Thomas scratched his head, staring hard at his friend. ‘What just happened? The boy had me cold and I was going to pay.’
Dardo rubbed his throbbing forehead. ‘Maybe your reputation precedes you,’ he said climbing back into his saddle.
*
Cyrano had lit wood in an iron stove by the far wall in the long, dining room and there was a bright fire burning. Warming his hands he gazed out of the leaded window overlooking the courtyard and gates and it was now dark, beginning to rain and lightning forked in the sky as thunder rumbled overhead.
‘It’s going to be one of those nights, I can feel it in my water,’ he said to himself, shuffling through the swinging doors into the kitchen towards a trestle table in the middle of the room. Sunset had come and gone and still there was no sign of Thomas Flynn and with a heavy heart Cyrano questioned whether the swordsman would ever arrive – and all that he could do was hope, pray and wait.
A white robed cook with kindly brown eyes and a gentle smile was in the kitchen making soup and bread-rolls, whistling gaily as she worked, unaware of Cyrano’s presence. The soup was hot and steaming, the bread rolls brown and crusty, sprinkled with fine white flour and the smell was delicious. It drifted out into the dining room, which was filling quickly. The bar in the Tap Room was already open and Cyrano took turns to serve in the dining room and pull ale at the bar. It was no easy task as the bar was also crammed full.
An hour passed and there was no sign of Thomas. Two hours and still there was no sign of the warrior, and as the wine flowed the revellers became more and more boisterous and fights broke out. As usual tables were overturned and chairs thrown around the room. Goblets flew in the air and there was the odd terrifying scream as something hard collided with a face. It was almost a typical night at the inn, the only difference being that nobody was dead yet – but the hour was early and the night still young.
Outside the tavern there was the sound of heavy hoof beats, suddenly silent. Moments later the doors burst open. Thomas entered shaking the rain from his coat, followed by his good friend and for a moment they were still, their expressions thoughtful.
‘I’m not a vain man,’ said Dardo at last, ‘but the weather’s ruined my hair.’
Thomas smiled, shaking his head. ‘Then the next time you visit a barber, have it shaved close to the scalp,’ he advised.
Dardo shook his head. ‘My hair’s strong and wild like me and shall remain so.'
Thomas’ nostrils flared at the delicious aroma wafting his way like a warm breeze.
Both men stepped through the doorway into the bar.
‘I’m so hungry,’ said Thomas closing the door, and they stood scanning the crowded room. The ceiling was white and low, supported by thick oak beams and there was a stone fireplace with a marble hearth set against the southern wall, roaring with a blazing fire, the windows leaded and the floor sawdust covered. Some tables and chairs were overturned, the rest scattered about the room haphazardly.
‘You have a contract here with Cyrano, not I,’ said Dardo suddenly. ‘What makes you think he’ll need me also?’
Thomas turned his head fixing his friends gaze. ‘If this tavern is only half as violent as he says it is, it’s always wise to have a contingency plan.’
Dardo shook his head quizzically. ‘What’s that?’
‘Another plan of action. I’ll pay you myself out of my own money. You’re my responsibility, not his,’ said Thomas noting the upturned tables, chairs and unconscious customers scattered about the room. He knelt to check the dagger sheathed in the hidden scabbard of his left boot, then standing back to his feet he superstitiously altered the position of the sword-belt looped about his slender waist, but only very slightly. They spoke no more, walking on through the bar, finally stopping at a table by a window. Thomas sat, gesturing for Dardo to sit opposite him as a tall, wiry, young man with a wide brown moustache approached them. ‘What can I get you?’ he asked.
Thomas took a deep breath, focusing on the young man’s face. ‘What’s the food like here?’
‘It’s good,’ offered the young man. ‘The innkeeper’s daughter cooks it.’
‘And the ale?’ asked Dardo.
‘That’s good too.’
‘Then we’ll have two of whatever's hot and readily available,’ said Thomas, ‘accompanied by a jug of your finest ale.’
The young man nodded, swinging around, heading for the kitchen. Cyrano however, was missing at this time, but within mere moments the young man returned with meat pie and fresh vegetables served in separate dishes, and just like the pie at the Lazy Rat, the gravy was thick and rich, the meat tender. Thomas licked his lips, tucking in and Dardo followed suit. The young man disappeared again, returning moments later with a large pitcher of ale.
