The Spotted Calf

The Spotted Calf was quietly busy, as it tended to be at that hour, but as she had only awakened a few hours before the woman at the bar was less than keen on fulfilling her complete service. She smothered a yawn with the back of her hand, and handed across a slip of paper with a pair of numbers etched upon it. She then waved for one of the girls who had just finished unloading a tray full of vittles to a table of soldiers.

Delia hurried to the woman who had beckoned her, wiping her hands off on her apron and shooting a flirtatious, scolding look back at the soldier who thanked her for the food with a pinch. Brushing a fistful of rich brown curl over her mostly bare shoulder, Delia greeted Martin with a smile warm enough to light the empty fireplace. Though he had clearly done a bit of traveling, she recognized his clothing and his bearing as one who had business in the castle.

"Godden, Milord. Will ye have a bite to eat, then? We've still room to sit, we could have ye and yer lady friends settled for a bit 'til the feel of the road 'as faded from yer feet. Ye'll find no finer lamb stew within a fortnight's ride." Delia motioned to a table at the corner of the room, tucking her empty tray under her arm.

Zahra ignored the obvious stares of the patrons as they entered the tavern. The place smelt of alcohol and its stale, foreign scent made her wrinkle her nose beneath her veil. Of course, Martin was not expecting her to drink the ale he had just ordered; if he did then he was sorely mistaken and would sharply learn as such when he offered it to her.

When Lillian offered to venture outside into the market, Zahra was inwardly pleased. She'd not enjoyed the taste of fresh fruit in a few days, having been travelling through the forest, away from market towns or farms. She doubted that the fruit Lillian was eagerly searching for was anything remotely similar to what had grown back home but anything sweet and juice-filled would be welcome.

"Now we are alone and you will soon have your lands back," said Zahra, turning to Martin and unfastening her veil. It fell to the side of her face with a jangle of beads and exposed her face for the first time that day. A few of the men sitting at the bar leaned back with shameless curiosity and began to talk loudly about 'heathens' and 'harems'. Again, Zahra was even more studied that before in her ignorance.

"Might I ask what you intend to do with me and your servant? Do you expect us to stay with you on your estate? I don't think any wife of yours would take kindly to our presence," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yes, that appears to be the case.” Martin replied impassively, taking a drink from his ale when it arrived with their stew. Martin was not a man who repeated past mistakes, and had no desire to be on the wrong end of Zahra’s sharp tongue, so mad no comment towards her ale. She would soon learn there was little else to drink in England, except spiced wine the ladies of court preferred, but such fare was not likely to be found here. When his ward removed her veil, Martin stifled a groan of irritation. They had already been receiving curious looks, but now, men bolstered by her exotic face would lustfully come calling to their table, whether curious, stupid, or most likely drunk. Then who would have to chase them away, he would of course, all bloody night. Over the top of his tankard, he sent a most chilling warning stare to a couple of drunkards who had been sending some particularly suggestive jeers Zahra’s way.

“As I have no wife, I do not foresee such difficulties.” Martin replied dryly, taking another drink from his tankard. “For the time being yes, my estate will be a safe place for you until I find a more permanent situation. While it pains me to be parted from your most…charming company, you obviously have no love for my England, and I don’t presume to keep you in England under my guardianship indefinably.” Martin knew his tone was more than a bit sarcastic, perhaps even biting, but he growing more than a bit tired with her ungrateful and spiteful attitude. It was not enough that he was as forced into the arrangement as she, or that he had never allowed her to come to harm, nor go hungry. All she could focus on were negatives, and take it out on those who worked for her comfort. Such attitude was the hallmarks of pampered brats who’d never worked for their food, or experienced true hardships. “I’ve met a few Knights from Spain.” Martin said after a moment. “As well as some Moores, some knew of your father. I thought of perhaps finding you a husband there.”

“As for Lillian, she is not my serf, and she if free to do as she pleases. If she chooses to continue with us to my estate, I’ll not deny her entrance to my hall, or work if she wishes.”

"Alms for the poor, alms for the poor, good sir do you have a coin to spare for a pauper," Lazarus Kingsbane called out to the passing villagers heading into the Spotted Calf. Plopped on the ground, back against the wooden wall, and head hunched forward Lazarus kept from making eye contact with his hood drawn. It helped to play on the sympathies some have for the blind. Occasionally he would get a coin put into his open palm and he would give them a thanks and a nod as he pocketed the coin, still making no eye contact.

