"You got this" was the big word written on the large front desk where I assumed the person who kept the gold coins or recorded the inn's activities worked. "Excuse me, sir," I said, not quite, coming to term or rather hearing my voice but I hope he heard me. And I guess he indeed did, for he raised one of his brows, studying me from head to toe.
"Not from around here?" he questioned, and my mind hesitated on whether it was wise to answer or not.
"I am looking for a man named Armstrong. Do you have any information about him, his whereabouts, or anything?" I asked, awaiting a straightforward response. This seemed to pique his interest as he observed me with more curiosity and attention this time.
"Who are you?" he demanded in a deep and commanding tone that, if louder, could easily intimidate even a grown adult.
"My name is Lock," I stated, emphasizing 'Lock' to conceal my full identity; you understand, Willock, from Lock. Reason I decided to do this, was I was not ascertained that the area was safe for me to go out disclosing my identity. Am sure as of now, most government officialshave already been given giant orders to check on my whereabouts.
"Lock!" He stated, then as if rethinking continued, "Never heard of a Lock person in here or around." He stated, and honestly, I was already growing impatient with his incessant questions and suspicions. Was this what other "people" experienced in the face of authority?
"Sir, I understand your concerns and curiosity, but I have a message for Armstrong and him alone," I said.
He shot me a stern look and inquired, "And what is it?"
"The message is for Armstrong only, sir. It is to be delivered to him alone, as per my master's instructions. Confidentiality, is so intended of the matter"
"Who is your master?"
"I have no authority to disclose that either."
"Are you from London or elsewhere in England?"
"I'm not certain if that information would be of much help to you."
"Are you... Okay, Armstrong will be arriving late today. He's gone to attend to some of his business. Sit on that chair (pointing at a chair near the window) and wait for him."
I followed the cashier's instructions and took a seat in the corner chair, placing my bag beside me on the next chair. I began to contemplate how I would introduce myself to this Armstrong person. Thoughts raced through my mind like, "Hey, father sent me to you..." or "Hey, I'm the England's bastard," or "Hey, I'm Willock, the son of the Duke of Bavdon." As the many thoughts of my introduction compelled my mind, some two beautiful half naked almost my age girls came near me, with one sitting on the table in front of me, and the other started caressing my hair. I was never used to this, the touching, the women. In general, I was never used to it, not even the never used, I had actually never done it. I had never done the do's that fulfills a man masculinity, I was taught never to. And in relation to my travels, all of them were to deal with father's business, and education offers.
However, some men indulged in such encounters, but I feared the consequences of fathering an illegitimate child. I was scared of my child facing the wrath or rather the destiny that I currently was being levelled up and being forced to follow. The lady who was caressing my hair, slid one of his leg to the other side, and sat on me. God, I started feeling it, different feelings. Nervousness, anxiety, scare and sudden urge to tell her stop. As she wanted to unbutton my leggings, I grabbed her hand and stated with a whisper, that am not sure she heard, or rather maybe seemed to encourage her to continue, "..st..oo..p." She of course didn't when I stood up and left her kissing the ground, when it suddenly hit me that she was a lady, and so my attempts to help her started taking the best of me.
"He started it," the other lady shouted at the top of her lungs. And suddenly, the well-built men from the hotel quickly surrounded me, their eyes filled with hostility.
"It's not what you think, I… eehh… they, tried to indulge into my privacy without my yearns or rather desire." They both however, seemed not to be bothered with my statements.
"Anyone who comes here, knows what He is coming for, I believe you are no stranger to that." One of the men stated as one of the ladies added,
"He tried inserting without my yearns, he tried to and had requested me to sit on his laps."
Their anger escalated from hearing this, and before I could fully explain myself, a loud slap jolted me. My mind went blank, and I felt a sharp, discomforting pain near my ear. I heard myself lose my balance and perhaps fall, as a sense of emptiness washed over me.
I don't know how long I had been unconscious, but water was what woke me up. Slowly opening one of my eyes, I saw children, little children, surrounding me. The skies were already darkening as night crept in. They seemed... My left side ached, and I was certain my eyes were swollen. I tried to touch myself and realized my cardigan, my loyal cardigan with a distinctive collar that I had been wearing, was gone. My shoes, the well-laced black boots I had been wearing, were nowhere to be seen. My bag, Oh Lord! Gone, or maybe it was left in the hotel. My head throbbed, making it hard to focus, and the children stared at me as if I were a dead person found in the streets. It was as if they were accustomed to finding dead people in the area, for I heard them running off in different directions, perhaps to their mothers, shouting, "He's alive! He's alive!"
I managed to sit up, glancing at my bare upper body. I was a thin, youthful man. I rarely exercised, so I didn't have well-defined biceps to show off, but my stomach was in good shape. I had taken the time to do some sit-ups and push-ups. So my arms were somewhat developed, but my chest was... let's say a work in progress. I needed to figure out what to do, and Derby's words echoed in my mind. I was starting to feel like a peasant at that moment. I forced myself to stand, my head still pounding as if I had received another beating after that hard slap. My body felt heavy, and for the first time, it was a struggle to carry myself.
