The baron suddenly had a vision, a young man’s face floating before him. ‘Now I remember you. Ten years ago you fought your brother Malcolm on the battlements of Alnwick Castle in Northumberland, slicing and dicing him effortlessly. Do you remember me? I was the young soldier who took his body from you and carried it down to the awaiting carriage. But afterwards, why did you not take up the Stewardship? Why did you disappear?’
‘Those times are a drunken blur,’ said Thomas. ‘I went back to claim what was rightfully mine, but when I had it within my grasp I realised that it wasn’t what I wanted, so I had killed my brother for nothing. I grieved and became a drunkard to forget, but even the demon drink doesn’t wash away the nightmares of those days.’ All eyes were on his haunted face.
‘You fascinate me,’ said Ozhan genuinely in awe of the man. ‘You come back from the wars a hero to claim what was rightfully yours, fight and kill your own brother, gutting him like a fish and then disappear for ten long years, only to reappear in another city as a tavern brawler. What logic lies behind your thinking man? You had it all and threw it away.’
Thomas shook his head in a slow controlled fashion. ‘If a happy man gains riches and power it can possibly make him even happier but, riches and power don’t make a miserable man happy – and I was miserable.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Ozhan at a loss for words, sitting down on a bench cupping his chin. ‘Is there a point to all this?’ he asked, cocking his head.
‘Aye,’ said Thomas. ‘A dying man doesn’t stop to think about whether he is or isn’t rich and powerful, he concentrates on every single breath he takes and hopes it isn’t his last. He fights to survive.’
‘I think you’re a scholar,’ said Ozhan, more enlightened than the rest of the inn.
‘It matters not what you think of me, but it does matter what I think of you. I’ve seen your kind in every backstreet,’ said Thomas with a fierce stare embedded on his face. ‘You’re scum. All you ever do is take what isn’t yours, usually from the poor, needy and undefended because they’re terrified of you. Then when at last they have no more to give, you inflict great pain and suffering upon them, usually ending in death. The world is full of your kind and would be better rid of you.’
The baron looked into Thomas’ eyes and was silent for a moment. ‘We’re the same you and I,’ he said at last, rising from the bench. ‘Come and join me for a jug.’
Thomas shook his head again. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’re a wilful man,’ said Ozhan, and with great effort he held back the angry retort that swelled in his throat, but there was a truth here and he knew it. A person rarely acknowledges what means the most to them until they lose it, and Thomas had been in that very position ten years ago and lost everything with a single sweep of his blade. He stared into the warriors brown eyes, holding to his insane gaze and shrugged. ‘Maybe another time then,’ he said wanting to beat a hasty retreat, knowing that neither he, nor any of his men were in the same league as Thomas when it came to swordplay. ‘Come,’ he called to his men, and all ambled behind him through the hushed crowd like a line of sheep.
Thomas watched them leave. ‘One day I’ll kill them all,’ he said with a hard edge to his voice.
*
Two days later, Thomas and Dardo were out on the Nottinghamshire grasslands, behind the Dog and Duck practising sword and bow. ‘No, no, no,’ insisted Thomas shaking his head impatiently. ‘You hold a sword like a girl with a limp wrist and you’re no better with a bow, therefore I think it better that you use your speed, strength and fists, for I cannot teach you what you want to learn.’
‘But this is my dream,’ said Dardo.
‘Yes, but it’s a nightmare to me,’ said Thomas stepping forward sheathing his swords. He laid his hands on his friend’s shoulders. ‘You have no talent with either weapon so let’s get back to the inn, I’ve work to do.’
‘You judge me unworthy?’
‘No, merely incapable. Your ability with a weapon is mundane.’
The bright morning sunlight flared in Thomas’ eyes as he shifted his gaze out across the vast grasslands. Three riders were heading their way on horses taller than any he had seen before, and the three men looked like large, powerful warriors as they galloped towards them with increasing speed. Thomas stared silently at the distant riders. ‘This looks interesting,’ he said with his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Within moments the three men rounded on the two friends, tugging their reins, coming to a halt in front of them, sitting their horses, gazing silently at the pair.
