“You stay here,” he said to Fitzsimmons. “The doctor and I will search the house. Again, give us ten minutes. If we are not back, find Gord and leave.”
The innkeeper was about to argue, but he seemed to see something in Martin’s eyes that stopped him.
“Aye aye, sir,” he said, and he too saluted, but this time as a soldier would to his superior officer.
Martin turned to Menzies.
“What do you say, old man? Shall we enter the lion’s den?”
“I’m with you, sire,” the Doctor said. “Although I think we should have more weapons than Daniel had.”
He went to the cart and from under the canvas took two pistols and loaded them with silver shot. He also took one of the canteens they had filled in Carlisle. He opened it and hung it round his neck, then rejoined Martin.
Martin stepped forward into the dark hallway. At the same time the two dogs jumped from their place at Megan’s side and joined him, one on the left, one on the right.
“It looks like you’ll have Fang and Blackie as company,” Fitzsimmons said. “Take care of Gord’s dogs, won’t you?”
“Aye,” the doctor said sarcastically. “And we’ll look after ourselves as well.” He stepped through the door only a step behind Martin.
Martin’s eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. The entrance hall was even bigger than the Great Hall in Milecastle, and there had never been straw on the floor or rats on a spit here. The floor was cold, white, marble, and the walls were festooned with rich velvet tapestries. The ceiling rose to a dome of gilded ornamentation depicting a scene of cherubs and seraphs in a heavenly rapture. Below the dome, the scene was more one of hell.
Bodies lay strewn everywhere, wounds gaping bloodlessly. Women, old men, even babes not long born lay in a chaotic muddle of arms, torsos and legs. But there was not a single speck of blood to stain the white marble.
Martin bent to check the wounds on one of the children when a voice spoke from the stairs to his left.
“Touch her and I’ll stake you right now you bloodsucking bastard,” a voice said.
Martin turned slowly. There was a crossbow pointing at his chest. The man behind it was wide- eyed, his hair standing on end as if he had been too close to a lightning strike. He wore the long smock of a herdsman, and a shepherd’s crook rested on the wall nearby.
The dogs growled and moved forward, but Martin stopped them by putting his hands on their backs. He opened his palms outward and spoke softly.
“In the name of Jesus Christ I declare I am man and only man,” he said.
“The Lord of this house declared the same thing,” the man said. “Just before he did that...”
He motioned at the bodies.
“…so why should I believe you?”
“Menzies, give me the canteen,” Martin said.
He took the container from the doctor and laid it on the floor before stepping back.
“Smell it,” he said. “It is almost pure bulb.”
The man stepped forward, the crossbow never wavering from Martin’s chest. He bent and smelled the water, then stepped back.
“It’s bulb, all right. I’ll grant you that. What of it?”
“Just this,” Martin said. He bent once more, picked up the canteen, and drank deeply. He handed it to Menzies, who did the same.
“I am Thane of Milecastle,” Martin said. “And I have come, on the Protectors orders, to aid this house and raise a militia.”
The man dropped the crossbow and fell at Martin’s feet.
“Thank the Christ. We are saved.”
“We?” Menzies said. “There are more of you?”
“Just my two boys,” he said, then shouted. “Harold! Edward! Come on down! The Protector’s men are here! We are saved!”
Two boys, so alike that they must be twins, emerged from the top of the stairs. When they saw the dogs they began to run faster and were soon happily petting the hounds which stood and took the attention stoically.
“What happened here?” Martin asked, helping the man to his feet. “The Lord of our Manor happened here,” the man said. “The Boy-King came to visit, and our Lord joined up. He always talked about wanting to serve when royalty were reinstated. It looks like he got his wish.”
“And these people?” Menzies asked.
“My Lord’s dowry for joining,” the man said, and spat on the marble floor. Seemingly coming to a decision, he thrust out a hand for Martin to shake.
“John Hillman,” he said. “And if you’re raising the militia, then I’m now your man.”
