My Tavern Was Bankrupt Until A Broken Fugitive Begged For A Room — Then The King’s Guard Arrived
Part 1
Grease permanently stained the cuffs of my apron, carrying the heavy scent of burnt rye and sour cider.
I was tallying sticky copper coins when a man darkened my doorway, dripping freezing mud onto my warped floorboards.
He wore a ruined cashmere coat smelling of crushed lavender and sheer hollow desperation.
Lowering his bruised face, he quietly begged for my dankest cellar cot.
Instead, driven by a dormant spiteful pity, I handed this broken aristocrat the key to my finest room.
It was past midnight when the hearth fire had burned down to a sullen orange eye, casting long wavering shadows against the plaster walls of my tavern.
The wind outside howled a low sustained whistle that rattled the warped windowpanes.
I paused my scrubbing, dragging the back of my forearm across my forehead.
I told him the kitchen was closed, my voice raspy from inhaling smoke all evening.
He replied that he required a room, his voice low and raw at the edges.
He asked for the cheapest room I had, suggesting a cellar cot or a corner in the stables.
I finally looked up.
He stood just inside the threshold, water pooling around his custom-stitched calfskin boots.
The coat he wore was dark navy wool, heavy and sodden, clinging to a broad frame that seemed to be actively folding in on itself.
He was shivering, though he tried to mask it by clenching his jaw.
He didn’t look like a vagrant, he looked like old money that had been thrown out a high window.
I informed him I didn’t rent the stables to people and that the cellar was flooded.
I demanded to know if he had coin, or if he was just tracking mud onto my floors for the sport of it.
The man reached into his coat with trembling fingers.
He simply withdrew a leather coin purse and placed a single silver piece on the scarred wood.
It was a royal mint stamped with the king’s profile, enough to buy my inn for a month.
I snatched the silver piece off the counter, feeling its cold weight in my palm.
I pulled down a heavy brass key and tossed it onto the counter.
I warned him not to bleed on the linens and threatened to keep his boots if he vomited and missed the chamber pot.
He simply took the key, his fingers brushing the wood, and turned toward the stairs.
His name, he finally offered on the second day, was Greg.
He was atrocious at chopping wood, swinging the heavy iron axe like it was a broadsword.
I stepped forward and held out my hand, demanding the axe.
As our fingers brushed, I noticed his decimated palms.
Blisters had formed, popped, and bled into raw red circles, yet he hadn’t said a word about it.
I ordered him to go wash his hands, snapping sharper than I intended to hide my sudden guilt.
He looked at me, his gaze dropping to my own calloused, rough hands, permanently scarred from burns and cuts.
He slowly lowered his arms and thanked me.
Before I could form a biting retort, the sound of heavy hooves and jingling harnesses drifted from the front of the inn.
Standing in the center of my taproom was Craig.
Craig was the local magistrate’s son, draped in a ridiculous velvet cloak and smelling of cheap wine and stale cloves.
Two armed guards stood by the door.
He sneered, reminding me I missed my quarterly tax payment, and demanded ten silver.
He reached out his gloved fingers, clamping down hard on my wrist with a vice-like grip.
He threatened to collateralize my inn.
I was calculating my odds of driving a kitchen knife into his thigh when a voice cut through the room.
The words were spoken softly, carrying an absolute undeniable authority that froze the air in the room.
Greg was standing in the archway of the kitchen, his posture entirely changed.
His shoulders were pulled back, his chin elevated.
He looked at Craig not with anger, but with the cold bored disgust of a man stepping on a roach.
He threatened to have the provincial governor reassign Craig to a desolate border outpost.
Craig opened his mouth, closed it, and looked at Greg’s eyes, the color draining from his face.
He promised to return on the fifteenth and fled.
Silence descended again, heavy and thick.
Greg let out a slow breath, his rigid posture deflating slightly, and turned to me offering a small reassuring nod.
I hissed at him, vibrating with rage, telling him he just painted a target on my back.
He thought he was saving me, but I knew he just guaranteed Craig would come back with a torch.
The tavern door kicked open with a deafening crack, and two heavily armored King’s Guard stepped inside, their swords drawn as they demanded the fugitive I was hiding.
