“They are wearing you, not the other way around,” she said, saw that his wits were probably too addled from her fine ale to understand, and said, “You are the tail and your clothes the dog.” She turned away then, saying over her shoulder, “Cursing makes you look dull-witted.” She then turned to the rest of the young men, most of whom were just staring at her, bleary-eyed. She was so big and beautiful, not to mention commanding. He could imagine they wondered if they weren’t dreaming they had died and gone to the Vikings’ heaven.
Lord Beecham saw another young man, this one so drunk he was frankly surprised the fellow could even coordinate enough to walk, but he managed it. He also looked furious, his sharp features flushed scarlet. Lord Beecham didn’t like that. He took a step forward, stopped, and said quietly, “Helen, behind you.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling at him as she turned slowly. “You mean this little turnip with a face so red I’ll wager he looks just like his father in a rage?”
“My father’s dead,” the young man said. “It’s my mother. She turns redder than I do just before she flies at me.” Then the young man raised his fists and ran toward her. Helen sighed and said aloud to the room at large, “Why do children have to repeat the horrible behavior of their parents? This fellow is probably too drunk to reason with.” She sighed again. She knew that all the other young men were staring, waiting to see what would happen. When he got close enough, she turned slightly to the side. When he went past her, she smacked her hand on his back. His momentum together with her hit sent him flying, and he slammed into the wall not six inches away from Lord Beecham. Lord Beecham watched as the young man stared up at him, sighed then fell, all boneless, to the floor.
“He’s not red anymore,” he called out to Helen.
She had all the young men’s attention now. They were staring at her, uncertain what to do, since their wits were numbed with too much drink, but they knew enough not to attack her. The young man who had been singing stopped. He began tucking his shirt back into his breeches and making a hash of it.
Helen, hands on her hips, stood in the middle of the taproom. “Listen, all of you. You are a flock of dead-brains. Your innards are awash with my very good ale, and it is a pity because my ale deserves better innards than you young rogues have.”
Lord Beecham wanted to tell her that she had used the wrong word. Every young man wanted to be called a rogue.
“You will all walk out of this taproom and go to the courtyard. Oh, yes, and take these two who are lounging on my very nice oak floor with you.”
Still they simply sat there, staring at her, disbelieving, Lord Beecham thought, what had happened to two of their number.
He stepped forward. “Out,” he said quite pleasantly. Unfortunately he remembered all too well that on a number of occasions he had been just as drunk, just as rowdy. Dear God, but they looked young.
“Now listen here, sir, we—”
“She’s got no right to order us out of here.”
“I still have some of my ale left.”
“She has every right to do anything she pleases with you,” Lord Beecham said to another red-faced young man whose eyes were more vague than a man lost in a fog. “She is Miss Helen Mayberry. She is the owner of this inn, just as she said. Go along with all of you now. Ah, here are some lads coming to assist you out of here.”
“But we don’t want to leave,” one young man yelled, and he turned to Helen. “I can smell that bread baking and I want to eat it.”
Another young man said, “You’re bigger than I am but I know I can make you sing with happiness,” and he lurched toward her, his arms held wide to embrace her. “I could be more of a rogue if you would just give me more of your ale.”
Helen simply stuck out her foot and tripped him. He sprawled onto his face, lay there a moment, then flopped onto his back, and blinked up at her. “Does this mean that you do not want me?”
“Not at this precise moment, no.” She grabbed his collar and dragged him to the taproom door. Her three lads were standing there. “Pick this spirited young scoundrel up and bring him into the yard. Treat him tenderly, boys.”
The young man was yelling now, “No, I want her. I want all that blond hair covering me.” He was trying to grab Helen, struggling mightily, but he was too drunk to do other than flop about.
The lads dropped him on the grass-covered courtyard. Helen picked up a horse bucket full of water. The moment they let the young man drop to the ground, Helen dumped the bucket of water over him.
He yowled.
“Help them all outside, one at a time,” she told her three lads.
“I can’t remember the last time I was so diverted,” Lord Beecham said to Gwen, the barmaid who was watching the young man who’d manhandled her being dragged out now by two of Helen’s lads.
“Little bounders they be,” Gwen said. He watched her march to Miss Helen, take another filled bucket from her, and say, “I weren’t thinking aright, Miss Helen. I was silly enough to be afraid. Now I can see that they’re all jest pathetic young’uns. It won’t happen again.” She looked down at the young man. “Next time you will ask the lady first to allow you to stick your hand up her skirts,” and she threw the water on him.
He lay there choking and coughing, and moaning because his head still hurt from being slammed against the wall.
Within five minutes, eleven young men were all in the yard, sprawled on the large expanse of grass or on the circular gravel drive, all of them soaking wet. Helen stood off to one side and said, in a very proper, disciplining voice that had Lord Beecham ready to collapse in laughter, and, at the same time, nearly go on point: “You are very lucky that none of you got ill in my taproom. If any of you had, then your punishment would be severe and not at all pleasurable.
“As I said, you were fortunate. Now I will tell you that I enjoyed this young man’s singing. He sang with his heart. The rest of you, however, have not endeared yourselves to me. You all need disciplining. However, there are too many of you and not enough time to do it properly.
“You will all remain out here in the yard until you have sobered up and are dry enough so that you won’t drip on my lovely floors. You may remain at my inn if you wish to. But there will be a limit of three glasses of ale. No more. When you accept any future ales from Gwendolyn, you will thank her politely. If you ever feel ill, you will immediately excuse yourself and come out here into the yard. The taproom will close exactly at midnight. Does everyone understand?”
There were grunts, nods, and groans. The one young man whom Helen had complimented, opened his mouth and started singing again. One of his friends threw the empty water bucket at him.