The Taverns of Freislicht

Updated 8/15/24

The Taverns of Freislicht

The Lion & Tiger

Daryl stood tall, gazing over his domain like a duke, evaluating the scene. The regulars were content. His laborers were busy with their duties, and his daughters were dancing between customers smiling and teasing with innocent banter. The Lion and Tiger was bustling tonight.

Satisfied that his domain was in order, he bent again to cleaning tables. He enjoyed the rhythm of wiping the smooth, golden oak tables as his large black hands, holding the white washrag, painted invisible wet clouds across the wooden surfaces. It also allowed him to eavesdrop.

The sabbath had just ended so folks were socializing before their work began in the morning. The locals were all farmers. The inn was located at the juncture of the provinces of Lorness, Caswell, and the king's land. The inn was the place to go to hear widespread gossip and serious rumors. Here, boys met their sweethearts and men escaped their wives. He chuckled at that. He went so far as to buy the inn and tavern to get away from his. Oh, she was still the love of his life, but the creature just didn't think right, always fussing over him or blubbering about a neighbor's woes. Sometimes a man just needs the fraternity of men. He sighed. Even so, she eventually wheedled her way into his kitchen.

A man in a dark cape, the hood covering his face, bumped into Daryl as he wiped down the last table. “Pardon, sir, I should be more careful.”

“No trouble at all and no harm done.” Daryl felt the paper pressed into his hand and slipped it into his tunic. Pointing he said, “Have a seat at the far table and someone will help you.”

The man sat, took out a short blade, and began flicking dirt from his fingernails. His brooding eyes peered over the room from below the dark hood, watching.

Daryl knew that was all the knife the man needed. The blood in one's neck doesn't run deep. Good thing he’s on my side.

There were five new customers in the tavern and one waiting at the counter to reserve a room. Daryl nodded to his son, Rankin, who took over his command of the tavern while Daryl strode to the inn’s registration table.

“Hallo, kind sir, would you like a room.”

“Why, yes, that would be delightful.” The gentleman looked around at the counter and floors. “This is the cleanest place I've stayed in since I left home.”

“Thank you sir for that observation. I run a tight ship.”

“So you do, so you do.” The man pulled at the fingers of his riding glove.

“How long do you wish to stay, sir?”

“I am not sure, I am meeting someone here and I don't know how long it will take him. He's coming from farther away and may encounter weather. Can I pay you for three days and extend it if necessary?”

“Of course.” Daryl pulled a ledger from under the counter. “What shall I call you, sir?”

“My name is Vincent Donitoro.”

“Where are you traveling from? I am always happy to receive tidings from afar.”

“I am coming from Lexandria, I received a letter from my aunt about inheriting some land in Lorness. I'm here to meet with her bookkeeper. His name is Parsons. I'd be grateful if you let me know when he arrives.”

“Of course, sir. Did you hear of any notable happenings there or along your way?”

“Not really, commerce is good in Lexandria, I encountered no trouble over my journey. One innkeeper told me that Mestels were attacking settlers at the border. But most in Lexandria believe it’s an invention of the king’s steward to get more taxes out of us.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Daryl said with a nod. “A hundred baden covers the room for three days and includes one hearty meal a day. My daughter will show you to your room.” Daryl motioned to her standing in the kitchen doorway. “Missy, this is Mister Donitoro.”

She skipped up to them. Her cheeks were full of freckles and curly red hair squiggled out from a green scarf.

She curtseyed. “Hallo, may I take your bag?”

“Oh my, no, I'll carry it.” The man looked at the girl, no taller than the counter, and back to the big black innkeeper.

“You don't see the resemblance?” Daryl guffawed. “I'll never get tired of saying that. I adopted her many years ago. Fortunately, she looks much more like my wife.” He bent down and lifted the girl's chin. “Show him to the Duke's Room.”

“Yes, Da.” The girl shrugged. “Follow me, sir.”

Daryl resumed his watch and prayed for each person he glanced upon, for each of his family, then the one’s working for him, and for the man upstairs, called Vincent Donitoro.

Then he read the message from the man with the knife.

