“Nae, I must be on my way.”
“Expected somewhere, are you?” The innkeeper picked up his towel, resuming his task of tankard polishing. “Not much out there, back beyond Spaniards.”
He glanced at Lucian as he rubbed a shine onto a pewter tankard. “Bogland and old sandpit ponds, is about it.”
“Aye, well…” Lucian finished his ale, then looked across the taproom, studying the men at the tables, and a small group throwing darts in a corner.
He turned back to the innkeeper. “If Alan Steckles is one of thon gentlemen, I needn’t travel any farther. Is he here?”
“Alan was in, earlier. Brought milk, butter, and eggs, as he does, but he’s gone now.” The innkeeper lifted a brow. “He’s not in trouble?”
“Nae, no’ at all.” Lucian threw a glance at the rattling windows, not surprised to see the clouds darkening. “I’ve heard he’s a fine woodcarver and I have need of one,” he said, sure the gods would forgive him the twist of the truth.
Lady Melissa’s business was hers, and no one else’s.
“That he is.” The innkeeper smiled. “So you’ve not met him?”
“Nae.” Lucian shook his head. “I’d hoped to catch him here. It seemed easier. Word was I’d find his cottage by watching out for his pet badger.”
To his surprise, the innkeeper’s lips twitched. “Who told you that?”
“The friend who recommended him,” Lucian said, not missing that the entire public room had again gone silent. “Is there no such a pet then?”
“Oh, he has a badger, right enough. I’m not sure I’d call him a pet, though.”
Lucian angled his head, his ears catching a strange sound from behind him in the taproom.
A noise that could’ve been muffled sniggers.
He frowned and turned around, eyeing the men at the tables. They stared back at him, looking innocent. The few who didn’t meet his gaze were applying all their energy to meat pies or bowls of steaming chicken or potato soup.
The two serving wenches avoided his eyes.
They were also blushing, their cheeks almost as red as the cheery fire on the hearth grate.
Lucian knew when something was up. “So his badger bites, eh?”
His question earned gales of laughter from nearly everyone present. Only the innkeeper struggled to keep a straight face.
“That would be something,” the man said, shaking his head. “I’ve never heard of the beast hurting anyone.”
More laughter.
Lucian decided to leave. But before he did, he wanted clarity.
So he drew himself to his full height – which he suspected was a good deal taller than most men present – and assumed an earnest expression, which wasn’t easy with so many men dashing at a laugh tears.
“Steckles’ Frogbottom is no’ far from this inn, is that correct?” he asked of the innkeeper. “Down the road I saw winding back beyond your courtyard?”
“That’s the way.” The innkeeper nodded. “Just follow that road past a few sandpit ponds till you reach the largest. That’s where-”
“Steckles’ badger guards his bloody gate,” someone called from near the hearth fire. “You’ll see him, for sure.”
“So it seems.” Lucian nodded to the man and made for the door, almost glad for the cold wind that tore at his cloak and made his eyes burn, the moment he stepped out the inn’s door.
“A pet badger as a guard dog,” he muttered as he waited for a stable lad to fetch his horse.
The English were an odd bunch, indeed.
