[Stephen Attebrook 11] - Missing

by Jason Vail

  He was exhausted — there are few chores more tiring than digging holes — and he settled down against a stone cross to recover.

  But his thoughts were troubled. After the initial shock of realizing the dead boy was Harry’s oldest son, Stephen’s mind had shut down as it usually did in the face of horror and pain, so that he was numb to suffering. It was easier to go on this way and do what you had to do no matter how awful the circumstances.

  Now, however, in the serene silence of the churchyard, with the afternoon sun throwing a curtain of golden light upon the grass, the numbness ebbed, but there was no wave of sadness or horror. Instead, there was a tide of anger, a flaming rage, scorching, corrosive, vicious. Stephen wanted to rise, to scream, to shout curses at the men up the hill at the camp, to kick things, to find someone to hurt.

  But he did none of these things. A man acting in the grip of a fiery anger was a fool, a lesson he had learned long ago in London taverns, where his temper had led him into fights that he had lost because he lost his head before they began.

  He needed to think! He needed his head clear!

  He lay his head against the gravestone that was his back rest, breathed deeply, and prayed for the fury to abate so he could figure out the best thing to do now.

  Chapter 22

  The mare’s hoof beats seemed to peel like church bells in the stillness of the night.

  The nearer Stephen reckoned he was to the mining camp, the more nervous he became, expecting shouts of alarm at any moment. He would have approached through the wood, where he might be less liable to discovery, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find the camp in the dark. He should have managed it with the three-quarter moon, but if was often obscured by clouds, so he could not always see where he was going.

  It was quiet, except for the clomping of the horse as she walked and the singing of crickets on either side. Then an owl hooted, and a large shape swept across the road in front of Stephen, pouncing on something out of sight in the grass at the edge of the road. The owl looked at Stephen before taking flight, bearing an object in its claws. Stephen took the owl as a good omen, although it did not bring much comfort. He was too nervous, just as he was before a battle or any fight, to take comfort in omens.

  The road emptied into the clearing occupied by the mining camp. He reached it without smelling smoke because the wind carried it away.

  Stephen dismounted and let his eyes wander over the camp, looking for movement but seeing only a mélange of whites, blacks and grays that shifted as the moon peeked through the clouds and then withdrew. No one stirred as far as he could tell, and no lights showed in the big house even though it was only two hours after sunset. People sometimes stayed awake that long after dark. The best time to come would be just before dawn, when people were in their deepest sleep. But Stephen wanted the remainder of the night to get away and elude any potential pursuit. So, he was here now, probably as the people in the house were just settling down.

  Horses in a paddock on the other side of the fenced garden stirred, however, snorting and stamping around. A minor shift in the wind probably had brought his scent to them, and horses will become agitated at a stranger’s approach, especially at night. So, Stephen stood there for a while until the horses calmed down; perhaps they smelled the mare, too, and the scent of another horse was not as alarming as a man’s.

  When the horses quieted, Stephen led the mare behind the semi-circle of huts to the last one on the left. He tied the mare to a tree branch and took out the hacksaw, which he thrust into his belt at the small of his back before creeping to the side of the hut. He crouched there, listening and looking about the clearing. He heard someone stirring inside the hut, the clinking of chains as that person or another moved, and raspy snoring. He wondered how many people were in the hut. It seemed big enough only for a half dozen men, but there was no telling how many Cihric had crammed into it. Gaolers were not notorious for their concern for the comfort of their prisoners.

  Stephen crept on hands and knees to the hut’s door. As he peeked around the door, he found himself face to face with someone. He could not see the face but he knew it was a face from the beard that tickled his nose and the man’s foul breath.

  “And who might you be?” the man whispered in Welsh.

  Stephen wasn’t sure whether to answer this question or even to tell the truth. But then the truth popped out of his mouth of its own accord. “Stephen Attebrook. Who are you?”

  “You must be an Englishman. No one could mangle the Cymreag tongue like that but an Englishman.”

  “You still haven’t told me who you are,” Stephen breathed. “Rude not to.”

  “I am Penkil y Kenith.”

  Stephen puzzled over the name “y Kenith” for a moment. It meant “the huntsman.” “Y Kenith, eh?” he said. “Not getting much hunting done here.”

  “Sadly, that’s true. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there.”

  “I’m not standing.”

  “Figure of speech. You have those in English, don’t you? Get inside before they see you. They make rounds during the night to ensure that none of us has run off.”

  That was an alarming bit of information. Stephen scrambled into the hut. It was the most foul-smelling place imaginable, an eye-watering bouquet of piss, shit and vomit worse than the gaol cells of Stephen’s acquaintance.

  There was much commotion, although it was subdued, as Stephen entered.

  “Boys, we have a visitor,” Penkil whispered to the others. “Try to contain your excitement.”

  “A new one?” a voice asked out of the darkness.

  “No, he comes on his own,” Penkil replied. He asked Stephen, “Who did you say you’re looking for?”

  “A boy,” Stephen said. “His name is John.”

  “An English boy,” Penkil said, meditatively. “Do we have an English boy here named John?”

