by Fiona Faris
"Sorry?"
"Which was it, quarry or fields?"
Chris blinked, taking a moment to understand the man's question. "Quarry. Sorry, how did you-?"
"That is Avery territory so I hope you know what you’re doing. I do not think they much tolerate strangers."
"Sorry - who -" Chris shook his head. "I do not even know who you are-"
"I know you. Your gang has been notorious around here for years. Not very successful though. Perhaps your heart wasn’t in it? I mean, after the years you spent with Killian Wyatt, I would have expected more from you than that. According to reports, you’re looking at leaving the criminal life behind and taking up residence at the manor house in Dun Alba. Anything I’ve left out?"
Chris stared at him in stupefaction. “Who are you?”
The man quirked the corner of his wide, full mouth into a sardonic smile. "Friar Kieran Sam."
"Friar Sam…should the name mean something to me?" If the man hadn't been a friar, Chris would have thought, he was part of the life.
"I don’t suppose so." He snorted. "But I know you. Your family were regular attendees to our Sunday Services." He flicked a sardonic glance at Chris, “I rather suspect that they came for the pot luck than the actual service. I remember your diminutive form, always so timid, clinging to your mother’s skirts. I tried to make sure you always got a plate of your own.” The friar shook his head, “it was an unfortunate thing that happened with your parents. I deeply regretted that I did not check on you sooner when you stopped coming to mass.”
Chris realized he was staring only when the Franciscan's gaze flickered down to Chris's hands, his throat and then returned to his face. "I did put out feelers, try to enquire as to your whereabouts. It took some time before somebody reported to me that you had been seen in the company of Killian. I do admit I despaired of you then…"
Chris sucked in a breath casting his mind back in an effort to try and recall the friar or that time of his life when he had been relatively content. He had blocked out a lot of that time of his life, not wanting to re-live the bitterness of his mother’s rejection. Of the friar, however, he had no recollection.
“What are you doing here, right now? Are you here for me?” he asked the friar.
"Ah no my son, simply a serendipitous meeting on the road. I am surprised that you are on foot. Do you not own a horse?"
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rebecca was miserable. Having Chris around to vent her anger upon was one thing. When he was out of sight like this, she feared that she might never see him again. The life he led was dangerous and despite his words, he might deem her too troublesome to come back to. Heaven knew she had given him enough grief.
But he deserved it! A voice cried in her mind and she agreed with it. The guilt ate at her nevertheless. He had gone to seek help to save all their lives and the least she could have done was enable him to go with the peace of mind that his wife was committed to him. But she had been unable to give him that, even knowing full well how fleeting life was. How one could have a person for one minute and have lost them the next? Her own life had taught her that lesson well. She did not understand how she had allowed herself to forget it.
Now Benjie had come with the news that Toby’s plan did indeed involve killing them all. He stuck to her like a burr now, she could not get rid of him. That was completely her brother’s fault, although she could not blame him. Things seemed precarious and she knew she was not the only one worried for Chris. He had ridden off on his own, with no one to watch his back. If Toby was lurking about, he might not get back in time. Alexander was not only trying to lay up some weapons, but also food supplies. She suspected that he expected a siege on the manor house or at least prolonged fighting.
She sighed, shaking her head. Her brother was in no condition to fight. Not that that had ever stopped him.
“Chris! I need you to come back!” she whispered urgently to herself.
“Did you say something mam?” Benjie asked and she jumped, having forgotten that he was there.
“No, I didn’t.” she went back to grinding the corn, perhaps using a little more strength than was absolutely necessary. She had to vent somehow.
You need to come back, husband.
They passed the rest of the journey in silence, except for the few words Chris exchanged with the driver, a trader named Robert Drew. He had delivered a load of building stones to a nearby town and was giving the friar a lift home. The friar was a bit reticent about what exactly his business had been and Chris was not sure he even wanted to know.
The sun was beginning to slip behind the hills that loomed in the west, bringing dusk and night earlier than it ought when the woods parted. They first entered a section of cultivated land and finally the clearing of common land that encircled the village of Blakeney. There was a high fortified wall made of oak about the village and the guards on the gate shut it soon after the cart rolled through.
Inside, the village was like any other of its size and remote location: wattle and daub huts, animals shelters and pens; a few newer, larger stone and timber buildings; and the looming presence of the Church at one end of the village green. Chris noted a blacksmith, wheelwright, and a bakery as they drove past. The trader pulled his cart to a halt outside the King’s Head Inn. It was built in the modern fashion of half stone and half-timber, although the roof was still thatched rather than tiled as Chris had seen in grander towns.
