The Robin And The Kestrel

He only wished that the same could be said for them.

They reached the village of Westhaven quite a bit before nightfall. The fact that the road was considerably less traveled meant that it was, conversely, smoother than the main road. Less traffic during all this bad weather had made for fewer ruts, though there were erosion cuts to rattle across. The mares made much better time that he or Robin had any right to expect.

'If I recall, the inn is on the other side of the village,' Robin said. There wasn't much there, really; a few buildings around a square, although there did seem to be a farmer's market going on. This was the kind of village that Jonny Brede would have passed by, if he'd had the choice. There was no room for an outsider here, everyone knew everyone else. Still, though strangers might not be welcome, their coin was, and spending money usually brought some form of speech out of even the most taciturn of villagers.

'W-we should g-get some bread,' he said. 'M-maybe ch-cheese. S-S-Stillwater d-d-didn't have either.'

Robin glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and smiled. 'So we can find things out without asking questions, hmm?' she replied. 'Oh, I can think of a few more things we could use. Roots, for one; and more feed for the horses. Even at the 'good price' they gave me for being a Gypsy, the price for grain at Stillwater was outrageous.'

By that time, they were actually in the village; virtually everyone in the square or the stalls along one side stared at them as they drove in. Robin pulled the horses up to the single hitching post with ostentatious care, then jumped down and tied the mares up to it. Kestrel climbed down on his side, trying to look as formidable as possible.

The village square was centered around a well. No great surprise there, most small villages were. There were four buildings on three sides of the square, with two larger buildings, one clearly a small Church and the other a Guild Hall, on the fourth side. A joint Guild Hall from the look of it; there were boards with the signs for the Millers', the Joiners', the Smiths' and the Tanners' Guilds up above the door. No Bardic Guild harp, though, which was a relief.

The stalls had been set up along this side, and Kestrel followed Robin as she opened the back of the wagon, got a basket, and made her way directly towards them. It looked as if the rain that had plagued their travel so far had scarcely touched Westhaven; the dust of the street was damped down, but had not turned to mud, and beneath the dust, the street itself was packed dirt that must surely turn into a morass every time it rained heavily.

Now I remember why I like cities, Kestrel thought. Paved streets, and regular collection of refuse, were two very good reasons.

As Robin approached the first stall, looking determinedly cheerful, he decided he did not like the faintly hostile way the woman minding it and the two loitering in front of it were staring at her. He steeled himself for trouble.

But it never came. At least, not in the form of outright 'trouble.'

Instead, the thin, disagreeable-looking wench, who had a face like a hen with indigestion and hair the color and texture of old straw, completely ignored them. She began chattering away at her two cronies at such a high volume and rate of speech that it would have been impossible for anyone to 'get her attention' without interrupting her forcibly and rudely.

But Kestrel knew that Robin had no intention of doing anything that would give the stallkeeper an excuse for further rudeness. And if the wench thought she was going to outmaneuver a Gypsy_

Instead, Robin silently surveyed the contents of the stall with a superior eye, counterfeiting perfectly the airs of a high-born nobleman. She raised one supercilious eyebrow, then sniffed as if she found the selection of baked goods vastly inferior to what she was expecting, and sailed on without a single word to any of the three.

At the sound of a smothered giggle from just ahead of them, Robin smiled, and exchanged a quick glance with Kestrel. He nodded slightly in the direction of the giggler, an older woman in the next stall, one with a plain but merry face, who was selling eggs, sausage, and bacon.

Although none of these things had been on their tentative shopping list, Robin headed straight for her, and engaged her in a spirited bargaining session. As Robin put her purchases in her basket, she cocked her head to one side, and paused for a moment.

'Is there anyplace here in Westhaven where I can get fresh bread?' she asked, loudly enough that the women at the first stall could hear her clearly. 'Properly made bread?' The disagreeable hen-woman flushed, and the egg-seller's mouth tightened as she held back another giggle.

'Well, Mother Tolley isn't a baker, precisely, but she sells the freshest bread on market-days,' the egg-seller said, with a slightly malicious sparkle to her eyes that told Kestrel there was a petty feud, probably of long standing, between her and the hen-woman. 'It's from an old family recipe, and her own yeast, and I buy it myself. She's got the last stall in the row.'