The landlord’s face tightened before he gave a nervous chuckle and bobbed his head. “Oh, yes indeed your Lordship. We’ve got a range of local favourites including Maiden’s Delight, Nobbin Nob and the especially popular Magnus Cock.”
“Do you have any urban brews?”
The big man looked puzzled for a moment and then the sun of realisation rose above the horizon of non-sequitur. “Well, we do have a few bottles of Bland in, we bought them from a merchant who’d been to Montesham. No-one ‘ere likes it, though.”
“Bland will do,” said Chortley and the landlord shuffled away in disappointment and, perhaps, with a small but dangerous shake of the head.
Truth to tell, Chortley had never tried Bland as he stuck mainly to wine when at home, but he planned to be friendly tonight with one or more of the pub’s more lubricated denizens, and he thought a mug of beer would help him blend in better than a silver goblet.
And he wasn’t trying Cock, however keen the landlord might be.
As he and the landlord had been talking, the room had resumed a little of the normal hubbub and Chortley now settled back to select his targets. There were probably two dozen people, and most of those were in huddles of two or three. However, there was one old man sitting on his own, staring into his goblet of whatever phallic brew he was drinking. He looked as if he was just far enough gone to be useful.
Once his mug of Bland had arrived, Chortley took a sip, found that it lived up to its name and, after spending long enough stationary that he blended into the shadows as far as the clientele were concerned, slithered over to materialise at the table of the old drunkard, who gave no indication that he’d noticed.
“Evening, my man,” said Chortley, using what he considered his most charming voice. “I said, good evening.”
The old man dragged his attention from the contents of his jug and looked up. “What?”
Chortley appraised him. Yes, he’d seen this type before. Penny to a pound he was an ex-soldier and therefore as like as not to have a grudge against the Fitzmichael clan. So, familial threat probably wouldn’t work. “What are you having?”
This perked the old man up. His “What?” this time being considerably more interested.
“I’m offering to get you something, what’ll it be? Cock?”
The drunkard shook his head vehemently. “Nah, can’t stand Cock. I normally have Nob but as you’re buying, make it a Stallion’s Pride - large.”
Chortley got up and headed for the bar. Winklesdon was certainly turning out to be an odd place. He made a mental note to double-bar his door tonight. And the windows. When he returned to the table with a fresh Bland and a pint of Stallion’s Pride (very frothy, it turned out), the old man appeared not to have moved a muscle.
When he saw the Stallion, however, the old soak licked his lips and reached for the tankard.
“Not so fast, my man,” said Chortley.
For a moment, a murderous look flickered on the drunkard’s face, but one glance into Chortley’s eyes was enough for him, even in his current state, to recognise the lethality that lay behind the smile and he backed down.
“What d’ya want?” he slurred.
Chortley leant in. “Just some information from a local. I need to understand the countryside around here. Do you think you could be the man to help me? Do you know the local area well?”
“Oh, yessir. I’m hextremely familiar with this part of the world.”
I bet you are, thought Chortley - especially the drainage ditches and little woods where a vagrant could hole up for the night.
“Good,” he said out loud, “my name is Chester - who do I have the honour to address? You’re a former military man, I suspect.”
The old man visibly stiffened, in a sort of echo of coming to attention.
“Oh, yessir,” he said again, “Corporal A Stickler of the Baron’s Fourth of Knee, veteran of both Punnic Wars3 and the strife against Fairie.”
Chortley laughed. “The Fairie Wars? They didn’t actually happen you old fool!”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but they did. I was innem, fought against the King ‘imself. Well, near to the King. No-one who got too close survived,” Stickler responded, shaking with the excitement of recollection.
The man clearly needed another drink, so Chortley pushed the goblet of Stallion over the table. Stickler took a big swig and relaxed, smiling.
“But, o’course, it was a long time ago now.”
“Indeed. Now, what can you tell me about this land?”
Chapter 9
Brianna hurried out of the Bishop & Actress with Bill, rather more reluctantly, following.
