A VIOLENT MAN
A Fictional Adventure Novel by
Michael John Siddall
Copyright © 30th June 2008
Introduction
King John of England died of dysentery in Newark on October 18th in the year of our Lord 1216 A. D., ending the reign of an unprincipled opportunist who made a series of bad decisions in pursuit of short-term advantages. Not only did he lose the vast French empire created by his father, Henry II, but he also alienated the crown’s leading English supporters as well as the pope and Church establishment.
The final event of John’s reign was a characteristically bungled manoeuvre in which he lost the crown jewels in quicksand while crossing the Wash, a tidal estuary in the east of the country. England was in a lawless turmoil, gripped by panic, following the king's sudden death, so the lawful barons crowned nine-year-old Prince Henry with great haste at Gloucester Abbey, before London’s rebel barons could elevate France’s Prince Louis to the English throne.
Welsh overlord Llewellyn ab Lorwerth, Prince of Gwynedd had established himself as ruler without equal in Wales at the end of John’s reign, earning himself the epithet ‘the Great’, while in Northumberland, a simple land dispute between two feuding brothers had finally broken down into open hostility. They were on the verge of bloody war and there was the possibility that many brave men would die unnecessarily.
Chapter 1
It was midnight when the constant rain of boiling oil and arrows finally ceased. Horrific screams of the dying rang in the air and broken bodies littered the battlefield – some cut in half, some mutilated beyond recognition – and there was blood everywhere staining the earth crimson. Thomas Flynn sat astride his white stallion waiting. His steed looked ominous, ghostly even, draped from head to hoof in black cloth, studded with silver and surrounded by murky trailers of mist. With a writhing stare he waited impatiently, his dark eyes scanning the battlements of Alnwick castle, searching for his deranged brother Malcolm.
In his early days, Thomas had been a common street fighter, rough and ready – a man always on the edge – but now he was a seasoned swordsman with incredible speed of hand and nimbleness of foot. This he thought was due to his hot gypsy blood.
He had – he believed – inherited his handsome features from his beautiful mother, a capable outspoken woman, though she had turned to prostitution to make ends meet when his father joined the British Navy. He had – he also believed – inherited his short temper from his drunken father, whose death by hanging at a relatively early age was not widely regretted. His parents had been less than affectionate and strict at all times. Even as a tiny child he was made sit upright at the table, but must not touch the back of his chair, if he did, his father – a man of wilful and forceful character – thrashed him severely with a leather belt.
He could hardly remember him; save for the single memory of his mother’s final beating. She had died screaming, bloodied and battered by his father, and even now as a young man the screams still rang in his ears, filling his dreams at night, torturing him. Eighteen years of his life had passed in what seemed the blink of an eye, but now he was older, wiser, and ready to take back what was rightfully his from his evil brother.
A cold wind whispered across the land as Thomas stepped down from the saddle, tethering his horse to a post. Purposefully he climbed the cold, grey, rampart steps of the south wall where Malcolm was waiting for him. An eye-patch covered Malcolm’s scarred left eye, his dark hair was ragged and his clothes were almost identical to Thomas’ black and gold tunic, matching leggings and calf-length boots.
Alnwick castle stood out like a sore thumb on the plains of Northumberland with its sky-towering parapets, but it was a castle of ghosts and Thomas was anxious. ‘I’ve no experience of sieges, only of battles and killing,’ he said in a husky whisper.
Bright moonlight flooded the walls in slanting shafts and his brother smiled coldly.
‘Today you will have a new experience – death – for I am deadly beyond your imaginings and will slice you in half with a single cut.’
Outside the walls of the castle stood ten thousand battle-hardened warriors, armed to the teeth with every imaginable siege-engine of destruction – lumbering wooden catapults to smash down the walls, battering rams to breach the oak and copper gates, and trebuchets capable of firing flaming leather bags filled with coal oil to explode over the enemy, killing many – all pulled along by dark, powerful, sweating horses, raising dust that drifted high into the night air. Behind the army was another force of five thousand reserves, housed outside in a camp of brightly coloured canvas tents with flags flying and banners bright and polished. All awaited the cry of battle, but were willing to settle their differences in a single duel to the death between the two brothers.
