Grunting, Remus shoved the bloodied dagger into his belt, and had to brace himself against the blood smeared wall as a sudden bout of dizziness threated to overwhelm him, he started to move down the corridor towards the garden door. It would not be long before the fourth man came back with his pals, he thought, he didn’t intend to hang around.
Stumbling down the corridor, he went out into the garden. Slamming the door shut behind him, he made his way as quickly as he could into the rear of the long garden. The outside air was damp and cold, and a small patter of rain began to fall on his face. The air carried a tinge of smoke on the night breeze. Cursing the pain in his wounded side, cursing the mob and cursing the rain he kept moving. The garden gave way to the rear courtyard. Here could be found the stables and the coach sheds of the household. He caught up to Tobin’s family and servants at the very end of the courtyard. To his dismay they seemed to be trying to open the two large black painted gates that allowed the coaches to enter the town house from the exit into the alleyway beyond. When he reached the group, he asked ‘Why are you still here?’
‘Hurry up!’ He heard Melissa shouting at one of the manservants as he nervously fumbled with the padlock that sealed the gates.
‘I’m going as fast as I can, miss,’ answered the servant. He was using a knife to clumsily pick at the lock, and didn't seem to know what he was doing.
Angela gasped, and looked at Remus’s bloody shirt as he approached.
‘Are you injured?’ she asked with wide eyes. Ignoring her he walked to Melissa and without a word pulled the sword out of her belt. Before she could protest he pushed, the servant out of the way and swung the old broadsword down onto the lock. Once, twice, thrice he struck as sparks from the blows showered him. He quelled the rising panic in his breast as the lock refused to give, but he refused to give up, and finally after repeated blows the lock shattered. He threw the now bent and chipped sword onto the cobbles with a clang. Melissa quickly swept it up, cursing at him. He didn’t reply as he dropped to his knees in exhaustion. His head was pounding with the exertion, and the pain made him vomit.
‘Help him up,’ shouted Angela. Young Sebastian wailed in fear, and buried his head into his mother’s chest. Remus looked up and saw the mob pouring out across the garden like cockroaches. One of the servants hauled Remus up onto his feet and he grunted in thanks. He pulled the bloody dagger he had placed in his belt.
‘Find shelter. I’ll keep the bastards busy,’ he shouted as all but the boy who helped him fled through the now open gate into the dark alley beyond.
He cursed at not having time enough to close the two gates behind them. He turned to face the mob, and as he did so he noticed one of the manservants had stayed behind.
‘Get out of here, son.’ he said, eyeing the mob.
‘Fuck you, sir.’ was the grimly determined answer. Remus grinned at that.
The mob came to a halt and formed a semi-circle around them. Around thirty or so if he was any judge. They all kept their distance for the moment. The men acted, much as Remus expected them to, all brave men in the comfort of the alehouse, or when smashing into a house full of women and children. But, three of them lay dead in the house, that had spooked them a little, made them edgy. They wanted his blood, but who would be the first to charge? A rag-tag mob armed with cudgels, hammers, knives and little else. Cowards all. As soon as he went down then they would come in as a fury of blows and kicks. He spat at the ground. Not a real fighter amongst them.
A man who seemed made of muscle and fat, swaggered out in front of the mob and shouted over their taunting. ‘You did for some of the lads, you fucker’. Looks like he’d found the leader, thought Remus.
‘You have the right of it, fat man,’ Remus said in a level voice. ‘I killed three of your shit streaks. One of ‘em pissed himself, as he died.’
The courtyard went unnaturally quiet. The only noise was of the ever increasing rain smashing onto the tiles and cobbles. Remus could feel the hatred and the fear of the mob. He must have looked a worrying sight to them. He didn't beg or shout empty threats, and he was a man armed with a dagger, covered in blood that was not his own.
‘We will kill you!’ shouted the boy next to him, but he sounded scared.
