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Mortality in Wasteland: My Life as Black Death's Undertaker
Mortality in Wasteland: My Life as Black Death's Undertaker
Mortality in Wasteland: My Life as Black Death's Undertaker
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Mortality in Wasteland: My Life as Black Death's Undertaker

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As Black Death approaches a small English town, Niccolai, a young unskilled laborer, accepts the job of undertaker’s apprentice. He surveys the town daily for markers representing death on resident’s doors, collects and buries the deceased. Although forbidden, he falls in love with an aristocrat's daughter, Joanna. His biggest concern becomes her safety, keeping her from catching the disease--a disease that wipes out half the population, history's greatest pandemic.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJeff Vrolyks
Release dateJun 2, 2012
ISBN9781476369273
Mortality in Wasteland: My Life as Black Death's Undertaker
Author

Jeff Vrolyks

Jeff Vrolyks lives with his supple wife of 7 years Christy in Simi Valley, California. He is a new writer, in that he recently discovered a passion for writing and hasn't stopped since. He was in the Air Force for a four year stint (cargo aircraft crew-chief), worked in the beer beverage industry, automotive industry, and in the oil fields on drilling rigs. His turn on’s include rain-forest thunderstorms, rainy sunsets at the beach, and glowing reviews from you. His turn off’s include driving in Los Angeles, working-out in an over-crowded gym with fat hairy people in spandex, and receiving scathing reviews from people intolerant of foul language and violence. Find him on Facebook to be kept current on upcoming releases.

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    Mortality in Wasteland - Jeff Vrolyks

    Part 1: Plague Abroad

    Chapter One

    How I fortuned upon the McBride’s was as simple as knocking on their door and asking for work. After my adoptive father had tried his luck as a seafaring merchant—how he is doing these days I do not know, though the odds of having survived the ravages of plague in a port town are against him—I took my few earthly possessions in a bundle tied to a stick and asked around, knocked on doors, John McBride being the last man I offered my unskilled services to. I was not a stout sixteen-year-old, but was of adequate size for farm life and that was good enough for John. By the clothing he wore, I judged he was of higher social status, probably held a great deal of land (and he did; over fifty acres). Though he was not a knight—I later learned that his earnings were sufficient enough to attain knighthood if he wished to pursue that title—he was content to live life as a squire. More qualifying folks refused knighthood than accepted it, due to the costly ceremonies and diverse obligations the title required of them. Oftentimes people of social importance (synonymous with high earnings) were satisfied with becoming the next highest in the pecking order: squire. John McBride was one of only two squires in Surrey. Of John’s fifty acres of land, what wasn’t sublet was quartered off into wheat, corn and barley crops, as well as pasture land for his beasts. I was employed to work the crops—reaping, plowing, folding the fallow—along with two others: Masci and Giles. Masci’s surname was McBride; need I say more? Naturally he was the favored one among us three laborers. But for being the heir of this sizeable property, Masci was well grounded and quite humble, and was undoubtedly the best friend I ever had. He was three years my senior at nineteen, tall and slender, broad shoulders, the indisputable good looks which the McBride name bestowed upon its kin. John McBride is one of those men you might find yourself staring at unawares, while pondering how many women must have positioned themselves for candidacy to be his wife. Katherine fortuned into that highly sought office, and they loved each other dearly. Katherine was a handsome woman. Dark features that reminded me of Italian women (from what scarcely I remember of them). Though I assumed her years to be above thirty, her beauty wasn’t marred with a single wrinkle or gray hair; a favorable pedigree indeed. So naturally the coupling of two such fine human examples produced a great bounty of desirability in the appearances of their two children. I can’t speak for the degree of Masci’s allure, other than I see how women receive his presence and it is marvelous, but I can speak of Joanna’s beauty and it is without equal. She inherited her father’s fair skin and sand-colored hair, as well as his bright cornflower blue eyes, but her delicate facial features were her mothers and she was the better for it. Joanna loathed me. Or so I thought.

