It was night in London, which started the business at the Roaring Lion pub. Milah slammed a foaming mug of beer in front of a man before moving off towards another table with his ale. She was kept busy, but she wouldn't have it any other way. It was mostly men in the pub, apart from a few...less-than-savory women. There was rarely any other kind of woman in there.

That was why it was such a surprise when a blond, beautiful noblewoman walked in. Her face was covered by her red cowl, and in the light of the fireplace Milah could see her almost clear-blue eyes. Rachel Andric. She hadn't come to the pub since her brother had gone off with King Richard. She walked up to Milah. "Where shall I sit?" she asked.

"Wherever you please," Milah answered. She didn't like Rachel Andric; her brother Ewan had been nice enough, but Rachel came off as a conceited noble, too snobbish to sit with anyone. "I'm not seating you, I've got enough to do at the moment."

Rachel eyed the crowd nervously, and prepared to ask Milah another question. Her mouth snapped shut when she realized Milah had moved away from her. Blast. Where was she to sit?

Finally, her eyes settled on a table in the far corner of the room, empty. It wasn't the best place to hear Milah's gossip, the reason Rachel had come tonight, but Rachel couldn't bear sitting with any of the men. Uncouth, flirtatious, and sometimes downright rude to Rachel. She didn't like them when they weren't under the influence of alcohol.

She sat at the table she had picked out, watching the crowd drink and talk in loud tones. As she sat there, one of the men suddenly leaped up, drawing his sword. "Have at you, then!" he shouted. "I'll kill you, you swine!"

"Not here, you won't," Milah interrupted, plucking the sword from the surprised man's grip. Rachel hadn't even seen her approach. "I don't feel like scrubbing this floor clean of blood. If you want to hit each other with fists, that's all well and good, but not with swords. You want to chop his head off, you do it outside, you understand?"

"Yes ma'am," the man murmured, like a boy being scolded by his mother. Milah returned the man's sword to him and he hastened out the door, his face red with shame.

Milah dusted her hands off, the satisfaction evident on her face. When she saw everyone staring at her, she put her hands on her hips and grinned. "Anyone else want to cause some trouble, or are you going to enjoy your drinks?"

They all returned to their drinks, some with little laughs, others with more boisterous chuckles. Rachel was envious of the ease Milah had with the crowd. She knew what she wanted, and the crowd listened. Rachel had never been good with people. That had always been Ewan's job.

She choked back a sob at the thought of Ewan, and she quickly moved her thoughts away. She had come for Milah's gossip, and she couldn't let her emotions get in the way.

Robert threw aside his brushes in aggravation, splattering red paint across the wall. He studied the muddled canvas on the stand in front of him. "Too many primary colors." He frowned. "I should've mixed them a little more."

He removed the canvas and laid it face-first against the wall. When it dried, he could paint it over with white and try again. But for now, he ambled near a tiny pot-belly stove and poured himself a mug of tea. Disgusted at the bitter, watery liquid, he dumped it out beneath the cracks on the floor. This garret was terrible, but he'd been told that suffering a little would give inspiration for his art. But so far all it inspired was indigestion. Maybe he should return to Warrick Estates, his little stone house in the country. At least the cook Annabelle was there, maybe she'd be willing to pose for him . . .

"Pose?" Robert mused. "A model! That's exactly what I need for inspiration. Some fair-haired lass who wouldn't mind sitting awhile."

He grabbed his cloak and cane from the corner and darted outside. He knew exactly where to find a volunteer: the Roaring Lion.

Donnchad sat in the corner of the public house for the second day and slowly nursed a dark ale as he watched the door. His eyes focused as a man stepped in. Not him. Too short. Hair the wrong colour. Need a tall lad, curly red hair, not short brown.

He again scanned the room looking to see if he had missed Grafton. Some fine lassies here, but as much as I would like one, I need to find my man.