Today had not been a good day. Two coins the entire day, two small coins. Not enough to even buy dinner in the tavern he was sitting out side. Damnable king and his wretched taxes was the curse that Lazarus had been muttering the most these days. He always had a grudge against authority, that's why he took the name Kingsbane, but this king was horrible. If the man stood in front of Lazarus he would not hesitate driving his dagger deep into the man's ribcage.

That was enough stone grinding one day. Pushing off the wall Lazarus leaned on to his walking staff, another ruse to project the image of his frailty. Keeping his hood over his head, Lazarus shuffled away from the Spotted Calf. Bumping occasionally into others. One such man was much bulkier than the rest. Stumbling slightly, Lazarus reached out to grab the man on the shoulder to steady him himself. The feel of chain mail beneath his tunic confirmed his suspicion that the man was a knight, but of what order or who he swore allegiance he could not tell while his eyes still were focused on the ground. "Many apologies noble knight, please have pity on a blind man, I've naught anything to eat, perhaps you could spare a coin to see me to through the morrow?" Lazarus's spoke in a raspy voice, head slung low.

Quinn had been preoccupied when the beggar stumbled into him, feeling the man’s hand grip him, Quinn narrowed his eyes. Having recently returned from the Holy Land and the devious Assassin, Quinn stepped back and to his right, his hand falling upon the hilt of his sword. Taking a quick assessment then hearing the words spoke by the tall man, the Templar smiled and grasped the blind beggar by the arm, “You are blessed this day, I am bound to offer largesse to those who ask for it. Come have a meal with me and tell me of Nottingham.” The voice accented by his time in the Holy Lands, his hands dark and swarthy with a deep tan, far beyond the tan a serf might receive in these colder climes. Stepping towards the Spotted Calf, Quinn opened the door and held it wide for the beggar and the long staff. The whole while observing the man, the grip that had been on his shoulder whilst he steadied himself, well it was not that of a feeble, blind man.

Perhaps this was the “Hood” come to see why a Templar was here in Nottingham. It was clear that few if any of the brothers had ridden through here before. “Come friend, come and share a meal with me, one poor soul with another. I am Quinn, a poor traveler seeking solace in the lands of the King.” The smell and warmth coming from in the tavern was like all taverns, festooned with sour and sweet odors fighting to dispatch the other. Murmurs and laughter, the sounds of men seeking camaraderie and whispered words, filled the air, interlaced with the odors to form a rather common occurrence that could take place in a hundred taverns in a hundred different places. Except this was in the heart of a land where a ghost was hailed as a hero by the poor and vilified by a king, a ghost that was able to elude the king’s efforts to the point where a plea to the Holy See and missive by a Provincial master to send a knight commander of the Templars to find the truth behind this ghost.

“And my brother in alms, what is the name you call yourself?” Quinn said to the blind beggar.

"A situation?" said Zahra archly. "Excuse my poor English but what exactly would a 'situation' be? A tavern girl, perhaps? Or a personal servant like your Lillian? Or worse?" she added, darkly. From the constant looks and comments she had received throughout her travels through Western Europe, she was under no illusions as to what a 'worse' profession might entail.

Still, inwardly, she derived more than a little satisfaction that sarcasm was creeping into her guardian's tones. Most of the time, he treated her pointed comments and stubborn attitude with an infuriating calmness. To elicit any other more human reaction was unusual.

"Oh, a husband! So now I am a commodity to be unloaded onto another man as soon as you get the chance. Perhaps you could save yourself the trouble and offer me up to one of those de'la over there!" she spat, all petty satisfaction gone. On an impulse, she stood up and seized the dish of lamb stew the barmaid had brought to them before striding out of the tavern. For the second time that day, she found she had tears in her eyes.

Outside, she turned the corner abruptly and hastily ducked around the side of the building, squeezing into a narrow alleyway that led to a dead-end. There she stood for a few moments, blinking stupidly in the sunlight before sitting down on an empty grain barrel with a jangle of beads. After picking at her stew for a little while, she carefully set it down on the ground beside her then burst into tears.

