The Nine

by Terry Cloutier

  ​ “She’ll make someone a fine wife,” my father grunted.

  ​ “Really?” I said, looking at my father in surprise. As ridiculous as it may seem, I never thought of Jeanna that way. To me she was just my older sister. Bossy, protective and annoying sometimes, but surely not ready for marriage. “She’s too young,” I stammered, not wanting to imagine life at the farm without her.

  ​ My father chuckled. “She’s almost fifteen, Hadrack,” he said. “Your mother was of the same age when I met her, you know.”

  ​ “I didn’t know that,” I said, still trying to come to grips with the idea of losing Jeanna.

  We were walking along the rambling path that led to Hestan of Corwick’s house and I slowed, waiting patiently for father to catch up. It was painful to watch him half-waddle, half-drag his body along, his one good leg strong and sure footed, the other wizened and limp, leaving a furrow in the well-travelled, dusty path dotted along the sides with shoots of Hollyhock and Ladybird plants.

  ​ “Well, what did you think?” my father snorted at me. “That she’d stay unwed forever watching over an old cripple and an impatient and impertinent boy who likes to fight?” He put his hand on my shoulder, pausing as he caught his breath. Above us a feeding party of swifts swooped and looped in intricate patterns. Probably feeding on bog flies, I thought idly. I glanced to the north where a small stand of thick hemlocks sat perched high on a hill that was surrounded by a low wall of stones that we villagers had plucked from the fields. It never seemed to matter how many stones were turned up from the plow and removed each year, as we had to do it all over again the next year as more stones appeared in their place. My father liked to joke that it was Father Below’s way of keeping us busy and out of trouble. I stared at the dark trees which stood out starkly from the freshly turned fields around them and I shuddered, knowing the trees encircled Patter’s Bog like sentinels of warning. Tread not here, they seemed to say. An evil spirit lived in the bog. We had all heard the stories. It was said that you could see for miles up there, but even so, no one ever went near it.

  ​ “Let’s get moving,” my father finally said, giving my shoulder a friendly squeeze. “I don’t want to be late.”

  ​ I took one last glance at the trees, feeling a chill I knew was not from the morning breeze and I rubbed the Pair Stone around my neck with two fingers to ward off the bog spirit as I slowly followed my father. It wasn’t long before we crested a small hill speckled with corncockle flowers and sighted the Hestan farm snuggled below in a shallow valley. Around us the bright purple flowers weaved and danced in the breeze as if delighted we had arrived. The Hestan house was almost as big as ours, but the farm had more outbuildings, as they not only had chickens and pigs like we did, but sheep and a goat as well. I glanced at the shearing shed, where I could see a small cluster of men and boys talking among themselves. As we approached, Hestan turned to greet us with an anxious look on his face. Hestan was a short man and thick bodied, with greying hair that receded noticeably at the temples. He wore a short, sleeveless tunic over a second, longer tunic which was cinched by a worn, black leather belt. Wool trousers, rough leather shoes and leggings that were only one step away from being called rags completed his attire.

  ​ “Ah, there you are,” Hestan muttered to my father. He barely glanced at me.

  ​ I looked around at the faces staring at us, all of them with the same uneasy look. Beside Hestan stood his two sons, Jinian and Garen. His other son, Wildern, had died fighting in the Border War. The Lord of Corwick, as was his right, had mustered all the able-bodied peasants in defence of the king’s lands and many of the older boys and men I had known all my life had lost their lives, my brother included. Now we had a new king and a new Lord Corwick, whom we had all sworn fealty to, as though we’d had any choice in the matter. Beside Garen stood Fitch, Garen’s son. Fitch was big, almost as big as me and he was glaring at me with open hatred. I smiled at him and pointed to my right eye and then smirked. Fitch unconsciously started to touch his battered right eye, which was even now turning a wonderful shade of black. I made a face at him and then looked away, nodding to my friend, Carwin, who nodded back. Like Fitch, Carwin also sported a bruised eye, though his was now mostly yellow, with still some hint of black. Beside Carwin stood his father, Klasper, a tall, extremely thin man known for his quiet demeanour and seemingly limitless endurance in the fields.

  ​ “So, Hestan,” my father said, looking up at the sky. “A good day for it, I’d say.”

