‘It was cold last night,’ he said, a little too quickly, making it sound like an excuse rather than an explanation.
‘I’ll go and get some food.’ She untangled herself and got up.
Bryn said nothing, just watched her as she made her way off to forage, feeling curiously alone without her next to him.
* * *
THEY WALKED in silence for much of that morning, neither mentioning the embrace they had woken in. The sun had come out but the road was wet and muddy, and it was hard going. It wound its way down a gentle slope toward a wooded area and then disappeared out of sight. The journey was beginning to take its toll on Bryn, and he found himself wishing for the sight of Ostenheim every time they reached a rise on the road. His feet were blistered and his calves ached. Ayla hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint though, and he was determined not to be the first to do so. He knew they still had a long way to go.
Concentrating on not slipping on the mucky road was fully occupying both of their thoughts, so the silence was not as awkward as it might have been otherwise. Bryn found his mind increasingly occupied by the way they’d woken. He couldn’t recall ever having felt as content as he had for those few waking moments in her arms, nor as happy as he had been for the past few days. He was so caught up in his thoughts that it caused him to miss the figure standing at the side of the road just inside the tree line.
‘Ho there!’ the man called when they were no more than a few steps from him.
The road entered the forest at the bottom of the slope, and it was wetter and more churned up there. The voice came as a shock to both of them. Bryn looked up and they both stopped as the man stepped out from the verge onto the road, theatrically lifting his booted feet free of the sucking mud.
‘Not the best day for walking the roads, is it?’ he said.
‘Indeed not,’ Bryn said, trying to remain friendly. Deep down he knew any conversation with a stranger on the road was unlikely to remain friendly for long.
‘I’m afraid for you, it’s just gotten a good deal worse,’ the man said.
Bryn moved for his sword, hopeful that his ruse would work for a second time, but the man brushed back his heavy black travelling cloak to reveal a small crossbow, loaded, primed and pointed at Bryn’s abdomen. Bryn hesitated.
‘We’ve got no money,’ Bryn said.
‘That might be the case,’ the man said, ‘but it’s been a while since anyone has happened along, and I’m getting bored.’
‘I hate to have to bore you further,’ Bryn said, ‘but really, we’ve got nothing. Do we really look like we’re the moneyed sort?’
‘It’s a possibility that you aren’t, I agree, but the last fellow I had make the same claim—dressed in tatters he was—turned out to have a belt of gold crowns strapped around his waist. It taught me that rags are often the best way to hide a fortune, and I cursed myself for all the beggars and vagabonds that I have allowed to pass unobstructed over the years. It’s a lesson that brings bad news for you I’m afraid. And anyway, that pretty rapier there makes me think you’re a liar.’ Holding his bow steady and trained on Bryn’s stomach in one hand, he drew his sword and pointed it at Bryn with the other, its length enough to span the distance between them. ‘Now, remove your doublet and shirt, if you please.’
Bryn cast a glance to Ayla, who was a little farther from him than he would have liked, and closer to the man. There was no way he would be able to get between them if things got any uglier than they already were. Would he be able to remove his doublet and shirt? Reluctantly, he began to undo his doublet. The feeling in his hands was still poor, and he fumbled with the buttons, his fingers clumsy, but he had regained enough movement to be able to carry out the task, albeit slowly and without grace.
‘No games. Be quick about it,’ the highwayman said. He dropped the cavalier, almost friendly tone.
Bryn could feel sweat break out on his brow from the effort and concentration this simple task required. His hand faltered and the highwayman’s patience was exceeded. He drew his arm back to cut at Bryn. Bryn went for his sword, a task that had once required neither thought nor effort, but now felt like an impossible challenge. He had no idea what he would do with it even if he managed to draw it. As he moved, Ayla dropped to the ground. Bryn’s heart jumped into his throat and his eyes instantly went to the highwayman’s crossbow, but he had not fired; the bolt was still in place and the string still primed.
