by J. P. Ashman
Another bout of coughing alerted Correia to Starks’ approach.
‘Looks like rain,’ he said, pointing up the road. Correia nodded.
The thickening gloom approached the camp, bringing with it a wall of water that flattened the grass as it approached.
Sniffing some more, Starks gathered as much dry kindling as he could. He took his armful to the shelter and slid it under.
‘They should be back by now,’ Starks said. Before Gleave could reply, the rain fell, its cold touch bringing a shudder to both men as it struck. Hoods were pulled up, but not before Gleave cursed the unseasonably cold drops running down the back of his gambeson.
‘No sign,’ Correia said. She crossed to the fire, her cloak and hood already wrapped about her as rivulets ran off the waxed canvas. The horses whinnied and threw their heads as the rain continued to fall, despite being tethered under a large oak.
‘The lads know our path.’ Gleave crouched beside Correia. Starks followed suit and all three huddled about the hissing flames. ‘They’ll see the fire and be with us soon.’
Starks groaned and rubbed his nose. ‘They’ve been gone a long while though.’
Gleave nodded. ‘Aye, but they’ve the elf with them. Errolas will see them right.’
Rain dampened everything, including sound; owls refused to fly in it; hunters struggled to hear their prey, although the prey also struggled to hear the hunters. It was that fact that set people’s nerves on edge. Despite camping by a main road, the companions knew brigands operated in the area, and without their ears to help them, they knew they were vulnerable.
‘Can’t see much,’ Starks said, looking about, ‘and it ain’t fully dark yet. Not right for summer, this. Not right at all.’
‘Keep your weapons close.’ Correia’s eyes were darting about as much as Starks’.
‘You have a funny feeling, don’t you?’ Gleave asked.
Correia nodded. ‘They should be back.’
‘Towton wasn’t far ahead.’
‘No, Starks,’ Correia shook her head, ‘it wasn’t far at all.’
Starks coughed and looked to the woman beside him. ‘Why not ride on?’
‘We’d be approaching Towton at night. Risky and not worth it if it can be avoided,’ Gleave said, before Correia could. ‘You know, twitchy guardsmen and all.’
Nodding his understanding, Starks scanned the gloom.
The sound of the rain was constant as it fell in sheets. The wind blew it at them more than they would have liked, but into it they looked, willing their friends to appear.
‘I’m hungry,’ Starks said.
Gleave grunted. ‘We all are.’
‘Is it all gone?’
Gleave nodded, but as the darkness fell about them, it wasn’t seen.
‘Is it?’
‘Yes, Starks, the food has gone,’ Correia said, before Gleave could snap. ‘Tomorrow we teach you to hunt and trap before we move on.’
‘By we, she means me.’ Gleave held his hands over the pitiful fire, hoping to cover it from the rain more than anything else. It hissed and crackled some more, and spat at the trio, but the small amount of light and heat it gave off was appreciated.
Gleave laughed, although it sounded more like a growl. ‘They’ll be shacked up in a brothel.’
Starks sniggered and Correia scoffed.
‘Good-boy Falchion? Proud Errolas?’ she said. ‘I think not.’
‘Sav?’
Correia didn’t answer Gleave, not with words anyway.
‘Aye,’ Starks said, eventually. ‘Sav would be, given half the—’
‘Hush!’ Correia pointed forward. ‘There.’
They strained to see through the darkness and shifting rain, but they knew what approached.
‘Riders,’ Starks whispered.
Gleave nodded. ‘Aye lad, but there’s more than three of ’em.’
Memories of ear thudding retorts and flashing lights passed before Gleave’s eyes. Screams, curses and shouts in the night. He saw the riders draw near and a familiar voice spoke to him. All is well, Mearson said. All is safe.
‘I think we’re alright with these.’ Gleave lowered his sword and axe.
Correia turned to Gleave as Starks kept his crossbow levelled, cursing the rain and dark.
‘How could you know?’ she asked, looking back to the approaching riders.
‘I just do. These aren’t brigands,’ he said, walking forward. ‘They’re Towton’s men, I’d wager on it. Anyhow, what brigands around here could afford a dozen horses?’
