Lady Gwen

"I had dreams last night."

Gwenafhyr leaned wearily on the counter, not looking up at him. "So you spewed cum all over your belly and now you want a succubus to blame."

"Quite the opposite, actually," he said, sipping at his soup.

"What?" she asked in confusion, drawn in against her will.

"When I awoke, I thought perhaps that you'd been trying to teach me the evil of my ways."

"So now I'm a dream weaver?" She set a mug of ale in front of him, none too gently. "Why can't I just be an inn-keeper? Here's some news, traveler. The world isn't ruled by myth. It's just full of mere humans wondering where their next meal is going to come from."

Grayfell sniffed the ale as if testing for drugs and eyed her. He shrugged. "This world. The high road, the low road. Downcastle. Humph. The coast for sure." He leaned toward her. "But you and I both know that the farther you travel, the less 'real' the world becomes. I've bedded women with elven blood. I've fought creatures whose only similarity to humans is the two legs they stand on."

"Don't include me in your wild imaginings," she snapped.

"You know what a succubus is. And a dream weaver."

"And I know what you are," she hissed. Grayfell sat back, nonplussed. "You tell me your name, wanting me to believe you're from the northern moors; the fells," she said with a sneer.

"I am," he argued in confusion. "You recognized the origins. I saw it in your eyes."

"Or are you something far more fell?" She spun on her heel and walked away, taking soup to the sick man in the room above.

Grayfell stared after her. She had undoubtedly meant sinister or malevolent, but that was high dialect usage, not a denotation someone living on a mountainside many, many miles from the King's city should have known. And surely if she believed that, she wouldn't have willingly let him stay under her roof last night, or left him alone with her adopted son this morning. Then a dawning light shown on him. She believed he had jumped from an innocent roadside sign to the assumption that she was a succubus. Not that he could explain to her that his real intent had been simply to draw her into a conversation replete with sexual undertones. Now she was pretending to do the same to him, leaping from his borning place name to an assumption that he was some fell creature bent on nothing but evil. Even as he had concluded that she had somehow caused and influenced his dreams last night to show him the harm his treatment of women had done, she was now trying to show him the hurt that his supposed assumptions about her had inflicted by evincing similar assumptions about him. He had to convince her that he had never believed she could possibly be a succubus. And while he might have briefly entertained the idea that she was a dream weaver, that was quickly dashed when he found out she'd been out in the driving rain all night, watching for the wolf to return.

Damn. What was it about this woman that made him say all the wrong things and jump to all the wrong conclusions? If nothing else, the dreams of the last night, of just a few of the women he'd spent more than one night with, proved he was no tongue-tied lackey. He'd never had any issues getting a woman into his bed if she was unattached, or even if she was attached, more often than not. So why now, why here, did everything come out wrong and make her more like to slit his throat than turn back covers with him? He picked up his ale and moved to a window seat to stare out at the unrelenting rain.

It was this place, he finally decided. In the middle of nowhere, firmly entrenched between the downtrodden and those who never knew anything else but work and struggle. In this forsaken place, he had easily fallen into his worldly far-traveler persona, a surely impressive figure to those who never ventured beyond the nearest towns. In combination with his warrior bearing, it was inconceivable to him that the locals would not be awestruck. To find a woman who could read, who knew mythology, and who was not intimidated by his size or bearing... All of his well-honed skills with the women of the world were failing him. And he didn't have fallback options. Even sweet, innocent Singh, for all her book-knowledge of the world, had no experience to guide her or protect her from his wiles. Nor did she perceive the written stories of the wildlands to be anything more than stories from overactive imaginations. Grayfell was convinced that Gwenafhyr knew the stories to be true, even as he did. But how? Even more than he wanted to explore that slender, lithe, and -- he suspected -- long-deprived body for a night, or a fortnight, he wanted to understand how she had come by her real-world knowledge. And why she refused to admit to it.

