The Thistle and Stag

“There weren't always dragons in the Valley,” a red-faced man said aloud as he slammed his stein of ale on the worn oak bar. Pearls of foamy liquid clung to his beard as he swayed on his stool.

“I know, Cormac, I know … but you’re bothering the other patrons,” Bryony said as she sopped up the puddles of fallen ale with an old rag.

“Aye, we’ve had enough of your blathering, Corm,” agreed an older woman a few seats down. A few others around the bar banged their mugs in concurrence.

Outside the light was a dusky pink as night began to fall. The tavern would be full soon. Bryony took a deep inhale, preparing herself for a long night ahead, when she felt a small hand squeeze her waist.

“Sorry I’m late,” Pippa said breathlessly, tossing her leather satchel underneath the bar. Her cheeks were rosy and glistening with a light sweat. No doubt she’d lost track of time again— probably stuck in some book— and then had to run through the village to the Thistle and Stag when she realized it had gotten late. Pippa was rarely punctual, but Bryony didn’t take it personally.

She loved her oldest friend with a ferocity and loyalty that at times had gotten her into trouble. Like when they were adolescents and she caught Warrick Lyman skating his hands up Pippa’s skirt after a few too many ales in the tall patch of wildflowers behind the tavern. Pippa was trying to swipe his hands away as she protested, but Warrick overpowered her.

Bryony had been helping her mother pour ale that particularly busy evening. She had only happened to glance outside the window and catch sight of Warrick pushing Pippa to the ground. Throwing a half-full mug down, she ran out the back door, spewing a litany of curses before kicking Warrick square in the crotch as he bore over her best friend. Warrick doubled over in pain as he swore loudly, calling Bryony a bitch. This word meant very little to her, though, as she collected Pippa, smoothing her dress down and brushing her hair out of her face.

“Sorry,” Pippa had mumbled, her gray eyes wide.

“What are you apologizing for, Pip? Warrick is a nasty snake.”

“I told him to stop . . .”

“And he should have listened.”

Pippa bit her lip and blinked back tears. “Aye,” she had said softly.

And now, as women of marrying age who had managed to successfully elude the chains of matrimony, they ran the Thistle and Stag together, just as Bryony’s mother had for years before. Her mother had passed on to the other side three years ago, but Bryony still felt a longing pang every time she thought of her. Bryony had no father to speak of— of course, she knew someone had fathered her, but her mother had never told her who the man had been. And Bryony looked so much like her dear mother that she might as well have not had a father at all as far as she was concerned. He certainly had had no impact on her life whatsoever.

“I have a feeling tonight may get wild,” Bryony said as she poured Pippa a small mug of wine. Pippa began to drink thirstily, spurring Bryony to laugh. “Pip, that means you should pace yourself.”

Pippa wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and nodded. “Aye, I suppose you’re right.”

“Aye, I suppose I am.”

“Aye,” Pippa repeated, her cheeks suddenly flushing.

Bryony spun around to see Fenric slinking out of the kitchen, his eyes on Pippa as he fought back a sheepish smile. “Evening, Pippa,” he said, his voice low and soft.

Pippa’s lips quirked into a pouty smile. “Evening, Fen.”

They held each other’s gaze intensely, ignoring Bryony altogether until she cleared her throat. “Fen, is the venison stew ready?” she asked.

He shook his head, as if erasing whatever romantic reverie he and Pippa had been wordlessly sharing. “Aye. Would you like a bowl?”

Bryony nodded vigorously. “I’m famished.” Fen turned to head back into the kitchen, but she caught his arm. “I’ll get it.” Bryony smiled knowingly as he nodded and stepped closer to Pippa. Their hushed laughter began to bubble up as she walked into the kitchen. The steam wafting from the simmering cauldron smelled of thyme and rosemary, and her stomach grumbled plaintively.

Grabbing the ladle next to the fire, Bryony spooned the venison stew into an empty bowl before sitting on the wooden bench that lined the stone wall of the kitchen. She ate greedily, gulping down large mouthfuls, not bothering to let it cool. If she burnt her mouth, so be it. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that had only been a bowl of porridge with berries. She could hear her mother’s chiding echo through her head, Bryony, you’ve got to take better care of yourself, girl. And her mother’s voice was right. She did need to take better care of herself. It was too often she found herself starving at work because she hadn’t taken the time to feed herself beforehand. Thankfully, Fenric always had a hearty stew cooking in the tavern kitchen.

“Bryony . . .” Pippa appeared in the doorway. “There’s a man here to see you?” She phrased it like a question. And it was odd, because nobody had ever come asking after her before, and clearly he was a stranger if Pippa didn’t give the man’s name. They both knew most of the villagers, if not all, as the tavern was the social heart of the community.

“Man?” was all Bryony managed to say between bites of stew. Pippa just nodded silently as Bryony sighed, casting her half-eaten bowl aside. She rose to her feet and followed Pippa back out into the bar. The sounds of jovial conversations ricocheted off the walls; in a matter of minutes, the tavern had already filled up considerably more.

