Three
Gonda Glissop’s arms were tired. The little boy was not heavy but carrying him for league after league was taking its toll. Her feet were also aching; had she known she would be embarking on such a trek she would have selected more suitable footwear, rather than the thin-soled slippers that meant she felt every pebble and sharp stone she stepped on.
Who am I kidding, she asked herself? These are my only shoes. I’m a humble gooseherd’s daughter - or at least I was four days ago when I got up at dawn’s crack to feed those blasted birds. What I would give to see those honking, flapping brutes again! To feel them pecking and prodding at my knees for another beakful of grain!
The child in her arms stirred. He was awake. Good; he could walk for a while. She set him on the ground and held his hot, little hand. The boy stared blankly ahead with those huge doll’s eyes of his. “Come on,” Gonda said softly.
He did not move. The blisters on his face were healing nicely - more rapidly than those on Gonda’s hands and forearms. With no thought for her personal safety, she had plunged them through flames to lift the boy from his burning crib. She alone of all the village had entered the cottage. Everyone else stood watching, transfixed by the fire, their faces set in grim - what was the word? - What? What was their expression? Gonda had not stood still for long enough to define it, but it certainly had a look of enjoyment about it. Like when they would all traipse to the top of Foolan Tor to get a free look at the Duke’s fireworks.
Monsters!
Leaving a helpless child to burn to death!
Where were his parents?
A glance around the smoke-filled hovel did not tell her much. The child was alone - Who leaves a child at home alone?
She pressed the boy to her chest, wrapping her arms around him and, with head down and shoulders hunched, she burst from the blazing building just as the thatched roof collapsed in on itself and the walls began to tumble. A gasp of shock arose from the crowd of onlookers. Sheep-like, they parted to let the girl pass. Her hair and shawl were on fire and so was the blanket wrapped around the boy but no one stepped forward to pat out the flames.
Gonda hurried to the horse trough and dunked the child in the water before submerging her own head. Straightening, she tossed her head back and the patchy remnants of her red hair cast watery arcs behind her, catching the morning sunlight. The crowd was still watching, stupefied and docile. Gonda cradled the dripping child to her chest, her indignation overriding the pain.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” she said venomously. “You cowards!”
She headed for home; there was poultice there, made of goose fat, for her burns and the child’s. Then she would set about locating the parents...
“After her!” a man cried out.
“Seize her!” yelled another.
And Gonda found herself running, past her own house with the geese penned in the yard, and across fields of corn and barley. Galvanised at last, the mob gave chase, jeering and roaring. I’m not stealing him, I’m not stealing him, I’m not - ran through her mind with every step but she knew better than to stop and attempt to reason with a bloodthirsty mob, especially since they had furnished themselves, in the space of a few seconds, with pitchforks and pickaxes and various other sharp implements.
Gonda kept running through the farmland and into the forest where she lost them. One thing alone was certain: she could not go home again. They would lynch her as a child-snatcher. The idea came to her that she could steal back under the cover of night and deposit the boy, safe and sound on someone’s doorstep - at least it might stop them from hunting her. As long as the boy was safe - wasn’t that the main thing?
She became aware that the boy was staring at her in the blank, absent way to which she was soon to become accustomed and she knew she could never return him to the village.
Onward and onward they had gone and now that Gonda was pausing to give her sore limbs a little respite, the boy was staring back the way they had come.
“Oh, no,” Gonda heaved her shoulders, “You can forget about that. We are never going back.”
The boy did not move, did not even blink, but something changed. Gonda was suddenly rigid with fear.
“Someone’s coming,” she interpreted - but interpreted what exactly she did not know. Sure enough, the distant shouts of men were carried to her ears by a helpful breeze and in the distance a flock of birds took to the sky as their habitat in the undergrowth was disturbed. “We’ve got to move!” she urged but the boy stood stock still. There was no time for pleading and cajoling; Gonda scooped him up and ran deeper into the forest.
***
The Duke instructed his men to wait in the clearing. Should anyone approach they were to whistle a warning. He left them practising and travelled the rest of the way to the cave on foot. A shapeless, hooded robe concealed his finery. He was incognito but that did not render him immune to attack from the outlaws, vagabonds and assorted scum that lurked in the forest.
The wizard - himself little more than a vagabond - was ready to greet his visitor at the cave mouth. The Duke was impressed; he was hardly a punctual man (for a Duke answers to no one, not even a timepiece) but the wizened old man always seemed to know when to expect him. Some dark art no doubt informed him.
The Duke nodded in greeting. The wizard bowed almost sarcastically low. “Come in, sire. The kettle is boiling.”
“I am not here for tea,” the Duke snapped. Glancing around in case he was being observed, he pulled his hood lower over his brow and followed the disgusting, crook-backed fellow inside.