Starks filled his cheeks and let out a long breath. ‘I hope he’s right.’
A hand went up as the silhouettes approached.
‘Greetings,’ Gleave called.
‘Stay sharp, Starks,’ Correia said, following Gleave forward, swords drawn. ‘If they charge us now, Gleave…’
One of the riders pulled away from the others. ‘Your friends sent us!’ he shouted as a gust brought more rain with it.
‘Nice and vague,’ Correia said, preparing her and the other two for the worst.
‘Who’d they be?’ Gleave asked as the rider reached them.
Correia moved to the other side of the horse, giving the man separate targets should he act against them.
‘Errlus… or some such, the elf and his companions: a tattooed fellow and a tall, gobby bastard.’
Gleave grinned. The other riders held back.
‘And you are?’ Correia asked, remaining defensive.
‘A simple messenger of Towton is all, my name unimportant. Your men, however…’ his eyebrows rose, just visible under his dripping kettle-helm.
Correia sighed. ‘Come,’ she offered, ‘warm yourself by our fire and tell all.’
The messenger smiled at that, and nodded. He half-turned in his saddle and waved an arm. Correia watched, warily, until the other riders rode back the way they came.
‘So, Messenger,’ Gleave said, smiling up at the man, hand held up to protect his face from the rain, ‘what shit have the lads got themselves into this time, eh?’
‘Gleave.’
‘Ma’m?’
‘Go scout the perimeter, will you?’ Correia smiled, Gleave scowled, and Messenger laughed.
As Gleave disappeared into the darkness, mumbling to himself, Starks lowered and unloaded his crossbow – after a nod from Correia.
‘You do right to be on your guard,’ Messenger said. He dropped down from his horse and handed the reins to Starks, who took them after a moment’s pause; he walked the horse over to the others, leaving Correia alone with Messenger.
‘The lad’s trusting, leaving us be like this,’ he said, winking at Correia.
‘He is,’ she agreed, smiling. ‘Although he knows me well by now does Starks; knows I don’t cut people without good reason.’
Messenger laughed and held his empty hands out wide. ‘I deserved that.’ He crouched by the pitiful fire. Correia moved around the hissing flames and mirrored him.
‘Tell me,’ she said, voice low, for his ears only, ‘are they well, my friends?’
The man nodded. ‘Aye, well enough.’
Starks returned, only to be waved away by Correia.
‘They’re held up in the town, drinking and making merry.’ He picked up a stick and prodded the fire until he was sure Starks was out of earshot. Throwing the damp stick in to crackle, Messenger looked up to his King’s Spymaster. ‘They nearly missed me, Correia.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was to ride out with the baron’s company. There’s been activity about—’
‘Goblins?’ Correia interrupted, leaning in for confirmation.
Messenger looked surprised at the question, but shook his head. ‘Nope, not goblins. Brigands are growing bolder, witchunters are refusing to disarm. Strange goings on are… well, going on, in Knipewood and the surrounds.’
‘Like what?’
A shrug. ‘Folk talk of murders. They talk of sacrifices and dismembered bodies left han
ging in trees and scattered over briar patches, the eyes of which track passers-by. They talk of demons in the sky and…’ Taking a deep breath, he looked away.
‘And?’
‘Other things. Larger things.’
‘Dragons?’
Messenger winced at the word and pulled his wet cloak about him, but he nodded all the same, the light glinting orange off the rim of his rain-tinkling helm.
‘You should know better than to listen to such rot,’ Correia said, catching his eye once more.
‘Aye, I should, but when it’s on many lips?’
‘Tell me what you know, not what people think they may have seen after one too many ales,’ she ordered, bringing another nod from him. Damn but his neck should be thick as a trunk the amount of nodding he does.
‘No one’s come north to us for weeks. No one passes The Marches. We hear nothing from the marcher lords, ours or theirs. Or that’s how milord Towton tells it, between banquet and joust and games and such.’
