from the cauldron—an easy enough task, for Osbert was in a mood to coddle any of Molly’s people. Molly and Jack sat drinking; thepilgrims, by twos and threes, retired for the night; after a while Molly sent Nemain and Hob off to their beds in one of the dorters.
T HE DORTER , one of three sleeping rooms in the compound radiating out from the inn proper, was laid out in the old Saxon style: a fire pit ran down the center of the room, and along each of the long sides of the room was a raised platform of earth floored with wooden tiles. This platform was divided into sleeping booths, each booth closed off from its neighbors by a partition, with wool hangings across the front for privacy and warmth. Each booth was furnished with a straw pallet bed.
Osbert furnished bedclothes for an additional fee, and took no great notice of what transactions went on there between guests and the women of the village—some said even between guests and his own daughters—so long as there was no blood spilled. To scandal he turned a blind eye, and his custom increased. His wealth and influence in the region were such that no reeve molested him, and though the village priest was known to grumble bitterly, nothing more than that came of it.
With three such rooms, there were booths to spare even with the pilgrim band to accommodate. Molly and her people Osbert put at one end of a half-empty dorter, with linen bedclothes, all at house expense.
Hob had the very last booth all to himself; next to it was Molly’s booth, then Nemain’s, then Jack’s. Despite the low fire in the pit, the air inside was chilly. He crawled into the booth and drew the curtain. He undressed and got under a blanket and threw his sheepskin coat over that. He raced through a Paternoster, yawning twice in the course of the prayer. After a while the air inside the booth grew warmer, if a bit stale. He was deeply tired; soon he drifted away into incoherent thought, then into dream.
He had slept only a moment, it seemed, when he was awakened by the thrashing of heavy bodies in the next booth. Molly had brought Jack into her bed. The boy lay in the booth and looked into darkness relieved only by two thin lines of faint orange light from the dying fire, creeping in at either edge of the curtain. The disorganized bumps and sighs, punctuated by Molly’s murmurs, settled into a rhythmic thumping that rose slowly to a powerful galloping finish, wringing plangent half-hushed cries from Molly; her deep splendid voice echoed hollowly in the wooden booth. Jack, that silent man, was hardly heard from, save for a terminal grunt or two.
Hob, quite used to this nighttime music after so many months, found it if anything comforting, and as the nearby couple began to subside into quiet shiftings of weight, the rustle of blankets, whisperings, he grew drowsy again. But now he became increasingly aware of a pressure in his bladder. He burrowed down determinedly, but to no avail. At last he threw off the blanket and drew the curtain partway. In the half-light of the fire pit he dressed hastily, only partly awake and thereby clumsy. The knots that fastened his woolen hose to the front of his braies kept perversely coming loose. He threw his legs over the side of the sleeping platform and sat for a moment to pull on his shoes.
Hob stood up and struggled into his coat. He made his way down the long room, through the errant shoals of gray-blue smoke, to the door at the far end. This led to the courtyard. If the air within had been chilly, this was cold to snatch at the breath, especially to one warm from the bed. Hob scurried across the iron-hard dirt to the privy.
When he emerged, he realized that he was alone in the wide clear yard, visible only in the untrustworthy light of the rising gibbous moon and what small illumination, glowing through the scraped oiled hide that covered an interior window, came from fire and candle in the inn’s main hall. Osbert must put his faith in the dogs,
T HE DORTER , one of three sleeping rooms in the compound radiating out from the inn proper, was laid out in the old Saxon style: a fire pit ran down the center of the room, and along each of the long sides of the room was a raised platform of earth floored with wooden tiles. This platform was divided into sleeping booths, each booth closed off from its neighbors by a partition, with wool hangings across the front for privacy and warmth. Each booth was furnished with a straw pallet bed.
Osbert furnished bedclothes for an additional fee, and took no great notice of what transactions went on there between guests and the women of the village—some said even between guests and his own daughters—so long as there was no blood spilled. To scandal he turned a blind eye, and his custom increased. His wealth and influence in the region were such that no reeve molested him, and though the village priest was known to grumble bitterly, nothing more than that came of it.
With three such rooms, there were booths to spare even with the pilgrim band to accommodate. Molly and her people Osbert put at one end of a half-empty dorter, with linen bedclothes, all at house expense.
Hob had the very last booth all to himself; next to it was Molly’s booth, then Nemain’s, then Jack’s. Despite the low fire in the pit, the air inside was chilly. He crawled into the booth and drew the curtain. He undressed and got under a blanket and threw his sheepskin coat over that. He raced through a Paternoster, yawning twice in the course of the prayer. After a while the air inside the booth grew warmer, if a bit stale. He was deeply tired; soon he drifted away into incoherent thought, then into dream.
He had slept only a moment, it seemed, when he was awakened by the thrashing of heavy bodies in the next booth. Molly had brought Jack into her bed. The boy lay in the booth and looked into darkness relieved only by two thin lines of faint orange light from the dying fire, creeping in at either edge of the curtain. The disorganized bumps and sighs, punctuated by Molly’s murmurs, settled into a rhythmic thumping that rose slowly to a powerful galloping finish, wringing plangent half-hushed cries from Molly; her deep splendid voice echoed hollowly in the wooden booth. Jack, that silent man, was hardly heard from, save for a terminal grunt or two.
Hob, quite used to this nighttime music after so many months, found it if anything comforting, and as the nearby couple began to subside into quiet shiftings of weight, the rustle of blankets, whisperings, he grew drowsy again. But now he became increasingly aware of a pressure in his bladder. He burrowed down determinedly, but to no avail. At last he threw off the blanket and drew the curtain partway. In the half-light of the fire pit he dressed hastily, only partly awake and thereby clumsy. The knots that fastened his woolen hose to the front of his braies kept perversely coming loose. He threw his legs over the side of the sleeping platform and sat for a moment to pull on his shoes.
Hob stood up and struggled into his coat. He made his way down the long room, through the errant shoals of gray-blue smoke, to the door at the far end. This led to the courtyard. If the air within had been chilly, this was cold to snatch at the breath, especially to one warm from the bed. Hob scurried across the iron-hard dirt to the privy.
When he emerged, he realized that he was alone in the wide clear yard, visible only in the untrustworthy light of the rising gibbous moon and what small illumination, glowing through the scraped oiled hide that covered an interior window, came from fire and candle in the inn’s main hall. Osbert must put his faith in the dogs,
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