The Guilt of Innocents

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The tavern noises swirled above Drogo’s bent head, but he found them easier to ignore than the constant chatter of his daughters and wife in his tiny home. He loved them more than his life, but when he was home they could not let him rest. After a week piloting ships on the Ouse he was weary to the bone but they thought he was home to make repairs and listen to their tales of woe. So he’d come to the tavern intending to drink himself into a comfortable stupor and then stumble home to pass out, blissfully oblivious to all.

He had just begun his first ale when the man he least wished to see appeared at his table.

‘Behind the tavern,’ was all the man said before turning sharp and walking back out into the chilly afternoon.

Fearing him too much to ignore him, Drogo gulped down what remained in his tankard and pushed himself from the table, clumsily spilling the drink of the well-dressed man across from him.

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