by Peter Dawes
A whine escaped my lips and the tears already stinging at my eyes spilled onto my cheeks when the man pulled his blade out. Richard Hardi fell to his knees, looking up at me with his final plea latent in his gaze. Get out of here. Run. Hide. Find your brother swiftly. My father collapsed onto the floor and stilled, the action one of alarming finality.
Finally, the sound stopped up in my throat sprang forth as an agonized wail.
The armed man grimaced as our eyes met, my vision blurred until I lifted my sleeve to wipe the moisture from my face. I watched his gaze flick to the sack, confused and distraught when he charged forward and swiped at me with his free hand. The precarious position I maintained worked to my advantage when I flailed back at him and lost my balance in the process. He hit me hard enough for me to sail back and out the window, unable to grab hold of anything to stop my hasty decent.
The sensation of flight became the feel of falling too fast for me to regroup. My body twisted into an upright position, legs kicking and arms reaching out, but failing to claim purchase on anything but thin air. I toppled around once and hit the ground below in a painful thud, my knees unable to bear the brunt of impact and sending me flat onto my backside. The first dizzying sight my eyes took hold of was my father’s killer, leaning out the window to look down at me.
“The urchin’s escaped!” he called out. “Someone get out there and get him.”
I scrambled to a stand and limped until my legs could support my weight again. The world around me spun so violently, I couldn’t figure out whether to find somewhere to hide or huddle into a corner and throw up until someone or something came to put me out of my misery. “Get to Jeffrey,” I managed, more tears falling and my face contorting as I tried to hold back the torrent which wanted to follow. It had not yet registered why I was crying or what in the hell was going on. For all I knew, I would wake to discover the entire thing a bad dream.
The nightmare demanded I run. So, I ran.
I didn’t look back. Not even when I heard the pounding of footsteps on the dirt path behind me. Not even when I heard the whinny of horses and cut into the woods by the road, barreling through branches and feeling a few of them cut into me along the way. I emerged by a stream and waded across it, into deeper woods. A protruding tree root tripped me up on the other side. My knees stung anew and I bit my lip against more weeping, clamoring further until I reached the edge of the forest. I came upon a country road and jumped into the cart of a passing wagon, not even of the mind to thank some higher power for the stroke of serendipity. All I knew was that somehow, I had made it away.
Days later – dirty, hungry, and bloodied from the excursion – I found my way to my brother Jeffrey’s farm. He accepted me without hesitation and, in time, put me to work, but my mind was always elsewhere, chasing a shadow I couldn’t catch. The experience had shattered something within my psyche, leaving me to mend the pieces.
The adult I became carried that fourteen year old boy with him wherever he went. I might have grown into fruition as a man, but there had been a scar inflicted upon my soul, an imprint left that no time could ever heal. Within my dreams, I would replay Richard Hardi’s last moments, and in my thoughts I would muse on the emblem those two strange men wore on their cloaks.
A flame within a circle. The sigil of my father’s killers.
Chapter One
Nine years later.
18 September, in the Year of Our Lord, 1465
North Devon, England
It had been planned for several days, down to its last detail, and had I an ear to bend, I might have bragged for both of our sakes while watching it unfold. The night bore the pitch black of a new moon, the air pleasantly crisp and a vantage point provided to me by nature itself so I could enjoy the show. Poised in a tree branch, I picked at the dirt beneath my fingernails with the tip of my dagger while resisting the urge to hum a tune that had started to dance through my mind. Everything seemed to be playing out exactly as we had intended.
Had I more faith in the Almighty, I might have been inspired toward a prayer of thanks. As it stood, not even the absence of a captain to watch over our unwitting victims could move me toward such a gesture. My adult years had taught me that God had little time for anyone without a bag full of coins or a parcel of land to his boast, and a few pence went further in the hand of a whore than a priest’s coffer. The day churches provided prostitutes would be the day I graced them with my presence.
The irony of my name was far from lost on me.
Instead, I simply shook my head at the guards stationed in front of Lord Bertrand’s residence. It took only a few minutes after my co-conspirator departed for them to crack open the cask of ale delivered to them. ‘With the lord’s compliments.’ It took every measure of my scant self-restraint not chuckle at the comment when it had been issued and sure enough, within a short period of time their constitution had proven just as weak as their wits. They went from jolly to raucous and had taken a turn toward incoherent, stripping off pieces of armor the warmer the alcohol made them. This meant it was my turn to play.
Lowering the dagger, I wiped the blade across the fabric of my pants. As I slid it back into its sheath, one of the guards slumped against his comrade, provoking the latter to shove his cohort aside. I tsked under my breath, lifting to the balls of my feet and crouching. “Don’t be too quick to turn away such ready advances,” I whispered to no one but the night. “You might find yourself enjoying it.”
I grasped hold of the branch with one hand and used it to swing to a soundless landing. The years had been kind to me in more manners than one, gifting me with a light frame and nimble fingers all too willing to do the Devil’s work. The leaves collecting on the ground crunched softly when I took my first step, but the guards were none-the-wiser to my presence. As they erupted into another fit of laughter, I crept closer and paused, fingers brushing across the hilt of my sword.