‘The devil and hell's dark abyss is coming for you Malcolm,’ said Thomas wiping the sheen of sweat from his face with the back of his hand, ‘and both are filled with a terrifying blackness.’ He drew both of his short-swords, striding forward.
His brother smiled, unblinking and unafraid, a steely glint in his eyes. ‘I think not. Not this day.’ He drew his serrated broadsword.
‘This is the best time of day for a duel, it’s so quiet and uncluttered and our warriors will be able to hear your every scream,’ said Thomas staring coldly.
Malcolm shook his head in a slow controlled fashion, fixing his brothers gaze. ‘I remember the joy of fighting you when we were adolescents, with fists, feet or weapons and treasure the memories that I never once lost a fight because of my many more hours of training.’
Thomas leapt forward, one of his swords slashing from left to right, aiming for Malcolm’s neck. ‘An artist may spend years fashioning a work of great beauty, but a single mistake will ruin the whole thing.’
Malcolm dropped to one knee, his brother’s blade slicing air above him. ‘I don’t make mistakes,’ he whispered back, his own sword licking out to nick the others bicep. A flash of crimson bloomed on sweaty skin. Off balance Thomas stumbled, falling heavily, tearing the shoulder of his tunic, but he climbed to his feet quickly.
Malcolm rose from his knee smoothly, swiftly, leaping forward thrusting his blade at the others chest who parried it, tumbling again to the cobbled stone, hitting his head hard. Malcolm smiled recalling their first ever fight with blades. A massacre at the very least, he thought, but then Thomas was always a slow learner.
Thomas rolled awkwardly to his knees, rose and advanced again. He leapt forward, one of his swords slicing from right to left aiming at Malcolm’s exposed stomach, but the other arched backward quickly, his own sword shooting out to nick Thomas’ other bicep. Another flash of crimson bloomed on his skin beneath the tunic.
Malcolm hawked and spat. ‘You’re not doing too well are you brother?’ he said smiling broadly, holding to Thomas' incensed gaze.
Thomas touched the deep wound. ‘Son-of-a-whore,’ he snapped.
‘You should know; we had the same mother. Father said she was devil-possessed and tried to thrash the demon from her on many occasions,’ countered Malcolm.
Their mother had indeed been a whore and beaten to death by their father while in a drunken stupor. An angry mob had subsequently dragged him screaming to the gallows, hanging him without trial. Thomas and Malcolm, aged five at the time had watched both events wide eyed with horror, unable to look away. Then the local sheriff had hauled them off into the freezing night, taking them to Alnwick castle, where they stayed for the next twelve years under the watchful eye of baron Sedgwick and milady Ann, both of whom beat them regularly after sexually abusing them in front of each other. That was when their living nightmare
had begun.
Incensed by the remarks Thomas launched a sudden attack catching Malcolm by surprise, and before he could react Thomas’ right hand lifted, a sword slashing down. Terrible pain exploded in his brother’s body and his sword fell from his hand as he stared down at the blade embedded in his chest. An agonised groan burst from his lips as acid fire filled him and he fell to his knees, but the sword held him upright.
‘You thought me an easy kill brother, but heart and determination can conquer almost any obstacle,’ said Thomas driving the blade deeper. The body toppled to his left. ‘You were good, but I am better.’ He dragged the blade clear sheathing both swords, lifting his brother’s body to his chest. No emotion showed on his face whatsoever as he turned to Malcolm’s men who were stunned and silent. ‘It’s over,’ he shouted with madness in his fever bright eyes. ‘Take the body, burn it and tomorrow at sunrise there’ll be a reckoning.’