‘We thank you,’ said Thomas, hefting the young man a silver coin, telling him to keep the change. He went back to the kitchen with a smile on his face. A blind harp player suddenly appeared from a back room, playing light and lilting dance music. Thomas smiled. ‘It’s a small world.’
‘You know the harpist?’ asked Dardo.
‘Aye, he’s good, but I hope he doesn’t sing. His voice is past the range of human tolerance. In fact, it’s so bad that deaf people refuse to watch his lips move. And I hope he dies before me because I don’t want him singing at my funeral,’ snorted Thomas.
Dardo laughed, picked up the pitcher of ale and poured, filling their goblets. Both drank deeply, draining them in one large swallow. He filled the goblets again, ate his pie quickly and sat back stretching his arms above his head. ‘Doesn’t seem such a bad place. Maybe Cyrano exaggerated just to get you here.’
Thomas finished the last of the pie, stretched and leaned back as two broad shouldered young men with hard features approached, walking as if they had fouled their hose and could smell it.
One of them pushed back on his chair, almost tipping him over. ‘You’ve made a mistake,’ he announced with a thick Nottinghamshire drawl.
‘You’re sitting in my friend’s chair,’ said the other with the looks and charm of a warthog.
Thomas rose to his feet, picking up the chair, looking around it and under it. ‘Is that so?’ he countered. ‘I don’t see a name anywhere.’
The young men glared at him. ‘I sit here every evening,’ said the first.
‘I sit there,’ said the other pointing to Dardo’s chair.
‘I think I spoke too soon,’ said Dardo fixing Thomas’ gaze.
Thomas frowned. ‘You want this one specific chair out of all the chairs in here?’
Dardo said nothing, staring ponderously at the two posturing bullies who achieved the unusual feat of being sinister and ridiculous at the same time.
‘That’s my chair,’ said the first, clenching his big, hard hands.
‘And that’s mine,’ warned the second, clenching his also.
Thomas frowned and let out a deep sigh. ‘Then you shall have them,’ he shouted, smashing his chair over the first man’s head and shoulders.
Dardo rose quickly, vaulting the table, reaching the second man just as he was unleashing a snaking left hook at Thomas’ jaw. An incredible right uppercut slammed into the man’s chin like an iron hammer, dropping him like a stone. He didn't rise. The first man rolled to his knees, hauling himself upright just in time for Thomas’ booted foot to cannon against his face, catapulting him into the gawping crowd. He fell heavily, banging his head on a stool and didn't get up. Dardo moved alongside Thomas and they both stared into the awed faces of the crowd. ‘Let me introduce my friend,’ he said. ‘This is the legendary swordsman…’
The crowd parted and Cyrano stepped forward carrying two goblets of ale. ‘…Thomas Flynn,’ he interrupted, pride in his voice, ‘and his good friend Dardo who are now in my employ.’
‘What’s the story behind this Thomas Flynn?’ a customer whispered.
‘You mess with him and he’ll seal your fate forever,’ said Cyrano, his voice low and icy.
&
nbsp; *
The young man’s face trembled, blinking hard as an iron fist struck him full in the face sending him sprawling to the dirt. Dizziness swamped him and he fell back to the soft earth. His attacker hauled him upright and another fist hit him full in the face, smashing his nose, dropping him like a brick. He was hauled upright again by a tall, thin man with long, straggly hair and beady eyes, who grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back. A big man with a flat brutal face pummelled and hammered his belly until he could not breathe. The young man slid to the ground gasping for air and then rolled to his knees, groaning, struggling to fill his lungs.
An iron hand gripped the young man’s throat. ‘This is my city, you little bastard, and don’t ever forget it. Sign the papers now or I swear I’ll cut your fingers off one by one,’ said the big man.
The young man nodded. ‘No more. Please don’t hit me again,’ he begged in a whisper. ‘I’ll sign the paper and you can have the farm.’
Ozhan dragged him to his feet, thrusting the deed in front of him. Trembling, the young man blinked back tears, taking a quill pen from the hand of one of his attackers, who turned his back for him to rest the document on. He fought to focus on the brown parchment, finally making his mark as the big man’s scarred face lingered inches away from his own, watching him sign.