***

It was midmorning and Daryl dozed, leaning back in his chair, lulled to sleep by the warmth of the crackling fire. He was vaguely aware of the dog barking, when a bang of the door and the clomping of boots drove him to his feet. Missy excitedly jabbered at whoever was about to enter.

He was often caught napping in the mornings for the reveling the night before often kept him up too late. No staying abed for a hardworking inn keep. He had to be there for deliveries.

The door flew open and two bearded men carrying barrels on their shoulders tramped in behind Missy, his ten-year-old adopted daughter, whose red hair flounced all around her head, as she skipped and chattered with them.

Bless her heart, the imp forced the waggoneers to halt on the porch long enough for him to clear his head.

“Missy, see if your ma needs you in the kitchen.” Daryl walked to greet the men, pointing to stacks of boxes in a corner of the tavern. “Thadeus, I expected you yesterday.” As soon as they dropped their barrels, he clasped forearms with each of them. “How goes the work?”

“Well, very well. We have a training schedule and we shall be ready.”

Turning to the second man, he said, “Are you hungry?”

Thadeus replied, “No, no, Daryl we have many more deliveries today.”

“Are you sure?” Daryl said as he placed the baden in his friend’s hand and showed him the message from the night before.

“I am sure. Daryl, what's this about?” Thadeus asked, his curiosity piqued as he took the paper from Daryl's hand.

“I’m not sure, but since it mentions the knights…”

[When darkness comes, and the people falter, they shall be renewed in the Word of J’shua by a knight. Twelve boxes and six barrels come in the spring, a gift for the king. Be ready for a feast.]

As they turned to leave, Thadeus read the paper. “Oh, it must be a code. We shall pass it to Richard within the fortnight. Perhaps he will understand it. “

“J’shua Ha Mashiach be with you, brothers.” Daryl walked them out to the porch and watched them drive away.

“Da,” Missy whispered, peeking from the kitchen doorway.

He motioned for her to come. “Ah, sweet one. Thank you for waking me before our friends came in. You are such a treasure.”

He held her close. “What is your mother making for us to eat tonight?”

“Ma says her bones tell her it will be cold enough tonight so she’s making pigeon pies. They’ll keep fresh a long time, but we’ll get the first one.”

“Wonderful! We’ll feast tonight.” Daryl hugged Missy again, wondering about the strange message and the dark messenger who brought it.

That evening, after the light flow of travelers leaving and arriving stopped, a wave of villagers poured in, eager to escape the chill of the evening and enjoy a pint of ale. The tavern quickly filled with people, the noise level rising with every passing moment.

Daryl’s servers weaved in and out of the tables, mingling with the patrons, sharing jokes and stories as they refilled drinks.

Amid the revelry, Daryl kept a watchful eye on the room, scanning the faces for any sign of the mysterious stranger from the night before. His attention was drawn to a cloaked figure seated alone in the corner, nursing a mug of ale and observing the room with sharp eyes.

Daryl nudged Missy and nodded towards the figure. “Do you think that's our messenger?”

Missy glanced over, her eyes narrowing. “Could be. Let's keep an eye on him. I’ll go say hello.”

Missy bounced over and asked, “Can I get you anything? My ma made a beautiful pigeon pie today. Might you try one?”

“No, thank you, miss. I can barely afford the ale tonight.” He said with a chuckle.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

She ran back to her da. “I am sure he’s the same man from last night.”

As the night wore on, the tavern grew even more crowded. A group of traveling minstrels set up near the fireplace, their lively tunes adding to the festive atmosphere. The villagers sang along, their voices blending with the music.

In the midst of the celebration, the cloaked figure stood and made his way to the bar. Daryl tensed, but the man merely placed a coin on the counter and requested another ale. As Daryl poured the drink, he noticed the man's piercing blue eyes watching him intently.

“Enjoying the evening?” Daryl asked, trying to sound casual.

The man nodded slowly. “I am. Quite a lively place you have here.”

Daryl handed him the mug. “We aim to please. If you need anything else, just let me know.”

The man accepted the drink and returned to his seat, where his gaze never left Daryl.

