“A girl has to earn a living,” she said, with a touch of a pout about her mouth - as far as I could tell in the moonlit dimness.
“Yes, and I thought I had paid you well,” I replied. She turned away briefly and when she turned back she hissed as she sucked air in through her teeth. There may have been creatures crawling between them.
“When you play the Blood Red Game you will lose. Everything,” she snarled. I snatched the big knife out from under the pillow and leaped across the bed, grabbing her by the throat and forcing her up against the wall. I was aware that her breasts were still moving but I wasn’t aroused.
“What did you say?” I demanded. “What did you say? Who told you to say that?” she screamed as well as she could with my hand around her throat and the door immediately burst open. A big man, who I didn’t recognise, stood there. He had a cudgel in his hand and he took a swing at me. It was awkward because I had the girl up against the wall to the right of the door as he crashed in, so he couldn’t really mount a good blow. That was probably just as well. I got out of the way just in time, jumping onto the bed and out of his reach.
The room was too small, though. And so was the window. A protection against guests leaving without paying, I thought, as I dodged another swing of the cudgel. The bed wasn’t coming out of it well. And nor would I, quite possibly. The girl was cowering against the wall, blocking the escape route down that side. The thug was between the wardrobe and the bed. And he wasn’t stupid enough to come further round. It occurred to me that these two might have run this game before. He definitely knew what he was doing, although she seemed terrified.
It all got a bit more confusing when three more figures tried to enter the room. One of them was the landlord.
“Stop this! Stop it at once!” he demanded. “Theofric, stop! Now” The thug held himself, mid-swing. “You, sir!” This was directed at me. “Put down that knife. I have a sword and two men to back me up. I swear you will die where you stand if you don’t stop, right now!” I was trapped and, being stark naked, at a profound disadvantage. There was no way out of the room.
I held my arms out, still holding the knife. I asked that the thug - Theofric - should be disarmed also, and he was. I dropped my knife onto the bed and stepped back from it. The landlord got one of his men to retrieve it. He still held a sword, aimed at my chest.
“What has been going on here?”
“She tried to rob me.”
“He tried to kill me!”
“Who told you to say what you did? Who has been paying you?” I made to reach her and shake the truth out of her but the landlord’s sword was in the way.
“No, you don’t,” he said. “You sit down there and get your breeches on. There is a tale to be told here but it’s too late to hear it tonight. You, sir, will be spending the rest of the night in less comfortable accommodation. You -” he was talking to the girl. “- You get yourself dressed and get on home. We will take this up in the morning.”
“But he tried to kill me!”
“So you said. Get dressed and get on home. We’ll sort it out tomorrow. Theofric will see you home safe. Take a torch from downstairs.” All this time, his sword had never wavered more than an inch or so from its aim at my heart. He might not be the best swordsman in the country, or in the town - he probably wasn’t even the best in the room - but he was clothed and armed and I wasn’t. Tonight at least, discretion was the better part of valour. I pulled on my breeches, tucked in my shirt and picked up the rest of my clothes. He led me downstairs and ordered me to put on my boots. We were going to be walking outside. A few minutes later and I was in a gaol cell, in the care of the local constable. The landlord at last dropped his sword as I was locked in.
“I don’t know what happened tonight. You seemed a decent enough sort. I would have thought you would have expected a young whore to try and rob you and taken precautions. Seems an overreaction by you. What were you on about, asking her what she said? What was it?” I made no reply. “Suit yourself. You will have to explain it all to the constable in the morning. He’ll take it on from there.” With that, he left me to my own devices.
The last thing I had wanted was to draw attention to myself. But that was exactly what I had done. With any luck, it could all be sorted out with a payment to the landlord for his furniture and to the girl for her hurt feelings.
Luck was against me. When the constable arrived shortly after dawn I heard him take down all the details from the landlord and, at first, things appeared to be going as I expected. The two of them were discussing the level of financial compensation that would suit the innkeeper and it even seemed that the constable was kindly disposed towards me. I heard him saying that the bed and wardrobe really weren’t worth that much. However, when he came out the back to look at me he almost dropped his keys in surprise. I could not remember having met him so I no idea what it was about. He quickly returned to his office at the front of the lockup and unrolled a parchment. He came back with it and looked at me as he read it, carefully, out loud.
“A fellow of above average height, well-built. Strong enough to best two men. Hair dark in colour. Regular features but with some scarring as if from battles. Has a complexion liken unto the barbarians of the south but is not himself such. Has two horses and a fortune with him. Also a great sword. He is a notorious criminal, a thief, a murderer and a practitioner of witchcraft. He must be detained,” the constable said. “That sounds a lot like him, doesn’t it?” The innkeeper looked at me and nodded.
“It does, I have to say,” he agreed. Reluctantly, I thought - or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “Although he only had the one horse and just a regular sword. And he has coin, I know for sure, but not a fortune.”