“No, a husband to protect and provide for you the lifestyle you so apparently cannot be happy without! I regret you find my method of travel so loathsome, that I can not provide lush cushy carriages and fruits from the holy lands to suit your every fancy, but no rich Baron or Count or Lord am I! I have what I have Zahra, I beg you accept that. Your father is dead, I can not bring him back, nor can I bring back your land! I am not God, only your Guardian, as for some reason that seems to evade the both of us, your father seemed to think I was the man for the job! I did not ask for this any more than you, but by God I’ll not go back on my oath!” Martin exploded back in a heated whisper, suppressed anger, frustration, and pain pouring out before he could think twice about what he was saying. The woman was insufferable, and insulting Lillian, who had been nothing but kind to the girl who had been a harpy in comparison, along with the horrid realizations this day, and her ungrateful speech now against his well thought out and time consuming (not to mention pocket draining) plan for her comfort as well as safety had been the last straw!

Martin was not a parent, and though he had a younger sister, she had always been of a gentler nature and never displayed such behaviour as this. At first, he had tried ignoring it all together, trying to treat her as a distraught Lady, and therefore irrational and emotional in her actions, but by God, it had almost been a year, and who knew how long else he would need to keep her under his protection! Would he be doomed in the company of a woman who seemed stubbornly determined to despise him for another year, five, (parish at the thought) ten! Sweet baby Jesus, he’d go mad!

Still, as she stormed out with her meal, and after he’d calmed his frustration a few moments later, he regretted his words…most of them anyway. She would have to accept that her world had altered dramatically, and nothing was going to change that, but he needn’t give into his own frustrations and speak so harshly. With a long strained sigh, and a last longing look at his barely eaten stew, Martin abandoned the table that he knew better than to believe would be waiting for him once he returned, with a few shillings to pay for the meal. Walking back out into the streets of Nottingham, Martin had no idea which direction she’d gone, so picked one and prayed it had been the route she’d taken.

Meanwhile, it was only by chance that Lillian was returning from the same direction Zahra had stormed out to, but her kinder heart that led her to investigate the sobbing noise she heard down the narrow alleyway. It had certainly not been Zahra she had expected to see crying there alone, but it did not stop her approaching, however slowly and admittedly with a look that seemed both awkward and perplexed reigning over her features. Quietly, Lillian sat on a grain barrel across from Zahra, and held out the little bag she had returned with from market.

“The strawberries bore early this season milady. I know not of the fruit of yer homeland, but the berries be sweet, and right tasty if ye not mind the seeds.” Lillian said quietly, not asking the proud woman across from her why she cried or even giving any appearance she noticed them at all.

Quinn, as he held the door to the Spotted Calf open, heard the exchange in fact it was the Mohammadian accent that drew his attention away from the beggar he held the door for and toward the woman carrying a bowl of some meal. Her face exposed, the hajib had been removed, quickly casting his eyes down and away from her, Quinn’s mind began racing. The scent he smelled in the King’s large hall was clearly from this woman. A woman and from the glimpse he had of her face, a quite beautiful one, but why here? Stepping away from the door so she could pass, he chanced a quick glance again, she seemed angry. Judging by the aba’a that she wore she was from a family of some worth. Exhaling softly as he watched her a moment longer before he turned his attention to the man coming after her.

A man of some bearing, clearly he was a knight, but of what moral compass? Placing his hand on the beggar a moment he said softly, “A Lord comes allow him room to pass.” Giving him more room to exit out the door, Quinn studied the knight quickly. Battered and worn chain, he had seen battle at some point. The smell of sweat and musk told him that he had been riding a good amount of time this day. What connection did this man have with the King and why did he have a Mohammadian woman with him? As he averted his eyes he studied the surcoat, the colors and blazon were ones he was unfamiliar with. A grim smile graced his lips, clearly there was much more going on here than first perceived. Allowing his eyes to flick to where the woman had turned a corner, he narrowed them a moment. Someone would come looking for her; to have a woman of such beauty and probable stature be taken could only lead to bad tidings. Had she been taken against her will? Did she have a suitor? What of her extended family? Such a thing could not be allowed to pass; it would be an affront to her honor. To be taken by Christians.

Still holding the door open Quinn glanced at the beggar, and what of this man? Was this the Hood? What did he think of the events that had transpired? “A woman from the Holy Lands, a Mohammadian at that, certes an unusual happenstance, wouldn’t you say?”

