When Pierro finally spoke it was not with the tone, nor indeed the words, that Tomas expected. “Go and say farewell to your mother.”
“My mother?”
“Did you not hear me, Tomas?” Normally his father called him “boy”. “She is mourning your loss already.”
“What loss?”
“They will be here soon.”
“How do you know? How could you know that?” Tomas’ anger came from fear but also from losing control of the conversation.
“I have friends among the sergeants.” His father’s calm certainty frightened Tomas even more. He hit back.
“Because you are their friend, because you help them to hurt all who live in Montreuil, because you are a traitor even to your own family!”
Pierro sighed, his apron rising and falling with his bellows lungs. “No, Tomas. Because an uprising such as the one of which you dream must be planned properly and with patience, otherwise good people have to die.”
Tomas tried to grasp the meaning of this last and very unexpected answer. He failed, drowning in uncertainty, and waited desperately for his father to throw him a rope.
“Did you think, Tomas, that I bore this injustice willingly, that I befriended tyrants for my own betterment?” Tomas’ head was suddenly light and he leant against the forge, warm clay against his back.
“The blood which flows in your veins, my son, was my blood before it was yours. That is the reason that I cannot be quite as angry as I might. In some ways, Lady forgive me, I am proud.”
Pierro stopped as they both heard voices from outside the smithy. The smith peered through a hole in the hide door and turned back to Tomas with a grave expression. Without saying anything he picked up his son and placed him on top of the forge like he had many times when Tomas had been a young lad, to warm the soles of his feet on winter mornings. He removed his leather gloves and handed them over. Tomas put them on without understanding why.
“Go to the grove and wait for me there. I must think what is best to do.”
The sound of several riders dismounting could be heard clearly from outside. Pierro looked hard into Tomas’ eyes and then, touching the hot metal pipe which was the chimney of the forge, said one word: “Climb”.
Tomas watched the ensuing scene from the thatched roof of the house in which he had spent his entire life. The events which occurred seemed even more unreal framed by this most normal of settings. The surprise Tomas might have expected when his father produced a sword from underneath a stack of raw iron ingots and bundled it with the apron in his right hand, never occurred. Neither did the shock register when the Marquis himself, with four of his men, stood in Tomas’ front yard. He wriggled to the apex of the roof, where he himself had knitted the thatching together and saw his father approach the men. By the time the exchange began he felt himself ready to witness anything and remain unsurprised. He was wrong.
Tomas could not hear the conversation in detail and voices reached him only when they were raised. His father faced away, leather apron folded and hanging from his right hand. Tomas could hear none of Pierro’s words.
The Marquis remained mounted, untouchable on his black perch, while his men spread out, their hands never far from their sword hilts. They were clearly looking for Tomas. How they knew, with such certainty, that he was responsible for the rose-scented smoke which still clung to the valley, he could never be sure. Perhaps they had heard Luc’s cry; maybe Tomas had made one too many drunken speeches on sunny festival afternoons. Whatever their source of information they were only angered by his father’s denials. The Marquis stabbed the air with his gloved hand and early in the exchange augmented his gesturing by drawing the rapier which Pierro had made for him. The blade was dull in the grey light but Tomas knew that the edge would be well honed. His fingers clutched handfuls of straw and he breathed moss and dust as he watched the scene unfold. Two of the men entered the house while the others kept Pierro from following.
The Marquis rested his blade on the smith’s chest and pushed to emphasize a heated point he was making. Pierro stepped back, between the two sergeants who crushed him between their shoulders. The others returned from the house, having failed to find Tomas. Both had their blades drawn; one also carried a red-hot iron from the forge. Tomas strangled a squeal.
When relating the details of his father’s last moments, as he later had to do many times, Tomas could never exactly account for what happened.
At the Marquis’ signal, the two men behind Pierro grabbed his arms and, with some effort, pulled them from his side. The apron fell to the ground, revealing Pierro’s sword. Gilbert shrieked hysterically and pointed with his own blade. The sergeants looked with open mouths and one pounced to retrieve the blade. He was rewarded with Pierro’s boot in his face and he rolled backwards into the Marquis’ horse. Tomas’ father swung his huge arms in front of him and his captors crashed together, bone on bone. He twisted his hands from theirs and sprang back, claiming his sword and apron from the dirt. Pierro backed cautiously toward his house, and the sergeant who remained uninjured followed up hard. Gilbert’s man crouched and stretched his arms, willing them to remember the long lost training grounds and infantry manoeuvres of his youth. He lunged and Pierro beat the attack away with his left hand, wrapped in the heavy leather apron. With a booming cry Tomas had never heard his father utter before, the smith covered his attacker’s head with his apron and smashed his knee out and away. The man fell and Pierro looked up to consider his options.
The Marquis sat safely on his horse behind his men who moved slowly forward, trapping Pierro against the wall of the smithy. Tomas crept further up the roof as his father retreated under the eaves. He couldn’t see him anymore, only the expressions on the faces of his foes. At a command from the Marquis the three rushed Pierro in an unsophisticated charge. All combatants disappeared from Tomas’ view and all he could see now was Gilbert’s face wearing a feral snarl. One sergeant reappeared immediately, one hand grasping the other to stem the wellspring of blood which gushed there. Tomas didn’t see his father die—but he heard it.
