Personal Crusades

1

It was night in London, which started the business at the Roaring Lion pub. Milah slammed a foaming mug of beer in front of a man before moving off towards another table with his ale. She was kept busy, but she wouldn't have it any other way. It was mostly men in the pub, apart from a few...less-than-savory women. There was rarely any other kind of woman in there.

That was why it was such a surprise when a blond, beautiful noblewoman walked in. Her face was covered by her red cowl, and in the light of the fireplace Milah could see her almost clear-blue eyes. Rachel Andric. She hadn't come to the pub since her brother had gone off with King Richard. She walked up to Milah. "Where shall I sit?" she asked.

"Wherever you please," Milah answered. She didn't like Rachel Andric; her brother Ewan had been nice enough, but Rachel came off as a conceited noble, too snobbish to sit with anyone. "I'm not seating you, I've got enough to do at the moment."

Rachel eyed the crowd nervously, and prepared to ask Milah another question. Her mouth snapped shut when she realized Milah had moved away from her. Blast. Where was she to sit?

Finally, her eyes settled on a table in the far corner of the room, empty. It wasn't the best place to hear Milah's gossip, the reason Rachel had come tonight, but Rachel couldn't bear sitting with any of the men. Uncouth, flirtatious, and sometimes downright rude to Rachel. She didn't like them when they weren't under the influence of alcohol.

She sat at the table she had picked out, watching the crowd drink and talk in loud tones. As she sat there, one of the men suddenly leaped up, drawing his sword. "Have at you, then!" he shouted. "I'll kill you, you swine!"

"Not here, you won't," Milah interrupted, plucking the sword from the surprised man's grip. Rachel hadn't even seen her approach. "I don't feel like scrubbing this floor clean of blood. If you want to hit each other with fists, that's all well and good, but not with swords. You want to chop his head off, you do it outside, you understand?"

"Yes ma'am," the man murmured, like a boy being scolded by his mother. Milah returned the man's sword to him and he hastened out the door, his face red with shame.

Milah dusted her hands off, the satisfaction evident on her face. When she saw everyone staring at her, she put her hands on her hips and grinned. "Anyone else want to cause some trouble, or are you going to enjoy your drinks?"

They all returned to their drinks, some with little laughs, others with more boisterous chuckles. Rachel was envious of the ease Milah had with the crowd. She knew what she wanted, and the crowd listened. Rachel had never been good with people. That had always been Ewan's job.

She choked back a sob at the thought of Ewan, and she quickly moved her thoughts away. She had come for Milah's gossip, and she couldn't let her emotions get in the way.

Robert threw aside his brushes in aggravation, splattering red paint across the wall. He studied the muddled canvas on the stand in front of him. "Too many primary colors." He frowned. "I should've mixed them a little more."

He removed the canvas and laid it face-first against the wall. When it dried, he could paint it over with white and try again. But for now, he ambled near a tiny pot-belly stove and poured himself a mug of tea. Disgusted at the bitter, watery liquid, he dumped it out beneath the cracks on the floor. This garret was terrible, but he'd been told that suffering a little would give inspiration for his art. But so far all it inspired was indigestion. Maybe he should return to Warrick Estates, his little stone house in the country. At least the cook Annabelle was there, maybe she'd be willing to pose for him . . .