by Derek Smith
‘You look like a master butcher,’ said Toby. ‘And I must be your apprentice,’ he added, looking down at his own blood stained garb.
‘It’s so good to feel my hands again,’ sighed Far.
He had dropped the ‘sir’ and Toby neglected to chastise him. The corpse had reminded him of his true rank: renegade of the realm. On the run. Where was the fox taking them? Would it be safe?
Far was weeping. It had come out of nowhere. A minute before he had been so happy with his warm clothes. His head was bowed and sobs broke from his chest.
‘What is it, Far?’
Far gazed up at him, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘My family, sir. My father, my mother, my big brother, my little sister…’
‘I am so sorry, Far.’
He stopped pushing the barrow and put his hand on Far’s shoulder, feeling quite useless.
‘I was looking at those sheep,’ said Far, indicating a few, very woolly sheep in a field. ‘And I remembered my little sister chasing them…’ He heaved with a sob. ‘Mostly they would run from her, but if they wouldn’t then she would push them from behind or pull their ears… How she would laugh.’
‘I grieve with you.’
Far wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
‘You’re no better off, sir.’
Toby bowed his head, a nail hammered by despair. In an instant he had lost all strength.
‘I wish I were dead,’ he said.
And he sank to the ground. His head pressed to his knees and he howled. For himself, for his father, for all he had lost. For the vagabond pushing a wheelbarrow in fear of his life. His chest heaved and the tears flowed. He was nobody in the world. How could he go on?
The darkness in him swirled, the unhappiness heaved. It filled him from head to foot. There was nowhere to go. He might as well die here as anywhere else.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and there was Far standing over him. He had limped on his heels from the wheelbarrow a few yards away.
‘Please don’t stay out here, sir. Someone might come.’
‘Does it matter?’
Far nodded. ‘It matters to me, sir. Not just because I need you to push the wheelbarrow…’ He hesitated, then went on, ‘I’ve got no one but you now.’
Toby lifted his head. And looked hard at Far, caught his eye. The old distrust wasn’t there. In his quivering face there was need, respect perhaps. There was someone like himself.
Toby nodded.
‘I shall have to think of you, Far. My duty to you.’
‘You have no duty to me, sir.’
Toby gripped him by the wrist. ‘I saved your life. I am not now going to give it away.’ He rose and wiped his eyes with his fingers. ‘If I can’t live for me then I shall live for others.’ He was silent a while, the despair ebbing away like rain drying off hot earth. ‘You must save me, Far.’
‘I can hardly save myself, sir.’
‘Then we’ll save each other. Don’t call me sir anymore. You’re my brother now.’
Far grinned sheepishly. And Toby grinned back at him.
‘Now we must put something right.’ Toby pointed across the field. ‘You see that haystack?’ Far nodded. ‘I am going to take you there. You can rest up and sleep.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I shall go back for the girl.’
Chapter 23
In no time he was soaked. And still it rained. He was cold and sodden, walking in water, squelching in his shoes. His hair was a sponge that he shook from time to time to throw off rain. Toby looked up at the sky, squeezing his eyes to keep out the darts of water. The heavy, dark cloud gave no hint of better weather. He slipped on, the wheelbarrow skidding in the mud.
His one consolation was that he was less likely to meet others. Who would be out by choice? He shivered, he was icy cold, walking as fast as he could. Ahead of him was Sly, her head turned back towards him, ears alert, dark eyes watching, red and black fur glistening in the rain. She had immediately known where he was going. At first he was fearful she might be leading him somewhere else. Anywhere. But then he recognised a pond, a church in the distance, a gate. She was taking him back.
His food was soggy in the flour sack. He had split it with Far, leaving him also the bottle of water. Toby could manage from streams, though in this weather all he needed to do was turn his head up and open his mouth. He might die of a hundred other things, but not of thirst.