As he slid off the roof behind the house he tasted blood and realised he had bitten down on his tongue. The sound of his father dying was still in his ears, the cry and the unholy punctuation of the body meeting the ground. Tomas dropped from the straw eaves and set off for the woods at a barely controlled scamper.
Tomas wasn’t sure whether they had heard him or not and he didn’t care. He kept running, weaving between the trees like a fox before the chase. He rested only when he reached the grove of oaks, heavy and dark in the late afternoon sun. Tomas propped his back against the largest of the trees and slid to the ground, the shadow of the canopy reaching down and embracing him in its lattice. Tomas cried then. He sat and cried and watched the shadow grow and twist and finally fade as the pale sun faltered. He thought about his father. He thought about their final conversation and the sound his father had made as he fell to the ground. He felt like a little boy. Tomas decided what he had to do and only then could he fall asleep.
He woke in the pre-dawn hour when the deep-green canopy of the oaks gathered the mist and distilled it into crystal drops. A drop landed on Tomas’ nose and rolled down, pooling between his lips. He opened his eyes and adjusted slowly to the flat, grey light. Standing at the other end of the grove, barely visible through the curtain of fog, were four figures. Tomas drew breath. He lay still and examined the group. They did not appear to be sergeants; the outlines were too slim and lacked weapons. They were talking quietly to each other and occasionally one would glance in Tomas’ direction. He lay still, nestled between the bony roots of the oak. The figures knew he was there but not that he was awake. He determined to lie still until he could learn who they were.
The four became six with the arrival of a pair from the direction of the village. The two newcomers came in at a run and spoke to the others in breathless tones. Their message was clearly urgent though Tomas could catch none of its detail. The s
maller of the arrivals grabbed the shirt of the figure he addressed with both fists to add emphasis to his news. Tomas studied the silhouette of the messenger against the growing dawn. He recognized the shape of the shoulders and neck and wondered hard what it was that had roused Luc from his bed before the sun itself. By the time dawn was undeniably upon them the six had become nine, and then twelve, and Tomas could see who they were: men from the village, men he knew, farmers, shepherds and Ludo the tavern keeper. They were deep in discussion. Suddenly a decision was reached and all turned their faces toward the tree at whose feet Tomas lay. “Tomas, wake up.”
Tomas stood slowly and looked around the group. Their faces were grim and not altogether friendly. They seemed to be sizing him up.
“That you have done this thing you have done is brave, we acknowledge.” The speaker was Paul, a lean farmer and a friend of Tomas’ father.
“What we need to know is how brave you will be now.” The group seemed to move closer to Tomas, blocking the morning sun.
“What does it matter what I do?”
“It matters a great deal.”
“I don’t understand any of this. I am the one who must run and hide. It is my father who is dead, Lady watch over him.”
“Did you speak with him before he gave his life to save you? Have you opened your eyes just a little?” Now Tomas was addressed by a younger man, whose anger was palpable. Gerni the miller pressed his questioning further. “Did he give you his blessing?”
“He told me to come here.”
There was a general murmur concerning what this might mean. Some thought that Pierro’s last request was of great significance and that the smith had intended and foreseen the conversation which was taking place. Others were more skeptical, citing the less than perfect relationship between father and son. Tomas was almost forgotten for a moment.
Luc stepped from the huddle and asked him in a low voice. “What will you do?” Tomas looked at him, hard.
“Have you always been part of… part of whatever this is?”
“Don’t be angry, Tomas. Your father always wanted to know what you were thinking, what you were saying.”
“And you told him?”
“Everything.”
“What was my father to these people?”
“He was our leader.”
“He was what?”
“From the very beginning.”
“Leader, leader in what?”
“Are you so very blind, Tomas?”
“What is this meeting? What are you here for?”
“To decide what should be done.” Luc looked away. He might have been about to say more but Paul turned back to Tomas.
“What would you have us do, boy? What would you do?”
No response of Tomas’ would have satisfied the group. Their expectations were based on their respect for and memory of a dead man, and their palpable disappointment with his replacement.
“I am going to the manor to kill the Marquis, or I will join my brave father, that is all.”
The men thought for a moment. Before one of the more senior figures could respond, Luc spoke up.
“We could come with you. Perhaps you need not die.”
“That would mean war. We can’t fight soldiers with sticks, Luc.”
“The village is already full of sergeants, looking for us, and besides…”
Gerni choked a little laugh and walked past Tomas to the oak under which he had slept. The miller reached up into a hole near the bole of the tree and his hand returned with a large hessian sack, sewn shut at both ends. He lay the bundle heavily at his feet and cut a careful, longitudinal slash with his knife.
Tomas still could not understand what he was seeing as the bright blades spilled onto the grass. Something about the simple, elegant ironwork was familiar but a part of him still refused to understand. “Where did these come from?”