“Maybe he has hidden another horse. I will ask at the gates how he arrived and where he came from.” The constable left, rapidly, leaving me alone with the innkeeper. He considered me and shook his head.
“What have you done? You seemed decent enough and paid me well. Is it true?” the landlord asked.
“Is what true?”
“You being a murderer, a thief and a witch.” I smiled, but without much humour.
“I am a free warrior. A mercenary, not sworn to any lord, king or prince. Yes, I have killed men, in combat and in self-defence. Whether I am a murderer or not depends on who is on the receiving end, I think. As for being a thief: if I insist on my agreed fee, even at swordpoint, does that make me a thief? But I will not deny I have been called both over the years.” The innkeeper grunted a kind of understanding.
“Is this you, then, in that scroll? The king’s men are looking for that man. And you must admit - you look like him. You have a deep colour about you. Where did you get it?”
“In Rome and, before that, in Spain. I had intended to be in Spain now, taking the sun on a city wall or a duke’s palace somewhere - maybe with others of my profession - but it seems that fate has other ideas. I have found myself called -” I hesitated. Best not to give too much away, just in case. “…To a quest on a different path. As for whether I am that man or not: I don’t know. What is the accusation? It just says that this person is to be detained. The rest is vague. Who has been murdered? What has been stolen? As you said, I did not arrive with a fortune.” I knew I was probably lying. It could have been someone else but the chances were slim, indeed. Nonetheless, I had put the seed of an idea in his mind with my mention of other mercenaries on the sun-kissed terraces of Spain. There were others around who answered that description. It was quite possible that some had passed through this town. The innkeeper nodded again, thoughtfully.
“I hope to see you later, and not at the end of a rope. I have no argument with you. If you are innocent, good luck to you. If not… Well, may God have mercy on you.” And off he went. It was quite pleasant to see that he bore me no ill-will. Many would leap to negative conclusions; very few would give such latitude to a stranger. If it was up to him I suspected that an exchange of money would have made me free as
a bird. But it wasn’t up to him. And the description, however vague, contained the seeds of serious trouble. I had to hope that the accusation of witchcraft didn’t travel much. That sort of thing could raise a mob in a matter of minutes and see me lynched in not much longer.
The constable returned a while later. He looked neither confident nor grave. Pretty normal, all told. I asked if he had any news.
“The guards remember you arriving yesterday afternoon. They said you had but one horse and seemed to offer no threat so they let you in,” he replied. A thought occurred to me.
“How long have you had that scroll?” I asked.
“The one with your description on it?”
“The one you reckon sounds like me, yes.”
“Eight months.”
“What? Eight months? I was in Italy eight months ago. Near Rome. I had been there for a year and more! It’s not me at all!” What a joke the gods were having with me, that I should find myself in a cell because of mistaken identity. “Where did it come from?”
“King Sigebert’s court in Austrasia. You were working for him, the innkeeper said? Our king Clovis, his brother, ordered it to be distributed.” He held up the parchment to show me the seals of the two kings. And now I was caught on the horns of a dilemma. I could tell the constable that I hadn’t been there at all, in fact, but that would prove that I told lies. It may be understandable that a mercenary might want to keep his business to himself in normal circumstances but these circumstances were no longer normal. And if I told the constable that I had, in fact, been employed by Clovis against the Allemani - news of the victory was only just arriving - then the situation could get worse. All I could do was keep things going as they were. So I nodded, non-commitally. I could be agreeing with anything, including the presence of the two seals.
“Well, you can see this is a case of mistaken identity. Could I make an offer of payment to the landlord and get out of your way?” The constable shifted uncomfortably.
“I’m afraid it’s gone beyond that, now. If it was still up to me I would let you go. Piers - the innkeeper - bears you no ill-will and will be happy with a couple of crowns. The girl - well, what’s left of her honour can be easily bought. But the problem is, you see…” he stood up and came towards my cell, arms spread open a little, in supplication. “It looked so much as if it was you, and the allegations are so serious, I had to send for the magistrate.” My heart sank, though I tried not to show it. “He’ll be here soon, I would expect. Tomorrow, probably. Unless he has more pressing business.” He turned away again. “It will probably be all sorted out for you but I’ll be in trouble, then. Calling out the magistrate for nothing more than a weary traveller and a bit of a fracas in a bar.” I expressed my sympathy and concern, and tried to give the impression that I was relieved that it would all be resolved for me, soon. The problem was now his, in his eyes.
Which was something I could work on.
He had sat down on a bench opposite the cell and was wringing his hands, gently but insistently. My stomach grumbled; I had had no breakfast. It was loud enough for him to hear and he jumped up immediately.
