by Kevin Ashman
‘That would be good,’ said Tom. ‘Add a hand of bread as well. I have travelled long today and my stomach aches from hunger.’
‘And do you have any other hungers stranger?’
‘We will see,’ laughed Tom. ‘Let me eat first and we can barter for your other wares later.’
‘So be it,’ said the wench and went to get the ale.
‘You will have your hands full with that one,’ said a voice and Tom turned to face the man sitting alongside him.
‘You speak from experience?’ asked Tom.
‘I do,’ said the man, ‘and still have the scars to prove it.’
Tom laughed.
‘Then I will choose carefully,’ he said. ‘What is your name, stranger?’
‘I am Jonas,’ said the man, ‘and I earn my bread by digging graves.’
‘A service needed by every man, eventually,’ said Tom.
‘A truer word was never said,’ answered Jonas.
‘I am Tom Thatcher of Brycheniog,’ said Tom, ‘returning from taking a friend to a ship in Caerleon.’
‘Keep your business to yourself, friend for there are as many brigands as tankards. You are a new face and already eyes are cast in your direction. Do yourself favour and wash your meal down quickly before ale strengthens their resolve and you become more than a curiosity.’
‘Thank you for your concern, Jonas but I can look after myself and am in no hurry. Besides, your story of that wench’s ferocity has whetted my appetite. I may seek her company.’
‘Then I wish you well,’ said Jonas draining his tankard. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He stood and left the tavern without another word.
A few minutes later, the wench returned with a wooden bowl of meaty stew and a tankard of dark ale.
‘Two coins,’ she said, ‘holding out her hand.
Tom retrieved his purse and paid the price.
‘Bring me another,’ he said.
‘You haven’t started that one yet.’
‘By the time you return it will be empty. I have the thirst of the devil himself.’
The girl nodded and turned to walk away.
‘Wait,’ said Tom. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am called Sian Buckley and I am the daughter of the landlord.’
‘It’s a lovely name,’ said Tom. ‘Tell me Sian, I hear there are other wares to be sampled here.’
‘There may be, if you have enough money.’
‘How much?’
‘It depends on what you want. You can get a quick one out the back with one of the whores for a farthing but if you want something more classy, it can cost you a bit more.’
‘What do I get for a silver penny.’
‘One of the classier girls. Freshly washed each time and a room for an hour.’
‘What cost for your company?’
‘Me? I am not for sale, Sir.’
‘At any price?’
Sian paused.
‘Every girl has her price, Sir, but I fear I am beyond your means.’
‘How much?’ he asked again.
‘Four silver pennies,’ she answered.
‘Four silver pennies? No woman is worth that.’
‘I am,’ she said, ‘but I suppose you will never know?’
She walked away but glanced over her shoulder as she went, throwing him a wicked smile.
Tom got stuck into his meal and over the next hour, sank four more tankards. He ordered a fifth but was disappointed to find a different wench bringing his ale.
‘Where is Sian Buckley?’ he asked.
‘She is getting ready for her first customer,’ said the wench.
‘What customer?’ snapped Tom, beginning to feel the effect of the beer.
‘Guy Lambourne,’ she said, ‘the man with the scar.’
Tom looked over at a man sat alone near the door. His jacket was black leather and a fierce red scar ran down his face.
‘Why is she going with him?’ asked Tom, ‘he looks like trouble.’
‘He is,’ said the wench. ‘He is the overseer at the manor farm and is too free with his fists. But he offered three pennies and business is business. Do you want another tankard?’
‘No,’ snapped Tom, ‘I want you to pass a message to Sian Buckley. I will pay five pennies for her company but I want her now, before that animal gets his hands on her.’
‘Five silver pennies,’ said the girl. ‘Do you have such an amount?’
‘I do, but that is not your business. Tell your mistress they are hers if she will agree to a liaison with me.’
‘I will pass your message,’ said the girl and disappeared through a side door.
