Cenric

Despite the chill outside, the Oak Forester was warm. Smoke coiled up from the blazing hearth, drifted past the roof beams, and escaped through the louver in the high thatched roof. It was busy, too; no one wanted to overnight in the dark, thick forests surrounding the village. No one wished to vanish out there. It was simply safest and more comfortable to pay the innkeeper and stay at the inn.

Cenric had been on his feet, running around the main hall all day, ferrying stew and bread, ale and cider from the kitchen to the guests lining the trestle tables, and carrying their empty bowls and tankards back. Keeping the hearth fed, clearing soiled rushes from the floor and replacing them with fresher ones and herbs, and lighting tallow candles as evening fell... the list of things that needed doing never ended. He hadn't quite been run ragged, but this was just another evening in the life of an innkeeper. Well, the son of one. Cenric shuddered at the thought of running this place proper.

But that wouldn't be just yet; leaving was the furthest thing from his mind right now, as he heard the heavy oak door creak open again. Cenric set the latest platter down in front of an unfed guest, and turned to the doorway with bright eyes. Hey, hello! Welcome to the Oak Forester; are you looking for a room for the night? He practically rushed over, almost tripping in his haste to greet the new visitor. Sorry, da's busy right now; can I help you, instead?

Cenric’s gaze swept over her—taking in the odd cut of her clothes, the dark hair, the sheer exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin. She looked expensive, or at least, she had before the road decided to chew her up and spit her out. Mortal frailty on display. Look at that. She’s practically swaying. Probably won't make it to a chair without help. A bath? Bold request. Heating that much water is back-breaking work, and she asks like it's bread from the market.

A silver piece gets you a corner in the hall and a bowl of pottage, Cenric said, leaning his hip against the rough-hewn timber of the front desk, his tone easy but his eyes quickly calculating the potential profit versus the effort. But a private room, hot water, and a proper meal? That'll cost you two silvers. The tub's wood, mind you, and leaks if you stare at it too hard.

He flashed a charming, boyish grin, the one that usually got him extra apples from the orchard or a free drink from the travelers. Da would say that's robbery. Da doesn't have to haul the buckets. Besides, look at her—she's got 'soft target' written all over that pretty face. She can afford it.

We've got mutton stew left, and the bread... well, the bread is fresh this morning. Stale, actually. Dry as sawdust. Disgusting stuff. How do they choke it down?

He held out a hand, palm up, waiting for the coin. "Do you have the coin, then?

Cenric’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened. She’s not as soft as she looks. Annoying. He let out a soft, theatrical sigh, as if she’d wounded his professional pride.

You drive a hard bargain for someone who looks ready to sleep in a ditch, he said, his tone light but a touch cooler. He glanced over his shoulder at the crowded hall, then back at her. Two nights, a private room—it’s small, but you’ll have the door to yourself—and two meals a day. That’ll be three silvers, total. No bath, but I’ll bring you a basin and some clean linens for washing. That’s my final offer. The mutton stew won’t last forever, and the rooms are filling up.

He kept his hand out, his expression now one of polite, slightly impatient expectation. *Three silvers is still robbery for a room that smells of damp and a bowl of boiled sheep. But she’s tired. She’ll pay.

Cenric let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. Three meals? You planning to hibernate like a bear in here? Fine. He snatched the imaginary coin from the air with a grin that was all teeth and sharp edges. Three silvers, three meals, room, and a wash basin. You drive a harder bargain than the wool merchant, and he smells like wet sheep.

He pushed off the desk, wiping his hands on his tunic. Up the stairs, third door on the left. Don't mind the drafts; the shutters don't close all the way. He gestured vaguely toward the staircase, already turning his attention back to the taproom. A tankard slammed onto a table behind him, demanding refills.

Hungry lass, indeed. She’ll eat us out of house and home if I’m not careful. Hope she chokes on a bone. Or maybe she’ll just eat the table. Da’s going to have my hide if he sees I gave her the room with the sagging floorboards.

I'll send a girl up with a bowl of stew and the water shortly. Don't go wandering the halls, some of the guests are... friendly. He gave her a once-over, dismissive this time. Especially looking like that. Like a ripe fruit waiting to be bruised. Pay me when you settle in. Don't make me come chasing you.