In all his days, baron Ozhan had lived to enjoy a single talent – to terrorise the souls of lesser men. Drawing a dagger from his belt he placed it under the young man’s chin, who felt a trickle of blood as the needle sharp blade pricked his skin. Rubbing the sweat from his eyes he tried to focus on Ozhan’s face as the dagger lifted him to his toes. ‘You could have saved yourself this beating, you little bastard, if you had signed last month. Now pack your belongings and take your pleasant little life and wife elsewhere, and don’t come back,’ warned the baron.
The young man spun on his heel, staggering back to the log cabin, closing the door behind him. The baron and his men climbed into their saddles and rode off laughing with the signed document.
*
As the sun rose in the east the next morning, Thomas and Dardo were sat by a vast lake exchanging thoughts. The sky was blue; the air warm, green and long was the grass and birds of every kind and colour chirped merrily in the huge oaks behind them.
‘I like Cyrano,’ said Thomas, ‘but what’s happening at the Dog and Duck is that the helpless are leading the hopeless, and that’s why every bullyboy and thug entertains there. We are going to change all that. We are going to throw the scum out.’
Dardo’s eyes wandered out over the shimmering lake. Rolling to his knees he pushed himself upright. ‘I’ve never killed anyone,’ he admitted, ‘but I will if I have to.’
‘Death is ugly brother, but sometimes it has a bitter-sweet taste and is necessary,’ said Thomas coming to his feet, remembering his father’s face, swollen and bloated with his tongue protruding, the hangman’s noose tight about his neck, after he had killed his mother.
They began to walk slowly around the lake, across a narrow valley full of oak, alder and birch and the sun shone in a clear blue sky as the snow of distant hills glistened like white fire. The smell of grass and the sculptured beauty of the land amid forest and streams awed them.
‘If we stick to three simple rules,’ said Thomas, ‘we needn't kill anyone. Number one – never underestimate your opponent. Always expect the unexpected. Number two – fight outside. Never start anything inside the inn unless it’s absolutely necessary. Number three – be nice until it’s time not to be.’
Dardo looked confused. ‘How will I know when it’s that time?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Thomas. ‘If someone gets in your face and calls you a whoreson or gutter-scum, I want you to be pleasant. Ask him to leave the inn, but be polite. If he won’t leave, we’ll help him leave, but we’ll both be polite. Remember, it’s just a job, nothing personal.’
‘Being called a whoreson isn’t personal?’ said Dardo looking even more confused.
‘No, it’s just name calling to prompt a given reaction,’ said Thomas, ‘so sticks and stones may break your bones, but calling names won’t hurt you.’
‘What if somebody calls someone I love a whore.’
‘If they’re not, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ said Thomas with a smile. ‘I want you to be pleasant until it’s time not to be pleasant. Then we’ll take out the trash before it makes the place stink, so-to-speak.’
Dardo winked, tapping his nose. ‘Know what you mean.’
Both men smiled, nodding at each other, heading back to their horses, and much later that day back at the inn Thomas fell into a deep sleep and awoke with a start, his heart beating like a drum. Dardo was shaking him softy. ‘Bad dream?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘I never have a good one,’ said Thomas rolling to his feet from the pallet bed. The fire was almost out so he added a small amount of kindling and blew the dying embers back to life. ‘I dreamt that I was a bird soaring high above the hills, riding the warm up draughts, weaving through clouds in a far off land, watching the migration of elk and deer. Then I suddenly turned back into a man and began to fall.’ A log dropped from the fire onto the hearth, rolled and stopped at his feet, jolting him back from remembering his dream. He picked up a set of long iron tongs, lifting it back onto the fire, then stretched and yawned.
‘They say every dream has a meaning,’ said Dardo. ‘Wonder what that one meant?’
Thomas shrugged, yawning again, rubbing his eyes and he moved to the window. The sun had set over the hills. ‘I don’t usually sleep in the day; it must be this Nottinghamshire air,’ he said ignoring his friends comment.
‘Would you like a cup of nettle tea?’ asked Dardo hanging a kettle over the fire.