  ​ “Yes, yes,” Hestan agreed brusquely, waving away my father’s words. He folded his thick arms across his chest. “We have a problem, Alwin.” My father raised his eyebrows and waited patiently. “Gilbin is dead,” Hestan continued bluntly, “and there’s a new Reeve.”

  ​ “Dead!” I gasped out.

  ​ My father glanced at me with disapproval, then turned back to Hestan. “What happened?” he said, unable to hide the worry in his voice.

  ​ Hestan gestured to his son, Garen. “I’ll let him tell the tale.”

  ​ Garen pointed to the east. “Late last night horsemen came to my house. There were ten of them.”

  ​ “You said nine earlier,” Jinian cut in.

  ​ Garen glanced at his brother and frowned. “Nine, ten, what does it matter? The fact is there were many of them and they were spoiling for trouble by the looks of them.”

  ​ “Were they the king’s men?” my father asked.

  ​ Garen shook his head. “No, they were Lord Corwick’s men. They spent the night in my barn and I had to feed the lot of them. Their leader was an ugly-looking bastard and he told me he was the new Reeve by order of the lord himself. He said Gilbin was a traitor and had been executed for...” Garen hesitated, searching for the word. All of us waited, spellbound by the story. “For treasonous acts,” he finally managed to say.

  ​ “This doesn’t make any sense,” my father muttered. “Gilbin has been Reeve here since long before my time and he’s always been faithful to Lord Corwick.”

  ​ “Maybe so,” Hestan rumbled. “But our new lord clearly does not think so.”

  ​ “So what do we do?” Jinian asked.

  ​ Everyone automatically looked to my father, who stood slowly rubbing his chin with his left hand as he thought. “We do nothing,” he finally said with a shrug. He looked at each face briefly. “What can we do? Our souls belong to The Mother or The Father on judgment day, as it should be, but we swore an oath to our new lord and, until judgment day arrives, our lives belong to him.”

  ​ “So that’s it then?” Garin demanded. He threw his hands up in the air and snorted. “We just do nothing?”

  ​ My father fixed his calm brown eyes on Garin. “What would you have us do?” he asked softly. He looked around. “Shall we arm ourselves with pitchforks and blunted hoes and march on Corwick Castle and demand to know why Gilbin was killed? Is that what you suggest?”

  ​ “Well, no...”

  ​ “Riders on the hill!” Klasper hissed, cutting Garin off.

  ​ We turned, watching as a group of riders crested the hill. They paused for a moment to study us, their mail winking faintly in the morning light before a sharp word from their leader, heard clearly across the crisp air, galvanized them forward and they trotted down the hill toward us.

  ​ “Let me do the talking,” my father whispered out of the side of his mouth as they approached.

  ​ I studied them openly as only an eight-year-old boy yet without fear of the world could. There were nine of them, all similarly dressed, wearing dusty, long-sleeved hauberks that went to their knees and were slit at the sides to enable better mobility on horseback. The hauberk, or mail, was essentially a long tunic or shirt with metal loops woven into it for protection during battle. They each wore a mail coif that covered their heads and necks, leaving just their faces visible. All nine wore matching red trousers and heavy leather boots. Over their hauberks each wore a surcoat of white emblazoned with the flaming dr
agon banner of the new Lord of Corwick. I could see the pommel of each mans’ sword moving by their sides with the motion of the horses as they slowly cantered forward. Finally, the lead man raised his mailed fist almost casually and the horses came to a stop several paces from us, where they stood stomping their feet and swishing their tails. A cloud of dust dug up by the horses’ hooves hung in the air around us for a moment before being whisked away by the wind.

  ​ “A good day to you, lord,” my father said to the leader.

  ​ “That remains to be seen,” the man replied quietly. He studied us with sharp, almost feral eyes. I liked him not at all. “My name is Quant Ranes,” he said, drawing the name out. His cold eyes rested on me for a moment and I actually felt my heart skip a beat before his gaze drifted away to focus on my father. “You are the peasant, Alwin, are you not?”

  ​ “I am, lord,” my father nodded.

  ​ “Excellent,” Quant said with a smile. I noticed his teeth were crooked and yellow, those that he still possessed. “Just the man I’m looking for. The Reeve has instructed me to inform you and the other elders that the tithe from this village will henceforth be paid four times a year rather than once.”