The highwayman ignored her and advanced on Bryn, who backed away as he struggled to draw his sword. Ayla leaped to her feet clutching a sizeable rock. She stretched full, using the momentum of standing up to drive the rock forward. She had been closer to the highwayman than Bryn, but their assailant had taken her for granted, seeing Bryn and his sword as the real threat.
She smashed the rock into the back of his head. It made a sickening crack and the highwayman crumpled to the ground without so much as a groan. His crossbow, aimed in Bryn’s direction, went off as he fell with an audible click and thrum. Bryn dived for the ground as soon as his brain registered what was happening. He squelched into the mud and had the air knocked from his lungs. He heard Ayla cry out.
He lay still on the ground for a moment, trying to work out if he had been hit. Not feeling the intense pain he would expect from a crossbow wound, he tried to press himself up from the ground, but his arms were still too weak and he slumped back into the mud. He rolled over onto his back, and sat up. Ayla was over him in an instant.
‘Are you all right? Did he hit you?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘He missed.’ Ayla helped him to his feet. He walked over to the highwayman and knelt down beside him. He stared at the highwayman’s chest for a moment.
‘Still breathing.’
Ayla said nothing and Bryn wasn’t entirely sure if it was due to concern or disappointment.
‘What should we do with him?’ she said.
‘Nothing. He’d have done us in so I’m not going to worry myself about leaving him here. He’ll wake up in a while with a headache, but it’s nothing more than he deserves. If we pass a town before nightfall we can tell any watchmen we come across that there’s a highwayman out here, but he’ll probably have woken and gone by then. We should move him to the side of the road so he doesn’t get hit by a passing carriage, but that’s all I’m doing for him. Help me drag him.’
Bryn looped his arms under the highwayman’s shoulders, having just enough strength and mobility in them to manage it with Ayla’s help, and together they dragged him to the verge at the side of the road. Bryn was terrified by how helpless he had been. Without Ayla, the highwayman could have killed him, and wouldn’t even have broken a sweat. When were his shoulders going to get better?
Bryn grimaced with discomfort and frustration at his debilitation as he dumped the highwayman’s body on the grass. There was a chink of metal as he did it. Bryn looked up to Ayla, who had also heard the sound. She frisked the highwayman and came away with a coin purse. It was small, and didn’t look to contain that stash of gold crowns the highwayman had mentioned, but still held a healthy sum.
Ayla looked to Bryn and raised her eyebrows.
He shrugged. ‘He’d have taken ours.’
CHAPTER 40
The highwayman wasn’t wealthy, but there was enough in his purse to ensure that Bryn and Ayla would be able to pass the remainder of their journey in relative comfort. It was too late to call on the town watch when they arrived in the next village, so they looked for an inn.
It wasn’t until the warm, dry air of the inn hit him that Bryn realised how long it had been since he had been out of the elements. The shack had provided shelter, and the fire within some heat, but it was draughty and damp—and cold after the fire had died down. The prospect of a warm bed and a hot meal lifted a weight from his shoulders, not to mention the appeal of a wash and a shave.
The inn was crowded, busy and bright, a contrast to the dark, deserted street outside, and the change seemed to startle Ayl
a. At first no one took any notice of them, but gradually a number of the patrons turned and gave Bryn an appraising look. Bryn thought nothing of it, they were just strangers to the village, arriving late in the day, something that was always a cause for curiosity. He walked up to the bar enthusiastic at the prospect of a little comfort, but Ayla hung back nervously. It was her first time in a crowd since her village had been destroyed. He glanced back over his shoulder, took her by the hand and pulled her forward, which took a great deal of effort.
‘A room, please,’ Bryn said to the innkeeper. ‘And food. Dinner with all the trimmings.’
The innkeeper looked at him suspiciously, then at Ayla.
‘Two rooms. I meant two rooms.’ Rural villages could have oddly conservative notions of propriety. He hoped his unintentional slip wouldn’t result in them being run out of the town with pitchforks and burning torches.