Thomas nodded. ‘Aye, and then we had better get downstairs. The inn will be open and Cyrano will be wondering where we are.'
Within mere moments the kettle had boiled. Dardo moved to the hearth, wrapping a cloth around the handle of the kettle. Lifting it from its iron bracket he returned to the table, filling two slender cups with boiling water, adding a small muslin bag to each and a sweet delicious aroma filled the bedroom. He stirred the contents of each cup, hooking out the bags, passing one cup to Thomas, who tasted the brew and smiled. ‘I’ve not had nettle tea for years,’ he said. ‘Cheers and here’s to our first night on the job. May it go smoothly and without any violent consequence?’ The tea lifted their spirits, warming their insides and within ten minutes both men were dressed, armed and downstairs in the thick of it.
*
The young woman slid from the red haired, silver-eyed giant man's lap, moving away into the crowd as he drained his tankard. Drawing his dagger he slammed it point first into an oak table. ‘I only desire that you die and will fight either one of you, or both,’ said the skull-faced colossus, his voice thick with contempt. ‘And when I’ve killed you both, I shall eat your livers.’
‘My friend and I work here, and all that we ask is that you leave the inn peacefully,’ said Thomas amiably. Dardo nodded vigorously. Cyrano hid dubiously.
The giant stood, drawing his long broadsword. ‘If I leave at all, I leave in pieces, not peace. If you can kill me, you can have all my possessions, including the whore-wench I brought with me.’
Thomas looked hard at the man. He was huge, barrel-chested and powerful but he swung to Dardo nodding his acceptance. ‘I think he looks old, fat and out of condition. Death would be an improvement and a good career move for him,’ he said.
Dardo’s green eyes travelled slowly down the length of the giant’s body to his feet, then back up again. Shaking his head nervously he stared up at him. ‘He doesn’t look old, fat or out of condition to me, so I hope you’re right Thomas,’ he whispered.
Angrily the giant man glared back at Thomas twice as hard. ‘If I don’t manage to swallow you whole little one, I’ll still feast on your liver after I’ve torn off your aggravating head, I promise.’
Thoma
s turned to face his friend. ‘A stupid person’s idea of clever rhetoric. I bet he’s so conceited that he raises his hat every time he speaks of himself.'
‘Can you take him?’ asked Dardo looking worried, his voice a whispering whimper.
Thomas nodded drawing both swords, stepping up to meet the giant man, taking up his fighting stance, and the crowd parted, backing away in silence as he darted sideways dodging a ferocious cut to his belly. Then he leapt back, swaying away from a slashing cut to his chest, which he parried easily, but such was the power of the blow that Thomas went spinning to the floor. He made it to his knees as the giant leapt towards him with his sword raised, and then rolled away quickly as it slammed into the floor hitting an iron nail. Bright sparks lit the air like a flash of gunpowder.
The giant’s anger swelled and he staggered back under the sheer weight of his sword, so Thomas changed to an opposite stance and waited. The other leapt forward, his broadsword slashing from right to left aiming at Thomas' head, but he dropped to one knee, the blade slicing air above him. A short sword flashed out nicking the giant’s ear and blood trickled down his neck. Thomas smiled, rising smoothly as the giant lunged again. Parrying the thrust he spun on his heel, hammering his fist into the man's face. He tumbled awkwardly to the floor, slicing a deep cut several inches long to Thomas’ bicep in the process.
Crimson bloomed on his skin and dripped down the length of his arm, but he realised it wasn't a bad cut. ‘Before I've finished with you, you’ll wish you hadn't caused trouble tonight big man, and will wish you had left quietly when asked,’ said Thomas examining the wound quickly.
Coming to his feet swiftly, the giant man shook his head. ‘Die,’ he shouted, lunging forward.
One of Thomas’ needle sharp blades met him, slicing through his neck, half decapitating him and blood sprayed out as he fell, freckling the faces of the crowd of horrified onlookers. Thomas’ eyes were fever bright and his hands trembling as he sheathed both swords. The panic gone, he relieved the giant warrior of his bulging purse. ‘A jug of ale if you please Cyrano, and someone to dispose of this self-appointed King of Nobodies,’ he said remembering his days practising swordplay with his brother Malcolm in the old courtyard at Alnwick Castle.
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 3