“And glad we are to have you,” Martin replied, and shook the man’s hand warmly.
“And how many men have you?” Hillman asked, and went white as a sheet when Martin told him.
“Only four? Then we must leave. Now. It is near dark, and we are too few.”
Martin realised that the sunlight had almost gone. Just then Fitzsimmons and Rollo came in, weapons raised.
“Nothing round the back,” Gord said. “But someone has torn up a perfectly good lawn.”
Martin looked at Menzies and saw realisation in his eyes.
“Get Megan in here. Right now!” he said, and Gord left at a run.
“We need to stake these bodies,” he said to Fitzsimmons. “And fast.”
The bald man nodded. He took a hammer from a pack at his side, and a fistful of stakes. Martin was pleased to see that the officers of Milecastle were not the only ones prepared for the coming of the Others. He just hoped that more of the populace were as ready.
“Hillman. Give Menzies your bow. He can put it to good use. Take your boys through there,” he said, pointing through to a grand room lined with books. “What we do is not for their eyes.” Hillman nodded, and took the boys aside. They complained about being parted from the dogs, but went quietly enough when Martin promised they would see the animals later.
Gord and Megan arrived, and Martin was dismayed to see that the light had almost gone from the sky outside.
“Megan. We need light in here. See what you can find, please?” Martin said.
The woman nodded and left. Martin and the other men went to work. Megan returned with oil lamps and quickly lit them. The spluttering light gave a macabre, dancing, animation to the corpses that made it even more difficult to approach them, but Martin forced himself forward. He took a thick crossbow bolt from Menzies, chose his corpse, and bent over it.
The work went quickly, but there was no joy in it, and they all had tears in their eyes when the job was over.
Martin said the words over the bodies. It was his duty.
“Tomorrow, if we’re spared, we’ll burn the bodies before we leave,” he said.
“Then we’d better make sure you’re not spared,” a voice said.
None of them had noticed a door opening, but Martin turned to see a figure standing in the entrance to the library. Behind the figure an Other held Hillman. The two boys lay at his feet, but Martin had no time to check if they were alive or dead.
The figure stepped forward into the range of the lamplight. The dogs growled again, louder this time, and would have thrown themselves forward, but Martin quietened them once more.
The newcomer was a tall man, but running to fat. His round face was as white as the marble of the floor save for red blood painted at his lips. He wore a long, white-powdered wig, a purple velvet over-jacket and yellow silk hose. His shoes were shiny black leather topped with silver buckles.
“Now what are you doing in my house?” the figure said. “I don’t remember inviting any commoners.”
“The Thane of Milecastle, representative of the Protector in the north, needs no invite to a place such as this,” Martin said. He stepped forward to within arms length of the Other.
“Your Protector is nothing more than a grey little nobody. The Boy-King rules here now,” the Other said. “And I am his representative.”
“Then you will receive what I will give him,” Martin said. “I do not bandy word
s with his lackeys.”
His left arm shot out and the crossbow bolt in his hand tore through the Other’s throat and out the other side. Martin twisted, hard, and tore a gaping hole. The Other gasped, and its fangs burst out of its gums in a bubble of blood. It staggered forward, arms raised to grasp its prey. Martin ducked inside and brought his head up under the Other’s chin, forcing the head backwards. He thrust his weight forward, taking the body down to the ground where it was the work of less than a second to thrust the bolt through its heart.
The still body of the full-dead corpse stared up at him, a surprised look on its face.
Martin stood, just as Menzies’ crossbow bolt took the one holding Hillman through the eye. It fell like a stone, and was staked before it realised it was dead.
Martin felt the hair on his left arm ripple, but the wolf stayed down. Maybe it had something to do with danger. At no time had he felt threatened.
“Your training has worked then?” Menzies said.
