Photo by Tomoe Steineck on Unsplash
The inn’s Back Room cracked windows released the some of the excessive heat created from the afternoon sun beating down on the building just mere hours ago, but soon the keeper or one of his sons would need to come into the well-appointed space and close them to keep the temperature necessary for sleeping against growing the late autumn chill as the sun dipped below the mountain range. In the meantime, a young nobleman paced while an older man sprawled on the settee, a book dangling between fingers to mark his place while he waited for Nigel to wind down.
“Have you made the decision to run?” Matthews asked. “I can have a ship ready for you before you make it back to Seaport.”
“I can’t do that, you know I can’t do that.” Nigel turned on the knotted wool rug to walk the other direction. “If I was going to do that, I wouldn’t have come this far. I would have run while in Kylar.”
“Then tomorrow morning we go through the pass.”
“Gods.” Nigel threw his head back in frustration, before executing another turn. “It’s so stupid. I thought I was safe.”
The old solider chuckled. “I know I taught you better than that.”
“There is no safety in war.”
“And?”
“The crown is either at war or preventing it, and therefore they are always in a state of war.” Nigel crossed the carpet again. “But Jackel has two children already. It should be one of them.”
“They are too young, considering.”
“Exactly.” Nigel ran both hands through his top-cut before throwing them out at his old mentor. “Thirty-two! ‘Considering.’ How is this even a consideration?”
“Treaties are made.” Matthews gave up waiting for the twenty-four-year-old to calm. Picking up his bookmark, he slid it between the pages and tucked the leather-bound treatise on horse breeding back into its velvet bag for storage with the other two books he had brought on this trip. “The merchant trade alone is worth a princely reward.”
The glare Nigel shot glanced off Matthews careless manner without effect. He hardened its steel and stared. Knocking on the door to the Back Room, startled him and drew both their eyes to the wooden barrier as it opened and the noise of the main room flooded in.
“My pardon, your Grace, your …,” the innkeeper coughed, cutting off his speech for a moment, as Nigel raised his eyebrows, “Sir.” He entered, a veiled lady traveler on his arm. “This good lady arrived seeking succor, and, as you know, with the harvest holiday, things are … hectic in the front rooms. May she share the Back with you?”
Rarely did anything trump Matthews station as Duke of Seaport. But a quick glance at the woman’s silk veil indicated crafting, if not necessarily nobility, the lacework being minimal around the eyes, then at least high merchant class, the delicate thinness of the fabric while retaining opaqueness was beyond the reach of all but the deepest purses, and as Nigel’s present dilemma revealed, accommodations needed to be made for those who ruled the trade routes. The duke stood, indicating with a hand sweep to the keep to install the woman the best seat of the room. She sunk, carefully arranging layers of green and teal skirts around her, heavy red clay clinging around the hems. She untucked the edges of her veil from the laces holding her bodice and blouse together so the bottom foot of fabric pooled in her lap.
Once settled, she turned her head toward the keep and nodded. “My Lords, it is my pleasure to make Mistress Zeriff’shazeriff known to you.” He stumbled over the foreign name. “Mistress, these are his Grace, my own Duke of Seaport,” Matthews ruled the land between the pass and the port and bowed acknowledgement of the introduction, the woman tilted her head slightly in return “and … Nigel, Knight of the Order of the Icey Pansy, Lord of … Ground-swell?” The keep looked toward the two noblemen for confirmation.
Matthews nodded, impressed the man had pulled one of Nigel’s lesser noble titles from the heated air, while his old squire grabbed his hat where he had thrown it hours ago and bowed excessively and said, “A pleasure.” The woman veil had puffed out when Nigel was introduced, but her head moved not at all after his obeisance.
“Your meal should be here shortly,” the plainfolk bowed to the men before turning to the woman and saying in a nervous rush, “and Mistress, I will have that foot bath ready for you straight away.”
The two soldiers shared a glance, Nigel giving a quick finger signal they used to exchange when he was squired to the duke to indicate troublesome officers with delusions of grandeur. The innkeeper hadn’t batted an eye having Matthews stay in the Climb’s Start for a week while the letter he sent ahead found Nigel and brought the young man back home from his most recent escapade, nor had he cared when Nigel finally arrived other than delivering the wanderer directly to his old mentor, yet this woman had already managed to get into the Back without a title and had the man rushing to meet her demands over the nobles. What kind of harridan was now ensconced with them for the evening and how soon could they extract themselves from the situation?
(words 899, first published 2/5/2025)
The Back Room series
