The sun had set behind the fields and the green mountains almost an hour before, dimming the light of day and draping the forest around him in shadows. The time between dog and wolf, they called it in French. The last minutes of sunlight, moments before twilight; not quite as clear as day, not quite as dark as night – the only moment when a wolf could pass for a dog long enough to strike, thus fooling the unfortunate onlooker. Even so, the sky in the west was still alight in a myriad of deep colors, ranging from scarlet red to a deep marine blue. The stars already shone bright against the pitch black sky at the east, though, with the promise of a clear night and a bright moon. The crickets had started their usual raucous symphony, and the fresh, damp smell of the nightly breeze reached his nose. He was thankful when at last the trees parted and he saw the first small homesteads at the turn of the road, announcing a village and, he hoped, a place to stay for the night.
The small town was dead already at this time of the evening as the traveler slowly led his horse through the empty cobbled streets, but the sounds of loud, drunk voices had reached his ears before he could even see the inn. His horse snorted gently and shook its head, already eager for a stall and fresh straw to nibble on, and the traveler soon found what he had been looking for.
The sturdy, three-story-tall building was the first thing he saw when he rounded the corner and rode onto the main street. Built of stone masonry about a century before, it looked like it was one of the oldest constructions in the obviously already old village. It also looked like the only place alive. It faced the main place of the town, a circular, paved clearing with a dried up fountain in the middle. The houses surrounding the main place were all dark and asleep, and the traveler did not think twice before swinging off his horse to loosely tie the line to one of the posts under one of the windows and striding in through the thick wooden door of the inn.
It was not as full as the sounds of laughter had him picture it to be – as any other inn would have been at this rather early time of night. The loud voices belonged to three very drunk bearded men who sat playing cards at a table beneath a window. Right as he walked in, two of them roared with laughter and repeatedly slammed their hands on the table, sending their shaking tankards of ale dancing across the surface amongst the scattered play cards. The third, the one who had lost, obviously, slammed his palm against his face with a groan. The other tables were mostly empty, beside a few men who nursed their drink in silence, apparently used to the racket the three others made. The room was warm and cozy, though. A number of oil lamps hung against the walls plunged it in a dim, warm light, and a small abandoned piano sat in the far corner, next to a dark staircase that he guessed led to the rooms upstairs. The bar was at the far end of the room, tended by a young woman in her late twenties, and amongst the drunken men he guessed her as the most reliable source of information. She saw him walking towards her, and lowered the plate she had been wiping onto the counter before stepping close to where he had taken a seat on a stool. "Good evening," she greeted him with a smile. She was very pretty, he thought, with curly golden hair she had gathered in a low bun. Tall and thin, with delicate bones and a face carved in porcelain, her petite waist hugged in a corsage. A shape most farmers would criticize, in fact, as they favored sturdier women with much larger hips, who could carry and give birth to many children without dying, and help in the fields. She would fit better in a large town, he thought, but found no reason to complain immediately as he answered her smile.
"Hallo. It's pretty calm here, isn't it?"
Her gaze left his to scan the room, and her lips curved up in another smile when the three drunken men laughed again. "It's always like that," she answered, and glanced back at him. "We don't often have guests."
The question behind the comment was obvious, and the traveler chuckled. "I'm a musician. I'm to play the violin at the Duke's wedding in three days. I'm meeting my other band mates in Learcaster tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" She sounded surprised. "I hope you have a good horse. Our carriages need at least two days to reach Learcaster."
That was bad news. He needed to board a ship in the evening of the next day, otherwise he would be late for the wedding – and
that
was something he had to avoid. He frowned and glanced at the window at his right: the sky was still clear, and there was perhaps an hour of light that he might have been able to take advantage of. Beside, with the moon almost full that night, and the absence of clouds so far, he would see better on the road as he had on many rainy, stormy days. "I shouldn't have stopped, then," he thought aloud. "Bronsborough is only a few hours away." He moved to slide off the stool, but the maid's hand clamped on his wrist, squeezing tight. He glanced up at her in surprise to find her frowning at him, any trace of amusement gone from the pale gray pools of her eyes.
"It's too late to go back on the road," she pointed out. "It'll be dark before you even reach the mountain road."
"The moon and the stars will be bright." Her fingers were warm against his skin, and he rather reluctantly pried his wrist from her grasp. "I thank you for your concern, but I've been travelling for years..."
"Not around these places," she guessed, correctly. He had always gone around in the center of the country; never so close to the East coast. "You shouldn't go 'round at night. You have more chances of getting to Bronsborough if you wait until morning." She gave him a tentative smile. "Please. We have good rooms. And I work all night. I'll wake you just before dawn, so you can be on your way early."
He opened his mouth to mumble a thank-you-but-no-thank-you kind of response, but a deep, rough voice spoke up before he could. "You should listen to the lass," it said, rumbling like gravel, and the traveler turned his head to find it came from a tall, burly black haired man who had been silently sipping his ale at the counter, a few stools down from his. He was surprised he had not noticed him before then: with shoulders as large as most doors and arms as big as not so small tree trunks, the older man was bound to be noticed. Even as he sat on his stool, crouched over his tankard of ale, his loomed shape held the promise of at least one or two feet more than the traveler had. And while he might not have been taller than most, he knew that he was at least taller than a few. The big man turned his head, and gave him a long look over, his surprisingly gentle blue eyes scanning him, before he nodded towards the door. "That your horse outside?"
The traveler hesitated only a moment before lifting a shoulder in a half-felt shrug. "Yes."
The big man nodded and suddenly stood up from his stool, confirming the traveler's doubts about his towering height. It took quite a lot of will not to take a step back. "I'll go and take him to the stables, and then I'll bring
his
things up," he rumbled in a tone that offered no argument. He was not speaking to him, in any case: it was the maid who nodded.
"Alright."
"Wait..." the traveler said, letting a hint of annoyance tint his tone. "I never said..."
"You want to stay for the night, son," the man answered sharply. He looked at him again, no more gentleness in his eyes this time as he jabbed an iron-like, sausage-shaped finger in the middle of his chest. It hurt, but the traveler merely pressed his lips tightly to try not to show it. "There's no choice here, boy. You go out and you die, or you stay here, sleep the night, and live."
"You actually make it sound like a choice, you know," the traveler dryly pointed out.
"Whatever. Fine. You go die out there if you want. I'm not letting you take that good horse with you," the man snorted and, with one last polite nod to the maid, turned and walked to the door, his footsteps banging loudly against the floorboards. He disappeared through the door, ducking several inches as he did so not to knock his forehead on the frame. The traveler stared at the door in amazement for a few moments before switching his gaze to the girl.
