally intended to arrive here a couple of days ago, but she had not been able to make as fast progress as she had hoped. For one thing, she was not an experienced rider, and for a second, it appeared that travelling on horseback made her feel wretched. The speed they had been able to make had been limited by frequent stop offs to throw up and recover. She was most glad to have arrived finally.
Seeing the Innkeeper approach, the barmaid scurried off to fill cups and dodge wandering hands. "Welcome da-the Inn o'the Three Lions," he said while gazing past her at Geraldous, who still stood outside talking with the servant, "What cin I be doin fer ya, my dear?" Evidently this was his stock welcome, and not one he seemed to be tiring of. "Something t'settle your stomach, per'aps, or a quiet room?" He had a look about him as though he suspected something was amiss, but was sufficiently distracted by the large, armed guard, that he failed to give any thought to whether Mnemosyne was the type to avail herself of the house, and then abscond without reimbursing him.
It was then that Roan emerged from the door beside the Innkeeper, and said "The rooms prepared..." and halted in mid-sentence upon seeing Mnemosyne. "We've some more guests," he said, gesturing to Mnemosyne and Geraldous. "Why don't you fetch a dry towel and some warm water for this lady, and tell Master Verditius to go through."
Mnemosyne had not been paying the Innkeep a great deal of attention as he whittered on. Instead she had been surveying his patrons. The bailiff had got the once over carefully, but she was pleased to note that he seemed to be ensconced in his chair and in no hurry to move. Sometimes, small town officials could be rather inconvenient when it came to strangers and asking questions which were none of their business. She was also pleased to note there were no clergy in residence either. They were other potential trouble-makers. In fact, the only person of any real interest seemed to be...
"Did you say Verditius?" she asked sharply, turning her piercing gaze on the Innkeep and pinning him to the spot. He babbled for a moment, his speech filled with irrelevancies. He did however confirm that he had heard correctly, which was all that Mnemosyne really required. The odds that one of the Founders had come back from the dead and had chosen to stop here as rather remote. The odds that there would a different member of House Verditius here than the one she had been in communication was significantly better, but still fairly slight. This had to be Ambrosius - or at least she hoped so. In addition, she spotted the young fellow who could be the brother he mentioned in his last missive.
"Bring everything along to room as well," Mnemosyne ordered in the manner of one who is used to giving orders and having them obeyed. "And make sure my armsman has what he requires and knows where I am, when he finishes with the horses." With that she dismissed the Innkeep from her mind and breezed past him to approach the man sitting at table, notably wrapped in links of chain. She glanced at the young man who had stopped his conversation as she approached, and at the woman he had been talking to. She thought she had heard a snatch of Latin as she had approached. Had he been proclaiming his love for her? He really did not seem old enough.
However, it was the man who held her attention. Although he was fairly non-descript, accessories not included, Mnemosyne felt sure that this was one of her kind. There was the low spark of recognition she felt whenever she was in the company of one with the Gift - or at least she thought there was. Sometimes mistakes were made over such things. She felt sure that given the place and date this was not one of those times though.
"Ambrosius ex Verditius?" she asked bluntly, cutting straight to the point as she stopped in front of the table. Spotting the recognition and his words of affirmation, Mnemosyne gave a cool smile and introduced herself. "Mnemosyne filia Hironius ex Guernicus. Salve sodale. I suggest we move to the room you have apparently had prepared for us and continue this meeting in more private surroundings..." she said in Latin.
“Mnemosyne,” Ambrosius said, looking up with a broad smile. “Salve Sodale! It is good to meet you in person. It has been such a long journ…ah, where are my, ah, manners? I’d like to present to you my brother, Llewys and his tutor and my traveling companion, Alicia. Alicia, ummmmm, Llewys, this is Mnemosyne ex Guernicus. She is the maga that I told, I mean, she is the maga that sent the letter and asked, er, invited us here.” Ambrosius paused awkwardly as Llewys and Alicia greeted Mnemosyne.
