Thursday, September 4, 2025

"Bedtime Reflections at The Inn of The Kings Arms...."



From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.

After much weary walking of the quays and square, I resolved to secure for myself a proper lodging, and so I made my way to the King’s Arms, the best-regarded inn of Dominion Square. It stands upon the corner where the cobbled street widens, its timbers dark and weathered from salt air, but its painted sign, swinging upon iron brackets, yet shows the royal crest bright enough. Within, the common-room is spacious and well-swept, the tables stout oak, and the floor strewn with clean sand. A long counter runs the length of one wall, behind which casks of rum and Madeira stand in tidy rows.

The innkeeper, a solid man of middle years named Mr. Dunstable, received me with a professional civility neither too warm nor too cold. His wife, Mrs. Dunstable, oversees the housemaids with brisk efficiency, and their son is often seen darting between tables with mugs of ale and trenchers of food. The place has a steady hum, being much frequented by merchants, ship captains, clerks, and such sober travelers as seek to avoid the riotous taverns of Red Row. I was glad enough to have my baggage sent here from the quay, and my chamber allotted to me upon the second floor, with a window that looks upon the square itself.

After my room was set in order, I partook of supper in the common-room. It was no mean fare: a trencher of roast goat, well-seasoned with herbs and garlic, and accompanied by a portion of plantains fried in butter, with bread still warm from the oven. A bowl of turtle soup was also offered, rich and savory, followed by a small plate of sugared figs. To wash it all down, a measure of Madeira was poured into my cup, and I confess it revived my spirits.

Having supped well, I retired to my chamber, where by candlelight I now set down my reflections upon this first full day upon St. Albion.

The island is, to my eye, both promising and precarious. The town of Port Dominion bustles with life, and its square displays all the vigor of commerce and ambition, as I earlier observed. At its center rises a fountain, from which springs the likeness of a maiden in bronze, her form turned green by the brine and the heat of this clime. She stands with a countenance half-serene, half-coquettish, and in the play of light upon her metal features, one might fancy she watches all with secret amusement. Water spills about her feet into the basin where children play and idlers lounge, and I could not rid myself of the thought that this bronze maiden, mute and immovable, knows more of the true goings-on of Port Dominion than any living soul.

The stalls and shops of the square are alive with sound and color, the cries of merchants hawking sugar, spice, calico, leather, and rum mingling with the laughter of townsfolk and the clatter of carts. Shopkeepers beckon customers with practiced charm, while soldiers in scarlet patrol the square, their presence ensuring that order, at least upon this ground, is maintained. Fort Hemmerly looms above, its guns pointing sternly out to sea, a reminder that the Crown’s hand is ever upon this island.

I have heard whisperings, in guarded tones, of less reputable quarters of the town—places called Red Row and The Hollow—where sailors, drabs, and rogues are said to congregate, and where law holds little sway. Such tales I shall not credit fully until I have seen with my own eyes, and I dare not attempt such a journey under cover of night. Perhaps tomorrow, if leisure permits, I shall venture further and judge for myself the truth of these accounts.

For now, what I know is this: Dominion Square is both a place of honest business and subtle temptation. Here fortunes may be made in sugar and spice, but also in whispered bargains of another kind. A man may be drawn in by the gleam of silk, the promise of easy profit, or the fleeting glance of a lady’s eye. It is a place where one must tread with care, though not without the prospect of reward.

Thus I close this day’s account. My candle gutters low, and my cozy bed beckons me to it, and I have seen to it that my chamber door is locked firm. May God keep me this night, and grant me clarity upon the morrow, as I begin to learn what manner of place this island truly is.

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