The serving wench came over to ask him who he was waiting for. He looked at her and said, "A tall red-headed lad, name o Grafton, He's to take me north." He looked her over as she stood thinking. Feisty lass from what I see, but not enough flesh on her bones.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Not any I have seen. He from around here?"

"Chan eil... Sorry, Lass, my Gaelic. I do na know. Only a contact."

Iereth watched the door anxiously. It was the second day since no one had entered the apothecary. Did people no longer need medicine? Was no one getting ill anymore? He laughed at his own foolishness; people were always getting sick no matter the season! Then maybe, he bit his lip, it was because the small apothecary was so small people thought of it as nothing more than a closet. His eyes lifted to the albarello jars and boxes of herbs he had collected from the merchants and the courtyard out back. With all of the merchandise hugging the walls and hanging from the ceiling, the area did look cramped. But that was no excuse for the lack of customers!

Grimacing, he grabbed two bags and a crate, stocked them with jars, and headed out. If the populous couldn't find him, he'd find them!

He opened the door but couldn't take a step further. A group of people stood in his way. "Excuse me," he said, carefully shoving past them so that his merchandise wouldn't fall. The group ignored him as their eyes remained glued on a dancing man with long red hair. No, men didn't have breasts. The woman was dancing with two poles tied to her feet, making her head a couple feet higher than the average horse.

Iereth's scowl deepened. So this was why he couldn't sell a thing the past two days. Her audience had made it near impossible to enter his wagon wide shop. Weaving his way out of the small enamored crowd, he trudged down the road to find someone in the need of medicine.

Richard paused from his work to sweep aside the length of his black hair and simply breathe. Working in the stables was a tiring job. The glossy, muscled destriers were just finicky as their knight riders. Twice he had nearly been kicked that very day.

His muscles were sore and the smell of horse manure clogged his nostrils. Night had fallen over a sleepy London. The moon rose white and pure above the smokey roof tops. Richard stopped spreading hay in the stall and leaned upon his pitchfork, watching the stars pour their light upon the world.

He could hear the boisterous sounds of a nearby tavern. The noise laughter and drunken brawling drifted to the stable-yard. Richard placed his chin on top his hand, pouting sullenly.

What he wouldn't do for a drink.

Giselle pulled her cloak a little tighter as she came within earshot of the Roaring Lion. It never ceased to amaze her that the same folk who moaned and cried about not having as much as another could spend without thought when it came to drink.

Fools.

As she passed in front of the place, she heard shouting.

"You want to chop his head off, you do it outside, you understand?"

There was some kind of response, and a moment later a man stumbled out, his face red and his sword still only half sheathed. Giselle gave him a wide berth as he tried to focus on the road in front of him.

"Sassy wench," he muttered. "I ought to show her what a real man could do with that tongue of hers."

He gave a low chuckle. It made Giselle's stomach turn. She made herself as small as possible as the man walked by, weaving left and right and squinting at the ground as if trying to keep it in focus. His purse jingled on his waist as he stumbled over a small hole.

No Giselle, you mustn't. You've only been here a month! None of that now. What does it matter that he seems like a cad?

It was the girl that was her undoing. She came from nowhere. Small as a mouse, dressed in threadbare clothes she stood barefoot on the road.

"Please Sir, spare a coin?"

The man's head swiveled back and forth before finally noticing the child. He stopped, his eyes glowing in the darkness. Giselle felt a shiver work through her. She'd seen this kind of man before. Filled on drink and shamed, he might do anything.

Le Chat went to work.

Quickly she closed the distance between them, hooking her arm through his before he knew what was happening.

"Oh how lovely of you to help a child," she gushed as he turned a surprised face her way. "Perhaps you can escort me home as well, oui?"

She waved the girl away as she pulled the man forward.

"Who...?"

"Is all right," she said sweetly. I live just around ze corner, 'ere."

She swept him into the side street, then quickly into another. He stumbled dangerously.

"Ah! 'Ere we are! Mercie!"