A few minutes later the girl reappeared and beckoned him to the door.
‘My mistress accepts your offer, Sir but will only accept four pennies as she can spare only half an hour. Take it or leave it.’
‘I accept,’ he said.
‘Then come with me’ she said and led him to a room at the rear of the tavern.’
The room was bare except for a large bed with a sheepskin cover, a table holding a mirror and a flask of wine next to two goblets. A jug of water and a washing bowl sat discreetly behind the door alongside a neatly folded pile of linen towels. Sian Buckley sat before the table, brushing her long hair before the mirror.
‘Hello again, Tom Thatcher of Brycheniog,’ she said, smiling at him through the mirror.
‘How do you know my name?’ he asked.
‘I make it my business to know the name of every man who frequents my tavern.’
‘I thought it belonged to your father?’
‘It did, but he was killed in a brawl. I run it now. So you have had a change of mind?’
‘I have,’ said Tom.
‘Do you have the money?’
Tom retrieved his purse and poured a pile of silver pennies onto the table, counting out four before replacing the rest back in the purse. ‘You had better be worth it, Sian Buckley.’
‘Oh I am,’ she said standing up and walking to the bed. ‘Come and join me, Tom Thatcher. Let me make your dreams come true.’
----
Half an hour later, Sian Buckley was once more sitting at the table having washed with the water in the bowl. Tom Thatcher sat naked on the edge of the bed watching her brushing her hair.
‘Come back to bed,’ he said quietly. ‘I want to spend the night alongside you.’
‘I can’t,’ she said, brushing her hair briskly. ‘I have others to entertain, get yourself dressed.’
‘Sian, I have never met anyone like you. Allow me to stay I pray.’
‘Master Thatcher,’ she said turning to face him. ‘Don’t lose sight of the reason you are here. I am a whore, nothing more. I see men such as you every night and I have learned my skills from repetition. I offer a brief respite from the rigours of daily life but when done, they move on as must you. Now, get dressed for there is another waiting.’
‘Tell him to go away,’ begged Tom. ‘I will give you all the coin I have, I swear but I will not share you with another man this night.’
‘That is not your choice,’ snapped Sian. ‘Your time is done, Tom Thatcher now get dressed and get out or I will have you thrown out.’
‘I will not,’ he said.
Sian got up and walked toward the door but Tom jumped up and grabbed her arm.
‘Let go of me,’ she shouted.
‘Stay with me,’ he pleaded, ‘just until dawn. I will pay whatever you want, I swear.’
‘Help,’ shouted Sian and pulled from him.
‘Stop it,’ said Tom, ‘there’s no need to shout, I don’t want to hurt you.’
The door burst open and one of the wenches ran in along with a large man carrying a knife.
‘What’s happening?’ asked the girl.
‘This man here is about to leave,’ said Sian, staring into Tom Thatcher’s eyes, ‘aren’t you Sir?’
Tom didn’t answer.
‘Get dressed,’ said the m
an with the knife.
‘Sian, please…’ started Tom.
‘Get dressed and get out of my tavern,’ she snarled, ‘and if you come back any time soon, I will have you beaten like a dog.’
Tom shook his head but walked to the bed and retrieved his clothes. A few minutes later he walked through the door but paused and looked back at her.
‘I am truly sorry,’ he said, ‘I never meant to hurt you.’
‘Get out,’ she answered.’
Tom walked through the tavern, closely followed by the man. Many jeered and ridiculed him as he passed but before he could leave, Guy Lambourne stood before him, blocking his way.
‘You have kept me waiting,’ stranger he said, ‘and I don’t like that.’
‘I care not,’ answered Tom. ‘now get out of my way.’
‘I can’t do that, stranger. You see, I have a certain standing around here and wait for no man.’
‘The decision was hers,’ answered Tom. ‘and my coins are as good as yours.’
