July 1276, Unseasonable Rain & Fog
Ale mug in hand, Watley studied the scowling woman as he approached.
Watley requested a second mug of ale for himself, and studied the scowling woman from whom he must gain a kiss.
She appeared unhappy and angry. Her clothing was made of rich materials but showed excessive wear. He also saw no indication of any companion or escort. Were she noble, she would have both. Obviously, she was a common woman, but of what sort?
Assuredly not a serf. They did not travel. If she were a serf she would be local and most likely could not afford to buy ale in a tavern. Even one as obscure as the Pig & Pipe.
She might be a tradeswoman, and alewife perhaps. Such a female might travel on her own, though safety concerns made that less than likely. In addition, the condition of the clothing did not fit with a woman inclined to any industry.
Not a woman of the gentry, certainly. Women of that stamp would not travel alone. If not accompanying a husband or other male relative, a goodwife would travel with a caravan of some sort. Yet, the wear and tear evident in her attire fit with a woman of less than gentle birth. The cut and material of the dress and the cloak, thrown over a nearby chair, would belong only to a noblewoman.
Most likely, she’d once been leman to a nobleman or rich merchant protector who for whatever reason no longer offered his patronage.
Watley nodded to himself. Then ale mugs in hand, he set off in her direction. Yes, a fallen woman fallen on harder times fit the evidence of his eyes. However, if he’d learned one thing from his few years as Sir Haven de Sessions’ squire it was to not trust appearances. Best not assume too much.
“Good even, Mistress,” he addressed her politely, when he at last stood beside her chair. “The serving wench asked me to bring this to you.”
The ebon-haired woman took in his appearance with a short glance then raised a brow. “Why would she do that? Surely she would not trust a stranger to collect the coin needed to pay for the ale?”
“Perhaps I am not a stranger,” he smiled.
“Heh,” she scoffed. “Your speech is that of a southern Englishman, and you are squire to yon knight, who is failing to appear inconspicuous in such an obscure place as this tavern and village.” She gestured toward the table where Sir de Sessions now spoke with the serving maid.
Watley issued a small sigh. “You are very observant. My master and I have been long on our travels and I would seek gentler company for a time. May I sit with you?”
She shrugged. “I’ll still not pay you for the ale.”
He placed an ale mug in front of her then sat opposite. “You need not bother. The ale is paid for.”
Both brows rose. “What do you expect in return for your largess?” she sneered.
“Naught but a few moments conversation with an intriguing woman.”
And perhaps a short walk in the moonlight now that the rain is stopping.
He’d approach that request later. At present he must soothe the woman into believing he offered no threat.
“You insult my intelligence.”
“’Tis an insult to bring a fellow traveler ale and friendliness?”
“I am not stupid. You bring me ale, think me intriguing, and praise my ability to observe? Young man, you want something more than conversation.” She gulped some ale. Lowering her mug, she gripped it with both hands.
“Ah, ‘tis a sad circumstance when innocent actions are taken with such suspicion.”
“Sad? Perhaps, but true nonetheless. What is it you want of me?”
Deciding they had parried enough he pursued a different topic. “What is a Welshwoman doing in the tavern of an English border village?” He sipped at his ale.
Her smile did not reach her eyes. “The same as you, I expect. Taking shelter from the rain and a warm spot by the fire for a night.”
Had Watley been at court he would know the reference to a night of warmth for the invitation to couple that was meant to be. However, they were far from court, and he was beginning to revise his estimate of the Welshwoman. She was indeed, fallen on hard times in some way. However, she spoke like a noble woman and was wise or experience enough to understand the predatory nature of men in regard to the fairer sex.
“All God’s creatures seek warmth and shelter. Can we not converse and pursue warmth of spirit as well as physical warmth?”
She barked a laugh. “You’re a persistent churl. Fine, let us converse, but know you I’ll yield nothing more than conversation. To be clear. I’ll not sin with you, sir squire, nor with any other person.”
He frowned in mock-disappointment. “I am no churl and would offer no such insult as to assault your person.”
“Really? What do you offer in exchange for this warmth of the spirit you claim to seek?”
Her eyes gleamed and she raised her mug too late to hide a satisfied smile.
Watley had wondered earlier if he was courting trouble. Now he was certain. The woman was trouble personified. Was winning a wager worth the risk of attempting to gain a kiss from her?