‘Why is Malcolm so much faster than me?’ he had asked Master Gallus their trainer. ‘We're twins with the same musculature, the same drive, the same expertise.’ Gallus had answered with one word: practice. And from that day forward Thomas had spent every spare second, minute, hour and day doing just that. Hours had turned into days, days into weeks and weeks into months until ten whole years had passed and he had become unbeatable with a hundred victories behind him, and a vast reputation in front of him. The lips of many spoke his name with pride. Only those who feared him whispered it.
*
Patients filled the young doctor’s hallway and the bright morning sunlight filtered through the high arched windows in a constant stream. Moans and groans filled the air as Lira walked down the long corridor slowly, trying to judge who needed her attention the most. Thomas with his dark handsome features instantly drew her attention with his kindly eyes. He sat quietly at the end of the line of injured holding his bandaged arm, his black and gold tunic stained and a mess. Dressed in a loose fitting white gown, the ties undone, she approached him and sat by his side.
‘Hello, I’m doctor Lira, how did this happen?’ she asked unwrapping the bandage to inspect the seeping wound.
‘In an argument,’ said Thomas.
‘It’s a big ugly cut,’ she admitted screwing up her face.
‘Not surprised, it was a big ugly man who did it,’ Thomas joked.
‘What do you do for a living?’ she asked.
‘I work at the Dog and Duck inn.’
‘Doing what exactly?’
‘Doorman. I take out the filth when it begins to make the place stink.’
‘It’s not a nice place,’ said Lira frowning. ‘They send me everything except what the undertaker collects.’
‘I’ll change all that,’ said Thomas with an air of confidence.
‘On your own?’ she said staring incredulously into his smouldering eyes.
‘No, I have a friend.’
‘I think you’ll need more than one,’ Lira insisted.
She stood and beckoned for him to follow her down to a long, narrow, room full of pallet beds and bid him to lay down on one, which he did. She cleaned the wound with a secret recipe of herbs and moss, stitched it up and dressed it again. Thomas never flinched once. She was surprised, but impressed.
‘Doesn’t the pain bother you?’ she asked curiously.
‘Pain doesn’t hurt,’ he said.
She stared at him quizzically. ‘I’ve a lot of patients waiting out there who would definitely disagree with you.’
He smiled shaking his head. ‘Pain keeps us alive. The instant the giant man cut my arm, I knew my predicament was serious and let my subconscious mind take over. Subconscious reactions are faster than conscious actions.’
‘That’s very true,’ said the young doctor bandaging the wound.
‘Do you like music?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Yes, but not noisy taverns and rowdy customers,’ she replied fixing his gaze with her sparkling blue eyes.
He smiled, shrugging. ‘Me neither but I have to eat and it’s just a job.’
‘Where do you hail from, your dialect isn’t local?’ she asked.
‘Northumberland originally, but I’ve travelled extensively.’
‘Are you staying in Nottingham long?’
He smiled at her again with soul-searching eyes like those of a lost puppy-dog. ‘I might if I can get to know you better,’ he said clumsily.
Her face blossomed crimson with embarrassment at his awkwardness and she avoided his gaze. He leaned closer to her, so close that he could smell the rose scented perfume of her hair and he sighed. The effect was disconcerting but somehow pleasant to her. She looked into his eyes and saw the fear of rejection there. ‘A picnic would be pleasant,’ she said, smiling, pulling away from him, ‘and I’ll bring the food.’
His face lit up, beaming like a puppy with a new home. ‘I must go before you have a chance to change your mind. When shall this picnic take place?’
‘Call upon me at your own discretion,’ she whispered back at him.
He climbed to his feet, strode over to the doorway and turned, glancing back at her.
She’s a delight, he thought, exceptionally beautiful, kind and caring, lacking nothing in the eyes of a suitor. He opened the door, stepping out into the street and the freshness of the nearby fields greeted him. It was almost as delicious as Lira’s intoxicating perfume. He took a deep breath of fresh air and sighed. ‘I’m in love...’
