The Heart of Darkness

by Odelia Floris

  Unwilling for there to be any fault with this inn, Sir Richard quickly reassured himself that she probably flirted with most of her male customers. After all, she was a comely woman, and it would be good for business.

  ‘Thank you, dame. Yes, we did arrive on horseback. Can you ask your man to bring our saddle bags up to our lodgings too, please?’

  ‘Certainly can, sire, no trouble at all!’

  ‘And I don’t suppose it would be possible for me to have a bath prepared in my chamber? We have been on the road for six days, sleeping rough under the stars. I’m filthy and smell bad enough to make a sewer rat gag.’

  She nodded vigorously. ‘Consider it done. And if there’s anything else we can get for ’ee fine gentlemen, just sing out and ’twill be seen to in a jiffy.’ She pulled her eyes off the darkly handsome knight for a moment and turned to a young woman busily filling ale pots. ‘Bessie, tell Tom to take the two horses hitched out front round to the stables. And ’ee heard what the two gentlemen require. Go and see to it if ’ee please! So,’ she turned her wide smile back on her guests, ‘from whence do ’ee come?’

  ‘We’ve come from Hartfield. I’m Sir Richard Hastings, the sheriff of Chaucy, and this is my deputy, Sergeant Gallagher. We are here on a business matter.’

  ‘And I am Merewen, the owner of the Mermaid. My, we are honoured! We rarely have such noble folks as ’ee staying at our humble establishment. But I must not be holding up such important men with my tittle-tattle. ’Ee have had a hard journey and will be wanting to get up to your chambers. Will ’ee be wanting supper later?’

  ‘Yes, we’re ravenous. We ate the last of our provisions this morning. There was only a little dry bread and salted fish left, but after we shared it with a blind beggar we came across, it did not go far.’

  ‘I will have my fish-wife’s special ready for ’ee the moment ’ee are come down. Famous for miles around, is my fish-wife’s pie. Monessa!’ Merewen called to a serving-maid. ‘Show these two exalted gentlemen up to their lodgings!’

  Scarcely had the words left the innkeeper’s mouth, when a bright, rosy-cheeked girl was politely ushering the two travel-stained warriors upstairs.

  After climbing two flights of stairs, she led them along a passageway. Stopping outside a door, she held it open and smiled at her tallest charge. ‘This is you, my lord.’

  * * * *

  The lodgings really were rather nice. The chamber was small, with the ceiling sloping steeply at the front under the gabled roof, but as long as he was careful to avoid hitting his head by keeping clear of that bit, it was fine. There was a clean, neatly made bed with a very satisfactory mattress of well fluffed-up straw stuffed into a cloth case, which had proved to be quite comfortable when he tested it.

  Sir Richard walked over to the window looking out to sea. The view more than made up for it being an attic room. He could see for miles across the darkening ocean and out over the little harbour down below, where Hamlin’s small fishing fleet was anchored. In the far distance, he could just make out a rocky headland on either side of the entrance to Brightwater Cove.

  The knight continued unlacing his shirt. Yes, it was good to have decent lodgings for once.

  He turned from the window and went over to the bench he had laid his cloak, sword, dagger and doublet on, and slipped off the rest of his clothes. He had been pleased to find the round half-barrel of a bathtub was generously sized. Small bathtubs were one of his pet peeves. There was nothing worse than trying to bathe in something that was little more than a glorified puddle.

  He dipped an exploratory toe into the steaming water. The temperature was nice, not too hot. He stepped in and lowered himself into the steaming water with a sigh of contentment, then leaned back and closed his eyes.

  But just as he was relaxing, the door swung open and Merewen bustled in carrying a heavy, steaming pail in one hand and some small sundries in the other.

  He was too startled to notice what they were. He pulled his knees up towards his chest with a speed that nearly sent a wave over the top of the tub, and quickly spread his outstretched hands over the most intimate parts of his anatomy. By God! Couldn’t she at least knock?

  ‘Here’s another pail of hot water, just to get ’ee really toasty!’ she announced breezily, and started pouring it into the bathtub without waiting for a response.