He looked back at Ayla and gave her a reassuring smile. He hoped he hadn’t offended her. He turned back to face the innkeeper and tapped some coins out of the highwayman’s purse. Silver florins all, he reckoned there was enough to see them through the rest of their journey. The innkeeper gave Bryn two keys and led them over to a table in the corner of the taproom.
When the food arrived, Bryn stared at it with trepidation. Bring fed in private was humiliating enough. He would rather go hungry than suffer it in front of an audience. He slowly reached for the knife on the table, feeling the tautness in his shoulder as he did. No pain though, which was something. He realised Ayla was watching him in silence and had not yet touched her food, in spite of how hungry she must have been. With one last effort, encouraged by the smell of the hot foot, he grabbed at the knife and managed to get a firm grip on it first try. He took hold of a leg of chicken and cut a piece free, then slowly lifted the morsel to his mouth. The act of raising his hand was difficult, and he had to strain against the resistance from his shoulder. It was only stiffness though, not pain.
The flavour of the chicken flooded through his mouth and he smiled. He looked at Ayla before they both attacked their food with fervour, and didn’t utter a word to one another until they had finished. It wasn’t just his appetite that dictated his silence, it took whatever concentration he had left over to make his hands work well enough to ensure the food ended up in his mouth rather than down the front of his doublet or on the floor. It was a struggle, but he was determined not to suffer the indignity of having to have Ayla help him in front of the inn’s patrons, who gave the pair regular and curious looks. It was a delight to manage it at all, but discomfiting that achieving something so simple should give him such satisfaction.
The pleasure of having hot food in his belly was difficult to describe, but from the expression on Ayla’s face, he could tell that she felt it too. The innkeeper came to take away their empty plates, and must have noticed the way they had been wiped clean with crusts of bread.
‘There’s still some pie left in the kitchen. Apple.’
Ayla started to shake her head in the way Bryn had seen people act when refusing something they actually wanted.
‘Two slices, please. Cream too, if there’s any to be had.’
The innkeeper smiled and nodded, clearly happy that people were appreciating his food. Ayla beamed at Bryn. They could afford one decent meal, and still have enough left over for a carriage the rest of the way to Ostenheim, all thanks to the highwayman. Bryn wondered what had become of him, having had a taste of his own medicine.
They ate the apple pie much the same way as they had devoured their dinner. Bryn tried to slow down and savour each bite, but he couldn’t help himself. He was sure it wasn’t the best meal he’d ever eaten, but after all he had been through, it certainly felt like it was.
As the food settled in his stomach he leaned back in his chair to relax, trying to lace his fingers over his full belly and just about succeeding. His doublet was rough and covered in what he first thought were crumbs. Then he realised that his clothes were caked in dry mud. He tentatively put his hand up to his face and realised it was the same, many days of beard growth matted in dried clumps. It was from when he dived to the ground to avoid the highwayman’s wayward crossbow shot. He must have looked a sorry state, and realised why he had attracted so many odd looks when they first arrived at the inn. All things considered, he was surprised they had been served at all.
He felt an impatient urge to get to his room and clean himself up, now that he realised how filthy he was.
‘Time for bed, I think,’ he said.
Ayla blushed, then nodded.
They walked up the stairs to the inn’s rooms. Theirs were on opposite sides of the corridor. He gave her a key to one of them, wondering after he had if he should have let her take a look at them both before deciding. He had never felt responsible for anyone before, and never felt so indebted to anyone. He owed her his life many times over.
She took the key and turned to open the door to her room. She looked over her shoulder as she stepped across the threshold. ‘Sleep well,’ she said, before closing the door behind her.
It was the first time in weeks that they hadn’t shared their sleeping space and as he stood there by his doorway, key in hand, he was filled with the most incredible sense of loneliness. Only then did he realise that he hadn’t even remembered to wish her a good night’s sleep.
