I just hoped that I could get to Elin in time, for her well-being would not be measured by my intentions.
We covered good ground the next morning, confirming another sighting of a man with an enclosed carriage and scrape marks on the side. But by afternoon our pursuit was slowed by rain. The roads were soon nothing but mud. And though the sun, somewhere behind the clouds, was not yet gone from the sky, we had to stop at an inn to wait out the water and dry off.
The inn was nothing more than a private home that had turned its hall into an alehouse. A crude establishment—wooden sign flapping in its iron bracket, smoke from a central open fireplace filling the room and filtering toward a hole in the ceiling—that had become overcrowded with people and travelers trying to avoid the weather. Fiddlers played in the corner, hats set out for coins. Otto carried two chairs to a small opening near the round stone hearth. We’d no sooner sat down than the alewife came over.
By then, I was bedraggled from traveling and a night spent on the floor, and the woman eyed me carefully. Deciding, it seemed, that I deserved little attention, she leaned toward Otto and offered a knowing smile. “Aren’t you a sorry sight.” She reached out and flicked his wet shoulder with a fingernail.
“Good eve,” he replied evenly. “We’re looking for a man, blond hair, fine dress, with a woman more blond than he. Have they come through this establishment?”
The woman leaned closer. “What do you fancy tonight?”
“Two ales,” I interjected, eyeing the woman as she had eyed me. She was short and wide, though not stout, her body giving the impression of having been, at some point, flattened. I tried to flatten her further with my stare.
“That all?” she said to Otto, as if it had been he who ordered. She reached her hand toward his face, waiting.
“That’s all,” he said, gruffly, no small amount of derision in his voice. The hand hovered, then fell.
“Otto, she will not give us any answers unless you give her some coin.” I sighed, after she had turned away, heading to the buttery to fetch our drinks. I looked at him, his face still stony. “Must you be so disagreeable? She might have told us what she’d seen.”
“I am only disagreeable when I disagree.”
In spite of myself, I laughed. I looked around at the room. Many patrons were red with drink, others well on their way. In the corner, one of the fiddlers played while the other clapped along. A couple nearby shared a pipe. “I think the ale will be better here than the beer last night.”
And I was right: When the alewife brought two cups over, they tasted fine.
“Are you staying here?” she asked, curtly. “We have only one room left.”
Otto reached into his pocket and placed two coins—enough for our drinks and then some—onto the small table we sat next to. Then he stacked three more on top. “The lady will take the room.”
“The lady,” the alewife repeated. She used an extended finger to slide each coin off the edge of the table into the cup of her waiting hand. “Haven’t seen the people you asked about. You’ll take the first door upstairs on the right.” She straightened and winked at Otto. “Hope you and the lady enjoy the room.”
When she’d left, Otto turned to me, lips pursed. “This is what happens when you won’t say you are my wife.”
“She did not even ask,” I protested. “And I’ve been a wife. It invites a whole other set of problems.”
He nodded.
“And thank you for the ale, and the room—I will repay you. When I can.”
“All right,” he said, but I had the feeling he was only agreeing to avoid argument. We fell into one of our now-familiar silences, each drinking our ale and staring into the forked tongues of the fire. With the passing minutes, some of the wetness lifted from our clothes. And I felt increasingly comforted by the sounds and smells of the tavern. The sweet scent of spirits. The sticky feel of spilled beer. Something was cooking, and it smelled like home—not my home, but a home, somewhere that people kept warm and ate meals together. Unmarried women did not get to spend time in ale halls. This strange journey with Otto, this rest stop, was a brief opportunity to slip in unnoticed. Even if the barmaid thought I was an immoral strumpet.
“I would like to better understand you,” Otto said, suddenly.
I glanced over at him. The Otto sitting by the fire, boots on the floor, sprawled in his chair, was a different person than the formal and serious man I had observed at court. I smirked. “You mean outside of what you’ve learned from spying on me.”
“Yes.” He nodded, equably. “Outside of that.”
“Well, you go first.”
“I told you my story.”
“No—tell me what you learned from spying on me.” Embarrassed at what he might have seen, I twisted away to survey the room. Across from me, a man drained his tankard and belched. I shook my head. “I have not been in a tavern for some time.”
“Besides market day when you talked to Finnian Enright?”
I turned back to Otto and raised an eyebrow. “Well, that is as good a starting place as any. What else have you learned?”
He tilted his head, considering. He was still relaxed in his chair, unperturbed by my questions. “You have a lot of apples.”