  Merewen might have been completely comfortable with her guest’s state of undress, but he hardly knew where to look. He was not used to women bursting into his private chambers without so much as a by-your-leave.

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ he stammered, looking longingly at his clothes.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she beamed, setting down the empty pail. ‘Now, I brought ’ee a cake of best Spanish hard soap, which I keep for special occasions. I bought a case of it from a Mediterranean trader who passed through here last year. Best olive oil, it is. And here’s a drying cloth—’ She produced a big length of white linen. ‘And a few herbs to ease them aches of the road and make ’ee smell sweet—don’t want them sewer rats fainting!’

  She scattered a handful of leaves and flowers into the water, and a fresh, deliciously sweet aroma rose instantly into the steamy air.

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ he said, with a better grace. ‘You run an exemplary establishment.’

  ‘And I’ll just get rid of those down to the laundry.’ She scooped up the clothes lying on the bench. ‘A spare shirt and hose, ’ee do have one, don’t ’ee?’ she asked, in response to his rather alarmed look.

  He shifted uncomfortably but carefully. ‘Ahem, yes I do, but there are in my saddle bags, which do not seem to have been brought up to my room yet.’

  ‘I’ll see to it right away!’ said the cheerful innkeeper, heading out the door with his clothes bundled under her arm.

  The energy and enthusiasm of the indomitable Merewen seemed limitless.

  He regretfully watched his garments disappear. ‘My gratitude, madam, has no damn limits…’

  When Merewen had closed the door behind her, Sir Richard leaned back again and tried to relax, though still kept his hands close to his groin in case they were needed at short notice again. The threat of the blasé dame’s return was ever-present and he was determined not to be caught out again.

  A short while later, Sir Richard entered the public room of the Mermaid inn. He seated himself down on a bench beside the well-scrubbed Gallagher, at a table in the large room’s front corner.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, he felt his smooth chin. He had hated the dark, rough stubble that had grown in the last week. Shaving was difficult and potentially painful enough at the best of times with the thin, curved knife and poorly-leathering soap usually available. Shaving with that on the side of the road without the assistance of a mirror was just asking for a cut throat.

  Merewen’s expensive Spanish olive oil soap had made a nice change from the cheap mutton-fat based soap he used back home, and he had made full use of her generosity, giving his hair a good leather with it too.

  The indefatigable innkeeper had not caused him any further embarrassment either, a fact for which he was eternally grateful. Instead, a blessedly demure girl had knocked (he wished Merewen would take a leaf out of her book) and, upon hearing his ‘come in’, had opened the door a little way, stuck her arm through the doorway and deposited his saddlebags on the floor just inside.

  Sir Richard had only been seated for a few moments when a young serving-maid arrived at their table, carrying a steaming plateful of food in each hand.

  She set the deliciously aromatic meals down in front of them and placing a spoon next to each plate. ‘Here ’ee go, sirs.’

  Both men conveyed their thanks and tucked in like hungry wolves.

  The food tasted just as good as the mouth-watering aroma promised. The meal consisted of a thick-crusted pie filled with a succulent mix of herring, oysters, mussels and lobster in a creamy sauce flavoured with mustard, onions and parsley, served alongside a big helping of b
oiled turnip.

  When the men were mopping up the last of the delicious juices with the hunks of dark rye bread that accompanied the meal, their cheery, buxom hostess came bustling over. ‘Was it to your liking, sirs?’

  The sheriff and his sergeant both gave a hearty assent.

  ‘Glad to hear it, glad to hear it!’ Merewen beamed, coming up behind the bench they were seated at and slipping in between them. Once she had settled herself comfortably on the bench, she turned smilingly to Sir Richard, who had moved over as much as possible. ‘So, are ’ee going to tell us what ’ee are doing here, or is it a secret official mission ’ee are not at liberty to talk about?’

  ‘We are here to look for two men who were travelling over the Ragnell Pass and south along the high road over the moors,’ replied Sir Richard. ‘They were mounted and about half a day ahead of us.’

