The first establishment they came to seemed promising for the former—less so for the latter. Two shutters hung awry, providing inferior protection from the cold rain. The front door boasted a deep groove in the middle of it about the size of an ax blade. Raucous laughter, obviously influenced by too much wine, drifted out.
The three men debated on whether they should go on in the rain to try to find a better place or stay where they were. Christoff and Georg suggested they stay. “The next place may be worse,” Georg said, grunting, “in this God-forsaken…” His voice trailed off.
They saw to their horses first, making sure the stableman provided them some hay. Then Wilhelm and his knights slogged toward the inn after the stable hand assured him that at least one room was available.
They entered the smoky hovel, barely lit by a few stinking candles of pork grease. The patrons looked them up and down. Noting the three men’s swords and confident postures, they quickly averted their glances.
Wilhelm fought his curiosity, thinking better of asking any questions until he’d had a night’s sleep. The area was known for its soothsayers and self-described witches and conjurers, and the locals might not take to strangers on the hunt for one of their own kind. The bishop who ruled this section of the Harz turned a blind eye to the pagan beliefs and rituals espoused by his people. Wilhelm had gone to him to ask permission to seize Moncore, if he were found, and take him back to Hagenheim. The bishop had grudgingly granted his request but offered no help.
Wilhelm strode forward and asked the serving maid for a room. She left and came back with the proprietress, a nearly toothless woman with a rotund figure and a stronger than usual body odor.
“I have just the thing for you,” she said, taking a candle and leading the way up the stairs.
She opened the door of the room and Wilhelm turned his head to avoid the smell that assaulted him.
“The last boarders enjoyed their incense. Burned a lot of sandalwood and such, they did.”
Three straw mattresses lay on the wooden floor. Nothing else was visible in the room. Wilhelm didn’t think what he smelled was sandalwood, but he decided not to argue the point.
“Stow your things and come down for some lamb stew.”
Wilhelm hesitated but Georg and Christoff were already brushing past him and tossing their bags in the middle of the floor, where the barest light filtered in through the cracks in the shutters.
After eating his meal of lamb stew—flavored, so it seemed, with a few weeds and a sprinkling of dirt—in a dark corner table of the inn, Wilhelm wearily climbed the stairs again. He wished for a bath but knew better than to expect any facilities besides a nearby stream or lake. His large tub at home would be a welcome sight upon his return.
In the room, Wilhelm stared at his mattress. Fleas. He scowled with hatred for them and their vicious biting. He had traveled enough to suspect they infested every inn mattress in the Holy Roman Empire. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of dried pennyroyal and sprinkled it on his mattress.
“Trying to keep away the little beasties?” Christoff asked. The two knights looked at each other and laughed.
“We’ll see who’s laughing in the morning.”
He lay his sword beside his bed, and Georg and Christoff did the same. Then Wilhelm pulled his blanket from his saddle bag and wrapped it tightly around himself, fully clothed, before lying down. He lay on his back and looked straight up at the ceiling, since turning his head to the side brought the odor of stale sweat to his nostrils. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep.
He was surprised to see bright fingers of sunlight highlighting the dust of the tiny room when he opened his eyes. Georg and Christoff were both stirring. Wilhelm saw Christoff scratching his chest, and Georg was scratching his neck.
“Fleas?”
The two grimaced and muttered under their breath. Wilhelm grinned.
They strapped on their swords and went downstairs. After they had drunk some warm ale, Wilhelm gave his knights a significant stare and inclined his head toward the door. They took the hint and exited. When the proprietress returned, he called her over. “Frau, do you know of any conjurers of pagan magic in the area?”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Who wants to know?”
“Someone who’s very discreet.” Wilhelm pushed a gold coin across the rough wooden table toward her.
She quickly covered the coin with her hand and slipped it into her apron pocket. “There are those who adhere to paganism what meets on yonder mountaintop.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the ridge that towered over the little village. “I don’t truckle with none of their kind, not I.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have heard of a man by the name of Moncore?”
“I see and hear nothing, and I say nothing.”