Missy sidled up to Daryl, her voice a whisper. “He's definitely keeping an eye on you.”

“Go get Randi and Bosch.”

Missy walked into the kitchen to alert the men.

Randi walked in the front door cheerfully responding to all that recognized him and Bosch entered from the kitchen. Each had daggers in their belts as most men carried for convenience. Bosch wiped his hands on a towel. “Your wife is a task master, Daryl. I’ve been fetching and carrying for her all afternoon.”

“Did she feed you?”

“Of course, she knows how to get on me good side.”

They both laughed.

Daryl described the situation and the hooded man in the corner.

Just then the door swung open again and a new traveler came in. He looked around until he identified Daryl as the inn keeper and strode up to him. I am Bywold Parsons, here to meet someone staying here, Vincent Donitoro. Is he here?”

Daryl noticed the stranger perk up. “I’m not sure, wait here and I will see.”

***

The lively players that had finished collecting coins from their happy listeners and packed up their lutes when another gaggle of colorful minstrels plunged through the front door carrying all manner of instruments. These new arrivals fanned out amongst the tables, strumming and piping when the bard walked in singing of a beautiful lady and her lover. He threw his hands wide, his  pleasant warble like a sweet blackbird’s trill.

 All the patrons clapped to the rhythm of the well-known ballad and sang the chorus, “And the lady fair wed the dashing duke who carried her into his castle.”

Finally, the bard bowed, declaring, “I am Fenn the Fox, and I will regale you with tales of heroes and villains of the old world.” Then he began another ballad that everyone recognized and they roared their approval. The man skipped about the room the red feather in his blue cap dancing over his curly brown head.

Daryl motioned for Bosch to keep an eye on Mister Parsons, the new arrival and for Randi to keep watch on the cloaked figure. He moved quickly to the stairs, the sounds of the tavern fading as he ascended. Knocking on the door of the gentleman’s room, he glanced up and down the hall as he waited. After a moment, Vincent Donitoro opened the door, looking slightly puzzled.

“Mr. Donitoro, there's a man downstairs asking for you. A Bywold Parsons. Says he's here to meet you.”

Vincent's expression turned serious, and he nodded. “Oh, he’s early. Thank you, Daryl. I'll be down shortly. Please give him a meal and put it on my account.” He flashed a bright smile. “I’ll take one also. It smells wonderful.”

Daryl returned to the main floor, where Parsons was waiting by the bar. The cloaked figure had remained seated; his eyes now focused intently on the newcomer. Daryl felt a knot in his stomach, sensing that something was amiss.

Vincent descended the stairs and approached the stranger. “You must be Parsons,” he said, extending a hand.

The man shook Vincent's hand firmly. “Indeed. It's good to finally meet you in person, Mr. Donitoro.”

The two men moved to a quieter corner of the tavern, sitting at a table where they could speak privately. Daryl, Randi, and Bosch exchanged glances, ready to intervene if necessary.

As Vincent and Parsons conversed in hushed tones, the cloaked figure stood up and made his way toward them. Bosch and Randi tensed, but Daryl held up a hand, signaling them to wait.

The cloaked figure reached the table and addressed Vincent and Parsons. “Pardon the interruption, gentlemen,” he said, lowering his hood to reveal a stern face with a scar running down one cheek. “I couldn't help but overhear that you are discussing some business matters that I am aware of. May I join you?”

Vincent and Parsons exchanged wary glances, but Vincent nodded. “Of course. Please, have a seat.”

The man sat down, his eyes darting around the room as if checking for eavesdroppers. “My name is Harlan Overhill, and I believe we have a mutual interest.”

Parsons narrowed his eyes. “What sort of interest would that be, Harlan?”

Daryl slowly moved closer peering over all his tables, looking for customers to serve. 

The mysterious stranger leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “The safety and prosperity of Freislicht. I am aware of the reason for this meeting, Mr. Donitoro, and I believe it pertains to a matter of great importance.”

Vincent's eyes widened slightly, but he kept his composure. “And how do you know about this meeting?”

Harlan smiled thinly. “Let's just say I have my sources. The knights are part of an ancient order dedicated to protecting the followers of J’shua from threats both seen and unseen. There are powers at work in this country that will bring it to the brink of the abyss.”

