*

I decided to follow the road from the bridge, assuming that would form the main street through the village. The houses I passed were unsurprisingly but pleasantly parochial, with long thatched roofs that almost reached the ground. The distinct flicker of candlelight could be seen in most windows, suggesting few could afford oil for lamps. I snuffed my own, trying to limit just how greatly I stood apart from the people of Drekenford, though their young sentry had already taken the measure of me.

I came to understand the warden of St Leonars’ difficulty in categorising Drekenford as either town or village. By northern standards it was indeed small, but as I came to a wide, well-appointed square I had the altogether unexpected impression of neat prosperity. The cobbles were free of weeds or moss, and boxes of late-summer flowers still had some bloom left in them. These were not just in the street but up the walls and in the windows of the taller buildings too. A fountain stood a few feet from me, a girl reading that made for a kind of monument, but most of its lettering worn away.

A busy little market was at the far end of the square and accounted for the crowds of people gathered under awnings, sitting on benches, and ambling between stalls and shops. It also accounted for the overwhelming smell of salted bread and spiced apple. I briefly considered buying a loaf for Alexsander, by way of a small reconciliation, but there was more than enough time for that. Instead I made for a large, slate-roofed building that spilled both light and laughter into the street in the manner of inns and ale houses the world over. The Horse and Hound, though the hound was curiously absent from the sign’s picture. An alley led to the stables at the rear.

‘Put her in there,’ said a woman before I could even introduce myself. She wiped her brow and went back to mucking out the stalls.

‘I would like a room,’ I said.

‘Not out here you wouldn’t. Mrs Lehner inside will see you right.’

With Tabitha stabled, I climbed the short stairs and entered the inn from the rear. Dark wood panelled the walls of a corridor, adorned by a line of horse brasses. These were of the typical kind and design, though I noted a striking number of royal sigils among their number. I had not expected a great deal of love for the King from the people of Drekenford. A short, balding man pushed past me either on his way to the stables or, judging by the manner in which he carried himself, to the privy.

The common room was full, every table occupied and many small groups standing at its edges. Spurts of laughter were the only thing to break the loud, constant conversation. The large hearth was empty, though the room was plenty warm and lit well enough – candles, I noticed. The horse brasses continued and were joined by other brass items I could only assume had some farming or logging function. I had to duck under one such funnelled object as I entered; I didn’t count myself as a tall man, but perhaps this far south I was unusually so.