A storm raged outside as the owner of the tavern handed the burly man on the bench another drink, which was quickly swallowed.
"What on earth is this?" coughed the man.
"This new Russian drink, called Vodka," answered the tavern owner. "Got some weird eastern vegetable in it called 'potato'".
"Huh... I like it..." said the man as he slowly began to sink back into the drunken sleep he had awoken from. His heavy eyes were about to slide closed when the door opened, bringing in howling wind and rain. The bartender, irritated, began to yell,
"Close the damn do-" but he stopped mid-sentence, and bowed to the man who had opened the door and entered the tavern. "M-my liege..." he stammered. The new arrival had a look of disgust on his face. While he was a Norman, and thus descended from the Vikings and their mead-halls, he had been raised a staunch Catholic by his Burgundian mother, and so disapproved of such heavy drinking as he saw here tonight. He kicked aside a wooden cup as he made his way to the center of the room.
"Get up," snarled the man to the bowing bartender. The owner of the tavern shot up. He stood nearly two heads shorter than the Norman nobleman.
"Your name?" asked the noble.
"Ba-Bartholomew, milord." said the bartender, who was still in a sense of shock. Speaking now appeared to have helped him get over his fear. "Name's Bartholomew, 'course you could call me Bart, if ye wished milord."
"I'm not one for smalltalk, Bartholomew. I'm looking for a certain sailor, named Hudson. Have you heard of him?" Bart nervously whispered, "There he is, by Jove. That's Hudson!" The bartender pointed at the burly man who was now licking the cup for it's last drop of vodka. The noble sighed. Why must these sailors always be drunk? He walked over to the sailor, who looked up.
"What -hic- do y-you want, ya bloody bastard?" Hudson asked. Bart let out a little yelp at the curse-word. The noble grew red.
"Do you know who I am?" yelled the noble.
"Some young idiot who can't mind his own business?"
"I'm the bloody prince, you dolt! My father is bloody King William!" A wave of recognition hit Hudson. "Ahh, I know you, you're Henry, ain't ya? Henry the second-born. Must be tough being the second-born, right?"
"You should bloody well know, being third-son of the Duke of Cornwall!" accused Henry. Hudson sighed. Why must these royals always interfere?
"Jus' tell me what you want, princey. What made you come all the way to bloody Bristol from your warm castle in Rouen?"
"Straight to business? I like it. Very well. I'm here to petition you for a favor."
"A favor?"
"Erm well, since I represent the King, more of a command. Yes, a command." Hudson's stomach churned at the possibilities.
"What do I, third-son of the bloody Duke, as you so graciously pointed out, have to offer?"
"Are you not a sailor, Mr. Charles Hudson?" Hudson's eyes grew foggy as memories swept back into places which he had attempted to erase with Russian alcohol.
"I was, not no more princey. I'm retired now I am."
"What? Since when?"
"Since me whole crew died in a bloody storm, with me bein' the only survivor. Wise men ought to learn from such an experience, I reckon."
"Never fear, a new crew and ship will be outfitted for your next expedition, Mr. Hudson." The ex-sailor was confused.
"What bloody expedition?"
Henry smiled, and pulled out a small sack from his belt. He handed it to Hudson who opened it.
"Nutmeg? Why on bloody earth do you have nutmeg on you?"
"Because, good sir, this spice is the future," Henry stood up. "For too long now the Venetians and Muslims have monopolized the Indian trade. No more. The King wants his own route to India, bypassing the Italians and Egyptians. We want you, Mr. Hudson, to find our route."
"Where? All the routes to India be south through Muslimland!"
Henry smiled, still standing, and pointed out the window westwards. "West, good sir, west is our future. The King wants you to sail westwards, across the Atlantic, to India!" Hudson stared, flabbergasted.
"And if I refuse?" Henry looked at him, confused.
"Erm, well you then die. Quite unpleasant, sorry old chap. Well then, I will return tomorrow and we will ride to Plymouth, and from there, we shall journery 'cross the sea to riches beyond our wildest dreams! See you bright and early!" Henry shook Hudson's hand and marched out back into the night. Hudson stare at his hand for a moment, then stared at Bart the Bartender.
"Another vodka..."
