The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  ‘Right here,’ he replied in equally hushed tones. ‘I have to be back on duty in one hour, so we need to move quickly.’

  She opened her eyes at last and looked at him. He had removed his helmet and was wearing a mail shirt covered in a rich blue surcoat. His breeches and high boots were of black leather. In his hands he held up a simple white linen dress, laced at the front, along with a brown kirtle to fit over it.

  ‘Don’t laugh but I have never had a dress before. Where did you get it?’

  ‘A couple of the scullery maids live in the tower; one of them ... likes me so allowed me to borrow it.’

  ‘Could I buy it? I have a crown –would that be enough?’

  Sir Dylan nodded. ‘Enough to buy several of them I would imagine; I will speak to her about it... Now hurry!’

  ‘Patience, I have never put one of these on before.’ She started unlacing her robe.

  Sir Dylan looked uncomfortable. ‘I hope by the Gods you are not asking me to help you. I will wait outside.’

  ‘No!’ she giggled. ‘I can manage, and don’t be so silly about waiting outside; someone might see you. Just turn your back to me.’

  Five minutes later she was every inch the peasant girl, although her delicate hands and long nails betrayed her little subterfuge. ‘What now?’

  ‘Just follow me and be quiet.’

  He led her through the corridor, past Marcus’s room (she didn’t dare breathe) and on to a small landing housing a spiral stairway lit by sputtering torches. Instead of going up the stairs, though, he led her through a narrow opening in the opposite wall, down a dark and dank unlit corridor and through a doorway of oiled wood. Now they were looking at a narrow black iron gate which opened out into daylight and the world outside. The city wall was to their right and a high curtain wall green with moss hid them from the houses to their left. Dylan produced a key. ‘Servants’ entrance,’ he said. A minute later they were outside, where Sir Dylan stopped behind the sheltering wall and turned to speak to her.

  ‘If I am caught, it means probable dismissal and maybe even some time in prison. I still cannot believe I have been so gullible as to fall for your imprecations, but no matter we are here now. So we go to the market, spend five minutes there and return. You speak to no one but me. Understand?’

  ‘Completely,’ she said. ‘And thank you; I will find some way to repay you one day.’

  He looked at her – those eyes afire with excitement, her small pointed nose, her perfect teeth framed by her delicate lips – and cursed himself for his weakness. ‘I am sure Artorus will see to it.’

  And then, with her following not two feet behind, he led her into the city.

  They made good speed, him with his long firm stride and her half running, half walking, turning her head hither and thither, eyes like saucers marvelling at every belching peasant or merchant in hose two sizes too small for him. She was like a child witnessing its first dawn or a small bird who not minutes before had escaped its nest at last. She tried to miss nothing – every wagon piled high with barrels, every gapped-tooth townswoman arguing with her landlord, every urchin running hard, head down to escape the switch from his parents, was a source of wonder to her. Every couple of minutes she would look for Sir Dylan who was getting further and further ahead of her and run to catch up with him. She was aware that she looked like his servant, so her following him in this way seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do.

  They headed back up the street where earlier she had seen the little beggar girl to the square, which was now a lot busier than when she had first visited it. She saw a tavern in one corner that she hadn’t noticed earlier. Outside it was a gang of ruddy-faced young men all holding tankards and laughing with each other. She made sure she didn’t catch their eye. Sir Dylan ignored them and plunged down the side street on the right, the one opposite the road to the sea that they had climbed up earlier. This street was also narrow with overhanging buildings, but the night soil men had obviously visited here recently as it was a lot cleaner. They were going downhill now and she had to be careful not to lose her footing on the uneven cobbles while avoiding bumping into people in what was the busiest street she had witnessed so far. At one point she even had to wriggle past a man pulling a team of three horses, all in single file. Dylan’s pace was unrelenting, so in the end her burning legs made it necessary for her to speak to him.

  ‘’Lissa’s blood, slow down! You are taller than I ... I cannot keep up!’

  ‘Can’t you fly or something?’ he said mischievously.

  ‘Only Gods can fly,’ she harrumphed. ‘I even detest running.’