He decided to eat the food. The bread was mush in his mouth, the cheese at least held together. He thought of whom it was intended for and shuddered. The pile of corpses. Every single one of them slaughtered: servants, stable boys, farmhands, cooks, the family, their children – slashed to pieces. Heads, hands, feet lying on the lawn, blood everywhere.
Why?
While engulfed by the horror, eating, head held down from the rain, he bashed into him. He had crossed a main path, deviated slightly to avoid a rut with his wheelbarrow. And his head collided with the bare feet of a hanging man. And set him swinging from the bough he was suspended from. Toby took a startled step back. He couldn’t make out the man’s face as his head was slung back by the noose. He wore a long, rough tunic, his shoes had slipped off and were on the ground beneath him. Rain dripped off him in rivulets, down his pendulous hands, and hung in drips from his blue bare toes. Across his chest was a piece of rough linen, tucked in at his neck almost like a bib. On it was written a word in blood: Tobard.
He heard the horses too late. Caught up in the hanging corpse, their approach lost in the rain, he didn’t see them until they had clear sight of him. He left the barrow and raced into the woods. He could have got away from the horses easily enough. But not the dog. He could hear it barking and slathering behind him, closing in. It floored him at the foot of a wide oak tree. A large black and brown dog with sharp, drooling teeth that may well have ripped him apart, had not one of the soldiers rapidly arrived on foot.
Toby was pulled roughly to his feet and ordered to march ahead of the soldier. If Toby slowed, a knife dug in his ribs and he was slapped about the head. He cursed his stupidity for hanging about on the main path. He should have been across it and into the forest, instead of staring at a hanged man, too dead to be helped. The dog growled at his heels, nuzzling the back of his legs.
He was in big trouble. And might not get out of it alive. He had seen too much death the last few days to believe these men had any feelings of mercy. They chopped heads off, they hanged and sometimes they tortured beforehand.
‘What we got here then?’
He was back on the main path, close by the hanged man. Two horses stood at the edge of the ride, with a second soldier. Both wore tunics and mail; the one with the horses was bearded, while his companion who had caught Toby in the woods was grizzled with a couple of days’ growth. The dog snarled around, frustrated at not being allowed to get at Toby.
The bearded soldier grabbed Toby by the hair and held a knife close to his throat.
‘You a Tobard, boy?’
Toby instantly said No. He didn’t know what a Tobard was, but if there was one hanging a few feet away – then it couldn’t be right to say Yes. Don’t speak too much, he told himself, try to sound like Far. Not lordly. Though whether it would make any difference…
‘Have you seen him?’ said the soldier, the knife blade under Toby’s nose.
‘Seen who?’ he couldn’t help but say.
The second soldier kicked him in the back. ‘The Prince, you dozy pig!’
Toby was lying in the mud, the dog snarling above him, the two soldiers on either side, both with knives pointed at him.
‘I haven’t seen him,’ said Toby, turning over to face them. ‘I’m just a poor peasant. Getting turnips.’
The grizzled soldier glanced at the wheelbarrow. The bearded one kicked him in the stomach.
‘Stealing food more like!’
Toby winced and clasped his stomach, just as he received a boot to the ribs. Toby rolled about, mud
splashing over him, fearing the next blow, hands covering his face.
‘What do we do with him?’ said the bearded one.
‘Cut his head off.’
Toby looked between his hands. One of the soldiers was crossing to his horse. There, he drew a sword out of the scabbard. Any minute, there’d be another headless corpse. But what could he do unarmed, faced by two soldiers and a dog? If he tried to talk them out of it – he’d give himself away as the prince. If he didn’t they’d chop his head off.
‘Let’s hang him,’ said the bearded one, looking up at the one they’d hanged earlier.
‘Waste of rope,’ said his mate coming back with the sword, his preference clear.
‘Plenty there.’ The soldier pointed out the hanging man with his knife.
The grizzled soldier grinned. ‘Use the same noose.’