  ‘But are ’ee not rather overstepping the boundary of your shire and with it the limits of your authority?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, yes. But when I came to the sheriff of your shire with my concerns that felons were coming over the border and committing crime in Chaucy before disappearing back to the safety of this shire, he just told me I was mad, that there were no men in his shire fitting the description of the felons terrorizing my people. But I know they are here. Gallagher and I managed to follow them over the border this time.’

  Merewen sighed and shook her head. ‘Our sheriff does naught about crime. ’E’s hardly ever seen outside of Dead Man’s Cove, where he has his lair. Us folks here have certainly never seen him. We’re just left to fend for ourselves.’

  ‘Is there any inhabited land further south than Hamlin?’

  ‘Aye, there is the thin headland stretching out into the sea between our Brightwater Cove and Dead Man’s round the corner. It’s called the Devil’s Finger, and right at the tip, just offshore, there is what ’ee could call either a very small island or a very large boulder, called Skull Rock, and on that there’s a castle. It was built on the end of the headland over eighty years ago as a coastal defence in case the French tried to invade, but about thirty years back, part of the headland fell into the sea, making it into an island and pulling half the castle in with it. After that it was abandoned by its original builders because, in addition to the damage, it was now right hard to get at. The only way onto the rock is by boat, but with rough seas and gales being so frequent around the exposed headland, it can be safely reached but a few days a year.’

  Both Sir Richard and Sergeant Gallagher were listening to their hostess with rapt attention, but Merewen paused for a moment to beckon over Bessie, the girl who had brought the food over. ‘These gentlemen have finished their meal.’ She held the two empty plates out to the serving-maid.

  Bessie took the plates off her mistress. ‘Would either of ’ee like a drink?’ she asked the two guests.

  ‘I’ll have a pot of mead, please,’ said Gallagher.

  ‘Certainly, and what about you, my lord?’ Bessie turned to the taller man.

  He had never liked ale. The thick, soup-like consistency was hardly thirst-quenching, and he felt the taste left a lot to be desired too. As for wine, he had never been able to look at it in quite the same way since Rowena had drugged (or as he would say, poisoned,) his drink at the Cunninghams’ feast. The headache and grogginess had lingered for days. He had not drunk wine since.

  ‘I will just have some water—if it’s clean.’

  ‘Very good, sire,’ she said, before hurrying off.

  ‘You were saying about the castle at Devil’s Finger, madam?’ Gallagher prompted Merewen.

  ‘Aye,’ she continued, only too glad to have such a captive audience for her tale. ‘It must be about ten year ago that the castle started being rebuilt. Our lads saw it from out at sea when they passed around Devil’s in their fishing boats. Us Hamlin folk knew naught about it—neither who the men mending the castle were nor what they wanted it for, and no one from the castle ever comes here. Occasionally, in the light of a full moon, a ship will be spotted anchoring near the rock. But the ships never come into Hamlin’s port. We were well-mystified, I can tell ’ee. Some of the old wives began to weave dark tales of the goings-on up at the rock. Round the fireplace on dark winter’s nights, when the wind howls outside and the ships are tossed at sea, they tell of how the rock is inhabited by demons, witches and evil spirits. And they tell of how, every year on All Hallows Eve, every demon for miles around, some say right down to Land’s End, comes flocking to the rock in dark, flapping, screeching swarms that darken the face of the moon, and how steeple-hatted witches come flying in from the four corners of the earth on broomsticks or ragwort stalks and alight atop the castle. Upon the stroke of midnight, the rock cracks open right the way down to Hell and the Devil himself steps out.’

  ‘Some tale...’ muttered Sir Richard.

  ‘And have any of the local people ever come across the mysterious, secretive rebuilders of the castle on the rock?’ asked Gallagher. ‘Is there any real evidence to support this old wives’ tale that the castle’s new inhabitants are evil spirits?’

  Merewen paused while Bessie set her guests’ drinks down before them. ‘Aye,’ she began, when the serving-maid had gone. ‘A few years back a young lass went wandering out onto the Devil’s Finger looking for flowers to make herself a garland for the dance on St John’s Eve. The old women had warned the young folk not to go onto the Devil’s Finger, but the maid’s companions said she kept finding the prettiest wild flowers growing right at the edge of the cliff-top where the sheep did not graze. In spite of her friends’ pleas not to, she went further and further along the headland, uttering cries of delight as she found all manner of rare treasures for her garland. Her companions were too afraid to follow, and eventually she disappeared from view. She was never seen again. Her poor distraught father got together a group of brave young lads to search the cliffs, but no trace of her did they find. Some Hamlin folk say she fell from the cliff-top and into the sea, others say it was the demons who took her.’