She dropped a quick kiss on his cheek and left him standing in confusion as she dashed down the small alley. At the end, she turned and hurried back around to the main street. She listened carefully, but heard nothing more of him. Back almost to the Roaring Lion she searched the shadows until she spotted the small set of eyes.

"Is all right to come out," she whispered.

The girl didn't move. Perhaps she was smarter than Giselle had given her credit for. She held out the purse and jingled it softly.

"You need food, oui?"

About 800 years from now, someone would invent a thing called Wikipedia, which would cheekily insist that corsets were not invented until the 1500s or so, despite the fact that they were clearly worn in ancient Crete! Hortence Snodgrass knew better. One fair day in 1190 or so, the abbess of the convent where Horty attended boarding school bawled her out for exceeding the weight limit.

"I never saw a weight limit on anything! Weight limit of what?!"

"The planet," the abbess explained, pulling a sadistic looking device from a chest. "Until you reduce to within normal human dimensions, young lady, you'll wear this. I had it made by one of the finest corsetiers in France. Cost a small fortune. You know gluttony is a mortal sin, don't you?"

"So is torture!"

"No, it isn't. All five popes engage in it with great frequency."

"There's only one pope now!"

"Oh, yeah. Never mind that. Come, I'll help you put it on."

Hortence eyed the medieval torture raiment as if it were Donald Trump's jockstrap, which wouldn't be invented for another 684 years. Ooooh, wouldn't it be nice if his came with a built-in taser? Alas, those wouldn't be invented for another 784 years. "You had this made for me? Don't they have to be custom-made to the wearer's measurements?"

"Actually, I had it made for me, not for you. But I don't like the color, and the money came from the collection box anyhow, so it's no loss to give it to—"

"Well, I won't wear it! It's too small for me!"

"Yes, it is rather small, but you'll wear it if I have to call the other nuns to hold you down while I force you into it. Now stop this foolishness immediately. Do you want me to write to your father? You're here to learn how to be a proper lady in today's England. That includes comportment, dress and appearance. Just because your family doesn't have any titles or styles doesn't mean you have to carry yourself like a ruffian. Don't you want to be a proper young lady?"

"No, I want to be a princess! Princesses can do whatever they want!"

"Oh, stuff and nonsense. One would think you were ten years old from the way you behave and not a young miss preparing for her debut, or whatever the equivalent of that is in this era. Now put this on at once before I call the other girls to come and laugh at you."

Well! That was enough for Hortence. She hated the other girls; they did nothing but taunt her and take the last bit of cake. Summoning all the strength the stubborn little walrus had in her chubby fists, she socked the abbess right in the...um...well, the poor woman fell directly on her keister. Hortence then ran as fast as her stubby legs would carry her until she arrived at the road that led to the convent. Huffing and puffing, and on the brink of a heart attack, she turned and discovered that she'd only run about five meters, and meters wouldn't be invented for another 605 years.

"This...will...never...do!" she huffed, looking around for transportation. The only possibility was an old donkey in a neighboring field. "Well...when in Rome, um...have Roman candy!"

She spent the rest of the day walking the two yards to the donkey. Why did it have to be so far away?! Gripping her heart, she arrived at the creature's side and then struggled to climb onto its back. How she finally prevailed we'll never know. Later historians would posit that the donkey had been temporarily stunned senseless upon seeing the waddling dough ball approaching, and forgot to run away.

Hortence rode the poor animal from the convent to a pub called the Roaring Lion, where the donkey collapsed on painfully buckled knees.

Oh, poor thing! What am I going to do now? It's getting dark! Horty wondered, glancing around at the peasants nearby. "I say, could one of you please tell me the way to the nearest prince?" she asked, but they didn't seem to understand her. Lost and all alone in a foreign city! After all, this was nearly three km away from the convent, although kilometers would not be invented for another 608 years. How would she ever communicate with these paupers? Stupidly she'd left the abbey with nothing but the money she always kept in her shoe.