“Well, who’d have thought it?” she mumbled, her face red. “I imagined it’d have some sort of religious ambience, a nice quiet place to stay the night.”
Bill chuckled. He’d led a sheltered life himself, but he’d been a little more prepared than Brianna for what they’d seen in there having, after all, enjoyed many a conversation in The Cock & Bull on the wider world and its mysteries. Mind you, he’d only been a little more prepared than Brianna - several of the implements decorating the walls were a complete mystery to him.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” Brianna said. “Now we’re stuck without anywhere to sleep, and it’s dark already.”
Bill scanned the street, struggling to see anything in a darkness that was entirely unbroken by the few street lamps that were actually lit.
“Over there,” he said, pointing down the hill at light streaming from an open door.
Brianna shrugged. “Well, it can’t be worse than the Bishop & Actress, can it?” she said, before following Bill towards the welcoming glow.
When he reached the bottom of the slope, Bill looked up at the sign hanging above the open door.
Legion Of Amalgamated Forces
He looked back at Brianna, who was scowling.
“Looks alright - do you think they’ll let us in?” he asked.
“Oh sure,” she said, “as long as we promise to listen to a war story. Or several. Well, I guess we don’t have a choice. You first.”
The decor inside was functional and clean. Bill immediately noticed the obsessively polished brass of the ale taps and the regimented arrangement of the beer mats on the bar. Behind the pumps stood a tall, thin, middle-aged man with a tiny moustache.
“Good evening, sir and madam. How may the Uxminster branch of LOAF serve you?”
“Do you have any beds for hire? Just for the one night?” asked Bill.
The barman’s mouth creased into what might have been a pitiful attempt at a smile.
“Would sir and madam be requiring two rooms, or one?”
The emphasis he put on the last syllable made it quite clear what he thought of that option.
“Oh, two, of course,” said Bill quickly.
In fact, they’d planned to save money by sharing, since they’d already, technically, slept together, but Bill decided it was better to spend his dwindling cash on two warm bedrooms rather than a chilly alleyway somewhere with nothing but each other to keep themselves warm. On the other hand …
Brianna nudged him in the ribs. Snapping back from fairyland to the present moment Bill finished, “If that’s acceptable.”
“Very well, sir,” said the barman. “My name is Withers, Steward 2nd Class. That’ll be 12 shillings for the two.”
“How much?” spat Brianna.
Withers shrugged. “They’s fine rooms and, what’s more, the only acceptable rooms you’re likely to find at this late hour. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.”
“That’s okay,” Bill said, trying to defuse the volcano to his left, “I’m sure they’re excellent.”
The barman shot a black look in Brianna’s direction before turning back to Bill. “I’ll send someone to prepare the rooms, in the meantime may I invite you to join the company. We’ve just opened an Angel’s Artery if you’re interested.”
After a few moments of stunned silence, Brianna nud
ged Bill’s arm. “It’s a real ale, probably a bit on the red side, hence the name.”
“Of course,” Withers replied, frowning, “what else would it be?”
He pulled at the pump and, after what seemed hours, presented two pints of beer that were, indeed, orangey-red in colour. “That’ll be a mark.”
“What? That’s nearly twice what our rooms cost!” Bill said, feeling an unwelcome warmth building in his chest.
“It’s good beer and, as you’re clearly not former or serving military yourselves, you don’t get to enjoy the member’s discount,” Withers said, smiling with all the warmth of a yeti’s testicles.
“How much is the member’s discount?” asked Bill, before he could stop himself.
Brianna reached for her mug of liquid cadmium.
“100%, I imagine,” she said, before heading over to the quietest part of the large, rectangular room.
Tables occupied by small groups of middle-aged men were arranged around an open floor. Presumably, they were reminiscing about past exploits and chuckling at the two newcomers who’d just bankrolled their drinking for the next week.
“I’m hungry,” Bill said.
“Me too. We’ll have to see what’s left in our packs when we’re back in our rooms,” Brianna responded. “I daren’t ask how much a cheese sandwich would cost us here.”