A soldier bowed, rose and swirled his red cloak about his broad shoulders. He took the body from Thomas hefting it over his shoulder, climbing down the steps of the south wall towards an awaiting carriage crafted in mahogany and gold. Another soldier moved to the carriage door wrenching it open, pulling down the three steps. Taking hold of the door frame the soldier carrying Malcolm’s corpse pulled hard on it and climbed into the carriage closing the door behind him. He rapped on the small hatch and the carriage took off immediately, travelling down the main street away from the castle. Thomas watched from the battlements, listening to the clip-clop of hooves and the iron-shod wheels rattling over the cobbles. A cold wind whispered over the great walls lifting his long braided hair from his shoulders and he shivered, watching until the carriage was out of sight.
At sunrise the next morning there was a public gathering in Gallows Square. Thomas offered Malcolm’s soldiers the choice between joining his forces and a hanging. All highly skilled, intelligent men of great bravery, they chose to be led by their new commander and chanted his name, all save ten. Thomas’ men quickly grabbed their arms, tied their hands behind their backs and hauled them towards the scaffold steps, and as each reached them and began to struggle, a man stepped forward and smote them hard on the back of their heads with a wooden cudgel. Then one by one his men dragged them up the ten steps, looping a noose over their heads, tightening it around their necks and they sobbed and soiled their hose awaiting execution. The floor gave way beneath them and they dropped into the darkness of the shadows kicking and thrashing wildly. Thomas watched them all die as one of his soldiers approached him.
‘I don’t understand why they chose death rather than to follow you milord,’ said the soldier.
Thomas turned, staring hard at the man. ‘They died because they understood the meaning of loyalty. They were loyal to my brother even unto death.’
*
Over the next ten years, Thomas’ world shrank to a grimy, fireless, cold room above a noisy tavern in London where he secretly mourned his brother’s death, and with no more problems to solve or battles to win; he had become a wandering drunkard, leaving his old life behind. However, if he were honest he missed it, even though his childhood nightmares of abuse still haunted him, so he drank gin when alone to numb his senses.
It was almost the end of summer now and a cold wind whispered across the whole of England. Henry III was sat on the throne holding the reins of power at the tender age of nineteen. The year was 1226 A.D., and Thomas was a handsome man with strength and size, who somehow always managed to look bigger and more powerful than he actually was – primitive perhaps? Aged twenty-eight, he was a good-natured man of modest means, but bore many, many scars, some of which sent his body into painful spasms on cold winter nights.
Now there was a knock at his door, so he ambled across the almost bare room and opened it, staring down at a small, bald, fat man who looked like an overstuffed chair. Scanning the round, rosy face he finally fixed the man’s gaze. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked amiably.
‘Have you plans for this evening?’ Forin grinned up at the big man.
Thomas shrugged, laughing. ‘Only the same plans I had for last evening, to stay in my room and get stinking drunk, but I’m a little short in the coin department.’
‘Would you like to work for me as a doorman?’ asked Forin passing him a goblet of mulled wine, which he drained in a single swallow. ‘I’ll pay you two silver coins each evening. Three if you have to fight.’
‘Can you wait while I check my almanac to see if I’ve been invited to court?’ Thomas chuckled in his husky, light-hearted voice. He picked up his old, worn, black and gold doublet from the end of his pallet bed, putting it on, and picked up his double sword belt from the chair next to the door, looping it around his waist, fastening it. ‘Might as well get drunk downstairs then, rather than be on my own upstairs.’ He closed the door behind him, following the innkeeper down into the tavern.
Golden lantern light glowed at the windows and a rush of welcome heat enveloped them both as Forin pushed open the door. There were log fires burning at either end of the long, oak beamed, whitewashed bar and the whole place was packed with rowdy customers. Thomas scanned the room, instantly spotting a silver bearded giant of a man in a corner with a young serving wench upon his knee. He eased his way through the mixed crowd of privateers and noblemen, smugglers, slavers, swindlers and cut-throats, smiling at a young whore who stared at him with open hostility because he passed her by. Finally, he sat at a corner table, his back to the wall and ordered meat and potato pie from Forin.
