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The ‘Man in the Moon’ was the oldest inn in the town of Rye; it had nestled mid-way up Mermaid Street since the first days of the town’s institution as a Cinque Port. Yet its roots were lodged deeper than that, in the shadow-wreathed myths and stories of forgotten times.

Em was the landlady. She’d seen at least fifty summers, both good and ill, though her buxom build and apple face gave ample support to the lie that she wasn’t a day over thirty-five! She ruled her province with a rod of iron, treating men of God as stridently as any smuggler or soldier who might have passed under her gaze. Even the legion of Roman soldiers, who trooped through her wine cellar with irritating regularity, were met with a roll of the eyes and a sweep of the broom to obliterate their footprints in the chalky dust. There would be no funny business in her inn… not if she could help it!

It was the eighteenth of July, in the year of sixteen hundred and twenty six, that it all began; a fairly ordinary summer’s morning, not too hot yet not too cold, dry and with enough breeze to dry the sheets. Em opened the shutters. The sun poured through on a sea of fresh air, disturbing the stale smoke from its slumber and swirling the tired rushes into a bed of agitation.

Through the open lattice, Em had a clear view up Mermaid Street, past the House with the Seat and Jeake’s Place towards the castle. But it was downhill that her gaze took her this morning, towards the anchorage below, where a new ship bobbed on the end of its anchor on the high tide. It was awash with men, busy as a swarm of bees, spilling over the deck and onto the quayside, unloading great chests. The harbour-master was drawn there as to sweet nectar, his chest puffed out with overblown self-importance, like the Robin red-breast that was his name sake. Robin was so busy keeping notes of the comings and goings on board, he never saw the small group who crept up the cobbled hill from the docks, heaving to pull a vast oak chest behind them.

Em paused and watched them for a half a minute before deciding that now was exactly the right time to scrub the front steps.




[OOC: Technically speaking, this is set in 17th Century Rye, on the south-east coast of England. A map and other tidbits are to be found here. The inn looks like this However, no-one’s going to look askance at you if you bring an elf into the bar or introduce an archangel to the attic. Historical-fantasy is the game. Please post, whatever your RP background - let’s see where the muses take us and have fun! :mrgreen:]

Aramis' Post

It wasn't noon yet, it couldn’t be. The sun wasn’t even at its highest point in the blue grey sky. Then why did he feel so tired already? He, Aramis, had descended from his faithful mount Dancer and let it up to the street where the old lady had given him directions to. “A place to regain your strength sir, but of course we have that here in Rye. Just follow this street and look for Mermaid Street. You can’t miss the Man In The Moon.It’s the finest we have!”

Gratefully Aramis had proceeded his long journey that had started across the channel in France. His journey had led him here to this port and he found himself now tired and in dire need of food and beverages. His horse looked like it needed a rest too as it pace slowed down to a near stop. “Not far now mon ami.” He mumbled in the mount’s ear and patted it’s strong neck letting out a cough from the dust that had nestled in the horse’s pelt. It made him look down at his own blue garb and Aramis shook his head. His boots were dirty and his clothes were almost as dusty has the neck of Dancer. A sudden craving for water came to Aramis as he moistened his lips to get rid of the dust. Only now did he
realise how thirsty he realy was.

“A thirsty soul is no good soul.” He mumbled as he passed a statue of a mermaid that indicated he was in the right street. “Now all I have to do is find the…ahhhh there it is.”

A smile on his tanned face from the hours of fieldwork lit up his eyes as he approached a lady sweeping the steps infront of the inn.

“Excuse me madam” and Aramis took of his hat with a flourish and he made a elegant bowe before her.”May I enquire about the vacancy of this inn? Is there room for a waried traveller from far?Because it looks like I carry an entire desert with me. “ and he motioned to his dusty robes.

OOC- ok absolutely nothing fancy but it's a starts right? mind if i engage with Em for a bit?

The smell of fine roasted lamb filtered through the Inn. A side of brisket, roasted to perfection and seasoned with onion and all manner of herbs lay on the ancient wooden carving block. Master Humphrey - the pie man they called him because of his love of food - set about the joint with a long blade of bronze. He drew the knife across the meat, watching as it fell to the plates for the guests that waited in the inn.