The low mumbling in the room was interrupted by the sound of a piano seat being scraped into place and the lid being lifted. Bill could have sworn he heard a quiet moan from the assembled veterans but either the prospective pianist didn’t notice, or he chose to ignore it. The tune he then played was somewhat recognisable as the classic wartime song “It’s a long stay for Tipsy Mary”, but with the addition of the occasionally misplaced flat and, every now and again, the playing of a note that had no relationship with the correct one. It was, to say the least, a grating experience and Bill strained to filter the cacophony, so he could make out what Brianna was saying.
Which was something about them having a long way to go, on a road that was certainly being watched.
“The only good thing about having to stay here tonight,” she continued, “is that no-one will believe we’d be stupid enough to do it. I think we’re probably safe until the morning now.”
“That’s something, I suppose.”
Bill was, truth to tell, feeling morose. He had become increasingly aware of how unprepared he was for this adventure and now, as if that wasn’t enough, his hands had become lethal weapons. And not in a good way.
At the sound of the front door scraping open, Bill and Brianna turned to look, hands on their weapons (literally, in Bill’s case). A figure wearing a large trench coat entered and glanced around the establishment before erupting into “Hello boys! Spiffing weather, what?”
The piano stopped, mid-(dis)chord and the entire assembly turned to look at the newcomer before, moments later, resuming their conversations as if nothing had happened. Mercifully, the piano remained silent as its torturer sloped away to a table on his own.
Unperturbed, the trench coat strode up to the bar and, in a loud voice, ordered a bacon roll, finishing with, “Would anyone care to join me?”.
“Love to,” said Bill before his brain could catch up with his stomach. He felt Brianna slap his arm but, deciding that the die had been cast, Bill got up and strode to the bar.
The figure turned to him, surprised.
“Ah, you are accepting my invitation,” said the trench coat before fishing deep into its pocket and, with relief, finding a coin. “Mr Withers, a second bacon roll, if you please.”
Withers, who had been on his way to the kitchen, turned back, his eyebrows almost grazing the ceiling. Then, noticing Bill standing beside his customer at the bar, he nodded and headed off.
A hand was offered.
“Wing Commander Flaxbottom,” said a husky voice emerging from behind a tightly wound scarf. Goggles covered the eyes and the head was encased in a leather hat with ear flaps tied around the neck.
Bill shook Flaxbottom’s hand.
“William, Bill, Strike. Pleased to meet you,” he said. Then, after a moment’s pause. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but what’s a Wing Commander? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that rank.”
“Oh, you won’t have done, it’s unique, you see,” chuckled the voice, “I am the head of the Killdare Flying Corps.”
“You can fly?” shrieked Bill, on a day when just about anything seemed possible.
There was a shrug of massive shoulders. “I don’t have wings, except sewn onto my uniform of course, but, yes, I do fly in my Wind Machine. Come now, why don’t we join your companion and I can tell you more.”
For lack of a better idea, Bill trailed back to the table, reaching it just before Flaxbottom.
“Brianna, this is Wing Commander Flaxbottom,” he said, pointing at the large figure as it sat down like a collapsing umbrella.
“You’re a girl,” Brianna said, looking Flaxbottom straight in the goggles as the trench coat seem to deflate. Slowly, hands emerged and untied the leather cap before pulling off the goggles. Bill peered in. By Voje, Brianna was right. Despite the regulation short hair and side parting, there was no doubt about it, Flaxbottom was a woman.
Holding out a hand to Brianna, she introduced herself.
“Permanence Flaxbottom, Wing Commander of the Killdare Flying Corps,” she sighed, “it’s always the women that see through the disguise. To a man, if you dress military and talk military, you must be military and male. To a woman, it’s all too obvious. Ah well, I hope you won’t hold it against me!”
Brianna took her hand and shook it briskly. “Why would we?”
Flaxbottom shrugged.
“Most people, around here anyway, think anything military is an unfit occupation for a woman, conduct unbecoming and all that,” she said in a voice that was clipped and precise. Her face was also clipped.