“She had to use Robert” muttered Cadfeal, as he limped along towards The Spotted Calf. It was the easiest of their combined personas that he could use, given his eye and outlaw status. Seeing as there could only be so many blind old men, he had to make sure with another character, John the Burned. The back story of John was that he had once been a blacksmith’s apprentice and had gotten trapped inside when the forge caught fire. He goes heavily bandaged, leaving only one eye uncovered to see with and his mouth, with a light baggy gray robe with hood. He also could barely walk and needed a staff to lean upon.

Luck was with him however, when he reached the inn. The door was being held open and he didn’t have to wait for someone to be coming or going to be let inside. However, he had missed the departure of the knight and his Arab lady. The yeoman didn’t know the man holding the door or the beggar besides him and quietly limped past them, entering the common room of the inn. He shuffled, stumbled and nearly fell, as he cross the warm room and finally collapsed into a bench near the corner.

“Oh me back” he groaned softly, his voice filled with pain, as he slow got into a sitting position.

"Many thanks, I've not had a meal in thrice days," Lazarus spoke in a joyful tone, for it was the truth that he had not had a meal in three days. His spot of bad luck pertaining to the tight-pursed denizens of Nottingham had almost cost him his ruse when he began wandering the forest to hunt for game and a group of hunters stumbled upon him. Thankfully they had believed the lie that he was just a poor blind man who had just gotten lost in the woods.

"There are some who call me. . . Tim," Lazarus hesitated to give his real name in case of future retribution in which he would need another alias or his actual name. He was about to enter, his feet shuffling forward and his staff prodding for obstacle in his way, when the Arabic woman barged out of the Spotted Calf. "Aye, that it would, not that I would know the particulars of such happenstance," Lazarus replied to the knight with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Continuing forwards Lazarus almost exploded with anger when he was cut off again. Does this town not have any sympathy for the downtrodden, do they not have any common courtesy? After thanking the knight for holding the door once more he caught a passing glance from beneath his hood of the man who cut him off. A poor fellow who seemed to have suffered probably from burns buy the looks of the bandages. Something was off though to Lazarus. If he was a burn victim, at least a few patches of scarred skin would show but from his quick glance he could not see any on his face. Alas though Lazarus dismissed it as nothing.

"Please, lead the way sire, I've not been here before and the building is not familiar to me."

A quick grin flashed across Quinn’s face, “I once met an enchanter named…Tim.” As the burned and bandaged man jostled past them and into the tavern, Quinn’s grin turned to a frown as he gave the man a once over. Bandaged and hobbled, perhaps a man at arms who suffered at the hands of the Mohammadians. Shaking his head he reached out and guided Tim towards a small table, pulling a small stool out for the hunched man. “Sit Tim, tonight your stomach shall not want.” Removing his war sword, leaning it against the worn table, Quinn took the other stool. In the dim light of the tavern most would probably fail to notice the ruby cross in the weight on the end of the hilt, nor the crosses on the end of the guard.

Turning his attention towards the crowd he shouted, “Oi, food and drink here.” His hand waving towards the woman who seemed to be serving the gruel, glancing at Tim, he said “Forgive me if I do not drink with you. I have forsworn such until a…debt has been repaid.” Easing back on the stool, his legs extending out as he leaned against a wall, Quinn eyed the bandaged man again. “Tell me Tim, what of Nottingham? I would surmise a man without sight would have overheard much, being ignored I am sure, by those whose tongues wag.” As he spoke Quinn removed his gauntlets and laid them on the table, the chinking of the chain on wood soft. “Being a pilgrim I have heard the tales of the great “Hood” thus I am fearful of continuing my journey; I do not wish to be robbed of my meager possessions.”

While he spoke, Quinn’s eyes flowed over the crowd, lingering on none very long, merely gaining a quick assessment of those in the tavern.

"Oh aye child" said Cadfeal, turning to look at the young woman that joined him at his lonely table. He'd never seen her before, not in this tavern or even in his travels in the surround area and even though there was concern in her voice, he could think of only one reason for a strange woman to approach a man in a tavern. She wasn't dressed like a whore, her clothing wasn't loose enough and didn't display enough cleavage. So why was she here? A sudden fear of spies was sparked in his mind (the irony was he was here as a spymaster, come to collect information from his contacts).

"Pay no mind to old burned John" he continued, "I just be achin all day. When some young tavern girl comes with ale, I be doin better."

