Thoughts of Wilma (a barmaid at Porstmouth Inn)
I sit here a-twitching me fingers on the windowsill as the last round of men leave the ships. A storm is brewing over the sea, the horizon looks shady. Those new sailors are going to be in for a nasty bump, I tell ye.
"Wilma," Nettie hissed, nudging me hard in the side, "stop daydreaming for two seconds, please?"
"'Aite, 'aite," I moan, pulling up me petticoats. There's a whole new crew of brutes to be served. Again.
I see drunken eyes everywhere as I scuttle around the bar. The ale is heavy sloshing away into me goblet as I wait, watching the sailors and Richard's army roll back to the mother land. Some people ain't touching their broth, just staring into it with their lovesick eyes. They must be dreaming of their sweethearts, I know it. Poor sods.
Nettie pulls her frills down again, pushing her bloody chest up, batting her lashes at the new 'uns. They're like dough in her hands. They watch her wigglin' and gigglin', slamming down coins with their tongues dangling out their mouths.
I just shake me head, tutting at the wench. One day she'll learn.
"Can we have two broths, please?" says a soft lil' voice from behind me back.
I turn around and knock me eyes into a couple of young faces. The first one is a lanky-looking lad. Tall.He talks to me, kind of chipper and that, probably excited to be home, me thinks. Then I spot a dark face next to him, could 'ave thought it a Saracen boy! But no, that delicate little face is just a woman with some odd hair, I tell ye. She's wee and young with those round, begging eyes.
"Yeah," I smile, settling them both on the bar.
I watch the couple, fascinated, I tell ye. They're innocent as lambs in the field, grinning at each other as I slide some broth down the bar for 'em. The wee lady stands out a bit, looking abit like a gold-skinned sea urchin with that hood up. But she pulls it down, lookin' fresh by the candlelight. Looks a darling. Queer hair, though.
"Wilma," Nettie's screeching at me, stamping that foot around, again.
I pretend me ears aren't workin'. I'm happy watching that sweet couple, they're looking into each others eyes. Like dark oats and cream. Wood and snow. It's beauty you don't see around 'ere.
"Wilma, Wil-ma!" Nettie's screamin' again, waving around in the corner of me eye, "Wil!"
"Me?" The skinny lad looks up and his Saracen lass turns around to face us, too.
"Who's s'at?" some oaf slurs at me, smacking his goblet down. He's pointing at the Saracen.
"None of ye business," I says, giving him a little frown and that.
But aye. Chaos strikes. The brute ain't happy with foreigners. I hurry the wee Saracen lady and her scrawny man out of the bar.
Just in time, too.