Life would slow down after All Hallows Day. The harvest was done and the farmers had plenty of idle time and idle money. On a cold night, they would find their way into the tavern. The lure of a warm fire, the company of friends and perhaps some spiced wine would prove irresistible.
Dulcy usually set herself up in the fire-side corner of the public room. An azure tablecloth, two borrowed candles and some scattered herbs would set the stage. There she would hold court like a ragged gypsy mage-queen.
In that corner, magic reigned and a ha’penny or other petty coin would buy a peek at whatever the future held. While a palm reading was best for some queries, the cards were Dulcinaya’s favorite.
Theatrics were the enchantment of the game. Each card was revealed slowly and teasingly. The turn of a card brought forth a look of grave concern, feigned shock, or perhaps surprised delight. The secret to dukkering was to answer each question with yet another question. Thus a heart’s desire would be laid bare. When a few more cards were shown, there would be a raised eyebrow, a knowing glance, or perhaps a conspiratorial wink and a sly smile. Whispering a vague prophecy somehow made it all seem true.
However, this Sabbath’s Eve had been a wretchedly slow night, and there was naught but three pence in her purse to show for it.
It was near closing time. A few farmers argued drunkenly as to what next year’s market would bring. Off in the other corner there were four strangers who drank and kept mostly to themselves. One could overhear the usual debate concerning the vagaries of gambling, the fickleness of women, or the merits of one horse over another. By the look of them, they were likely nothing more than sell-swords.
“Tis Sabbath Eve, gentlemen, and midnight is upon us - we must bid all a good night.” The serving wench made her usual announcement to no one in particular. The farmers downed the last of their grog and ale while gathering their cloaks. The four in the corner didn’t so much as lift their cups. The wench went over to their table. “There’s an inn less than a league north of here. I’m sure you gentlemen will find a night’s rest there.” They kept their seats and said nothing as the last of the farmers left the tavern. “Surely you'll not break the Sabbath? There’ll be hell to pay if the Vicar finds out that you were sitting here with an ale in your hand past midnight.”
“What about the gypsy?” One of the men queried.
“I let her stay because she helps me clean up this rat-hole tavern. Now out with all of you! None of you look like the sort who will sweep floors.”
“Sit down and be silent, woman.”
“I’ve no patience for your nonsense. I’ve got work to do. Now get out!”
The man stood up and towered over the wench. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
He turned to the other three and gave orders…”You guard the door - and keep the gypsy in her seat. Search the larder and kitchen - make sure no one else is here.”
The brute held the trembling woman's face before his.
"Leave this place, tell no one what you have seen, and do not return until sunrise. If you disobey, the gypsy..." He glanced in Dulcinaya's direction. "...will be found feeding the crows in a field somewhere. Do you understand?"
The wench gave a terrified nod and fled the tavern.
"Give the signal that it's safe to enter."
By Baron Bardulf
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