‘Do you know of a Master Ozhan and his whereabouts?’ asked one of the men finally.
‘You wish to find Ozhan?’ asked Thomas amiably.
‘Are you deaf? Why do you answer a question with a question?’ said a second rider, dismounting.
Dardo frowned. ‘Is it his employment you seek?’ he asked.
The dismounted rider swaggered over to Thomas. He was broad shouldered, barrel-chested and over seven feet tall with silver hair and sunken brown eyes, his face bearing many deep scars. He wore the black leather tunic of a mercenary, as did the others. He stopped short, towering over the pair, standing silently for a moment. ‘Yes, he sent for us,’ he snapped at last, drawing his sword, his voice deep and harsh. ‘Answer me now. Where is he to be found?’
‘Are you asking me or forcing a fight?’ said Thomas.
‘The leader considered the question. ‘Fight him,’ he ordered his man.
Thomas drew both swords.
The huge warrior, holding his blade double handed lunged forward quickly sending a wicked scything cut, but Thomas parried it easily and one of his own blades sliced out slamming into the warrior’s upper arm, plunging through muscle and tissue, causing him to scream. He stumbled, falling to his knees groaning, the fiery pain exploding in his mind.
‘Get up man and fight through the pain,’ the leader shouted.
The warrior climbed back to his feet instantly, making another double-handed lunge, but again Thomas parried it, plunging his other blade into the attacker’s belly, levering it up and up again. Blood sprayed from the wound covering his arm and the man screamed, falling to his knees again, more fiery pain swamping his mind. Finally, he pitched forward from his knees, his face striking the grassy knoll. Thomas hacked at his neck twice and the head rolled clear.
‘Is that enough killing or is there someone else?’ he shouted with blood-lust, his gaze fixed firmly on the leader, who had a narrow face, dead eyes and a red beard. ‘Is there someone else? Is there?’
‘You fight ferociously my brother,’ said the leader, his own face criss-crossed with scars. ‘Are you a mercenary?’
‘Aye, and can kill anything that lives and breathes,’ Thomas told him, sheathing his swords.
‘After what I’ve just seen I’ll give you the benefit of any doubt I have. That’s enough killing for today. Now will you point the way to Master Ozhan’s abode and we’ll take our fallen brother and ride.’ The leader dismounted, hefting the corpse over his shoulder, placing it belly first in the fallen warrior’s saddle without any reverence or ceremony. Picking up the head he placed it in a large saddlebag and remounted his own stallion in silence, gripping both sets of reins securely with trembling hands.
Thomas and Dardo stood stock-still, their gaze unblinking, fastened on the two mercenaries. Thomas’ arm suddenly swung out, his forefinger pointing to the south-east. Nodding silently, the two mercenaries led the unresisting corpse’s horse down towards lower pastures, heading in a south-easterly direction. The two friends watched until the riders disappeared from view over a rise on the faraway hillside.
*
The following morning, a loud knock on Lira’s door startled her. She opened it to see Thomas stood in the doorway with a large picnic basket in his hand and a broad smile on his face. He was dressed smartly in forest greens with calf length boots, and she in a white shawl and russet dress.
Now they found themselves walking across a
narrow valley full of alder, birch and pine, and even though it was a winter’s day the weather was beautiful, the sun shining in a clear blue sky and the peaks of distant snow-capped hills glistening like white fire. And as they walked, climbing to a high hillside overlooking the City of Nottingham, his mind wandered and was far from the trials and tribulations of recent days. Today there were no swords slung about his waist as they came to rest and sat by a trickling stream. Lira’s golden hair glinted in the sunlight. ‘You seem lost in thought,’ she said finally. ‘What are you thinking?’
Thomas smiled, shrugging. ‘Just how full of surprises life is,’ he said, reaching out to stroke her cheek.
She smiled, gentleness radiating from her in complete contrast to his uniquely strong aura. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because it’s true,’ he shrugged again. ‘I fight a giant man, get cut and meet an angel.’
She laughed. ‘I’m not an angel.’
‘You look like one to me.’
