by Peter Dawes
Several followed in their stead, each push further into the dirt just as determined as the last. When I heard the clunk of metal against metal, I stopped, placing the shovel aside in favor of reaching in and unearthing the box with my hands. Dirt covered my arms up to my elbows by the time I finished – some smeared across my forehead when I wiped away sweat – but within a short period of time, I settled onto my backside with the container in hand. My chest rose and fell in slowly diminishing breaths.
Finally, I unlatched the lock and lifted the lid. The contents inside had only been added upon through the years, with the cylinder Father had given to me the first thing my eyes always found. Beside it rested a carving of the killers’ sigil I had made shortly after his death, and a crystal I had taken from the body of one of my more recent targets. As I produced the parchment with the wax seal from my pocket, I held it up one final time and placed it with the other treasures. They joined a vault of lies, misdirections, and half-truths as the spoils I had collected as a member of the Brotherhood of the Black Rose.
Shutting the metal box, I sighed and returned it to its grave. Dirt quickly filled the hole again, smoothed out and concealed by the rock I had removed in order to unearth it, before I slid the hand shovel back into place. A breeze caught the candle’s flame and whipped it around while the air around me fell silent. The ride back into town would be long, and while I had no desire to return indoors, I knew I was too tired to leave just yet. “A short rest it is, then,” I murmured, with only the night to bear witness to my words.
My fingers slid beneath my shirt as I reclined against the tree and settled into place. Despite layers of callouses, I could still feel the engravings on my father’s medallion and brought it to my lips, kissing it before hiding it beneath layers of fabric once more. I held onto it until my lids grew heavy and my body lapsed into light sleep. It wasn’t until dawn crested over the horizon that I woke, curled on the ground beside the now-extinguished candle.
After drawing water to clean the dirt from my hands and face, I dressed again by the light of the sun and trudged back toward Jeffrey’s house. My brother was already awake as I approached, pausing on his way to the barn with his wife standing in the doorway. I nodded at her and she glanced away while Jeffrey dusted off his hands and closed the distance between us. “If not for the fact that your mare is still stabled, I might have suspected you gone already,” he said.
“I considered it, but I thought that might be rude,” I countered. As I glanced toward Anne, I spied the girls gather at her sides and summoned the first genuine smile I had managed since waking. “Besides, it would be poor of me not to give my nieces a proper sending off.”
As I spread my arms, they raced into them and gripped on tight. I made promises of bringing treats for them and waved off Anne as she asked if I wanted anything to eat before I left. As the girls wriggled out of my grip, I shot another look at Jeffrey, which was enough prompting for him to follow me away from the house. “I’ve imposed enough,” I said in passing, turning my back the moment my brother assumed a place by my side.
I waited for the door to shut behind us before leading the way toward the barn. Not making eye contact with Jeffrey, I still managed to be aware of the frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Your visits aren’t an imposition,” he said.
“Calling your brother a fool is hardly endearing enough to make him want to stay.”
“Damn you, Christian.” Jeffrey walked in front of me, stopping me in my tracks. He frowned. “I pray constantly for you. Whether or not you choose to believe it, I do love you.”
I huffed dismissively, side stepping him to continue walking into the barn. Freeing my horse, I secured her bridle into place and lifted myself into her saddle once I had finished. My hands gripped tightly onto the reins while she took a half step back and breathed a grunt. “Please continue to pray for my wayward soul,” I said, nudging Tempest with the heels of my boots. “Maybe salvation might find me despite myself.”
The mare trotted forward, picking up to a full gallop once we had cleared the barn’s entrance. Jeffrey remained a shadow on my back, the echo of his parting words lingering in my ears, even after we spirited past the edge of his lord’s property and well on our way to town. Once again, the temptation to breathe vows I could not keep surfaced, laced with the desire I had to depart and never return again. Somehow, I always found my way back there, though, and each time, I left a great deal heavier than I had been when I had arrived. Such is how it had been since I was a young man, I reminded myself, lapsing into ancient memories throughout the duration of my ride.
And such is how it seemed it would always be.
Chapter Three
The fact remains consistent for both wild animals and adolescent boys; the more you attempt to tame one, the more it will resist.
I remember the first day it became clearest to me that my time at Jeffrey’s farm had come to an end. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I squinted against the harsh sun and saw nothing before me but unadulterated horizon, stretching out into infinity. The crops surrounding me formed a prison, the sickle in my hand a shackle I had held onto faithfully since my father’s death. My own demons had been in pursuit and, after two years, had finally claimed me.
My brother stilled the oxen and called to me when I continued my statuesque pose in the middle of broad daylight. The sound of my name echoed in my ears, eyes shutting with the third invocation as I wondered how a soul could feel so tired after only sixteen years on this mortal coil. I didn’t know what needed to change, but had reached a time of reckoning and threw the sickle down the fourth time Jeffrey summoned my name. “Christian, you get back here or don’t bother returning!” he said when I sprinted in the direction of the house.
When I departed, I vowed to take his words to heart.
