In a stunningly fast move, she pulled a short blade and thrust at the man in the middle. Before he could even blink, the sword had opened a gash across his palm. He jumped back two steps and let go of the pitcher. It hit the floor and shattered, spraying everyone in the room, including the barkeep, with ale.
The barkeep just stood there, speechless, as you got up and escorted your first love out the door. The three of them, plus the two losers they were bringing away with them, were hooted and jeered out of the village.
When you returned to the inn, the place was full of the local men — some of whom were your customers — and their wives and neighbors. The barkeep was back behind the bar, dusting the shards of broken pitcher off the bar. The debate among the patrons had not ended. They were still bickering over picking up the pieces of the pitcher, who was at fault, who did what to whom — the dispute had been going on for some minutes.
"How dare she! Those men were just drunk idiots," the wife of the man with the gash on his hand shouted over the snarling argument among the crowd.
"What would you know?" she asked you. "You were her accomplice. It was your idea!"
A woman who might have been your love interest's maid — or her mother, or an aunt, or some other form of kinfolk — blurted out, "You're a fool, Mary Applewhite! A poor, spiteful fool."
"I don't have to listen to this," Mary said, then turned and stomped off through the door — and it probably looked to everyone else as though she headed home. No one was following her at least.
You watched her leave, then turned to the woman who'd identified herself as Mary Applewhite's maid. "Excuse me, ma'am. My wife was just leaving."
The woman didn't seem remotely apologetic, and certainly didn't seem to care if you followed your wife or not. She replied, "Couple of my friends were at the tavern when the fighting started. I'm sure they'll be happy to tell you everything they saw."
The other villagers were parting like wheat-on-the-run, letting the two of you through to get out of the taint of the brawl. You watched them go, then turned around to the woman who'd called your wife a fool. She looked as if she and her mother and aunt would go now too. And up to that point, you had hoped and prayed you and your first love would get away without being identified as one of the aggressors.
She was a tough woman, your former love, but she had a lot going for her that she knew how to capitalize on. She never married or settled down with a man she didn't love — and men really loved her, that's how she got her name. But even though Arlen was a pretty name, a lot of other men lost their heads in love with her, and ended up punching each other out — and that sort of thing is not good for community relations. That's why it's best to live in a small enclave like Boldercorne, where there's only a handful of taverns, and it's harder to stir up as much ill-feeling as you can in one place.
But now there was some back-story to this story — and you had no choice but to get it out while you still could.
It was a few months before you and Mary finally ran off together. You should know that she had a fairly substantial dowry — which she intended to spend on the renovations to your cottage — which the local men would not miss if the affair was called off, or if the relationship ended abruptly. Mary and her maid — the only friend she had in the village — had come up with a plan. Mary carried a kit of makeup and hairstyling supplies in her saddlebag. They used their evening at the tavern to test out the plan — though not exactly in the way they'd intended. Now they could start up their new life without the encumbrance of an angry husband or a greedy suitor. Mary's maid set Mary's hair and face in the style of a local noblewoman, and Mary carried off the disguise so convincingly that the local men mistakenly identified her as the lady of the manor.
They'd settled down far away from Boldercorne — where your cottage was in the process of being restored. She truly thought if she arranged a cozy little trap for a couple of local ruffians, no one would come looking for her and you. And she was so caught up in the fantasy of it all that she didn't notice the critical flaws in her plan. The local men were drunk, but not drugged. There might be a few local widows who would step in for their late husbands, and the local women weren't all that enthused about this new trend in female independence, but there was no way they could overtake, disarm, and beat six men at the same time. What they exceeded in cunning and stealth they lacked in strength and stamina. You wouldn't have given her much credit for her exploits as a warrior, but she was fearless — and that probably carried her through her initiation.
The biggest problem was that no one believed the newcomers were Highguard officers. The maid saw the utter disbelief in your eyes upon the arrival of three women in the tavern. When her mother was alive, she'd frightened the villagers so much that you didn't recognize her either. She thought she'd quickly break the fighting up by claiming to be the lord's wife. But she had miscalculated — and she wasn't as good as her daughter at bulling her way through a situation she couldn't handle. The weapons didn't work either — and no matter how many times you tried to tell her, she didn't believe them. It might have been a tremendous embarrassment to some of the local men, even if they took the loss humbly. Mary convinced them to accompany her out of town; in her way, she had convinced you too. If you'd done a proper job restoring the cottage, you would have all paid off the obvious security breach. You ran along with the women out of town.