  ‘Hmmm...interesting,’ Sir Richard said thoughtfully, exchanging a glance with Gallagher.

  Both men were thinking the same thing. The tale of young maidens out on their own in the wilds being carried off was a familiar one.

  ‘And there’s more,’ said Merewen, in a low, fearful voice. ‘Last Michaelmas, one of our fishing vessels was out at the mouth of Brightwater Cove when it was caught in a sudden storm that blew up out of nowhere. The brave men fought valiantly to keep their boat away from the Devil’s Finger, but it weren’t no manner of use. They were wrecked on the boulders lying under the water just off Skull Rock. Five of the six fishermen on board were washed onto Skull Rock, while the sixth clung to drifting wreckage offshore. And the things he saw…’ She crossed herself as her voice trailed off in a horrified whisper.

  Sir Richard and Sergeant Gallagher instinctively drew in closer to her, waiting with baited breath to hear the terrible tale’s ending. ‘What did he see?’

  ‘When the five poor, shipwrecked souls got up out of the raging sea below Skull Rock, some armed figures descended down from the castle and murdered them!’ Merewen kept her voice at a low whisper, as if it was too horrible to say aloud. ‘The sea ran red with their blood! It’s said their screams can still be heard at Devil’s Finger on a stormy night… No one has ever gone anywhere near the place from that day to this…’

  Sir Richard stared at her in horror. ‘Good God!’

  The mere thought of such a heinous crime outraged him. Killing an unarmed man was against the laws of chivalry and an absolute abomination. But the tale also brought a stab of personal guilt to his conscience.

  The battle of Agincourt had lasted only one hour. Despite being exhausted and heavily outnumbered, the English army of some nine hundred unmounted men-at-arms, of which he was one, and five thousand archers, had defeated the French force with a loss of only three hundred men. The huge force of heavily armoured French cavalry suffered greatly unde
r the hail of English arrows. Their first charge had retreated and collided with the advance of eight thousand of their own men-at-arms and quickly become bogged down in the mud, where they were forced to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the British archers.

  The French defeat had been total. Six thousand of them were killed in what amounted to little more than a slaughter by the English army. One thousand were taken prisoner—one thousand of the least fortunate. Afraid the prisoners might rebel, the English king had ordered them killed. But the knights and men-at-arms would not carry out the unchivalrous cold-blooded murder. Sir Richard had been appalled by the request. Unfortunately for the prisoners, the English archers had been a lot less appalled. Many of them were felons who had been forced into the army, or desperate poor men from the lowest orders who had joined for the money. They did not let an inconvenient little thing like mercy or moral scruples get in their way. The massacre had been quickly and willingly carried out.

  Along with his two companions, Sir Richard gazed contemplatively into the distance with the faraway look of one dwelling deep in memories of the past which still cast long shadows over the present.

  Seven thousand French warriors died in the mud of Agincourt, including much of the flower of French chivalry, and with them the newly-dubbed Sir Richard Hastings’ desire to fight for his king. Henry V was a vain, glory-seeking, murdering swine who he hoped—no, knew—would rot in hell for eternity.

  Sir Richard shared the opinion of the many knights and men-at-arms who thought killing a man with a bow was unchivalrous. There was no glory in fighting an enemy unless you could see the whites of his eyes and smell his blood as you delivered the death-blow, as you extinguished life, that prolific but precious thing filled with untold wonder.

  Yes, killing from a distance was a cowardly, despicable thing and anyone who did it was a vile worm who did not deserve to be called a warrior. Disgusted with modern warfare and with King Henry, whom he thought had no business invading another peoples’ country, Sir Richard had been left bitter and disillusioned mere months after finally achieving his boyhood dream of becoming a knight.