The Ale of Hradec and a Tavern’s Deception

Most people in the Middle Ages did not possess a strict sense of time. Their understanding of time was limited to concepts like “today,” “tomorrow,” “the year before last,” and “the year after next.” Beyond the church bells in the city, which served as a reminder to rise early and sleep early, they could, at most, discern the progression of the day by the sun’s position in the sky.

On this particular day, as the sun dipped to the position indicating three-quarters past Shenshi (3:45 PM), city farmers, having toiled all day outside Hradec, were already returning in small groups, hoes and sickles slung over their shoulders. Wealthy estate owners, whose manors lay beyond the city walls, also rode their ponies leisurely, traversing the country paths back to their urban residences.

Consequently, the streets of Hradec gradually filled with more pedestrians. This influx also saw the emergence of ruffians and pickpockets, eager to fish in troubled waters and engage in petty theft. They crouched by the roadside, their gazes scrutinizing the passing crowds, searching for a fortunate, or rather, unfortunate, victim.

A pickpocket, loitering outside “The Beauty” tavern, had just stealthily extended a hand towards the purse of a “fat sheep” he was trailing. Suddenly, the rumbling sound of carriage wheels drew his attention.

Turning his head, he saw a standard Hradec four-wheeled carriage halt outside the tavern. Several massive wooden barrels were stacked upon its cargo bed. From the tightly fitted staves and sturdy iron hoops, it was evident these were wine barrels, designed to hold precious liquor.

In that fleeting moment, the pickpocket, distracted, inadvertently tugged lightly at the “fat sheep’s” purse. The slight pull instantly alerted the “fat sheep” to the unwelcome presence of a thief.

‘Damn it! Time to bolt!’

The pickpocket had no time to regret his momentary lapse in concentration, his figure vanishing into a dark alleyway with a swift movement.

The “fat sheep” pedestrian turned, finding no one behind him. Feeling somewhat perplexed, he wondered if perhaps he had become overly sensitive recently.

“What are those, wine barrels?”

At the same time, the “fat sheep” noticed the carriage and barrels by the tavern entrance. He paused to observe, seeing the coachman and the tavern owner conversing at the door. His curiosity piqued, he couldn’t help but draw closer.

“Four barrels of wine in total, two hundred gallons. Unload them quickly!”

The coachman, seated on his perch with the reins in his hands, urged the tavern owner to hasten the unloading.

The tavern owner caressed a barrel as if it were a newfound treasure. Excitedly, he called over a male barkeep to assist with the unloading. Together, the two men strained with all their might, laboriously removing each barrel from the carriage.

The barrels landed on the ground with a dull thud, the sound of heavy objects settling. Rubbing his aching arms, the tavern owner couldn’t help but grumble inwardly:

‘Why didn’t Noren call for porters? Even just one would have helped. My old arms and legs are killing me…’

Despite his incessant grumbling, he respectfully addressed the coachman:

“Please convey to Miss Noren that Lestislav sincerely thanks her for this generous gift.”

The coachman, however, shook his head, then retorted sarcastically to the tavern owner:

“I hardly have the standing to speak with the Mayor’s daughter. If you have anything to say, you should say it yourself. Giddy up!”

With that, the coachman cracked his whip over the draft horses. The sturdy steeds galloped away, pulling the four-wheeled carriage as its wheels rumbled along the street.

“Pah, looking down on others like a dog!”

Lestislav spat furiously, then continued to curse at the retreating back of the coachman:

“If it weren’t for Miss Noren’s sake, I’d certainly teach you a lesson!”

After his outburst, Lestislav even shook his fist, as large as a sandbag. Yet, his belated bravado was lost on the coachman, who was by then out of sight and earshot.

“Lestislav, these four wooden barrels are…?”

The “fat sheep,” whose purse had nearly been pilfered by the pickpocket moments ago, stepped forward. He circled the four barrels, scrutinizing them intently from top to bottom.

The tavern owner, his face still flushed with anger, turned towards the “fat sheep” pedestrian. The very next moment, the muscles on his face relaxed immediately, replaced by a welcoming smile.

“Why, Old Wyatt! What brings you here? How fares the estate?”