Suddenly, screams filled the air bringing him to his senses. His eyes darted to the left and he saw a group of hard, rangy men, hungry looking as vultures, laughing and talking loudly. Then there was a loud neigh and a large black horse at least eighteen hands high reared up in front of him, and it was so close that its forelegs struck him in the ribs sending him sprawling. He fell to his knees gasping from the kick, the huge animal towering over him, the rider hooded and cloaked in black with a gold crest embellished on the front of his tunic.
He rose clutching his bruised ribs as laughing men formed a ring around him, and behind the men a building was burning with sickening screams filling the air. A strong wind was blowing, fanning the flames, turning the house fire into a raging inferno that hissed and crackled noisily.
‘Leave well alone, Flynn,’ said the hooded rider. ‘The house burns and everyone in it because they owe me a debt they cannot repay.’ He dismounted lowering his hood. ‘I’m baron Ozhan and I own this city and almost everything in it,’ he said coming nose to nose, his blunt face covered in grotesque scars. Both of his eyes seemed to glow in different colours. His left was steely-blue like a swordfish. The right was red like a hot burning coal. Thomas was hypnotised by his odd gaze and incredible ugliness. Surly nobody but a mother could love this King of the Gutter, he thought.
‘What I don’t yet own will soon be mine – including the woman Lira,’ snapped Ozhan.
Chapter 3
At last the horrific screaming stopped and the blazing house collapsed into showers of sparks. Rubble tumbled into the cobbled street and Ozhan’s men laughed loudly again as thick black smoke swirled, drifting their way in long trailers like the morning mist. The smell of soot lingered heavily in the air, and even having killed their terrified victims, the men’s blood lust was still not sated. Now they fixed their eyes firmly on Thomas.
‘We’ve heard of you. We’ve heard you’re lightning fast,’ said one of the new arrivals with big hands, an unpleasant tattooed face, chin-beard and a crown of golden hair. His eyebrows climbed his forehead. ‘But I think I can beat you in a fight.’
Ozhan smiled coldly at his man. ‘Watch what you say,’ he warned. ‘I’ve heard he’s more than a handful.’
‘Kill him and let’s be off,’ said another man casually.
Ozhan regarded his men silently as Thomas fixed his steely gaze on the first man with golden hair, who stood two heads taller than he did. ‘I’m not only lightning fast, I spit thunderbolts,’ he countered.
‘What are you waitin’ for, kill him and lets…’ the second man began again.
Thomas’ dagger struck the man in the throat and both swords flashed into his hands. ‘Is that fast enough?’ he asked, his eyes fever bright.
‘Bloody hell,’ gasped two of the men in unison. ‘Did you see that?’
‘Who wants to die next,’ said Thomas, ‘you Ozhan?’
After a survey of his men’s terrified faces the baron shook his head. ‘Back to the farm,’ he ordered mounting his stallion, staring down at Thomas. ‘You are indeed a dangerous man my friend,’ he admitted.
Thomas nodded, staring him squarely in the eyes. ‘Take the corpse as a reminder of that and keep your pets on a short leash, otherwise I may come looking for you.’
*
The eastern sky behind the Dog and Duck began to fade as Cyrano glanced out of his leaded bedroom window at the coming twilight. Daylight did nothing to dispel his fear of what was to come
with the fall of darkness, because as frightening as the ruffians were who visited the inn by day, they were ten times worse by night. They were rude, rampant and downright violent with no thought for the females who worked there. Animals behaved better. Therefore, to distract himself from his misery he had taken to drink. He shed his fears when the demon took a strong hold of him, and it warmed his insides better than the morning sun, besides making him forget his troubles. In fact, when he was drunk he had a surprisingly childlike face with a big boyish smile, even though there was no mistaking the hard set, grey-green eyes.
The sun had finally set on the edge of the world and faded away completely behind Nottingham’s tallest buildings, leaving an orangey hue in the sky for as far as the eye could see – which was an extremely beautiful sight – when a knock on the door startled Cyrano and a soft female voice called out, informing him that customers were beginning to arrive and the dining room tables were not set and the bar not open.
