“Take this, it looks like you need it. And come inside and we’ll get you cleaned up. We can’t have a good fighting man like yourself going around like the green man.”
Sean took the ale gratefully, gulping half of it down before the man had a chance to change his mind. The alcohol, on an empty stomach, immediately started a buzzing in his head, and he reminded himself to be careful—it wouldn’t take much to get him into the same state as the men he had just dispatched, and although this man seemed friendly, he remembered how quickly the butcher in Garstang had turned against him.
“But won’t the landlord complain? I am no fit sight for the fine customers from yon carriages,” Sean said, pointing at the front of the inn where a small crowd was just dispersing, no doubt disappointed that the fight was over so quickly.
“Those ‘fine people’ have seen worse than you this past night,” the man said. “I fear that this is not the genteel ale house they expected when they stopped. And as to whether the landlord will complain—I don’t think so,” he said, putting out his good hand for Sean to shake. “John Fitzsimmons is the name, proprietor of this fine establishment. Now come in and have a wash and we’ll see about getting you some clean clothes.”
Sean eyed the man over the top of the ale mug. There was still no guile in those eyes, but brigands existed in many forms, not just those one met on the open highway.
“But I have no money, and I must be going—she may be far away already.”
Sean realised that he had spoken out of turn, but fatigue, the fight and the sudden effect of alcohol on his brain had dulled the quickness of his mind.
Fitzsimmons put his finger to his mouth to quiet Sean, and leaned closer to him, speaking low so that no one else could hear.
“I have seen her, if I read you right. And you are not so far behind her as you fear. Now come. You will bathe and eat, and all I ask in return is to hear your story, although I know more of it already than you might think.”
Sean allowed himself to be led into the tavern, his head spinning at the implications of what the man said.
The inside of the tavern was so dark that Sean’s eyes had trouble adjusting, but his nose wasn’t as numbed as he’d thought—the smell of stale beer, smoke and urine told him immediately he was in a tavern. It was a smell that reminded him so much of home, of Milecastle, that he had a hitch in his chest that he could only disguise by taking another sip of ale.
The main barroom was low of ceiling, and hung thick with the smoke of many pipes. There were more than thirty people inside, all jostling for the attention of two barwomen who, even at this early stage of the day, looked tired and stressed.
“Get yerself over here and sell some beer, you old bastard,” one of the women shouted. At first Sean thought she was talking to him, but the man beside him shouted back.
“Sell it yourself. I have a guest.”
The woman left four flagons of ale at the table nearest her and came over to stand in front of Sean.
“A guest is it? And what makes you think I’d let such as this in my bar?” she said. Sean was reminded of the fisherman’s wife—there was something of the same fire in her eyes.
“I beg your pardon, Madam...”
“Madam is it?” she said, but something in his voice had softened her.
Before Sean could speak, Fitzsimmons butted in.
“He just put Gregory’s arm out of joint, and Jack Tarvit is out cold out in the road. He’s done us a favour.”
She looked Sean up and down.
“He doesn’t look capable.” But she was smiling as she spoke. “Take him through the back. And make sure he washes. The stink will linger for days.”
Fitzsimmons led him through the bar to a small room at the back. A fire was roaring in the grate, and the sweltering heat of it made Sean step back.
“Sorry,” Fitzsimmons said. “I got a taste for warmth in my years of service, and the old stump cries out for it when it gets damp. It does mean hot water, though.”
There was a black iron kettle hanging over the fire, and Fitzsimmons emptied it into a washbowl before inviting Sean to use it. He didn’t need a second offer.
Mud and grime sloughed off his skin, and when he was finally clean Sean was embarrassed at the state in which he had left the washcloths.
“Don’t worry,” said Fitzsimmons. “The missus has seen worse in her time. Now what can I give you to wear?”
He went to a large sailor’s chest in the corner of the room and began to rummage around inside it. He came back to Sean with a pile of clothing.