‘I like a hanging,’ said his mate. ‘Seeing the legs kicking and the way the hands throw out. The last jerk of life. It always fascinates me.’
‘You’re quite a scholar of such things,’ said the grizzled soldier as he led his horse under the hanged man. He climbed on the animal’s back. ‘Hold the body,’ he said. He could have been a butcher arranging a carcass.
His mate came under and held the dead man by his legs. While both were busy, Toby thought of escape but the dog was watching him. He wouldn’t get a yard.
The untying was completed and the corpse fell into the soldier’s hands. He let it fall to the ground where the body splattered in the mud, ending up face up, the mouth wide open. Then matters proceeded quickly. Toby was forced to his feet at knifepoint. The noose was put round his neck.
‘Got one of those Tobard sheets?’ said the soldier holding him.
The other was sitting in the branch of the tree, ready to tie the rope. ‘He’s not worth one. Bloody rain.’ He wiped the water off his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Let’s get a move on. I’m starving.’
‘Get on the horse, boy,’ ordered the bearded soldier.
‘Please,’ appealed Toby, barely able to get out the words. ‘I’m just a nobody…’
The knife pressed tight against his windpipe.
‘On that horse, nobody.’
Toby gripped the saddle, and tried to lift himself but fell back, lacking the strength in his trembling arms. The soldier cursed and pulled the knife across the back of his neck. He felt the sear and the drip of blood. The soldier pushed him against the saddle. I must extend my life, thought Toby. Delay extinction. Death by knife or by rope. Rope would give him seconds longer. He gripped the saddle and this time pulled himself on, knowing a failure would result in a cut throat.
The soldier on the grounds had the reins and directed the horse under his mate seated astride the branch. The dog suddenly snarled, and all three looked to him. He was eating one of the bare feet of the corpse.
‘Oi! Leave off!’ yelled the soldier at the reins.
‘Let him have it,’ said the other. ‘It’s better meat than we give him.’
‘Dog’s got to know who’s master.’
The man dropped the reins for an instant to lunge at the dog. And Toby kicked hard at the haunches of the horse and pressed with his knees. The horse started forward. Fear gave Toby strength and he kicked again with his heels.
‘Go, girl!’ he shrieked.
She was away, with Toby head down, digging in, pressing her onwards.
Behind, the soldiers were yelling. The one on the ground ran after, shaking his knife. His mate on the tree dropped down.
‘Come back here, Tobard!’
That was not a likelihood. Toby turned briefly. The soldier on foot had just stopped, realising he stood no chance. The dog was eating his meal uninterrupted. And the soldier who had dropped from the branch was climbing on the second horse.
Ride!
Maybe princes can’t do much, but they know horses. He’d practically been born riding them. If this horse was half decent… He hoped this was the stronger of the two. He had a start and was lighter than the soldiers. There wouldn’t be another chance; he must get away. If he were outrun, he’d be chopped down in the saddle.
Toby dug in his heels and lay forward on the horse’s neck. ‘Good girl. Run for me. Run hard!’
Chapter 24
The rain flew into his face as he bounced with the rhythm of the horse. This horse was going to run until she dropped. Owned by those soldiers, she was terrorised. She obeyed. She’d run into fire if ordered. That was to his advantage. If he’d have been on an animal that doubted him for even a second, they’d have had him. He gripped tight with his knees and patted her neck.
‘Go, girl.’
He suspected he had the better of the two horses. Certainly, he was pulling away. The other was a good hundred yards behind. Now he had choices. He could leave the horse and dive into the forest. That would be the safest thing to do. The dog was busy, and once the soldiers had got their horse back they’d be in no mood for a chase on foot in the forest. He wasn’t important to them.
But he wanted to keep the horse. And that was more difficult. A horse might be faster but a horse needed space. She couldn’t go down the narrow tracks in the forest, not at any speed. To keep the horse he had to outpace his follower and that had the risk that he might run into someone.
More soldiers.