“I be glad to hear it.” Lillian replied, glad the old man didn’t seem to have hurt himself, but there still just seemed to be something off about him. She didn’t know what it was exactly that inspired this notion, but she assumed it meant he wasn’t quite as fine as he said he was. Old men did have a tendency to put up stubborn strong fronts after all.

“How did ye get all those burns?” Lillian asked with an almost puzzled look. Most people she’d heard who’d been caught in fires, usually died in them, or at least didn’t last long after. This man would have to have been made of rather strong stuff to have survived to such an old age, with burns so server they still had to be wrapped.

“If ye don’t mind me asking.” Lillian amended kindly in case he didn’t wish to speak of the incident. She still didn’t like talking about rape, but for the bare minuscule facts, and had never gone into detail to anyone, not even her rescuers. Not that he’d had to hear from her to know what had happened. A looted cart, a murdered step father next to it, and a young woman with clothes shredded and nearly ripped off completely, and beaten horribly along side the road painted quite a clear picture. She could understand quite clearly if he didn’t wish to speak of such a traumatic experience.

“I’m Lillian.” She offered with a kind enough smile. “I hope I’m not bothering ye John, but ‘twould appear I’ll be waiting here for some time, and ye seem as good a man as any to talk to.” And safe; she thought offhandedly. While she wasn’t afraid of men in general, Lillian wasn’t fool enough to sit at a table alone with this number of drunken men about. There appeared to be plenty of tavern whores in this particular establishment, but she didn’t feel like taking chances either.

"You need not worry about not partaking in drink with me, it is a serious transgression to give your fellow man strong drink, and I would not care for such a honorable man such as your self to be blemished by anything that I might do while drunken with ale or mead or anyother such drink," Lazarus smiled, glad to see honor in such a man. Many of the monkish habits that he had picked up while staying at the monestary had stuck with him through out the years. Refusal to let strong drink pass his lips being one of them.

"This 'hood', if you are a right and honorable man, you will not have any fear from him, if you are not and line your self with the tyrant king of this land, then perhaps you will have something to fear Quinn, but such an honorable knight such as your self would not sully your self with such a man, would you?" Lazarus was not fond of the king, nor was he of any other lord of the land. Though unlike this 'Hood' running about, Lazarus didn't really want to do anything about it. If some part of the local government wasted their time with him, he'd just pull up steaks and move on.

"Damnation" Cadfeal thought to himself, "This is not what I wanted to have happen."

All he wanted was for this young tavern girl to go away. He didn't know if she was new to the trade of whoring or just very good at it. Most would have given given a little speech, that went boiled down meant "do you want to bed me?" and when he didn't offer them a drink or take her upstairs for a romp, they would have left, looking for another patron for the night. It was a rare and skilled girl that could make you think she cared for you, made you feel good on more then just a physical level. Still, he wasn't looking for that right now, all he wanted as a tankard and to sit alone until his favorite girl in the place made her arrival at his table. However, he was in character tonight and John was a friendly fellow (for he had no way of making a living and required the good will of others to eat).

"It were a fire oh course" he said, "I apprenticed in a smithy. One night, me the old master smith was workin late and the forge caught fire. Being the first ta arrive, I ran inside like some fool hero, lookin for Old Nick. Some of 'm beams fell atop me and I caught fire, like I was some demon from well. Don't know how I got out but when I woke days later, I was all bandaged and aching somethin dreadful. Course that was an age ago and I can't rightly remember everythin like I used ta."

The story of John the Burned was true enough. Nearly thirty years ago, in a town north of the forest, there had been a blacksmith named Nick and he was teaching a lad named John when he forge caught fire. No one really knew if John had been trapped in the fire with his teacher, ran in to try and save him or set the fire after killing Old Nick but after that night, John wasn't seen again (and he was a local boy) and they only found a few bones in the ashes. Anything could have happened.

“Oh I’m sorry ta hear that.” Lillian said sincerely to John, as he told her his story. He seemed like a kind and friendly enough old man, and it saddened her to think someone’s future had been brought to such a violent end like that. She imagined there could have been an entirely different old man before her today if the fire hadn’t struck; strong, healthy, perhaps even with grown children of his own to teach and help care for him. And yet he did not appear bitter, he had undoubtedly worked through those feelings long ago, and she admired him for it.