Correia pursed her lips and paused a moment, before going on. ‘I hear Towton tilts well?’ she said of the young baron, a statement more than a question. ‘Nevertheless, games or not, I’m surprised he doesn’t send riders to find out what’s afoot in The Marches? Bratby would answer him.’
Another shake of the head. ‘Milord says it’s not safe for such things. Without proper word from The Marches, he says he must look to his own lands, although I’m not convinced he hasn’t had word. A bird flew in yesterday, but he’s said nowt about it to anyone. Alas, he says he must tend to his own flock and his neighbours be damned.’
Correia rolled her eyes. ‘Your baron’s pious nature is why the bloody witchunters don’t disarm, and his love of the Samorlian faith is why he struggles to control his own lands.’ Correia cut off whatever protest Messenger was about to make. ‘He needs to make decisions based on fact, not fiction. Whether tilting lances or dancing at court is what is needed right now or not, he must send messengers to Earls Bratby and Royce, be them heralds or knights. He must look to his neighbours. We all must.’
Wind, rain and the whinny of horses filled the gap that followed. Correia held her hands over the fire and thought hard on what she’d heard. Messenger waited patiently.
Eventually, Correia spoke. ‘In the morning, we ride into town with you, collect my men and ride on to the keep and your baron. I may have need of him before I move on.’
‘On to where?’
‘On to The Marches, of course, and maybe into Sirreta itself.’
Messenger balked as Correia winked.
By morning, the wind had dropped and the rain ceased. The air smelt fresh or ‘green’, as Sav would call it. A chiffchaff sang its repetitive song, grinding on Gleave as he rode along. Starks smirked at the irritation on Gleave’s face, a smirk that dropped when Gleave looked back.
‘Are we eating there?’ Starks said, turning back to face Correia and Messenger.
‘Yes, Starks,’ Correia said. ‘Your hunting will have to wait another day I’m afraid.’
‘At least we’ll eat well,’ Gleave muttered, replacing his irritation with amusement.
‘I’ll do fine, Gleave. Just you wait.’
‘We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.’
Starks’ reply consisted of three sneezes in a row.
‘You bring that plague with you, lad?’ Messenger’s tone revealed the jest.
‘You wouldn’t find it funny if you’d seen it,’ Gleave said, without turning. Starks smiled to himself and rubbed his nose.
‘Tough crowd.’ Messenger nodded towards Gleave and Starks.
Correia said nothing.
‘Up ahead,’ Starks said. ‘I see rooftops peeking over the ridge.’
‘Aye, that’s Towton. That’s home.’ Messenger beamed.
All four fell silent for a few heartbeats, a sickening sound reaching them.
‘And if I’m not mistaken,’ Gleave said, kicking his horse into motion, ‘that sounds like a fucking scrap.’
The other three dug heels in and raced down the road, after the big man.
Chapter 3 – More than just a game
Men roared and women screamed, children joining in, vocalising their support or fear; dogs barked and a crowd cheered.
Gleave rode into the town, following the sounds of shouts and curses from many lips. ‘There’s no smoke,’ he said, ‘but it sounds bad all the same.’
‘That way,’ Starks shouted from behind, overtaking Gleave to guide his horse down a wide street. The others followed, weapons drawn, except for Messenger’s.
Entering a large square, they pulled up quickly to save riding into a mob of chanting townsfolk.
‘Woah!’ Starks commanded, trying to regain control of his spooked horse. Messenger came alongside, taking the reins and holding the animal still with practised skill.
‘Hush now,’ Messenger said to Starks’ mount, leaning over so the words could be heard over the din.
‘What in The Three is going on here?’ Correia demanded.
Messenger turned to her and grinned. Correia noticed his sheathed sword.
Another cheer arose, this time from the far end of the square.
A group of men stood around two tall posts. Perhaps three dozen strong, the men were jumping, hugging one another and cheering to the crowd about them. They wore Towton’s colours to a man, as well as bloody injuries. Walking away from them, towards the riders stood in their stirrups, were a larger group wearing different colours. They looked as battered as the others, although these men wore anger and defeat on their faces, rather than mirth and hubris.
‘One more chance for you lot to beat us?’ a brute shouted from Towton’s grinning faces.
