“Aye,” Lleland said, looking up as a maid pushed open the door, a tray in her hands. “The master said ta brung yer food ’ere,” she said.
Lleland relieved her of the tray. “Please send up your master. A man just tried to rob me. And fetch a candle, please.” He withdrew a farthing and gave it to her, and she bobbed a quick curtsey before hastening away. It took a while for the innkeeper to arrive, and when he did so, he was scowling.
“Wot’s this ’bout a thief?”
“The man who was here when I arrived. He tried to rob me as I slept,” Lleland explained.
“’Ow you know it was ’im?”
“I saw him.”
“Thought ya said yous was sleeping.”
“I was,” Lleland said. “I woke while he was robbing me. I tried to catch him, but he escaped.”
“Ya didna give chase?”
“And leave my things here so he could circle around and rob me while I was chasing a ghost? Don’t be a fool, man!”
“Aye, well, he’s prob’ly long gone.”
“Did you make him pay in advance, too?” The man looked away in discomfort as Lleland snorted. “You make the honest man pay, and let the thief get away.” The innkeeper looked back with a scowl.
“Well, I didna know he’s a thief, did I now? And ya betta not be making any trouble, either.”
“I’ll be gone by first light,” Lleland assured him.
The maid had brought Lleland a meal of cold beef, bread and cheese, which he ate hungrily. The wine was sour and had been watered down, and he swallowed it with a grimace before wiping his sleeve across his mouth. As he ate, two more guests were brought to the room, but Adam didn’t return, and no items remained in the box next to his bed. The innkeeper was probably right and the man was long gone.
The rest of the night passed without incident, although Lleland slept with his boots on, his bow and arrow at his side, and his hand on his satchel.
Chapter 14
Lleland spent the first few hours of the next day exploring the small town, but there was little to discover that interested him. It did not have a market, and although The Dancing Hind had stood on the same spot for nearly two hundred years, there was nothing to mark it as different to any other inn. By midmorning Lleland was back on the road, continuing his journey north.
The days where there was nothing to investigate, Lleland traveled about twenty miles. The countryside was flat, with open fields and sheep dotted across green hillocks bleating plaintively as he walked by. Farmhouses could be seen from the side of the road, and often a farmer would wave Lleland over to share the latest news.
“Comin’ from the city, are ya?” they would ask. “What’s happening there, then?” And Lleland would tell them about the king, and the grand new palace he planned to build, the troubles merchants were having with taxes, and the fire that had burned a ship in the harbor. In return, the farmer would have his wife pack some food, and would share a tankard of ale before sending him on his way.
As the distance between Lleland and the city increased, so the towns and roadside establishments become less frequent. A few times Lleland sought shelter within the humble walls of a monastery. The furnishings were sparse and the meals meager, but the beds were clean and comfortable, with quilts to keep the sleeper warm. As payment for their hospitality, Lleland would hunt a deer in the surrounding woods which he delivered to the kitchens. Other times, the only roof over Lleland’s head was the leafy canopy of a rowan or the spreading branches of beech or horse chestnut. At these times, his satchel served as a pillow and his cloak as a blanket. He collected herbs along the way that could prove useful on his journey – St. John’s Wort, for the cleansing of open wounds, and yarrow to stop bleeding.
He had been on the road for a week when he awoke to rain: a heavy, drenching downpour that continued all day. The rain collected in the brim of his hat and dripped into his eyes, and the clothes beneath his cloak were wet. The road turned to mud as he walked, and rivers of water cut across the path, filling the ruts and seeking the ditches. It was late afternoon when the sun finally pushed the dismal clouds away and opened the world to blue skies. The ground was sodden, and Lleland’s boots squelched through a morass of mud. He continued until it was dark, hoping to find an inn where he could procure a dry bed and hot meal, but no buildings rose to greet him, and he saw no other travelers. The moon was already high when he finally turned off the road and looked for a place to make a bed for the night. A low stone wall ran alongside the road, and climbing over it, he felt the ground on the other side. It was damp, not sodden, and Lleland spread out his cloak and lay down.
He passed an uncomfortable night, but when he awoke the sun was shining brightly. A sound near his ear had him reaching for his dagger, but he relaxed a moment later when he saw a sheep staring at him placidly as it chewed a clump of grass. He stretched his arms and his cramped muscles protested at the effort. Picking up his belongings, he climbed over the wall. His cloak and hat were still wet, but he pulled them on, knowing they would dry quickly. His boots were also damp and the leather was tight around his feet, chafing his heels and toes. He had spent the night at the base of a small hill, but he easily gained the summit and looked down at the vista before him with a groan.
A quarter mile away lay the town of Roxton, nestled in the valley. He could see the church with its squat stone tower, and further down the road lay an inn built around a cobbled courtyard. It gleamed in the clean air as hostlers scurried about, carrying loads of hay and leading horses to their well-rested travelers. The town was small, but it had once been a Roman settlement, and the road into Roxton passed beneath the ruins of an ancient Roman aqueduct built of stone. The tall arches towered overhead, and Lleland could not help gaping at the impressive feat of engineering. A trickle of water, caught in the fold of Lleland’s hat, spilled over the brim and down his neck. Dropping to the ground alongside the road, he pulled out his daybook and made some notes, before continuing into the town.