The stench was like a blow to the head. The Duke pressed his gauntleted hand over his nose and mouth. Dim light from greasy candles showed a range of items - unspeakable things! - languishing in jars of murky liquid. The wizard led him to a campfire that out of doors might have been cosy and inviting. Here it was the source of the foetid smell and the propagator of the noisome pall of smoke that fouled the air.
“Be seated, sire!” Smedlock gestured vaguely. The Duke declined the offer. His free hand went to the pommel of his sword. Just in case.
There was a dirty black pot suspended over the flames. Smedlock stirred its contents with a dented ladle and took in an appreciative sniff.
“If I am interrupting your breakfast, I apologise,” said the Duke with impatience.
The wizard chuckled and continued to stir. The stench was redoubled; the Duke reeled from its assault on his senses. “I am afraid,” Smedlock smirked, “there was not much left of him by the time I found him. The downpour did not deter the wolves and the crows from their feast.”
The Duke’s already pale face turned whiter as he imagined the scene.
“Some parts I could salvage...” Smedlock extended a hand toward his visitor. The Duke wondered if he was expected to shake it and then he gasped and recoiled in horror to see that the hand was not the wizard’s own.
Smedlock dropped it into the pot and wiggled his own fingers in a ‘bye-bye’ gesture. The Duke was appalled. The wizard decided against telling his guest that there was already one of Bradwyn’s eyes in the soup.
“Revolting practice!” the Duke’s words pressed against his gauntlet. He feared he would soon see his breakfast again.
“It is the only way,” Smedlock shrugged.
“And what of the... artefact? Surely the wolves did not eat that, or the crows fly off with it?”
The wizard’s face went blank for a second. He blinked. “Oh? That! No, sire; alas, of that there was no sign.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“And the men who attacked? Did you search - ?” The Duke cut himself short but it was too late. He had said too much.”
“Your Grace would be better advised to stick to our arrangement and not take matters into his own hands.”
“So... it has gone, then?” the Duke asked when he could bear the silence no longer.
“A temporary setback.” The wizard was nonchalant.
“You can find it, then?”
“Brother Bradwyn will show me.” Smedlock lifted the ladle, brimming with the foul and lumpy concoction. The eyeball rolled and seemed to peer directly at the Duke, who cried out and turned away, scrambling from the cave, blustering instructions as he went.
“Keep me informed of developments! Do not rest until you find it!”
Out in the open air, he gasped, filling his lungs. Wizards! Magic! Detestable business! It was a mistake to get embroiled in it.
He was still vomiting on his boots when his men led his horse to him.
Smedlock chuckled over the cauldron. “Now, brother,” he lifted the ladle to his lips. “Show!”
He sipped the broth - not bad; could use a little salt - and chewed on the lumps. Bradwyn’s eyeball burst, squirting aqueous humour onto his tongue.
Smedlock peered into the pot. The fingers of the dead man’s hand rose from its depths. It reminded him of somewhere - a place not far away... If only he could remember where...
He chewed the eye to a pulp and swallowed. The vision in the broth became clearer.
Ah, yes! The ruins of Tullen Spee...
But why are you showing me this, brother? No one has been there for a hundred years.
He stared at the fingers standing resolute like the broken pillars of the ancient citadel. Nothing further was forthcoming.
Drat and blast it, Smedlock cursed! If only that wildcat hadn’t got your tongue!
Four
“We shall be safe in here,” Gonda pressed her lips against the boy’s ear but the words were more for her own benefit than the child’s. She was carrying him again; she had to if they were to flee their pursuers.
The crumbling edifice, half-hidden by creepers, vines and assorted foliage, seemed to have sprung up from the ground at just the right moment, its columns of stone like the fingers of a giant hand. Here, among the walls and arches there were nooks and crannies in abundance. They could stop and hide. And rest!
Stooping low, Gonda skirted an overgrown courtyard, its flagstones edged by the green of the long grass that had sprouted between them. She ducked through a doorway and into a derelict chamber. A pair of woodpigeons flapped into the air and away through a hole in the fallen roof. The boy squirmed in Gonda’s grasp.
“Not yet, not here!” she whispered. “This is the first place they’ll look.”
She picked her way through plants and broken masonry. Steps twisted down into the darkness of a cellar or vault.
No... There might be no other way out. If they find us there, we are trapped.
Across a quadrangle there was a tower. It was linked to another tower by a wall, the parapet of which was still, for the most part, intact.
An escape route!
If we can reach the first tower, we can-
The boy stiffened in her arms. Standing in front of them was a man from the village. Leering, he beckoned to the girl to bring the boy out of the shadows. “Come on, come to me,” he grinned. “I won’t hurt you, Goosey-Goosey Gonda!”
He laughed, throwing back his head. Gonda wondered whether she could rush him, knock him off-balance before he realised what was happening and before he could swing the sickle he was barely concealing behind his back.
The laughter stopped, catching in his throat. The man clawed at his neck, gasping and gurgling. His face turned a vivid red and his eyes were wide, desperate and pleading with her for help.
He keeled over and was dead before he hit the flagstones. Gonda peered at his back; there was no blade, no treacherous arrow. How then...