“Try some of these on. I was a bigger lad than you, and they are old, but most is of good quality and you should find something serviceable. Now forgive me, but the missus will hamstring me if I don’t get out there and give her a hand. I’ll fetch you some grub when I get a chance.”
Standing in front of the fire, Sean stripped off his tattered clothing and dumped it in a bundle at his feet. Given the state of it, he was surprised it didn’t move off of its own accord. Now that he was washed, the stink of it stung his nostrils. He took it to the fire and dumped the rancid pile on top of the burning logs. The cloth burnt blue and sent a puff of dark smoke up the small chimney, but all was soon consumed. He waited until the last scraps turned to ash before turning back to the chest.
The innkeeper had been right about the clothes. There were fine silks, in gaudy colours that made Sean think of hot climes and bright sunshine, and braided jackets of military issue. Under that there were shirts bedecked with frills and trousers in bold checks, but most of the clothing seemed too outlandish to his rural tastes. He could not imagine the innkeeper ever wearing much of it either, and wondered where such garments might have come from.
There were even women’s dresses, heavy and long in taffeta and silk—not the kind of thing that Sean was used to seeing womenfolk wearing. More what he imagined for the papists across the channel in France, or beyond the wall in the north.
In the end he chose a simple pair of heavy grey woolen trousers, with a thick linen shirt and a leather vest to replace the old one. It was in deep red leather, and rather gaudy, but the leather was supple and uncracked, and it did not restrict his movement.
Among the clothing he discovered a pair of soft leather boots, and to his surprise they fitted him perfectly, although they came a bit high up towards his knee for his comfort. He noticed as he dressed that the wound in his shoulder was nearly healed—he had almost forgotten it, as he had also forgotten the episode with the brigands. They seemed already like memories from a distant past, things that had happened to another person.
He wondered if the innkeeper felt the same way about his time before he was innkeeper. For the first time he really looked around the small room. The walls were paneled in dark oak, and shelves and alcoves had been fashioned along all four walls. The reason why was obvious—the innkeeper had been a sea-faring man, and curios and mementoes lined every available surface. Sean was particularly drawn to the carvings: intricate workmanship on pure white bone, scenes of tall ships in cliffy harbours, of swaying trees and dusky maidens.
But there was more; a ship’s compass that had obviously taken a blow from a heavy blade, a flintlock pistol whose movement was corroded and jammed, a beaded necklace cunningly wrought from pieces of shell and pearl, and a small arsenal of bladed weapons—swords, cutlasses, knifes and bayonets—some showing signs of rust, but in the main, well tended and shining like the day they were made.
One particular sword caught Sean’s eye. It was a blade in the Spanish style, with a gauntlet cover for the hand cunningly cut into a spider-web pattern, plated in fine silver, but strong enough to give protection. The blade itself was beautifully balanced, and it sang as it passed through the air as Sean tried some cuts.
“I see you have found my spoils of war,” the innkeeper said from behind him. “It is a fine blade. Best Toledo steel. No, keep it beside you for the time being,” he said, as he saw Sean moving to put the sword back.
He handed Sean a large pork pie, still piping hot. Sean put the sword on the chair beside him and took the pie, having to shuffle it from hand to hand to avoid being burnt. The smell of it made his mouth fill with saliva, and when he bit into it, he believed he had never tasted anything sweeter.
“The missus makes them herself out the back and we’ve sold more in the last three days than we have in the past year. I think you’ve made an impression on her, for she will not charge you for it.”
Fitzsimmons watched in amusement as Sean devoured the pie in four or five bites.
“Sorry,” Sean said as he finished the pie, wiping the crumbs from his mouth. “But it is a while since I ate more than berries.”
“That was obvious,” the fat man said.
“I have also taken some of your clothing,” Sean said. “But I fear much of it is too gaudy, even for my liking.”