She blushed. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips. ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he whispered, kissing it.
‘How many others have you complemented so enchantingly?’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘I’m not a rogue, or a two-timer.’
‘That is good news,’ she said wagging her finger at him. She opened the picnic basket producing two wooden plates, freshly baked cornbread and three small jars containing butter, honey and cinnamon. Mixed with the freshness of the fields and the smell of wild flowers the aroma was delicious.
He lay back on the grass, looking up at the sky. ‘What do you wish for mostly?’
‘Pleasant memories in my old age,’ she said without even thinking, leaning in close to him.
He sighed, sniffing her perfume. Drawing her gently down to the grass he kissed her passionately on the lips.
She pulled away from him. ‘Please don’t fall in love with me,’ she said. ‘I like my life the way it is – uncomplicated.’
‘Are you not happy here with me?’ he asked looking puzzled.
She ran her fingers through his hair. ‘Yes, and I wish for many things, but right now love is not one of them.’
‘You can’t ask someone not to fall in love with you,’ he said. ‘Love is wild, uncontrolled and for the moment.’
‘I agree – but not this moment. I have problems right now,’ she said.
He looked hurt. ‘What problems? Problems are better spoken of, not kept inside.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re a strong man, but my problem is – my problem.’
He shook his head, looking genuinely saddened with a heavy heart and she saw rejection in his eyes. ‘Shame about the wonderful woman I fell in love with, but she needs no man.’
Later that night in the crowded, smoky bar at the Dog and Duck, Dardo inquired, ‘How did the picnic go?’
Thomas looked miserable, his spirits low. ‘Don’t ask.'
‘You’re usually good company my friend, what’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I know Lira likes me, but I think there’s someone else.’
‘If there is someone else why would she go on a picnic with you?’ Dardo reasoned. ‘It doesn’t seem to make any sense.’
Thomas sighed. ‘I know. But I have this feeling. Every time I gaze into her eyes it’s as if she’s seeing someone else.’
‘Maybe she’s been hurt in the past and sees the one who upset her. It’s not always easy to forget a bad experience.’
‘Maybe,’ agreed Thomas.
‘Give it time my friend,’ advised Dardo. ‘She may come around to your way of thinking.’
Thomas nodded. ‘If nothing else, time is a great healer.’
Before they could say another word, a tall, thin man wearing long, grey robes entered the tavern and approached the bar. He was bald, his face angular and he stood silently for a moment, then ordered a tankard of ale from Cyrano. In the lantern light the face of the newcomer looked very old, almost ancient. The innkeeper served him and he made his way through the crowd in an ungainly fashion with extremely clumsy movements – his twisted right leg several inches shorter than the left. The crowd began to laugh and he didn’t seem to mind, but the sound cut through Thomas. ‘What’s so funny?’ he shouted to the roomful of revellers.
‘My walk,’ said the old man, ‘but that’s my misfortune.’
‘I don’t understand where the humour lies,’ shouted Thomas.
The crowd fell silent as the man limped on and sat in a far corner alone.
Thomas stood, making his way over to the old man. ‘I'd be honoured if you would come and join my friend and me,’ he said loudly for all to hear.
‘You’re a kind soul my brother. A little hospitality and conversation would be pleasant,’ said the man. He rose, following the warrior back through the crowd to their table. Thomas sat, pulled up another chair and motioned for him to sit.
Dardo moved over slightly to accommodate the old man who sat fidgeting until he seemed comfortable. ‘What’s your name?’ asked Dardo smiling liberally.
‘Gorl,’ came the reply.
‘Well, what brings you to the inn this evening? We’ve not seen you in here before,’ said Thomas.
‘I came looking for protection,’ said Gorl looking weary, his voice distraught.
‘Protection from whom?’ asked Thomas raising an eyebrow.
‘Those who would take what is rightfully mine,’ said Gorl. ‘They’re coming.’
Thomas looked at Dardo. ‘I think he’s a little old to take up the sword.’
Nervously the old man wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow. ‘I’m willing to pay in gold for my protection. Are you the one named Thomas Flynn with the fierce reputation?’