‘You’re on!’ came the reply.
‘Oh shit,’ Correia said, recognising the voice.
‘Was that Sav?’ Starks asked. Gleave laughed out his answer.
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ Messenger’s grin was wider than ever.
The crowd erupted as a stuffed pig’s bladder was tossed into the middle of the square.
‘Oh, the football might be a surprise,’ Correia said, dropping back into her saddle, ‘but that dumb bastard’s involvement isn’t.’
Sav’s voice was clear above all others, as was his head as he scooped the bladder up and ran for an opening in the Towton defensive line.
‘Is that Fal?’ Gleave said, standing taller whilst trying to hold his mount still.
No one answered as a tattooed face burst from the defensive line and made for Sav. The crunch, thump and grunt that followed lifted pigeons from tile and thatch as the broad-shouldered bladder carrier hit the dirt hard. The bladder rolled free, to be scooped up by a short man with fast feet. The Towton man ducked left, right and side-stepped a swinging fist to dart through three sets of grabbing hands.
‘He’s gonna make it!’ Messenger shouted, forgetting Starks’ reins in the process.
A collective ‘oof’ sent a whinnying horse bucking back along the street as the bladder carrier was tackled to the floor by a man of similar size. Both fell hard, leaving the bladder free for Fal to pick up.
‘Gleave,’ Correia said, eyes failing to pull away from a charging Fal, who’d turned to make for the game’s single goal, ‘go get Starks before he breaks his neck.’
Colourful curses followed as Gleave pulled back. Another collective ‘oof’ followed, as Fal’s ankles were kicked from under him by a bloody-nosed Sav.
‘What happened?’ Gleave called from somewhere behind the crowd. A horse whinnied and Starks screeched.
Sav grabbed the bladder and threw it across the square, long and far, his bow arm put to good use. It was a shame the receiver couldn’t catch.
A mix of hisses, boos and laughs spread through the crowd.
‘What’s happening?’ Gleave shouted again.
‘Where’s Star—’
‘I’ve got him,’ Gleave shouted.
A huge cheer set more dogs to barking.
‘
And Fal’s lot have won a point,’ Correia replied as Gleave came alongside, a shaken Starks beside him on a snorting beast.
Fal danced about, pointing at Sav whilst two men were dragged from the square, unconscious or worse.
‘I see what you mean about your baron and his bloody games,’ Correia said.
Messenger kept his eyes on the continuing game whilst answering. ‘This ain’t a game, Correia. It’s much more serious than any melee or tilt.’ She turned to him, eyebrows high.
‘Please, enlighten me.’
He swallowed hard, cleared his throat.
‘It’s a matter of pride,’ Gleave interjected, back to standing in his stirrups for a better look as the bladder flew high and wide.
‘Male pride.’ Correia sighed. ‘Why am I not—’
‘No,’ Gleave interrupted, again without turning. ‘Town pride. The town I grew up in played football against our neighbouring town. Each year there was a game. Each year we won.’ He turned to face the others, teeth showing.
‘He’s right,’ Messenger said.
Another collective ‘oof’ and shouts of anger mixed with laughter.
‘Go on.’
‘Well,’ Messenger continued, ‘whichever town wins, gets three whole days off the following year, to travel to the other town for the celebration and game.’
Gleave spun on Messenger. ‘Really? We used to get a dozen free barrels of Minston Mead supplied to the summer fête.’
Messenger’s eyes widened and he whistled appreciatively.
‘I’ve heard enough,’ Correia said, moving her horse around the crowd and towards the stables. Gleave and Starks sighed, followed by Messenger.
‘She means for us to follow, doesn’t she?’ Messenger asked. Gleave and Starks nodded.
The crowd cheered and cursed in equal measures; Sav cursed louder than most.
***
The scent of her golden hair, of the rose petal water she used to soak it in the previous night. The smell was… perfection. Quin opened his eyes slowly, as he always did, wanting to allow his beloved’s form to materialise in his vision slowly; softly.
And there she was, lying next to him. Would he ever get over the amazement he felt at that?
