As Callan warily approached, the savory aroma of a hearth-cooked meal wafted through the air, banishing the worry, enticing him to step inside.
The inn, with its sturdy timber frame and a thatched roof, promised respite from the rain.
Pushing open the battered wooden door, a chorus of livelychatter and the crackling of logs in the hearth greeted Callan. The inn’s common room bustled with peasants, merchants, and a few traveling nobles, faces illuminated by the flickering candlelight.
A portly innkeeper, apron stained with the marks of countless meals, looked up from the counter as Callan entered, dripping on the floor.
“Ah, a weary traveler, and a Scot at that,” he exclaimed, eyes narrowing in a shrewd, but welcoming manner.
“If you mean us no harm, then come warm yourself by the fire, man.”
Grateful for the prospect of shelter and a hot meal, Callan nodded.
“I am merely passing through,” he replied, the soft burr rolling across the room.
The innkeeper gave a brief nod and poured him a cup of ale.
“I’ll bring you something hot to eat.”
Callan laid a few coins on the scarred wood counter. “And a bed if ye have one.”
As he took a seat by the fire, his back to the wall, another man entered, a merchant by the looks of him.
After conversing with the innkeeper, the man made his way over to Callan and the only other empty stool.
A middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard, he wore the signs of a seasoned traveler—dust-covered boots, a well-worn cloak, and eyes that held the stories of countless roads traveled.
“Mind if I join you?” the man asked, a twinkle in his eye.
Callan nodded, gesturing to the empty stool opposite him, steam rising from his plaid as he sat close to the fire.
“Aye, if it does not bother ye to sit with a Scot.”
The man shrugged. “We are both here to get out of the rain and partake of a hot meal, are we not?”
When Callan nodded, the man introduced himself as Eamon, a merchant who traveled the lands, trading goods, and gossip.
Eamon loved to talk, and shared many stories as they sat before the fire, enjoying a hearty stew accompanied by a loaf of freshly baked bread. The aroma alone was enough to make his stomach growl in anticipation. Callan carefully picked the small pebbles out of the dark bread so he would not break a tooth.
The merchant was relaxed, elbows on the table, as he spoke of distant lands, bustling markets, and encounters with odd characters on the road.
As the night wore on, the room filled with smoke from the fire, the scent of unwashed bodies, and the smell of ale spilled on the floor that had soaked into the wooden floor over the years.
Belly full, Callan stood. “I will take my leave of ye. I bid ye a good night.”
Eamon, mouth full of stew, waved a hand at him.
Upstairs, Callan entered a small room. The pallet was clean, the room fresh-smelling with the air coming in from an open window. He took a deep breath, appreciating the simple luxury of a bed and a full belly after many long days on the road.
A serving wench had brought a basin of water, a bit of rough soap, and a small rag for him to wash.
Before he undressed, there was a knock. The serving woman had returned.
“Shall I wash your shirt and clean your boots? They will be ready by the morn,” she said with a small smile.
Callan pulled the still damp linen shirt over his head andhanded it to her, along with his boots, as bits of dried mud hit the stone floor.
“I thank ye, mistress.”