“Aye, old friend. All those hours on the parade ground must have taught me something. A fat bloated Other like the ‘Lord’ here holds no worries for an officer of the Watch. Besides, I had a good teacher.” Hillman was helping the boys to their feet. They both had bruises where it was obvious that their heads had been banged together, but they looked none the worse for wear. The herdsman had a look of awe on his face.
“I never seen anything like it,” he said, then said it again. “You staked him as if he was already full dead. And there’s not a scratch on you. Oh, I’m your man. I’m your man, all right.”
“Then do something useful,” Menzies said. “Find us a room where it will be safe to spend the night. I for one won’t sleep here with these bodies about.”
“Gord?” Martin said. “Would you and Fitzsimmons go out to the cart and fetch something to eat? Just enough to see us through the night.”
Gord saluted, and this time his salute recognised a superior.
Ten minutes later the small band were settled in a kitchen below ground at the rear of the building. There was only one window, high up and heavily barred.
Megan busied herself in getting stoves lit and pans boiling. The boys helped her while the men sat at a long trestle table.
“Are there any hamlets nearby where we will find men?” Martin asked Hillman.
“A few, my Lord,” the man said. He looked at Martin as if he was looking at a god. “And when they hear how you dealt with the dark one, they’ll join up. Oh yes. They’ll join up.”
“He was nothing,” Martin said. “A newly-turned with no sense of what he had become. I was lucky.”
“No, lad,” Fitzsimmons said. “You are a fighter, like your scarecrow friend. You took him fast and cool. Not many could’ve done it as well.”
“That’s right,” Hillman said. “You killed a dark lord. I saw you do it, and I’ll be telling all that I meet. With men like you we’ll beat the damned shadows.”
Martin was about to protest when Menzies whispered in his ear.
“Let him have his hero, sire. He has seen an Other dispatched, and dispatched quickly. He’ll learn soon enough that they don’t all go so easy.”
Martin fell silent and let Hillman tell everyone again how amazed he was. Megan fed them, Gord and Fitzsimmons entertained them, and a couple of bottles of the dead lord’s claret warmed them from within. Martin took himself over to the side of the fireplace and curled himself inside his cloak. The dogs came and lay beside him and he was soon fast asleep. The last thing he heard was Fitzsimmons asking Hillman about the quality of the beer at the inn.
He dreamed of Sean, but a Sean who had become a ravenous, blood-crazed Other. He woke, sweat running under his shirt. The room was dead black, only the dim glow from the dying embers below the stove shedding any light. The dogs whimpered beside him, and crept closer to him, but he spent a long time staring at the ceiling and watching the shadows crawl before sleep came for him again.
He woke a second time to morning light streaming in the high window. Megan was scrambling eggs at the stove, and the dogs were still lying beside him, but there was no sign of his other companions.
“Have I overslept?” he asked.
“No. It is yet early,” she said. “They have gone to cleanse the corpses. I’m surprised they did not wake you—they certainly made enough of a racket. Sawney said we were to let you rest, that you were still recovering. But in truth, you look healthier than most any man I’ve ever seen.”
And he felt like it. The second sleep had done him good. He felt as strong as an ox, and ready to eat one. By the time Menzies came back, soot blackened and stinking of smoke, Martin was on his second bowl of eggs and most of the way through a loaf. And he ate some ham and sausages with the others as they broke their fast.
By the time he mounted his horse his stomach felt as tight as a drum but he was rested and contented as he led the company back down the drive away from the house.
Hillman and his boys led the way. From somewhere the boys had found a fife and a drum which they played with gusto. Their presence was proclaimed ahead of them as they entered the hamlet of Wallingham.
A small crowd gathered around them as they entered the square at the town centre.
Hillman acted as crier.
“By the order of the Protector all able-bodied men will join the Militia. “Come and fight the Boy-King.
“Join the young Thane of Milecastle, the Protector’s man in the north, slayer of the Dark Lord of Thornton-in-Lonsdale.
“Join up and take the Protector’s shilling.”
“It is hardly imaginative fare,” Martin said to Menzies.