  “He means Llygoden, Mug’s brother,” a disembodied voice said, a different one than had spoken before.

  Stephen stumbled over the meaning of the word Llygoden until it came to him: it meant mouse.

  “He’s by me,” said a third voice. There was the sound of rustling. “Llygoden, wake up.”

  “What? What?” a small boy said in English.

  “Someone’s come for you,” Penkil said in English so well spoken that he could have been born speaking it. Perhaps he had. Many areas in Wales were governed and settled by English people, so that many grew up speaking two, even three languages, the third being court French.

  “Who?” the boy asked.

  “Someone called Attebrook,” Penkil said.

  “What does he want with me?” the boy asked.

  Stephen fumbled his way through the dark to the boy’s side, or rather his feet, which were bare and cold, an ankle shackled to the central pole of the hut.

  “You’re John, son of Harry?” Stephen asked.

  “My father’s name was Harry.”

  “And your mother is Megge?”

  “Yes. Do you know momma?”

  “We’ve met. I’m a friend of your father. He sent me to fetch you and your brother back.”

  “My father’s dead,” John said.

  “Your father’s not dead,” Stephen said.

  “Yes, he is. A cart ran over him and he died of it.”

  “Who told you he died?”

  “My mum.”

  “Well, it’s not true. He lived.”

  “I don’t believe you.” John retreated into the darkness as far as his ankle chain permitted.

  “Do you like it here?”

  “No!”

  “Believe me or not about your father, but I’m here to take you away from this place.”

  “Will I have to work just the same in some new place?”

  “We all have to work to live, but it will be work of your choosing.”

  “You best go with him, child,” Penki
l said. “If you don’t, you’ll end up like the rest of the boys.”

  “Just how did you intend to free him?” Penkil asked Stephen. “If you don’t mind my asking. We’re all chained to that pole.”

  “Maybe he thought he was going to cut off Llygoden’s foot!” one of the others said.

  The central pole was visible by silver moonlight spilling through the doorway, as was Penkil himself now: the side of a bearded face, craggy nose, eyes that were pits of blackness, an enormous disarray of hair.

  Stephen drew the hacksaw from his belt.

  “With this,” he said. He held out the saw to Penkil, since it was too dark to see it other than as a vague shape.

  “And what good is that thing supposed to do?” Penkil asked.

  “It cuts metal. It’s especially handy on locks.”

  Stephen crawled out of the hut on hands and knees — the doorway was too low to permit anything but a crouch — and stood up in the fresh air of the outside. John came after him. He looked anxiously about the yard, afraid to be there, afraid to be unchained from his pole.

  The sensible thing was to get on the mare and ride off as fast as she could go. Stephen had found at least part of why he’d come here.

  But the fiery anger surged in his mind, fueled by the image of young Theo’s bandaged head and the blood upon it. To kill a child like that was unforgivable. There had to be a way to make amends for the death, although he had no clue what to do.

  He was shaking by the time Penkil and the others emerged from the hut.

  “Here’s your saw back,” Penkil said.

  “You can have it,” Stephen said. “I don’t need it now. You best be off while you have the chance.”

  “And you, as well,” Penkil said.

  He was about to turn away when they heard laughter and voices on the other side of the garden. Two figures — those of men — emerged from the barn. They walked with arms over each other’s shoulders.

  Penkil and Stephen froze. They were less than twenty yards away from the pair, but there was a chance they wouldn’t be seen in the dark if neither moved.

  Then the moon came out, bathing the yard in brilliant light.

  The other men in the hut, not knowing of the danger, crawled out and stood up. John, meanwhile, crouched down as if expecting to be whipped.

  Stephen saw a sword flash in the moonlight and the wielder of that sword cried, “Someone’s loose!” while the other man ran for the house and threw open the door to call a second warning.

  The man with the sword came around the garden. He pointed the sword at Stephen and the others. “Get back in there, damn you!”

  The men from the hut, except for Penkil, ran for the forest, which prompted the swordsman to run toward them, shouting for them to stop.

  Stephen drew his own sword when the slaver was only a few steps away. The slaver couldn’t miss this action and he tried to skid to a halt, raising his weapon to parry, but Stephen was too fast for him and thrust him in the throat. The slaver went down, blood spurting between his clutching fingers.

  Stephen stood over the dying man, watching his feet drum against the ground as his life leaked away. This brief action had its usual odd effect on him. He felt calm, almost disembodied, empty of thought, empty of fury, empty of hatred, empty of fear. Every one of these things was the enemy of victory, or survival, because that was victory enough when sharp steel clashed.

  Other men, shadow figures in the moonlight and dark, rushed from the house, the moonlight sparkling on their swords and axes.

  “You better run while you can,” Stephen said to Penkil, who had yet to make a bid for the forest.

  Penkil stooped for the dead man’s sword, which he hid behind his back. “They have horses and hunting dogs. They’ll track me down.”

  There was no further time for talk as the enemy, five men, ran toward them.

  Stephen, unaware of the smile that curled his lips, kept his sword behind his right leg so they could not see it as Penkil had done.

