Red Rowan: Book 3: Return of the Reluctant Hero

by Helen Gosney

  “No, you shouldn’t have. And the rest of you can all see that now too, can you?”

  “Aye, Sir. It was just… just bloody wrong, Sir. I can’t believe that I… We’re all very sorry, Sir,” Dorn said, shamefaced, as his friends all said, “Aye, Sir” at more or less the same time.

  Rowan nodded again.

  “Well, at least you’re all man enough to admit it. I accept your apology on behalf of young Scrap, lads. Thank you,” Rowan said quietly. He studied them more closely for a moment. “But there’s something else too, isn’t there? Are you worried about what I was saying today in the circles?”

  Rogen tried not to stare. How the hell could he possibly know that…?

  “Sir… I… we …”

  “Sit down please, lads. I’m sorry, it might be a bit crowded,” Rowan waved a hand at a chair and a sofa, “’Tis a shock to hear it put so plainly, isn’t it?”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Rogen said hesitantly as he sat down warily on the edge of the chair and the others perched on the sofa, “I… I truly don’t think any of us have ever thought about it like that before today, Sir…”

  No, Rowan thought, but at least you listened and you’ve been thinking about it since. Good.

  “No, lad, you probably haven’t. Why would you? All you hear about is… medals and honours and bloody glory, and the damned Trophy of course, now that it’s coming up again,” Rowan shook his head slowly, “That’s what we all used to think too, before Messton. But tournaments and things aren’t what it’s all really about. No, killing folk is what it’s about. You’ve seen my scars… that’s all you get from a battle, scars or death. If you’re very damned lucky, you might survive it, but you’ll carry it with you forever.”

  The lads looked at each other in surprise. They certainly hadn’t expected him to say anything like that. He was the hero of Messton and Trill: a very unpretentious and reluctant hero, true, but still he was Red Rowan. No, this would take some thinking about. Tharl wondered if he might ask him something else that he’d been thinking about too. Certainly nobody else was as well qualified to answer his question. He looked at Rowan sitting calmly stroking his little black kitten and decided he should take the man’s advice and simply speak up. He’d soon tell him if the topic was unwelcome.

  “Sir… about… um, about Messton…” he began.

  “What about it, Tharl?” Rowan said quietly.

  “Well, Sir, I… no, I’m sorry, Sir. I… I shouldn’t ask you…”

  Rowan looked at him thoughtfully. He wasn’t a bad lad; none of them were really. They’d just been very stupid and now they regretted it. And they were worried about what he’d said earlier today.

  “Tharl, lad, you can ask me anything you like. If I don’t want to answer you, I’ll tell you. Try me and see.”

  “Thank you, Sir… Sir, everyone says that… that Messton was glorious, and… but I look at the Memorial and… there’s so many names there, Sir…” Tharl’s voice trailed away.

  “Aye, there are. Near as dammit two thousand of our men died there. Good men. And Rollo’s men… about… I don’t know really, about four thousand or so, I think. Maybe a few more, or a few less, but ‘twas something like that…” Rowan said.

  “So many…?” Dorn said softly.

  Rowan nodded.

  “Aye, so bloody many. And so young too, most of them. Nearly two hundred of our men were only Cadets, not all that much older than you are now… just lads, sent to do a man’s job. They shouldn’t even have been there, and only a handful survived.” Rowan thought hard for a moment and came to a decision.

  “Lads, I’ve never believed in the ‘glories of war’,” he said, “And I believe it even less now. If you were to ask any of the men who survived what it was like, I don’t think any of them would use the word ‘glorious’. ‘Bloody awful’ is what most of them would say. The glory of it is in the eyes of people who weren’t there. Messton was a nightmare, lads. A nightmare of blood and pain, and suffering and dying. Anyone who tells you otherwise isn’t telling you the truth. And ‘tis a nightmare that still affects all of us who were there in one way or another, and it always will…” Rowan shook his head slowly, “I’d never belittle the courage of the men or the sacrifices they made, they were truly… inspiring, humbling, incredible, but… there’s no glory in killing. At least we were defending Wirran, but the lads from Plait… they’d given their loyalty to a bloody madman. I’ve always thought it was a shame someone didn’t put an arrow in Rollo before he got so far. And I know I shouldn’t be saying this to you, but all the medals and honours they handed out don’t mean a damned thing… not to me, anyway…”

  “But… but, Sir, “ Ivan said, shocked, “How can you say that? You earned the Star of Yaarl at Messton… It’s not been awarded for…”

  Rowan sighed.