Her shoe! Hortence kicked it off and counted the boodle. Oh, why hadn't England gone to paper money yet?! Her foot was killing her from walking on coins all day. But thank goodness, there was more than enough for a handy English to Cockney translation guide, with additional chapters on various regional dialects like Cornwall, Yorkshire and Kentish. Maybe her father was an overbearing tyrant compensating for his short stature, but at least he was filthy stinking rich. After purchasing the translation book, she entered the pub and looked around for cake and anyone who looked like they might drive a hack. Maybe she'd go to Paris! They probably had plenty of cake.

Ooooh, ruffians! Alas, there was no cake in view, and the room was full of...well, ruffians. But also some women, all more beautiful and thinner than she, although none had a dress quite as pink. I bet none of theirs are by haute couture designers! Her linen chemise was Christian Dior-Knob, her bliaut gown with flared sleeves and fur trim was Oscar de la Rental, and her wimple and head veil were Tumbling & Tipsy. Surely the ruffians in the room were impressed!

To test this theory, she sidled up to a Semitic-looking man. Ooooh, someone even more foreign than she! "I say there, you must be Bavarian." It suddenly occurred to her that he might not understand. Remembering her handy translation guide, she gazed up at the man—way up—and babbled a suggested useful phrase. "Um...vouchsafe this forthwith forsoothly! Thou art clearly madeth of awesomeness. Hast thou...erm...been to Princeton? I art seeking mine self a prince of humongous reknown!"

This was probably a Bavarian prince! And only minutes after she'd left the protection of the convent, too. What were the odds? This was the answer to the 64 guilder question. All she had to do was marry him and she was set for life! No more working, no more studying, sewing or dish washing. She'd have servants to do all the manual labor, and all she had to do was relax on the couch and wait 756 years for the invention of television.

Yes, Hortence was a git.

Milah's eyebrows shot up at the sight of the overweight--putting it extremely lightly--woman that had barely managed to squeeze through the door. The woman didn't seem interested in any drinks yet--Milah thanked the Lord she didn't have any food in the pub; otherwise this overweight...creature would probably have devoured it all--so Milah left her alone. She brought Rachel a foaming mug of beer. "Here."

Rachel eyed it with distaste. "What's this?" she asked.

"A drink. What does it look like?" Milah said crossly. "You sit in my pub, you pay for a drink. I don't let loiterers in here."

Rachel shrugged and dropped the coins on the table. Milah's eyebrows rose even further. "What's this for?" she asked. "That's far too much for any sort of drink that I serve here."

"Information," Rachel answered.

Before she could get any further, more loud voices piped up from another section of the room. Milah rolled her eyes, turning to them to make sure the argument stopped. "Richard's a fool!" the man shouted, standing up.

Milah froze. "Idiot," she muttered. "That's treason!"

"You're the fool!" the other man retorted.

"He's a fool, dragging idiots around that forsaken land!" the first man insisted. "And anyone who fights with him deserves what he gets!"

Before Milah could punch the man--which she really wanted to do--Rachel had shot to her feet, knocking over the mug. She walked over to the man, skirting around the obese woman until she stood before him. She was at least two heads shorter than him. "Any who don't fight with King Richard is a coward," she said in a low voice. "And you, sir, are the worst kind of a coward."

Only Milah saw what was coming next. She'd done the same thing to men before. Rachel's hand came forward bunched in a fist and slammed into the man's nose. He fell back, grabbing at a dagger in his belt, but Milah was faster. One of her knives slammed into the table near his hand. "That's enough!" she barked. The man turned on her. Milah crossed her arms. "You get out of here, or you lose that nose Lady Andric has so kindly broken for you."

Faced with a jeering crowd and two angry women, the man left with what little dignity was left to him, his nose bleeding in his hand. Milah recovered her knife, sliding it into the sheath hidden in her skirts. "I'm sorry, Lady Andric," she apologized. "You were asking me something...?"

Rachel shook her head, and Milah saw tears forming in her stunning clear-blue eyes. "Nothing," she managed, before turning and running out of the pub.
Milah shook her head, disappointed. At least, she was disappointed until she realized she still had Rachel's coins. If the noblewoman came back, well and good. Milah would give her the information she wanted. But if she didn't? Milah could keep it. Fair was fair.

