Donald, Kwestor, and Muce approached the town of West Gondford, on the Westgrove side of the Norfork River, early in the evening. The far smaller East Gondford stood on the Gotrox side. Kwestor said an ancient stone bridge connected the two.
They found a surprisingly large number of people about, considering night would soon fall. Flags and banners decorated the sides of the road. Closer to the center of town, they passed under a sign, with large, brightly painted letters welcoming them to the Annual Harvest Festival. Sounds of singing and general merrymaking came from ahead.
Donald and his party continued on to the local inn. They found it without difficulty, a two-story, brown painted wood, and whitewashed stucco building with a thick thatched roof. A sign in front proclaimed it the Gondford Inn.
Several people milled about, both outside and inside, many with glass in hand talking, shouting, dancing, or otherwise amusing themselves in various stages of festive inebriation. Most were tallfolk, but several stoutfolk mingled there, too, with no apparent segregation between the races.
A band played at the far end of the large common room, contributing a beat to the pulse of humanity circulating in and about the building. Donald made his way to the bar where he expected to find someone he could talk to in order to secure a room.
Kwestor followed, scowling. Donald could not be sure if his look signified a general disapproval of merrymaking, concern for the prince’s security, or simply because he did not like being around so many people.
Muce made a beeline for the buffet table.
Donald competed for space at the crowded bar, waiting his turn among a line of people of both races queuing for a refill.
“Sorry. Got no rooms available,” the innkeeper informed him when he finally reached the head of the line. “What with the festival going on, I doubt as you’ll find anyone with empty space anymore.”
“Surely, there must be rooms somewhere in town.”
The man behind the counter reached for a wet glass and began drying it with a towel as he talked. “Well, normally, yeah, but this is the first day of the Harvest Festival. Goes for six weeks, all the way to Pumpkin Day. Big thing here, the first day. Last too, for that matter. People come from miles around for it.”
“I am willing to pay a bit extra.”
“Wouldn’t make any difference. There’s no other inn in town, and I know the folks who said they’d have bed and breakfast rooms are all booked up, too. Heck, even a lot of the barn lofts have been rented out. I know some folks are pitching tents down by the river, though. Might still find a spot there.”
Donald did not intend to spend another day sleeping outside, especially not when in a town. And they all desperately needed a bath—especially Kwestor who somehow acquired a fairly unpleasant musty smell, like something left too long in a corner. The prince understood adventurers must endure certain inconveniences, but rank should have some privileges. “But I’m Prince Donald of Westgrove. My father is the king!”
The innkeeper eyed him with a certain amount of incredulity. “Listen, even if you really were a prince, or a king for that matter, there’s no rooms. I can’t just turn out someone who made reservations in advance. It simply would not be proper—or good business, if you catch my drift.”
Dejectedly, Donald stepped away to make room for the next person in line who wanted a glass refilled. Before he could get far through the mass of slowly shifting bodies, a tall, middle-aged man, dressed somewhat better than the average merrymaker, tapped him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhear some of your conversation with the innkeeper. Are you really Prince Donald of Westgrove?”
“He is,” interjected Kwestor, who never left the young prince’s side after they arrived. “Not that it matters.”
The man turned his head toward the ranger, possibly noticing him for the first time. “Oh, but it does!”
Turning back to the prince, he locked his eyes on those of the younger man. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Your Highness. We get very few royal visitors here, even at festival time.” He thrust out his hand. The prince accepted the offer with a noncommittal handshake. “I am Brian Lescroft. I own both of the mills in town.” He went on to explain how he always comes to the festivals but is especially interested this year because a Gotroxian craftsman would be demonstrating a new kind of overshot waterwheel claimed to be much more efficient than the undershot wheel currently at his mills. Donald could follow few details of mill owner’s description or appreciate how this new technology might be significant, but the man seemed excited about it.
With the introduction, description of his business and holdings, and more history about the town and the harvest festival than Donald cared to listen to right now, mingled an invitation for all of them to be guests at his house just outside of town. This is no imposition, he explained. Spare rooms could be made ready easily, and he intended to leave the inn now anyway. If they wanted, they would be more than welcome to stay with him for the entire duration of the festival.
The young prince found the mill owner’s ingratiating efforts mildly irritating and vaguely suspicious, and he wondered what ulterior motives he might have. Kwestor’s attitudes about such things may have been having an effect on him. However, night grew darker and no better options seemed likely to materialize, so he accepted the invitation.
Kwestor trailed a step or two behind Donald and Muce as they followed the local landowner. They strolled for a half-hour through village streets lighted by stars and by lamps from within nearby houses. The mill owner veered onto a side path just outside of town and led them to a two-story fieldstone structure with lace curtains in the lighted windows, sitting serenely on a low hill.