Switching back to Middle English, Ambrosius said, “Sodale Mnemosyne, the Innkeeper didn’t seem all too keen with me,” he glanced towards the businessman. A brief smile, bordering on mischievous, came to his face, “I can’t imagine why… Anyway, as you say, he’s had this other room prepared for us to sup, er, to dine in – I didn’t have to request it! I am very much looking forward to, ah, hearing your thoughts on building, er…forming a covenant.” He paused and seemed to remember something, “But of course you are right! Let’s retire to the, ah,” he looks around, as if getting his bearings, “west room were we won’t be a, um…distraction.”
In the Private Room with Ambrosius and Mnemosyne
Mnemosyne was rather relieved to be in a quieter room now. The presence of so many mundanes made her feel, not exactly uncomfortable, but a little ill at ease. To be fair, mundanes often seemed to take a bit of getting used to her as well. Feeling a little more comfortable she had informed Geraldous that he could make himself at ease in the common room, but that he should also keep an eye on the door to the private room to make sure no trouble was going to come in that way.
Now, seated with something to sip and the last of her travel sickness fading away she was feeling much more herself. Past the basic introductions with Ambrosius, she filled him in on some of the details of her trip here from Northumberland and made light chit-chat on his own recent travels and their mutual impressions about the countryside they had passed through.
Phaedrus
When the regulars have finally settled down after the previous stranger's arrivals, two other dusty travelers come through the door. Warren Osborn, tall and fit turned to his reclusive companion, “Just when you thought that all the inns upon a road look alike, you stumble across an innovation like this one! I shall never cease to be amazed, my mystical friend!” Warren smiled his most charming smile as he scanned the room and mentally identified the staff and the customers. Seeing the bailiff in the high backed chair was near as powerful as blow to the stomach. His face slightly pale, he turned back to Phaedrus, most of the joviality absent from his voice. "Seems we have some royal company amongst us...and not the kind that I dare say I’d enjoy becoming acquainted with. Perhaps we can acquire a private room in which to await your brothers and sisters in art. I’ll,” he paused as he cast a sidelong glance towards the bailiff, “speak with the good Innkeeper to see what I can arrange.”
As has become their habit the last few days, Phaedrus tries to be as inconspicuous as possible while Warren talks to the Innkeeper. Now being "inconspicuous" with an unhooded Kestrel on the shoulder and carrying a traveling pack is an interesting proposition...
Phaedrus had trouble making out much of what Warren said. Stepping closer he heard the Innkeeper's chuckle as Warren finished, "...and that would be my good friend Phaedrus with the drowned feather duster perched upon his shoulder." Clearly taken by Warren's charm, the Innkeeper's voice rose above the background noise as he answered a question that Phaedrus apparently missed; "Indeed, and not two hours before yourselves. We shewed them into this room here." As the Innkeeper said this, Warren took him expertly by the arm and guided him to the door, all the while allowing the Innkeeper to believe he had chosen the path the whole time. It was not lost upon Phaedrus that Warren had deftly used the Innkeeper and patrons to shield himself from the bailiff. Upon reaching the far side of the room, the Innkeeper knocked twice upon a door, and then opened it a little. "Excuse the intrusion, but there are two men here who say they know ye."
In the Private Room with Ambrosius, Mnemosyne and Phaedrus
Mnemosyne looked up at the new arrivals. She did not know either man. This was not terribly surprising as she had only met one of the other magi who were coming to the meeting and she remembered Longinus had suggested he might be able to rustle up another name or two, so she might not even have heard of either of these two, presuming that either of them were magi themselves. What was sure was that neither of them was the Redcap Reynaldous. She looked from one to the other trying to guess if one of them was Longinus, but the impressions she had gleaned from her letters were not useful here. The thing which stood out strongest was the kestrel which sat on one of the men's shoulders, unhooded and so well behaved.
[Insert descriptions of Phaedrus and Warren here if you like, or delete this later]
"Salve," Mnemosyne greeted them in latin, looking at a point midway between the pair, unsure of which one should recieve her full attention. "I am Mnemosyne filia Hironius ex Guernicus." She did not make a habit of giving out her full name to random strangers, especially if they might be mundanes, but by couching it in latin she felt that there was a fair chance that it would go over the head of those it was not supposed to reach and help identify the others as magi or not as soon as possible.