    It was harvest time, 1348, of the spring variety. Winter harvest had been my first with the McBride’s and it proved dismal as a result of incessant rains. This, my first spring harvest, was promising to be fruitful due to the abundant sunshine and healthy soil. All that could change at the drop of a hat, so laborers had to hustle in their efforts to bring in the crops. I had looked forward to this harvest for some time; more specifically I had looked forward to the doubling of wages that this short two week period would bring, from a penny a day to two. As if that wasn’t reason enough to count my blessings months in advance, it was polished by the promise of free meals with plenty of meat and large draughts of ale! Harvest was a most merry time of year, as landholders made their profits on crop yields, and we laborers got a brief taste of the high life at two pennies per day. I was austere with my money, lived below even my small means, but I did make one substantial purchase having saved for months, a purchase that I like to credit having won Joanna over in the most unlikely way, but I’ll get to that in the coming pages. It was spring harvest, the sun had recently dipped below the wooded western ridge, and it was becoming increasing difficult to see myself work. I loaded my cart with the wheat I had threshed and threw my sickle on top, whistled to the tall slender silhouette swinging a sickle in the distance, and waved at him when I perceived him to be looking my way. Masci took my cue and gathered his wheat into his cart and trundled it to the barn in the distance.

    I unloaded my cart alongside Masci, asking if Giles was still on the Lord Welles demesne farm, fulfilling his two-day-a-week obligation to the Lord on John’s behalf. Considering every acre of John McBride’s land resided on the Baron’s sizeable manor, John got off easy on his service-labor owed. Two days of labor a week by a single individual was laughable. The fact that John McBride fought at the battle of Crecy, where the English walloped the French, where the Baron Robert Welles attained immortality as a war hero, was the ostensible reason for this cronyism.

    I saw Giles arrive home maybe an hour ago, said Masci.

    I’ve been dreaming of ale for the better part of the afternoon.

    A better ale I have yet to taste. My father did well in procuring it. O Niccolai, I just remembered that Giles had mentioned going to McDermott’s after supper. Join us? McDermott’s was the only tavern in Surrey.

    Is Giles agreeable with me accompanying you two?

    How many times need I say it, Niccolai?—he doesn’t dislike you. Would you put that out of your head already?

    It was hard not to feel as I did, being teased and ridiculed by Giles so frequently. He was the eldest of us three at twenty-one, and me being the youngest, I considered that such raillery was the natural order of life, that it wasn’t personal. But I abandoned that hope after he broke my wooden statuette that I had carved of my father—my real father, whom I had last seen when I was but eight.

    I’ll try, I said. Sure, I’ll come along.

    You know, Masci said as he heaved a sheaf of wheat into a stable, Giles feels remorse for what he did to your carving.

    Yes, I’m quite sure, I said sarcastically.

    He’s just jealous, that’s what I think. He’s twenty-one with no prospects of finding a bride, has no skills such as you possess, like carving wood. He’ll get over it.

    I saw Giles speaking to your sister yesterday after supper. It is obvious he fancies her.

    I’d be an imbecile to not have noticed. He fancies all women, Niccolai, it isn’t Joanna in particular. He jests about her, but I think it’s more to rouse me than anything. Speaking of Joanna, she has some news, and was excited about it. I have to wait until supper to hear it.

    I enjoy having supper with the McBride’s. I wish we could every night.

    Do you? Why is that?

    It is a beautiful home. Silver spoons, bronze cups, ceramic plates. It is living in luxury, Masci, how could you not appreciate that?

    I suppose I just don’t care about those things. The food is the same in our cottage, so I couldn’t care less.

    I couldn’t care less for the spoons, cups, and plates either. The reason I enjoyed dining at the McBride’s was singular: Joanna. I rarely encountered her, save for when she passed by into the barn to milk the goat. She always had the good presence of mind to avoid meeting my eyes, and use as few words in her salutations toward me as she could get away with without appearing rude. But dining at her parents’ house was blissful, and I made sure to sit at the opposing side of the table as to better ogle her. I became skilled at staring at her through the corner of my eye. I imbibed as much of her as I could, knowing that after these two weeks spring harvest would be over and I would be eating my meals in the slight comfort of my shared cottage. There would still be Saturdays, the one day of the week we were invited to supper year-round, and I’d look forward to that day above all others, but one day a week was an injustice to my heart’s desire of being in Joanna’s company.

    We sauntered to our thatch-roofed cottage, roughly half the size of the McBride home, and informed Giles that we were heading to supper. He sprang off his mattress and donned his tunic and was ready to eat. Giles was short and thick, had the severe angular visage of a Ramapithecus or troglodyte: a distended low brow and deep-set brown eyes under bushy eyebrows. His jaw was square, nose crooked from multiple breaks, and perhaps his most identifiable trait was his dense mop of dark greasy hair that reached his shoulders; hair that was as thick as it was oily. Upon reconsidering, his most identifiable trait might be his voice, which was gruff and loud. He was a surly man. Standing beside the delicate features and almost feminine softness of Masci, there couldn’t be a more profound juxtaposition.

