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The weather in London was poor - as it so often was. One of those September evenings too warm for a coat, yet too wet to go without one. Autumn clung weakly to the air, and Will felt himself sinking with it.
There was hope that a wander into the city would shake a line or two. He was still a journeyman these days. Peddling pages more desperately than he’d like to admit and hoarding scant reward. Money came rarely and left fast, so he guarded it closely and denied himself the comfort of vices. Now he tramped through back alleys, not a single idle word on his tongue, and clothes sodden through. The rain showed no sign of letting up. Even a careful man could justify a drink.
Will was fortunate to know a barkeep in Southwark who would sell him something for cheap, a recent friend called Thomas, who had recommended him to a few regulars. Rough ale, even rougher company, but it was familiar, and the fire burned until closing.
For about an hour, he sat, eyes flitting between vignettes of drunken chatter: a man caught in infidelity; another smoking a tobacco pipe far too lavish to be his own; a woman dancing wildly to a sawed-out tune that nobody else could quite follow. He’d chosen a seat near the hearth and been social enough to borrow some parchment from an architect. Though now patterned with mostly scribbles and doodles, inspiration slowly warmed to him like alcohol to his blood. Evening turned to night, malaise left quietly, and as expected, a raucous crowd had begun to assert itself.
Sound rose and fell in chaotic rhythm, punctuated by the clatter of tankards. Patrons squabbled over debts, insults, card games. Laughter rang harsh and ragged. Will was just loosening the stiffness from his shoulders when a shout split the smoky air.
“You mock me before the whole room.” The voice announced – clearly inebriated enough to produce an audible ego. “And call it wit?”
The room didn’t fall silent, but heads turned. Bodies shifted. Will took a careful, slow sip of his drink, ignoring the commotion as best he could. Fisticuffs in a tavern were nothing new, all part of the night’s entertainment, and he had no desire to be drawn in. Let them fight, he told himself. Let the fools wear themselves out.
Much to the writer’s chagrin, the racket grew louder.
Chairs scraped. A tankard shattered - a heavy thud, followed by a groan that cut through the din. Will looked up just as one of the fighters lurched backward into the firelight.
The man couldn’t have been more than a few years older than himself - all sweat and smirk, shirt torn wide at the collar. His eyes gleamed with something too sharp to be mere rowdiness.
He staggered dangerously close, his boots slipping on ale-slick floorboards. Until he was nearly at Will’s feet. Across the room, the barkeep Thomas - who had already granted Will more patience than he deserved - fixed him with a look that spoke plainly: deal with this or find another place to drink.
Will sighed, thumb running along the rim of his cup. If he wanted to keep his beer cheap and his evenings easy, perhaps it was time to betray his better judgment.
He rose with the weariness of a man who already regretted standing. The crowd had begun to circle, jeering the spectacle. The young man, still grinning despite a split lip, swung at someone just out of sight, met only air, and stumbled again. Will caught him by the shoulder before he cracked his head on the fireplace.
“Easy there,” Will muttered, steadying him. “You’ve lost enough dignity for one night.”
The stranger blinked up, breath coming ragged, gaze mad and electric. “And who asked you to play nursemaid?”
“No one,” Will replied dryly, tightening his grip as the man tried to twist free. “But I’d rather like to finish my drink without a corpse for company.”
That earned a short, incredulous laugh - half cough, half challenge. “Suppose it’s a mercy then?”
“Hardly.” He said plainly.
Thomas had begun moving towards them with that look again, clearly set on removing this patron before he bled all over his floor. Resigned, Will hooked an arm under his and started for the door, his reluctant charge making sure to get the last word before their exit.
“Can I at least thank my saviour?” the man asked as the dark swallowed them.
“Consider me thanked. Good-night.”
“Who are you?”
“A shoemaker,” Will bit back, decidedly not in the mood for conversation.
“Right,” the stranger said with a lopsided smile, voice slurred but sharp beneath the haze. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
Will tensed. “You think me a liar?”
“I think you’re a bad liar.”
There was quiet for a beat. And it was only then that Will realised the rain had not eased.
“You really ought to go home.” He resolved, turning on his heels to gather his things, muscles taut as he braced against the drizzle.
“Wait,” The stranger’s voice interrupted, suddenly calmer, more focused than before. Will paused but didn’t turn. “Let me guess your name.”
Will stayed silent.
“Hm, John?”
His jaw twitched. He opened his mouth, then thought better of it.
“Robert?”
The stranger swayed closer, fingertips brushing the side of Will’s arm in a casual, dangerous mimicry of intimacy. Will lamented the way he flinched in return. “I know,” muttered the Unknown Man, a crooked grin looking somewhat dubious in the moonlight. “You’re a William.”
“That’s not my name.” He faltered - the guise of someone practical disappearing on each syllable. Even if it was a lucky guess, which he had hoped it was, there was still concern that this man had singled him out on purpose. How the devil could he know his name from a few stolen glances? Had he really been so careless in his business?
“Of course it is. The resolute protector.”
“You wouldn’t need protection if you weren’t so reckless.”
“Aha! And now we quarrel.” The man jeered, as if victorious in his quest to rile his peer.
Will was facing him now. Somewhat spurred by this very smug, very drunk aggressor. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“Then what do you want, William?” He pressed again, voice low and deliberate, fists falling slack at his side.
“I would like you home.” Will measured, the words sore in his throat. “Before the watch finds you limp on the pavement.”
“Does your restraint always smell of judgment, or is it just tonight?”
Will exhaled sharply through his nose. Within a matter of minutes, it had become glaringly obvious how this guy managed to get himself punched in the face.
Part of him, begrudgingly, wished it had been him who wound the fist.
“Good-night.” He finished coolly, wary of closing the door on his way back inside. He murmured his apologies to Thomas, who waved them away with a grunt and a shake of his head, insisting they weren’t needed. Will gathered his few belongings, fingers stiff from the damp, mind still running over the absurdity of the exchange, and was graciously escorted out the back exit.
When he returned to the misty street, still flushed with irritation and a trace of curiousity, the stranger had vanished. Nothing about him lingered except for the faint, sharp scent of ale in the air - and the echo of a grin that had been far too daring for a man he’d never met.