Outside of the pub, Rachel leaned against the wall, feeling hot tears coursing down her cheeks. The man she had punched had been mocking her brother. Anyone who fights with him gets what he deserves. Ewan had fought with King Richard and had died. He hadn't deserved that. One of the King Richard's most trusted men...an assassin crept in and killed him in the night...Ewan hadn't even died in battle. A Saracen assassin had killed him.

She sank down in front of the pub, bringing her knees to her chest. She'd thought she could escape her grief, but she'd been a fool to convince herself of that.

Robert was rather tired by the time he reached the pub. It wasn't a long walk, but he'd been on his feet all afternoon. It would be good to relax and sip a little . . . no, he didn't have time for that. He had to find a model. Then he could complete a portrait, earn a little fame, and show all his relatives that he was worthy of his parent's inheritance, not a spoiled heir. The thought of his parents made his stomach churn . . . both had been visiting a city further south when it was sieged, and both had been killed. Robert bitterly clutched the ornate cross beneath his cloak; every attack was deemed a "Holy Cause" by the Church, though he had not idea why.

Robert approached the tavern just as the stars broke through the cerulean sky above. He took a deep breath, inhaling the night air. But he was interrupted from a noise nearby - it sounded like crying. He suddenly noticed a slender, blonde-haired woman leaning against the wall of the pub. The hood of her cloak had slid aside, allowing the moonlight to reflect off her silvery tears.

It wasn't like Robert to interfere. But she seemed in distress . . . and he didn't have anything better to do, anyway. "Pardon me, milady, but you seem to be upset. Is there anything I can do?"

The woman glanced up at him like a frightened deer, than made an effort to dash away the moisture from her face. "Nothing's wrong. Why did you think I was upset?"

Her voice was still nasally from crying and her eyes were red. Robert shrugged. "Just assumed, I suppose. Do you need any . . ."

"No."

"No what?"

"I don't need any help, thank you. I can manage quite well on my own."

Her cheeks were flushed excitedly, and there was an angry spark in her eye. In an instant, Robert thought what a wonderful painting she would make. "Milady, may I ask your name?"

"Andric." Was the short answer, as she shoved herself away from the wall. "Lady Andric."

Before Robert could ask anything more, Lady Andric had disappeared around the corner of the building. He was too much of a gentleman to follow her - so, sighing with disappointment, he pushed open the door to the pub. Maybe there would be another woman willing to pose for him . . .

But as soon as he walked inside he fell against a very large woman in a pink silken dress.

Hortense Snodgrass. Of all people.

Gigi sat along the wall of the public house, directly opposite its entrance, watching it closely for her second evening. So many ruffians. Why was this fetid den chosen as the meeting place? Where could she be? She tipped her mead cup to glance into it and shrugged. Near empty. Might as well have another.

She looked up to see the barmaid rushing to the aid of a cloaked woman. Could that be Donna? No, far to short. Tresses blonde, not red. Curly though. She watched as the short blonde mashed a rogue's nose back into his head. Proud woman, standing up for honour. We could use more of her quality. Seems refined. She watched the bloody-nosed brute stagger to the door and head out, then she scanned the room again to find the barmaid to order another mead. Hotter this time — this one arrived tepid.

Her eyes were distracted by a bright pink shape oozing through the doorway. That is definitely not Donna. Gigi snickered to herself. Maybe if she were stretched on a rack. Nah, have to stretch her to nearly a rod to slim her... She shook her head. Enough of this nonsense. I have my duty. She waved her arm until she caught the barmaid's attention, then held her cup high and shouted, "I enjoy it hot."

The large man in the corner looked at her and smiled as his eyes assessed her again. "I like things hot also." He rearranged his kilt as he rose. "Ye been here two days. Looks though you be waiting on someone, as am I. May we wait together?"

