The Viscount and the Witch

by Michael J. Sullivan

  The old woman looked at Royce aghast.

  Now it was Hadrian’s turn to sigh. “Don’t mind him; he was raised by wolves.”

  Royce sat with his arms folded and a glare in his eyes.

  “It’s a beautiful afternoon and we’re in no hurry. Besides, you’re always complaining about my cooking. I’m sure you’ll be happier with her meal. I’m just going to have a quick talk with this guy.” Hadrian added in a whisper. “He’s probably just some poor fella desperate for shelter. I’ll bet that if I can get the two of them to talk, we can work this all out. I can probably get her to hire the guy to help while her husband is away. The woman will get a helping hand, and he’ll get some food and a place to sleep. What’s more we’ll get a hot meal, so everybody wins.”

  “And when this good deed ends in disaster will you listen to me next time and let people take care of their own problems?”

  “Sure, but it’ll be fine. He’s just one guy. Even if he’s completely unreasonable, I think we can handle a drunken squatter.”

  Being early spring, the road was a muddy mess. Patches of snow still hid in the shadows of rocks and the trees were just beginning to sprout small leaves. Still the birds were back. Hadrian was always surprised by their songs—how much he missed them, and how shocked he was that he never noticed their absence until they returned.

  Just as foretold, around the next bend was a farmhouse, if it could be called that. All of the homesteads they previously passed had been neat white-washed cottages with thatch roofs that stood out brightly against the season’s new green. Each had fields already ploughed and sown. The woman’s farm was a dilapidated shack of withered boards and tilting fences. Rising on his stirrups, Hadrian could not see a tilled field anywhere.

  “The barn is just down the hill that way,” she pointed. “You can see the roof. If you like, I’ll set your horses to some grain and water and start making your meal.”

  “You say it was just the one man?” Hadrian asked as he slipped off his horse and let the woman take the leads.

  She nodded.

  Hadrian, who already wore two swords hanging from his belt, unstrapped a long spadone blade from the side of his horse. Slipping the baldric over his shoulder, he let the massive sword hang across his back. It was the only way the sword could be carried. The spadone was a knight’s weapon, intended to be used on horseback. If he wore it on his side, the tip dragged.

  “That’s a lot of steel for one drunken fool,” the woman said.

  “Force of habit,” Hadrian replied.

  Royce dismounted alongside him, touching down with his right foot, then more gingerly with his left. He opened his pack and rummaged around for a bit. The woman waited until he finished, then with a final round of gratitude, she took both horses up to the house leaving Royce and Hadrian in the farmyard.

  A fieldstone well, formed the centerpiece of the open space between the house and the outbuildings and down a slope stood the barn. The whole place was badly overgrown with knee-high grass and dandelions going to seed. Royce paused a moment and sat on the foundation of what looked to have been a small building—a chicken coop most likely as it was too little for much else. He lifted his left foot and examined it. Hadrian could see a row of puncture marks in the soft leather.

  “How's your foot?” Hadrian asked.

  “It hurts.”

  “He had a good hold.”

  “Bit right through my boot.”

  “Yeah, that looked painful.”

  “So why exactly didn't you help?”

  Hadrian shrugged. “It was a dog, Royce. A cute, little dog. What did you want me to do, kill an innocent little animal?”

  Royce tilted his head, squinting into the light of the late evening sun to focus on his friend. “Is that a joke?”

  “It was a puppy.”

  “It was not a puppy, and it was eating my foot.”

  “Yeah, but you were invading his home.”

  Royce frowned and let his foot drop. “Let’s go see about this barn-invading ogre of yours.”

  The two headed down the grassy slope that was graced with a bounty of white and yellow wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. Honeybees were still out working, droning between the daisies, bishop’s lace, and wild carrots. Hadrian smiled. At least someone was hard at work farming the land here. As they approached the barn, they found it in no better shape than the house.

  “You know, you didn't have to throw it out the window,” Hadrian said as they walked.

