Chapter 1: Monty

Sometimes a solution turns out to have unintended consequences, and so it was with Pēteris. He and his Companions had created what amounted to a honey trap to lure ‘bad guys’ who had Damsels. Unfortunately, as part of their scheme they left behind too much honey, and Hastert made a connection. Fortunately, not the connection, but while his wound was healing and he was regaining strength, he decided that his year’s supply of potions could be used to resupply himself with Damsels. It wouldn’t hurt that he would also increase his wealth.

With her studies of Chaos lore, Monica’s awakening was no surprise. It was very early morning – she could hear the first patrons arriving for breakfast in the common room below. She was on a reasonably comfortable bed dressed in a simple gown. A purse was tied to her belt but thrust out of sight into a slit. Monica also had an eight-inch ‘eating knife,’ and a pair of boots was on the floor by the door.

An empty chamber pot was next to her bed. She used it, went to the single stand and rinsed with the provided pitcher of water and basin. No soap, no toothbrush, no comb, no mirror. She had arrived.

After combing through her hair with her fingers, Monica donned her boots – no socks – ouch, and descended to the common room. The windows’ shutters were open and light and noise from the street streamed in – as did the stench. Monica shuddered, then steeled herself.

A young serving wench looked at her, walked over, and said, “Breakfast with tea is a pinch. With ale, two pinches.”

“I thought breakfast came with my room,” Monica replied.

“Oh, are you one of them?” the wench stated more than asked. She didn’t explain the them. “I’ll bring the standard, then. Porridge, bread, roasted mutton, and tea with honey.”

Monica nodded and seated herself in a far corner as her stomach growled its need.

The girl returned to Monica laden with a generous breakfast and set it in front of her. Monica, mindful that it could be some while before she would be able to eat again, slowly consumed it all. Keeping her head down, she was still able to watch the inn’s morning clientele enter, eat, and depart. She seemed to be the only breakfaster to stay more than the minimum time needed to bolt a meal, and the serving girl returned from time to time and refilled her mug with tea.

“Missus, uh miss,” she stalled, and then politely asked, “My name is Autumn. If you are staying a while, may I know how to call you?”

Her research having led Monica to believe terseness, often rudeness to be the norm, she was charmed by the girl’s manner. “Call me ‘Monica’ or ‘Miss Monica’ as your employer permits,” she told Autumn. “I do plan to stay a few more days, and it would be nice to have a friend.”

“A friend? My master would not permit me to have a friend among the guests,” Autumn exclaimed, “He is fair, but he is strict about what is proper.”

“Master? Are you a slave then?” asked Monica, her hackles rising.

“No, Miss Monica,” the young girl responded, “I’m indentured until I reach sixteen – that’s in two years, I think.” Appearances can fool you! “Jesse, the innkeeper, allows me to keep half of my tips, so even though I’ll be an old maid by then, I should have enough for a dowry and marriage.” She rushed on and confided, “He’s not forced himself on me, nor required me to service his customers. I’m yet a virgin, and that and the dowry may help get me a good husband when I’m free.”

Monica, who saw no value in virginity, nevertheless smiled at the girl and responded, “That would be wonderful for you. It won’t hinder that you are very pretty.” She thought for a moment and decided, “Friend or not, would your Master Jesse permit you time to run some errands for me? I have in mind a tip – you’ll have to tell me what the errands would be worth.”

Blushing at the compliment Autumn grinned impishly, “Oh, I’m sure he would allow that. He’s always saying, ‘a pinch here, a pinch there will lead to a secure old age.’”

A trio of tradesmen entered, and Autumn excused herself and hurried to serve them. From her banter, Monica learned that they were regulars who breakfasted here every morning before opening their shops. The inn’s morning trade continued to appear congenial, if mostly hurried, but she made sure that she kept a watchful eye and was not distracted.

The morning’s breakfast trade finally ended, and after clearing and wiping the tables, Autumn returned to Monica and told her that she had permission to run errands – as long as she was free to return to her duties by the midday meal. “Sit!” Monica told her, and then she asked, “Can you keep a confidence privy?”

“I’m not one to gossip or betray, Miss Monica,” Autumn responded. “In some cases, if it were to affect the inn, I might need to tell Master Jesse, but I would tell you first, and as I’ve told you, he’s an honorable man.” She rushed through her explanation.

