Kettering

[Mors Vigilia]

Farmlands... Small hamlets and farmlands are all that make up Kettering. Not very productive farms at that. In the recent Domesday survey Kettering was valued at £11, with 107 acres of meadow, 3 of woodland, 2 mills, 31 villans with 10 ploughs, and 1 female slave. A decade and a half later the only addition to that list is "tavern, small and unwelcoming with frankly God-awful beer."

Unfortunately, people need a place to rest on their travels and when night falls this looks as good a place as any...

[Carl von Döbeln]

OOC: I have a perfect idea for this.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

As Baron Carlisle and his retinue approached the modest looking tavern, a fat old man, the owner of the tavern, no doubt, runs up to the gathered men and exlaims...

Good sir! I need aid! I am the landlord of the fine establishment before thee, but I fear I shall soon be put into bankruptcy!

[Mors Vigilia]

Carlisle had dismounted and now held up a hand for the man to halt and be silent. Disregarding the man's presence the Baron told off his squire - who had caught up with him on the road - to head back with the horses and prepare a place for the night. With that, Carlisle brushed past the man, continuing to ignore him as he moved closer to inspect the tavern...

[Carl von Döbeln]

But sir, don't go in there! the place is a mess!

The man exlaimed...

You see, a gentleman entered this establishment a few weeks ago, with tarnished clothes and a raggy countenance! He ate and drank plenty, but paid with bad coins! I had my men jump at him, but the man defended himself well, and after having disabled two of my best guards he beat a retreat, defending himself with his sword, with which he also maimed another of my men, and with the flat side of which he stunned me! He ran out, and in beating his retreat the man found the cellar stairs, and, as the door was open, he rushed into it! Once in it he barricaded himself within! Now he has been there for at least three weeks! And we live the saddest life that can ever be lived, for all our provisions are stored in that fine cellar. Our wine bottles, our beer, our oil, our spices, our lard, and oh the sausages! Should this man stop in my cellar for a day or more, I shall be utterely ruined sir! Help me!

[Mors Vigilia]

An impressive story, for sure. Though Carlisle was somewhat inclined to side with the swordsman due to his victory here, though it appeared he had no way of escape...

You have told the Abbot?

Carlisle was fairly certain that these were the lands of the Abbot of Peterborough .

[Carl von Döbeln]

Yes!

The man promptly replied.

He has done nothing to help!

[Mors Vigilia]

Carlisle was annoyed, he'd come here for some respite, some beer and a meal.

Take me to your intruder, then.

[Carl von Döbeln]

Aye!

The rotund man escorted Carlisle to the stairway that led down to the cellar...

He's down there...

[Mors Vigilia]

Carlisle untrung his bow and handed the stave to the man, followed by his grey riding cloak so that he had free access to his sword.

He is English, or Norman?

[Carl von Döbeln]

I could not tell.

The man replied bitterly.

His accent is most peculiar.

[Mors Vigilia]

Carlisle scowled.

Bring light.

With that he slowly entered the cellar, speaking out to the as of yet unseen illegal occupant.

In the cellar, dare I inquire as to whether there is any beer left?

[Carl von Döbeln]

There was no reply. Only silence.

[Mors Vigilia]

Stopping on the steps, Carlisle got down onto his haunches, preferring to wait either for light to arrive or for his own vision to become attuned to the cellar.

[Carl von Döbeln]

The fat owner of the establishment soon returned with a simple candle...

[Mors Vigilia]

Rising, Carlisle snatched it from the man's hand and ventured further into the cellar. The place certainly looked like it had been lived in and with a wrinkle of his nose the Baron noticed a fresh smell of waste... Being left to oneself in a cellar may provide food and drink but their unfortunate by-products were just as stuck down here as the intruder...

[Carl von Döbeln]

I'd suggest you leave, sir.

A voice called out, sternly.

[Mors Vigilia]

Peering through the gloom, Carlisle waved the candle before him, his free hand loosening his sword from the scabbard.

Suggestion noted.

[Carl von Döbeln]

Ah, another brave one.

Carlisle could clearly hear the sound of a sword being drawn out from it's scabbard.

[Mors Vigilia]

Carlisle halted, assessing the situation. Here was a man trapped in a dark place with his only exit blocked by Carlisle himself, a man at home with a sword who knew how to fight. A desperate man... Fully unsheathing his own weapon, Carlisle grounded the point and edged backwards a little. The only way he could think of showing that he was not here to fight other than actually disarming himself.

I am hungry and thirsty. If you try to pass me I will not stop you, though up there are men with a grudge and bludgeons the size of a tree. Furthermore, outside sits the Abbot and twenty of his guard. Men who haven't spent the last few weeks in a dark hole covered in what I'll choose to believe is mud...

[Carl von Döbeln]

You have another suggestion, then?

The man in the dark asked. He did not lower his sword. He certainly wasn't afraid of fighting twenty men.