Parsons leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “And why should we trust you, Mister Overhill? For all we know, you could be working for someone who wants to harm the kingdom.”

Harlan's expression grew serious. “Because if I wanted to harm the kingdom, I would just lead these powerful ones to Licht Gegen, that would mean the end of the kingdom’s final hope. I have dedicated my life to ensuring that does not happen. I am asking for your help in this endeavor.”

Vincent and Parsons exchanged another glance, weighing their options. Finally, Vincent nodded. “Alright, Harlan. We'll hear you out. But know this: if you betray us, there will be nowhere in this realm where you can hide.”

Harlan nodded; his expression resolute. “Understood. Now, let's discuss how we can work together. And ensure that the realm remains safe.”

As the three men continued their conversation, Daryl signaled to Bosch and Randi to stand down but remain vigilant. He then moved to the bar, his mind racing with the implications of what he had just overheard. The fate of the kingdom might very well rest in the hands of these strangers, and it seemed that his tavern had become the unlikely stage for a drama that could change the course of history.

As people left the tavern, Daryl returned to wiping tables, listening carefully to everything he could hear. He had to learn more.

Could this Harlan Overhill be related to Richard Overhill?

***

Daryl continued serving customers, enticing them to eat and drink more, wiping up afterward. But his mind was fixed on the trio's discussion. He discreetly maneuvered himself to a nearby table, wiping it down more times than necessary, his ears keenly attuned to the low murmurs from Vincent, Parsons, and Harlan. The tension in the air was palpable, and Daryl felt a sense of unease settle in his stomach.

Missy flitted between the tables, her cheerful demeanor distracted folks from the brewing seriousness. She approached Daryl, tugging at his apron. “Da, can I take a break now? Ma says I’ve done enough for the night.”

Daryl smiled down at her, nodding. “Of course, sweet one. You’ve been a great help tonight. Go on and rest.”

Missy beamed and skipped off towards the kitchen, her vibrant red hair bouncing with each step. Daryl watched her go, his smile fading as he turned his attention back to the corner table.

The night deepened, and the tavern gradually emptied as patrons finished their drinks and meals. The minstrels played their final tunes, packing up their instruments and bidding farewell to the remaining guests. The once lively and bustling Lion & Tiger now took on a quieter, more solemn atmosphere as the last of the villagers left.

Daryl noticed Vincent and Parsons shaking hands with Harlan, their expressions a mix of determination and concern. Harlan rose from the table, his cloak billowing around him as he headed towards the exit. Before leaving, he cast a final glance at Daryl, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

As the door closed behind Harlan, Vincent and Parsons approached the bar where Daryl stood. Vincent spoke first, his voice low. “Thank you for your hospitality, Daryl. We apologize for any trouble we may have caused.”

Daryl shook his head. “No trouble at all, sir. I couldn’t help but overhear a bit of your conversation. Is everything alright?”

Parsons leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re not sure yet, but it seems like there’s more at stake than we initially thought. We’re grateful for your discretion.”

Daryl nodded, his brow furrowed. “If there’s anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Vincent smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your willingness to help is appreciated, Daryl. For now, we just need a place to rest and gather our thoughts.”

“Of course,” Daryl replied. “Your room will be ready whenever you need it. And if you need to stay longer, just let me know.”

As Vincent and Parsons retreated to their room, Daryl remained at the bar, lost in thought. The message from the mysterious man with the knife, the strange meeting in his tavern, and now the involvement of the knights—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle coming together.

He glanced towards the kitchen where his wife was cleaning up with Missy’s help. His family was his priority, but the events of the night stirred something within him. A sense of duty, perhaps, or a realization that he, too, had a part to play in whatever was unfolding.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the tavern floor. Daryl took a deep breath, the scent of wood smoke and ale filling his lungs. He prayed silently for guidance and protection, not just for himself and his family, but for the strangers under his roof and the kingdom that seemed to be teetering on the edge of something momentous.