“Oh, sir - I am so sorry! I had completely forgotten. It is nearly lunchtime - would like something to eat?” he stopped and smiled at his own foolishness. My stomach had made very clear that I would indeed like something to eat. “I’ll send across to Piers’ inn and get him to send you over some food. They will just be gearing up for dejeuner.” He left again, and I heard him tell a child to carry the message to get me something to eat. When he returned he was apologetic again. “I am sorry, sir, but I have to go home for my own dejeuner now. I will get back as soon as I can - before yours arrives, with any luck. I will be able to open the office up for them.”
“Why do you need to lock up?” I said, indicating the bars that surrounded me on three sides. “I’m not going anywhere.” He looked, thought about it for a moment, and then agreed. He would leave the front door open. “But if you could do something for me? Spread the word that I am not the one they are looking for. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I had been practising witchcraft and coming for me while you were away!” He realised the implications and agreed, once again. As he left, I heard him tell people outside that it looked like a case of mistaken identity and I would probably be free by tomorrow evening. He repeated this news a few times, presumably to various groups, who would then spread the information through their own networks.
All I could do was settle down as best I could and await the arrival of my food.
It arrived about an hour later, brought by the Christian girl from the inn. She didn’t look as good as she had the previous evening. It wasn’t the light - she looked unwell. As she entered, her eyes were screwed up against the light. Random flashes from outside, reflections from a sword or pike, a window opening, maybe a horse’s bridle, seemed to cause her physical pain.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “You look unwell.”
“I have a terrible headache. It will pass. I have had them before,” she replied.
“What brought it on?”
She went to shake her head to dismiss my query but it was too much. She hastily put the basket of food down and lurched over to the corner of the corridor, where there was a slop bucket, and threw up into it. She sank to her hands and knees and vomited again, three or four times. I had a feeling that I knew what was going on. She sat back on her ankles and took a deep breath. She wiped her hands and her mouth with her apron and took a deep breath.
“I am so sorry, sir. I don’t know what’s come over me. I feel so bad today.”
“Could you be pregnant?” She stood up, gently and shook her head, ever so slightly.
“I’m not married.”
“Ah,” I replied.
“I meant what I said last night, though. I am destined for my husband’s bed only.”
“But you haven’t found him yet?”
“No.”
“Did you have any flashing lights or strange pictures swimming before your eyes before the headache?” She risked a look at me.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I have some experience. What’s your name?”
“Valeria” she said, and my knees turned to water. Especially when she then favoured me with a smile. It was all I could do to speak a little more. My throat was suddenly very dry.
“Well, Valeria,” I managed to say, “If you go and get my bag I can give you some medicine that will get rid of your headache. Then you can tell me what pictures you saw and we can maybe work out how to deal with it in future.”
“I can’t do that. Constable will have me up for it.”
“Do you want to suffer this headache? Believe me, I know how it feels.” She was still unwilling to get my bag. “Tell you what - you go and get it and sit across the way from me. I will tell you what you need. It’s a brown jug with a cork stopper in it.” This was acceptable. She rose unsteadily and walked out to the front office, finding her way with one hand on the wall, her other hand brushing hair and perspiration off her milk-pale forehead. Even as unwell as she was, she was a beautiful girl. And named Valeria - of all things. Maybe the gods weren’t quite so capricious after all and had sent me a sign of hope.
She came back in with my bag and dumped it on the floor. And then quickly picked it up as she realised that leaning over to rummage through it was going to make her queasy again.
“It’s a brown jug-bottle with a stopper in it. Not very big.” She half-sighed and looked a little deeper. She must have seen my bag of coins because she glanced up at me with as much of a disapproving expression as she could muster. She produced the jug and asked if that was what I meant. “Yes. Just open it up and take a drink straight from it.” She decided against, explaining that she didn’t want to soil the neck with what she had just passed out of her mouth. She found a clean-ish cup on the shelf in the front room and poured a draft. As soon as she took a drink, she started to look better.
“Oh,” she
said, and took another. “Well, this is something…” It was a long time since I had seen anyone take a draft of my post-Vision medicine. It was quite funny to watch its effects. I couldn’t help but snort with amusement. She looked up sharply. “What’s so funny? Is this going to make me fall under your spell?” She made to pour it out on the floor and I rushed to prevent it.
“No, Valeria! Don’t do that! I need it,” I exclaimed. “I suffer from that sort of headache as well. I rarely get to see the medicine’s effect, as there aren’t many people who suffer as we do. It acts so quickly, it just amused me to watch it. It won’t put you under any spell - quite the opposite. It will make you feel and see more sharply than ever. Has the headache gone completely?” She shook her head - a bit more vigorously, this time. “Have some more, then. Take stock with each draft and finish when the headache is gone.” She took a couple more and then put the cup down. I asked if her hand was steady enough to pour the remains back into the jug.
“I think so,” she said, and managed it, quite easily. My hands were always very shaky after a Vision. Her recovery was a good sign that it was over. “How did you come across it?”
Lockeran (Prince Ciaran the Damned Book 2) Page 8
