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‘Whoa up, now, darlins! We’re here, I do believe.’ Rusco set the brake on the small wagon and wrapped the well oiled leather reins about the brake handle. He hopped down, the water puddled up on the stone path splashing up the sides of his boots. The rain soaked his hair and dripped steadily down the collar of his now soggy cape.
He came round to where Whitefoot and Twitch stood, stamping their hooves. ‘Should have worn my oilskins and hat, eh?’ The mules nodded their shaggy heads up and down as if to agree. ‘Won’t hear the end of it from Signy, will I?’ He chuckled, picturing his wife, hands on hips as she would greet him – a thick towel for his hair, a big warm blanket to wrap him round, tsking and shaking her head as she reminded him she’d told him so, hadn’t she just! ‘Be just a bit, boys,’ he told them. ‘It’s our last delivery.’ Reaching deep in an inner pocket of his cape, he fetched out two small apples. ‘Here you go!
Rusco went to the big oak door at the rear of the inn and rapped loudly. No one answered. He tried the handle and found that it not locked. ‘Well, then, I’ll just set the two barrels in the kitchen.’
The room was dark, save for the banked fire in the kitchen hearth. He set the barrels in a corner near the entryway to the common room. There was some small light showing under the door there and he thought he heard voices beyond. Nudging the door open slightly, he peeked his head through.
‘Anyone here,’ he called out. ‘It’s Rusco. I’ve brought the late winter’s ale I’d promised . . .’
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