“Your father, boy. Pierro forged these over years of crafty, secret work. An ingot of iron here, a few spare hours there. Paid for by the Marquis and crafted by his own smith. Intended for his downfall. There aren’t quite enough but we will have to make do. That is, unless you have a better idea.” The bitterness in Paul’s speech cut Tomas and his eyes stung with salt.
“My father?”
“Your father.”
The men distributed the weapons and made final repairs to the leather handles. They sharpened the blades on stones among the trees which seemed to be too well placed in the grove to have lain there by chance. Others spent the day practicing, or preparing a meal for the group. By nightfall they were ready. There had been no discussion, no decision and there was no plan, but a general consensus had spread through the group that they would move at night. It was agreed that the sergeants would know something was up but would not be anywhere close to ready for exactly what was. Tomas felt unable to claim a sword when others were without them, and he gripped his knife as if someone was trying to wrest it from his grasp.
The fires were well and truly out around the manor and the huge house lay strangely naked in the moonlight when the mob arrived. They hid at the edge of the woods and watched for long enough to establish that four sergeants were out in the grounds, patrolling, and that fires burned in many of the manor’s hearths. What they didn’t know was how many of the sergeants remained in the village and how many were in the barracks. Facing all the armed men at once they would be fatally outnumbered. Their only hope was to deal with their enemy piecemeal. The distance between the forest and the manor, only about a third of a mile, seemed an uncrossable chasm of open ground.
Tomas heard himself give what sounded like an order and thought only later about how easily it had come to him. “This way. Follow me.”
Tomas, Paul, Gerni and Luc went ahead, the others waiting in the woods for their signal. The four scouts crept as far as the scar of the hedge and hit the ground. Nothing remained but a few twisted black bones of the great growth and a two-foot deep ditch of coals and ash. Tomas felt the warmth of it on his face, even now, and took some comfort from that. They waited for two of the sergeants to pass further away and then Tomas demonstrated his idea. He found a deep pile of ashes and took a double handful. With this he painted his face and clothes black and grey and almost disappeared into the background of the burnt hedge. The others followed suit and the four crept up the hedge-line, keeping low, almost invisible towards the main gate where the two men stood guard. The gates looked forlorn and foolish with their stone gateposts standing alone and no hedge to justify them.
Tomas, Paul, Gerni and Luc crept as close as they dared and halted again, looking briefly into each other’s eyes and waiting for what must come next. Tomas looked at Luc’s blackened face and saw his brown eyes brighter than the ash, wide and fearful. Gerni wriggled over to Tomas, making too much noise for Tomas’ liking.
“What’s your plan now, boy?”
Tomas didn’t like the diminutive but could only agree that the doubt on the older man’s part was justified. He thought quickly.
“I will gain their attention while you and Paul rush them from behind.” A sound enough plan.
“What about me?” Luc whispered.
“You can go back and bring the others to the hedge, what’s left of it.” Luc was clearly relieved by this job. He pulled his sword quietly from his belt.
“Give me your knife, Tomas. You will have more need of this.”
Tomas took the sword and felt its cool weight. He looked briefly at the simple, sturdy ironwork in the moonlight and thought of his father. “Not now,” he told himself, “not now.”
They watched Luc crawl away down the hedge-line and melt into the black scar, one more grey lump, and turned to their allotted task. Paul looked up at the moon.
“Time to move, Tomas.” Tomas was grateful not to be called “boy” this one time. “How do you mean to get their attention?”
“Be ready and you will know soon enough.” Tomas wished he had a better answer but he did not. Paul, howeve
r, took his brusqueness as evidence that he had everything under control. Paul and Gerni moved quietly into position.
Tomas crept toward the front of the hedge and the gate. He could see the two men clearly now, he even thought he knew one of their names. Alain, an older sergeant, had come to the smithy more than once to have his armour adjusted to suit his expanding girth. Tomas willed a clever idea to come into his head but none did, so he fell back on the only notion he had. He stood up, walked several steps away from the hedge and began to stroll toward the gate. He tried to whistle but his mouth was shaking so much that he couldn’t form the proper shape.
Alain and his colleague didn’t see him until he was quite close. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Tomas, I’ve come to see the Marquis.”
“You’ve what?”
“Gilbert. I’ve come to pay him a visit.” The soldiers peered into the night to ascertain whether Tomas was alone. Alain stepped forward a little and peered at the boy in the darkness.
“Let me get this right. You’ve come to see the Marquis. We’ve been looking for you all the last night and day, and you waltz up here, bold as you please, asking to see the boss?”
“That’s right.”
“Well you got balls on you, boy, even if you don’t have brains.” In a strange and somewhat terrifying development to Tomas, he was beginning to enjoy himself.
“Please don’t call me ‘boy’. My name is Tomas.” He hoped Paul and Gerni would not take too much longer and his ears were rewarded with the sound of a stealthy footfall. If he could just hold the attention of the guards for a moment longer… Alain’s companion joined the conversation.
Tales of the Old World Page 38