Swallowing hard he shook his head. ‘I’ll be right down,’ he answered hoarsely, draining a full tankard of ale in a single swallow. Taking a deep breath he turned towards the door and there was no mistaking the dread in his eyes. It showed clearly. ‘I’m a fool for continuing to run this harsh, cruel place and I know it,’ he whispered, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow. He opened the door, frowning, stepping out into the corridor and climbed down the staircase clumsily – being half-drunk – and went into the bar. He was pleasantly surprised to see Thomas and Dardo sat at their regular table, and no one it seemed wanted to dispute the fact that it was their table.
Relieved and bolstered by their presence he walked the full length of the bar in a very ungainly manner, grinning broadly. The crowd stopped whatever they were doing and laughed at him with his drunken boyish smile, which looked ridiculous.
‘What… what are you all laughing at?’ he slurred, his blunt honest red face a picture. Turning, he tried to pull a tankard of ale from an oak cask, slipped and fell hitting his head hard on the bar top, almost knocking him unconscious. Thomas and Dardo rose and leapt over the bar just as he rolled to his knees, shook his head and shouted, ‘Boy, come here.’
The dining room door burst open immediately and a young lad of twelve years stormed in. He stopped short, staring up into Thomas’ steely gaze. Then he stared hard at Dardo. Both men's eyes widened. Turning, they stared at each other and then back at the boy.
We’ve met before,’ said Thomas.
‘The lad with the slingshot,’ announced Dardo rubbing his forehead.
The boy looked horrified at seeing the two men.
‘I’d like a word with you lad if you don’t mind,’ said Thomas gripping the lads ear firmly. The boy took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. ‘So much pain in the world,’ he said looking mortified. Then he fell silent.
Thomas and Dardo chastised him for his sinful deed in the forest, but then Cyrano explained that it was his son and that he had become lost in a world of his own hatred after the deaths of his two brothers under the wheels of a runaway wagon, driven at the time by one of Ozhan’s men. Indeed the boy seemed sad and withdrawn to them.
The boy’s heart sank at the thought of his lost brothers almost a year to the day and his dark eyes misted and filled. He stood weeping uncontrollably.
Thomas cuddled him. ‘You think of them fondly still?’
The boy nodded; the question cutting through his thoughts like a knife through butter. ‘I think of far off days, sunshine and meadows and of laugher with my brothers.’
‘I’m truly sorry,’ said Thomas, ‘but you must not let the loss cloud your future.’
‘The boy half smiled shaking his head, wiping the tears from his face. His hair was long, dark and his skin ivory white. ‘I have no future without my brothers,’ he said sadly.
Thomas shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. Now you have three futures to fulfil – yours and theirs. Wouldn’t it be better to make them proud rather than give up? If you succeed their lives will not have been wasted and they won’t have died in vain.’
‘I’m truly sorry for the misunderstanding in the forest,’ said the lad. ‘You’re right and I'm wrong. After the death of my brothers I began to hate everyone and everything, particularly as I prayed so hard for their souls.’
‘Sometimes God seems to be deaf, dumb and blind,’ said Thomas, ‘but we humans are no better.’
‘Is it true that you’re a great swordsman?’ asked the boy, a glint of hope in his eyes.
‘That’s what they say, but I wouldn’t believe all of the stories. Only the ones where I’ve battled giants, dragons, goblins, trolls and dwarfs, killing them all,' Thomas said with a wink.
‘And saved fair maidens?’ asked the boy.
‘Some of them were a little less fair than others, but a hero does what a hero does best – he saves the maiden, even if she has the face of a goat.’
The boy laughed, wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘You’re very funny and I will be strong. I’ll grow to be three warriors rolled into one.’
Dardo slapped his forehead and rolled his eyes like loose marbles. ‘Then I hope to God that I don’t meet the one with the slingshot again,’ he chuckled playfully.
The whole tavern broke out into laughter.
Thomas smiled, winking. ‘Anything's possible.'
Just then, the doors of the tavern burst open and four of Ozhan’s men entered. One had golden hair and was two heads taller than Thomas was. He was huge, barrel chested and his chin beard was like an old sweeping brush, sawdust included. Cyrano slumped to a chair, his drunkenness finally overcoming him. Thomas stared hard at the four men. ‘Come in and sit you down friends, you look weary,’ he said amiably.
