This is episode forty-three of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD. If you would like to purchase From Here To 1137 AD, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback.
Two Mugs Of Wassail
Sleet darted down from the dark gray skies over Scarborough harbor and blew across the deck of the sixty-five-foot cog named The Frideswide. Tom walked on a solid oak plank from The Frideswide onto a wet wooden dock. Dressed for the weather, he wore a green hooded cape to cover his shoulders, a thick green wool coat, a red wool shirt, and brown pants. A tightly rolled canvas tent was tied to his back by leather ties that wrapped around his shoulders. He looked around the harbor’s street and buildings. Few people were outside.
He spotted a tavern and walked in. It was there that he planned on planting a story and a seed that he hoped would reach Morpeth before him.
Candles dimly lit the tavern. In the middle of the room, a hearth of glowing coals heated the room. A half dozen shabby men huddled in pairs, speaking in low voices.
Tom stepped to the bar. A heavily dressed rustic man, whom Tom assumed to be the proprietor, stood in front of him on the other side of the bar.
The man said nothing.
“They say this place has the finest caudle in Scarborough,” Tom said.
“I fear not, my friend,” he smiled. “It is the finest wassail that we serve.”
Tom smiled. “Then my ears or who I heard it from deceived me.”
“A mug of wassail for a good man,” he said.
The man left the room and returned with a wooden mug filled with wassail.
Tom sipped the warm mixture. “Ah, this is the finest I’ve ever had.”
“Where do you come from, friend?” he asked.
“South, but I traveled to Normandy with King Stephen and served him there. I was paid my wages by Baron Morley, and now I’m on my way to Morpeth to join up with my uncle’s family.”
“And what does your uncle do on Morpeth?” the man asked.
“The last I knew of him, he was a farmer, a free man. Also a wool merchant.”
“He seems to be successful,” the man said.
“He is dead,” Tom said.
The man stiffened and stood straight. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I am going there to help his son, my cousin. But also, I will go to avenge my uncle’s murder.”
“He was killed?” the man said.
“By the sword of a Count, named Drake Bouchard.”
The room fell silent except for two men sitting closest to the door. The others leaned their ears to hear more.
Tom sensed the silence. He read the expression on the bartender’s face. It indicated the comments had gathered the attention of the room.
“Have you heard of him?” Tom said.
“Possibly,” the bartender said coyly.
A slight-looking man who looked as if he might be a sailor strolled from his chair to the bar. “I may have heard tell of the man, my friend.”
Tom cocked his head and clicked his cheek. “Well, there you have it, a ‘possibly’ and a ‘may.’ That adds up to a ‘precise.’”
“He’s a count,” the bartender said, “One must be careful what one says about such a man.” And he made a slit of the throat sign with his thumb.
“I wish not to put anyone in harm’s way,” Tom said apologetically. “You asked about my business, and I’m forward about it. I have nothing to hide. My intentions are clear.”
“I’ll pray for you,” the sailor said.
“Thank you, kind sir,” Tom said.
A man from one of the seats laughed heartily, “Ha, he’d slit your throat quicker than the count and sell your innards at the shambles.”
Everyone broke out into uproarious laughter.
Tom sipped his wassail as the men returned to their conversations. He listened.
“How far to Morpeth?” Tom said to the room of men.
“If you’re a brisk walker, five days,” one man said.
“I am,” Tom said. “I was a courier for King Stephen.”
“Exactly what did you do?” A man asked.
“I had to deliver correspondence and sometimes battle plans to King Stephen’s commanders.”
“Did you ever kill a man in battle?” A man asked as if interested in a gory tale.
“I carried neither sword, lance, nor bow,” Tom said. “I had to move swiftly and carried nothing that would encumber me.”
Tom sipped the wassail again.
“Aye!” One man lifted his mug as did the rest. “It is a brave lad who does such a thing. I knew a few couriers. I was with Henry, the Battle of Tinchebray.”
They drank.
Tom lifted his mug. “To the brave men at Tinchebray.”
Everyone lifted their mugs and drank.
The man from the Battle of Tinchelbray came to the bar and stood next to Tom.
“I have heard of Morpeth,” the man said. “It has a reputation for many deaths. Men have been murdered there more than common. From here, walk west. In an hour, you should reach a road that goes north. It’s called the Scalby Road. There is a road that goes further north to Middlesbrough. That is as far as I can help.”
Tom already knew the directions to Morpeth. He had to appear unfamiliar.
“Thank you, my friend,” Tom said.
Tom slowly sipped the wassail and had another one. He listened to the men talk about their lives. He was younger than they were. And they treated him with the same indifference as the farmers back home. He grinned and thought, ‘It takes a while before the herd accepts you.’
The sleet ended, and the sun made its way through the clouds.
“Thank you for your kindness and hospitality,” Tom said. He removed two farthings from a leather purse and tossed them on the bar. “I must be on my way and find the Scalby Road.”
“God be with you,” one man said. And all chimed in, “Here, here.”
As Tom grabbed the handle to the door, a man stood. “If you are not a swordsman, a lancer, or a bowman, how are you going to exact revenge on your uncle? It is said that Count Drake Bouchard may be one of the finest swordsmen in England.”
“I don’t know,” Tom smiled. “I have a long walk ahead of me. I have plenty of time to think it over.”\
Tom waved. He hoisted his bedroll on his back and ducked through the doorway.
Standing just outside the door, he heard one man say, “The long journey may offer him enough time to change his mind.”
Then Tom heard the voice of the bartender. “I know determination. He will meet with the Count.”
Another man said, “And if we hear of the Count’s end, we shall raise our mugs and drink to that young man.”
“Did you ask his name?”
Tom walked away from the door and looked up at the clearing sky. He began walking west.
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