    The dining area was before a large window overlooking the front lawn of the house. The oak table was proud, long and ornate, with two candelabrum spaced evenly, candles lit. On the other side of this principle room was the hearth, fire burning brightly and suffusing the room with a cozy yellow light. Joanna hadn’t yet arrived, so I took a seat directly across from where I knew her to enjoy sitting, at the end of the table. Masci sat beside me and Giles sat in the seat beside the one I had procured for Joanna, if only in my mind. He knew what he was doing. Masci thought Giles didn’t have a thing for his sister, but I knew better. What man wouldn’t have a thing for her? Katherine called for Joanna, who in turn replied she’d be there in a minute. The distinguished John took a seat beside Masci on my side of the table and Katherine seated beside Giles. The housemaid Ada, a withered old widow, began placing plates before us, piled high with lamb, corn, and bread. We moaned our delight in savory anticipation. Cups of ale followed.

    Joanna! summoned Katherine, more sternly this time.

    Sweeping into sight was Joanna. Giles and I beheld her sight with fervor. She seated, performed perfectly her ritual of denying me eye contact, and apologized for her delay. As John said grace, I peeked through my eyelids at Joanna. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought she was doing the same. I supposed she wanted to see if I was perpetually creepy or just occasionally creepy. If she observed my twitching eyelashes and poor game-face, she’d have concluded the former was the correct judgment.

    John concluded the prayer, and at once everyone dug into their food and drink. Against all internal conflictions, I threw caution to the wind and said, Joanna, Masci says you have exciting news. With that I had said more words to her than ever before. My racing heart was aware of this.

    She looked quizzically at me for a moment, then lit up.

    That’s right, said Masci with a mouth full of lamb. What’s the news, sister?

    The Lady Isabel invited me to be a lady of the court. She was beaming.

    John smiled broadly as he continued feasting. This was good news to him too, for some reason. There was now an air of conviviality in the room.

    I will tend to the Lady Isabel, she continued, "and in return I am to receive a stipend of a shilling per week. My position is directly under the governess of the castle. And should she be disposed of for whatever occasion, I am bestowed the power to delegate orders to the servants, and manage the housekeeping of the grounds. Imagine that, me giving orders that must be followed!"

    Outstanding, I said. Congratulations, Joanna. I am happy for you.

    She allowed her eyes to mingle with mine. It had a strange effect within me. I felt my innards shifting and throbbing, an ache manifested within my breast. Her big blue eyes peered deeply into mine when she said, Thank you, Niccolai.

    I was dumbfounded that she knew my name.

    Additionally, she added, I will continue studying literature, refining my writing and learning the most eloquent calligraphy. Lady Isabel says I will be able to draw up legal contracts for fee some day. Highly profitable. I am so excited.

    When do you leave? inquired the Ramapithecus Giles.

    Next week. I have the option of staying the nights here, but I think I may move fully into the castle.

    O, honey, bemoaned Katherine with a sigh and a rather unbecoming frown. Please tell me you’ll consider my proposal: spend the evenings here. And the Sabbath.

    I will spend the Sabbath here. That is a promise, Mother.

    Katherine nodded her acceptance of the vow, but would continue the subject at length later.

    Now I should mention at this juncture something pertinent to the following pages. Though lacking a Christian faith isn’t all that uncommon during the days following the Black Death, it was a rarity to abstain from attending church at that time. Priest Andrew was the church’s curer of souls and performed his job with as much heart and ardor as any holy man could, though there were three souls whom I was aware of that he hadn’t yet reached, and all three sat at this dining table. To be fair, Masci declared belief in the Lord Jesus, but he didn’t live the pious lifestyle that the church preached, beginning with attending church regularly and confessing one’s sins, and ending with paying tithes. He deemed the clergy to be hypocrites. He wouldn’t admit that Giles was responsible for his cynical outlook, but we all suspected that was the case. Giles was outspoken in his disdain for the holy way. He didn’t openly reject the existence of God, but was in want of hard evidence before shaping his lifestyle accordingly. This was a common topic of debate between John and us three laboring men. I myself have never been a good Christian. I enjoy my Sabbaths as they are my only reprieve in the laboring week, and are better spent fishing, carving wood for pleasure, and languishing. I do believe in God, and try to live benevolently, but I simply could not adopt the habit of attending church. It bored me greatly. I had attended the Welles church just once, last winter, and vowed it to be my last. But things change as reasons to change them present themselves.