One of them turned away, hearing the rustle my movements created and squinting into the area where I had taken refuge. I huffed with derision, a light burst of steam rising from my nostrils and mingling with the air before anyone else could take notice. Still, the man glanced toward his friends again and cocked a thumb in the direction where I was crouched. “Rabbits’re running all over the place again,” he managed, the actual words sounding much more slurred.
The guard who had been slumped righted himself and spat on the ground. “So? Killit an’ make us somethin’ to eat,” he said.
“Do I look like a bloody cook?”
“Ain’t gonna say what you do look like.”
The third man burst into cacophonous laughter, his friend readily joining in. The one whose attention I had garnered bristled, his gaze flicking back toward me while my hand shifted from sword’s hilt back to the dagger. An opening gambit played out inside my mind, a slow grin creeping across my lips when he took his first step forward and confirmed the course of action. I held my breath, stilling my thoughts as had become ritual for me. The last moment of silence before the storm was always the sweetest.
When he took another step forward, I sprang into action. The dagger I clutched sailed between us and plunged into the guard’s chest. Dashing from the shadows, I slid my sword from its sheath and swung as the two other guards charged to engage me. The leaning guard came first, taking a slash across the throat and falling backward. His compatriot balked, lifting his sword a moment too late and watching in horror as I knocked it to the ground and thrust mine forward. The blade ran through his stomach with little effort. When I had dislodged him, I delivered a final, killing blow through his chest and stepped back to admire my handiwork as he dropped to the ground.
I paused first to catch my breath. Then, I whistled toward the edge of Lord Bertrand’s property.
A horse whinnied in the distance. The sound of hooves advancing at a cantor followed, a cloaked rider steering the horse in my direction while towing another behind him. I collected my weapons and produced a piece of cloth from a
pouch on my belt. Without looking up, I addressed my accomplice with a smirk. “A flawless execution, as always,” I said. “Go on and gloat. I know you want to.”
He laughed as he alighted from his horse.
We made eye contact once my blades were cleaned and I was able to slip them back into their sheaths. If scoundrels could be said to have best friends, he was that to me, and more. My partner in crime, I always called him, but Paolo Bellini di Verona is how he would have introduced himself, with a smarmy grin and flourished bow. He stood three inches shorter and weighed at least one stone more than I, with dark, wavy locks of hair and a perpetual beard he kept trimmed as close to his face as possible.
Both of us wore the same dark clothes, with leather armor and matching swords. The emblem on his cloak mirrored mine; a thorny black rose, embroidered so that it would hover over one’s heart if they had the fabric gathered close to their chest. Taking a deep breath inward, Paolo exhaled it with a loud sigh. “Che bella sera,” he said, extending his arms with two sets of reins still in his grip. His accent was thick, even when he switched to English. “Three dead guards and an empty house. You are welcome.”
He bent at the waist, gesturing as if tipping an imaginary hat at me. As he handed me the reins to my horse, I chuckled. “Oh, I’m welcome? They didn’t just fall on their own swords, you know.”
“I made it easy for you.” Paolo dismissed my objection with a wave of his hand, grinning at me as I shook my head. Together, we led the horses to a hitching post and secured their reins into place. Both of us turned to regard the front door, he and I taking a deep breath almost in unison. Paolo exhaled his to speak. “What are we looking for?”
“Roland said you’re to find a locked box in a library. There’s a bundle of letters containing some vital correspondence the Yorkists want us to obtain.” Glancing toward where I knew there to be cottages, I ensured the peasants had wisely decided to stay abed before leading us forward, into the house itself. We maintained a comfortable silence until we stepped fully inside and paused to evaluate it. A pensive frown tugged at my lips as I reached into a pocket for my tinderbox. “I, on the other hand, am keeping watch. The servants might be away, but one of the vassals is bound to notice the guards got suddenly quiet.”
My companion nodded, his brown eyes following the action of my hand. I opened the small container without so much as looking at it, pulling out its contents while scanning the room for something to light. “Be a dear and fetch me that candle, would you?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the mantle.
Paolo affected an air of offense, but even with his back turned, I sensed the moment a grin danced across his lips. He marched over to the hearth as I mirrored the expression which had painted itself in my thoughts. “You’ll have to give me more encouragement before I want to ‘be a dear’, amico mio,” he said.
“Then be spiteful and fetch it just the same.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head as he brought over what appeared to be beeswax, half depleted with a blackened wick. I shifted items around in my hands, pressing the flint against the charcloth and sighed as I examined the opulence of nobility on display. “Can you imagine how much he spent on that measly thing alone?” I asked.
“He has a candle and we killed his guards.” Paolo’s eyes shifted from me to the piece of steel I struck across the flint. I caught a hint of amusement in his gaze. “After this, we steal from him and get paid.”
“Such sweets words which ring so pleasantly to my ears.” I struck the flint twice more and grinned with approval once the cloth caught and summoned enough of a spark for me to light the wick. “There you are, pretty flame. Catch hold of that so we can have some light.”
“I don’t know what I fear more. How good you are at that, or how many times you talk to the fire.”