  “Ivan, I’m no hero, despite what everyone else will tell you… I’m just a man who did his job as he was trained to do it and, aye, in some ways I did a damned good job too, I suppose, but… truly, I’d swap the Star of Yaarl and every bloody medal I’ve ever won to have been able to get just one more of those troopers home…”

  **********

  The recruits said nothing for a few minutes as it sank into their minds, and finally Rogen said hesitantly, “Sir… you said you were only playing games there today. But… well, you… er… you weren’t messing about, Sir, it looked bloody serious. What did you mean?”

  Ah. So he’d picked up on that, had he? How interesting.

  “Well, Rogen, ‘tis like this… I don’t mess about with a weapon in my hand, never have; if I’m holding a weapon, I mean business. And we do take our training very seriously. The sabres are damned sharp and if you’ve not got your mind on what you’re doing, well… you can get a bloody nasty cut. Mind you, you can get a bloody nasty cut even if you have got your mind on what you’re doing. Think of the bruises you’ve got from the practice swords and imagine if they were sabres,” he tried not to smile as he saw Rogen wince, “But all the same, lad, no matter how serious it all looks with us running around in the circles, ‘tis ultimately just a game. It only truly gets serious when the other man is doing his best to kill you. And when that happens, you need to know what to do without panicking, need to know that you can do the job properly without thinking about it. You need to have practiced and practiced like it’s the real thing because some day it will be again.”

  They digested this soberly too. The conversation wasn’t what they’d expected when they’d come here tonight, and it would take a lot of thinking about. They’d spent a good while watching Rowan in the circles earlier in the day and none of the other men had even looked like they might beat him, not even the Sword Master. The final seconds of the match with Stefan had shown how devastating Rowan could be. If he’d wanted to, he could have killed any of his opponents at any time and could very likely have made a damned good try at killing them all.

  **********

  “Sir… why do you…?” Ivan began, then blushed and added hastily, “Your pardon, Sir, it’s none of my business…”

  “Why do I still do it, Ivan? ‘Tis no simple answer, really. As I said, I’ve never been one to just mess about with a weapon in my hands, and I’m even less inclined to do it now… And I certainly don’t do it so I can go out and kill the next five men I see… no, for me it really is just a game again now. I do it more to repay the faith a lot of people showed in me when I was a lad than for any other reason.” He smiled suddenly. “And because I get fed up with being told what I’m bloody capable of doing, or more precisely what I’m not capable of doing. If folk tell me I can’t do something just because it’s never been done before… well, it makes me more determined to try and succeed at it. Truly, I just like to prove all the naysayers and miserable old buggers wrong… sheer bloody-mindedness, lad, that’s all.”

  **********

  15. “We can’t reach him ...”

  Some of the Trophy squad were having a breather after working
hard in the circles during their afternoon session.

  “Rowan, would you mind if I…?” Corran said hesitantly.

  “Probably not, Corran. Speak up, lad,” Rowan smiled at him.

  “Well… could I, um… do you think I could try your sabre, please? I, I won’t…”

  Rowan nodded.

  “Aye, of course you can. But I have to warn you, it won’t be quite right for you,” he said as he handed it over.

  Corran stared at the sabre in his hands, marvelling at the sheer beauty of the g’Hakken workmanship, at the incredible balance of the blade. He tried a few grips and settled on one that suited him. He and Rowan sparred for a few minutes, each using the other’s sabre, before he found himself disarmed by a move that he’d never been able to counter no matter what he tried to do.

  “Dammit, Rowan. How the hell do you do that? Never mind, perhaps you can show me later,” he picked up the g’Hakken blade, still amazed at the feel of it in his hand. “What did you mean ‘this wouldn’t be quite right for me’? It feels amazing.”

  Rowan nodded, his face thoughtful.