  ​ “What’s a tithe?” I heard Fitch whisper to his father.

  ​ “A tax,” Garen whispered back. “Now be quiet!”

  ​ My father seemed perplexed. “Four times, my lord?”

  ​ “Precisely,” Quant agreed. He looked down at us, unable to hide his contempt. “Your days of slacking in the fields has come to an end. Your old Reeve was a lazy fool and a drunkard and let things slide here.” Quant swung his right arm in the air, gesturing to the fields still waiting the bite of the plow. “The lands of Corwick are rich and plentiful, and your lord, in his generosity, has opened his heart and allowed you to live and prosper here. All that he asks of you is that you do an honest day’s work.” He frowned and shook his head. “But you took his generosity and thumbed your noses at it.” Quant glared at us, none of us able to meet his eyes until finally he sighed and looked to the sky. “I suppose you can’t really be to blame. Perhaps too much is expected of you? Perhaps your old Reeve did not fully understand your, um, limitations?” He shrugged. “After all, if you bring a cow into your house and it shits on the floor, is it the cow’s fault or is it yours?”

  ​ I didn’t really understand what Quant meant, I mean, what do cows have to do with working the fields? It was a puzzle and made no sense to me, but my father seemed to understand.

  ​ “We will strive to do better, lord,” my father said, his voice low and even as he looked to the ground.

  ​ “Good,” Quant said. “See that you do.” He glanced over his shoulder at the hill behind him and then focused on my father. “The Reeve is currently delayed and might be a while.” Behind him one of the men-at-arms snickered as Quant continued, “So that will give you time to gather the rest of the elders here so that he can properly explain to you his expectations.” I saw my father’s head come up and he stiffened as he studied Quant, then turned his gaze to the hill. A look crossed his face that I’d never seen before and it took me a moment to realize what it was. Fear! My heart lurched and I too looked to the hill and the path that lead to our farm. I knew why the Reeve was delayed. Jeanna! I felt recklessness overtake me and without thinking I broke from the group and started to run, my only thought that I had to get to my sister. “Stop that boy!” I heard Quant shout. A mailed hand reached for me as I ran past the mounted men, the man’s fingers just grasping my tunic and tearing it slightly before I was free. Most boy’s that are as big as I am are usually slow runners, but luckily I was not and I headed as fast as I could for the hill. Behind me I heard shouts and I glanced back over my shoulder to see that my father and Hestan were lying on the ground surrounded by the soldiers, who had dismounted and now stood in a ring around the two men with drawn swords. Several of the soldiers began heartily kicking the fallen men and I realized they must have tried to distract the men-at-arms so that I could escape and were now paying the price for it. I reached the base of the hill and I hesitated, torn between heading back to help father or continuing on to help Jeanna. My father saw me stop in indecision and he shook his head at me just as a booted foot caught him in the stomach. He shuddered and tried to twist away, only to be kicked by another of the men-at-arms from the other side.

  ​ “Father!” I shouted in impotent rage.

  ​ Quant glanced up at me and said something to one of the men-at-arms standing over my father, gesturing my way with his thumb. I saw the man grin through his heavy beard and he kicked my father twice more in the stomach before sauntering over to his horse. I looked again to my father just as he lifted his hand weakly off the ground and pointed behind me. I knew what he wanted and I turned and fled up the hill, while behind me I could hear the pounding of hoof beats as the heavily-bearded man-at-arms gave chase. I reached the hilltop and hesitated, searching desperately for an escape. Fast as I was, I had no illusions about trying to outrun a horse. I glanced at the silent trees surrounding Patter’s Bog, but even as desperate as I was there was no way I was going in there, even supposing I could make it in time. Around me the corncockles danced merrily, unperturbed by the drama unfolding around them. I looked back. Heavy Beard had reached the base of the hill and was coming on fast, his right hand whipping the horse’s flank, urging it on. I could hear the beast wheezing and see the whites of its eyes as little flecks of foam flickered at its nostrils. The horse! It was my only chance. I dove off the path to the ground and crouched down, idly noticing the heavy, sickly-sweet scent of the purple flowers around me. I heard the mounted man crest the hill, the great bulk of the horse filling my vision and I moved, leaping up and waving my arms.