“Here she is,” Pippa said to a man with dark hair. His linen tunic looked too clean and not nearly rumpled enough to belong to a local man. Bryony’s eyes followed a leather strap that gripped his chest to what looked like a sheathed sword slung across his back. She didn’t know anyone who even owned a sword. They were costly and fairly useless in a village like Ballenglenn. The only weapons she’d ever seen were those that slaughtered animals on the nearby farms. And the rusty ax her mother had kept by the door for chopping firewood in the winter, of course.

“How can I help you?” Bryony asked, tipping her chin up at the man, as if daring him to answer.

“I’ve been sent by your father, who just passed. He’s bequeathed Bourneclyffe to you.” He handed a folded piece of parchment across the bar to Bryony, who took it and fingered its dark green wax seal.

“My father?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“Yes.” The man nodded, his expression unchanged. Bryony eyed him curiously. He watched her closely as he waited for her to open the letter.

She stared at the seal, running her fingers over the tiny ridges that formed what looked like a crest or an animal of some sort. It was too small to make out exactly. “You must be mistaken, sir. I don’t have a father.” She held out the letter to him as a resolute sigh escaped her lips. He made no move to take the letter from her hand.

“I was given explicit orders not to return to Bourneclyffe without you.”

“Excuse me?” Bryony balked. “I don’t even know who you are . . . nor do I know what or where Bourneclyffe is. And as I have never met this man, I do not claim him as my father.”

The man appeared unphased. “I was told you may be resistant.”

“By whom?” Bryony’s brows knitted together. This felt like a strange joke.

“Your father.”

“This father who has never even met me? Never laid his eyes upon me?”

Pippa shifted on her feet, her eyes narrowing, as she took a step closer to Bryony. She softly placed her hand on Bryony’s back and whispered, “Maybe you should read the letter, Bee.” The use of her childhood nickname reeled her back in. Pippa looked at her encouragingly. “I’ll read it with you.”

“Fine,” Bryony relented with a sigh as she grabbed a knife from behind the bar and slid it through the parchment seal, breaking the letter open. And so she began to read the only correspondence she’d ever received from a father she had never met, nor accepted the existence of.

My daughter,

I hope this letter finds you well. Surely, it will find you better than I am, as if you are reading this, I am now dead. I don’t expect you to mourn my passing, but as you are my sole offspring, you will now be the lady of Bourneclyffe. She’s served me and my family well for centuries, and I hope you will take good care of her and her people.

Your father,

Ulric Seabraide

“Ulric Seabraide . . .” Bryony repeated in a whisper, hoping it might awaken some sense of greater knowing in her mind, but it fell flat. Her father’s name was meaningless to her.

The man searched her face, brow furrowed. “Surely, you know of Ulric the Great?” Bryony stared at him blankly. “Of the famous Seabraide lineage?”

“So famous I’ve never even heard of him . . . no, the name does not ring a single bell,” Bryony said, secretly pleased as he blinked at her, trying not to look too taken aback.

“Bee, you’re going to be a lady of some great house!” Pippa couldn’t contain her excitement, even though it irked Bryony.

“Pip, I can’t go run some manor. I have the tavern to take care of. I’d never leave it.” Bryony shifted her gaze to the man who had handed her the letter. “I’m sorry, but I cannot accompany you back to Bourneclyffe . . . wherever that is.”

“I’m afraid I cannot take no for an answer.” His lips tighten into something between a grimace and a smirk.

“You cannot force me to go with you,” Bryony said, jutting her chin out defiantly.

“I have my ways,” he said curtly. “But I suggest you come of your own accord. It would be better for the both of us.”

“Is that a threat?” Bryony scoffed. “I don’t take kindly to men threatening me in my own tavern.”

“Bee, maybe you should just go with him . . . just to see the house. You don’t have to stay there — she doesn’t have to stay, right?” Pippa turned to face the man, her face now nervous and flushed.

“No, but she must come and claim ownership over Bourneclyffe and tend to a few matters as the lady of the house.”

Bryony sighed and it came out more like a low growl. She wanted to scream and throw this man with his crisp linen tunic and clean dark hair out of her tavern. But she also didn’t want to see what he meant by his threat. She felt powerless. “Where is this Bourneclyffe? How far must we travel?”

“It’s by the Aireglas Sea— only a half-day’s journey by horseback. We can leave in the morning.”

“I don’t have a horse, I hate to disappoint you.”

“My lady, you’d be riding with me.”

“Please don’t call me that. My name is Bryony; I am no one’s lady.”

“As you wish,” he said with a quick nod.

“And what is your name?” asked Pippa. “If you’re going to be taking my Bryony with you, I might as well know your name . . . so I can hunt you down if anything happens to her.”

“Soren. Soren Eingard,” the man said, his mouth twitching as if trying not to laugh.

“Well, Soren, you better take good care of her.”

“Seems she can take plenty good care of herself.” He smirked, his eyes darting across Bryony’s face. Bryony narrowed her deep blue eyes as he caught her gaze.

“Aye,” said Pippa with a chuckle as Bryony frowned. She wasn’t pleased about this sudden infringement on her life one bit.