But no one was at your cottage. Only you and your dog were there. The tavern brawl had died down and people were more interested in finding their friends, or getting the attention of a Hero of Boldercorne who'd overheard their complaints. The villagers had all retreated from the conflict, waiting to see how the sides would decide. It was all a brilliant maneuver, really — though it meant that, for now, the only witnesses were your dog and the maid, who was dying of curiosity.
She let Mary in, then helped you drag your exhausted dog out from under the kitchen table. Mary looked around her, then walked over to the hearth. You watched her warily. She stared at the charred remains of her name and the smudged love letters. Mary didn't understand what had happened — and she really didn't quite believe it. But she was an intelligent young woman, and she would acknowledge the truth before much longer.
"I guess I miscalculated," she said. "I thought if I tried to get you out of town, we could just live off the dowry and make plans for our new life. We were going to use it to fix up our cottage. And I made a plan to get you to leave with me — and it worked perfectly. But I'd assumed there would only be a couple of the local men. And I didn't want to hurt anyone. I learned from my mother how much pain she'd inflicted on the village when she was young, and I didn't want to make the same mistake. I love Boldercorne. I thought she had saved me too — but I guess she didn't.”
"You don't understand," you said. "I love you. Obviously we'll have to explain things to the locals — but they can eventually be convinced it was an accident. And you may have overreached your welcome here. You might have to leave the area, or settle down with one of the local men now. And I have to undo your mistake. You'll have to run away with me — right now."
"But there's no point. The dog ate the cakes. I can't even get us some real food. I have nothing left — and nothing here. My dowry is gone. The dog ate all of the cakes. I have nothing here."
The dog wiggled around behind her and barked in agreement.
You could see the bright light of her eyes dim, and her body wound down as if someone had pulled the plug. She flung herself into your arms, and you held her tight, the two of you both sobbing. The maid sat down, picked up your dog, who barked happily, and gave her a big hug. You two were a family again. Mary wasn't going to give up on her dowry, and you weren't going to give up on Mary.
"I'm sorry," she said. "You're right and I'm sorry. You're right, we can't just leave. My friends and I have to stay with the village until the Hero says they can go."
"He won't be happy when I tell him the dog ate the pastries and that I left her home, unattended, while I ran away with you," you said.
"We can punish the dog," she said.
"But she's innocent," said the maid. "I think she's actually trying to tell us something. Will you punish her?"
"But she's an animal," said Mary. "She's helpless. You want to punish an innocent animal?"
"She just ate all of the cakes," said you. "While we were gone."
"She was helpless and she was hungry," said Mary. "We have to punish her. We can't just let her go on as she was, with us gone."
"We can punish the dog," said the maid. "Or we can leave her alone."
"Someone will hurt her," said you. "She could be badly injured … She's an animal. I'll never ask you to do that again."
You held her tight. “You are one of the bravest and strangest women I've ever met, do you know that? I never should have forgotten you. And I never should have left the village without you. I'm sorry — I should have been cleverer than that. If you don't punish the dog, you're right. It's feeding time. She might be lost. She didn't mean to do it. She thought she was helping me when she ate the cakes. I should have told her. She's a good dog. We'd better take her home.”
"Yes. Would you do that?" she said. "I need to get ready. I couldn't get anything out of the shopkeepers here. All I get is the bare essentials — not even a new shirt. At least our last cottage was big enough to have a drop chest. I couldn't find anything at all."
"So what now?" said you.
Mary looked down at her ripped, dirt-stained trousers and the hole in her shirt where the pins had fallen out. "I don't know. We can try to make something new. I wish we had more shirts, at least — and my undergarments are torn. I'll be going home to get a new wardrobe — and the provisions we will need for our new home. We'll have to figure out what we're going to do about food. I hope it's still safe to eat in a place like this. I was out of town for so long … Look, I've made a big mess of everything. I should just go home and clean up. Can we stay here tonight? You look beat — I'll go. You'll have to take the furniture back out of the cottage."
"Of course," you said. "I'll go collect the furniture while you get started with the laundry."
"I was wondering … what happened with that ring?" she said. "I mean … I haven't had any accidents with my dowry jewels since I finally got them back (though I've had to clean up messes I've made before). You're going to have to tell me — because I'm finally at a place where we can figure everything out."
"We can't say anything," you told her. "I'd sooner cut out my tongue and hand it to you than tell you what I did."
"Why?"
"Because it would destroy the Hero. And the village would fall apart ... and the villagers … And I'm sure someone would try to harm you or the dog ... or me. You absolutely mustn't tell anyone what happened. It's just beginning. I don't want anyone in the village to know anything. It's hard enough without worrying about what will happen next."
"But I'm your wife. You have to tell me."
"I know," you said. "But I made a promise and I'm going to keep it."