    I will continue attending mass beside you, Joanna said conciliatorily, do not worry.

    John McBride gave Giles a rather loathsome glare before turning to me. Niccolai, I wish I could persuade you to come to church with us. He then faced Masci. And you, my son. It’s never too late to turn it all around and get right with God, to live in penitence.

    Maybe next week, said Masci, as had become his mantra.

    I suppose I should like to accompany you, I said to John.

    I felt every set of eyes upon me. John praised me. Katherine smiled most sincerely at me. Joanna ate her corn. Giles gave me a look, one that evinced his knowledge of why I agreed to go to church that Sabbath—the answer seated a few inches to his right. He was right, I won’t lie, but it wasn’t the only reason. I had been giving another issue much consideration, and I was prepared to share it with Giles and Masci at McDermott’s tavern this evening, because God knew that I would surely be teased about this later.

    After supper we thanked the McBride’s for their hospitality, food and ale, and proceeded to journey to the tavern by way of Mossdale Road. It was named Mossdale Road, though most called it by its moniker Mud-dale, owing to how often it was muddy, sometimes for months on end. A day’s travel by horse eastbound on the dirt road (mud road) put you in the great London, where better than seventy-thousand people called it home. John enjoyed whining about the proximity of Mud-dale Road to his house; a night-time traveler (mostly merchants and clergymen) would wake up any light-sleeping McBride’s. Some time ago John and Masci had strategically transplanted a line of bushy trees to provide an air of privacy, but where the gaps broke through the foliage you’d sometimes spy curious faces peering in as passed by, to see what the honorable John McBride and his heathen laborers were up to. No good, was the consensus around town: not going to church was a sin almost as grievous as murder.

    I had anticipated being questioned as to my motive for attending church this Sabbath, but expected it to happen at McDermott’s tavern. Giles, loosened up with ale and possessing insight as to why I might like attending church, thought it humorous to broach the topic in front of Masci at that very moment.

    Look who has turned over a new leaf! Giles roared. The God fearing Niccolai!

    Shut up, Giles, said Masci on my behalf and to my astonishment. If he wants to go to church, don’t mock him.

    Why, Niccolai? Is the reason blue-eyed and fair skinned, by chance?

    The wry grin stretching across that simian block of face made me want to strike it. I had rehearsed my retort to this inevitable assault, so now was show time: Fair skinned, perhaps. Blue-eyed, no. I’m going to ask the priest if he’ll look into a matter for me. To see if he can bring me news of my brother.

    They both said Your brother? in unison.

    I avoid mentioning my brother Augustus, but I’ll tell you now. I then explained my life in summary, how Augustus was older and fit to be taken as a laborer while I was not, and how that resulted in us living with different families.

    You haven’t heard from Augustus in all these years? Masci asked.

    No. It’s likely for the best. Augustus was… not without his problems.

    Who isn’t? Masci said flatly.

    Agreed, but this is a little different. Augustus had been caught stealing on more than one occasion.

    Masci shrugged indifferently. Giles rolled his eyes, remembered the times he’d been caught stealing and the more frequent occasions he’d not been caught. We chuckled.

    I have a memory of Augustus killing a chicken. And not because he was ordered to, and not for food, but because… well, just because. To see what it was like killing something, I suppose. I might not have remembered the incident had it actually been a chicken and not a goat. I don’t know why I lied. I pride myself on being honest.

    Giles, far from impressed, grinned at Masci and thought aloud how his sister might fancy him.

    It was the first time Joanna’s name surfaced amongst us three in the context of desire. I was content to shift the topic from Augustus to Joanna, and the ale was a great boon to my spirits, so I chimed in: You lie, Giles. We all know Joanna is infatuated with me.

    Masci gave me a look, one that said he couldn’t believe that I was attracted to his sister as well. Betrayal, but in its softest form. Would you two shut up about Joanna? said Masci. She likes neither of you. With a stern glare at Giles he said, Especially you.

    Me? Giles might have figured Joanna prepared to marry him on the morrow, judging by his incredulous tone.