He watched from his new post as she came down the stairs and seemed undismayed that he was no longer hanging about the bar, disrupting her work. A late arrival entered the inn, along with a swirl of wind and rain. The man threw back his hood, pausing to survey the handful of patrons before pulling off his cloak and hanging it by the door. The cape and cowl of his cloak was created of some pelt that shed the rain so that beneath that protection he was relatively dry. The newcomer wore leather armor, with the vital hit points covered with embossed silver plating. In other words, armor that was purely decorative, designed to show his wealth rather than his warrior prowess. Grayfell scowled as Gwenafhyr graced the newest arrival with her patented faint smile. The man smiled broadly in return, then took a table only one away from Grayfell's. The warrior's scowl deepened. He turned his chair so that the back was against the wall, wishing his longsword wasn't still hanging in his room, along with his own armor.

Grayfell watched as Gwenafhyr crossed the room to offer the man food and drink. He actually growled softly as the new arrival winked and smiled and joked with her. The only saving grace was that she seemed no more attracted to the younger, richer, unscarred man than she had been by Grayfell, not that that improved his chances with her, especially after their most recent exchange. When she had finished waiting on the newcomer, she crossed the short distance to Grayfell's table, not quite meeting his eyes. "Do you want another ale?" she asked.

"No," he replied, rather brusquely.

She shifted her weight to her other foot. "I have a room upstairs tonight, if you'd rather."

"My room is fine," he assured her. He was well aware that her room was on the main floor along with his. She gave the briefest flash of a pained expression and he wondered if she wanted him farther from away, but when she spoke again, it was more with a touch of chagrin.

"I owe you for the work today." She reached into her apron and produced the coins he had left on the bar, placing them on his table. Grayfell ignored them. She still wouldn't meet his eyes. "I apologize for what I said earlier," she continued, with an unmistakably pained expression now. I... Lack of sleep," she muttered. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"I apologize, too," Grayfell said, shocking himself. When had he ever apologized to anyone? Certainly, the most deserving had been those women in his dreams, and he had never expressed a moment's regret to them. "This infernal rain and darkness leads the mind to shadowy places. Whatever else exists out there in the world, you and I are mere mortals, navigating as best we can. I believe I will have another ale," he added, wanting an excuse to watch over her interactions with the newcomer.

Her unease vanished and she gave him a fleeting smile, then hurried off. Grayfell watched after her until the stranger spoke.

"Well met, traveler. Are you a warrior, then?"

Grayfell reluctantly pulled his eyes away from Gwenafhyr. "And why would you think that?" he asked, pulling at the neck of his non-descript tunic.

The man smiled affably. "The scars on your cheek and neck. They are from clean, sharp cuts, like a knife or a sword. And well restored, tended by a battle healer, I imagine."

"I've seen battle," Grayfell answered vaguely. "And you? What House are you with?"

The stranger laughed. "Is it that obvious?"

"Ostentation," Grayfell pointed out with his usual bluntness.

The man took no offense, though, easily understanding the high dialect. "And you? Did you arrive here in full armor? Wearing your occupation for all to see? What, mercenary?"

Grayfell bristled. "It is easier to wear armor than to carry it," he snarled. "The stable boy could tell you that."

The man raised his hands. "I meant no offense. It is simply a game I play, guessing occupations, habits, proclivities. I travel often and it is easy to grow bored on the road, even in decent weather. But this..." He gestured toward a window. I am of House Waycliff. Jerrod is my name."

Grayfell took a deep breath as he weighed the fact that the man had subsumed his very own game against the fact that House Waycliff was considered a decent family and treated their vassals better than most houses. "Grayfell," he finally, grudgingly, admitted.

Jerrod looked thoughtful for a moment. "From the Northlands?" he asked with undisguised interest.

"You are a curious sort," Grayfell chided, but only half-heartedly.

"I only ask because Waycliff ancestors originally came from the Northlands. It is a naming tradition thereabouts. 'You may know a man by the land he comes from,'" he quoted an old proverb.