"Salve sodale," Phaedrus answered, " I am Phaedrus filius Petrus ex Miscellanea. Pleased to meet you at last." Indicating his companion he continued, "This is Warren Osborn, whom I met while traveling here. He kind of adopted me when an Innkeeper was about to leave me outside in the rain, and has been traveling with me since then."
Marcus
The church bells rang the sexta hora, noon, and shortly thereafter a figure came out of the Church of Saint Laurence up the road from the Three Lions and began to make its way down to the Inn. The man, for man it was, was spotted by one of the household of the Inn who hailed him cheerfully, "Ho, Brother Marcus! Come for a drink?"
"Aye, Hugo, that I am," said Marcus in heavily accented English that betrayed his Irish origins. He came closer and shook his plain brown habit to knock the dust off it, "Many travellers today?"
"Oh, a few," said the lad. "And some very strange ones, indeed. Himself has put them in the back room, so they don't scare the crowd. They are a strange lot, a man with a hawk, a woman with a bodyguard who looked sick, another man with his brother and a tutor - a woman tutor!' The lad shook his head at the strangeness of the world.
"Really?" said the monk with a strange expression on his face. "We are all God's creatures, Hugo. I should perhaps attend to their needs." With a little wave, he entered the Inn. Though he had only been in the village for a day or two, he waved at several of the locals and paused once to ask a man about his son's illness before reaching the back room. He stepped through, closed the door behind him and spoke in Latin, "My name is Marcus Severus, sectator Jerbitonis." Then he moved forward to join his sodales.
In the Private Room with Ambrosius, Marcus, Mnemosyne and Phaedrus
Mnemosyne gave Marcus a cool smile of greeting and nodded to him as she gestured that he should make himself welcome and comfortable. She was pleased to see another arrival and to get a chance to meet this mage who Reynaldous had recommended. His Irish accent was not a surprise given the Tribunal he had been living in, but his appearance as a monk was. It set her back somewhat, but the followers of Jerbiton were an odd lot in many ways. Which of course went for most of the Order if truth be told. However, Mnemosyne wondered what sort of dynamic it would bring the proceedings. She had always been taught to steer a path clear of Mother Church, not due to any lack of piety, but rather because it meant there would be a far lesser chance of antagonising the Church if one had little to do with it - and if ever there was a group of mundanes which should not be interfered with, never mind antagonised, it was the Church.
"Salve, sodale," she greeted Marcus back, matching his latin. She guessed he spoke English, but was not sure - after all, some form of Gaelic was the native tongue of Hibernia if she remembered correctly - and anyway, latin made it more difficult for people to eavesdrop their conversation. "I am Mnemosyne filia Hironius ex Guernicus, and I am pleased both to meet you in person and that you have arrived here safely. I do hope that you had a pleasant journey and were able to enjoy the choir at Sarop you mentioned in your last letter." She smiled a little more warmly as she began to let the reality of Marcus fit in with her mental preconceptions.
Bedo
It was near dusk, when the door swung open, and a large blonde young man, dressed in a plain long tunic, tied up by his belt, showing worn breeches, and solid, old boots entered. Over he wore a full hood, hanging well down his back. With him came the slight, familiar smell of oxen, and from outside could be heard their lowing.
He peered quickly around the inn, spotted the Innkeeper, and headed straight for him, a worried look on his face. He introduces himself, quite loudly "I'm Prees, a carter from Chester, and I'm working for this man Beddows, a Welshman, see. He's looking to stay here overnight, so I'm looking to see if ye've a place, food, and somewhere that I may rest and water the team." He drops his voice slightly and continues "He's a bit odd, mind, but he can pay, and he's been no trouble on the journey south so far. He's been keeping himself to himself in the back of the cart mainly, mind, and spent last evening making notes in a large ledger book he carries." He stops, as if trying to remember something, then continues, a bit louder. "Oh, and he said he's to meet someone here, a Mr Nimmosson, or somelike. He said they'd probably be needing a quiet corner to meet, and was most insistent that we travelled on today to make it on time, despite it being the Lords day tomorrow when I'll have to travel back."