Dardo nodded. ‘Aye that he is.’
‘Will you honour me with you help? I’ll pay you well,’ said Gorl, producing a purse full of gold coins from a deep coat pocket. He opened the purse, the gold glinting in the dim light.
‘Put that away old man,’ snapped Dardo, nodding his disapproval. ‘There are many here tonight who would see you dead for such a vast sum.’
‘Most here would kill you for a lot less,’ added Thomas, ‘and you still haven’t mentioned who is coming for you?’
The old man’s face trembled, his eyes haunted. Fear ripped through him and he shivered. His eyes misted over and a glazed expression replaced the look of fear. ‘Ozhan and his men are coming for me,’ he whispered. ‘He’s found out that there’s gold on my land and wants it. Three days he gave me to clear off my property and tomorrow is the third day.’
Thomas shook his head angrily. ‘I’m a swordsman old man, and without being modest, probably the best there is. And even though I personally have no quarrel with Ozhan, I am going to make your quarrel mine because he deserves to get what’s coming to him.’
The old man broke out into tears and sobbed, he was so relieved, and a vestige of hope shone in his ancient green eyes. ‘How can I thank you?’ he said drying them. ‘I’ll pay any sum that you ask.’
Thomas glanced at Dardo. ‘We have enough funds to sit out the cold season, but an extra purse of five hundred in gold pieces would certainly do us no harm if that’s agreeable?’
Gorl nodded. ‘Let’s make it an even thousand. I put a high value on my life.’
‘Just how much gold did you find on your land?’ asked Dardo, his eyes wide.
‘A hill full,’ said Gorl with an uneasy smile that echoed in his close-set eyes.
‘Then a thousand it is,’ agreed Thomas.
Dardo nodded his approval. ‘Did Ozhan say when he would arrive on the third day?’
‘Aye, he did,’ said Gorl. ‘He said if I wasn’t gone by sunset I wouldn’t see another sunrise. I would be dead, my body burned, my ashes scattered to the wind.’
‘Then we shall arrive at your farm well before sunset and await their coming,’ said Thomas. ‘Go home, rest old man and be assured that we’ll solve your problem.’
Gorl gave
them directions to his farm, paying Thomas in advance, and as he stood up to leave he swayed almost falling over. Dardo caught him and half carried him through the crowded room to the door. Outside he helped him mount his gelding and waved goodbye before returning to Thomas. ‘Why were you born a hero?’ he asked.
Thomas shrugged. ‘Just lucky I guess.’
Chapter 4
The farmers’ huts and cottages were ill kept and their owners no longer took pride in them. Lira’s father, Tobin, was one of those farmers, besides being the local blacksmith. Ozhan had threatened him with great violence, giving him an ultimatum to leave his land, but he was a proud man besides being big and strong. Still he was no match for the bully baron
Lira’s face screwed up. ‘Sorry about the supper father, it’s been a bit of a disaster,’ she said looking tired. She was wearing a white towelling dress and red sandals, and had made a stew with lamb and vegetables, which had smelt delicious while cooking but lost its flavour in the eating after her father mentioned Ozhan’s name. Tobin had carped about his violent behaviour towards the farmers and of his plans to take over the whole city by force if necessary. ‘What are we to do?’ he asked. ‘There's no one brave enough or skilled enough to help us.’
‘The common people of Nottingham don’t compare favourably when stacked against the might of the men who stand with the baron,’ she observed.
Tobin shook his head. ‘What are we to do?’
The sound of thunder rolled from somewhere distant overhead. She stood up clearing the plates and dishes from the small trestle table, removing the white linen tablecloth and walked over to the small leaded window by the roaring fire, watching as rain sheeted down and a web of lightning forked in the night sky. Thunder sounded again, louder this time and not so distant with a deep sustained rumble that echoed throughout the farmhouse shaking the very earth. Tobin’s red setter barked and shivered by the fire, its ears flattening back against its head looking about sharply growling. He climbed to his feet and ambled over to the dog, stroking it gently as it leaned into him. ‘Shh, it’ll pass soon,’ he whispered.
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 5