  Royce, who was still preoccupied with his foot, looked up. “What did you want me to do with it? Scratch behind the little monster’s ears as it gnawed my toes off? What if it started barking? That would have been a fine mess.”

  “It's a good thing there was a moat right under the window.”

  Royce stopped. “There was?”

  Now was Hadrian’s turn to scowl. At times like this he could never be certain whether Royce was serious or not. They had worked together for almost a year, but he was still trying to understand his new partner. One thing was certain—Royce Melborn was by far the most interesting person he had ever met but also the hardest to get to know.

  They reached the barn, which was made of wood and fieldstone and supported a straw roof. The whole structure lurched to the side, its eaves leaning against the trunk of an old maple. Several of the clapboards were gone, and the thatch roof was missing in places. The double doors hung open, but all Hadrian could see inside was darkness.

  “Hello?” Hadrian called. He pushed the doors wide and peered in. “Anyone here?”

  Royce was no longer behind him. He often disappeared at times like this. Being more adept at stealth, Royce enjoyed using Hadrian for the noisy distraction he was.

  There was no answer.

  Hadrian drew a sword and stepped inside.

  The interior of the barn was much like any other except that this one showed signs of serious neglect and recent occupancy—an odd combination. The sagging loft was filled with old rotting hay. The few visible tools were rusted and wrapped in webs.

  Enough light pierced the gaps in the roof and walls to reveal a man lying asleep in a pile of hay. Thin and incredibly filthy, he wore nothing but a nightshirt. Grass littered his hair, and his face was nearly lost in the unruly wreath of a wild beard. Curled in a ball, an old sack acted as his blanket. With his mouth hanging agape, he snored loudly.

  Hadrian sheathed his weapon and then gently kicked the man’s bare foot. The only response was a grumble as he resituated himself. Another prod produced a flicker of eyelids. Spotting Hadrian, he abruptly drew himself to a sitting position and squinted. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Hadrian Blackwater.”

  “And what is it that you wish, kind sir?” His elocution was more sophisticated than his appearance had suggested.

  “I was sent by the lady who owns this farm to inquire why you’re in her barn.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He squinted even more.

  Well spoken, but no genius, Hadrian thought. “Let’s start with your name. Who are you?”

  The man got to his feet, brushing hay from his shirt. “I am the Viscount Albert Tyris Winslow, son of Armeter.”

  “Viscount?” Hadrian laughed. “Have you been drinking?”

  The man looked decidedly sad as if Hadrian had inquired about a dead wife. “If only I had the coin.” A realization dawned and Albert’s expression turned hopeful. He got to his feet and brushed the hay from his nightshirt. “This is really all I have left, but it’s made from the finest linen. I would sell it to you for a fraction of its worth. Just a single silver tenent. One simple coin. Do you have one to spend?”

  “I don’t need a nightshirt.”

  “Ah, but my good man, you could sell it.” Albert spit on a dirty smudge and scrubbed the material between his fingers. “If given a good wash, this garment would be beautiful. You could easily make two silvers—perhaps three. You’d double your money most certainly.�
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  “He’s alone.” Royce jumped down from the loft hitting the ground beside them, making only the whisper of a sound.

  Albert gasped and jumped backward where he froze staring fearfully at Royce. His reaction was not unusual—most people were frightened of Royce. Shorter than Hadrian and bearing no visible weapons, he still put people on edge. The layers of blacks and grays along with the hood did not help. But the real source of menace that caused all but the bravest to step back was simply that Royce was genuinely dangerous. People sensed it, they smelled death on him the same way they smelled salt on a sailor, or incense on a priest.

  “So now I see…you’re here to rob me, is that it?” Albert shouted. “Well, the joke is on you.” He looked down at his feet and made a noise—a pathetic laugh. “I have nothing…nothing at all.” Just then he dropped to his knees, put his hands to his face, and began to cry. “I have no place else to go,” he whimpered. “While it provides little more shelter than the maple tree it leans on, this barn is at least a roof over my head, and provides a soft place to sleep.”

