The lamps burned in the windows of the old inn, nestled on the outskirts of Oxfordshire in a small, river-side town. It swept away, extended so many times to accommodate more and more ills, and it was bathed in white wash and rotten wood. What would have been a quiet night was disrupted by bursts of noise as the door of the "Olde Red Lion" pub, swung open periodically to allow some of it's reprehensible inhabitants to fall in the mud and throw up bad meat and good beer. Carriages and carts gave the sprawling inn a large birth as the passed by, knowing all too well what sort of establishment it was.
The inside was a murky, damp, bustling and intimidating place, filled with soldiers, thieves, drunks and assassins. Candles cast distorted shadows on the once white, now yellowed grey and damaged walls, and they danced to the sound of thunderous singing, barbaric brawling and never-ending drinking. Stein's slammed on rickety and often repaired wooden tables and the shouts of fat drunk men, leering at and leaching over the resident prostitutes, all covered in the thick, poisonous and cheap lead make-up that the alchemists produced, filled the air. Missing teeth, dead eyes and few clothes were all that were needed to inspire the libidos of the villainous crowd. This was a place of sin, death and as much a vision of hell as anything else on earth.
In one corner, quietly sipping his beer, sat Richard of Kent, lost in his own thoughts and oblivious to the mayhem surrounding him. He was thinking about Jenny, the farmer's daughter who had saved his life by hiding him in a hayloft where they had made love through the night. The young woman's perfect body moved through his head, and he hated himself for leaving her before the sun had risen. But if her father had found them he would have summoned his landlord's men and Richard would have been more than fortunate to evade the killers twice. It was selfish, and he did regret it all, but he couldn't risk himself, or her and this was the only way. He glanced up at the girls, plying their trade at the bars and exciting the animals who killed too much to care. Once upon a time, they would have done for him.
As he watched them, the door swung open, to reveal a Lady. A real Lady, with fine jewellery, expensive gowns and three servants in tow. A hush fell over the fetid room as animals and whores turned to stare at the rich, woman whose cape fell from her to reveal a beautiful, dark haired, Mediterranean skinned head, decorated with luscious, wine-red lips and smouldering dark eyes. Her older servant moved forward from the open door and implored to the static, festering crowd;
"Gentlemen, my name is Miguel and this lady is my mistress. She is Lady Isabella, daughter of Don Francisco of Madrid, in Spain. Our carriage has collapsed and our horses need rest. May we impose on you for food and shelter?"
As they stood by the door, a mountain arose from a large table. "Dead Fox" Smith, a man so notorious that Richard knew him as a barbaric killer who fought with a six foot long broadsword and reportedly ate his victims(or parts of them) after he had butchered them, wiped the beer from his matted, rotten beard. He stood at almost seven feet tall and was followed by eight or nine other bandits, who looked into his malevolent, grey eyes for orders and instructions.
"I'd say this bitch could lay with me! I'm sure I could find some room in my bed!" He boomed to the room in general. A chorus of laughs from his cronies were met with stares of puzzled fear from the new-comers.
Smith moved from his bench and slowly paced around his table as the laughter died away.