It was famous for its food, which the locals thought the faé must bring it, it was so good. There may be some truth in the rumour, for Master Humphrey never showed his legs or feet in the inn, and everybody had heard that he had the legs and hooves of a donkey hidden beneath his apron. And nobody saw him shop for the herbs, or understood who he talked to on misty mornings or where he was able to get mushrooms so plump and fleshy.

But Master Humphrey would just smile, and laugh and ask you for another flagon of fine ale to wash his palette before he told his tale, and then he would go one for hours about his travels in the Jungles of Hy Brasil and his native wife who lived in a hammock in the trees.

It was on such a morning as the July Eighteenth in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and twenty six, that Master Humphrey was leaving the meat to cool and making a fine gravy from juniper and lamb fat, that a young boy by the name of Thomas wandered into the kitchen of the inn to see if the cook wanted to buy his collection of shellfish.

“I picked ‘em me self, on the morning tide” said young Thomas.

“And what were you doing out so early? You should have been asleep or at prayer, not loitering on the Devil’s beach. What if the Vicar had seen you then? You know it is St Bruno of Signi’s holy day, and Frederick of Utrecht; both patrons of learning and of hounding folk of the Old Ways. Now how do you think I would have felt if you brought down the wrath of the Church on my head?” He looked stern, but Thomas saw he was looking at the collection of crabs and shellfish in his basket.

“I am sorry Humphrey, I did not realise. I will only ask three pennies for this collection, if I can have a piece of the lamb whilst it is still hot from roasting”.

“I will take it, and that is a bargain price. So you may take bread with your lamb, but leave me enough to work on later for the pies”.

And Humphrey emptied out the basket into a pan by the sink, and proceeded to wash the shellfish, and think about the bullion he would make from this…..


He did not see that one of the crabs had slunk away, nor that as it vanished behind the sacks of grain it appeared for a moment to change its form to that of a man about a foot tall with wings of gossamer and a rapier made from a porcupine’s quill.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It's been three days since my last confession."

"Go ahead, my son."

"Father, I killed a man. I killed him for the hand of a woman. Father... it felt good. I was glad to kill him. Not only for the sake of my beloved Elisabeth, but I smiled when my sword entered his flesh."

"Are you still glad you killed him?"

"No father. I never wanted to kill him, just beat him."

"The mind is a strange thing my son. There's no good excuse for killing one of God's children, yet man does not always control his own actions. You were lost in the moment and you were taken over by animalistic instinct. Repent your sins and show regret and our Father who art in Heaven will at the time of your judgement take that into account. Show the dead their proper respect and give your condolences to the widow you left. And renounce the sword, my son. Remember: Those who live by the sword, die by the sword."

"I will try, father. Thank you."

"You're welcome my son. Go in peace."

As the man opened the small door and walked through the halls of the small church, John deWitt adjust his robes and walked out of the confessional. He blinked his eyes as rays of sunlight fell through the open door and illuminated the grey stones of the chapel. It was a small chapel, set a few miles outside the small town of Rye, but John had everything he needed here. It was quiet and serene, and he could spend time following his ambition of translating the Bible from the standard Latin edition to a suitable English edition.

As his footsteps echoed through the chapel, he walked through the arched doorway, and looked out over the moors. It was a beautiful day in the late spring. John walked around the walls to his small herbal garden behind the church. His apprentice Marcus was carefully tending the different herbs that grew there, but John still winced. Marcus was a big guy and wasn't very careful. Also, the young man did not understand herbs and their healing factor. People in town thought it was divine magic and Marcus being quite simple, agreed with the townsfolk. But John had been taught all there was about herbs and the human mind. Whether or not a herb was actually a cure, didn't really matter as long as townsfolk believed it is. Faith was a strong thing and could be seen as magic in it's own right. "Marcus, can you take care of the chapel while I'm away to town? I've got to see Mary about her pregnancy and Harold has caught illness. Il'l have to see what he has."

"Sure Fryar John. What do you want me to say if people come by?"

"Tell them to wait inside and pay their respects to Jesus, our savior. I'll be back in the early evening." He walked along the sandy path towards the village lying a small distant into the east. Despite being of respectable age John still was physically strong and looked better, than he had hoped to be. So he was not at all fatigued when he walked onto the stone pavement and into the roaring town. It was small, but for one who lived in a small chapel on the skirmishes of a village, the noisy crowd of even a small village didn't appeal at all. Still, he regularly came here to see about the ill, the deceased and the newborn. First on his list today was Harold the Baker.

