The horse’s reins were tugged on, and thus did its hoof beats slow. Still and silent was eve. It was that time of the day — the time of the day where the golden glitter of life-sustaining sunlight had given way. In its place, lavender and indigo hues began to paint the canvas that was the night sky. Simultaneous with the first chill of twilight was the protruding of the first stars, whose shimmer oft illuminated the single pathway that ran through the village. Tonight, however, even the stars could not abate the thick veil of fog that hung low, obscuring the road. At this sluggish pace, one could begin to unwind from the hardships of the day’s endeavours. The streetways were empty; the clocktower tolled its final toll, and then… silence. Serene silence.
Bringing the horse to a standstill, the elderly man let out a laboured exhale. In the midst of his descent from the saddle, he stumbled forward, barely catching his footing. As he turned towards his loyal companion, whose eyes nigh immediately filled with empathy, he reached into his coat, pulling from his pocket a sprig of hay. Offering it to the horse to calm him, his calloused hand ran through the horse’s aged mane. No sooner had he immersed himself in the moment, than in his midst rose a loud, frantic bellowing. It caused him to start, draining from him his mellow mood. Though he could only scarcely parse what was being shouted, he could quite clearly tell that the voice was nearing, and nearing quickly.
Little by little, that voice grew more and more coherent. After a moment, maybe a little more, a middle-aged man dashed past him, hands set either side of his mouth to amplify his shouting, “Hear ye, hear ye! The Pope’s sending his emissary from the Capital tonight! I repeat, the Pope’s emissary will be here by dawn! Pope’s emissary will be here by dawn!”
Interiors came to life in the crier’s wake. There was barely a pause before candles were illuminated, fireplaces stoked, and shop doors were swung wide open. There was only one other time when the artisan’s quarter looked quite as lively as this, and that was at dawn. Paying little heed to the fact that nightfall was on the horizon, craftsmen and women, merchants and traders alike, all took their places at their respective stations.
And yet there wasn’t a customer in sight. Even the street peddlers and beggars were no where to be seen. The arrival of twilight, simultaneous with the belltower’s final chime, traditionally signalled the end of the day. But not today. Every man and woman worth their weight in coin knew what tomorrow meant. It was a visit from the Church.
The man turned to lead his horse through the half-doors that led into the stable, before he grunted. The dread of the work to come tonight had caused him some amount of stress, though it was almost totally eclipsed by the real hurdle he had to overcome: telling his wife he wouldn’t be coming to bed tonight. He could already hear her words, slating him for working all the time. For having no place in his children’s upbringing, save passing on the family trade. “A craftsman’s work never ends,” is what he wanted to tell her, but she was blind to reason. Or so he thought.
Bracing himself for the encounter on the horizon, he turned towards the adjacent door that connected his workshop to the stable. Pressing his shoulder into it, he forced it open with some amount of force, causing a series of creaks to echo throughout the interior. He paused to wince, though relief swept throughout his mind in waves as he observed the lack of light on the inside. Even a sliver of light from a stray candle would have stirred his significant other from her slumber, he knew, and thus she was asleep, and he was safe. Ever mindful of the damaged floorboard beneath the rug, the man took his first, tentative step into the workshop. He could scarcely make anything out in pitch-black darkness, but, since the door that joined his workshop to the stable was still open, and the stable itself was open-ended, the heavens’ purplish glow filtered through, illuminating the single hook beside the door.
Promptly lifting his worksmans’ hat by its brim, he hooked it and proceeded to ease the door shut behind him. His eyes shut as he focused on ensuring that it made as little sound as possible. When at last the door shut with an audible click, he rubbed his hands together and made forward, making a conscious effort to muffle his footfalls. No sooner had he found his stride in spite of the darkness, than a shrill and cold voice caused him to startle and freeze.
“You’re not seriously joining them in this farce, are you?”