“Alas! Don’t even mention it. Last year’s plague left my tenant farmers either sick or dead. Coupled with those two inexplicable tithes, the estate won’t see a normal harvest until next year at the earliest. Furthermore, I had to borrow a large quantity of grain seeds from the Mayor. Oh, these are truly difficult times~”

Old Wyatt’s face was etched with worry. Last year’s plague had struck with devastating suddenness, and the taxes levied had been exorbitant. This series of misfortunes had caused considerable losses to the estate. Fortunately, this land had seen no major conflicts for over a decade, allowing him to accumulate a substantial fortune during the years of peace. Moreover, the Mayor had somehow procured thousands of baskets of wheat, averting a severe food shortage in Hradec, which saved Wyatt from having to sell off his land.

“Indeed, these are harsh times… My tavern has also seen a significant drop in patrons, all thanks to this plague!”

The tavern owner, finding a shared grievance, couldn’t help but sigh in resignation.

“Speaking of which, these wooden barrels?”

After a few more sighs of resignation, Old Wyatt redirected the conversation to the barrels recently unloaded from the carriage. The worry on his face vanished instantly, replaced by a glimmer of curiosity in his faded, dark eyes.

The tavern owner’s heart gave a sudden lurch. Old Wyatt’s words had reminded him of his true purpose.

He first scanned his surroundings. “The Beauty” tavern, situated at the crossroads, was currently experiencing its peak foot traffic. Observing the milling crowd, he mentally reviewed his plan from beginning to end once more, thinking, ‘The show must begin.’

He pulled out a crowbar he had prepared beforehand and pried open a barrel lid. Taking a dipper, he scooped up the liquor, filled a glass halfway, and took a small sip. He smacked his lips, exclaiming, “By the heavens! This is the taste!”

Old Wyatt blinked his wrinkled monolid eyes, quite bewildered by the tavern owner’s sudden outburst of theatricality.

The tavern owner gesticulated wildly:

“This unique bitterness, imbued with a refreshing fragrance, transports me back to my very first intoxication! That sensation of the world spinning, of floating in blissful euphoria – only by tasting this wine can one truly say they have lived in this mortal coil! No wonder Jesus uttered not a sound on the cross; surely this divine drink bestowed upon him such strength!!!”

The tavern owner cared little if his words blasphemed Jesus. He knew only that he had to perform with fervor, the more exaggerated, the better, to capture attention.

The male barkeep, who had helped with the unloading earlier, secretly pursed his lips. He felt his master’s performance was excessively theatrical, fearing it might even backfire.

However, events unfolded precisely contrary to the barkeep’s expectations. Both the tavern’s patrons and passing pedestrians were drawn in by the spectacle.

Within mere minutes, dozens of people had gathered around the tavern entrance. Even the frail Old Wyatt found himself, at some point, pushed to the outer fringes of the burgeoning crowd.

Most of the gathered citizens recognized the tavern owner. A young man, dressed in a green belted tunic, with a finely woven wool cape draped over his shoulders and a red fox felt hat on his head, pushed his way to the innermost circle of onlookers. He shouted, “Sour Wine Lestislav, what madness possesses you now?!”

The tavern owner was nicknamed “Sour Wine” because most of the liquor brewed in his establishment tended to be acidic. Whether fine wine, cheap swill, or watered-down spirits, all bore a distinct sour note, either subtle or pronounced. Over time, some mischievous citizens had thus bestowed upon him the moniker “Sour Wine.”

“Give it to me!”

The fox-hatted young man snatched the wine glass, paying no heed to whether it might be mixed with Lestislav’s spittle. He tilted his head back and guzzled it down: “Glug, glug!”

He drained it in a single gulp—

“Ha~~~”

He narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth wide, stuck out his tongue, and let out a forceful exhale.

The onlookers intently watched the fox-hatted young man’s reaction.

The young man tore off his red fox felt hat and vigorously punched the air, bellowing, “Glorious!!!!!”

He lunged forward, seizing the tavern owner by both shoulders, and howled like a madman:

“Tell me!!! What is this wine called!!!!!”

The tavern owner feigned an inability to fend off this fervent wine enthusiast, acting like a shy bride being coerced. He screeched in a high-pitched voice, as if his throat had been ravaged for three days and three nights by seven burly men pressed against a grindstone:

“It’s called ‘Hradec’! Remember! It’s called ‘Hradec’!!!”