He smiled up at Gwenafhyr as she brought his soup and ale, not seeming to notice the shadow that passed ever so swiftly across her face. Her faint smile quickly replaced the shadow and was firmly situated when she turned to Grayfell with his ale. "I have a pie in the oven if you'd like some," she offered, addressing both men. "It's made with dried apples from last year's harvest," she added apologetically.

"It smells wonderful," Jerrod answered and Grayfell just nodded. He watched Jerrod closely as the other man observed Gwenafhyr disappearing back to the kitchen. When she was out of sight, he turned his attention back to the warrior. "I seem to remember the name Grayfell," he said thoughtfully. "Some years ago, a distant cousin of mine was kidnapped by pirates from the south." He made a face of distaste and Grayfell wasn't sure if it was the soup, the kidnapping or the cousin. "As it played out," he continued, "She was rescued by a band of mercenaries. Her family paid the mercenaries nearly as much as the pirates had demanded, but at least they had her home safe." His eyes slid to the coins still laying on Grayfell's table.

"Warriors should be paid commensurate with the danger they endure, don't you think?" Grayfell suggested, sipping slowly at his ale.

Jerrod seemed to shake himself and looked back up with a warm smile. "Of course. It wasn't as if her father had the courage to race to her rescue." He snorted. "He was the sort who would always throw money at an objective rather than work for it. Poor girl was never the same, though. I remembered her as a lighthearted waif with an unhealthy inclination to throw caution to the wind. I heard, when she was returned, she was more like a frightened child than a sprightly young woman. They said her father had to practically pry her away from one of the mercenaries who had rescued her and sheltered her on the trip back. She still speaks of him with adoration, if not infatuation."

Grayfell schooled his expression. What had started as a chivalrous impulse to help the woman through the trauma she'd endured at the hands of the pirates had spiraled out of control, or more honestly, been allowed to spiral out of control. He had convinced himself that once he was out of sight, she would find someone else to cling to and seek comfort from. Apparently, that had not happened. His eyes narrowed, appraising the man before him who still wore a short sword belted at his side. Had he come for revenge?

Yet, Jerrod's smile only widened as Gwenafhyr approached with plates of steamy pie. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted throughout the inn. She had barely set the plate down before he was shoveling the hot pie into his mouth. When she moved to put a plate in front of Grayfell, he ignored it, catching her eye with a shake of his head. "You complain of making enough money, yet you buy spices from the far corners of the world?" he said softly.

She wiped her hands on her apron. Was she actually nervous? "I told you. Good food for the soul." Then she sighed. "There are many inns along the high road. Many places for travelers to stop, so yes, I put cardamom or cumin in my stews, sweet spices in my pies. I stuff wool in my mattresses instead of hay. I haven't heard you protesting," she challenged.

"No complaints," he said leaning back in the chair. "What do I know about running a business? I am curious where you learned your culinary tricks, though."

"Here and there," she muttered, breaking free of his stern gaze to hurry away. Grayfell tasted the pie. She'd soaked the dried apples in mead, more expense. He shook his head, but dug avidly into the pie, never-the-less. When he looked back up, Jerrod was watching the woman across the room, as she talked with two other patrons. When she disappeared back into the kitchen, he looked over at Grayfell.

"Where do you suppose she learned the high dialect?" he asked innocently, pushing his plate away and taking up his ale.

"What?" Grayfell asked, a bite of pie pausing halfway to his mouth.

"Culinary. If I had to guess, I would say you were testing her. In fact, I would guess you are as curious as I about our hostess. But perhaps I misconstrue. Perhaps you already know her secrets. Have I come too late to enter the competition?"

"Competition?" Grayfell resumed eating.

"Come, man. She's a beautiful woman, if a bit older than my preference. You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

"She's not interested," Grayfell replied, sounding grumpier about it than he intended.

Jerrod smiled in a predatory way, as if Grayfell had just conceded the fight. He hadn't gone to a knee before another since his youth, not since the sword master had finally, after two years of brutal training, conceded a fight to Grayfell and pronounced him warrior. Grayfell drained the rest of his ale and set the mug down hard on the table. "She's all yours," he said, trying not to snarl as he strode from the room to his bed.