He walked through the loud streets, towards the bakery when he was suddenly hit on the head and fell down on his knees, spots in front of his eyes.

(OOC: Satch will pick up the hook at the end, so don't respond to that, unless you'r acting as a bystander... Thanks.)

Thomas swept out of the inn clutching his lamb between two thick slices of fresh bread, fresh from the oven and dripping melted butter and meat fat onto the pavement. He glanced at Mrs Em, as she scrubbed the step and cast a quick glance his way. Not wanting to get Humphrey into trouble, Thomas hid his prize as he skipped past her and headed down the hill before taking another burning mouthful.

“Err, watch yourself young man” the Musketeer had said as the boy had almost run him down. Thomas’s eyes went wide as the man strode up the hill to talk to Mrs Em. A real Musketeer, here in Rye? That could only mean intrigue. Thomas gazed hungrily at his rapier, his meal almost forgotten for a moment, until he felt a gentle tug at it.

“Gwarn, beat it” he shouted at the dog, who had been drawn by the fresh lamb. The dog stood his ground, its interest firmly on the sandwich. Thomas looked around for help, but he could only see the struggling men hefting a curious looking chest and walking his way. They would be too busy to help a boy save his lunch. The dog moved forward, menacing Thomas against the wall. He knew that only his wits would aid him, and today was a good day for that.

“You want to eat dog?” he said to his four legged oppressor “Catch!” He threw his sandwich onto a basket stood on a low windowsill behind him, and the dog leapt. The sandwich sailed through the air, disintegrating as it went as it fell into the willow work and bounced in a mess on top of the newly washed shirts it contained. The hound turned in the air to snap at its prey that fell before its jaws, just as Thomas snatched at the basket handle pulling away from the dog.

There was a shriek from inside the house, and a yelp as the dog missed the window ledge and hurtled into the room. Something smashed, the hound yelped and his meal was suddenly forgotten as the more immediate problem of the old widow’s broom became more pressing.

Thomas looked at the ruins of his meal and laughed, pulling it from the laundry basket and putting it back on the window. He felt a moment’s guilt at the big greasy stain on the crisp clean sheets, but that was quickly forgotten as he rebuilt his sandwich and turned his attention to the men and their chest.

“What you got in the chest Mister?” he asked the first; a haggard looking man in a battered old great coat who stank of the sea and rum.

“Nothing for young boys to worry about, unless they want to find a way to Davy Jones Locker.” leered the Pirate. He must be a pirate, thought Thomas. He has a wooden leg and an eye patch.

“You don’t scare me mister. Everybody knows Davy Jones lives in the Spanish Main, not off Rye.” Said Thomas, full of the bravado of a young boy.

“You will when we cart you off to the ‘Pigassou’, and make you serve as our cabin boy” hissed the man into Thomas’ ear. He blanched; the ‘Pigassou’ was the scourge of the seven seas and its crew of hardened pirates, like its dark Captain Cut Throat Jake, were known to feed on cabin boys if they did not find a ship to raid.

“But don’t worry boy,” we won’t take you there……not yet…….not unless you don’t help us find a birth for the night. Know a good inn, with lockable rooms and no questions?” The halitosis made Thomas start, but he pointed quickly back to the ‘Man in the Moon’. “Thank you boy, now here is a gold doubloon. Go tell the landlady she has a room hired, then come and help us carry the chest in. And tell nobody, understand.” The pirate leaned in close again and Thomas just nodded, and took the golden coin.

“Run puppy” said the Pirate, as he and his men lifted the heavy chest. Thomas nodded and scampered off up the street to the inn followed by the huffing men.

Behind him, his sandwich lay on the street, until a slightly ruffled looking hound found it and wolfed it down in one.

The elegantly attired young man swept his hat off his head and followed through into a deep bow all in one movement. "Excuse me madam. May I enquire about the vacancy of this inn? Is there room for a weary traveller from far? Because it looks like I carry an entire desert with me"

Em may have been a few years past her prime, but that never inhibited her appreciation of a handsome Frenchman on the rare occasion she had cause to meet one. She eyed him appraisingly, but with the same matter of fact air she might apply to examining a fine side of beef for her board.

