Door Handle.
It'll be chancy leaving the barrow unattended. But with the poor trade today, you'll be in for a whipping from your master anyway. The thought of a beer in the warm comfort of the alehouse is appealing.
You shrug in half-hearted agreement, and take the chance to ask the farmer his name. Even though you're sure you've seen him many times before in your daily routine in these parts, it crosses your mind that it's rather odd that you don't actually know him.
"You can call me Ned," he says. "And yours?"
"Alf."
"Hmmph." He nods, and leads the way.
The Blacksmith's Arms is a medieval style house, which has stood at the corner of this street for generations. The warped walls of its upper storey lean outwards at threatening angles while more recent extensions sprawl from its ground floor. The stables at the back are also new; added to accommodate the increasing number of coaches stopping overnight.
An old man in shabby work clothes sits outside on a bench, his chin dropped to his chest in a drunken stupor. Ned walks past him and lifts his hand to push the door open.
In that instant, a window upstairs shatters. Shouts and the sound of scraping furniture come from within. Ned rolls up his sleeves, eager to investigate, but the door bursts open and three men drag a woman outside. At least it looks like a woman - but her clothing is unlike anything you have ever seen. Her legs are clad in a garment of dark blue, so tight that they resemble stockings. Her arms are bare, and her blouse - if it could be called such - is so short her navel is visible.
Never have you seen a woman dress so bizarrely in public and you are shocked at such a vulgar sight. Even in your village, the women retain a level of dignity.
More drinkers pour out onto the street, jeering and laughing. It's difficult to know whether to pity her or not.
A loud creak from the rafters inside startle the crowd, and the young lady seizes her moment. She wriggles free and sprints down the road, and before long the mob are following her.
Ned is about to follow, but a cry from the upstairs window stops him.
"Help! Somebody help!" The landlady sounds hysterical.
You shrug in half-hearted agreement, and take the chance to ask the farmer his name. Even though you're sure you've seen him many times before in your daily routine in these parts, it crosses your mind that it's rather odd that you don't actually know him.
"You can call me Ned," he says. "And yours?"
"Alf."
"Hmmph." He nods, and leads the way.
The Blacksmith's Arms is a medieval style house, which has stood at the corner of this street for generations. The warped walls of its upper storey lean outwards at threatening angles while more recent extensions sprawl from its ground floor. The stables at the back are also new; added to accommodate the increasing number of coaches stopping overnight.
An old man in shabby work clothes sits outside on a bench, his chin dropped to his chest in a drunken stupor. Ned walks past him and lifts his hand to push the door open.
In that instant, a window upstairs shatters. Shouts and the sound of scraping furniture come from within. Ned rolls up his sleeves, eager to investigate, but the door bursts open and three men drag a woman outside. At least it looks like a woman - but her clothing is unlike anything you have ever seen. Her legs are clad in a garment of dark blue, so tight that they resemble stockings. Her arms are bare, and her blouse - if it could be called such - is so short her navel is visible.
Never have you seen a woman dress so bizarrely in public and you are shocked at such a vulgar sight. Even in your village, the women retain a level of dignity.
More drinkers pour out onto the street, jeering and laughing. It's difficult to know whether to pity her or not.
A loud creak from the rafters inside startle the crowd, and the young lady seizes her moment. She wriggles free and sprints down the road, and before long the mob are following her.
Ned is about to follow, but a cry from the upstairs window stops him.
"Help! Somebody help!" The landlady sounds hysterical.