"Here we are," said Robert. Chris got to his feet and jumped easily off the carriage, wondering how soon he could shake the friar and his driver. He felt the need to offer to buy them refreshment if only to find out more about the friar and his suspicious reappearance in Chris’ life.
The friar easily leaped from the cart even with his advanced age. "Come, Chris, I'll introduce you to Francis, our illustrious innkeeper. He may have what you’re looking for."
“And what is it that I’m looking for?” Chris narrowed his eyes at the friar.
The man of God quirked an eyebrow. “Help.”
Chris turned away, not wanting the friar to see his face and thanked the trader, who was busy talking to a stable hand about his cart and wares, and followed the friar into the inn.
The innkeeper, a rotund man with dark hair and a short greying beard, offered the Franciscan an effusive welcome, clapping him on the back and herding him to a table in the common room. "This man, this man," he said to Chris. "He saved me."
Chris looked at the friar. He had lowered his cowl once inside, and the long salt and pepper hair that framed his face eerily matched the pale freckled skin and winter grey eyes on his face. He was the very epitome of harmless and Chris did not trust him even an inch.
"I was able to prove his innocence in a case of murder. Three years ago there was a spat of particularly vicious killings in Cambridge and Francis was framed by parties we may both know; I was able to prove that at that time he was in a completely different part of town, stealing a horse. Certain parties were unhappy with this result so I helped relocate Francis and his wife here."
"This man, he cleared my name," said Francis as he steered them inside the inn and into the common room.
"I cleared it a bit; you still can't set foot in Cambridge in the foreseeable future. We both require accommodation."
Chris stared at the friar and wondered what kind of man of God stepped in to save criminals from the hangman’s noose.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?” Friar Kieran asked.
“Why would you help him?”
The friar laughed. “Is it not my duty to tend to my flock?”
Chris barely refrained from rolling his eyes. The innkeeper turned back to them from where he had been in discussion with his wife. "My home is your home, Friar Kieran, no charge. For your friend too. I have a good room. Together?" Francis seated them at a table and clicked his fingers to his wife who had disappeared and appeared with two tankards of ale.
"No," said Chris quickly. “A
nd I can pay for my room alright? I do not require charity.”
"No charge! If it wasn't for this man, I would have been hanged," Francis exclaimed.
"Technically you were, it just wasn't you at the gallows that day," replied the friar.
His wife came over to them, a tall and shapely woman with dark hair and handsome features. Francis put his arm around her waist and gave a squeeze. She slapped his hand away, placing the tankards on the table. "My wife thanks him too, don't you, Euphemia?" Francis said.
"Oh, Maria! Every night, I say a prayer for good Brother Kieran. Without him, my Francis would be dead, and I'd have had to sell myself on the streets of London to put food in my mouth."
"And nobody would want that!" laughed Francis, earning him a fierce glare from his good wife before she turned on her heel and walked off. Francis bustled off after her, calling apologies and declarations of devotion.
Chris took a sip of the rich ale Euphemia had brought and sighed, a close approximation to contentment. The friar watched him over the rim of his tankard as he took a drink himself.
"All right," Chris said. "How did you prove he wasn't a murderer, then?"
"You really want to know?"
Chris nodded. "I do."
The friar hesitated. "Very well," he said and began the tale. It took nearly an hour in the telling and two more mugs of the ale, and when he was finished Chris felt as if his brain were struggling to catch up. "Brilliant," he said, shaking his head in admiration. "Utterly brilliant."
The friar looked pleased. "Well," he said, shrugging. "I had known Francis a long while. As I said, I am familiar with all my congregation. It was patently unbelievable that a man like him would manage to execute such complicated crimes. It had to be somebody else. Fortunately, I was able to teach him to read and he pleaded benefit of clergy. I then got the courts to agree for him to serve his time with us here rather than in Newgate."
"Amazing," said Chris, not for the first time that hour. “And this is how he served his sentence?”
The friar's gaze pinned him. "It's my talent, Chris; I take seemingly hopeless cases and turn their lives into something they can be proud of. I can help you too."
Chris stared back into distinctive winter grey eyes wondering what the friar’s angle was. “I don’t need saving.”
“Don’t you? I think you’ve needed saving for a long time, Christopher Horatio Ellis.”
Horatio? Chris raised a mental eyebrow at the name. He vaguely recalled his mother intoning it when he was a child and in serious trouble. But the name had died with his father. He had not heard it since. Truly it seemed that this man knew him. The way that he was watching Chris as if he was waiting for the brigand to ask…something. It was disconcerting.
He swallowed and moistened his lips and was about to say...something...nothing when Francis reappeared.