The Clearbrae Inn was not much further, and he stopped for a meal and an ice cold cup of ale. The ale, he learned from the innkeeper, was stored in a pool behind the inn. Hidden behind trees, the warmth of the sun never reached the pool’s cold depths, making it the ideal place to store casks of wine and ale.
A short distance beyond the town Lleland was excited to discover another Roman find – an ancient milestone. A tall column of etched stone, it topped his height by a foot, although Lleland guessed it probably stood even higher before being worn down by the elements. Much of the writing was worn beyond reading, but he traced the letters that were still visible with his fingers, and pieced together the names and distances of nearby towns. Along the base of the column was a dedication to the Roman Emperor Septimus Servius. In the ground below, the outlines of paving stones were visible, and Lleland used his dagger to scrape away the surface of the dirt, grinning when he saw the neatly cut stones resting just an inch below. Finding a place to sit, Lleland opened his daybook and drew a crude rendition of the stone and its markings. He wondered for a moment about the person who had carved it, before packing away his daybook and writing kit and continuing along the road.
Throughout the early days of walking, the Northern Mountains loomed in the distance, a smudge of purple and gray that stretched across the horizon, but before Lleland reached the mountains, he would have to travel through the Magnus Silvum, the Big Woods. It stretched in front of the mountains like a vast shadow, extending to the east and west as far as the eye could see, and three weeks into his travels, Lleland reached the first towering trees. He had read that the forest was nearly sixty miles deep, and anyone foolish enough to leave the road could land up hopelessly lost, unable to trace their bearings beneath the thick canopy of leaves.
Little sun reached beneath the trees, and moss wrapped around the trunks of oak, beech, elm and yew, along with firs and pines. Large webs crossed the path, the silvery strands gleaming in the dull light, and Lleland broke through them w
ith reluctance. Bluebells clustered around the base of the oaks, a carpet of green that had long since lost its blooms, while ferns blanketed the dells. Paths led in all directions from the main road, and once Lleland saw a solitary house nestled between the trees, but no-one was about. Fairy rings poked through the dark mulch of the forest floor, while overhead squirrels and birds chirped and chattered as Lleland walked by. A small stream babbled beside the road for some of the way, and Lleland used his dagger to spear a fish in the shallow waters, cooking it over a small fire he made in a clearing; and when night came, he stepped off the road and slept beside the trunk of some large tree.
On the second day, Lleland caught the sound of rustling as something large moved between the trees. Wild ponies roamed through the woods, but this animal was much larger. With the skill of a hunter, he headed upwind of the creature and crept stealthily through the trees, stopping with a small gasp of surprise as the creature came in sight. Although he had never seen one before, Lleland knew from the huge, dark body and massive horns that he was looking at one of the few remaining aurochs. The aurochs had once been as numerous as the deer, but over the years it had slowly disappeared from the countryside until only a few remained. They were protected by the Crown, and hunting them was punishable by death. As quietly as possible, Lleland drew his daybook and writing kit from his satchel, eager to capture the lines of the magnificent animal. It stood grazing on the leaves of trees for a few minutes, until it slowly ambled away; but for a long time, Lleland stared at the spot where the beast had been, thrilled at what he’d just witnessed.
The day after his encounter with the aurochs, the trees opened up into a wide meadow, with a small cluster of houses built of gray stone. The back wall of each house had been built into a low, sloping hillock that ran the length of the meadow. The roofs were covered in sod, and on a few of the houses, goats nibbled on the green grass of the roofs. On the other side of the path was a tavern – so small it could fit only a few people at once, and beside it, a wattle and beam house. Jasmine and honeysuckle covered the walls of the house and wound around the large front window. The shutters had been thrown wide open, and as Lleland walked by, a woman stuck her head through the window and waved her hand.
“Oi! I have fresh bread and pastries for sale. The best you’ll ever taste!”
Lleland ambled up to the window with a smile, breathing in the mouth-watering scent of fresh baking.
“What is the name of this village?” Lleland asked as he eyed the tray of pastries set before him.
“Name? We don’t have a name.”
“But surely you must have a name to tell people who don’t live here.” He selected a fruit bun and loaf of bread, and handed over a ha’penny.
“We just tell ’em to come to Middle House.”
“Middle House?”
“Aye. The house in the middle of the woods.”
“Oh. Well that makes sense.” He took a bite of the bun and smiled with pleasure.
“Is it the best you’ve ever eaten?” asked the woman.
Lleland nodded. “Absolutely!”
Five days after first entering the forest, Lleland emerged on the northern side of Magnum Silvum. The Northern Mountains were no longer distant shadows but distinct peaks, with green forests climbing up the lower elevations and waterfalls cascading down the rock faces. Glaciers clung to the summits, and Lleland shivered slightly at the thought of crossing them to reach the other side. The mountains loomed over the road and villages, casting long shadows over travelers. Even the trees and flowers seemed different this close to the towering peaks. Lleland knew from his notes that once he reached the mountains the road would fork, and he would travel west along the foothills for a few days before he found the path that would lead him into the mountains. From there, he would have to pick his own route over the lofty range.