    So you’re saying that she dislikes me less? I said. There has to be a trifle of like for her to dislike me less, wouldn’t you agree?

    Masci turned off the road abruptly and ventured toward a nearby thicket.

    Where are you going? I asked.

    I have to piss.

    An idea struck Giles. His eyes sharpened on me. He asked in dramatic fashion if I’d like to hear a scary story. Of course I did. He decided to wait for Masci to return. Once that happened, and the three of us resumed our gait, he enlightened us of a story he had recently heard and began sharing it:

    In the far east, a God—or devil I suppose; yes, probably devil—wielding a furious wrath of plague and death on all who look upon him, has been marching westward into Istanbul, into Greece, and continues unabated into Italy and France.

    Uh-huh, Masci said apathetically. I’m sure.

    Giles perceived me to be the more interested of his party, so he directed his words at me. His name is—Giles pondered a suitable name—Black Angel of Death. A phantom in black robes, he carries a rope tethered to human skulls dangling down its length. And as this demon lurches forward, the bony heads rattle against each other, like teeth chattering from fright, a sound that if you hear you are made aware that your death looms nigh. His hooded head is void of flesh, but rather is bone like the many tortured heads he collects. But he does have eyes, big white eyes with black centers, recessed deeply within its skull. A skeletal grin, always grinning because he loves what he does, does it well, and what he does is bring death to all who see him. He marches on, Niccolai. He makes his way toward our realm as we speak.

    You need spend less time imagining horrible things, admonished Masci, and more time cutting Lord Welles’ corn.

    Bah! Piss off, Masci. I didn’t conceive this story. One of Lord Welles’ servants told me. And yet another of his servants confirmed it.

    Then they need spend less time imagining things and more time caring for the good Lord Welles.

    Giles shrugged. They heard it from Lord Robert Welles himself. Do you know him to be a liar? The Baron Welles? The war hero?

    No, but Lord Welles said nothing of the such, concluded Masci. You’re a liar.

    Giles raised one knowing eyebrow at me and said, He did say it. He did.

    Before arriving at McDermott’s, I finished stating my plan of learning news of my brother Augustus. I knew Southampton had a monastery where clergymen often traveled so that they may further their education in canon law—or whatever it was that clergymen did there—and that monks were typically cohorts with these secular clerks of other regions, and thus exchanged news; so if I could persuade priest Andrew to mention Augustus’ name to a number of the monks and clergymen in Southampton next time he tarried there, it was conceivable that someone would recognize my brother’s name. Giles and Masci thought it was worth a try.

    McDermott’s tavern was northwest of the marketplace, tucked away far enough from neighboring bungalows that patrons could be as rowdy as they saw fit with impunity, which was no small thing, being that the Baron’s bailiff thought so highly of his duties and was determined to live off a daily sustenance of accolades from anyone with a higher social ranking than he, which there were no small number of. The balding codger—he had a name, Bertram, but insisted on bailiff—would cane forth the personage attached to his curved spine and visit the tavern most nights, demonstrate his authority as if anybody cared, and flirted with the bar wench Pinchy for a few minutes before being urged away to deal with the more pertinent matters of Surrey, and leave the good paying folk alone with their ale and voluptuous wench.

    Inside the dilapidated house of debauchery was a large room with two bench tables running its length, a bar tended by the proprietor Old Man Craig, and of course Pinchy. Nobody knew whence that speculative name attached itself to her or why she answered to it, but in time I came to realize that no name befitted her better. The one occasion I inquired into her God-given name, she grinned, took my head in both hands and smothered it to her ample and scarcely concealed bosom, then spoke of lesser things.

    A room adjoined the tavern possessing a modest portion of the structure’s overall size, and its red-stained door glowed ominously behind the bar. Most (if not all) of the immoral townsfolk had been behind it, some on a regular basis, and did so at the going rate of a halfpence, or half a day’s wages for many. That half-penny bought a wayward soul an hour’s time with Joan, the town whore. Masci despised that her name was a perversion of his sister’s, but secretly I hated it just as much—Joanna was an angel, not a whore. When harvests were profitable and people’s pockets consequently full, whores from nearby villages would find work behind said door. Being what season we were in, spring harvest, it was my guess that Joan wasn’t alone behind that forbidden door this evening. As if Giles was listening to my thoughts, he nudged me and asked if I wanted to contract a little foreign diplomacy with the fair women of Lakeshire. I replied with a sheepish grin and a no thank you.