Satisfied, Monica decided that she had to trust someone and began, “When I leave, I must travel alone. I need at least one set of men’s clothing – best if it were two. The sooner I’m a man or boy, the safer I’ll be. Can you manage?”

“Yes,” Autumn assured her, “but you’ll need to bind your breasts and disguise your hips, or no clothing will convince that you are other than a woman.” She continued, “From time to time, travelers forget items, and Master Jesse keeps them for a while to restore them if a traveler should return looking. As I told you, he is an honorable man. If someone is killed, he takes his share of any possessions as payment for debts or disposal of the body. When there are enough items to make it worthwhile, he sells the lot to the Widow Belle – our seamstress. I feel that between the inn and the widow, your wants can be supplied.”

“Autumn – in privy, remember – I’m not wealthy or even well off,” Monica revealed, “so I need to keep the costs low. I might have enough for two months stay in the inn, and then I’m done. Is there perhaps a place that I could work as a man so as to replace what I spend?”

“Maybe mucking out stables or as a farm hand. That last is not likely with your build and being a stranger,” Autumn told her. “At any rate, the pay would be low and not enough that you’d gain on what you spend here.”

Monica looked thoughtful, “In your Master Jesse’s storeroom, are there any weapons?”

“You know how to use them?!” exclaimed Autumn, wide-eyed. “There’s not much – a dirk and a staff – maybe. There’s nothing of real value like a sword or crossbow; Those are rarely forgotten, and if the owner is killed, they are always taken as prizes. Come, and I’ll show you what we have.”

In the dimly lit storeroom, the pair found more than Monica expected. She was lucky. There were two sets of pants with shirts and a vest that fit reasonably well – especially when she bound her breasts. Autumn explained that these, together with a knapsack, boots, hat, and belt had been taken as payment when the town’s bully had killed a young traveler in his cups. The bully had taken the dead man’s weapons, horse and money. The dirk, which had been in his room, was overlooked.

“How much would the Widow Belle pay for the young man’s possessions?” asked Monica.

“She can’t afford much,” Autumn told her. “Most of the time it is a pittance, and then she cleans and mends. When she is able to sell the clothes, she gives Master Jesse half. If you offer Master Jesse a pinch for each item, he would likely take it for the instant cash. For the dirk – I just don’t know.”

“Do you think he would loan it to me, for say, a pinch each day?” Monica inquired.

“Probably,” Autumn responded.

“Why don’t you take him my offer and ten pinches to see if he agrees,” Monica told her. “If he does, take the clothes to the Widow Belle and tell her I’ll pay an extra pinch if the clothes are clean and presentable by the evening meal.”

Fifteen minutes later, Autumn found Monica in her room and told her, “Done and done. I’ll need two pinches to pay the Widow Belle when I fetch your new clothes.” Monica gave her the two pinches, and having paid out a third of her meager coinage, she hoped her plans would work out.

When Autumn returned with the newly clean clothes, Monica asked her to help bind her breasts before she dressed. When Monica bared her girls, Autumn drew in her breath and told her, “They are perfect. Men would kill to possess them – marry you with no dowry! Why are you doing this?”

“I’m traveling alone, and you just gave the reason for the lie,” Monica replied. “Now, while I’m dressing, tell me about this bully. What does he look like? How does he behave? How does he usually attack his victims?”

“His name is Saban, and he likes to be standing over his victims,” Autumn told her. “Saban is tall and strong and is good with a sword, but he likes to choke or stab with a dagger. The man who owned those clothes was pulled over his table by his throat before he could stand or reach for a weapon to defend himself.”

Monica looked down at herself. With her long vest loosely laced to conceal her hips and her bound breasts, she could pass for a small man or tallish boy. Using the lower voice she needed for her new identity, she told the fearful Autumn, “My name is Monty, or Master Monty. Monica no longer exists. Please tell your master.”

Autumn nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks. She knew that she was about to lose her foolish new friend. This perception was reinforced when Monica handed her the money pouch and said, “Hold this for me. Either way, I’m not likely to need this, and I’d rather you have it for your dowry than Saban for his ale.” Monica pulled on the Monty persona like one would a cloak, and for the nonce, Monica ceased to exist.