  “Aye, it does. It is. But ‘twasn’t crafted for you. ‘Tis hard to explain… Johan and I used to swap our sabres sometimes, and whenever we did… the other sabre felt perfect in my hands, it was simply superb, but it wasn’t as perfect as my own was. When I picked up my own again, it… I don’t know, it just felt right, it belonged in my hand. His just simply wasn’t quite right for me. Johan said the same. We could both tell the difference between them blindfolded, just by the feel of them, and I don’t mean because Johan’s has a more ornate hilt than mine.” He shrugged. “Nobody else could feel the difference between them, couldn’t feel anything except how perfect they both were. ‘Twas strange, but the dwarves said that was exactly as it should be. Johan’s sabre was crafted for him and mine was crafted for me. If ever they craft one for you, you’ll understand what I mean, as much as it can be understood.”

  Corran was intrigued. “So if I was to use Captain Johan’s sabre…”

  “It would feel just as good as this one … and of course it is. ‘Tis a superb blade, but to me, mine is better. And he said the same about his. Any g’Hakken blade is wonderful, the balance is perfect and there are simply no better blades anywhere, but it is only truly ‘right’ for the one it was made for.”

  “But how do they do it?”

  Rowan shook his head.

  “I truly don’t know how they do it, Corran, though I lived with them for a good while and they… they watched everything I did, how I walked, ran, did things, held things, not just wielded a sabre. And then Finn came out one morning and gave it to me… sorry, Master Smith Findarel, as I should say. I hadn’t even held the blade while they were making it… I’d watched them at the forge, hammered it a few times myself, but I hadn’t actually held it, and it was…” he shook his head, bemused, “It was perfect… it was just perfect. I was only eighteen then, and when I grew a bit taller and filled out a bit, they asked me to come back. The blade still felt perfect to me, but when they gave it back to me I realised that I’d been wrong. I don’t understand it, but that’s the way of it.”

  “But Rowan… what happened when you lost your finger? Did it change anything with the blade?”

  Rowan shrugged again.

  “Yes and no, Corran,” he said, “After my hand healed I picked up the sabre without thinking about how I’d do it, and well, to be truthful I dropped the damned thing a few times because my hand was weak…” he’d spent hours kneading bread and wringing washing and squeezing a sheepskin ball in an effort to strengthen it again, “When it finally got strong again it felt as it always had, and I’ve never had a problem with it since. The missing finger only makes a difference if I’m trying to play a lute or viol or something. With the sabre, the grip is fine, it feels strong, but somehow it’s better in my left hand now. Because I use either hand, Finn said he couldn’t do much for it.”

  Corran looked at him thoughtfully. He hadn’t realised that Rowan could play a lute or viol, couldn’t really imagine it either, but the man was full of surprises. It was he who’d started quietly singing “The Priest and the Prostitute” while the squad had been grumbling their way through a boring weightlifting session, and now they all did it, vying with each other to invent new verses. The tedium of training was almost a thing of the past. They even sang lewd songs in Siannen as they ran through the town – strictly to keep a proper rhythm of course - and nobody was any the wiser. He smiled and returned to the subject.

  “And that’s why you use the left hand more now?”

  “Aye, partly, but that right shoulder isn’t always what it might be either, the cursed thing. I do still use either hand, of course, but the left one’s better if I really mean business.”

  Corran nodded. Rowan could beat anyone in the squad with either hand, but he seemed to do it more easily with the left hand.

  Rowan lifted his head suddenly, frowning slightly.

  “Someone’s in a hurry,” he said, “But we’re all here, aren’t we? Nobody’s running late…” he shrugged and turned back to Corran.

  **********

  Sword Master Stefan heard someone running towards the fencing circles too and wondered who it could be. His squad were all there working and he was just about to start sparring himself.

  “Excuse me, Sir… is… is the Champion here, Sir?” a second-year recruit gasped.

  Stefan frowned at him. This lad needs to be a bit fitter, he thought. He’d have to have a word with their instructor. Shame it wasn’t Rowan, or the lad would have plenty of breath to tell him what the problem was. The change in the attitude and fitness of the first-year recruits was nothing short of amazing. They generally wiped the floor with the older recruits in the scrambleball competition.

