Every six months, at equinox when the seasons were mildest, the Merchant brought longed for luxuries to the settlement of Whelton: salt and sugar, carpets, blankets and rugs, mirrors and perfumes, ginger, cinnamon, black pepper and sweets. But none were more coveted than the merchant's wife.
Whelton's lone inn, The Two Fat Pigs, was full to bursting and raucous with laughing, singing, and gossip.. A spare, lanky man named Reece owned the Pigs and he directed his team of harried workers among the packed tables. He would make more today than in the next three months, So he worked hard to make sure every hand had a full mug in it all times. Well, he worked his crew hard at least. Farmers and miners from the most distant holdings crammed the benches, laughing and gossiping. Children and dogs got underfoot and had to be shooed away. The atmosphere was relaxed and jovial and it seemed a good time was being had by all.
Except here and there young men around the age of twenty lounged with ferocious and concentrated nonchalance. Barely drinking - to Reece's narrow eyed disapproval - and glancing up at the door with conspicuous frequency.
Outside the two storey and somewhat ramshackle inn was another young man, also on edge, and also about the age of twenty. He watched the road anxiously and wondered how the Merchant timed his arrival so precisely every time. "I bet he waits just outside town until just before sunset, then rolls in just as the light turns gold," he said to himself. He had to give that tactic some grudging respect.
A bearded farmer stopped at the steps to kick mud off his boots. He glanced up to where the young man waited by the door. "Helping out Reece tonight eh, Jen?"
"Uh yeah, pretty busy," said Jen, straightening his apron nervously.
The farmer nodded with a sympathetic and knowing smile. "Never mind, maybe next time." The Merchant's wife wasn't interested in the help. There was a brief eruption and noise and light as the farmer pushed his way inside. Then Jen was alone on the porch once again.
It was almost sunset. "No, this time." Jen whispered to himself.
_____
The caravan arrived, of course, just as the sun kissed the horizon. The towns people crowded out of the inn to see the merchant standing on the lead wagon, arms wide and bathed in a golden glow. "My friends! How wonderful it is to see you again. Come, see what wonders I have brought!"
Jen suspected the Merchant was actually a small player in the wider world of trade and commerce. Who else would come out here to this backwater? But here he was a giant and Jen had to admit, he did put on a good show. With practiced movements his drivers threw the covers off the six wagons and unfolded them into stalls displaying all the fine things that the Merchant had to offer. The crowd surged forward and were soon divesting themselves of the extra money they had been able to scrimp together over the last six months.
A few of the caravan guards kept an eye on the crowds but the rest stormed the inn to be warmly welcomed by Reese. Despite the smaller numbers they more than made up for the townsfolk who were now outside. Forty days on the road and on duty can give a man a powerful thirst.
All of this activity went unnoticed by Jen as he stared intently at the seventh wagon. This one was fully enclosed, an ornate house on wheels, drawn by a team of four horses and easily more spacious than Jen's own quarters (though that wasn't saying much). It was driven by a plump, competent looking woman who brought it up to the entrance of the inn where Jen waited. He gave the driver a slightly sickly grin, "Ma'am. I'm to take the luggage."
The driver nodded to one side, "Round back." Paying him no more mind, her work done, the driver leaned back, opened a small flask and took a long swig.
Jen's heart was in his mouth as he moved to the rear of the wagon. The Merchant's wife had been the mainstay of his daydreams for the last six months. He quickly made another futile effort to straighten his unruly sandy hair. His mouth was dry as he looked up at the gilt door. The handle turned. The door opened and Jen gazed up into the face of... a green skinned orc. He blinked stupidly and gaped, "Buh.."
"The last boy could speak at least," said the orc, looking him over. She was pierced and fierce looking, dressed in studded leather armour with a pair of knives at her belt.
Jen felt his cheeks colour, "I can speak." The bodyguard, he realised. He had seen her before now that he thought about it; orcs were rare in these parts and this one caused quite a stir when she was first spotted in the Merchant's retinue. Jen, however,had always had eyes only for the Merchant's wife. He tried to look past the orc bodyguard into the wagon to get a glimpse her.
"Ok, good. Take these up to her ladyship's rooms." Jen thought he saw something moving in the shadows of the wagon - then a large trunk was dropped into his arms. He clutched desperately at it and staggered but stayed upright. The orc stepped down beside Jen and piled two more bags atop the trunk. He groaned. The orc frowned, "The last boy had a stronger back too."
_____
Jen struggled his way up the back stairs. It was true, the boy whose shift he'd bribed his way into did have stronger back. Most did. Not that Jen was small, it's just the the others had grown up working the land or hauling ore. Jen mostly worked with books and that didn't put a lot of muscle on his arms.