‘I will deal with her later,’ said the man, ‘but first I will deal with you. My honour is slighted, stranger and I seek redress.’
‘I will fight over no whore,’ said Tom and barged past the man into the muddy street. Surprisingly no one followed him and he walked back through the village toward the hill where he had left Misha but back in the tavern, Guy Lambourne was whispering to two of his henchmen.
Ten minutes later, Tom paused to catch his breath. The moon was high in a cloudless sky and the path was easy to follow. His mind was still fuzzy from the effects of the ale so he failed to hear the snap of twigs in the forest before him. Finally he started again but stopped dead in his tracks as a man stepped out in front of him.
‘Hello again,’ stranger he said.
‘Who are you?’ asked Tom.
‘You may not remember me,’ said the man, ‘but I was in the Tavern a while back when you insulted my friend.’
‘As was I,’ said another man, stepping from the trees.
‘I insulted no man,’ said Tom, ‘now let me pass.’
‘To where?’ asked the first man. ‘You are heading into nowhere or do you have a comely wench of your own hidden away back there? Perhaps we should take a look and have some fun of our own.’
‘I have paid you no insult,’ said Tom, ‘so I say again, let me pass in peace.’
‘Can’t do that,’ said the man, ‘you see, that lovely miss Sian Buckley tells us you have a heavy purse about you and we wouldn’t want you to wear yourself out carrying all that weight.’
‘If I give you my purse, will you let me pass?’
‘Nah, not really,’ said the man drawing a knife. ‘You see, our friend wants redress and that means your purse and your life. Your life is done, stranger, so I suggest you think of your time with the whore so your last thought will be a good one.’
‘There is no need for this,’ said Tom.
‘There is every need,’ said the man. He lunged forward but Tom had not frequented so many taverns without learning how to defend himself and knocked aside the knife before punching the man across the face, knocking him to the floor. The other man immediately pounced on Tom’s back, throwing his arm around his throat and squeezing the breath from him. Tom threw his head backward to smash his assailant’s nose and the pressure released momentarily allowing him to breathe but the man clung on. The first man stood up and punched Tom across in the jaw and both men fell to the ground. Quickly Tom was overpowered and the first man sat on his chest, holding a knife to his throat.
‘You fight well, stranger,’ he said’ but enough is enough.’
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked Tom through his bleeding mouth. ‘Get on with it.’
‘I said you was going to die,’ said the man, ‘but I never said by who’s hand.’
A third, previously unseen man stepped from amongst the trees and stood above him.
‘Lambourne,’ said Tom. ‘I should have known.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ said Lambourne. ‘You insult me in my own village and expect to get away without redress. That was never going to happen.’ He knelt at Tom’s head and grabbed his chin, pulling it back to stretch his neck, before laying the flat of his blade against Tom’s throat and rubbing it gently back and forth.
‘Embrace the sensation of cold steel, stranger,’ he said, ‘for it will be the last thing you feel before it carves through your flesh and you choke on your own blood.’
‘Go to hell,’ spat Tom through gritted teeth and braced himself for the searing pain that would end his life but as Lambourne braced to drag the blade, a shout echoed from the darkness and Lambourne spun his head to see a shape running toward him from the treeline.
‘Who’s that?’ he started but before anyone could speak, a knife span through the air and embedded deep in his throat. For a second, nobody moved but as Lambourne’s confusion turned to panic, Tom seized his chance and pushed the other man from his chest.
‘It’s a trap,’ shouted first attacker and turned to face the oncoming stranger. The rescuer didn’t change their speed but threw another knife embedding it deep into the man’s chest. Tom got to his feet and grabbed Lambourne’s own knife before turning to face the last man.
Seeing his chances were now limited, the third man turned and crashed into the undergrowth, desperate to save his own skin. As soon as he had gone, Tom spun around to face his rescuer and was shocked to see Misha, crouching over the kneeling man with the knife in his chest.
‘Misha,’ called Tom, ‘what are you doing?’