As the mountains drew closer, the landscape changed to undulating hills and dales, and the road twisted and curved around knolls and between small lakes. Lleland met many other travelers on the roads – farmers and housewives making their way to market – and he would fall in step with them. He shared news he had picked up along the way, and learned more about the surrounding countryside. Sometimes he asked about dragons, but the subject was usually met with a shrug. He’d had one such conversation with a farmer who was taking some sheep to market.
“Oh, aye, we see them time to time, flying between the mountains.”
“What do you do?”
“Do?” The farmer look at Lleland in surprise. “Nothing. They don’t bother us.”
“But … surely they must hunt?”
“I s’pect there’s enough animals in the forest for them to hunt.” He paused. “Although … my neighbor’s-uncle’s-wife’s-cousin lost a cow to a dragon once!”
“You see! They’re thieves! Surely that should worry you! You’re a sheep farmer.”
The farmer chuckled. “Well, here’s the thing. That man – my neighbor’s-uncle’s –”
Lleland waved a hand. “Yes, him.”
“Well, he wanted to get rid of that cow, anyways. It wasna a very good milker, and he was goin’ to sell it. Well, the dragon takes the cow and leaves payment for the animal!”
“Payment? What do you mean?”
The man started laughing. “The dragon left a bag of silver, twice what the cow was worth!”
Lleland stared in confusion. “The dragon left money?” This man was trying to make a fool of him. “That’s impossible.”
The farmer wiped his eyes and looked at Lleland, humor still clear on his face. “God’s truth. That’s exactly what happened.”
Lleland narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Did you ever talk to the man himself?”
“Course I did. He’s my brother-in-law.”
Lleland sighed. Of course.
Occasionally, a coach or carriage would rumble along the road, creating a cloud of dust that hung in the air for hours afterwards. One afternoon a carriage rushed past Lleland, covering him in a thin layer of dust, before it vanished around a bend in the road. He spat the grit from his mouth as he glared after the offending vehicle, then continued walking. The next town was still a few hours away, and he hoped to reach it by nightfall. It was a hot day, and sweat gathered on his brow and dripped into his eyes as he walked. He reached a bend in the road a short while later, and stopped when he rounded the corner. In the middle of the road, lying on its side, was the carriage that had rushed past him earlier, the wheels still slowly turning. One of the horses was struggling against the harness to gain its footing, but the second was lying still, foaming at the mouth. The coachman lay on the ground, moaning as blood poured from a wound to his head. From within the carriage came the sound of crying and banging.
Lleland rushed forward to help the occupants get free of the trap. The door to the carriage had ripped from the leather hinges and hung loosely over the opening. Lleland dragged it off and tossed it aside, then peered into the carriage. A young woman lay slumped against the bench. A small cut bled on her forehead, and when she looked up at Lleland, silent tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Mistress, are you all right?” Lleland asked as he reached into the carriage. The woman was shaking as she grasped his hand.
“Please, help me,” she whimpered. Lleland gently took her by the waist and lifted her clear of the wreckage. She had lost a shoe, and the skirt of her gown was ripped.
“You’re fine,” he said. “You’ll be fine.” She nodded. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Muriel Gail.”
He pulled out a canteen and offered it to her. “I’m going to check on your coachman, Mistress Gail,” he said. She took the canteen and he walked over to where the man was slowly rising to his feet. “How badly are you injured?” Lleland asked.
“I hit my head.” He grasped Lleland by the arm. “How’s Mistress Muriel?”
Lleland glanced over at the woman. “She’s not dissolving into hysterics.”
“She’
s a fine one, that’s for sure.”
“What happened?”
“A rock. You can see it beneath the carriage. It hit the wheel and sent the carriage flying, dragging the horses down with it.”
The rock was large, and Lleland looked around, wondering whether it was the result of deliberate sabotage. There was no-one in sight, however. Using the knife he kept in his boot, he cut the first horse free and led it off the road, then turned his attention to the second horse, still lying on the ground. A brief examination confirmed a broken leg, and he used his dagger to quickly end its life. He heard a soft sob and turned to see Muriel watching, her eyes wide as she stared at the dead horse.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he said.
“I know. It’s just …” She stopped with a sob and dropped her head into her hands.
“You’ve had a terrible scare,” Lleland said gently. “And I’m afraid your carriage is in need of repair. Do you think you can walk to the next town?”
“I think so.” Her voice wavered.
“Good. First we need to get the wreck off the road before it causes another accident.” He turned to the coachman. “Do you think you’re up to lifting with me?”
“I’ll manage.”
Together they placed their hands beneath the fallen side and heaved. The carriage began to pivot upwards, one inch at a time, until it reached the tipping point and crashed onto its wheels. The wood trembled and the wheels rolled, but Lleland braced his hand against the carriage and brought it to a shuddering halt. The coachman looked at him in amazement.
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