  “Aye, Anton, of course he is. But what the hell’s going on that you’re in such a rush?”

  “Sir… Mrs. Fess sent me to… to get him. She… she told me to run as fast as I… could, Sir,” the lad panted. It was a decent run out to the circles from the Captain’s Cottage at full speed and he hadn’t paced himself very well at all. “She… one of the little lads is…”

  “Something’s happened to one of the Captain’s lads?” Stefan was aghast at the thought. Fess had been at Den Farrar for a couple of weeks on some garrison business or other and was expected back in a day or so. “Rowan!” he called.

  “Aye, Stefan, do you want me?” Rowan replied.

  “Aye, lad. Quickly.”

  “Sorry, Corran, seems I’ve got to go,” Rowan said, “I’m sorry to ask you, but…do you mind keeping a bit of an eye on Scrap? I don’t think he’ll leave my shirt, he doesn’t trust you lot not to run off with it, but...”

  “Aye, Rowan, I’ll make sure nobody stands on your little shadow,” Corran said with a grin. Scrap followed Rowan everywhere and guarded his discarded shirt faithfully if he was running or sparring. “I’ll look after your sabre too if you like,” he added as Rowan nodded gratefully and hurried over to Stefan.

  “Here I am, Stefan. What’s wrong?” he looked at his friend’s worried face in surprise.

  Stefan had managed to get a bit more out of the recruit as he regained his breath.

  “It’d be funny if it wasn’t so damned serious, Rowan. Seems the middle one of Fess’s lads has got himself stuck up your tree. That bloody big thing outside the barracks,” he said.

  “Young Stefan’s in the tallowbark?” Rowan said in amazement. It was an enormous spreading tree, well over one hundred feet tall. “How high up is he?”

  “He’s very high, Sir. More than halfway up that huge bloody great thing outside the main barracks, Sir,” Anton said nervously. He’d never actually spoken to the Champion before. Those who had said that he didn’t bite, but he could be very blunt and he didn’t suffer fools gladly. He could certainly swear well too, Anton thought admiringly as Rowan muttered several instructive words.

  “I’d better go and get the silly bu
gger down before he falls and breaks his neck, I suppose. Truly, he’s a pest of a lad sometimes, but Fess and Bella would never forgive me if I didn’t,” Rowan said. He set off, Anton running at his side. The lad soon found himself hopelessly outdistanced as the twenty years older but fearsomely fit and very fast Rowan ran to the tallowbark.

  Poor Bella was nearly in tears when he got there. She stood with her little daughter on her hip and her oldest and youngest sons beside her, surrounded by eight or nine Guardsmen, all of them staring up into the branches of the huge tallowbark. A couple of Guards steadied a ladder against the trunk of the tree and a young trooper was at the top of it peering upwards, but the ladder was hopelessly inadequate.

  That damned Stefan, Rowan thought. Sometimes that lad’s got less brains than a bloody rabbit. This wouldn’t be the first time that somebody’d had to rescue the adventurous seven year old from some scrape or other.

  “Bella love, are you all right?” he asked quickly, then, “Can a couple of you lads bring that bench thing over here for Mrs. Fess please? She needs to sit down.” Bella was nearly eight months pregnant and she looked very frazzled.

  “Oh, Rowan! I’m so sorry to call you away from training, but… that bloody pest Stefan’s gone and got himself stuck up there,” she pointed upwards, “We can’t reach him and he’s too frightened to move.”

  “Don’t worry, Bella, I’ll get him for you. He’ll be all right. How far up is he…? Ah. I see him. Has anyone got a couple of ropes? Thanks,” he looked at Bella as he tossed the ropes over his shoulder, “Sit down, Bella love. Take the weight off your feet. I’ll get him, don’t fret. Truly, he’ll be all right.”

  He kissed her on the cheek as she sat down heavily on the quickly provided bench, put the other two little lads beside her and baby Zara on her lap.

  “Just stay still up there, young Stefan, you’re all right,” he called up to the whitefaced youngster nearly seventy feet up, “Just hang on tight and don’t bloody move. I’ll be there in a moment. Maybe two moments.”