  ‘Well, what can you do then? What is it that makes you so terrifying?’

  ‘You haven’t seen my temper yet,’ she said. ‘But keep this up and you just might.’

  ‘I told you we had to hurry, and see ahead – Duke Bernardus Bridge. This leads to People’s Hill and the market.’

  He was right. Ahead of them was a sturdy, wide bridge with high parapets, its flagstones worn smooth by a thousand passing feet. As she crossed it, she looked over the edge, under them was a long level road running along the low part of ground where the two hills joined. She saw straight away that this was where most of the wagons and mounted traffic passed, avoiding the narrow streets and hills. Fronting this street were large buildings with broad double doors. Dylan noticed where she was looking.

  ‘Warehouses,’ he said. ‘The traders use the wide roads at the base of each hill, or the one that encircles the city. They store their goods here and then just have to transport them up People’s Street ahead.’

  She looked ahead past an imposing statue of (presumably) Duke Bernardus and saw that there were wide spaces either side of the bridge for horses and wagons to climb up from the road beneath. The thoroughfare before her was much, much wider than anywhere else she had seen and the houses were built of beams and brick, rather than wattle and daub. They, too, were large with many glass windows. Cheris whistled softly.

  ‘Such fine houses! Is this where the rich live?’

  ‘No, that is further on. These are mainly trading guild buildings, not private dwellings; you would see many similar buildings on Artisans’ Hill. Keep walking.’

  She did as she was told, noticing that the street was so broad that either side of it was paved with large flagstones for those who wanted to avoid the jarring cobbles or the risk of being trampled to death by panicking livestock. The sewage trenches here were pretty spotless; she guessed they were cleaned every night. Then, almost without realising it, they were there.

  And she saw how unprepared she was.

  The market was rectangular in shape, its widest point being at least half a mile long. At its further end she could see Loubian Hill climbing above the market rooftops, its white palaces close enough now that she could see their fine arched lancet windows. Ahead and to the right the golden bell tower of the cathedral dominated. But it was what lay directly ahead that focused her concentration. She had expected a crowd something like the grand congregation in the College of the Magisters when the main hall was full for a meeting or religious service but this was something else altogether. There was not a square foot in the market that seemed unoccupied as people bustled about their business apparently oblivious to their neighbours and surroundings. And the lack of order! She had never seen such jostling, barging and pushing as all present jockeyed for position, desperate to pore over each vendor’s wares. Most there were dressed as simply as she was – small-scale buyers looking for a slab of cheese or loaf of bread – but intermingled with them were others of a grander kind. One lady garbed in a rich purple velvet dress trimmed with silver was being escorted by an armed guard and a couple of well-dressed servants. There were men dressed just as Dylan was, in surcoats and mail, and others in brightly coloured tunics and breeches. Some even wore extravagant hats, great wide-brimmed floppy caps adorned with feathers.

  And from these people rose such a tumult that she was amazed any of them c
ould understand each other, whether they were grumbling, gossiping, haggling, swearing, or singing... Amid the uproar she caught only small snatches, alternately of negotiation – ‘I’ll go no lower than seven ducats ... Six it is then,’ – confrontation – ‘I bought this jerkin here last week and the lace holes have perished already’ – and flattery – ‘Madam, it is almost as though this hat was made specifically for your shapely little head.’

  The whole scene was chaos. Beautiful, captivating chaos. Cheris did not know where to begin.

  Dylan noticed her consternation with a certain wry amusement.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘just follow me.’

  She walked behind him slowly; they appeared to be in that part of the market that sold food. There were half a dozen cheese vendors; others selling bread and fruit, great sides of meat, butchered that morning, and already attracting the large, dozy, heavy flies that had not yet died off in the autumn chill. To her surprise, after the initial shock she found herself adjusting to her surroundings. She stopped at a pie vendor’s to gaze at the rich pastries with their gigantic crusts, then at a ladies’ stall that sold sticky cakes. How delicious everything looked!

  ‘Can I tempt you with one, madam?’ The vendor, a lady of middle years with a wide handsome face, was looking at her.