He crested the final stair - surely more than he remembered - and waddled down the hall to the Pigs' finest suite. Breathing heavily he put the trunk and bags down on the floor. He straightened up, stretching out his back, and took a surreptitious look around. The rooms were luxurious by Whelton standards; spacious, if a little plain, a wardrobe and dresser and a huge bathtub. The last a private luxury; regular guests would have to use the common baths downstairs. The bed was wide, but the mattress was bare - the Merchant's wife brought her own sheets.
Seeing no one else about he drew a sealed envelope from his pocket and, heart racing, slipped it into one of the bags. If this went to plan he would join the ranks of the privileged few and earn the respect and admiration of his peers. He had pictured the evening to come a thousand times in his head. After her bath she would descend the stairs in flimsy silks that left so little, yet just enough to the imagination -and Jen had lavished much imagination upon this subject. He pictured dark flashing eyes surveying the now quiet room. Full red lips curled in the tiniest of smiles promising an night unlike any the folk of Whelton could dare hope for. The soft curve of her hips swayed from side to side as she descended. There was a flash of creamy thigh as the slitted skirt parted all too briefly. He saw the bounce of those full breasts with each step - was that a hint of nipple, already aroused? Jen liked to think so. She would look over the eager faces of the town's handsomest, strappingest young men, look past them and ask, "Where is the one called Jensen? I
must
have Jensen."
Jen would step forward, give her the smouldering look he had practiced well and say, "I am he."
She would swoon and clutch the envelope to her bosom, "Your poetry moved me so! I must have you"
Then, strong and silent he would take her upstairs and ravish her with such intensity that she would never take another man but he. This was the part that occupied much of his nighttime visualisations. It usually began with her languid on the bed, an older woman certainly but no less fine for it. He would slowly peel the silks from her to reveal that perfect body. She'd look up and say...
"Don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open like a great goon!"
Jen was jolted back to reality with a start and he spun to see the orc glaring at him.
"There's more to come up. Come on." She put down her own load of boxes and bags and headed back downstairs.
_____
It took two more trips to bring up all of the Merchant's wife's luggage. Jen couldn't figure what all of it was for. The Merchant only ever stayed for two nights and one day. It must have something to do with her secret arts, he thought. The men she had taken in previous visits liked to speak of the impossible pleasures they had received at her skilled hands. They said she had received training at the palace at Alducia in the Prince's harem. They said she could finish a man just by looking at him. They said she knew bright magic that made the night last weeks.
They said great many things. But no one really understood her relationship with the Merchant. He didn't seem to mind her promiscuity or even to spend any time with her. Some speculated that she would use her skills to help facilitate important deals. Others that the Merchant preferred the embrace of men and the marriage was just for show. Perhaps it was both.
It was a strange situation, but the otherwise chaste and proper townsfolk overlooked it as the influx of luxuries was quite fine and anyway, he was a strange foreigner with stranger ways and could not be expected to behave ike right, sensible folk.
What was sure was that she always bathed immediately after she arrived and so Jen stood by two huge kettles of water heating over an open fire. He chewed his nails while he waited. Had his envelope been found? Was it being read even now? He had a horrible thought, perhaps the Merchant's wife was used to the finest wordsmiths in the land and was even now laughing at his feeble attempts?
Soon the water was hot enough and Jen had stewed himself into an anxious mess, but with padded gloves he wrestled the kettles onto a shoulder pole and hauled them slowly and painstakingly upstairs.
He finally reached the door to the Merchant's wife's room and grimaced. He was halfway to exhausted already, what if he couldn't perform?
"Your lips speak sultry promises," came a voice. Jen froze.
"Your touch a hot caress." A woman's voice. The Merchant's wife!
"I am lost in your eyes." This was his poetry, she was reading his poetry.
"My heart beats within your breast," spoke the silky voice, it was just as he had imagined! "Oh my, Jenson, you've quite got me going."
Jen's face split into a grin, it was working!
"Thank you my lady." A man's voice. "You, uh, inspire me." Jen dropped the kettles with a clang and a splash of hot water. In a flash the door opened just enough to admit the scowling but still handsome face of Regus Patra. Jen gaped, not immediately grasping what was going on. "Piss off, Stains," Regus hissed, "She's chosen me."
"But... my poems," Jen said
Regus grinned, "She might fancy your flowery words, but it's this she's after." He gestured to himself, tall, well muscled and good looking. His face hardened, "Beat it! Or you'll regret it later." The door slammed shut.
Jen took two unsteady steps back and slumped against the wall, nursing his shattered hopes.
"Ouch,"
Jen turned to see the orc bodyguard leaning in the doorway of a room opposite. "I was about to toss him back out the window he climbed in," she said, "but her ladyship asked if he was the poet. He said yes. Points for quick thinking at least." She gave Jen a rueful smile, "So you're Jensun huh?"