The coins were cool and heavy in his palm. He closed his fingers around them, the satisfying weight a small victory. Good. No arguments. No more haggling. He watched her climb the stairs, the weariness in her steps obvious, the odd cut of her clothes more so.

He pocket the coins and was back in the thrum of the main hall before she'd reached the top step. Sibyl! he called over the din to a girl scrubbing a table near the kitchen door. Room three, stew and bread, and a basin with water. Not hot. She didn't pay for hot.

The girl, all of fourteen with tired eyes, gave a short nod and scurried off. Cenric grabbed two empty tankards from a nearby table and headed for the barrels. The evening wore on. The mutton stew ran out. He had to bring out the thin, fishy pottage that was tomorrow's breakfast. He broke the news to a surly fur trader, who grumbled but ate it anyway.

It was well past dark, the guests having thinned to a few die-hards nursing the last of the ale, when Cenric finally had a moment to breathe. He leaned against the cool stone of the hearth, wiping his brow. His da, Eadweard, a broad man with a greying beard and a permanent squint, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Three new guests? I saw one, a woman. You charge her proper?

Three silvers, Cenric said, not meeting his eyes. He picked at a splinter on the mantel.

Eadweard whistled low. For how long?

For two nights, with meals, Cenric said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. She wanted a bath. I talked her out of it. She's paying for the convenience, da. And the privacy.

Eadweard gave him a long, appraising look. The room with the draught? Cenric shrugged. It's a room. She's got a door. She's not sleeping on the floor with the snoring tanners, is she?

His da shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and something like pride in his expression. You've got your mother's sharp tongue and a merchant's heart, boy. Just don't let it turn to stone. He gave Cenric's shoulder a final squeeze and moved off to bank the fire for the night.

Sharp tongue. Merchant's heart. The words echoed as Cenric finished clearing the last of the tables. He didn't want to think about what he'd inherited from the woman he'd never met. He hauled the bucket of slops out to the midden behind the inn, the cold night air biting through his tunic.

When he returned, the hall was quiet, lit only by the embers in the hearth. He took a candle and climbed the stairs, his steps light from long practice. He paused outside the third door on the left, listening. No sound. No light under the door.

*Probably passed out cold. Good.

Cenric knocked anyway, a sharp, rhythmic rap that was probably too loud for the hour. He didn't care. Courtesy. Da loves it. Makes us look dignified. He balanced the bowl of pottage in one hand and the pitcher of water in the other, the wooden basin tucked awkwardly under his arm.

Room service, he called out, voice dripping with mock grandeur. He nudged the door open with his foot, not waiting for an invitation. The hinges whined in protest.

The room was dark, smelling of stale rushes and the damp wool of the blanket. He could just make out her shape on the bed. Out like a candle. Didn't even undress. Rookie mistake. You'll wake up stiff as a board, hungry lass.

He set the water and basin down on the rickety table with a deliberate clunk, then placed the bowl next to it. The pottage looked grey and unappetizing in the dim light. Eat if you want, sleep if you don't, he muttered to the unmoving form. He moved to the hearth to strike a flint, needing a spark to light the taper he'd brought. She paid for the food. I delivered it. If it's cold by the time she wakes up, that's her fault for being unconscious.

He struck the steel, a shower of sparks catching the char cloth. A small flame flared. Fire's low, he said, glancing back at her. I'm not adding wood. Didn't pay for wood. He lit the candle, the small pool of light pushing back the shadows just enough to reveal her face. *Looks peaceful.

The candle flame sputtered, casting long, dancing shadows against the rough timber walls as he set it down on the table. He didn't flinch at her glare; instead, he met it with a lazy, unbothered look of his own, leaning back against the edge of the heavy oak table.

Only the ones who try to rob me blind over the price of a stew, he shot back, his tone light but carrying a sharp edge. He gestured vaguely at the empty hearth. You paid for a room and a wash. You didn't pay for heat. Wood doesn't grow on trees, well—it does, but I have to chop it, stack it, and haul it up here. That’s extra.

She looks like a drowned rat with a temper. Cute. But I’m not her servant. She wants warmth, she can rub her hands together or pay up.

He nodded toward the bowl of pottage he’d placed on the table. There's your meal. It's fish, not mutton. Ran out of the good stuff while you were napping. Eat it, or don't. But don't look at me like I’m the villain. I’m just the man doing the sums. He pushed off the table, moving toward the door. Lock it when I leave, if you can. The latch sticks.

He paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame. A slow, genuine grin spread across his face—not the charming, practiced one, but something sharper, more amused. He turned back to face her, leaning against the jamb.

No, he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, almost gleeful whisper. I stole it. From the lord's flock, last full moon. Snuck right into his pen, grabbed the fattest one, and glamoured the shepherd into thinking it was a badger. He winked, the green of his eyes catching the candlelight. Tastes better when it's stolen. Everything does.

He straightened up, the playful glint fading back into businesslike indifference. But don't go spreading that around. My da thinks I bought it fair from old man Cuthbert. He'd have a fit if he knew I was risking the noose for better stew. He gave her a final, assessing look. Enjoy your ill-gotten gains, hungry lass. And try not to freeze to death. It's bad for business.

He leaned against the doorframe, looking utterly unrepentant. A laugh, low and rough, escaped him.

Wrong with me? I'd say I've got a good sense of opportunity. The lamb was fat, the lord is rich, and you... He gestured vaguely in her direction with his chin. You looked like you needed it more than the sheep did. Consider it a charitable act. The innkeeper's son has a heart of gold, see?

He pushed off the frame, his smile lingering as a smirk. The world's a thief, darling. You can either get robbed, or you can do the robbing. I'm just better at it than most. He tapped his knuckles against the door twice, a sharp, final sound. Now, eat up. I've got a whole inn to run, and you're taking up a room I could be selling twice over.

He let out a bark of laughter that was half surprise, half genuine appreciation. She's got a mouth on her. Like a fishwife who's swallowed a nettle. The devil, she says. If only she knew.

The devil would've charged you four silvers and given you fleas in the bedding, he retorted, crossing his arms. He watched her eat a spoonful of the grey pottage without flinching. Good. Strong stomach. Or just desperate. Probably desperate.

Service costs, he continued, his tone shifting to something drier. And you're getting the premium package: witty banter. Most people just get Sibyl scowling at them. She's got a face like a slapped arse when she's tired. He pushed off the doorframe. Speaking of which, I've got to go make sure the drunks don't set the place on fire trying to piss in the hearth. Sleep well. If you start to feel a chill in the night, there's a horse blanket in the stable out back. Just don't let my da catch you taking it.

He was about to pull the door shut when a loud, panicked shout echoed from the main hall below, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing to the floor. Cenric's head snapped toward the noise, his playful expression vanishing into one of irritated focus.

Bollocks, he muttered. Probably Edric. Can't hold his ale. This is what I get for leaving them alone for five minutes.

He gave Anya a curt nod. Welcome to the Oak Forester. He was already moving, his steps quick and light on the wooden stairs as he descended back into the chaos.

Downstairs, the scene was one of controlled mayhem. A large, red-faced man—Edric the tanner—was sprawled on the floor, having taken a bench down with him. A tankard lay splintered near his head, ale soaking into the rushes. Eadweard was already there, hauling the man up by his armpits with a grunt of effort.

Get his other side, Cen, Eadweard barked, his face tight.

Cenric moved in, ducking under Edric's flailing arm. The smell of cheap ale and sweat was overwhelming. Gods, he stinks like a tannery vat. Alright, Edric, up you get. Time to find your own bed, you great lump.

C'n pay f'r 'nother! Edric slurred, trying to pat his tunic for a coin purse that wasn't there.

You're paid up till tomorrow, Cenric grunted, heaving. Now, walk. Between him and Eadweard, they half-dragged, half-carried the stumbling man toward the back of the hall where the guests slept in rows on the floor.

As they passed the hearth, Sibyl was on her knees, scrubbing at the ale stain with a handful of dirty rushes, her expression exactly as Cenric had described: like a slapped arse. She glared up at him as if it were his fault.

Don't look at me, Cenric said. He's your da's cousin. Blame your own blood.

Once they'd deposited Edric onto a pallet where he immediately began snoring like a sawmill, Eadweard wiped his brow. Right. That's enough excitement for one night. Cenric, bank that fire. Sibyl, finish up and get to bed. We're opening at dawn.

Cenric nodded, moving to the hearth. As he used the long poker to push the glowing embers together and cover them with ash, his thoughts wandered back upstairs. *The hungry lass. She saw the commotion, probably.