As Prees continued arranging things with the Innkeeper the door had opened quietly, and another man could be seen standing just outside the door, watching and listening. Better dressed than the carter, his long tunic hung down below a shorter, belted overtunic, and he wore a foreign-looking cap, with a point overhanging his brow. He was of slight build and dark haired, by appearance a clerk, but his clothes were of a better cloth and cut than would be expected. He looked quickly around the inn from the doorway, looking at each group in turn, but waited before entering until one of the maids caught his eye and, shivering at the draught blowing in from the road, waved for him to enter and close the door.
The barmaid appraised the man, and arrived at a not terribly complimentary picture. "Welcome," she said flatly, "if you're one of them that the group in the back room be expectin' then you can go through," she raised a finger and pointed, "that door there. If not, then sit yerself by the fire'n I'll be along in a minute to see to you." Her matter of fact manner could have been due to a long and hard day, but as she turned to leave, he thought he caught her mutter "... never rains, but..."
The room was emptier than it had been before dusk, but it seemed no less noisy as the ale did its work. The other patrons had pulled stools and benches over to the snug, though more for the light of the fire than for the heat it cast into the room. Three men in the corner, however, drank by the light of a candle, and kept very much to themselves; from a glance about the room, it appeared to be a mutually agreeable arrangement.
As the man stood by the door, he made to call out to the departing barmaid, then stopped, as he saw Prees returning to him. Prees spoke, slowly and clearly to him "You'll be wanting to go through there where your friends are waiting, I'll see to the beasts, and making your goods and the the cart secure, and we'll see about unloading come the morning". The man nodded, and headed towards the door indicated by the barmaid.
In the Private Room with Ambrosius, Bedo, Marcus, Mnemosyne and Phaedrus
He stopped, knocked quietly, and without waiting for an answer stepped into the room, looking around the assembled faces.
"Salve Sodales, I am Bedo ap, er, ex Bonisagus. Do I take it that you" and he looked directly at Mnemosyne "are Mnemosyne ex Guernicus, and these are the others of our sodales you have invited?"
"You presume correctly, Bedo," Mnemosyne replied and proceeded to introduce the other magi present, ignoring any hangers on, grogs or other servents who had not yet been banished to the common room. The room had filled up a bit by this stage. "This is Ambrosius filius Galfridus ex Verditius, Phaedrus filius [NAME] ex Miscellenea and Marcus Severus filius Julii ex Jerbiton. We were beginning to become concerned that you would not be coming today. It appears that at least two of our Order who signified attendance have been delayed. Please, sit and make yourself welcome as you recover from your long journey."
"Bedo joins us today from the Rhine Tribunal and has the singular honour of being the one who has travelled furthest to be here today," Mnemosyne commented to the rest of the group for those of them who had not had a run down of the expected attendees.
" Travelled the furthest, to be the closest to home perhaps" he replied "I am originally of Rhudd din, perhaps 20 leagues from here, heading up into North Wales. I thank you for your kind welcome. Is there urgency in your invitation that must be dealt with at length tonight, or can we take our time and wait until the others you have invited have arrived?"
Longinus
Shortly after dusk the door swung open yet again. A brown haired man with the tough look of an experienced mercenary pushed through. He scanned the poorly lit room and then turned over his shoulder and muttered something unintelligible before advancing into the room.
The Innkeep approached to welcome the latecomer but as he opened his mouth to give his usual welcome the mercenary forestalled him with a hand and headed directly towards the relaxed figure of the bailiff, still in the rooms sole chair. Before the Innkeep could take offense at this rudeness his attention was distracted by the entrance of a dazzlingly white robed figure with a deep cowl. As his dog jumped to its feet and started barking the Innkeep realised with a sinking feeling that no wool was ever that white and no traveller was ever that clean. Even more suspiciously the robed man seemed to have no intention of lowering his cowl.
Caught between the rude mercenary and the strange robed figure the Innkeep looked at one then the other and giving up cursed in the direction of the dog. All three ignored him. "Ain' 'ere for touble, thah" grunted the mercenary, showing a gummy smile to the bailiff. "Da lawdlin' hath a meetin".
The bailiff cocked his head, studying both of the newcomers. "Aye then. See me tomorrow if you are staying longer than one night."