Nearby shouts got her moving again. She tore across the quadrangle, holding the boy tight against her. If only we can make it to the tower... Oh, please, oh please, oh please!
***
It had been a sleepless night for Carith Drombo. Still invigorated by the sacrifice, her body was restless and would not let her lie still. Her mind too was racing like a runaway horse. Just a month, one paltry, brief, little month and she would be free of this marriage - More than that, she would be the ruler of the Principality and able to set her eyes on a larger prize.
She rose early and watched the sun climb over the woods. It would soon be time to join her husband - that weak, poor excuse for a man - for breakfast, the only meal they shared together without the encumbrance of servants and guests. It was something she had insisted on when accepting his proposal. Promise me we shall begin each day together, just we two. The Duke had taken this to mean waking up to each other but his new bride’s insistence on separate beds in separate apartments had put paid to that idea. This is better, she tried to console and persuade him. We need time to become acquainted, for our courtship was brief. And then, when we know each other better than anyone else, I shall give my all to you, my dearest husband...
And he had agreed! The fool!
“I shall prepare the meals myself,” she added. “To add to the romance.”
She had laughed to see him gape. Everything that passed the Duke’s lips had to be tasted first by a man employed for the job. “I see you do not trust me, my husband,” she pouted and went into a sulk. To appease her, the Duke dismissed his taster and allowed her to feed him forkfuls of salted meats and peppered eggs, sitting on his lap and stroking his hair.
He was soon in her thrall, and seemed more enchanted by her beauty every morning. But for her, the shine had gone from the marriage as soon as the ring slipped onto her finger.
She soon gave up the pretence of preparing the food with her own fair hands. Screw that! She had a cook, sworn to secrecy and richly rewarded, bring covered plates to her quarters. Salted meats and peppered eggs. Her husband could not get enough of them.
She carried this morning’s platters from her apartment to the breakfast room between her rooms and his. The Duke was not there. She waited, concerned the food would grow cold. She rang for his valet who informed her, red-faced and stammering, that the Duke had risen early and had ridden out into the forest with a couple of men.
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed as though reminded of an appointment. “I had forgotten that was today.”
She dismissed the valet and threw the breakfast at the wall.
What are you up to, my dearest darling, that makes you break our breakfast vow?
***
With Shade back in his ring, Broad leant back against a tree. Within moments, he dozed off, his waking thoughts blending with memories and dreams. He saw himself as a young boy, playing in long grass at the edge of the forest. He remembered eyes, a pair of eyes watching him. Hello? Want to play? he had asked the eyes but they had blinked and disappeared. And then he was running, back to the longhouse, which seemed farther and farther away, like he was running on the spot, like something was holding him back, a pair of unseen hands, pulling him back, keeping him from home. And the screams from the longhouse, his mother’s voice shrill and terrified. The shouts of his father and the cries of his brothers as the house was shrouded in smoke, swirling in and out, around and over.
Broad woke with a jerk. It took a few seconds to remember where he was. He fingered the heavy ring. Shade was resting peacefully, Broad had no doubt about that. He got to his feet, forgoing all hope of further sleep. He didn’t want it. He would rather be exhausted than
relive that terrible day.
He plodded along a track, not paying attention to where he was going, but keeping an eye out for something edible. Fungus perhaps, or the star-shaped flowers that signalled there were root vegetables beneath the soil.
His stomach grumbled. He had eaten nothing since the meal at the farmstead. Another memory he cared not to revisit, thank you very much. Where was Lughor the warrior now, he wondered? And what deception was he practising on unsuspecting folk?
Forget him, Broad advised himself. With a bit of luck, our paths shall never cross again.
He almost tripped over something soft. It let out a yip. It was a rabbit caught in a snare. Broad was dismayed. He dropped to one knee and released the animal with a snick of his dagger. “Poor little fellow,” he said sadly, as the rabbit loped away. It did not occur to him that he could have had the poor little fellow for breakfast but he gathered up the carrot that had been left as a lure and bit off a chunk.
“Stop right there!” commanded a voice. A man’s voice. Broad froze. The chunk of carrot stuck in his throat. He coughed it out.
“Put your hands up and turn around - slowly!” the man shouted. Broad did as he was told and found himself facing the prongs of a pitchfork. At the other end of the handle, a man in peasant garb was scowling at him. “You let him go! Who are you and why do you want my family to starve?”
“I am Broad Shoulders,” the youth introduced himself. The peasant took it as a description. He circled the young man, keeping his distance, and admired the physique from all angles.
“You’re from good stock,” the peasant nodded. “Strong. Your folks field workers, boy?”
“Timbermen,” said Broad.
“Good, outdoors work,” the peasant continued to nod. He seemed to come to a decision. “You will come back to the house. You will work for your keep.”
“Excuse me, but I will not,” Broad frowned. “I have places to go.”
Navarin, Thunder and Shade Page 3