Remus locked eyes with the leader. He saw the man then, as his old sarge would say, the fake posture, the puffed up self-importance and the leader’s pathetic attempt to stare him down, that lasted only a few seconds. Mere bravado, nothing more than piss and wind. To cover his failure the leader glanced away to shout encouragement at his men. A bar room swaggart, nothing more. But a swaggart in charge of a mob, Remus thought.
‘Come on lads’ shouted the leader, and stood back as six of the thugs ran forward, with weapons ready.
‘Don’t hesitate, mercy will kill you today,’ said Remus to the lad who stood with him, and he was surprised and impressed to see the lad looking determined. Good man, he thought. Bright enough to be scared, but no coward with it. Shame he’d never get to find out his name.
The first man to reach Remus had an axe and swung it wildly. Remus ducked easily, his knife snaking out, slicing the man’s forearm open. The thug dropped the axe with a scream, Remus kicked the man in the chest sending him sprawling to the cobbles. The boy had knocked one man down with the cudgel. Then swept the club down onto the head of another. The other men hesitated and stepped back, and for a moment Remus and the servant had a brief respite.
‘Charge ‘em,’ shouted someone in the crowd, breaking the moment of respite. As one the mob surged forward. Remus knew he was going to die.
‘Take the bastard to hell with you, Boy!’ he roared and charged at the mob. This was it, this was how he would die, back in shitty little Thornsreach. He didn’t believe in heroes or last minute rescues that was for children, or airheaded nobles. Yet, Remus would make an account of himself that would terrify these men.
Behind him a voice bellowed, ‘Have at them!’ It was a voice used to the battlefield and the drill square. A voice that expected to be obeyed. Before Remus could turn to see what was happening horsemen thundered past Remus towards the charging mob. No last minute rescues, thought Remus, but sometimes lady luck did smile on an old soldier, and she had rolled two sixes for him. Armoured knights, the King’s guard by the cut of them, scattered the mob like rats chased by dogs. Broadswords flashed down and men screamed. Hooves crushed fallen men. He saw general Tobin amongst the charge. He was roaring a battle cry as he punched his horse through the mob, slashing his sword to his left and right, men falling and dying around him.
It was over quickly. Watchmen flooded in from the front of the house trapping the survivors. Tobin shouted for the rioters to drop their weapons and kneel. Those that had not fled did so, and they cried out for the lord’s leniency. The watchmen disarmed the group of rioters and circled them with their short swords draw. While the Horseman circled the group warily.
The general dismounted and shouted, ‘Who leads here? Answer me or I will have all your heads!’ His boot lashed out and kicked one of the cowering rioters in the ribs. He cried out and rolled in to a ball.
Tobin placed his sword on the man’s throat and the commoner went still, his eyes bulging in terror.
‘Who is your leader? Speak now,’ said Tobin.
The blade dug into the man’s throat, blood trickled freely. The man begun to weep like a child.
‘It was Ranulph, please don’t kill me, my lord,’ said the terrified man, pointing at the leader who lay face down in the mud. The leader cried out in fear as Tobin stalked towards him. He tried to crawl away in the filth and the mud but the watchmen grabbed hold of him.
The general’s voice was harsh and bitter as he shouted. ‘You have robbed from the poor and the rich alike. Some of you have killed innocent men. You threatened my house hold, my servants, my wife…my sons.’
His face was white with fury, and for a moment, Remus thought he would strike the fat man dead, but Tobin waved his hand and gave orders inste
ad, ‘Restrain them. Have them placed in the empty stables until tomorrow. Post ten men as watch. We will have them tried.’ Turning to the knight’s commander he said. ‘Five of you will stay here and guard my family. The rest of you follow me, there is much to do tonight.’
As the men followed his orders, more knights entered the courtyard. Remus was pleased to see them escorting Angela, the children and the others. They seemed shaken but unhurt. Tobin must have intercepted them as they fled through the alleyway. Lady luck was indeed smiling on them all tonight. Remus began walking to the young lad who had stood with him when Tobin stopped his horse before him. ‘It would seem, you have a habit of protecting those I care for,’ he said, and with no other word he rode out of the courtyard with the City Watch following closely.