    My dears! greeted Pinchy. It must be Saturday night. It had become somewhat of a custom for Masci and Giles to get drunk at McDermott’s on the evening before the Sabbath. You ought to try the wine we just got in. Best I’ve ever had and I’ve had my fair share. She winked.

    Masci stated that wine drowses him, opted for the ale.

    Wine makes me amorous, Giles said with a wink of his own. I’ll try one.

    Pinchy blushed, as if she was unaccustomed to such lewd quips. I ordered an ale. Old Man Craig was pouring two drinks at the other end of the bar and gave us an obligatory nod and proprietary grin.

    McDermott’s was bustling. Harvest season is a mirthful time of year. Too many pennies and not enough drink and women to spend it on. We took our overflowing cups to the bench and sat between clusters of the already-inebriated. Week after week it was the same raunchy people, telling the same raunchy stories, propagating rumors that originated with the traveling merchants. Rumors that were then flowered up nicely, a snip here and cut there, until the final product was ready to be sold to a glassy-eyed audience for the price of an ale—tonight it seemed to be wine. The three boys arrived in the middle of a tale told by Cap Peterson, a renown liar.

    …And he took his damned wooden leg off and hit the sonofabitch over the head with it! The denizens roared. The tavern’s more recent arrivals were less than amused. Things became more humorous as pockets became lighter at McDermott’s.

    Giles, who sat across the table from Masci and I, lifted his cup of wine and cheered the week’s end. We clanked our tankards together and partook. Masci sat his tankard down, flashed me a feeble smile, sighed, and said Guess what?

    I waited.

    I agreed to tell you something.

    My first thought was that I had somehow offended John McBride, and his son was the harbinger of bad news. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

    My rotten sister fancies you, he said begrudgingly.

    As Giles’ eyes widened (one eye shocked, the other jealous) mine smiled.

    She does not, I said dismissively, as if I were aware of a prank. But never had I been more religious in my life, praying it was the truth. You’re pulling my leg.

    I wish I was, he said miserably. She begged me to learn what you thought of her, discreetly. ‘Find out for yourself,’ was my reply. He unfastened the purse from his cinch and produced a coin (a big penny, worth roughly twelve visits behind the red door) and brandished it. Until she gave me this. So there you have it, my job is done. I’d rather not learn what you think of her. That’s between you and her. I’m going to tell her that you didn’t feel comfortable speaking with me about it. He gazed down into his tankard, lifted it for another swig of ale. Before setting the cup down he said, O, don’t tell her the means by which I informed you. I wasn’t exactly discreet.

    I was fairly confident that he was being honest, though it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been duped. It seemed too good to be true, and you know how the saying goes. Did he not recently proclaim her to fancy neither of us? He sure did. I began probing into the matter against Masci’s will, faltered my words, took a much needed quaff of ale, and then collected my thoughts the best I could under this extraordinary circumstance, which was an intoxication brought on by miraculous fortune. I stroked my whisker-less chin and said, What did she say, exactly?

    He’s just teasing you, Niccolai. Giles hoped, anyway.

    I wish I was, said Masci. Shall we drop the subject? I don’t like talking about Joanna. From what she bribed me with I can purchase several rounds of drink for us all, and will do so if you guys shut up about it. Deal?

    It was a deal, though I wouldn’t stop thinking about it. About her. About her and I. About how impossible that seemed. And was. I worked for Joanna’s father, which wouldn’t bode well if I requested from him his daughter’s courtship. It shouldn’t matter, but it would. Not just because the conflict of interest, but because she was the daughter of a squire, a squire which had lofty aspirations for his daughter’s future (whom she might wed), a squire who enjoyed the baron’s favor; and, well, I was just shy of being a vagrant.

    I was staring stupidly at my now empty ale, lost in reverie, when Giles slammed his empty tankard, snapping me back into awareness.

    Fetch us another round, you love-sick fool.

    I nodded. Masci handed me the big penny, as promised, to cover the next few rounds. I brought the three empties to the bar. Pinchy was my preferred steward, but I had to settle for Old Man Craig. Maintaining company with him for more than a brief couple of seconds was distressing. The man had one good eye as the other wandered about. Giles thought it was to keep an eye on his customers, literally, but Masci guessed he had

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