* * *
THEIR JOURNEY HAD TAKEN them well into what Bryn believed was the middle of nowhere. It took four different carriages to get them the rest of the way to Ostenheim, making Bryn concerned that they wouldn’t have enough money to pay for their passage on each of them. He managed to stretch it far enough by sharing the box seat with the coach driver on two occasions, but there were no more extravagant meals for the remainder of the journey.
Bryn had mixed feelings when their carriage pulled up by the coaching stables outside Ostenheim’s walls. He didn’t know if his family had been told he was dead, or how they would react to his sudden appearance. He also wondered how they would feel about him arriving with a strange girl from the borderlands. It played on his mind during the inactivity of the carriage journey. When the idea of bringing Ayla south first came to him, it seemed like the only option. As the reality of bringing her into the city drew closer he started to worry. What if he couldn’t find work? What if he couldn’t provide for her? Take care of her the way she had taken care of him? The city was a dangerous place for someone not accustomed to it. He evaded the real cause of his concern, though he knew what it was. How would he take care of himself, let alone anyone else, without the proper use of his arms? Feeding himself was still his most impressive achievement. The feeling in his hands came and went, but he still couldn’t even fully draw his sword from its scabbard.
Bryn alighted from the carriage and stretched stiffly, flexing his arms slowly and uncertainly. His shoulders felt tight and restricted, as though he was wearing a doublet several sizes too small. He tried not to dwell on it, and told himself over and over that more time would improve them.
‘That’s Ostenheim?’ Ayla said, looking up toward the tops of the city walls as she followed Bryn out of the carriage.
‘It is,’ Bryn said. ‘Home. For you too now, if you choose it.’
‘It’s big. How many people live there?’
‘Over a hundred thousand. Near enough three times that, I think.’
Ayla’s eyes widened. ‘So many.’
As they passed through the city’s north gate and into the city, she looked on with awe. They walked under the great stone archway and into wide streets lined with four and five storey buildings. Bryn found her sense of wonderment and curiosity warming, and forced himself not to continually smile at her barrage of questions and fascination.
‘Where are we going?’ she said.
‘To my mother’s home. It’s not far from here.’
‘Does she own the entire building?’
Bryn laughed. ‘No, just an apartment.’
‘Lots of people living on
top of each other,’ she said, her voice distant as she continued to take in all of the new sights, sounds and smells.
Finally they were standing outside the nondescript doorway to his mother’s apartment. He hesitated before knocking, afraid that he would discover they had moved out. It hadn’t been all that long since he left, but so much had changed for him, it seemed possible. They could have gone to Tanosa to be with his other sister and her husband. He knocked and waited.
When he heard the sound of the latch being opened he realised that he was holding his breath. The door swung open to reveal his mother standing there. She let out a gasp of surprise. She stood statue still for a moment, eyes wide, and then rushed forward and took him in her arms. He returned the embrace as best he could and his mother began to cry. A voice came from within the apartment.
‘Who’s that, Mother?’
‘It’s your brother. It’s Bryn.’
His sister came into view, peering out the doorway. Her reaction of surprise was much the same as his mother’s.
‘Can we come in?’ he said.
‘Of course, of course,’ his mother said. ‘We?’
His mother released him and moved back. Bryn beckoned to Ayla to follow him and went in. She went after him hesitantly.
His mother was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘This is Ayla,’ Bryn said.
His mother nodded to her and smiled, but seemed unsure how to react beyond this.
‘We were told your convoy had disappeared. That you were probably dead,’ Gilia said. She stifled a sob.
‘I was lucky. The wagons were attacked, and I was left for dead, but Ayla,’ he gestured to her stiffly, ‘saved me.’
It was clear to Bryn that Ayla was uncomfortable with the situation. It would take his mother and sister a time to come to terms with the fact that he was home alive, and had brought a woman with him.
‘Her village was destroyed before we got there. After the attack I was injured and she looked after me until I was up and about again. She had nothing left there, so I asked her to come back to Ostenheim with me. I said that we’d help her get on her feet.’
The First Blade Of Ostia Page 26