  Two went for Penkil while three charged at Stephen — one behind the other, if only by a step or two. Had they come at him en masse, as in a well-ordered cavalry charge, he would be swiftly overwhelmed, but just as a mad gallop disorders a line of cavalry and blunts the fury of its charge, so too did this dash to get to what they thought were escaping slaves.

  Stephen raised his point and pivoted as the first man came up and ran himself onto the blade. The man’s momentum carried Stephen’s sword into him for half its length, and for a moment, Stephen feared that the blade would stick in the body: thrusts did that now and then as if the flesh closed upon the mechanism of death and refused to let go. Men had been killed when they could not pull their swords from a dying man’s body. Stephen has seen it himself once, when a companion pierced an enemy’s chest but could not tug the blade free in time to avoid the dying man’s blow, which cut the companion’s head in half to the shoulders.

  But this dying enemy staggered on a few steps, which allowed Stephen, holding fast, to pull the sword free.

  And then the next man was upon him.

  This man had seen death ahead and skidded to a halt. He thought he had an advantage, however — that Stephen’s great thrust had lodged fast and could not be retracted before he could strike. So, he raised his sword to the sky and cut downward. His breath exploded through his lips with an “Ooff!” as he delivered his blow with all his strength, as if he meant to cut Stephen in half.

  But before his sword could connect, Stephen’s came loose and he cut backhanded. The blades tinged together, the shock of the impact jarring Stephen’s arm, but it was enough to deflect what surely would have been a fatal blow.

  Having practiced this very thing time and again, by reflex Stephen stopped the cut so his point stood against the other man’s face. The fellow’s eyes went wide as he realized his doom, and before he could react, Stephen thrust him through the eye. The wounded man dropped his sword, stumbled backward a few paces and landed heavily, holding his mangled face.

  The third man, having seen the two who preceded him die swiftly and unexpectedly, hung back. His sword point danced in the air between him and Stephen, whether from fear or uncertainty it was hard to tell. But it was clear that he would not rush in as the others had done; he would make a cautious fight of it.

  Stephen concentrated so much on the third man’s sword arm, the most important thing to watch — never the eyes, as some fencing instructors said — that it was several moments, as they maneuvered about the yard searching for advantage, that he became aware the man who faced him was the soldier Wint.

  During these few moments, Stephen spared a glance at Penkil to see if he or the men he faced still lived, and was relieved that Penkil was still standing and the other two were not. Had Penkil gone down and even one of the enemy lived, Stephen would have been in terrible trouble.

  Penkil turned from his last victim and started to move between Wint and the house so as to put Wint between him and Stephen.

  Wint saw this and, swiping at Penkil to force him back, ran for the house.

  He paused at the corner of the garden, where a slender man with a mass of dark hair and a big, spade-like beard had waited, observing the fight. Wint grabbed the slender man’s arm and pulled him back to the house.

  “Who’s that?” Stephen asked, gesturing toward the pair before they vanished through the door.

  “That was Cihric,” Penkil said. “He’s no fighter. He lets Wint do his dirty work.”

  Stephen looked around the yard and especially at the men lying on the ground for signs of movement.

  “You seem to know what you’re doing,” he said.

  “I’ve had a few lessons,” Penkil grinned. “You’re not bad yourself.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “Went on a raid, got knocked on the head by a spear pole. When I woke up, I was shackled hand and foot.”

  “A fate worse than death.”

  “Indeed. There were tim
es when I was sore depressed. We had a fellow hang himself in our hut last week. I have been tempted myself to take that route. But always I hoped my luck would change.” Penkil grinned again. “I feel much better now.”

  Stephen’s eyes fixed on the house. He was still in the grip of his fury, and he felt light, as if he could walk on air.

  “Is there a back door?” he asked Penkil.

  “To the big house? No,” Penkil said.

  Stephen retrieved the hacksaw from the ground, where Penkil had dropped it when they were attacked.

  “Set the others free,” Stephen said. “I’ll keep an eye on the house.”

  “Free them?” Penkil asked, somewhat startled at the suggestion, as if he felt no duty toward the other unfortunates.

  “Don’t must stand there scratching your balls,” Stephen growled.

  “Right.” Penkil entered the neighboring hut and emerged to stand beside Stephen.

  “I thought I told you to cut the others loose,” Stephen said.

  “It takes two to watch a house properly,” Penkil said. “Anyway, they can handle the work without me.”

  Presently, a stream of thin, wasted men emerged into the yard.

  The men were about to run off, but Stephen stopped them with an upraised sword. “Stand where you are. You aren’t finished here.”

  “What do you mean?” one of them asked.

  “Get a fire started,” Stephen said.

  “Ah,” Penkil murmured as understanding dawned. “Do what he says, boys! Hop to it!”

  Finding burnable material for a fire took no time at all — a few splits from the substantial wood pile by the barn and handfuls of thatch for kindling pulled from the roof of one of the huts. Getting a flame going took much more time and effort, but two of the freed men were Welsh mountain men like Penkil who knew how to live rough and start fires without flint and steel.