The Jack-o-Stripes
Free Jon grinned to himself as he eased into the wide bath. Sighing deeply as the hot water covered his aching muscles; he reached for a glass of sack and took a small sip. Things had certainly changed since Wintersong. He was no longer starving now, and he had money enough to afford a decent room in one of the better inns, in the Wyck area of Thornsreach. Thankfully, it was a place well away from the wretched stink of the Stews. An excellent place for him to have a well-earned respite from the hard work of the last few nights.
God it felt good to stop for a moment! He was exhausted, but how his heart had soared as he heard the crowd cheer in the alehouse tonight. The filthy, drab clothing he had worn to fit in with the commoners. The rags lay forgotten on the black, marbled floor. How he had talked, and how they had listened. Finally the time was right! Change was in the air, you could smell it. This very night the heart of Thornsreach burned as the common man made his complaint. The poor were finally hungry for a change and sick of the old lies. They had been driven to it by the King himself, his heavy taxes, his defeat at Cathan and that Islinor bitch of a wife of his. The disaster of Cathan had been particularly good fuel to stoke the people’s resentment. Wallencourt would be sick with jealousy if he could see Free Jon now. That fop, Caling, had been right, now was the time to stir resentment and fear. All that came before was just a rehearsal.
Relaxing even further into the bath, Jon let his mind drift. The maid had added jasmine to the water, and he revelled in the smell. And why not, why should the lords have all the luxuries? Caling had been certain to make sure he was comfortable for the, ‘great work,’ as he called it. He had been generous with his time and, more importantly, his money.
Yet Jon was uneasy. Who was Caling? He had never met the man before the night he had walked into his cell at the King’s Tower. It was four days after Wintersong, and Jon had been haunted by his memories and dreams as he lay in that wretched place. He had abandoned all hope and was waiting for the noose, when Caling was let into his cell by a bribed guard and offered him hope. He could see the man was a lord. That much was clear from his confident stance and well educated accent. Even though he dressed plainly, the cut and cost of the cloth was apparent. Jon had eyed him suspiciously from the corner of the room, and Jon was amazed to see the guard simply walk out of the cell, closing the door behind him. For a moment his half-starved mind had thought he was a new prisoner, but then the nobleman spoke.
‘You are the man who calls himself, Free Jon?’ he said.
‘Aye, it is. And who are you?’ came his reply as he hugged himself close and hid in the shadows of the cell.
‘My name is Caling. I am interested in your work, and I think your ideas have some value. You also have a touch of the demagogue about you.’
Jon grunted in response to the man and avoided making eye contact. His mind raced, trying to discover the angle. Who was this man, was he an agent of the King’s Footpad sent to root out information? Or was he something else? Could he be for real?
Caling was not put off by his gruff reply. He seemed oddly cool. It struck Jon later that the man had been so still, as if every moment was well thought out in advance. The nobleman seemed relaxed, as if it was common for a lord to be left alone with a prisoner in a dark cell. Despite his fear and uncertainty, Jon was becoming curious.
‘What do you want from me? Are you a lord who likes to fuck prisoners?’ He didn’t believe that, but he wanted to rattle the man, to cause a crack in his coolness, but Caling just ignored his words and said. ‘I want you to help show the common orders, and the nobility, that the King does not have a divine right to rule.’
Jon laughed at that, refusing to believe such a thing. He stood up and faced the man. Spitting into the filth of the floor he retorted, ‘Do you take me for an idiot? You are but a spy. Sent here by the Footpad. Away with you! I’ll have none of this game.’
Caling raised an eyebrow at that and shrugged. ‘I have no love for the Footpad or the King. Wallencourt was an old friend of mine.
For years I backed his cause. Never publicly, of course. That would not do. Only with gold, and gold is the best support of all.
Jon was taken aback. Wallencourt had never mentioned such a man, but it was true that he always had money. Perhaps there was something to this?