Gigi watched as he rose to tower over the table and step forward. Why not? He seems a gentle sort. My God, those shoulders. She trembled lightly and smiled, then patted the bench beside her. "Please do."

If he didn't feel foolish earlier, he certainly felt like a dunce now. Iereth leaned against the wall of some pub, exhausted. He had no clue where he was, and the dark streets wouldn't help him find his way back. But, his heart ached with the weight of his unsold merchandise and made the idea of going back without a single new coin shaming. What kind of merchant was he if he couldn't sell one measly root? And, letting out a heavy sigh, the merchandise itself was heavy. At this point, he'd give it away just to get the weight off his back.

A drunken man stumbled out of the pub. Iereth could have targeted him to make an unfair deal for either ends, but dealing with the drunk was never a good idea. If he was mad, the man could easily send his jars flying and remedies into ruin. Iereth's eyes scanned the paupers sitting against buildings, resting in the alleyways, and loitering about the street. Selling to them wouldn't do him much good either.

Heavy breathing and the clomping of hooves, brought Iereth's attention to a large woman riding a donkey that appeared to be on the verge of death. His eyes lit up. Normally large people were wealthy. Perhaps she'd have the money to allow her interest in his stock, but...

The donkey collapsed and the woman yelled in a familiar language that he hardly understood. He grimaced. There went the chance of selling to her. He watched the woman waddle into the pub, and he let out a heavy sigh, his eyes resting on the worn out donkey. It stared at him with droopy eyes, and after a long while, slowly stood.

Iereth took a step away from the beast. Couldn't the woman have tethered it somewhere or given it to a stablehand? Looking at the equine's legs, Iereth spotted cuts from where it had collapsed on the stone road. He gulped and looked down at a jar that would help the animal. But... he stared at the donkey and gulped... no this was a donkey, not a horse. He could help it.

He set his merchandise down except for a single jar. Slowly, and very reluctantly, Iereth approached the animal and held out a hand to its snout. "You're just a donkey," he muttered. "Just a donkey."

Kneeling down, he opened the jar and applied a salve of arnica, clove, and lavender to the donkey's injured knees. The animal snorted and he stumbled back, away from the horrible beast. "Just a donkey," he muttered, staring into the creature's dark eyes. "Don't think I'll do any more for you," he added. The donkey only blinked.

Richard sighed as he walked along the empty street. His muscles ached from a day of trying labor, and though he knew he smelled like the stable-yard, Richard was eager to stop by the Roaring Lion and get himself a mug of ale. And maybe a gander of Milah--if she didn't toss him out on his ear first.

He was nearly to the pub when he spotted the donkey and the black haired gentleman. He was kneeling at the side of the braying creature. The man had a small jar open and was applying a thin layer of salve to the donkey's wounds. Richard watched for a moment, feeling guilty as he considered ignoring the two and going inside the pub. Turning a blind eye would not be the right thing to do.

Richard greeted the gentleman, meeting his peculiar silver eyes. "Evening, sir," Richard said with a wave of his hand. "Do you need help with him? I work over at the stable-yard nearby."

Deep in thought, the man slowly shook his head as he rose to his feet and capped the poultice. "No, it's not my steed. It belongs to the, ah, lady inside."

Together, the two men turned to the pub. The "lady" in question was a bulbous pink creature currently draped around some poor fellow who appeared to be in danger of becoming her next meal.

Richard shook his head, muttering, "I really need that drink."

Hassan sat in the darkest part of the darkest corner he could find. This establishment certainly had its fair share of colorful characters. He eyed the bold woman who served the drinks. She knew her way around a knife, that was sure. Hopefully she would not be a part of whatever his assignment turned out to be. The stars confirmed his feeling: this particular trip would not end pleasantly.

He eyed the newcomers, wondering who it was he had been sent here to kill.

My goodness, these ruffians were violent! Her father had warned her about Bavarians. Still, she couldn't leave the pub until she found someone to take her to Paris, where she might have better luck finding an unattached prince. What were the odds of finding another donkey at this hour? It would be centuries before anyone invented a telephone made with two cans and some string.