“No, sire. But I’ll bet you a crown it works. It seems you are to become a hero.”
Menzies was proved right. Five men joined there at Wallingham, six more at the second hamlet. As the road to Derby got wider and more populous, so more joined them. Three days later Martin rode through the gates of Derby at the head of a militia four hundred strong.
The city was in chaos. Cumberland’s army had arrived that very morning, and it seemed like everyone in the town was looking for somewhere to billet. Tents and covered wagons were pitched in all available space, and soldiers had already been dispatched to fortify the walls.
Hawkers and tradesmen occupied every other corner, selling pies, ale and tobacco at extortionate prices. On the other corners women wearing loose, gaudy clothes smiled sweetly and showed their privates. And everywhere Martin looked he saw the red tunics of the Protector’s army.
“I must report to the Duke,” Martin said.
“Aye,” Menzies replied. “But first we must find somewhere to billet the militia, and some way to feed them.”
“Leave that to me,” Fitzsimmons said. “With your permission, sir?”
“Aye,” Martin said. “I hereby appoint you quartermaster of the northern militia, and give you leave to sequester such goods as are required. Is that enough or do you need it written down?”
“Nay, sir. Your word will do,” Fitzsimmons said. “I know some fellow innkeepers in town. And at least one of them owes his life to old Sawney here. ’Tis time to call in old favours. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just mention how the strong young Thane of Milecastle came to slay the Dark Lord.”
The last had mimicked Hillman so well that Martin was forced to laugh.
“Begone. And remember—I don’t want to know where anything comes from.”
“Oh, there won’t be anything suspect. Well, not too suspect,” the innkeeper said.
Gord was left with the militia while Martin and Menzies went in search of someone to report to.
“There must be at least three thousand troops here.” Martin said as they pushed through both soldiers and tradesmen, townspeople and camp followers.
“Aye. Let us hope it is enough,” Menzies said.
The third officer they asked was able to direct them to the temporary headquarters of the army, and it was a further hour before they were given leave to r
eport to the Duke of Cumberland.
The Duke had taken up residence in the town hall. The building was almost as grand as the Manor at Thornton, but had been taken over by the Duke’s guardsmen and entourage. The place was a hive of activity, and Martin and Menzies sat in an antechamber and watched aides rush hither and thither at the Duke’s command.
Finally, Martin, but not Menzies, was allowed into the Duke’s presence. When Martin approached him he was bent over a map, tracing a route.
“The Thane of Milecastle reporting with the northern militia,” Martin said.
“Ah. Good man,” the Duke said, and stood up.
He was a big man, taller than Martin, and only just beginning to run to fat around the waist. His hair was swept back from a tall forehead and his eyes were deep piercing blue. He wore the brilliant tunic of the redcoats, and his chest was festooned with medals. His boots were polished to a matte black shine and his scabbard was silvered to a mirror finish. This wasn’t a man to be sloppy in his duty.
“So how many did you bring?” he asked.
“Four hundred and twenty sir,” Martin said.
“So few? He is that strong?”
Martin knew whom he meant.
“Aye, sir. He took Carlisle in less than an hour, and Milecastle only survived because we were well prepared.”
“Yes. As must we be,” the Duke said. “Is there anything I need to know?”
Martin told him about the disturbed earth. That brought up so many questions that he ended up telling the Duke the whole story, from Campbell’s arrival at the gate of Milecastle to the falling of Carlisle.
The Duke heard him in silence, then took Martin’s hand and looked him in the eye.
“And I have heard the tale already of the Lord of Thornton,” he said. “Is it true?”
“In its way, sir. ’Tis true that I gave him the true death. But he was fat and stupid. It was no contest.”
The Duke waved his hand.
“That is of no matter. It is the story that men will tell. And it is the slayer of the dark Lord that men will follow. I need someone to take command of the militia. There are three hundred more come from the towns to the east. Is seven hundred enough of a command for you?”
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