At the corner of my eye, I couldn't help but noticed women and men eyeing me in the same way nobles might gaze at madmen wandering the streets, just before they were taken away to be executed or burned at the stake. I had no idea what to do, and my stomach growled in hunger. I wanted to go back and find Armstrong, but would he believe me without any evidence? I wasn't sure where I was; I didn't even know if I was near the hotel. That's when I spotted a woman sitting under a tree, cooking something I couldn't identify.
"Hello, ma'am," I began, "my name is Willock, and I'm from the other side of the river. It's quite cold, could you please help me with something to cover my bare upper body?" She simply looked at me and gestured for me to watch whatever she was cooking. I nodded and sat down beside her when two men approached, one big-bodied and the other slightly smaller, standing in the center where I was sitting.
"Where is... Who are you?" they questioned. I replied, "I'm Lock," doing my best not to cause any further commotion.
"Are you a frie..." one of them began, but their conversation was interrupted as the elderly woman emerged, carrying a carrier bag.
"Oh dear, don't harass the boy; he's hurt, can't you see that?" she scolded them. They stepped back, and one of them scrutinized my face with a look of disgust, asking, "Who did that to you?"
I was about to answer when the mother joined the conversation. "Do you have somewhere to sleep, young man? You said you're from the other side of the lake?" I simply nodded, although I hadn't mentioned that I had nowhere to sleep. Nevertheless, I appreciated the help.
"Here, wear these; they belong to him. I hope they can keep you warm for the time being," she said as she reached for the place she had been seated on and continued, "I'll attend to your wound when I'm finished here."
With that, the less muscular young man called for me, and we headed toward a certain house. It may not have been luxurious, but I was grateful for the kindness of these people. "My name is Ezron, Lock. This is my friend John. So you said you're from the other side of the lake?" he asked, and I simply nodded in response as he showed me a certain bed.
I then thought of something and so asked, "Is there somewhere to take a bath?" They exchanged glances, laughed, and replied in unison, "The crocodiles will be plentiful by now. But we use the river or sometimes the lake. Only the wealthy use bath tubs or something."
I registered that thought and began contemplating my life in this new place. I was merely surviving, and only one day had passed. I wondered about the days to come if I decided to stay here for a while. Perhaps a small request would be enough to earn their hospitality. Once my wound had healed, I would maybe leave in search of Armstrong. I would maybe bribe her by offering the lady of this house a substantial sum of gold coins, despite knowing I had nothing at the moment. However, I brushed aside these thoughts, realizing it wasn't noble for a man to stay in another person's house for an extended period without contributing something in return. Moreover, they lived in a less affluent society, where women worked to provide for their families. This was in contrast to London, where women were expected to stay in the house while men ran businesses and provided for the household. Or perhaps, this divide existed primarily in the upper social classes. Even Derby had worked to bring something home. The women who sold their beauty did so to support themselves, so it seemed to be a characteristic of the higher social classes only.
While lost in thought, the elderly mother entered the room and called for me. She asked about my wound in a motherly tone, one that I had never quite understood, even from my own mother—the wife of the Viking.
I explained, "I was looking for a man named Armstrong in the classy hotel."
When she heard this, she stopped what she was doing and scrutinized me closely. "Are you sent by Armstrong here?"
"No," I replied quickly, then continued, "Something happened in my homeland, and I was looking for him to maybe offer me a job."
Her voice relaxed and stated, "Armstrong and the Duke of Bavdon. God forgive them" Hearing her call on the Duke, I became more interested in the topic with which she was bringing forward. There was a lot of things I never knew about father. Really lot, and so I asked, "What about the Duke of Bravdon?"
She looked at me, hands on her hips with a deep frown on her face, and replied, "They bring drugs and weapons into this townn. Now our children, our boys, have become nothing but worthless. My back hurts every day working for these boys, and all they do is search for drugs with the pennies they steal from my purse." Her voice was filled with pain, and I wished I could do something to help. However, if she knew I was raised by the Duke, whom she clearly despised, what could I do?
"I had no idea about that, ma'am," I said, trying to show respect. I continued, "I was on the verge of meeting him when two ladies attacked me. They assaulted me, and I lost consciousness. I woke up with no clothes and children watching me."
She examined me closely and asked, "You were dressed expensively?"
I didn't know how to respond, so I simply observed her. She continued, "I mean, they steal from nobles and the wealthy, or anyone who appears to belong to the upper class. This is the society we live in—one divided by haves and have-nots. But I'm content as I am, son. As long as I have something to eat. My husband, before he passed away, told me to take care of his children and left me with this business—selling roasted meat and frying fish. That's how my boy grew into a big man."
It was clear that loneliness had given her much to say, and she wanted someone to listen. So, I listened attentively as she tended to my wound, despite the occasional flinches from her touch.