I went into my chamber
All for to take a slumber
I dreamt of gold and jewels
And for sure it was no wonder
But Jenny drew me charges
And she filled them up with water
And sent for Captain Farrell
To be ready for the slaughter
--Luke Kelly, Whiskey in the Jar (Traditional)
You lie on fabric as soft as clouds roped and pulled down to Earth. Not coarse and filthy. Not shared as often with your horse as your own ground-hardened bones.
Sun hovers in the tiny bubbles frozen in the window glass. The morning is the purest you can remember. Its rays tuck you into the pretty room she keeps in the inn. The highest chamber atop one long set of stairs.
Her fragrance is everywhere in the soft light. Her perfume glints on the tabletop, but it has poured into everything, not content for the dainty bottle. Imprisoned flowers bloom in the pillow under your head, in the fine linen curtains. Their mysteries dance on your skin where her body pressed.
You drowse, not ready to rise.
You nearly will yourself to dream again.
But the silence is clattered with metal and voices. First, far off like an unpleasant memory. Then closer. Gathering on the cobblestones below.
You leap and peer down at foot soldiers pounding on the door. They're flanked by their foul Captain. Soon that one set of stairs to your chamber will be blocked. You could jump, but two shattered legs would not bear your flight.
You grasp your pistol and cock the flint.
Maybe you'll fire. Or maybe you'll not.
You have no sword because the scabbard is hanging empty.
When the locked door breaks, you do pull the trigger. But then you understand. Your powder is muddied with water, and already the gun is clogged with rust.
Captain Farrell smiles as you're taken.
You feel hot winds on your face. Then winter-cold.
He smiles with what must be his own memories of Jenny's perfume.