Caling stepped closer to him and said, ‘Wallencourt spoke highly of you, Jon. And while he strove for justice, the time was never right. But the King is vulnerable now, and the time to strike will be soon. You and I will be ready for it. I have paid off the guards. They will look aside when we leave. You will be free.’
‘No, no. This does not happen. It’s lies. You will have me killed for trying to escape!’ Jon had shouted at the lord.
‘If that were true I would not be here at all. You would die by the noose, not a knife, and you would be nothing more than a fitting example for the crown. If I was an agent of the King why would I waste time with such stupid plots?’ answered the lord. ‘If you come with me, no one will look for you. I could not help Wallencourt, his crime was too public. The King had noticed him, but you’re easier to help. With a little well placed coin I can buy a great deal of indifference to your escape. What say you?’
For a moment Jon stood in the cell, undecided, unwilling to trust this man. He knew if Dex had been there he would have called the man a fool and a liar, but Dex was not there and did not have to lay awake at night listening to the voices of the past in a freezing cell that stunk of piss. He wanted to be free, and not just from this fucking tower, but free of the cries of the baby and the screams of his wife as he sat in the dark. He decided to take the risk. Come what may at least he would be free of this cell. He looked at Caling and said, ‘Aye, all right.’
That had been weeks ago. Now, as he lay in his scented bath, Jon had to admit that Caling had kept his word. He had been cared for, pampered almost, and put up in this fine inn. Instructed to lie low for a while, he spent his time writing. Caling had appeared every so often with a bag of money and had even given him a list of names to contact. Eventually, Caling told him it was time to begin his work. He told Jon that his agents had been finding out who in the Stews were sympathetic to his cause, and where the best alehouses could be found for his preaching. It turned out the numbers of ears willing to listen to his words had increased. The new taxes had hit hard and with the blessed disaster that was Cathan, the time was, indeed, right. He no longer shouted his cause out into damp streets full of those with no ears to listen. Now, he spoke in alehouses, inns, warehouses and working yards of the city, and the people loved to hear Jon’s words. He had become suffused with a new purpose. He had a gift for writing and used his skill to compose his speeches before the commoners. He spoke of loyalty to your own, the honesty of the working men and the fickleness of the noble classes. Often, he cited the betrayal of Perriswood, a man who had so callously abandoned his army on the beaches of Cathan. The crowds always roared with approval to hear him condemn the coward, and Jon sensed a momentum was building amongst the poor. His words had also stung the right ears, as twice King’s men had tried to seize him and twice he had eluded them.
Then the explosion came. Jon could not take credit for it, but he
knew he had helped stir the pot. A group of apprentice lads from a mason’s yard had started to throw rocks at some of the fine carriages that rumbled by. Soon the watch arrived and a fight broke out as they tried to arrest the apprentices. Swords were drawn and blood was spilled. Jon was in the Stews in an alehouse addressing a crowd when word reached him of the growing unrest. He was exalted and urged all to join in. He spent the night travelling from ale house to ale house giving speeches and encouraging others to join in. Later that night, Caling appeared. With him were ten rough looking men with their faces covered. When he asked what they were doing, Caling merely smiled politely and said his men would help to heat things up. The city authorities tried to control the chaos, but it was not enough. The violence spilled out into the richer quarters of the city. He had heard even the King’s general had had his home attacked, and he had laughed to hear tell of it.
As the city streets burnt and the riots spread Jon had thrived on the heat and ash. Walking the streets he had chanted with the crowd and thrown stones. He knew the fire of the commoners anger had been lit, and that they would not burn so intensely for long, but the embers would smoulder and now he knew it could be done. If only Wallencourt could see him now, in the middle of such a storm! The riot raged into the early hours of the next day before the order was again restored, but what a night. Though there were some ill tidings after the nights work. Scores of commoners had lost their lives, including a sad tale of a woman and her two children trapped in a burning hovel in the Stews. Yet change did not come without cost.
Wintersong Page 10