"Well Brother, another ale for you and your friend?" It was quite dark now and the inn was full of the noise of locals enjoying company and refreshment.
"No, thank you, Francis, not for me, I must retire. My bed calls."
"Very good friar, your room is ready."
"Goodnight, Chris," said the friar, standing to follow Francis to his room.
"Goodnight, Brother Kieran," said Chris and found himself feeling very fortunate indeed to have met such a singular character, and felt as well the pleasant sensation of not minding at all if their paths were to cross again. He thought about retiring as well except his stomach made itself known and he realized it had been some time since he'd eaten. The trader reappeared and insisted on taking supper with Chris.
“So, the brother tells me that perhaps you might need my help,” Francis said to him as they ate.
Chris frowned. “What would make him think that?”
Francis laughed indulgently, shaking his head before regarding Chris shrewdly. “He has a knack for it.”
Chris leaned back, assessing Francis, “And what is it that you can do for me?”
“Your situation in Dun Alba…rumor has it that things are in an uproar. Perhaps you require some help. The forest has expert archers, trackers…”
Chris tensed, perturbed that his business was so well known. “And how do you-”
“How do I know this? We supply iron, timber and such to your town. Our traders come bearing news.”
Chris straightened up, his eyes sharpening as he stared at the innkeeper. He was beginning to suspect that his so-called serendipitous meeting with the friar was no accident. “What does he want with me?”
“Absolutely nothing. He means to help you.”
“Why?”
Francis shrugged. “That’s for him to know. You’ll come to learn in time that you do not question Friar Kieran Sam.”
Chris snorted leaning back in his chair as he ran a finger up and down his tankard. “Yes well…we shall see about that.”
He emptied his tankard and got to his feet. “I think I’ll go to bed as well.” He said.
Francis nodded. “Good idea. The people you wish to see won’t be here until tomorrow anyway.”
Every muscle in Chris’ body froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Averys correct? You come to ask for their help?”
“How do you know that?” Chris growled.
Francis shrugged. “As I said, we hear news.”
Chris reached for the pistol he kept strapped around his waist but Francis lifted his arms up in surrender. “We come in peace, sir. If we meant you harm, there would be no need for us to even make you aware that we know who you are.”
Chris cursed his stupidity in traveling alone. If something happened to him here, Rebecca would never know. She would likely think that he had abandoned her.
Abandoned them.
“You’re safe. We mean you no harm. I give you my word.” Francis seemed to read Chris’ thoughts on his face.
He snorted. “And I am supposed to take the word of a thief?”
“You can take the word of a man of God,” Francis replied quite impassively. “And ye without sin throw the first stone.”
Chris did not stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I’m going to bed.”
Chris went upstairs to the small attic room Francis provided. There was a mattress raised up on three planks, complete with plain pillow, blanket, and coverlet. He unholstered his pistol and put it on the nightstand then took off his cloak and boots, relieving himself in the night soil pot before settling down under the covers. His mind was churning with questions he could not answer; not at least until he spoke again with the father the next morning. He was hoping that Victoria would appear in the morning and be willing to help him out. He knew the price she would ask. Being beholden to her was the last thing he wanted. It would mean a delay in leaving a life of crime behind…
Rebecca will never agree to this. he thought with despair but for the moment, he had no choice.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Toby rode up to the manor, flanked by Frank, Ronald, and John. He stared up at the locked gate and then turned back to his men.
“They’re expecting us to attack them from the front,” he snorted, “more fool them. Do we have the wagons ready?”
“Yes, we do,” John confirmed, also examining the gate.
Toby narrowed his eyes at him. “Yes…what?”
“Eh?” John looked around at him distractedly.
Toby sighed tiredly, “What did I tell you to call me?”
John cut his eyes to Toby, saw the anger in his face and reared back. “Uh, sir. You said to call you sir.”
“Exactly. Don’t forget again.”
“Of course. I won’t,” John said turning away and Toby growled deep in his throat. “Er, sir,” John added.
“If we are to lead this town, it’s important that people look at me as the leader. That starts with you people.” Toby explained, again.
John was nodding his agreement even as his eyes scanned the surroundings. “Do you not find it strange that no one is watchi
ng the gate?”
Toby snorted. “Arrogant lubberworts, they probably think they do not need to worry about us.”
John frowned, confused by Toby’s words. “I thought you said they expect us to attack from the front.”
“Yes and clearly they think that the gate is enough to deter us.”
“Mm,” John said noncommittally. The gate had been built tall, with an iron frame and five-inch-thick wood slats. It certainly would be a challenge to get through. Thankfully, they intended to use trickery to penetrate.