“Well, it would be ill-mannered of me to ignore her considering how many times she behaves for me.” My eyes remained set on the task of not burning myself, until the candle came to life and allowed for me to extinguish the cloth. I tossed its remnant into the hearth and pointed at one of the oil lamps. “Light one of those for me so I might shut the door.”
“Fai come vuoi.” Paolo carefully walked the candle over and lit the lamp before nodding at me. I exchanged the gesture, hurrying to the door and pushing it shut, immersing us in nothing but the glow of the two vessels. My gaze shifted around the room, so focused on the play of the shadows that I jumped when I felt Paolo kiss my cheek.
“Keep watch, then,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
I raised an eyebrow and he laughed, headed toward the hallway and disappearing around the corner. Once he had departed, I lowered the hood from my cloak and tousled locks of deep brown which had gotten longer than I might have liked. My mind stole to a brief memory, recalling an eighteen-year-old man with his legs propped up on a table, hands meticulously cleaning one of his daggers after returning from a job. The foreigner seated across from him had demonstrated a few sleight-of-hand tricks mastered as a petty thief in Verona, making coins disappear with a deft maneuver of his fingers.
“Do you intend to do that to the nobles?” I had asked, glancing up at him with a smirk.
He had grinned, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes as he pledged to double his pay within a month. When he managed that and more, I asked when he planned to return home with his riches. “There is no going home, amico mio,” he had said, the laugh lines on his face still present despite the heaviness which had settled on his soul. “We are both orphans – you without parents, and me without a country.”
Ever since then, we had been nearly inseparable.
Pacing closer to the fireplace, I ran my fingertips along the mantle, disrupting a thin layer of dust in the effort to appear nonchalant. Paolo would be swift about his work, but still, I rarely enjoyed keeping still. The hearth had been cold for some time, further proof that Roland’s client knew what he was talking about. Lord Bertrand had been called away, one of the few noble supporters of House Lancaster remaining after a disastrous battle had unseated most of their power in the area. It had been four years and yet, the bickering taking place over the English throne seemed only to have gotten more pointed, evidenced by an empty house with not even a servant present inside it. Truth be told, I cared very little for the affairs of nobles, outside the possessions in their homes.
That, and the chance to investigate a matter of personal concern.
My eyes scanned the mantle in more than mere idle curiosity. When I failed to see anything of any direct importance, I shifted to the darker side of the room and worked on lighting one of the lamps poised by the far wall. The small flame grew in stature until the immediate area became consumed by a warm, pleasant glow. Drawing a deep breath inward, I breathed in the scent of burning oil and began a much closer examination of the entryway.
I was craning my neck to get a better glimpse of a tapestry hanging from the wall when the sound of footfalls echoed down the hall. Paolo emerged from around the corner, prompting me to spare him a quick glance. Yet again, the man’s fingers had done too good of a job at picking locks, and as I gradually relaxed my demeanor, he studied me with an impassive expression. “You’re looking again aren’t you?” he asked, setting the lit candle back down on the mantle.
I fought the urge to frown. “Did you find the letters?” I countered, in an effort to avoid the question.
Paolo pushed away folds of his cloak and produced the bundle, holding it up to view. “These were the only ones locked away. You’ll have to read them to know for sure.” He hesitated for a moment, hiding the collection out of sight again before walking a few paces closer. “Amico mio?”
A grumble passed through my lips, my gaze drifting away, caught up in scanning the woodwork for any special carvings or drawings. “Yes, I was looking, but considering how few times we find ourselves in the actual residence of a nobleman, I figured I’d seize the opportunity. You have no obligation to help me.”
“I know I don
’t.” He sighed and I swore I heard him mutter something in Italian under his breath. “I’ll gather the bodies and prepare the pyre. You look around in here or whatever it is you need to do, but I’m leaving after the guards are started to burning.”
My grin broadened despite myself. I heard him open the front door, my eyes still fixed upward. “You always say that, and yet you always wait.”
“This might be the time. Don’t tempt me.”
“Just a few moments to scour the library, I promise.” I glanced back at him.
“Grazie.” Paolo gave me a much shorter bow, his eyes expressing both concern and understanding as they regarded me one final time. He turned to depart, leaving me to watch until the front door shut behind him. As it did, I exhaled a tense breath and resumed my search of the main room. Once I was satisfied it contained nothing of note, I decided to continue elsewhere.
I fetched the candle from the mantle and disappeared in the same direction Paolo had headed earlier. Encountering what must have been a servant’s quarters, I poked my head in to evaluate the room before abandoning it in favor of walking upstairs. High ceilings and ornamental wood carvings made up the duration of my ascent, with more of the same forms of art hanging from the walls. A portrait of the lord of the manor himself had been affixed near the very top, provoking the thought once more over how men of nobility chose to spend their money.
Somebody’s bedroom opened up to me next, with more lavish furnishings than had been present in the servant’s quarters, including a chest of drawers and an armoire. Another area adorned in much the same manner followed shortly thereafter. In the next room, I spied the presence of shelves with books arranged on them and followed the compulsion at once to enter it. If a house bore anything of consequence, it did always seem to be found in the library.