"I'm sure a room can be arranged sir. Maybe not right this very second - as you'll have noticed, I'm a little tied up - and unfortunately my maid is running late so the guest rooms haven't had any attention yet this morning. But if you feel like availing yourself of the pump to freshen up a bit…" She waved him towards the downhill side of the property, where a path led round into the backyard. It was the site of the stables and the privies (not too malodorous at this time of day) as well as the way to the kitchens.

The Musketeer tugged on Dancer's reins, to guide his faithful mount to rest, when a young lad came hurtling between master and beast, with all the determination and speed of a cannonball.

"Hang on a minute there Thomas!" Em reached out to grab the boy by the scruff of his neck. Tom swung round, water from Em's step-washing dribbling down his neck as he hung suspended grubbily by his doublet. His naturally feral instinct made him scrabble to free himself and in his frenzy he forgot the gold doubloon held hitherto so tightly in his fist. It rolled with a merry tinkle into the gutter, whereupon it gathered speed as it rushed headlong down towards the quays.

The boy let out an almighty groan of frustration and anger. "I was helping you Mrs M, so I was!. You didn't have to go lose my gold penny that them gentlemen gave me. They must be proper gentlemen too, wanting a private room and everything!"

Em gently set him down on his feet, where he ceased his baleful yelping. He took a few subtle steps away, for his own self-preservation, and cast his eyes urgently between Mistress Em and the pirates, still struggling to lug the chest.

Not that they would struggle much longer. At that very moment, a cannon-shot rang out across the headland. They all jumped. Not least the pirates. And the chest came crashing down, almost at Em and the Musketeer's feet, splitting its bonds as it crash-landed.

Little Tom's mouth dropped open in astonishment. He'd never seen anything like it before.

Aramis

A whizzing sound was last Aramis heard before a wooden chest came crashing down nearly severing his toes from his feet.”Mon Dieu!” He jumped backwards pulling Dancer with him and immidiately shot an angry look at the startled pirates.

“Keep your gear together men!.” He snarled before turning to his horse to pat its neck. Dancer neighed softly in responds of Aramis’ calming touch. “Ah mon ami tous serai bien. Do not worry.” a whist of purple smoke arose from the streets stones smelling incridibly foul. The small black burned mark on one of the stones made Aramis’ brow knot and move slowly before Em, his hand on his rapier to be drawn whenever he saw need to.

“Madame, does this happen often? “ he mumbled not as much as a question as he let his eyes slide down to the shattered chest whereas now one pirate flung himself to the ground trying to block the purple goo not even looking up at a sudden laughing E.

“My good sir, I have lived long enough to no longer look surprised at things like this. Now come, no need to get all defencive of a woman like me.” And she wavered him to step aside releasing his sheathed rapier. A small smile curled the musketeers lips. He appreciated the strong will in this lady. “Certainly. I do bid you to be careful my lady and hesitate not to call when you are in need.I shall take my leave then.” Em nodded containing a laugh as Aramis retreated with a final bow taking Dancer with him to where he could freshen up.

Halfway up the road he turned around shaking his head at the pirates and the lady rebuking them for their stupidity. Did she not know fear? Shrugging Aramis layed aside his hat and soft cloak and took of his jerkin and shirt. After a few handful scoops of cool water he remained, staring at his rimpled reflection. Damp dark curls now hanging down his face and his dark eyes stood tired. Soft lines on his brow betrayed he was ageing faster then he wanted. Years spilled time slipping past his hands. “It’s only temporarily.” He heard himself mumble.He straightened and reached for his dusty clothes.”Why did I bother washing up ?” He said half laughing at Dancer who had found a grassy patch to much on.

“Hopefully the maid has returned when we reach the inn again, my friend. You’re lucky you have found something to eat. I however am starving!”

The travel stained mahogany of the chest had given way with a groan and a crash, the tinkling sounds of broken glass and the hiss of something escaping.

The Musketeer, his bright tabard and feathered hat marking him, instantly snarled at one of the most wanted men on the seven seas, who gulped. A tendril of purple smoke filtered from the chest and sailed into the morning air. Both men watched it as it disappeared into the sky, making a seagull cough.