  ‘Oh, thank you, no,’ she said demurely and moved on.

  Dylan turned to her; she knew her five minutes were probably up.

  ‘Come on, Cheris, it is time to go...’

  ‘Dylan! Sir Dylan! It is you, you old dog. Come and say hello.’

  A man was saluting them, frantically waving his arms as he came towards them.

  ‘Say nothing,’ Dylan growled to her through gritted teeth. He then launched into a convincing fake smile.

  ‘Sir Adnan, you are looking so well. Have you put on weight?’

  ‘Am I fat, you mean?’ He seemed a man preternaturally disposed towards jollity. He slapped his stomach. ‘This is what two years of guarding merchant caravans does for you – minimal risk of violence, maximum risk of gout!’ he laughed. His round face was somewhat reddish, especially his cheeks. Then he noticed her.

  ‘Well, Dylan, you old... Come on then, introduce me.’

  Dylan hesitated. ‘Oh! This is ... is...’

  ‘My name is Miriam, sir.’ Cheris made a vain attempt to look coy and maidenly. ‘In service to Sir Dylan and the Knights of the Thorn.’

  ‘I am enchanted, Miriam.’ said Adnan. ‘But let me tell you: Dylan is a man of piety and honour and as a result earns much less than I do. If you ever feel the need to find out what really fine living is about, look no further than me. Some flowers need a lot more care and attention than others and I see a no more delicate bloom around here than your good self.’ She caught the lascivious look in his eye and wondered how many hapless serving girls he had tried that line on before.

  ‘You are too kind, sir,’ she said, looking shyly at the ground. ‘But, alas, you are mistaken. I am far more the salt-resistant rose, which can grow even by the sea so impervious is it to the elements than the fragile delicate flower you just alluded to.’

  ‘Well bred for a serving girl, aren’t you? Family hit on hard times, eh? Well, I would not expect Dylan to be slipping it to any old slattern, eh, Dylan, eh?’ He nudged Dylan, whose smile was weakening by the minute. ‘If you ever change your mind, Miriam, come to the Armourers’ Guild on Artisans’ Hill; mention my name and you will have a job with half the work and twice the pay. And other benefits!’ He pointed to his crotch, laughing uproariously.

  ‘Adnan,’ said Dylan, at last finding his voice. ‘We really have to go; I am back on duty very shortly. I will come round and see you when I can. I am sure you still owe me an ale.’

  ‘I owe everybody an ale!’ he laughed. ‘But come on round by all means; we can discuss your recent development of an incredible taste in women!’

  ‘I will do that. Now farewell, Adnan. The Gods keep you.’

  Both Dylan and Cheris turned to start back the way they came. She stiffened in shock as she felt a hand impacting firmly against her rump. ‘See you both soon. Very soon!’ She turned in shock, enraged.

  Adnan winked at Cheris before disappearing back into the crowd.

  Dylan looked sheepish. ‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘He is more an acquaintance than a friend.’

  ‘Just be grateful for him that I am under your protection. Otherwise, he would just be a greasy puddle on the floor.’

  They headed back down People’s Street, but when they got to the bridge Dylan went to its left, down on to the broad street between the hills where the warehouses were. ‘Busier...’ he said, ‘but quicker. Keep your eye out for carts and horses.’

  They hugged the side of the road, keeping to the thin shadows thrown by the warehouses. Dylan was right; they made excellent progress amid the clattering of wheels and hooves on the stone, as barrel-laden carts and barrows raced past them in both directions. Eventually, they reached the city wall and turned southward; they could see their tower not five minutes away when Cheris stopped dead.

  Opposite them, by the small grassy bank that hugged the city wall, a horse had collapsed. It was still tethered to the wagon it had been pulling, which was laden, overladen even, with trunks and barrels. The horse was something of a bony old nag and did not look as if it was up to pulling such a heavy cart in the first place. And over the horse stood a man sweating profusely; he was swearing at the horse and in one hand held a cruel-looking switch that he was using to thrash what little life was left in the beast out of it. Cheris walked slowly towards him leaving Dylan standing.

