The Scoundrel

Only a fool rides at night in these times, especially with a burden so precious as mine. The sky was darkening as the shadowed walls of a burg rose beside of the road. It was York, not far enough from Ravensmuir to my thinking, but the darkness gave me pause.

It seemed that Ravensmuir breathed at my very back. Though my brother was dead, I had stolen from him and I half-expected his specter to demand some grisly compense of me. Though I am not a superstitious man, I would have preferred to have all of England and half the continent betwixt Merlyn’s corpse and I. The ominous shadows lurking on either side did little to ease my trepidation.

The rain began while I tried to recall how far it was to another settlement, let alone one I might find hospitable to my tastes.
Certainly, I could not reach London in less than several days and my horse needed a respite. Night fell, swallowing what little light there is with that northern haste I find both astonishing and daunting.

The rain began to fall in gusts, a surly kind of weather and one to which this hostile land seems inclined. That made my decision for me. To be dry and cold was far better than being wet and cold. I conjured some tale of being a merchant on the road for the complacent gatekeeper and he waved me onward with indifference.

York is a muddy burg, and the dirt hides whatever charm it might possess. I suppose it is large enough and prosperous enough for those who choose to inhabit it, but one glimpse of its churning river, filled with mire, and its dingy streets, thick with another manner of mire, and I was repulsed.

I chose the tavern simply because I saw it first. It was no meaner and no cleaner than any of the others that were its neighbors.

The demanded price was exorbitant, but both steed and I would be sheltered from the rain that now drove against the shutters. I grit my teeth and paid, then tended my own horse as they seemed disinclined to offer any service in exchange for my coin.

The meat served to the guests was sinewy, the gravy thin, the bread tough enough to break a tooth. That the stew was the same hue as the muck in the streets did little to encourage a man to clean his bowl.

It is oft said that hunger is the best sauce. As I was nigh starved, I ate the swill and called for more ale to rinse the taste of it from my mouth.

Ale, I say, for I know no other word to use. They make a brew in these lands that they ambitiously call ale, but which bears no resemblance to any ale of my acquaintance. By the third cup, the taste of the brew improves considerably, and so it did that night.
Even the cold, which is enough to freeze a man’s marrow, began to retreat from my flesh.

It could be no coincidence that she appeared at that very moment, just as I might take interest in a comely wench, if only to prove that I still lived.

She ducked through the portal and shook back her hood, scattering raindrops to the floor. Every soul glanced up at the gust of wind and rain she admitted, every complaint was silenced afore it was uttered.

She was a beauty, of that there could be no mistake. The sight of her fairly stopped my heart, and it certainly stopped the chatter in the common room. She shone, like a polished gem, all the glorious for the humble setting.

Her hair was as black as ebony and hung in loose waves over her shoulders. It was long and thick and tempted one’s fingers to tangle within it. Her eyes were a sparkling clear blue, her lashes and brows as dark as soot. Her face was heart-shaped and her fairness gave her the appearance of being carved of alabaster. I had the sense that a fine sculpture drew breath, pinkened slightly, then stepped daintily from her pedestal.

She was finely boned and tiny, but there was a fire in her eyes when she lifted her chin to survey her surroundings. A slight smile curved her ripe lips, the glint in her eyes telling every man there that she would choose her companion.

Ah yes, there could be no doubt of her trade. More than one man in that hole caught his breath hopefully. The keeper frowned and might have made his way toward her, but she spied me and her smile broadened in a most inviting way.

I smiled in my turn, not adverse to a little companionship. She waved her hand, as if we were acquaintances well met, and called something I could not hear.

The keeper stepped back to his place by the ale with a shrug. Most of them men returned to their cups, but I did not care.

There was solely the demoiselle for me. She cast her hair over her shoulder and loosed the neck of her cloak, easing her way through the crowd to my side. The man beside me nudged me and muttered some manner of congratulations beneath his breath, but I had eyes only for her.

Every graceful step she took made my blood heat yet more. Every pace fed my desire - I fairly simmered when she finally halted before me.

I though it Providence at the time that she chose me so readily, or perhaps her ability to assess masculine potential. I was the best dressed of the sorry lot gathered there and certainly the most handsome. No doubt I also had the heaviest purse. In my experience, whores are quick to assess such practicalities.

She tipped her head back to meet my gaze, her secretive smile tempting me to taste her lips. Her eyes twinkled, as if she had just heard a particularly amusing jest.

“Good evening, my lord,” she murmured, her voice low and luscious, then drew her cloak open with a fingertip.

I inhaled sharply at the view she covertly offered me. She wore nothing beneath the garment. I could see her creamy throat and the pale curve of her breasts. Her nipples stood erect against the shadows of the cloak, and at my reaction, she chuckled.

“You rode with such haste that I thought you lost to me forever,” she said, then winked.

I realized that she meant to let others believe that we were acquainted. Her manner was so intriguing that I decided to support her ruse, if only to see what she desired of me.

I had my hopes.

I took her hand in mine, then kissed her knuckles. “It was never my intent, my lady, to lose such a prize as you.” Her skin was surprisingly soft, considering how difficult her life must be.
Perhaps whores fared particularly well in this burg. I met her gaze, noting again how she seemed to be amused, and considered that a good portent.

She smiled, then plucked the cup of ale from my hand, ensuring our fingers brushed leisurely in the transaction. She stood so close that I could smell her skin, some sweet perfume mingled with her own scent and the smell of the rain.

And I lusted for this bold beauty, as I have seldom lusted for a woman before.