“Madam, does this happen often?” asked the Frenchman, turning to face the shrewish looking Em. As he did, a curious looking purple amorphous blob slid out of the chest and started to sidle across the pavement towards Aramis’ leg. ‘Viscous Valentineo’, his wits as quick as his Italian blood stepped onto the tentacle, and smiled as Em gave him a look out of the corner of her eye.

“Darn you land lubbing swabs, now look what you have done” Snarled ‘Black Hearted Blyth’, first mate on the ‘Pigassou’. His men, his fierce crew, just scowled and looked at the mess as it hissed more, and sparked and sent puffs of multicoloured smoke into the heavens.

“Ahhh, that don’t look much like Gowld” whispered one man, ‘Evil Willy’ they called him but no sane man asked him why.

“That’s cause it ‘aint Gowld yet, nor will ever be now thanks to your clumsy hands.” The thought to kill them all on the spot clearly went through Blyth’s mind, but he knew that good pirates were hard to find in Rye, and just snarled at them. And besides, his sister was watching.

“Help me get this to the inn, and we will see what damage has been done. And don’t put your hand in that liquid it will-“ There was a cry “Never mind, splash some water on it and don’t scratch with that hand for a bit”. Another canon fired, distracting him from his smouldering lackey. Blyth looked round the street, and back to the harbour where one of ‘His Majesties’ Frigates had appeared, its lines awash with flags and sailors clinging to the rigging. Blyth dug into his pocket and drew out his telescope flashing across the ship.

“Ahhh, well don’t that drop a turd in the soufflé“, he muttered, looking up at the buxom woman standing cross armed before the Inn.

Em looked at the smouldering, banging, whizzing box, and at the Pirates with a raised eyebrow. “So, you’ll be wanting a room for some nefarious deed then?” she said loudly, too loudly for Blyth.

“Ahh, begging your pardon mistress, but we do. And be assured that this little box of tricks is perfectly safe”. He looked at the ruined chest out of the corner of his eye, and grinned at her.

With hindsight, it was an unfortunate thing to say.



“Ye gads Sire, what in the blazers was that” Commodore Sir Percy Blackstaff III said to his sailing Master, a gruff veteran of the channel for thirty years.

“I think it was on land me Lord. Sounded like a canon misfiring. I propose that they are shooting at us from the town” barged in The Right Honourable Terrance du Pancake, Lieutenant first class and brother in law to Admiral Townsend.

“That’s just what I thought. The blaggards, Sailing Master!” the Commodore bellowed “Must be the French, I say we land our compliment of marines and storm the-“

“Sire, I feel I should point out that it looked to me like a firework sent to welcome you into port. Sending the marines now would only sully their uniforms, before the big parade, hummmmm”. The obsequious voice belonged to Archibald El'ducko, his ‘special’ advisor in public relations, and a man that Sir Percy listened to intently.

“Yes El'ducko, you are right as ever. Well, I had better get ready for the big parade then. Will there be elephants? I do love elephants”. Sir Percy looked worriedly up at the hill once more, then turned to his cabin and shouted for his powder boy.

Behind him, El'ducko scanned the town with his telescope, focussing on the street outside the ‘Man in the Moon’. “Curses!” he muttered, and then smiled as his vision swept up the hill.

nameless woman aka trying to keep this moving

She had waited. Waited all morning hidden in the small ally next to the cobbler. She had watched the mainstreet for hours for one man to pass by. News had reached her ears provided by loyal friends that he was living in Rye now. Her face darkened and the loose fist clenched in a reaction to the memory. He’d pay for the damage he had done to her family. He’d pay in blood. She shifted her weight a little to move closer into the shadows when a loudmouthed man left the shop yelling something about poor quality of the laces. A frown knotted her brow.The man was making too much noise with his obvious drunkness. Because of his yelling she would not be able to hear him approach. And it was vital that she did.

At last some greetings poked up her ears and she shifted her hand to her belt looking for something. “Good morning Fryar! Out so early?”
“Well yes my dear, one must not make the children of God wait.”
A merry laughter and some shuffeling of feet past the ally.

Now! her mind yelled and she jumped out of the shadows grabbed for her pocket knife but the rapid moving arms of the fryar hit the knife out of her hand. Feverishly she searched on the ground. Quick before he could turn she found a heavy rock and hit him on the side of his head that knocked him dow almost instantly. She got up and dragged the man into the ally, away from prying eyes. It was a miracle no one had seemed to really notice anything. Or had they? No time to think she told herself if she was capable of thinking at all. She had left her hometown and had travelled for miles to right the wrongs.