  ‘Get up, you little bastard, get up! I will sell your useless carcass to the glue man. Fuck you! Get up!’ He started hitting it again.

  ‘Can you not see that the horse is sick, man?’ Cheris said calmly. If you keep hitting it, it will die, and what happens to your precious goods then?’

  He swung round to face her, his face a mask of anger and amazement.

  ‘And who in the name of Keth’s rancid guts are you? You think I am going to listen to some silly little serving tart? Stick to what you know – bending over for your betters...’ he indicated Dylan who was walking slowly towards them. ‘...and leave my business to me.’

  She coloured but remained calm. ‘I will say it again: leave that horse alone; it needs to be freed from that wagon and then we can see if we can help it.’

  He snarled at her. ‘Piss off, slut!’ He turned to the transfixed Dylan. ‘You, man, learn to gag your little whore and teach her that her mouth has one use and one use only.’ He turned back to the horse, raising his arm to strike it again. Cheris dug her nails into her palm.

  ‘Hit that horse one more time and you will be sorry.’ Her calmness was evaporating; there was steel in her eyes.

  ‘You know what?’ The man’s voice was hoarse from screaming. ‘I think I will stop; I would much rather use this thing on you.’ He raised his arm to strike her.

  ‘Stop!’ Dylan shouted, but it was too late.

  Before the man could land his blow Cheris raised her hand and said something almost under her breath. Immediately the man was thrown backwards, slamming violently against the side of his own wagon, Dylan heard his head crack against the wood. Groaning, he slumped to the ground, leaving a thin trail of blood against the wagon. Cheris stood over him, as he regarded her with horrified, uncomprehending eyes.

  ‘All actions have consequences,’ she said. ‘I hope you have learned that. I will send some men to help you with the horse.’ She felt Dylan bristling beside her as he took her hand roughly and pulled her away from the scene. ‘For Artorus’s sake, come on!’ He sounded panicky.

  By the grace of the Gods there appeared to be no witnesses to the incident. The buildings overlooking them were empty warehouses and the few wagons that passed took no notice of them. The sound of the wagon wheels pounding the cobbles meant that the man’s shouting was heard by no one and the men driving them were seemingly intent on their
own progress, giving an injured man and a lame horse barely a second glance. Once they were sheltered behind the curtain wall, Cheris spoke, her heart full of misgivings.

  ‘You will send some men to help that poor horse, won’t you? And the man for that matter.’

  He put his face right next to hers. ‘We were that close!’ he said angrily, gesturing with his thumb and forefinger. ‘We might still be in the mire; just pray that there are no witnesses and that no one believes the man’s words.’

  ‘He slipped and banged his head,’ she said. ‘His concussion made him see things.’

  Dylan breathed. ‘Maybe!’ he said tersely. ‘Maybe... Now let’s get back.’

  Dylan opened the gate, leading the way as they shot along the dark corridor and up the stairwell until finally they stood outside her door. Nobody saw them.

  ‘Stay there while I get changed and give the dress back to you; I won’t be a minute.’

  She slipped into her room and shut the door. Leaning back against it, she was about to let out an enormous sigh of relief when she saw the chair by the bed.

  Marcus was sitting on it.

  She had never seen him looking so furious, but before he could speak she raised her hand.

  ‘Say what you will, but please let me change first. Dylan is waiting outside.’

  He grunted and turned his back; she was back in her red robe faster than she thought possible. When she had finished she opened the door, handed Dylan the dress and bade him on his way.

  Time to face the storm.

  ‘I don’t know where to begin with you!’ His voice was angry, though controlled. But it was not that which disconcerted Cheris the most, for his words were shot through with something else. Disappointment... disappointment in her. ‘Do you have any idea what trouble you could have put that man through in your stupid, selfish hot-headedness? He could end up in prison, disgraced... even disowned by his family, and, yes, you could see that he came from a good family. That is partly what made it so easy for you to make him dance to your tune. He has been brought up to always try to give a lady what she asks for.’