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​​​​​Mud swallowed the roads outside the King’s Arms while smoke drifted thick beneath the tavern rafters, clinging to wet coats, damp straw, and the smell of spilled ale.

Thomas followed his mother through the doorway, both soaked from the road and carrying business neither truly wished to attend.

“Go on Thomas… let the steward know who you are. You’re taking thy father’s tenure at Hall Green.”

The warmth inside did little to comfort him.

The tavern breathed with noise, argument, and the sharp stench of urine-soaked straw and rotting food scattered across the muddy floor. A drunkard slumped face down across a bench clutching the remains of his ale while another stumbled through the room carrying a waste bucket, spilling more upon the ground than remained inside it.

A group of farmers near the fire laughed louder than the jokes deserved, glancing over their shoulders whenever the door opened. Across the room, a thin man with a scarred cheek never touched his ale, his eyes moving constantly between the gamblers and the steward.

The shutters were drawn tight against the night air, trapping layers of smoke beneath the low ceiling. 

Each time the door opened, conversation faltered for a heartbeat. Several men looked up before lowering their eyes once more to their jacks.

Most of the light came from the fire.

The rest flickered uncertainly from grease lamps and tallow candles hanging above the gamblers crowded around rough wooden tables.

Serving wenches moved constantly between the drinkers, replacing empty jacks with full ones before disappearing upstairs with whichever patron had enough coin left to purchase more than ale.

Thomas tried not to stare.

But the room seemed filled with things his mother had spent years warning him about.

At one table sat two strangers unlike the rest of the patrons.

Both wore dark slouch hats that shadowed their faces beneath the candlelight. One carried himself with the confidence of a man accustomed to violence, his sword resting close beside him while a black eye patch gave him the appearance of someone who had survived more than most.

His companion looked even less trustworthy.

A faded red cap sagged crookedly above dirty straw-like hair while a continual toothless grin spread across his face. His enormous nose ran constantly, forcing him to wipe his sleeve across it every few moments before leaning back toward the card table spraying spit whenever he tried to speak too quickly.

Whenever the toothless stranger reached for the cards, conversation at nearby tables seemed to falter for a moment.

Yet nobody stopped playing either.

The strangers had already emptied enough local purses to catch the steward's attention. Yet the steward seemed less troubled by the cheating than by the fact outsiders were taking money that might otherwise have stayed in Haworth.

The steward watched the game carefully from across the table.

Dressed finer than the others in polished shoes, blue coat, white ruffled shirt, and silvered dignity, he carried himself like a man who preferred authority to labour.

The steward smiled when the gamblers won. He smiled again when the locals lost. Thomas could not decide which smile he trusted less.

The only question was whether he intended to expose them… or use them.

Thomas hesitated as his mother nudged him forward.

“There he is Thomas. Nip over and make thyself known before someone else takes our hide.”

But Thomas did not move immediately.

The last time he had stood in the King's Arms his father had been beside him. Thomas found himself searching the room as though his father might still be standing near the steward's table, ready to nod him forward. 

Tonight felt different.

The room seemed smaller.

Darker.

Every face seemed to be weighing another man's worth.

His mother had always called taverns the devil's parlours.

Standing there alone, Thomas began to understand why she had.

Men who had entered with full purses now argued over pennies. Others sat alone staring into empty jacks as though the dregs might offer better counsel than their companions.

Outside, the night watchman’s voice drifted through the muddy streets as darkness settled over Haworth.

“Sleep well ta thy locks… fire ‘n thy leet…”

Inside the King's Arms, the cards continued to fall beneath the candlelight.

The strangers never stopped smiling.

The steward never looked away.

Thomas had the uneasy feeling that before the night was over, someone in the room would pay dearly for both.

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                                                                -IV-

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