Page 7 of The Wolf in My Tavern

More often, though, we head to one of the local taverns at the end of the day to chat with our friends, have a pint, and enjoy freshly prepared food.

I don’t mind the long hours and I enjoy the work. My blacksmithing skills are improving, and I can handle most tasks. My father has garnered a reputation for weapon repairs, which can be more intricate, and I’m learning that, too, under his watch and instruction. He is patient with me—a good father who has instilled a firm sense of right and wrong.

In some ways, life here is not so bad, yet I find myself wishing more often that I lived somewhere far from Bleakness and the Blighten. Although they take a cut of our taxes via the marshal of this district, they don’t interfere with us, nor with traders in general, leaving us to our business. Yet one can never forget them, not when the ships come in, and they march down the streets. Occasionally, trouble starts when one of the lords gets ideas of independence, but rebellions are usually poorly organized and dealt with swiftly.

The Blighten remain a cloud over us, as do the slave markets. I still think about that night we raided. It is hard to forget: it has left a forever impression upon me, and not least because of the sweet lass I saved along with Betsy.

I wash up quickly, feeling my cheeks fill with heat. Ada has been through a trauma and doesn’t need me mooning over her. I shouldn’t be thinking about her at all, but, fuck it, I can admit, I’m gone for her.

Finishing my wash, I change into a clean shirt and tuck it into my pants.

My father joins me at the entrance where our cloaks hang. “Jolly Sailor tonight, then?” he asks, grabbing his cloak.

We went to the Jolly Sailor on Wednesday. Tonight is Friday, and we usually go to The Green Man, which I consider our local as we go there more than any other tavern. Certainly, we never go to the Jolly Sailor twice in one week.

When my mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, my pa chuckles.

My ears go red. He likes to tease me about my fixation with a certain lass.

“The Green Man it is then,” he says, with a wink.

I snatch up my cloak and drop it over my shoulders; a stupid grin on my face. Friday evening at The Green Man is officially my favorite night of the week.

Hail lashes me the moment I step out. It is always fucking cold in Bleakness. It is icy rain in the spring and autumn; in the winter, it is snow. We get a brief summer and some respite, and then it is back to the fucking awful weather again.

We close the workshop, and my father locks up. Not that there is much trouble in this part of the city. A few years ago, a gang of thugs broke in, but this is a tight-knit community, and we look out for one another. The wheelwright, who lives two shops down, saw who it was. My pa and a few of our neighbors paid them a visit, and we recovered most of our things.

And put a thumping on the idiots so they didn’t make that mistake again.

I pull my hood forward to protect myself from the stinging hail as we walk the short distance to the tavern. The Green Man is a respectable establishment. To those in the know, it is a safe place for enemies of the Blighten.

Still, the windows emit a welcoming glow, and as we step inside and the door slams shut behind us, I draw my hood back and feel the warmth from the fire.

It is heaving. But it is always busy here, especially on a Friday when everyone lets loose.

“Evening, Heath!” Tim booms from behind the bar, where he is busy pulling pints.

“Evening!” my pa calls.

I lift my hand in acknowledgment as we take off our wet cloaks and hang them on the pegs by the door.

“Looks like Pete has kept us a space over by the fire,” my pa says, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve worked up a thirst today. See if you can get us a couple of pints, lad. And some of that beef stew for supper.”

He heads toward the fire, and his buddy, Pete, and I head to the bar. The serving lasses come around, although on busy nights when they are hard-pressed to keep up with demand, I usually order from the bar to speed things up.

“Two pints of Pinkington, please,” I say to Tim as I edge between two merry sailors and a dockworker. “And we’ll have two beef stews.”

“Coming right up,” Tim says, before he calls the order to the cook.

Which is when Ada comes rushing out of the back. The raucous tavern patrons fade away as I get lost in her pretty eyes. I feel a familiar catch in my breath. She has a sensual beauty: her hazel eyes hold sensitivity, her nose a little button that turns up at the end, and her lips, full and berry red, make my thoughts sink to inappropriate places.

She looks like she’s about to speak to Tim, but her eyes slide past him and slam into me.

I’ve never been with a lass. I’m busy and don’t have much spare time… which is an excuse when the truth is I’m cursed to be shy. Unless the lass is forward, matters are unlikely to progress. I’ve thought about it often, lifting their skirts and touching them, making them moan in the way I sometimes hear when they slip out the back… Betsy offered to teach me last year. Flustered by her proposal, my ears had gotten hotter than our forge. I couldn’t look her in the eye for a month, so that was a no-go.

I’ve kissed a couple—I was sweet on Doreen from two doors down the whole of last year. But I’m going to be honest; I’ve not thought about the young seamstress once since I met Ada.

She is my first thought on waking and my last thought before I submit to sleep. After what she has been through, I’m fucking terrified that I wouldn’t know what the fuck to do and might upset her if I did something wrong… Well, I know what to do, but I’m still terrified and wish I’d let Betsy coach me with hindsight.

---