****

When Grayfell entered the great room the next morning, the sickly patron was sitting by the fire but looking far more hale than he had when he'd arrived. Two other men were sitting at the bar drinking tea and arguing about politics. The woman and Jerrod were nowhere in sight. One of the men gestured behind the bar. "There's a pot of tea. It's strong like it's been steeping most the night, but wakes you up, at least. I guess even an inn-keeper gets to sleep in once in a while, eh?"

Grayfell rubbed his temples in confusion, then helped himself to a mug of tea. He peeked into the kitchen and saw the remains of the pie still sitting on the stove. When he looked out over the great room, he realized the few tables used last night hadn't been cleared and wiped down. It all seemed entirely out of character. He could find his way to only one conclusion. She had chosen Jerrod over him. He wanted to stomp into her room and demand to know why. The only thing stopping him was the thought of Jerrod laughing at his failure. He slumped into a chair by another window. Outside, the rain had finally lifted, though the sky was as gray as ever. He could see the stable boy tossing food to the chickens. He stood to tell the stable boy to ready his horse. Then she walked into the great room. He turned to look at her, and her stride broke ever so briefly. She was wearing her usual dark gown, but hadn't put an apron on yet. Her hair hung loose down her back.

Grayfell continued to watch as she made her way to the kitchen. Then he crossed the room to follow her, his horse forgotten. When he got to the kitchen, she was hefting a basket of eggs, probably fetched by the stable boy, and looking around as if she'd lost something. Making a guess, Grayfell fetched a heavy pan from a work table and put it on the stove. "Where is he?" he asked, forcing himself to keep his voice low.

"Gone," she replied, opening the stove to stir the banked fire and add wood, probably brought by the stable boy. She scooped lard from a jar on the back of the stove and tossed it into the pan.

"Why?" Grayfell demanded, keeping his voice low.

"Why what?" she asked absently, pushing loose hair behind her ear and looking around again. She didn't meet his eyes.

"Why is he gone?" Grayfell asked, trying to calm his tone. He found another teapot and filled it from a pitcher of fresh, cold water, also brought in by the stable boy undoubtedly, and put it directly over the fire in the stove.

"Because I was hungry," she exclaimed in exasperation, finally finding a spatula that she wanted. She noticed the pie on the stove and went to move it, burning herself since it had sat above the banked fire all night. She sobbed and dropped the pan, cradling her hand. Grayfell found a towel and picked up the pan, tossing it on a table, then grabbed a bowl and filled it with water from the pitcher.

"Here, put your hand in some water."

"It's fine," she said softly, busying herself with the spatula, trying to somehow speed the melting of the lard.

"You burned your hand," he said in annoyance, grabbing her wrist. "See?"

He turned her hand over and realized it wasn't even red. He looked over at the pie pan and started toward it, but then voices from the great room caught his attention. He stepped out of the kitchen to see Jerrod had joined the two men at the bar. The young man seemed more somber and subdued than the night before, but certainly not gone. Grayfell's head was spinning in confusion. He turned back to the kitchen.

Gwenafhyr was cracking eggs into the pan, even though it couldn't be hot enough yet. And she was licking her lips. He crossed the distance between them and took her chin, making her look up at him. "You said he was gone."

"Um-hm," she agreed. Her teeth replaced her tongue on her lower lip and she closed her eyes as if savoring an aftertaste. Grayfell was reminded of the sweet, spicy taste of the pie last night, lingering on his tongue.

"What happened?" he demanded, wondering if she was making some obtuse reference to fellatio.

She pulled away from his grasp. "I was hungry and I ate," she explained impatiently as if he was purposely being dense.

"I'm talking about Jerrod, damn it."

It was her turn to look puzzled. "So am I."

In exasperation, Grayfell blurted out his real question. "Why him and not me!"

She shrugged. "Because he had a soul and you don't."