Page 46 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
He spoke in a heavy Northman accent, something that Havilland didn’t recognize but Jamison, having been born in the Highlands, recognized immediately.A Northman, he thought, not at all pleased with the discovery. His clan and the Northmen had never been allies; his people had, for centuries, fiercely resisted any attempt at Northmen raids or settlements, so he was instantly on his guard to realize that his host was a hated Northman. But his wife had the sword and he reached out, taking it from her even as she looked at him in concern.
“Show yerself,” Jamison said steadily. “Let me see that ye are sincere in yer welcome and not waiting in the shadows tae ambush us.”
Their host didn’t hesitate. He came forth from the darkness, swathed in what could only be termed as tatters of furs and wool, wrapped up in a stink so foul that when he moved, a noxious cloud billowed off of him. He was a large man, made larger by his layers of clothing, and stringy gray hair hung all about him, spilling over his shoulders and down his back.
He was frightening, to say the least. Havilland didn’t like the look of him at all and she tried to take the sword back from Jamison, an instinct to protect herself, but Jamison wouldn’t release it. He simply pulled her to him, trying to position himself so that he was in a protective position.
Something about their host simply didn’t seem right.
But the man with the Northman accent held up his hands to show that he wasn’t armed. He moved a little closer in their direction as the fire illuminated him in profile.
“I am unarmed,” he said. “I do not intend to harm you. In fact, I should be more worried about you, entering my home with a weapon in hand. Have you come to kill me?”
Jamison shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “But a prudent man arms himself in uncertain situations.”
The host eyed them a moment before finally nodding his head, turning back to his fire. “True enough,” he said. “Come and make yourself comfortable. I will have food brought to you.”
The words of invitation came again and Havilland looked at Jamison, hesitation in her expression, but he simply took her arm and pulled her with him into the chamber. Still, Havilland could feel the wariness in his big body simply by the way he moved; he usually moved with confidence but at this moment, he was moving slowly, coiled, as if waiting for something to happen. She could tell that he didn’t trust their host but, given their situation, there was little choice. Cautiously, she moved alongside him towards the table their host had indicated.
The table was broken, propped up on one side with stones where the legs were missing. Even so, it still leaned dangerously and there were two benches butted up against one side of it. The benches didn’t look too sturdy, either, and Jamison pulled one out and tested it with his significant weight before allowing Havilland to sit on it. She did, gingerly, as the host pulled two wooden cups off the mantel and plopped them on the table.
“Please,” he said, “remove your wet clothing and dry it by the fire. You are dripping all over my floors and even though I do not present a fine home, I should not like to slip on your drippings.”
Havilland immediately stood up, staggering a little because she was so exhausted, and proceeded to pull off her sopping cloak. Jamison helped his wife remove her drenched clothing, including the gloves and another surcoat she had over a lighter-weight woolen dress. Jamison dutifully shuttled all of it over to the hearth that their host had just stoked, bringing forth an array of flames that brightened up the room.
All the while, Jamison hacked and coughed, even as he removed his own cloak and outer clothing, nearly everything he could that was wet and uncomfortable. The wet held against his skin, causing him to shiver, which only made his cough worse. He knew he had a fever. Still, he worked silently and efficiently as their host poked at the fire.
“You are ill,” the host observed.
Jamison was trying very hard not to cough his lungs up. He didn’t want to show any weakness in front of this odd man. “It will pass,” he said.
It was clear that Jamison was in no mood for a conversation. More than that, with his cough, it was probably difficult for him to have one. The host watched Jamison lumber back to his wife, who was sitting back on the bench, and pull her to her feet again. He guided the woman over to the fire and encouraged her to warm herself. She did so with reluctance, too close to their host to be of comfort, but the lure of heat was great. She sank to her knees in front of the flames, holding up her cold and chapped hands.
It was heavenly, this bit of warmth as the storm raged outside. Steam rose up from the damp dress Havilland was wearing as the fire went to work drying her out. Jamison, ever concerned for his wife, even went so far as to unbraid her hair for her, shaking it out so that it would dry in the heat.
Cascades of dark hair glistened before the fire, which did not go unnoticed by their host. His dark, blood-shot eyes lingered on her beautiful head.
“You have hair the color of a raven’s wing,” he muttered, causing Jamison to move closer to his wife. “My own wife had blonde hair, like spun gold.”
Jamison didn’t like the way the man was looking at Havilland. “Where is yer wife?” he asked.
The host’s gaze lingered on Havilland a moment longer before turning to the flames. “Gone,” he said. Then, he lifted his voice loudly. “Pallas!”
It was a roar that caused Havilland to jump, startled at the booming voice. She looked at Jamison for reassurance, for comfort, noting that he was looking at their host with a mixture of mistrust and hostility. Jamison was clear in that he didn’t like their host in the least and although Havilland was rather intimidated by the man, she didn’t want their host to find offense in Jamison’s stance and throw them out into the elements. Jamison had a habit of making enemies easily because he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, a very big Scotsman with a very big opinion on most things. Havilland was afraid that this was about to be one of those moments.
“We are grateful for your hospitality, my lord,” she said politely. “You were correct when you said that my husband is ill; he is quite ill. He has been sick for two weeks. Would it be too much trouble to have some hot wine for him to drink?”
The host didn’t acknowledge her other than to look at her again. Then he yelled once more. “Pallas!”
Havilland wasn’t sure who, or what, Pallas was and she was unnerved by the fact that their host didn’t seem willing to be hospitable beyond offering a warm fire. He had ignored her question outright. She was about to ask again on the hot wine, perhaps in a nicer way, when they heard that odd flapping sound again, like bird’s wings, and shuffling could be heard off in the shadows.
Sword still in hand, Jamison turned defensively towards the sound of the shuffling only to be met by a very old man with a big black bird upon his shoulder. The old man shuffled along the packed earth floor, dressed in the same smelly rags that the host was dressed in. He had long white hair, dirty, and a filthy bandage around his head that covered up one eye. He was nearly as decrepit as the castle he lived in. When the host caught sight of the old man with the raven on his shoulder, he pointed to Havilland and Jamison.
“Food and wine for our guests, Pallas,” he said. “And prepare a place for them to bed down tonight.”
Pallas looked at Havilland and Jamison with his one good eye. There was something cold in the depth of his eye, something unsettling and unclear. His mouth worked, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came forth. The bird, however, screeched and flapped its wings. Then, Pallas looked at the host.
“Nay, m’lord,” he said, finding his tongue. “Not…not… nay, m’lord!”