She turned from the Arabic dude as she considered what to do, when suddenly a good-looking non-prince with familiar appendages fell against her. Oh my goddeth! Where have I seen this bloke-like personage before? she wondered. Then it hit her! Like so many things wanted to.

Robert Somebody or other! That painter chap her father had hired before he sent her away to the convent. Robert had painted a gorgeous picture of her that made her look rather human.

"I know you!" she blathered. "And you speak English! Unlike everyone else here. You're that painter chap. You'd better be careful; there are ruffians about!" She glanced around as she spoke, hoping none of the customers were going to slit her throat just this minute. She hadn't even had a drink yet!

Oooh, a drink! That was an idea. We'd better try to blend in with these ruffians, she reasoned. Much safer that way. This was a pub and people drank in pubs, among other things. Removing her shoe, she dumped out enough coins for two drinks and a generous tip, then tugged Robert up to the bar, whispering to his knees. "Let me buy you a drink so we don't look suspicious to all these Bavarians!" she warned under her breath. "They look dangerous! And they don't speak our language, but I bought something that will help."

After adjusting her oh so dernier cri wimple, she flipped through pages of her trusty translation guide until finding a useful phrase for ordering drinks.

"Yoo hoo! Barmaid! Down here! Yea, verily! Dost thou serveth weapons-grade drinky poohs?"

The road stretched on. No matter how far he went, however, the past was but a glimpse over the shoulder. The memories were whispering, growing louder by the moment, and he was out the 'medicine' that would silence them.

Through the streets he searched for what he needed. He found the apothecary's shop dark and quiet, unlike the noisy crowd who laughed at some buffoon just outside. No, it seems he would have to make do at the nearest tavern. He hated drink, but what else could he do?

A miserable creature covered in a smelly salve caught his attention. Whoever would do that to even a beast so stubborn? Anger began to rise...

Relax, you'll have what you need soon.

A strange, plump boy sat among the other urchins. He seemed nervous, perhaps feeling out of place. He certainly seemed it.

Don't look too long, he's trying very hard to fit in.

Stepping inside the boisterous tavern, he scanned the corners and walls. There was danger, there always was, but here it was not for him. He didn't care anyway, let it come.

With a hand that was shaking, he gathered a few coins hidden on his person. He knew better than put his meager wealth into a purse. There were thieves about, he had know enough of them.

"Ah, my good lady, a drink please," he entreated, "The strongest thing you've got. Thank you."

Now with the substitute elixir, he peered around. There were a number of lovely ladies and... Oh my! there's something you don't see everyday!

Milah slammed two drinks in front of the painter, Robert Briggs, and the strange fat creature, who seemed to be speaking some strange form of English. "Here," she said. "Ale. Enjoy." She swept the coins off the counter and dropped them into her purse she kept around her neck. No one dared steal it from Milah. She moved through the crowd, serving the man and woman who wanted theirs hot before ending up beside a dark-skinned Saracen. She realized she hadn't served him, and, admittedly, he was handsome, in an exotic sort of way. She leaned over his table and said, "Sorry, didn't see you. What would you like? Ale? Mead? Beer?"
Milah was cut off by a loud and shrill scream piercing through the boisterous sounds of the pub. "What in the name of all that's holy was +that+?" Milah exclaimed, unnerved.

Only a few minutes before, Rachel was in one of the alleyways. She had gone through there to avoid the inquisitive man in front of the pub, but now she was wishing she'd stayed with him. There were numerous beggars and homeless people in the alley. She was about to turn and go the other way when she saw something that made her stomach churn. A man in a turban was trying desperately to blend in with the rest of the beggars.

Before Rachel could react to that, someone grabbed her, pinning her arms to her sides. She screamed as loud as she could, and a hand was clapped over her mouth. "Not so brave now, are you?" The man's drunken breath caused Rachel to recoil. It was the man from the pub--the one she'd punched.

That was bad.