The male barkeep broke out in goosebumps, finding the scene utterly unbearable:

‘This is far too exaggerated, Master…’

Seeing that the performance was nearing its climax, the tavern owner shot a glance at the barkeep.

The barkeep’s face registered a look of difficulty. Truth be told, if it weren’t for the promise of silver coins, he truly wouldn’t want to play the role of a jester.

However, the barkeep’s reluctant expression only further piqued the curiosity of the gawking crowd. He sashayed over with a delicate sway of his waist, gracefully took his master’s wrist, and whined plaintively:

“No, Master, we cannot do this. This is a magnificent wine, generously bestowed upon you by Miss Noren. You cannot just share it with others so casually!”

“Damn you to hell!”

The young man, still clutching his red fox felt hat, delivered a swift right hook that knocked the barkeep out cold. He then roared, “You vile, despicable tavern servant, how dare you question your employer?!”

Then, turning to the crowd, he declared:

“Even if Miss Noren herself were here, she would only commend such a generous act of sharing this fine wine, praising Sour Wine Lestislav’s selflessness! I ask you all one question: Do you wish to taste this magnificent wine for free!!!”

The onlookers glanced around, left and right. No one responded to the fox-hatted young man’s impassioned plea. Only a small girl, held in an adult’s arms, clapped her hands happily, as if commending their excellent performance.

A chill ran down the young man’s spine. ‘Has our ruse been exposed?’

“Stop dawdling! Everyone’s growing impatient!”

A burly mercenary shoved the crowd aside with both hands, forcing his way to the front. He had been watching these three perform their verbose act for what felt like an eternity. Having sat in the tavern all afternoon with an empty purse, his tongue was now parched and rough. He yearned to snatch the wine glass and taste the drink immediately.

Seeing that their charade was on the verge of collapsing, the tavern owner quickly pushed aside the young man who had usurped his spotlight. He cleared his throat twice:

“Then I invite all of you to partake in a cup of ‘Hradec,’ a flavorful ale from Ostrava. It is pure, sweet, and imbued with a refreshing bitterness. It…”

The mercenary elbowed him aside, knocked the wine glass flying, and seized the dipper. He muttered under his breath, “So much drivel~”

The gawking crowd meticulously observed the mercenary’s reaction after he drank the ale. His brows furrowed deeply, his mouth twisted open, and his tongue protruded as he gagged. His expression was utterly disgusted: “Pah, it’s truly foul! Worse than ditch water!”

“Boo—”

A chorus of boos erupted from the crowd.

“You scoundrel!”

The owner, puffed up with indignation, immediately rolled up his sleeves, ready to brawl with the mercenary on the spot.

However, the mercenary raised a hand to stop him:

“Wait, perhaps my tongue is mistaken. I’ll have another dipper!”

The mercenary scooped another dipper from the barrel. A few moments later, he had drained it completely.

“You had better pray your tongue returns to normal, or I’ll cut it out and feed it to the dogs,” the owner threatened the mercenary, his face dark and arms crossed.

A mercenary who had faced death countless times was hardly bothered by the threats of a mere tavern keeper.

He simply grinned widely, then took another dipper, swishing the liquid in his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

Finally, a look of profound satisfaction appeared in his eyes. “Perhaps my tongue is numb from not drinking for too long. Let me have a few more dippers…”

Several burly men, acquainted with the mercenary, caught on to the ruse. They roared as they surged forward, grappling with the mercenary: “You drunken fool~ trying to hog it all to yourself!”

As if waking from a dream, the crowd surged forward, eager to join the scramble.

“Don’t pull me!”

“Give me the cup!”

“I want to drink!”

Seeing the situation spiraling out of control, the tavern owner quickly grabbed the barkeep and the young man by the scruffs of their necks, dragging them into the tavern.

The fox-hatted young man gazed at the chaotic throng. “What now? You haven’t even announced that Miss Noren is recruiting caravan guards!”

“Sour Wine” Lestislav spat, cursing, “These greedy devils! It seems we’ll have to wait until the guards arrive to quell the chaos before we can say anything more.”