‘Saving your life,’ said Misha and before he could stop her, she slit the assassin’s throat.
‘Misha no,’ shouted Tom but it was too late, the stricken man fell forward into the foliage, his body shuddering as the blood gurgled in his throat.
Lambourne struggled to his feet and managed to stagger a few steps before falling to the ground, still clutching at the blade in his neck. Tom was astonished and watched in horror as Misha retrieved both her knives and wiped them on her victims’ clothing before coming over to face him.
‘Are you wounded?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Good. You stay here, I will be back soon.’ She turned to go but Tom stopped her with a shout.
‘Wait, where are you going?’
‘To catch the one who escaped. He crashes through the forest like a wounded bear and is easily followed.’
‘But why?’
‘He will tell his comrades of this night and we will be hunted down. I must kill him.’
‘No,’ shouted Tom. ‘There has been too much killing already. Where did you learn how to throw a knife like that?’
‘I am Hashashin,’ said Misha, ‘and my people are well versed in the ways of killing.’
‘But why?’
‘You have not heard of my people?’
‘No, I have never left the shores of this country.’
‘I believe your people refer to anyone who is capable of inflicting death as assassins, is this correct?’
‘Yes but it is a general term like murderer or brigand.’
‘You are wrong, Tom Thatcher, the word is taken from the name of my tribe, the Hashashin. We are honoured amongst the tribes of the east as inflictors of death and learn the many ways from the time we are able to walk. My throws were poor and could have been bettered by any Hashashin child. I am embarrassed.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Tom. ‘You just killed two men, one of them in cold blood.’
Misha looked at the man with the slit throat.
‘My first blade found his lung,’ said Misha. ‘He would have died a horrible death so I helped him on his journey.’ She turned to face Tom again. ‘I should go after the third man before it is too late.’
‘No,’ said Tom, ‘we have to get out of here.’
‘What about these?’ asked Misha, looking toward the bodies.
‘Leave them,’ said Tom. ‘With any luck the wolves will get rid of
them before morning.’
‘But the third man will raise the alarm.’
‘There is nothing we can do about that, and anyway, he may not want anyone to know he was up here with murderous intent.’
‘Then we should go.’
Misha walked back into the forest watched by Tom. After a moment’s pause he followed her into the darkness, his mind spinning at the events of the evening and not knowing what the future may hold.
----
Chapter Six
The Coronet
September 1276
‘Wake up,’ said a voice in the dark, ‘The beasts need doing.’
Geraint groaned. It seemed he had been sleeping only a few moments. The past few days had been a nightmare and although the weather had been relatively fair, the swell meant the cogs pitched like untrained horses and the experienced mariners laughed with delight as the enlisted men were ill to a man.
Geraint groaned again and pulled himself up. His body ached from the constant retching and his clothes stank of puke and diarrhea. The ship had been at sea for six weeks without sign of land and though the captain was happy with their progress, the higher swells meant many men were constantly ill from the motion. On top of that, one of the broths prepared by the ship’s cook had contained bad meat and many men, including Geraint suffered from crippling stomach cramps and rampant diarrhea. Those who suffered often failed to make it to the rope sling overhanging the stern or even the buckets tied in strategic places around the ship and the result was the ship stank of illness.
Teams of men took it in turns to hoist buckets of sea water onto the deck and washed the filth away through the seep holes in the sides but seepage to the lower decks was unavoidable and in the enclosed darkness the effect was ten times worse.
‘Come on,’ said Spider again. ‘The floors need cleaning and the beasts need walking.’
‘The ship is too unsteady to take them on deck, you said so yourself.’
‘Then we will walk them around the hold,’ said Spider. ‘They need to walk, Geraint, or their legs will stiffen up. Come on, get yourself up or I will chuck your stuff on deck and you can sleep amongst the puke.’
‘At least there’s fresh air up there,’ groaned Geraint.