  ​ “Hurrrrragggggh!” I yelled as loud as I could.

  ​ The horse rolled its eyes in fright and let out a high-pitched squeal. It reared back on its hind legs and I narrowly managed to jump aside as one of its heavy-shod front hooves grazed my forehead. At the same time, Heavy Beard cried out in surprise and desperately pulled back on the reins, but it was too late. With a cry of dismay and a comical look on his face, the soldier somersaulted backward and fell heavily to the ground and lay still. The riderless horse spun away from me in fear and headed at break-neck speed back down the hill toward its companions. I’d bought myself some time, I knew, I just didn’t know how much. I could see our farm off in the distance and I sprinted toward it. “Jeanna! Jeanna!” I cried out, over and over again as I ran. I knew I should conserve my breath, but I couldn’t stop myself and I continued to call her name. Finally I reached the house and came to an exhausted halt in the dusty yard, gasping for air as I looked around. A large black horse was tied to the fencing on the right side of the house. The front door to our house was open and a sword still in its leather scabbard leaned nonchalantly against the door frame. There was no sign of the owner of the sword or Jeanna.

  ​ “Jeanna?” I called again. I raced into the house, searching frantically, but the main room and sleeping rooms were empty. “Where are you?” I shouted. I ran back outside, my eyes searching desperately for any sign of her. I paused as I heard something, a soft mewling sound followed by a grunt. It had come from behind the covered sty and it hadn’t sounded like pigs. I barrelled forward, hurtling around the sty only to once again come to a crashing halt, my mouth falling open, my young mind unable to comprehend what I was seeing. My sister lay spread-eagled on the ground, her clothes torn from her slight body and thrown haphazardly around. Her wimple had come off and her long black hair lay splayed out around her head like a fan I had once seen the Reeve’s wife use to cool herself with. The white nakedness of my sister’s flesh stood out in stark contrast to the filth of the muddy ground and a trickle of blood ran from her scalp, down to her cheek and then to her ear. Her eyes were fixed and staring upward and for a moment I feared that she was dead, but then she blinked and relief flooded over me. Above her, a man grunted and groaned, thrusting himself into
her, oblivious to me standing there. The man’s mail had been discarded and the tunic he wore underneath was hitched up above his waist while his red trousers lay bunched at his feet. His hairy white buttocks moved in a steady rhythm with the animal grunts coming from him. All of this I took in in a moment, a moment I shall never forget to my last day in this world. I screamed, what I cried out I have no idea, and I rushed forward with murder in my heart. I pounced on the man and began to pommel his back with my fists.

  ​ “Stop it! Stop it!” I cried. Incredibly, the man seemed not to notice me and he continued, not losing a beat. I sobbed in frustration and glanced around for a weapon. Then I froze. Jeanna was looking at me with the light of recognition in her eyes. Slowly a tear welled in her left eye and trickled down through the blood on her cheek.

  ​ “Hadrack,” she mouthed softly.

  ​ I crouched beside her, unable to move as I was held by the look of both love and shame in my sister’s eyes. Finally she turned her head, releasing me as she once again stared up at the sky. The moment gone, I again searched the yard frantically for a weapon. Not far away I spied a rock the size of my fist lying nearly submerged in the muck. I half-ran, half-crawled over to it and I grasped it in my hand. The Reeve, for that’s who I knew this foul creature to be, cried out just then and slammed himself one last time into Jeanna, lifting his head and upper body off of her and contorting his spine as he planted his seed within her. Never before or since have I felt hatred for another man more than I did that day. I raised the rock over my head and screamed as I raced toward him, intent on bashing in his skull. Just as I reached him, the rock already descending, he seemed to come out of whatever trance he had been in. The Reeve looked up in surprise, automatically raising his arm to ward off the blow. Instead of his head, the rock cracked against the bone of his wrist, snapping it. The man screamed and fell sideways, clutching his wrist to his chest. This is when I should have finished him. It still pains me even after so long to think of it. I should have pounced while he was down and crushed in his face with the rock, beating into it over and over again till naught was left but a bloody wet mess. But I was eight years old, I was scared, and I didn’t think. Instead, I ignored the Reeve, tossed the rock aside and knelt down beside my sister.