Regathering his composure the Innkeep gestured to the back room. "I b'lieve yu'll be wantin' ta join the gatherin' in the back room? I'll have the gurl bring bread and broth."
The mercenary looked back at the cowled figure and without a word they both moved toward the door to the back room. The Innkeep shuddered behind them. White robes or not, something wasn't right with that one.
Eirlys
A bit before sundown, there came a knock at the entryway. With curiosity and a bit of suspicion, the barkeep looked up from the pitcher she was filling; no one knocks at the front door of an inn, especially not when the door is open! She hastened to the entry out of curiosity.
Standing there was a woman, deeply engrossed in a heated, whispered argument with... some sort of large weasel? The woman's comment of "I'm just trying to be polite!" was nearly drowned out by the animal's "Look, you just don't knock at an inn, you just walk in, so don't make fools of us!"
Lucia the barmaid nearly fainted; in fact, she swayed a bit where she stood. A man she hadn't noticed before reached out to steady her. Once she regained her composure, she made to thank him, but he had already withdrawn and was standing a bit away from his companions, looking on with a bored expression. Lucia turned back to those odd companions.
The woman was standing with the beast around the back of her neck, with head and tail curling around her shoulders, almost like a living shawl. Where before, they were both facing each other and whispering fervently, now they were both facing forward with enormous smiles on their faces. Lucia couldn't tell whose expression was more predatory: the beast's, or the woman's. She cleared her throat to speak, but found that words wouldn't come. With a muffled gasp, she dropped her pitcher and shuffled into the kitchen as quickly as she could.
"See, I TOLD you that you were going to screw things up by knocking," the weasel-like creature admonished.
"Me? You're the one who scared her by talking!" she replied hotly. "Mundanes don't have polecats who can talk. Stinky weasel."
"Oh, like *I'M* so scary just because I can talk-- Miss Walks-on-Hooves. I bet your grammar scares them more than my clearly enunciated and verbosely verisimilitude speech." He preened a bit, where he perched.
"What? 'Verbosely verisimilitude speech'? That doesn't even make any sense! And you're commenting on MY grammar?"
A tap on the shoulder caught the woman's attention; her silent companion gestured towards the inn's proprietor before them.
The innkeeper cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Ah, miss..." his eyes glanced down, to where one shaggy hoof was protruding out from under her long linen shift, "My, ah, esteemed lady..." his eyes glanced back up over the doorway nervously, then back to her: "Perhaps I can show you to a room?"
The dark-haired woman nodded her head graciously. "Why yes, that would be lovely," she replied.
"If you'll follow me, then..." As the man turned his back, she stepped through the entrance, and craned her neck to see what the old man had been looking at; there was an old iron horseshoe nailed carefully over the entryway. "I told you I needed to knock," she whispered. With a gesture and a mutter, the woman walked through the room, leaving behind her a sad-looking doorway with a lonely, empty nail driven into the wood above it.
The Innkeeper walked over to the fire, and lit a candle. With a chubby finger poked through the metal loop of the holder, he proceeded to lead her across the room, to a sturdy oak door. Pulling it open, a narrow set of stairs could be made out by the flickering candlelight. With a nod to Eirlys, he began to ascend them; his bulk blocking out most of the light from the candle. He winced at the sound of Eirlys's hooves upon each and every stair as they climbed, imagining the folk in the bar below staring toward the staircase in puzzlement. "You should have worn the longer dress, I did tell you so," the little polecat whispered as they walked.
Eirlys was shown to a small room, which was fitted with two tall cots that almost entirely filled the room. "You an' the young master can take either cot, but if you'll be retiring early, I'd suggest the far one, as having people clamber over you isn't the nicest way to be woken. We're full to the rafters tonight, what with the new party downstairs coming along today."
Had Eirlys not been raised by the fae, in fantastic surroundings, she might have been alarmed by the reaction of the Innkeeper. He seemed to be taking her hooves, and companion, in his stride. Behind his back, the fingers of his other hand worried a ragged bit of thumbnail, as he vexed himself over his hellish predicament.