Bill considered this. To him, fighting was something that men did but then, on reflection, he’d seen some pretty vicious brawls involving young women and alcohol (he’d always been a keen observer of such contretemps and, indeed, had gained most of his knowledge of female anatomy from them). On the whole, he decided, he didn’t mind who did the fighting as long as it wasn’t him.
“So, what is the Killdare Flying Corps?” asked Brianna.
“Mainly chickens,” Flaxbottom answered with a shy smile. “And me, of course.”
Bill tried and failed to stifle a chuckle. “So, the wings you command belong to birds.”
The trench coat deflated even further, and Flaxbottom’s cheeks coloured.
“In the main, yes. And, I’ll have you know, my squadron performs a valuable service in peacetime and war, messenger chickens are vital to communication.”
“Messenger chickens? I had no idea chickens could fly well enough,” said Brianna.
Flaxbottom puffed herself back up. “Mine do. I train them from hatching, build up their wing muscles and only breed the strongest fliers. It takes at least a year of constant work before they’re ready for the KFC.”
“Why not just use pigeons? They’re naturals at long distances.” Bill asked.
Now it was Flaxbottom’s turn to laugh, sending a guffaw echoing around the room and causing a lot of tutting and shooshing from other tables. “Pigeons? Oh heavens no, pigeons fly well enough, but they’re complete morons! Our work requires brains.”
“Which chickens have in spades,” Brianna deadpanned.
“Mine do!” Flaxbottom returned.
When he’d met Withers, Bill had been certain he’d never welcome being in his presence again and yet the bacon roll and, more importantly, the break in conversation his arrival heralded was a blessed relief. The ex-steward dropped the rolls on the table, looked at all three of them, shook his head and walked away.
“Tuck in, then,” said Flaxbottom, her mood lightening instantly. “Now, we only have two, shall we divide each of our rolls into three and give your charmi
ng friend a third?”
Bill took out his knife and cut his roll into two pieces before handing one half to Brianna.
“It’s only fair that I share mine - you paid for it, after all. Brianna's a bit … ” Bill searched for a word that summed her up without risking fatal injury.
“Direct?” offered Flaxbottom, coming to Bill’s rescue and smiling at Brianna who returned the smile with interest before chomping into her roll. “What brings you to Killdare County, may I ask?”
“We’re delivering something to Upper Bottom in County Fitzmichael but, to be honest, it’s turning out to be a more difficult journey than I’d expected.”
“Indeed? Well, it’s certainly a long way, it’ll take the best part of a week, I would think, and there are some pretty unsavoury characters on the road. Around here, you have to watch out for the sheriff’s men, many of them can’t be trusted, “ Flaxbottom said, creasing her monobrow conspiratorially.
Bill’s mood deepened as his half of bacon roll disappeared. They’d already been attacked once within days of starting the journey, and he’d only beaten off that attacker through weird powers he’d not been aware of and that, furthermore, he had no idea how to control. It could have been a one-off, after all; some sort of parting gift from Vokes to help ensure he got to his destination safely. Oddly, that thought disappointed him a little. Scared though he was of his heating hands, it would also be cool, at least a bit, to be able to shoot flames - as long as he could control it. At the moment, his hands just sat there, on the end of his arms, looking like distinctly unmagical lumps of skin, flesh and bone; a picture of innocence.
“I’ll tell you what,” Flaxbottom said, leaning in so they wouldn’t be overheard, “I may have a solution - a way of getting you to your destination much more quickly and safe from anyone that might be following you. How does that sound?”
Brianna, who’d been stewing silently since being labelled “direct”, stirred. “What do you have in mind?”
Flaxbottom looked left and right before continuing. “It’s better that I show you. Meet me at the airfield an hour after dawn tomorrow - that means you can wait till it’s light to find me, but we can be away nice and early. Come prepared to depart immediately. Here’s how to find me.” She pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil from inside her coat and drew a crude map before handing it to Brianna.
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