‘Our ride has been murderous,’ said the golden haired man, his voice slurred with tiredness, his hard smoke-grey eyes showing no emotion. The four men pushed and bullied their way through the crowd making their way towards the bar.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked one of the men called Aris, pointing a finger at Cyrano slumped in the chair snoring.
Dardo smiled. ‘He’s a little worse for drink. I think he likes his own ale a bit too much.'
Aris, a small, bald, stout man with a scarred face turned and drew his dagger, slamming it point first into the bar-top. ‘Then who serves tonight?’ he asked in a bullying voice.
Dardo and Thomas shrugged, looking at each other.
‘I’ll serve,’ said the boy. ‘I’ve done it before and know all the prices.’
‘What’s your name whelp?’ said Aris in a threatening voice.
‘My name's Dody and I am no whelp, you ugly son-of-a…’
‘Now, now,’ interrupted Thomas with a cough, ‘spare us the blasphemy and do your job.’
The boy stared at Thomas admiringly, wishing that he would grow to be as tall, dark and handsome as his new-found hero was, for as much as he loved his father he did not wish to be the image of the man who sired him. Giving a shy grin he tugged idly at the curls of his long hair as the men lapsed into silence, brushing the mud from their black leggings. Clearing his throat Thomas asked the men what they wanted to drink. All looked like they would cut their mother’s throat for a silver penny.
‘We want your best ale,’ said the golden haired man, his voice deep and resonant.
Dody nodded, pulling four tankards of ale from an oak cask, passing them to the men.
‘Do I frighten you boy,’ asked Aris, noticing that he was staring at him.
Dody shook his head. ‘No, but the man who gave you those ugly scars would.’
The giant man laughed. ‘A wise boy. I gave them to him.’ He drew a large hunting knife from a deep pocket, produced a whetstone from another and began to sharpen the blade with long smooth strokes. He glanced at the boy and then at Thomas. ‘Do I frighten you?’ he asked.
Thomas smiled without humour. ‘My friend, with a face like that you would frighten anybody, including the devil, and I have bad dreams already,’ he said. ‘Why do you
try to intimidate the boy?’
For a heartbeat the man stood stock still; then his laughter boomed out. ‘By heaven you’re a cocky mongrel. I take it then that my face displeases you?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘No, but I’m glad it’s on your head and not mine,’ he countered with an air of arrogance. ‘However, I do find you to be a witless, big-mouthed, brutal scoundrel.’
The man scowled. ‘By God, you think highly of yourself, little man.’
‘I think I would prove a handful even for the four of you,’ said Thomas swiftly.
Dardo nodded. ‘He has hot gypsy blood I’m sure, for he moves faster and more often than they.’
The man tensed, closing a hand around his sword hilt.
Thomas stared hard at the man and then laughed at him. ‘I could cut you all to shreds without blowing my breath, or breaking out into a sweat.’
The man stilled taking a deep breath, staring into Thomas’ devilishly dark eyes. He remembered their confrontation the day before in the street outside Lira’s surgery, visualising the warriors lightning fast delivery of the knife to his friends throat and the speed at which he had drawn swords.
‘Well, you ugly son-of-a-whore, are you going to unsheathe your blade or not?’ asked Thomas staring icily.
The front doors suddenly swung open, the rusted iron hinges grinding noisily. Ozhan entered and the whole tavern fell silent as he crossed the room towards the bar, eyes narrowing, instantly knowing that his men had forced a confrontation with Thomas. ‘Cold as steel he is – and harder than an iron nail,’ he announced.
The golden haired man smiled, showing his broken teeth and he spat on Thomas' boot. ‘That I am,’ he said.
Ozhan looked quizzically at him. ‘Not you, you great oaf… him… Thomas... you’re just big, mean and ugly. He’d cut you down before your blade cleared its scabbard. Look at the steely glint in his eyes. He’s just waiting for you to try something.’
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 4