Pausing first to bury a few belongings near one of the trees, I hitched a ride with a passing cart and traveled the rest of the way on foot, not knowing where I was headed, but bound to settle somewhere eventually. Within a few days, the city gates of Exeter opened up before me, accepting an orphan boy with no employable skills and nothing else to his credit, save but the sword at my side. I didn’t know what to expect and simply wished for a place to rest my head and a way to fill my stomach by the day’s end. At first, the awe of it was enough to distract me.
The stench of the city burned my nostrils and spires loomed over me, containing the heads of prosecuted criminals as a warning to the rest of its citizens. The times Father had taken us through similar towns flashed through my thoughts while I stared wide-eyed at the macabre wonders before settling on more ordinary affairs. The roads which made up the main thoroughfare were abuzz with activity, young children racing past while crowds gathered around storefronts and friars preaching salvation. I used a few pence stolen from my brother to purchase a meal and slept out by the horses when one innkeeper took pity on me enough to allow it.
The next day brought with it a reckoning, however. If I was going to make it on my own, I had to figure out how. At first, begging for scraps and foraging whatever I could from the piles of refuse and troughs of animals kept me fed. I slept each night with the horses and washed myself in the creek far outside town. By a week into my newly acquired emancipation, I began to wonder if any of the local tradesmen would take on an apprentice while knowing I was far too old to count on receiving that sort of favor. Hunger tempted me toward stealing while the sight of men who had been caught doing so warded me away from it.
The solution to my problem found its way to me on accident.
A group of men had been sitting near the back door of a tavern, drunk from ale and wasting time as the sun began to dip in the horizon. I polished the blade of my sword, taking refuge from the bustle of activity happening indoors while also attempting to ignore the gnawing in my stomach. Buildings loomed on either side of me, the scant glow from their windows providing the light from which I worked. I would’ve been content being left to my thoughts if one of
the inebriated men had not chosen that moment to rise to his feet.
“Hey, lad,” he called out, toward where I sat, further up the scant space alley and nearer to the main road. His voice bore such a grating tone to it that my task came to an immediate halt. He laughed, but I fought the urge to do more than steal a quick glance at him when he continued. “What’s a boy doin’ with a man’s weapon?”
Two of his friends sniggered in the background. I heard the sound of him stumbling forward a few paces and sighed as he closed in on where I sat. “Bet one could fetcha few coins for a blade like that. You buyin’ us a round tonight, lad?” he asked.
“The sword isn’t for sale,” I said. Once again, the cloth in hand resumed the stroke that had been interrupted. “Go back to your drinking and leave me be.”
“Listen to him, right? Thinks he’s a noble’s son and hasn’t been taught any better.” I finally glanced up at him when he paused and bent a few feet away from me. “You’re just a bloody street urchin. You stink like a horse’s arse, you do.”
“Better than reeking of drunkard.” A smirk curled the corner of my mouth, more of a dare than I was willing to admit to myself at the time. Still, a strange cause and effect played out in my mind, a series of events I hadn’t been able to visualize since my father had been taken from me. It was as though a muse had woken from its slumber, summoned to come out and play again after so long in a box. My father had taught me the game while instructing me on how to wield a sword.
Anticipate their next move, he had told me. Form your reaction before they have a chance to act.
He reached for the sword’s hilt, thinking he would catch me off-guard, and yelped when I captured his wrist in my hand. What started as surprise transformed into anger, but I dodged when I knew he would throw a punch and kicked him in the shin before clamoring away. He held his leg and swore under his breath. I lifted my weapon in warning, believing his next move would be to charge at me. This served to be enough of a deterrent. My attacker withdrew to where his friends stood.
They, on the other hand, scowled at me, indicating the altercation had not yet come to an end. One pulled a dagger, his eyes shouting malice while he advanced. I clutched the sword with both hands, a slight wave of nervousness running through me as I realized I was out of practice. Father had always told me I was nimble. I could only hope my wits remained sharp even if my blade skills had atrophied.
He swiped at the air to intimidate me and I lurched backward, catching myself before the clumsy maneuver could knock my footing off-balance. The others chuckled, one calling out, “He’s scared of you, Nate!” and my first challenger adding, “Split ‘em open an’ see how he likes his belly bein’ spilled on the street.” I swallowed hard, attempting not to see that as a real possibility, and dodged another swipe out of instinct. Nate smirked, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth, the ones that weren’t missing. He thrust the blade again, forcing me to dodge the blow and I nearly tripped when my feet moved from dirt to cobblestone. It kicked up a cloud, which caused Nate to launch into a coughing fit.
A slow, wicked grin crossed my lips as I had the opportunity I needed.
Freeing one hand, I reached down and picked up a handful of earth, casting it upward blindly and watching as the greater portion of it hit Nate’s face. He stumbled back, falling onto his ass and leaving himself exposed in the process. I dug my boot into his wrist, causing him to drop the dagger while he cried out in pain. I could almost see the wicked glint in my eyes when I scratched the surface of his neck with the tip of my sword. “Looks like I have another blade,” I said. “Think I might have supper tonight after all.”
“Smile while you can, boy,” he said, punctuating the genesis of a threat with a groan. Whatever he might have said in addition fell by the wayside as the other men collected him, escorting him away with what little pride he might have had left. I picked up my prize and watched them leave in silence. The moment I felt confident enough to do so, I turned my back and sought shelter for the night.