"Are you needin' ought?" Caroline called up the stairwell, more to check if the Innkeeper was intact than out of any desire to fulfil her duties. He stepped away from Eirlys, perhaps a little too quickly, and, poking his head out into the corridor, replied "No, no.. I'll be down by and by." Looking at Eirlys once more, or rather, looking at the weasel on her shoulder, he continued, "is that all, or can I leave you in peace?"
The fey woman loosened her hair (in front of two men she didn't know!) and propped her holly staff in a corner. "You mentioned a party downstairs-- I love parties! Perhaps you can show me the way while my friend here brings in our belongings-" she looked toward Sandor: "don't forget the eyes of newt this time, love-" then back to the innkeeper: "So if you could show me where I can find this party, then you can bring some food and drink for my friends and myself, and we'll all have a pleasant evening together. Would that be acceptable, good Innkeep?"
The portly man nodded quickly, and wiped his brow. "Certainly, miss... I mean, if we have anything that your.." -he gestured with his hands, a bit wildly- "...that your sort can eat."
Eirlys' hand whipped out like a lightning bolt and grabbed the old fellow's hand, shaking it vigorously. "The deal is made. I'm sure I can find something to eat here. You do serve babies, don't you? I don't like them after they've started walking, they're so stringy."
The man paled visibly at that, and gestured down the hallway. He wasn't sure what bothered him worse: fear for the newborn children in the village, or the realization that he'd just unwittingly struck a bargain with a faerie. "Ah-- no, this inn does not cook babies, unfortunately. I hope this means you won't be finding your meal elsewhere?" His hands began to quiver slightly, as he thought of the young children of Church Stretton.
Eirlys smiled that broad, predatory grin once more, then clapped the man on his back. "I kid, I kid, good Innkeep! Pun unintentional, of course. I don't eat babies at all, I can't imagine as they'd taste any good, regardless. I'll have some roast mutton and dark bread, and a spot of good whiskey, if you have it."
He seemed to breathe easier then (but not by much), and led her to the room where the other magi were assembled. "Of course, miss. I knew all along that a lovely lady of the Fair Court wouldn't dine upon human children." He knew no such thing, of course, but it seemed the right thing to say. He could vaguely remember from his youth, the old village crony would place dishes of cream and honey on the windowsills at night, for the faire folk-- so that the redcaps would not eat the children, and the brownies might ensure a bountiful crop. Some mornings, the old woman said, those dishes were empty... he could not remember anything she'd ever said about fauns, however.
The innkeeper made a herculean effort not to wince at the clop-CLOP, trip-TRAP behind him, speaking perhaps louder than necessary to distract himself from the sound. "We have some wonderful mutton chops this evening, an' it please you, and Roan's oatbread will not disappoint. As for whiskey, we have a fine cask in from Caledonia, just this week." He looked back at her and smiled proudly at that, relaxing a little.
That relaxation was short-lived, as a muttered voice behind him piped up: "Mmmm, mutton. I like mutton. Baby's so greasy, and I'm always hungry again within an hour of eating it," whispered the polecat, loud enough for the innkeeper to hear. "Can I have my own chop this time?"
The faerie woman scratched the top of his head, smiling. "I'll get you your own mutton chop, love. Just behave yourself. No marking any of the furniture, understand me?"
The poor innkeeper blanched again, and then gestured towards a wooden door. "I suspect these would be the folks you're looking for, right through here, miss. I'll, ah, show your man down here when he's ready."
She smiled graciously and entered the room, trying not to smirk too gleefully at the older man's fear.
The Innkeeper watched and the door closed behind the young fae lass, if that was indeed all that she was, and he wondered at his composure. If he’d known the wonders he’d be faced with when he’d arisen from bed this daybreak, he’d have pulled the wool blanked to his eyes and cried like a baby; over all though, he felt he'd handled it all quite well. What had started off as simply a nice day with an official visitor, turned strange from the moment that plain looking man - what did he call himself? Amber? Ambrose Verdios? – entered his Inn. And from there, it only seemed to spiral downward into some type of dream that you just can’t wake from. He thought briefly after Marcus, the good man and swift friend of Church Stretton, in that room among those...others. He considered asking the Bailiff to step into the room to check on the monk as he stopped at the bar to pour the fae lass her whiskey. As he started to pull a fired clay cask from under the bar, he stopped, peering at it thoughtfully. "Seems ta me," he said to himself, "that if there was ever a time, or a set of guests that should get the good stuff, this is it." He returned the container to its place and reached to the back of the shelf, withdrawing an ornate blown glass bottle with a woven birchwood base. He poured a half cup for the lass and then a full cup for himself, which he promptly drank down in three long, satisfyingly burning swallows.