“Aye. Clothes for warmer climes, most of them. My collection has a story to tell,” he said, motioning Sean towards a chair. “But it is your story we are concerned with today. Let me tell you what I know of it and you can fill in the blanks—it will be faster that way. But first, something to lubricate the thrapple.”
The man left, and Sean was surprised how nimble and light he was on his feet. He had seen men who moved like that before, men who knew how to fence, and how to handle themselves. He was glad he hadn’t had to fight the innkeeper—it would have been a lot closer than he would have liked.
Fitzsimmons returned only seconds later and thrust a mug of ale into Sean’s hand before he spoke, Sean becoming ever more incredulous with each word.
“You left Garstang three nights ago, in pursuit of a woman who walks yet seems to be dead. You came from the north originally—my guess is Milecastle or one of the other forts—and you are in some way responsible for this woman. The story goes that the woman brutally killed an officer in Garstang, and the Warden of that town and his men are scouring the countryside looking for both of you. You have chased the woman north since then, sleeping rough, but you don’t know how far ahead of you she is. Close enough for you?”
Sean nodded. There was only one way Fitzsimmons could have come by this information.
“The big man was here, then?”
“Aye. Just last night. With fifteen men. They drank a lot of my ale, and left without a penny payment. The missus was fit to split herself with apoplexy.”
The innkeeper laughed at the memory.
“Aye. She is not a woman I would cross,” Sean said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Fitzsimmons said. “I had to hold her back—she was going for the big man with one of my sabres.”
“The Warden struck me as an honest man,” Sean said.
“I suppose he is—he gave me a note to deliver to Garstang for recovery of my monies. But it is not from him I know of the woman. I saw her this morning, barely half an hour before you showed up.”
“I got ahead of her,” Sean said, almost to himself. “She must have passed while I was sleeping, less than three yards from the road.”
“Aye. She was on the road all right. I only caught a glimpse of her myself,” Fitzsimmons said. “I was emptying a chamberpot when I saw a white form come gliding out of the dark. Gave me a fair shock, it did, what with those eyes and that stare. She walked straight past me without even a nod, and it was only when I got back in and had some ale inside me that I realised that she was like some I had seen in the Carib, their minds enslaved to another. Am I right?”
Sean nodded, but said no more.
“Ah, a close man. I can see there are more stories yet in you.”
Fitzsimmons stood.
“You may wonder why I do not turn you in to the Warden’s men? The truth is, there has been no glamour, no adventure in my life since this,” he said, waving the stump. “You remind me of the boy I once was—the one who left Lancaster at sixteen to take to the seas.”
“I am indebted to you,” Sean said. “I met a man in Garstang who would have turned me in for a leg of venison, and you have restored my faith in man’s nature.”
The fat man bowed from the waist.
“I give you the clothes, and I give you the sword. Just promise to come back and tell me the whole story once it is over. It’ll be something to liven up the dark winter nights, I’ll wager.”
Sean nodded, afraid to speak, overcome by the simple generosity of this man.
The innkeeper found him a belt and scabbard for the sword from the depths of his sea chest, then led him back out through the bar.
Fitzsimmons’ wife was standing behind a long low bar-table. She whistled when she caught sight of Sean.
“He cleans up well,” Fitzsimmons said.
“That he does,” she said. “And the clothes look better on him than they ever did on you.” She smiled as she said it, and winked at her husband. She was not like the fisherwife after all, Sean thought. This one would not betray her husband.
And he realised something else: He would no longer be sleeping with other men’s wives. The part of him that led him to that pass had gone, lost sometime in the past week.
“I thank you, Madam...” he said, and this time she blushed and giggled, so that one could see the girl she had once been. “..for the food, the hot water, and the clothing. I will be back to repay you ere too long.”
“Aye. Do that lad. And we’ll find a wench to keep you warm when you return.”
Now it was Sean’s turn to blush, and Fitzsimmons ushered him outside to save him further embarrassment.