“I’m sure ye would have made a fine smithy. Perhaps ye could always instruct a young lad or two on technique if ever yer in need of coin. My mother’s husband was a smithy, and he’d go through lads looking to apprentice often. They rarely stayed ‘round long though, after they realized how hard the work really was. He was a good smithy though, could make swords and everything. He even taught me a thing or two with the forge. I can’t make swords, or anything so intricate ye see, but I can shoe a horse and repair cracked armor nice and strong.” Lillian explained, hoping not to bore John overly much. The boys from her step father’s Provence in France had always been over excitable, and easily bored. None had stayed around long once they’d realized it would take years of training and hard work to achieve the skill necessary to make weapons. Her stepfather however, had been surprisingly patient and mellow for a Frenchman, and had gotten in somewhat of a routine with the lads, not wanting to distract from his work as he knew they’d be gone within the week, perhaps a fortnight tops.

Delia was about ten feet away from the two men who were supping together. She had heard the rolling, disguised voice of The Hood's right hand, and debated long enough with herself about who to see to first (if she left Cadfael long enough, someone else would get to him; but what if something good could be gleaned from the men?) that another young woman took a seat next to him. Gnawing her lip in frustration, she moved towards the two men, only to hear one of them declining anything to drink.

Delia rolled her eyes a bit and turned back on her heel, heading towards Cadfael in disguise and the woman who was practically petting his head. She pursed her lips a bit, then put on a buttery smile as she came to stand in front of the pair.

"Why, if t'isn't old John! Here to stir up trouble with me patrons, are ye? Old rascal. I'd advise ye keep yer distance, lass, he may play the injured kitten but he's quite the cad when 'is bound hands are free! So what'll ye have, John? Or is it straight to bed wiv ye an' the ale I already smell on ye?" Delia cocked one brow and balanced her empty tray on one ample hip, every ounce the tavern wench that any of her fellow girls could play.

"Oh no lass" said Cadfeal, "Old John never had the strength ta lift a smithin hammer, after ta fire, nor were I apprenticed long ta Old Nick. Me skills were too basic for me ta be teachin 'em young fellows nor could I have the art of teachin. And what was ye're father doin teachin a pretty young thing like ye ta work a forge for? "em lovely hands oh ye're should no burns from workin metals but should be holdin fine needle work."

It was then that rescue arrived. Before this strange woman could say more about her past or try to dig more into the history of "John the Burned", the yeoman's favorite tavern wench made an appearance. he might have leaped up from the table and kissed her, if such an act would have given away that he was only acting the old cripple. Instead he laughed softly, like a man who old bag of tricks had been laid bare by an old friend and now knew that his attempts at wooing a maid were at an end (and he wasn't considering clobbering the aforementioned friend).

"I only had a few cups" Cadfeal protested as he stood up, the laughter still on his lips, "Though the good beds of the inn do be soundin fine. Mayhaps ye could lead me ta one ah the empty rooms? Then bring a mug ah good ale and some stew? I had a wanderin father give me ah hold silver penny taday. That should extend the keep's generosity for a while yet."

"Oh, ye ould rascal," Delia tsked and shook her head, taking the 'old man's' arm and helping him to his feet like a patient nurse. She gave the girl a sigh and another shake of her head as she worked an arm around the bent waist of the problem patron. "Count yer blessings that ye've not been talked into 'elpin' 'im to his 'horse outside,' lass. The last girlie he talked into 'elpin' 'im won't come within a stone's throw of this place these days. Were it not for the law of charity, we'd not let 'im come an' bother us no more. But alas, we be bound by a higher good. Come along then, an' bring yer silver penny with ye!"

"Rachel! Will ye bring about a bowl 'o stew for the lass here? Thank'ee, thank'ee," Delia called to one of her fellow serving girls as she reloaded her tray and guided the crippled old blacksmith apprentice towards the stairs. She nudged two drunks out of the way, shooting them playfully reproachful looks as they gave her pinches in return. Then she wound her way up the rickety stairs, past a few doors with varying scratches and holes carved into them, dark patches of wood where candles had burned too close, and leftover daggers and scraps of paper wedged into the walls.

At last, she came to a door whose room housed a particular window; it opened onto the back door, which faced the forest. She led the hobbling man inside, and busied herself arranging the tray, the drink and the stew on a small table next to the door. "Are ye greaty wearied, Old John? Or did ye have a bit of energy left in yer old bones for a talk?"

So it always was when the man with the eyepatch visited; Delia treated him as whatever guise he came wearing until he had initiated anything different.