"Rebels!" another man scoffed. "Eejits and fools is what they are. They paint the rest of us with a bad name, they do, and I cannae believe they cannae just let an old dream die."
"Let it die?"
The new voice was from the table next to theirs. Maeve, it seemed, had not been the only one who was listening. She spied the man who had spoken. He was older, in his late fifties if she had to guess, with a bushy gray beard and equally bushy long hair. His eyes were black as coal, and his shoulders so broad that he reminded Maeve of a painting she'd once seen of an ancient god. But there was nothing divine about this figure, who sat huddled in an oversized cloak and was clearly so drunk that he could barely keep his back straight.
She'd seen his type before; the sad, older drunks who had nothing in their lives but the alcohol. She knew that Bill ridiculed them, but she couldn't. What was this man's story, she wondered? What had led him to view life through the bottom of a tankard rather than with his own two eyes? She shivered, wondering at how easy it might have been for a good man to lose everything. She knew that better than anyone.
"The False King," the drunkard spat, his voice at a raised volume that carried not only to the whispering men but to the tables beyond. "He sits on a throne of lies and blood, and ye're all cowards who act like he's where he should be. I dinnae bow or simper at his feet. Nae me. Nae mine."
One of the travelers laughed. "Shut yer mouth, old man. What do ye ken of it?"
The man's dark eyes seemed to gain a surprising amount of focus for a moment as he regarded the speaker. "I ken more than ye do, I'll bet."
Just then, the front door opened and Bill entered, looking very angry about something. His eyes found Maeve, and he gave her a smile that was not at all warm or appealing. Maeve found herself shrinking back into herself.
The tavern owner approached Maeve and leaned down next to her ear. He'd obviously been drinking elsewhere even before arriving, because alcohol fumes bounced unpleasantly from his hot, sticky breath. "Ye look darlin' in that red skirt," he told her. "I'd love tae see what it's hidin' below."
"I'm busy, Bill," she said quietly. She'd learned in the last two months that ignoring such comments was the best way to make him go away, even though they made her pulse quicken with fear and disgust. Usually, he wasn't so forward, but when he had a drink in him, he truly scared her.
Bill laughed, a horrible hiccuping laugh that showed he was barely aware of himself. "This ismetavern that keeps ye so busy, remember that. I'm just back from the brothel, lass. They're the real hardworkin' women. Ye'll learnbusywhen ye've been on yer back for me and nae before."
Maeve balled her hands into fists and forced herself to keep her eyes trained on the table she was still cleaning, even though it had been completely polished by now. She tried not to let any of her revulsion or fear show on her face. When Bill realized she wasn't going to react, he shrugged and stumbled off into the back room, no doubt to look for more alcohol. His apprentice, Gordon, who had been running the place in Bill's absence and now stood behind the bar, caught Maeve's eye, but did not act or offer any comfort. He never did. He obviously hated seeing what his boss was doing, but he was a coward. Many men were, beneath it all, as Maeve had learned the hard way.
Shaking her head to try to dislodge the unpleasantness, she gathered her cloth and moved to the next table. The drunkard was still ranting about the False King and how he would never give in to tyranny. Most were ignoring him; some were laughing, though, and others looked angry. It seemed nobody but Gordon had noticed what had gone on with Bill.
The original traveler that the drunkard had been arguing with spoke up again. "Old man, shut yer mouth before ye lose yer head. Or have all of us lose ours."
The drunkard snorted. "What use is a head for a chicken like yerself?" he asked. "When the prince is ready tae take his place, and the McNairs return tae power, ye'll remember who we are as a people."
Bill walked back out during this little speech, and after listening for a moment, approached the drunkard and smacked him hard across the back of the head. "Take yer nonsense elsewhere," he shouted over the general laughter and jeering from several other patrons. "Stay and drink or leave, but nae another word out of ye about dead princes."
"Hear hear!" the traveler said, and a few of the patrons laughed.
The drunkard didn't even react to the hit. He simply fell silent and reached for his tankard, taking a long drink and saying nothing else for now.
Maeve watched as Bill slunk off, and only when he was gone did she approach the drunkard. She leaned over and whispered, "Sir? Are ye all right?"
The drunkard gave her a look from the side of his eye, and Maeve was suddenly struck by how focused his gaze was. She began to wonder just how lost in his cups this man really was. However, a second later, it was gone, and his eyes became unfocused, his voice slurred.
"Just fine, lassie, just fine," he said. "Be a dear and bring me an ale, aye?"
* * *
It was the wee hours of the morning by the time the tavern was almost empty. Gordon had gone home for the night, and most of the patrons had left, apart from a single straggler — the drunkard who had been ranting about lost princes and kings. Maeve took her time collecting the empty tankards and cleaning down the tables, trying to avoid the moment she'd have to enter the back room, but soon enough, there was no other excuse to linger.
She carried the heavy tray laden with glasses into the kitchen and set about washing them one by one, methodically scrubbing in the lukewarm soapy water, hoping to get the task done well but quickly before Bill caught her alone.
But her hope was not to be. There was a thud as the kitchen door slammed open and a shadow fell across her back. Maeve was exhausted from a long night of work, and she couldn't react quickly enough to slip away when she felt his hands settle on either side of her waist.
His hot breath still scorched with the power of alcohol as he leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "It's time tae finish what we started."
"Get off me, Bill," she demanded, shaking him off as best she could. Suddenly, he lurched forward and grabbed her upper arms painfully, spinning her around in place and dragging her into a forceful, disgusting kiss. His tongue pushed her lips apart, and Maeve struggled against him as he pressed her back against the sink.
At last, she was able to aim a kick hard against his shin. He yelped, pushing her away so hard that she staggered to the side and fell to the ground. He growled, a madness in his eyes as he stood over her.
"It's time ye earned yer keep," he told her.
Maeve struggled to her feet, ready to fight. She'd been helpless too much in this life, beaten by her father, sold to her husband, locked in a dungeon to die. She couldn't just let this happen to her, not now. Not when freedom had been so close to her at last.