  Royce and Hadrian stared down at him.

  “So, this is the great ogre, then?” Royce asked with a smirk.

  “If all you needed was a place to rest, why did you threaten the farmer’s wife?”

  Albert wiped his face and looked up with a puzzled expression. “Who?”

  “The woman who owns this farm. Why didn’t you just ask her permission to sleep here?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Old witchy looking woman? She lives in the house just up the hill. She says you threatened her.”

  Albert looked first at Hadrian, then at Royce as if trying to decipher a riddle. “No one lives there. Have you seen it? I sleep here because the house is a disaster. The floorboards are all rotted and there’s a giant wasp nest in the rafters. This farm has been abandoned for years. Any fool can tell that.”

  Royce looked to Hadrian who quickly left the barn and ran up the slope.

  The sun had slipped behind the treeline casting long shadows across the fields and the house. Just as Albert had described, the building was a wreck. A good size sapling grew out of the kitchen floor. With slumped shoulders he returned to the barn where Royce was gathering wood for a fire.

  “See,” Royce said. “Told you this wouldn’t go well. She’s gone, right? The nice lady you wanted to help has fled, taking our horses and all our belongings with her.”

  Hadrian allowed himself to collapse on a fallen oak beam and muttered a curse about the woman.

  “Don’t blame her. This was all your doing. You practically begged her to rob us. Now will you listen to me next time?”

  “I just can’t believe someone would do such a thing.” Hadrian shook his head.

  “I know. That’s why I had to show you.”

  Hadrian looked up. “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew.” Royce pointed at Albert. “Like he said, any fool could see this farm hasn’t been lived in for years. And didn’t you wonder why she was hiding along the road like that?”

  “So why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because you had to learn a lesson.”

  “This is one costly lesson, don’t you think? Our payment, our gear, not to mention the horses themselves.”

  “Well, that’s what you get for helping people.” Royce replied. “Didn’t they teach you anything in Hintindar? If you had been raised properly, you’d know better.” Royce turned to Albert. “Isn’t that right? I bet no one has ever helped you, have they?”

  “No,” Albert replied with his eyes downcast.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Albert shrugged. “A week maybe.”

  “What have you been living on?”

  He plucked the material of his nightshirt out from his chest. “I didn’t come here in just this, you know.”

  “You’ve been selling your clothes?”

  He nodded. “The road has a good flow of traffic. I had some very nice pieces. My doublet fetched enough for an entire cask of rum, but that only lasted a few days. I was serious about the nightshirt. You’d be doing me a favor if you bought it.”

  “That’s all you have. What are you going to do, walk around naked?”

  Again he shrugged. “No sense leaving anything behind. My father taught me that.”

  “See, this poor bastard is going to die here—penniless and miserable. He’ll starve. The world is a cold, ruthless place.” Royce paused to study Albert. “Probably in less than a month, I’d wager, and no one is going to lift a finger in his favor. That’s the way the world is, cold and indifferent, even on its best days.”

  Hadrian sighed. “I was just trying to help.”

  “Yes, you can see how much she needed you. She needed to be saved from this scoundrel. Look at him. He’s a monster if ever I saw one.”

  “You’ve made your point, Royce.”

  “I hope so. I hope we won’t have to go through this again. I’ll clear those stars from your eyes yet.”

  Royce built a pleasant fire near the door, to allow the smoke to escape, and by the time he had it strong enough to put on a good size log, the sun had set and night arrived.

  “Here,” Royce said, handing Hadrian a strip of salted pork.

  “So that’s why you were rummaging in your pack.”

  “I should let you go hungry,” Royce replied.

  Albert stared at the bit of meat, his eyes following it.

  “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Hadrian asked.

  “Days. I had a bit of bread someone threw at me—that was…three days back. Yesterday I chewed some bark, which was awful, but it helped settle my stomach a bit.”

