Location: A Tavern on the Western edge of England’s border with the Debatable lands 

Date: Summer, 1275 

Stefan Alwin winked at pretty Betty Fielding as she whisked herself out the door with the pottage she’d come for. Her da was ailing, and Betty would say herself she was useless in a kitchen as a stone was for baiting a hook. 

“Aye she’s a lovely lass that one,” mused Bart the miller. 

Stefan nodded his agreement as he polished the curly maple surface he called a bar. “And she’s eyes only for Mort the smithy’s son.” 

“’Twould be a service to us all if they married soon. Then we single men could move on to admiring other pretty women.” Bart announced to the room then sipped at his ale. A number of the village men nodded agreement. 

“Well, they’ll not wed until her sister Linna is wed first.” Stefan remarked. 

The copper cup holding Bart’s ale thumped to the counter. “Y’ don’t say. How’d y’ come by that bit o news.” 

Stefan shrugged. “Mort told me, when he was bemoaning the fact that Betty would not set a date. ’Tis no secret that old Mr. Fielding will not let the younger daughter wed afore the older. Says it would be an insult to Linna, if her younger sister--younger by six years mind you--spoke vows first.” 

“More like old Fielding wants t’ keep both his girls at home, so as not to have to pay for a servant,” called a voice from the far dark corner of the large room. 

Stefan had turned his back to pour an ale for a stranger who’d signaled from the table where he sat. 

The tavern door squealed open. 

I really need to fix that. But it’s a two-man job, and the smithy still hasn’t delivered the hinges I ordered last week. 

“And ‘tis also common knowledge,” Bart lifted his voice so all could hear. “That lovely as Linna is, she’d nag a man to death afore they’d been wed a year. She’s a beauty like Betty but has the temperament of a cornered badger.” 

The room went silent as Stefan faced the room, intending to deliver the drink, but stopped in his tracks. 

A fuming Linna Fielding stood framed in the doorway. “Y’ll repeat that to my face, Bart Miller, or are y' too much of a coward?” 

Bart choked on the ale he’d swallowed after stating his opinion too loudly. 

Linna strode across the room. Her hips moving in a sway that no man could resist watching. She stopped, bent at the waist and placed her nose a finger’s length from Bart’s. “I dare you to say that again.” 

Lord that woman’s magnificent.