The door opened before dawn while the sun held blood in the sky and shadows of men slipped inside to confirm their residency and have a tankard filled with thick dark ale to soften the twitch of their bottleache.
It was an ungovernable place of unlawful proceedings well known to those that need avoid it and found by those who sort to make use of its unique talents. Some entered for companionship of a kind whilst others, more unhinged, rattled keys to mysterious places where secrets were locked away in dark heavy boxes. Others yet, rested dormouse like above their pots half asleep half awakening only stirring when the awful possibility of an empty jug occurred.
Hams hung above the bar like a warning, slices cut off occasionally and laid between bread when a patron required something in the stomach to hold the beer. Sometimes a swine, soon to be the provider of the bacon, poked an inquisitive snout over the stable door from its cobbled yard and was sent packing with a flurry of blistering language and a hail of scraps.
At night The Nest was a buzz with conversation and bathed in the smoke of clay pipes. There was the constant swell of movement; those arriving to meet and scheme and those leaving in haste after some disagreement or in satisfied leisure with some dark deed agreed. Money changed hands within the soft wrap of cloth, to ensure no nearby eye may be tempted and locations of weapons, of enemies, of potential targets all plotted in the damp traces of spilt beer on the scarred wooden table tops.
No-one knew who Solomon was and no-one cared for Solomons' Nest was more alive more, dangerous than any man who ever walked through its door.
I can smell the salt damp beer stained oak boards of the place!
ReplyDelete