Muddy Boots from the Interwebs
The woman folded her leather-gloved hands atop the silk pooled there from her veil and sat rigidly upon the settee Matthews vacated for her. She said not a word, though her eyes, the color uncertain in the shadows of the veil, studied them both. The Duke of Seaport walked to the second most comfortable seat in the room, close to the cracked window and the evening breeze, and sat, placing his pouch of books on the small table beside him.
Nigel waited as long as he could with his churning thoughts. She hadn’t given him any acknowledgement in the introduction. Did she actually think she outranked him? The innkeeper had given him a noble title, abet his lowest, but still it was a noble title and had introduced her as Mistress.
Her clothes. He quickly placed them as an amalgamation of the Zeriff, Kylan, and a half-dozen other minor countries which allowed their women to travel and operate as merchants, unlike Everdance, Middlelands, Disrave, and his own country of Roadsky where the only time the valuable females left their family estates was for marriage. The lack of clear nationality in the clothing matched the generic name of Zeriff’shaZeriff, Crew of the Crew. People of Zeriff identified themselves by their boats among themselves. “And what is your boat?” he blurted out.
She tilted her head, the veil fabric flowing over the Kylan-style bodice which complimented the two-tone skirts presently the rage in Mysentee. The choice of blue as the primary color was pure Zeriff though. On ships, they would wear every color they could trade or steal on the high seas, but ashore, they were blue in memory of the water surrounding their island chain.
“Where are your servants?” Nigel asked searching for a topic. “Shouldn’t they be back by now after taking your stuff to your room?”
“What my associate is asking is how much room do we need to make for your traveling companions?”
“I have no companions, your Grace.” Her voice creaked, guttering low, roughened by unknown sources.
Nigel jumped in, shocked. “None?”
Her head turned his way barely before her eyes dropped to her gloves, and she started pulling them off tips by tugging on the fingertips of her left glove with her right hand, ignoring him.
He was not used to being ignored. “None?” He repeated, taking a step her direction. “None?”
“Nigel, do not harass my guest, and find a seat for the gods’ sake.”
Continuing to tug at the sweat-tightened leather, the woman watched as he stomped across the room to high-back chair with the horsehair cushion. Of the five seats in the room, it lacked any semblance of comfort, but the dearth of arm rests allowed Nigel the ability to move freely. With the left glove plucked off, she worked on wiggling the other worn glove off. Nigel noticed the task was challenging because rips crisscrossing the palm; the gloves were effectively ruined. Once both were off, she tucked them into some of the bodice lacing. The Kylan tucked everything into the network of laces giving support to the bodices.
During Nigel’s time in Kylan, he had seen purses, letters, statues, charms, daggers, and a myriad of other items worked into the tops of the men and women. Gemstones were exceptionally popular, often threaded through the laces. This woman lacked any accoutrements as far as he could tell, other than the gloves, a rather poor merchant in his opinion.
“May I ask how you came to be traveling alone, Mistress?” The duke angled his body toward the invader of their privacy and leaned forward.
“Of course, your Grace.” If she had an accent, the roughness of her voice hid it. “My horse threw a shoe just outside of Crossroads,” she paused, moving her body carefully toward focusing on Matthews, “so I sent my party ahead, telling them I would catch up shortly. Little did I know the harvest meant the forge was cold and everyone was in the fields.”
Nigel was aghast. “You walked all the way here from the Crossroads?” Crossroads was an hour pushing on horseback, an hour and a half fast march.
“It’s not like I could ride Cotton,” she snapped, at last addressing him directly. The men watched as the veil pulled in toward her mouth, before she continued at a lower volume, her shoulders twisted, blocking Nigel out of the conversation. “You understand, your Grace, the road is paved the whole way, I would never abuse my animal thusly.”
“Admirable.” The Duke pulled at his calvary boots, indicating his understanding of how horses should be treated. “But I am surprised no one was here to greet you.”
“We are on a firm deadline, what with the marriage next week. The caravan leader rightly continued to push the carts ladened with the bridal gift as far as they could before stopping for the night. I should easily catch up with them as they climb the gap.”
“That is the truth,” Nigel said, trying to insert himself back into her notice, “carts are slow going up the mountain.”
“We also are traveling that way on the morrow. We could stay with you until meet with them,” the older man offered.
She laid her hand upon her chest. “Oh no, your Grace. I could not accept. The innkeep assured me that the forge here was just banked for the night and the blacksmith will take care of the reshoeing first thing in the morning,” she paused, “or whenever he recovered from tonight’s hangover enough to handle the banging. I could not ask you to wait.”
“No, no. I insist—”
Knocking on the Back Room door, quickly followed by a bevy of boys entering, their heights in staircase steps, looking remarkably like the Innkeeper except for the smallest, whose blond curls peaked over the towels he carried. The oldest bowed first to Nigel, then the Duke, and finally the female merchant. “Mistress, your bath water.”
“That was fast,” her voice laced with approval.
“We always have water heating for dishes.” The youth turned to his younger brothers. “Mag, close the window, Billy and Cruz lay out the towels so the water won’t splash.” He took the two pails of water from the younger boys had been carrying. “Mik, the bath.” The second smallest carefully placed a broad pottery bowl down and pushed it toward the Zeriff’s skirts, who lifted them at the knees, raising the muddy hems to reveal calvary boots similar to the ones both of the men wore, though much worse for wear than their shiny leather.
One of the pails filled the foot bath. “We will leave the pail if you need more water, and one to empty the water in when done. Here are the salts and herbs you asked for, and extra towels and bandages.”
“Bandages?” Nigel muttered, frowning. “Fuck.” He breathed. She had walked five miles in calvary boots, meant for riding, not walking.
As the boys began to leave, the Innkeeper returned. “Your Excellencies, your meals are coming out of the fire now. Is there anything else you need, mistress? Food, wine? I had the saddlebags taken upstairs.”
“No, no food, although some mulled wine would do me good. And I do apologize, Mr. Keeper, but now that I have had a chance to sit, I realize there is no way I will make it up those stairs tonight. Could you bring them down here? I can just sleep in the Back Room.”
“Mistress!” the man protested.
“I’ve slept in far worse conditions, I assure you.”
“Of course.” The innkeeper froze a moment, before turning to Matthews, “With your Grace’s permission, of course.”
“When we are done tonight and retire to our rooms, Mistress Zeriff’shaZeriff is welcome to use the Back for her rest.”
(words 1,300; first published 2/9/2025)
The Back Room series