  Hadrian held out the strip to him, which brought a groan and an eye-roll from Royce. “Didn’t we just go over this?”

  “You gave it to me, didn’t you? Besides, you just said that I should go hungry, and yet you gave it to me anyway. Why was that?”

  “Because…” Royce scowled. “Oh do what you want. I don’t care.”

  Hadrian watched as Albert bit off the end and chewed, then asked, “So what’s your story? Why are you here like this?”

  “I told you, I’m the Viscount Albert Winslow.”

  “Seriously?”

  Albert nodded.

  “I thought that was just some line you were giving me. You really are noble?”

  “Yes. Granddad Harlan Winslow lost the family fief by losing a bet to the king of Warric. My father didn’t do any better. He squandered what was left of the family fortune on women, gambling, and drink. Neither of them gave any thought to me and how I would survive with nothing but a title that serves as a noose around my throat.”

  “How’s that?” Hadrian asked.

  Albert took another bite. “Do you think anyone hires a noble for mucking out a stable or laying cobblestones?” He held up his hands. “I don’t have a single callus. Even if I decided to leave title and pride behind, I lack any useful skills. I’m like a milk cow slapped on the backside and turned out of the barn to make her way in the forest. A chicken, returned to the wilds to fend for myself.”

  “I don’t think chicken’s have ever been wild,” Hadrian said.

  “Exactly.” Albert paused to stare at the remainder of the salt pork strip. “Your friend is right. This is just prolonging the inevitable. It’s a waste. Here.” He held out the meat.

  “Keep it,” Hadrian said, tilting his head at Royce. “I’m supposed to be learning a lesson.”

  “Oh shut up, the both of you. I have more.” Royce pulled another strip of pork from his vest and handed it to Hadrian.

  “So that’s my miserable story,” Albert said. “How about you two?” He looked at Hadrian. “I’m guessing you’re his apprentice?”

  Hadrian laughed. “No. We’re…business partners.”

  “What line?”

  “Procurement,” Royce said.

  “What kind?”

 
“Any kind,” Royce answered.

  Albert stared at them for a moment, then his eyes widened. “You are thieves.”

  “He is.” Hadrian pointed to Royce. “I’m new to this.”

  “Really? What did you used to do?”

  Hadrian thought a moment. “Kill people.”

  “Assassin?” Albert sounded impressed.

  “Soldier.”

  “Oh. Guess that explains the three swords though. How’s business? Clearly you’ve been making out better than I. What do you do? Pick pockets?—no, with three-swords here you’re probably highwaymen, right? Hold up merchants? Or do you kidnap and ransom?”

  Royce chuckled.

  “What’s funny?”

  “We don’t do those things,” Hadrian explained.

  “No?”

  “No. Stealing—like that, it’s—wrong,” Hadrian declared.

  “But you’re thieves—you are thieves?”

  “Like I said, he is.”

  “Oh—I see. You’re the honorable soldier—but wait—why are you working with him then?”

  “Same reason you’re trying to sell your nightshirt,” Royce replied.

  “For rum?”

  “Rum?” Hadrian said. “Not food?

  Albert shrugged. “That’s what I do with all my money. It helps take my mind off the fact I spent all my money on rum.” He quickly added, “So what do you do, if you don’t rob people?”

  “Contracts, mostly” Hadrian replied. “People who need help come to us and we—”

  Royce grumbled. “You see how he thinks? We don’t help people, we use them. Let’s say—oh I don’t know…” Royce whirled his fingers in the air as if trying to conjure a thought. “Let’s say—purely as an example—a merchant sets up shop across the street from an established one. The established merchant, let’s call him Bernie, doesn’t like it, so he tells the new guy, we’ll call him Andrew, to leave. Let’s say Andrew doesn’t. The next thing you know some thugs tear Andrew’s place apart and breaks his wife’s arm. Then Bernie tells the new guy—Andrew—that he needs to leave, or the next time he’ll be dead.”

  “So you’re the thugs?” Albert asked?