When it arrived, the meat was tender, the gravy thick and rich. A musician suddenly appeared from a back room playing light and lilting dance music on a flute and then began to sing. The atmosphere in the Lazy Rat inn was less than delightful, but there was fine wine, good food and the guests were behaving themselves. An easy nights work for two silver pieces, thought Thomas.
However, as the evening wore on and wine flowed freely the atmosphere became tense and customers began to argue and bicker amongst themselves. Thomas quelled two or three small incidents and violently ejected one raucous lad who was being rude to the customers. Then a group of noblemen rounded on the innkeeper, claiming his food tasted like horse dung and they demanded their money back. Thomas moved to the men, speaking to them, saying they were occasionally funny, usually superficial and very pompous; settling them back down. The night ended without a major incident, and from that day forward, Thomas Flynn worked as doorman at the Lazy Rat inn with his reputation growing like wine seeping from a cracked jug.
*
Two hundred and some odd miles to the north, Cyrano, a tall, stick-like man of sixty years with iron grey hair was just opening the Dog and Duck; a black and grey building that reared up from the Nottinghamshire land like rotting teeth. Inside the inn, his grey-green eyes scanned the carnage. Among the broken cups, mugs, plates, tables and chairs were at least three dead bodies, the men killed in vicious knife fights the evening before. Tired of the bloodshed and hungry to move on he decided he needed help, but the only local man with the necessary reputation for suppressing extreme violence – his long-time friend, Vodas – was now too old.
‘What shall I do?’ he asked the serving wench cleaning the mess, his voice a quiver. ‘I like it here, but the customers are no better than animals.’
‘It’s sickening,’ she said sullenly, mopping the bloody floor.
He swore, dragging the three corpses out into the courtyard one at a time. One man had died without a sound, but his bowels had opened and the stench had filled the inn. Staring down at the swollen, bloated corpses, he thought how ugly death was, and then with a surge of willpower shouted, ‘I won’t quit. I won’t give up. This is my livelihood.’ He swore an oath there and then to find someone like his friend, Vodas, with a reputation for quelling violence – a soldier, mercenary and if necessary a killer of men without a conscience. He left the corpses for the undertaker to collect and after a further night of brawling and extreme brutality at the inn, he walked th
rough stands of birch and oak the next morning in a lighter mood. Flowers were no longer in bloom, but he rested on a hillside while his men searched the area for someone with a reputation bold enough to discourage his violent clientèle. All of his men came to him that evening carrying the same name on their lips. The only man for the job was now residing in a rough tavern in London.
He went to bed that night, waking early the next morning in the faint light of pre-dawn as bruise-purple thunderheads stacked up in the south-east, and he drew a deep breath, feeling a cool breeze upon his skin. ‘Thank you Lord,’ he whispered. ‘My men have keen ears and sharp eyes and now I have the name of my benefactor.’ Swinging his legs from his bed he dressed quickly, pulling on his dark grey leggings and a doublet of grey silk that matched his calf length boots. He ran his fingers over his hair, shaved close to the scalp to prevent lice, and a draught chilled him so he threw his heavy grey coat over his shoulders.
Outside rain sheeted down and the distant rumble of thunder drummed out in the heavens as the sun was clearing the eastern hills, but the storm passed as suddenly as it had come. He waited until the rain had stopped completely and then strode from the inn to his grey bay gelding tethered nearby. Saddling the horse he hooked a rucksack full of food over the pommel and then stood thoughtfully for a moment before climbing up. Finally he heeled the horse, riding out onto open ground, giving the gelding his head and it thundered joyfully across the plain in a mile-eating gallop.
*
That night the London streets were quiet and almost deserted except for prostitutes plying their trade, and tramps and down-and-outs slouched in the recesses of doorways. A bitter wind was blowing from the north as Thomas, hooded and cloaked walked through the winding alleyways and passages towards the Lazy Rat, coming into Gallows Square just as the moon hid behind a screen of clouds. Pausing he shook his head, gazing at the single corpse hanging from the gibbet there. ‘A sign of the times,’ he said with a tone of sadness.
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 1