The next day, I sold the dagger to one of the local smiths, the confrontation from the night before little more than a memory save but for the jingle of coins in my pocket. Whatever I should have feared was lost on me, swept to the side so I might muse upon how to spend my winnings. I walked into one of the inns and relished the first good meal I’d had since arriving in the city. By night, I strode into the tavern near where I’d had my altercation and purchased a pint of ale, hoping for a few hours more of warmth before I would have to bunk down.
As I sat at the counter, I surveyed the other patrons, allowing my gaze to jump from one to the other while taking note of each face. It had been two years since I had sat at one of these counters, and the recollection of the last time brought with it the chill of solitude as an unwelcomed companion. My eyes shifted to the barkeep – as though I needed to remind myself the tall, wiry man was not Old John – and settled on his wife as the spindly woman appeared to collect a pint for one of the tables. Still, I could not shake it, even when I decided against spending more money on food or drink.
I strode out the front doors and allowed my gaze to shift heavenward, my mind still lost in heavier things. Men rode past and other people strolled along the main thoroughfare, their presence failing to evoke more than my passing interest. I took a deep breath, in some effort to steady myself and place the past back where it belonged. It had me distracted enough that I failed to hear them approach.
“You’re either brazen or stupid to come back here, lad,” a familiar voice said, lobbing the opening gambit. As I peered down from my appraisal of the night sky, I spied the men who had been part of the group from the previous evening, of which Nate and his more outspoken comrade stood as their leaders. It was the latter who nodded toward the sword at my side. “We’ll be collecting that and Nate’s dagger. Hand ‘em over and we’ll let you leave with some of your teeth.”
“I’d like to keep them all, if it’s the same to you,” I quipped while knocking myself from the throes of melancholy. The moment the words had been birthed, I realized the posture I had committed myself to and straightened my stance as though in recognition. Movement in my periphery told me some of the bystanders had paused to watch, which served to both bolster and rattle me. My hand settled on the hilt of my sword. “I won your dagger and sold it. Count your losses and find somebody else to threaten.”
“What an imp.” The man barked a laugh and cocked a thumb at me while regarding his friends. Something told me they had all shown up mostly sober, a thought I tried hard not to linger on. “He’s working on getting gutted.”
“More like you are.” I raised an eyebrow. “Leave me alone.”
“Don’t think you’re in much the position to make demands.” Pulling back his cloak, he reached for his blade and drew it with a shrug. “I wish I could say I wasn’t going to enjoy splitting you, but then I’d be lying.” Pacing forward once, he held the weapon aloft. In that brief span of time, however, he had told me all I needed to know.
I didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the benefit of having eaten, but some of the rust sloughed off. It was as though time had paused just long enough for me to weigh the man and epiphany struck out of the blue. I opened my mouth, saying, “Wait,” just as he motioned forward. Mercifully, it was enough to get him to hesitate. I glanced quickly at the others, and then back at him. “Why don’t we make a wager out of it?”
The man blinked stupidly. “A wager?” he asked.
I fought the urge to ask if he knew the definition of the word. “Yes, a wager.” Pulling my sword from its sheath, I kept it lowered and pointed at the others with my free hand. “All of them step back. You and I can have a proper fight. Whoever wins keeps the blades.”
He laughed. “You sold Nate’s dagger. I get to rip that from your belly?”
“Make ‘im work it off for you,” called out a female voice from just inside the entrance to the tavern. My opponent and I peered over in unison at the barkeep’s wife,
who had chosen that moment to come outside. The presence of more people at the doorway with her and a few additional witnesses present around us suggested it no mere coincidence. Somehow, we had managed to capture a healthy amount of attention for the brevity of the exchange.
I glanced back at my opponent as he lowered his sword. “Work it off?” he asked, his sights still on her.
“Yes, make ‘im indentured to you.” My attention stole back to the woman, and followed the exchange as it bounced from one person to the other. She leaned against the door frame and folded her arms across her chest. “Ain’t no good to you bleeding out. You take his wager an’ if you win, you keep both the boy and his sword.”
“What’m I going to do with an urchin?”
“I don’t know. Clean your weapons? Tend your horses? Throw ‘im a crust of bread for polishin’ your boots, for all I care. Just sayin’ he’s better to you livin’.” She pointed at me. “Other way goes, though. He wins, he keeps your blade an’ you leave ‘im the hell alone.”
The man spat to the side and glared, but the woman held her ground, as though not the slightest bit intimidated by him. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. It was as though she had seen the same thing I did and made the same mental wager. He held his sword like an unpracticed amateur, his stance far too open and leaving too much to chance.
My gaze returned to the man as he looked at me. I shrugged. “Better than getting gutted,” I said.
“I’ll have you cleaning out piss pans,” he muttered before raising the sword again. I mimicked his movements, giving him the impression of me being just as unknowledgeable as he was. Yes, it had been two years since I had sparred with my father, but both the blade and the knowledge I possessed were what remained of Richard Hardi. The sobriety I gained in the tavern turned into determination, kept hidden deep under my skin lest the other man become aware of it.