The yard in front of the inn was nearly empty now, and the carriages had all departed from outside. There was no sign of the five whom Sean had bested earlier.
“There’ll be more folk along later this afternoon—the ones who have left Carlisle this morning. The missus will be up to her elbows in pork fat what with all the pies we’ll be needing,” Fitzsimmons said, before turning to Sean, his eyes suddenly sombre. “Your tale has to do with the reason those people are moving south? It is tied in with everything that is happening, does it not?”
Sean merely nodded.
“Then go, then,” the innkeeper said. “And God speed you.”
Sean buckled the sheathed sword at his waist and clasped the man’s good hand.
“I am forever in your debt. And if I am able, I will return and drink your inn empty while relating the story.”
Fitzsimmons laughed, and for the first time in many days, Sean joined him.
“A fighting man, a close man, and a drinking man. I look forward to meeting you again, young sir.”
“Sean. Sean Grant is the name,” Sean said, and the innkeeper bellowed again.
“Well maybe not so close after all. Now get you going. You are more than an hour behind now, but I believe we have improved your chances.”
Sean agreed with him.
“And if you come across an old cove called Menzies in Milecastle,” Fitzsimmons said, “Tell him that Fitzsimmons’ stump still itches.”
“I can see that I am not the only one with stories yet to tell,” Sean said, and the innkeeper merely smiled.
“Stories start and end in strange places, and some people are given to appear in more than one,” he said. “If Menzies has not told his, then it is not my place. Bring him back with you if you can. Then we will have a night, no, a weekend, to remember. Mayhap you will get him and I drunk enough to tell you our tales of the Carib.”
“By the time old Menzies is drunk, I am already too far gone to notice,” Sean said, and Fitzsimmons laughed again and smacked him on the back.
“Practice, my boy. Years and years of it. Now be off with you.”
Sean clasped hands with the innkeeper once more, then headed off along the north road, and when he next looked back the inn was lost to view.
His new boots felt like he’d been wearing them all his life, so comfortable were they, and he had not realised what a difference a wash and a change of clothes would make to his mood. He realised that
the meeting with Fitzsimmons had contributed to his good humour—his faith in human nature had been restored and he had been lifted out of a black pit of despair.
He would have to remember to ask Menzies about Fitzsimmons—he had a feeling there was a story worth telling there. He realised he knew almost nothing about the doctor’s history—he was merely part of the day to day fabric of life in Milecastle. Oh, the old man knew almost everything there was to know about everything, but he never gave away anything about himself. He was as close with his story as he was in his chess games. Sean wasn’t even sure that the Thane knew.
But all of that would have to wait. Mary Campbell was ahead of him, and he meant to catch her. He started to walk faster, until he was almost running.
Although winter was nearly here, the day was sunny and nearly warm, and he worked up a sweat under the heavy trousers and shirt. It was almost a relief an hour later when the road started to rise away from the lake, the air becoming chillier as he headed for the higher hills which marked the northern end of the range.
He continued to walk fast, half expecting at any moment to come upon Mary Campbell, sitting at the roadside, just waiting for him to catch up. But the morning wore on, and he had no sight of her, nor any indication that she had even passed this way.
The path wended its way high up over the tops where the wind blew icy cold, and now he began to worry, for in the last glimpse he had been given of her, he had seen that she was only wearing a thin dress, and no shoes on her feet. Surely she must have stopped to seek shelter by now?
But he didn’t believe it. Whoever, or whatever, wanted her, wanted her as soon as possible— that was obvious by the way she was being driven. He walked on, trying to pick up the pace as a fine sleet began to fall.
By early afternoon he was wet through, cold and miserable, all trace of his good humour utterly vanished. He was walking along a high ridge, exposed to the elements, and he had passed no one on the road for over an hour. Sleet bit at his cheeks, and he was now grateful for the fine growth of beard at his cheeks. He began to suspect that he had taken a wrong turning, and seriously considered turning back to the last crossroads, some four miles behind him.
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