As the night wore on, Daryl finally retired to his own quarters, the weight of the day’s events heavy on his mind. He knew that the days ahead would bring challenges, but he was ready to face them, standing tall like the sturdy oak tables in his tavern, rooted in faith and courage.

***

Daryl eased down on the bed, trying not to wake his wife. He had not been asleep for long when the quiet of the tavern was suddenly shattered by a thunderous crash. His heart leaped into his throat as he bolted upright, straining to listen. The unmistakable sound of heavy boots stomping across the wooden floor below sent a chill down his spine.

“Dear, take the girls the back way to the kitchen and wait for me.”

He hurriedly pulled on his boots and rushed out of his room, taking the front stairs two at a time.

Running into the tavern, Daryl found six of the king's soldiers, firelight glinting off their drawn swords, their faces set in grim determination. The leader of the group, a tall, imposing figure with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward, his eyes sweeping the room before settling on Daryl.

“We’re here on the king’s business,” the leader announced, his voice echoing through the tavern. “We’re looking for a man named Vincent Donitoro. He is wanted for questioning.”

Daryl swallowed hard, his mind racing. “What’s this about?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

The soldier fixed him with a hard stare. “That’s none of your concern. Just tell us where he is.”

Daryl hesitated, glancing towards the stairs. “He’s staying here, but I don’t know where he is right now.”

The leader nodded, motioning to his men. “Search the place,” he ordered. “You two, start with the rooms on this floor, the rest of you check the barn.”

As the soldiers fanned out, their movements swift and efficient. Daryl’s mind raced. He needed to warn Vincent and Parsons, but he also had to protect his family and his tavern. He moved quickly, his boots thudding on the wooden floor as he made his way towards the kitchen.

“Missy, Charmaine, stay with your mother,” he instructed, his voice low and urgent. “Keep the door locked. Don’t come out until I say it’s safe.”

Missy nodded; her eyes wide with fear. “What’s happening, Da?”

“Just do as I say, sweet one. Everything will be alright,” Daryl assured her, forcing a smile. He closed the kitchen door behind him, his heart pounding in his chest.

He made his way back to the main room, where the soldiers were already storming up the stairs. Daryl knew he had to stall them, to give Vincent and Parsons a chance to escape or hide. He stepped forward, blocking the stairway.

“Hold on,” he called out, his voice carrying a note of authority. “You can’t just barge in and threaten my guests. I’ll have you know this is a respectable establishment.”

The leader of the soldiers turned back; his expression impatient. “Stand aside, innkeeper. We have our orders.”

Daryl held his ground, his eyes meeting the soldier’s. “I’m not stopping you, but you need to respect my establishment. You can’t just go barging into people’s rooms without cause. He is in the Queen’s Room. It is right above us.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardened, and he shoved Daryl aside, sending him stumbling against the wall.

“Move aside,” the soldier barked. “We’re not here to negotiate. We have reason to believe that traitors are among you.”

Daryl swallowed hard, his mind racing. He stepped forward, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Good sirs, this is a place of hospitality. We mean no harm and harbor no traitors.”

The leader’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the room. “We have reliable information that a meeting of conspirators took place here tonight. We will search the premises and question every soul.”

He noticed Missy peeking out from the kitchen, her eyes wide with fear. Daryl glanced at her, his heart aching at the sight of her distress. He turned back to the soldiers, his voice steady. “You are welcome to search, but I assure you, you will find no treachery here.”

As the soldiers pushed past him, Daryl steadied himself, his jaw set in a grim line. He watched as they disappeared up the stairs, their heavy footsteps echoing through the tavern. He could only hope that Vincent and Parsons were prepared for this and that they had a plan to escape.

The soldiers searched the tavern, overturning chairs and tables, opening cabinets, and peering behind curtains. Daryl watched helplessly as his beloved tavern was turned upside down.

Daryl’s eyes darted around the room, searching for Randi and Bosch. He spotted them near the back door, their faces tense. He gestured for them to follow him outside, away from the soldiers' view.

As he passed the kitchen, he pushed Missy back. “Stay with your mother,” he said, emphasizing each word.

