Songs as Shields

1587-11-28
Wayside Inn, Southern Road

Cold road, warm room. The common hall was a press of coats and elbows, steam rising off wool and horse. Two caravans had stacked their chests by the same wall and the talk soured by degrees. Spilled wine, missing bolts of cloth, the old litany. Fingers drifted to hilts. The hearth cracked too loud.

I stood, not for a speech but for a note. The lute was light against the shoulder. I took a slow measure with my heel and set the room to it. A sailor’s tune my mother kept for storms. Low at first, so the angry men had to lean toward the sound. The chorus climbed just enough to carry to the back, then fell before any voice could break it.

Tankards tapped time. A knife that had cleared leather slid back without pride. Someone picked up a verse about a rope splice and sang it wrong, so we laughed and sang it again the same way, wrong together. The steam thinned. The wall of chests became merely a wall.

When the last chord faded, the innkeeper banked the fire and thanked me with bread hot from the brick. The wardens by the door stopped counting heads and started counting cups. Outside, the wind pulled at the signboard and the red tower on the far bend gave off its thin iron hum. I marked the tune and the temper both. Not every quarrel needs steel. Some need a key and a steady hand.