The young courier arrived in the early morn before the sun made even the slightest show on the horizon, much to the chagrin of the inn keeper. The lad, garbed in a rain-sodden broadcloth riding cloak, the mud of the road thick on his boots, stood in the common room of the old Thistle and Crow Inn. His expression was calm and patient, as he endured the barrage of grumblings from the affronted inn keeper.
"What do you mean by banging a man awake at this hour? The inn is closed!" The old man barked, waving his candle toward the door, spattering the lad's cloak with wax. The courier was unmoved. "Did you not hear? Be gone! You're muddying my floors."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I am sent to deliver a letter to one of your guests."
"A letter? At this forsaken hour of the morn? My guests are all abed and sleeping." He gave the lad a push toward the door. "Return when the sun is high, and be sure your boots are clean!"
The lad pushed back. "You are Ben Aulds, yes?"
The old man narrowed his eyes. "Knowin' m' name won't get you in any quicker — 'specially if I dinnae ken you."
"If you please, it won't take but a moment, I am charged with delivering this now, sir."
"And I said I shall not wake . . . what is this?"
"For your trouble." The lad dropped a pouch into the Ben's hand. It jingled as he caught it. "Now, if you please. I should like to examine your register, to know which room to find—"
"I've but one guest at the moment." Ben eyed the courier warily for a moment, then glanced toward the stairs then back to the pouch again. "The gentleman guards his privacy and declined to sign the registry. Give your letter to me, and I shall see that he gets it."
The lad reached into his cloak and produced another small pouch and held it out, pulling it back slightly when the inn keeper reached for it. "In which room might I find him?"
"Top of the stairs. First door to the left."
The courier dropped the second pouch into the innkeeper's hand, then brushed past him toward the stairs. A moment later he reappeared, and with nary a nod to the inn keeper, hurried past and out the door.
Before the echoes of the closing door had even waned they were replaced by the frantic clatter of footsteps on the stairs. The inn keeper turned, startled to see the tall man, his hair still unkempt from sleep, his clothes haphazardly pulled on, nearly tumble head over heels as he attempted to pull on his boots while rushing down the stairs. "Ben! Ready a horse!" he called, groping for the banister as he stumbled on the bottom step.
The innkeeper rushed forward, catching the man before he fell completely to the floor. "John, slow down, lad. You'll fall and crack your skull, and bleed all over my floor. Now, tell me, where is it you are going at this hour?"
The man clutched at the inn keeper's arms, a wild smile stretching across his face. "She's answered! At last, at last, she's answered! I must leave at once. She's consented, Ben!"
Ben's eyes went wide. "Are you certain? 'Twas truly her hand that wrote?"
"Of course! You know how long I've waited for her reply. Oh, Ben, why the worried face?"
"I worry when letters cannot wait until the light of day to be delivered—even when they've been long awaited. It makes me think there is ill in the wind."
"Always the cynic." John laughed. "You should be congratulating me. I'm to be wed, my friend. By this time tomorrow, I, the lowly John White, the son of no-one of any renown, shall return with the Lady Isabel Fenworth, by my side as my bride."
"But the Lady Isabel . . . the banns have all been called for her betrothal to Lord Penfield, John."
"It is why I must hurry, Ben, the wedding is set to take place tomorrow. I've just enough time to ride to her house in Brighton."
"You're mad!"
"Mad with joy!"
"Do you tell me you intend to just. . . spirit her away like some scoundrel in the night?"
"Scoundrel?" John laughed again. "Don't you see? It was her father who arranged her marriage, not her. The old bastard has no use for the likes of me, a simple mercer, and has told me to my face that he promised her away solely to keep her from being with me. But at last, she has determined to be free of him. Free of them all! Please, Ben, be happy for me."
Ben sighed, and turned away. "I shall be happy when I see you return and all is as you say. I pray these farthings I took are truly from the lady, and will not be your undoing." He rattled the coins, then emptied the pouch into his hands. He let out a surprised gasp, to see not the five farthings he expected but five shining gold crowns. "Zounds!" He quickly emptied the other pouch to find it equally endowed.
"It looks like you've finally made your fortune, Ben. Do you believe now? Lady Isabel is known to be generous." John grinned at Ben's open faced gawk. "I'll need some food for my journey, some bread and cheese if you can spare it." He straightened his shirt, and checked his pockets.
Ben simply stood staring down, idly turning the crowns in his palm.
"Ben?"
"Hmm?"
"The cheese?"
"Oh, yes. Yes, of course . . . cheese . . . " he said, absently dropping the coins into his pocket, before reluctantly disappearing into the kitchen.
A quarter hour later, Ben stood on the door step watching as John galloped away, the first rays of dawn painting the eastern sky red. "Red sky in the morn . . . an ill sign for certain," he sighed to himself. "Be well, my friend."
* * *
He rode hard, stopping only briefly to allow the horse to rest. Brighton, on a fair day, would be a day's ride at least, and he wanted to be within sight of the village well before dark. To do that, he would have to push the horse to his limits. By noon he had no choice but allow the animal long rest, though he was barely half way. He led the horse to a stream, then seated himself on a log to eat some of the cheese Ben had packed. He took the time to read again the letter. The script was delicate and small, slightly less neat than Isabel's usual penmanship, the words few, but in the brevity an urgency he could not ignore. 'Twas written in haste, no doubt, he thought, and after all is not the script but the words that are important.
My dearest,
Come tonight to Brighton. Look for my candle in the window. I shall wait for you.
Your Isabel
"I'm coming, Isabel," he said quietly, his hand resting over the pocket that held her letter.