There seemed plenty out and about, killing almost anyone. Who were the Tobards?
He suddenly realised where he was. This was near the estate, the site of the massacre. He had crossed this path when leaving the estate. The holly tree must be close by. This must be one of the trails where the riders had gone by in the night.
He rounded a bend. There was another a little way ahead. He halted the horse, jumped off and rapidly pulled her into a gap in the thicket. Then stilled her. He held his breath and waited, hoping he couldn’t be seen. If he was, then he’d have to hare off on foot. Easy enough, the soldier would have two horses to handle and so probably wouldn’t bother with him. But that wasn’t the plan… A few seconds later the soldier came past, kicking his horse in the flanks, bashing her neck with his fist. Too intent on his animal’s speed to notice them half hidden in the woodland.
He watched them away and round the bend. And hoped there was another couple of bends beyond so that the soldier would continue to believe he was on Toby’s trail. And maybe a crossroad ahead to confuse him further.
Wishing wouldn’t help. He took the horse’s reins and led her deeper into the forest. In a few minutes he’d picked up the track. There was a branch he’d chipped. And there another. He was very close. Looking back though he could see the tracks of the horse on the muddy track. He led the horse down to a stream where impatiently he had to allow her to drink. He drank himself. The cut at the back of his neck was drying in a string of blood. Quickly he washed it in the cold water, knowing it would bleed more – but he’d learnt out on the hunt with his father that it was less likely to fester. He took the reins. The stream was fast-moving but shallow and he walked along it for a few hundred yards, hoping to sow a little confusion in anyone who might follow, as they’d lose his trail at least for a little way.
He pulled out of the stream.
‘Good girl.’
He slapped her flank and she pulled away startled, as if she expected a nastier blow. He halted her, still holding the reins and smoothed her neck, talking gently, knowing it might have little effect. This animal had learnt that human beings were cruel. Their punishment came out of the blue. Reversal would take time. And who knew how much he had?
He was at the holly tree. He tied the animal to a bough a few yards away. And crept under its curtain.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello,’ came the startled reply.
In the cavern of the tree, it was bright enough in daylight to see the pale-faced girl, shivering in the blanket. Her hair was dark and long, unbraided. The blanket was up to her chin. And it was sodden from the rain. She was staring at him as intensely as he was at her.
‘Who
are you?’ she said, barely able to keep her teeth from rattling. Far was right; she did speak lordy.
In a rapid second, Toby had decided.
‘I am Ned,’ he said. ‘From a cottage back yonder.’ In his best Far-talk. If he couldn’t fool her then he couldn’t fool anyone. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Lady Orly Gomm,’ she said, recollecting her class, and the haughtiness to go with it. ‘You may call me Mistress or My Lady.’
Toby hadn’t expected this, but if it was the way of things… ‘Yes, My Lady.’
She indicated about her, a puzzled tone. ‘What am I doing here, boy?’
Toby widened his eyes. ‘Boy’ now, was it? She couldn’t be any older than he was. ‘I brought you here,’ he said adding as an afterthought, ‘My Lady.’
She tried to sit up, then fell back into a fit of coughing. Toby searched about him helplessly. He had no water, he had no cloth. And he didn’t know what he was allowed to do. In his role, he was not of her class.
At last she said croakily, ‘Why did you bring me, boy?’
‘Ned,’ he said. And when she didn’t respond, he explained helpfully. ‘My name is Ned.’
‘Aren’t you a boy?’ she said, her head wearily back on the flour sack.
‘Not since I became a man,’ he said, ‘so please don’t use the word.’
‘Someone of your station is a boy, no matter what his age. It’s not what you like to be called,’ she snapped. ‘But what you are.’ The words exhausted her. She was breathing rapidly. More quietly but with the same haughtiness, she said, ‘Who is your master?’
Toby did not know. Maeg hadn’t said who was Lord of the Manor where she lived. Probably the same as Far’s – but he hadn’t said either.