The fryar finally managed to turned around although his vision seemed blurred, his eyes moved from one place to the next without focussing. “W-what happened, who, what…” he stuttered before he got backhanded. She had found her knife again and now sat sideways on top of the confused man the glinstering blade held dangerously to his neck.

“I would say your last prayer fake servant of the Holy Father. May he have mercy on your soul…. and on mine” she added softly to herself suddenly realising what she was about to do and clutched the small cross pendant. “Wait! Wait!” Choked the battered man “How have I wronged you? How have I ever wronged Him?” The girl shot him a furious look although he could not see it. “You ruined my sister life! You ruined my Lord’s faith in us humble people !! and now you shall pay!!”

Her last words were almost a scream when suddenly behind her a voice boomed “What goes on here!!”

Queen Anne, just because I promised Aramis one day at the Louvre (and yes I know it’s totally not respecting History )


Why, au nom du ciel, had she come here? And looking like… une paysanne!! Well if she didn’t want to appear for what she was she had to. Though maybe, should one look carefully, they would notice she couldn’t be one. She looked too young for her age, too clean – though she thought she was dirty as a pig and should have a couple of warm baths at least – and her hands were too perfect, not wrinkled enough to be those of one who worked either in the fields or in a kitchen. Oh well, why should anyone pay attention to a peasant in the first place anyway?

She gathered the skirts she had taken from the lingère and moved to the centre of the city, or so she thought - it’s not like she had the habit of walking, usually she would be seated in her carriage but here. Why had she come already?? She stopped breathing in deeply; she couldn’t panic now even if she had no clue where she was; well yes she was in Rye but that didn’t tell her much, for her knowledge of geography was highly limited… She looked around her, fear in her eyes as she was in a foreign country and an enemy all the more.

But she had wanted to come there, to see the country of one she cared for, but only now did she realise that it may not have been a good idea. And the sound behind her seemed to enhance the feeling. She didn’t know what it was before it crashed somewhere in the city. She thought she would faint, but a surge of deep fear caused her to think of finding a shelter and she ran to the first building she found, which happened to be a church. “Thank you Lord,” she whispered as she looked to the nave of the building, her hands on her heart trying to control the accelerated pulse of it. She looked around anxiously “où est le bénitier?”, she wondered, before she realised it might well be an Anglican church so no chance of finding one… So she signed herself as another deafening noise burst out in the city. Smoothing her skirts she knelt on a prie-Dieu and started praying with fervour as soft tears of fear ran on her beautiful face.

How long before it stopped she knew not… but once it did she got up slowly composed herself; that dress really didn’t do, she looked like dressed in a bag in this… “Oh well… c’est ainsi,” she murmured before she pulled at the aumônière and left a substantial number of coins in the tronc des pauvres. She got out but afraid to witness what sort of damage the city had known, she remained on its doorstep fanning herself with her hand trying not to lose all the nerve she had managed to gather. And also to get rid of the dust that the explosions had caused.

Was there a chance that someone would come and help her out of this horrible mess… there must be blood everywhere, peasant blood. She could not spot her – already terrible – dress with such a thing. Out there in the suffocating atmosphere, she could distinguish a figure, but she didn't know whether she should call out or just wait... or hide.

Aramiset merci ma belle reine

Dancer hadn’t walked three steps before he halted and moved his head up and down whinying anxiously. Aramis frowned as he pulled the reigns but his mount refused to take one more step in the direction of the Inn.

“What’s wrong with you? Come on! A moment ago you were as hungry as I am. Move!” He pulled again, harder this time but Dancer refused to give into his rider’s wishes and resolutely turned the other way. Aramis was not used to the stubborn behaviour of his four legged friend. He never disobeyed him like this. Unless…

“Something wrong then? You with all your clever senses? Alright then have it your way. Lead the way.” He threw his dusty cloak on the back of his horse as he mounted the impatient Dancer. He didn’t even need to give Dancer the start sign and the horse galloped off down hill,a confused Aramis letting him run at will.