After shaking his head like a wet dog, he re-corked the bottle and returned it to its hiding place, then took a long look at the half glass of whiskey on the bar. Feeling the fortifying effect of his own drink, he picked up the cup, plastered his best, “Welcome to the Three Lions” smile upon his face, and made for the west room and its occupants to deliver the drink.
The town of Church Stretton had seen a number of changes recently, what with the King’s interest and all, but as the Innkeep knocked on the west room’s door he thought to himself, “I’m thinkin’ the changes are just getting’ started!”
Little did anyone suspect that the innkeep's marvelous acting had been a simple sham. He was in fact very used to being around faeries having being kidnapped by some when he was a small child and brought up as their pet. Years later he had escaped and taken with him an intense and burning hatred of them, as well as special knowledge. From that day forth he had dedicated his life to destroying faerie kind.
Leaving Eirlys to her own devices he went and retreived his special bell, the one which had been personally blessed by the Pope himself and caused wracking agony to any with even the slightest bit of faerie blood who heard it. Along with was a nasty hooked iron poker. The poker was nothing special - but when shoved into certain places it was quite effective.
Preparations
The Innkeeper emerged a few minutes later looking slightly worse than when he went in, but far better than had he done so without a double measure of courage. He proceeded directly into the kitchen, and splashed water on his face from a bowl. Cleaner, but still sweating slightly, he regarded the serving staff as he wiped the water from his chin with the grubby end of his apron.
"Right," he said to Caroline, who had since regained a measure of composure, but a slight one at that, "you will be responsible for making sure that the Bailiff's men, or what's left'o'them, stay happy, and get upto no mischief. I want you in the main room. Tend to cups as need be, but there'll be no special requests for nibbles from the pantry." He then turned to the chef, and in a strict voice, continued "Roan here is going to help you, an' the lad do some cooking. I need a feast o' mutton chops for the party in the backroom. I've made a deal see, but don'you worry... they'll be payin' fer what they eat. An' some of them legumes that the Bailiff was chasin' after." The cook, the scullion, and Roan looked at the Innkeeper in puzzlement. "Set to work, they'll be hungry, and it's barely half an hour til the meal. They'll have to wait for the meat, but I'm sure you can find a course or two to occupy them. Like I said, they'll be paying, so use whatever we had prepared for the morrow's meals if you have to. Now, I'll be pleased if you would give me ten minutes," and with that he left.
He made his way back to the main room, to find Geraldous. "Could you tell yer master that the chef is cookin' up a meal o'pork chops, as requested, and we'll be servin' the starter at in less than an hour, if that be to their likin'."
He listened to Geraldous's reply, before scurrying away to his chamber to despair in private. Ten minutes later, a timid knocking rapped on the Innkeeper's door. "Hold fast!" he called out, and a few moments passed before he stepped out of the room wearing his jacket and boots. "Sorry t'disturb you, but what should we do if they start askin' for the fine stuff? They'll be wantin' wine with their meal, given what your servin' them," Roan asked with a concerned tone. "Don't touch that rack at the back o'the cellar, but otherwise, I don' mind if they're willin't'pay. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to check the stables. They'll be wantin' to put their men in there, and I bet that lazy sod Wurt hasn't tended to their horses yet." Roan looked at the Innkeeper for a moment, but said nothing. "Right, I'll be back in a minute."
When the Innkeeper returned to the kitchen, the sound of sizzling fat whispered, and the glorious smell of pork was beginning to fill the air. He collapsed on a stool by the cooking fire and let out a long, slow breath. Leaning back against the warm bricks of the fireplace, he thought "Maybe this'll all turn out all right, after all."
The Company of Strangers, or the Sodales' Party?
In the west room...