Brian Lescroft entered through the front door and called to his wife about their invited guests. Within seconds, she arrived to greet him, entering the hallway from a sitting room to the right of the main entrance. She smiled with obvious insincerity at the three strangers and shot her husband a quick glare clearly warning, I’ll get you later for this! Her attitude noticeably changed when he explained that their guests included the youngest son of the King of Westgrove.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed softly, going into a clumsily executed curtsy. “I had no idea. It is indeed an honor to have you in our home.” She bowed and fixed her eyes on the spotless floor for a moment, apparently checking to see if it looked clean enough.
Donald immediately assumed the aristocratic persona he had learned to adopt at social gatherings. “Thank you, My Lady. You do us a great honor as well as a great service opening your home to us.”
“Mary, I think the prince and his companions should meet the rest of the family.” Their host winked almost imperceptibly at his wife.
She glanced at her husband. “Yes, of course.” Her attention circled to her guests. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highness, gentlemen.” She backed away a few steps with all due formality, turned, and walked toward the stairs.
Brian directed them to a parlor where he invited them to unburden themselves and sit with him for a drink. They gratefully unloaded their packs and other gear and sat in the offered chairs, except for Kwestor who retained his sword and remained standing, glaring about the room. The ranger paced with a look of concern, apparently incapable of accepting that the mill owner acted purely out of charity.
Their host offered them all a drink of brandy, which both Donald and Muce accepted. Kwestor simply replied, “No.” After a brief pause, he added, “Thank you,” as though an afterthought.
“I think something’s bothering your friend,” Lescroft said to Donald after they nestled comfortably with their snifters.
“Normally there is,” Donald replied, glancing at the ranger pacing the room. He thought he knew what plagued his scout’s mind. Kwestor suspected the mill owner wanted something, and it made him nervous not knowing what. The idea of Lescroft extending his invitation simply because he beheld some fellow humans in need or even out of some sense of patriotism to th
e Crown would be, in Kwestor’s view, about as likely as a fish dancing a jig. Donald did not necessarily disagree, but he suspected Lescroft simply sought whatever status hosting a prince might provide. As long as any doubt remained, however, Donald knew Kwestor would expect the worst.
Lescroft’s wife Mary returned. A boy of about thirteen with freshly slicked back hair stood beside her. A young woman followed.
Brian rose from his chair. “Prince Donald, Muce, Kwestor, please allow me to introduce my son, Patrick, and my daughter, Millie.”
The all stood and the young man bowed politely to the prince. His sister stepped around her mother to stand immediately in front of Donald.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” she breathed, bending at the knee in a semblance of a curtsy and extending her hand to the prince, palm down.
She looked about seventeen. The low cut bodice of her lacy dress revealed an impressive cleavage. She bent over just enough to ensure Donald could not likely overlook her fully developed womanhood and all this implied. Presenting a coy smile, she delicately moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
Donald took her hand and forced himself to look at her face, which he found almost as pleasant a sight as those that originally caught his attention. Kissing the back of the offered hand, which, he noticed, she attractively scented at the wrist, he said none too regally, “D-d-delighted to m-m-meet you too, Miss Millie.”
Kwestor, from across the room, observed the exchange closely. This provided the answer to his unasked question. The mill owner wanted a prince in the family and his daughter seemed to be doing her best to get him one.
“Have you come all the way from Greatbridge just to see our little festival, Your Highness?” she asked.
“Well, no actually. Not the main reason, that is. I mean, we were on our way somewhere else and it’s just a, uh, a fortunate coincidence we’re passing through now. I’m sure it’s a very nice festival. I wish we could stay to see some of it, but we really ought to be leaving in the morning.”
“I won’t hear of it! You just got here. You can’t be running off just yet! How would it look to the townspeople to have a member of the royal family come through at festival time and not even stop to see it? I’m sure you could spare a day or two, couldn’t you?” She teasingly accented her question with the pretense of a girlish pout. “I will personally be your guide. I’ll take you to all the best things, and we can get to know each other. I will be so disappointed if you say no. I promise you’ll have a really good time.” She batted suggestive eyes, taking his hand in both of hers.
His curiosity about the Warden, feelings of responsibility, raging male hormones, and common sense brawled over which one of them would make the decision. As with most young men in such situations, the hormones won.
“Well, I suppose,” his hormones said. “But only a day,” common sense added. “After that, we really need to be on our way,” curiosity and responsibility chimed in chorus.
The prince tried to smile flirtatiously but could not seem to pull it off. It felt as though his face muscles were receiving mixed messages. He could only manage a twitchy grin, which he feared might have looked more surprised than seductive.