Aramis was silently thankful the road was more or less straight downhill without many corners for Dancer build up such a speed that could prove to be lethal for any that turned a corner enexpecting a galloping horse to come his or her way. Suddenly Dancer burried his feet in the sandy road coming to a sudden stop and Aramis had to hold on with all his might to prevent flying over Dancer’s head.

Mumbeling a few curses Aramis pushed back his hat and looked around. Now what could have been so important his horse nearly broke his back to get here. Nothing but a dusty garden next to a stone church. Nothing strange. Aramis dismounted sending a stern glance dancer’s way “No extra treats for you tonight, sending us flying down here for nothing.”

“Monsigneur! E-Excuse- moi…” a quavering voice called out. It was not till a hand got lifted and waved up and down that Aramis noticed a woman in the doorway of the church. “madame are you in need of any kind of assistance?”

But as Aramis walked towards the woman his eyes grew wider. He knew that face, that haughty voice. “Ma reine!!!” he called out in surprise and forgot to sank down on his knee. What was his queen doing here? Here of all places why did she leave Paris, why did she leave France? A small cough from the queen made Aramis fall back into his routine and took of his hat as he bowed deeply before her, watching his trousers go dirty with the dust again as he did so. “Queen Anne, with your permission, what are you doing her your majesty? Why are you not home in France? And what are you doing here dressed like…”he stopped this should be handled thoughtful..” dressed so differently yet you look stunning as always. “ No drawn in breath which meant no offence. Good , he saved himself from that. She might as well be here and out of the cardinals reach but why? This was no place for a queen.

“My queen please, lets go back in. I must know what bring you here and I pray it is only your majesty’s curiosity to other countries.” He smiled weakly at her still bewildered by the strange clothes his queen wore.

The box of tricks only oozed a thin yet suspicious trail of something Em had been assured was a safe substance, as it was man-handled across the taproom floor. The landlady found herself biting her inner lip in a vain attempt to suppress her irritation; if it wasn’t for the fact that the rushes needed changing anyway she’d have lost her rag rather than allow this mishmash of sundry wayfarers to poke a toe into her establishment. Though it wasn’t just the rushes and an excuse for changing them that had battered her defences. It was the look Blythe had given her, the look which said there might be an exceptional delivery in this for his sister, perhaps of a certain blood red wine that went down extremely well with her customers. She followed them up them into the back room. Though they acted as though they owned the place and indeed some of them knew it almost as well as its owner, her tenacity was such that she wouldn’t own to it.

“Well ye shut the door behind us love”, grunted one of the men who was new to Em.

She stared back at him. “Not on your nelly boyo. This household is mine and I lay the rules, one of which is that I keep an eye on my open door…. and on the doings inside. So, seeing as you’ve pushed the bounds of hospitality a little already, perhaps one of you”, here she looked most pointedly at Blythe, “could do me the courtesy of telling me what you’re up to and what’s in it for me?”

Blythe pulled at the hole in his doublet sleeve and looked solidly at the ground. His unwillingness to answer was then rudely interrupted by the frantic scratching, that could have been an imprisoned cat in distress but wasn’t, from within the barely hanging together remnants of the old oak chest.

“Well it seems someone or something wants to answer for you, Marcel”, Em told him somewhat icily.

“I do hope he’s alright” sputtered a fresh faced lad, who looked altogether too innocent to be in this sort of company.

Whatever and whoever the chest contained it evidently wasn’t gold and even more evidently was more than the strange smokes of alchemy had half masked.

The suspense was too much for Evil Willy, who took his own knife to the fragments of lock.

“’Ere! Kept your filthy mitts to yerself!”, Blythe thrust him aside and, casting half an apologetic look at Em, he cast himself on his knees and fumbled with the fist-sized padlock. With a resounding crack it sprang open.

Both he and Em leaned forward at the same moment to see what it would reveal. It was a bruised, filthy and none too pleasantly redolent bundle of rags. Blythe cut one of the strips of cloth and a wail of anguish arose.

“God’s Breath!” Em exclaimed. “What did the poor mite do to you to end up in there. The aforementioned mite, having seen daylight, was now struggling against the remainder of his bonds.

“It was his choice sister dear”, Blythe’s voice now sunk to a barely audible whisper for once in his life. “’Is name’s Vincent and he’s one of them, a Frog. One of us, a follower of the True Path”, he hastily corrected. Of course, the fact that he had money was of consideration too.

Em just looked at him.