The day's endeavours had drawn to a close for Marcellus, leaving him ensconced in the humble refuge of the Wayfarer Inn. As dusk enveloped the world outside, he ascended the creaking wooden stairs to his chamber.
Each step was a movement towards comfort, away from the cacophony of the streets and the pressing urgency that had gripped his day. With care, he stored the potion ingredients he had so diligently gathered.
Descending once more, the familiar scents of roasting meat and baking bread welcomed him.
The inn's common room was a sanctuary of sorts, a place of respite for travellers and locals alike. Marcellus claimed a solitary table, a slab of wood worn smooth by countless forearms and elbows, and waited for the evening's repast.
The door swung open, an occurrence so common that it scarcely drew a glance from the patrons. But for Marcellus, the figure that entered halted time itself.
It was Edwin, recognition flared within Marcellus like a torch in the night.
Edwin, the epitome of youthful nobility, moved with an effortless grace that seemed to command the very air around him. His visage was refined lineage, each angle and curve crafted with precision. The striking blue of his eyes, those lucid pools of thought and calculation, met Marcellus's own with a silent acknowledgement.
The garments adorning Edwin's frame spoke of wealth drawing gazes.
The gold-threaded embroidery upon his clothing caught the flickering light of the inn's lanterns, casting a lustrous dance of shadows across his form. Such attire was not the garb of an aimless wanderer.
A murmur of recognition rippled through the inn, subdued conversations pausing as patrons took in the sight of this resplendent newcomer. Yet for all the eyes drawn to him, Edwin's gaze was fixed on Marcellus, as if the two of them were alone amidst the crowd.
Marcellus felt a blend of emotions surge within him—surprise, curiosity, and the flickering of a caution, Edwin's presence was expected, a variable in Marcellus's carefully laid plans.
As Edwin approached, navigating the labyrinth of tables and chairs with a diplomat's poise, Marcellus found himself standing, cautious. The next moments were critical.
"Sir Edwin," Marcellus greeted, his voice steady, betraying none of the storm of thoughts within. "To what do I owe the honour?"
All knights were addressed honourably: 'Sir' for males, 'Ser' for females.
The inn held its breath, waiting for the unfolding of a scene that promised to be as intriguing as the enigmatic bond between these two men.
"Blackeye," Edwin's voice was a whisper, yet it cut through the tavern's hum like a blade.
"The wind is capricious; it brings encounters we least anticipate." His smile, though subdued, was a gleam cutting through the dense fog of tension that filled the air between them.
Marcellus responded, his voice a controlled murmur to match Edwin's composure, though his mind was a storm-swift river behind the still surface. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from one of your esteemed positions to such a modest establishment?
Edwin's eyes, deep and perceptive, seemed to probe into Marcellus's very soul for a moment longer, seeking silent answers to unasked questions.
With a grace that seemed as natural to him as breathing, he claimed the seat across from Marcellus, dismissing the innkeeper's fumbled overtures with a gentle gesture.
"The same winds that tease the leaves from the trees have brought me here," Edwin started, "I find myself here, perchance to nudge the course of Blackeye's ship toward a new horizon"
Marcellus leaned backwards, his interest sharpening like a whetstone on steel. "You speak of debts," he challenged.
"In a manner of speaking," Edwin replied, his words a labyrinthine puzzle.
"My uncle's dominion has descended into disorder, and crimes of every ilk have bloomed like a blight under our governance. You, Marcellus, are living testament to this decay, and I am set on rectifying it. Allow me to confer upon you a new cause. You have dispatched two men—men who would have been valuable in this endeavour."
Suspicion flickered across Marcellus's features. "And what place do I hold in your grand designs?"
The internal monologue betrayed his frustration: Why does the weight of their worlds fall upon my shoulders—first Captain Crowe, then Finn, and now this cur seeks my allegiance? What of Blackeye? Who will tend to my needs?
A fleeting honesty broke through the cultivated mask of Edwin's aristocratic poise. "Rather than recompense, I proffer a collaboration, if you follow me you will have no wants" he proposed, leaving a trail of unspoken implications hanging between them.
"Plainly, then," Marcellus urged, the ice of his patience showing fissures in the sunlight of his urgency. "If there is support you can provide, lay forth your conditions. If there are cautions to be voiced, I am ready to listen."
Edwin's gaze drowned in blue pools.
"The night teems with watchful eyes, and my adversaries loiter not in the shadows. Stand with me, and claim your refuge. You know you are hunted, don't you? Captain Crowe has sought the shadows; he has forsaken you. Mark how readily I found you."
Silence descended, taut as a lyre's string.
"For how long? indefinitely?" Marcellus probed, the sense of impending threat accelerating.
I definitely have to go back to Wisbech. Marcellus murmured.
"Patience; all shall unfurl in due time," Edwin assured, rising from his chair, his silhouette stretching across the floorboards.
"Take heart, for while our presence may not herald power, the governor holds sway more than most realize."
"Edwin, a moment," Marcellus's voice was a veiled thrust. "Where shall I find you?"
Pausing, Edwin turned, "Come with the morning light," he instructed.
His exit was as sudden as his entrance, the closing of the door echoing his final, cryptic phrase.
Marcellus noticed the echo of knights' boots outside just as Edwin crossed the threshold.
was he going to fight me if I said no?
The game was afoot, and he was a player, whether he willed it or not.
Unbeknownst to Marcellus he had become the subject of gossip.