Once outside, Daryl spoke quickly, his voice low. “We need to get Vincent and Parsons out of here. Randi, you take the back way and see if you can get them to the back storage shed. Bosch, stay with me. We’ll cover their escape.”

“Got it. Be careful, Daryl.” Then, Randi walked in the shadows, his expression grim.

As Randi slipped back inside, Daryl and Bosch took up positions near the back door, their eyes on the stairs. The sound of the soldiers' heavy boots and raised voices filtered down from the upper floor, making Daryl’s heart race.

Minutes felt like hours as they waited, every second filled with tension. Finally, Randi emerged, supporting Vincent, who looked shaken but unharmed. Parsons followed closely behind, his face pale.

“Go,” Daryl whispered to Randi who led the way to the storage shed in the woods. They moved quickly but quietly, disappearing into the darkness.

***

When Daryl returned, a tense silence fell over the tavern as the soldiers completed their search. After what felt like an eternity, one of the soldiers who had gone upstairs returned, shaking his head. “No sign of anyone, sir.”

The leader’s expression darkened. “They must have escaped. We will not let this go unpunished.”

He turned to Daryl; his voice cold. “You are responsible for what happens in your establishment. If we find that you are aiding traitors, you will face the king’s justice.”

Daryl met the soldier’s gaze, his own eyes unwavering. “I understand, sir. But I stand by what I said. We are loyal subjects of the king.”

The soldier held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding. “We will be watching.”

With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the tavern, his men following close behind. The door swung shut behind them, leaving the tavern in a state of disarray. All the guests were now downstairs in the tavern bickering and complaining.

Daryl let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He glanced around the tavern, his heart heavy with worry. He knew that this was only the beginning. The events of the night had set into motion a chain of events that could not be easily stopped.

He went to the kitchen to find his wife, and daughters, his voice gentle, “It’s over now. Go back to bed. I’ll clean up here.”

His wife nodded, her eyes filled with concern. She took Missy’s hand, leading her upstairs. Charmaine put a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. “I can help, Da.”

“No, thank you, little lamb, I need to work alone, and pray. You go to bed.” Daryl watched them go, his heart aching with worry.

***

As Daryl began to put the tavern back in order, he thought about how to explain Vincent and Parsons' disappearance to the soldiers, should they return, which he was sure they would. He needed a plausible explanation that would not raise further suspicion.

Daryl decided to keep the explanation simple and grounded in reality. The next morning, as he was restocking supplies, one of the soldiers from the previous night returned, accompanied by a different commander.

The commander approached Daryl, his expression stern. “I am Lieutenant Blackhawk. My sergeant told me your guests from last night are no longer here. I need to know where they went.”

Daryl wiped his hands on his apron, then addressed the lieutenant. “Yes, sir, I don’t know when they came in last night, but they checked out early this morning. They told me they had urgent business to attend to and couldn’t afford to waste any time.”

The lieutenant frowned. “Did they mention where they were headed?”

Daryl nodded. “Mr. Donitoro mentioned that he was heading to a neighboring village. I believe he said something about meeting his aunt's bookkeeper. He seemed quite rushed.”

Studying Daryl’s face, the lieutenant’s jaw clenched. “Did you see or hear anything suspicious during their stay?”

Daryl shook his head. “No, sir. They kept to themselves mostly. We’re just a small inn, offering a few rooms for rent and a tavern for the locals to share a pint.”

The commander turned to the soldier beside him. “Have some men check the villages and see if they can find any trace of these men.”

Turning back to Daryl, he added, “If they return or if you hear anything about their whereabouts, you are to report it to me immediately. We are camped in a clearing north one mile. Do you understand?”

Daryl nodded. “Of course, sir. I will inform you at once if I learn anything.”

The lieutenant gave a final, piercing look around the tavern before leaving with his soldier. As the door closed behind them, Daryl let out a sigh of relief. He knew that the situation was far from resolved, but he had bought Vincent and Parsons some time.

He hoped they would find the safety they sought and that the whispers of treason would soon fade. For now, he had to focus on keeping his tavern running, his family safe, and his other activities secret during these uncertain times.

The days ahead would be fraught with danger and uncertainty.