A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn )

by Michael Siddall

  Thomas cursed himself silently for even asking the question. Of course she hasn’t you idiot.

  ‘Well, uh, what gave him the idea you loved him in the first place?’ asked Dardo.

  ‘Simply because I showed him kindness when I tended to his wounds after the fight that nearly killed him,’ she said. ‘He mistook kindness for love in his own twisted way, and he’s hounded me ever since. He even threatened to kill father, to try to change my mind, but father stood up to him and his men and was almost hanged for it.’

  ‘I saw the rope burn on his neck the other night,’ whispered Thomas.

  She hesitated for a moment, taking a deep breath. ‘Now you know the truth and why I’m scared.’

  ‘It’s natural to be afraid,’ said Thomas, ‘but we’ll make sure no harm befalls you or your father.’

  ‘You can’t be everywhere and protect everyone,’ she told him.

  ‘I don’t have to be. I only have to be aware of where the baron is and what he’s doing, and the best way to achieve that is a community meeting.’

  ‘But how do we have a meeting without the baron finding out?’ asked Dardo.

  ‘We’ll invite people to Lira’s surgery as if it’s for a yearly check-up,’ said Thomas tapping his nose. ‘We only need those to come who have been threatened recently and who have suffered violence or had their homes burned. Then they can keep an eye on each other, and if anything happens we can be there in no time.’

  ‘Ozhan has more men than the two of you can handle alone,’ advised Lira.

  ‘I know,’ said Thomas. ‘I’ll figure that out later.’

  ‘What a benefactor you’ve proved to be,’ she said climbing to her feet, kissing his cheek. ‘My father has recovered from his ordeal, but I fear another such run-in with the baron might prove fatal.’

  Thomas marvelled at her extraordinary beauty as she turned to leave without saying another word, walking out into the cold night air. He straightened up in his chair and stretched with a grunt. Dardo was silent, staring at the formidable figure sat in the chair in front of him.

  *

  A large map of Nottingham and hundreds of drawings littered the walls of the baron's ostentatious den, with its highly polished wooden floors and elegant fixtures and fittings. On the map, landscapes depicting all of the lands to the north were coloured green, the hills and valleys to the south coloured purple, the forested areas to the east coloured brown, and in each of the sectors red dots lay scattered everywhere, but small-circled red dots peppered the hilly area to the west. These were the homesteads and farms that the baron wished to acquire by whatever means necessary – land rich with gold.

  Ozhan was lying on a couch studying the great map with intensity when a servant tapped on the door disturbing his concentration. The man entered, bowing deeply.

  ‘There is someone wishing to speak to you sir. The person is waiting in the library and claims to be the only soul ever to win the warrior, Thomas Flynn in a fair fight.’

  The baron jumped to his feet. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Has the fool got a name?’

  ‘The name given was Nelan sir.’

  Ozhan chuckled. ‘Sounds like a girl’s name.’

  ‘It does indeed, sir,’ said the servant, ‘but then it would, because it is a young woman.’

  ‘Even more interesting,’ said Ozhan. ‘Send her in.’ He smiled as the wiry woman entered. She was tall, dark haired and slim, her blue eyes vibrant and alive with youth, and a long thin scar ran the length of her left check, which luckily for her didn’t spoil her great beauty. Dressed in a doublet of scarlet and black hose, she threw back her matching cloak, straightening her high collar before adjusting her sword-belt very slightly. He motioned for her to sit.

  She slumped to a chair closing her eyes. ‘It’s been a monstrous journey,’ she said, her voice slurring with weariness.

  ‘Where do you hail from?’ he asked.

  ‘Northumberland,’ she replied.

  He slumped to his chair, leaning back staring at the warrior woman with the golden hawks head emblazoned across the front of her doublet. ‘You make a bold claim,’ he said, ‘and after seeing Thomas fight with my own eyes, one that is hard to believe by any stretch of the imagination.’

  Nelan frowned. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘because I’m a woman?’ Her voice was light, her eyes showing no emotion.’

  His head sank back into the padded chair and his breathing deepened. ‘No, not because you’re a woman, because I’ve seen hard mercenaries humbled in seconds by this man. His speed is beyond belief, his skill unmatched.’ The door opened and a cool draught touched her neck making her shiver as the servant entered carrying a silver tray containing two goblets of red wine, which they both drained in a single swallow. There was also bread and cheese in thick chunks, which they ate slowly, leaning back once more.

  ‘You need rest,’ said Ozhan. ‘We’ll talk more tomorrow.’

  Helping her to her feet, the servant led her to a bedchamber with a four-poster bed and she undressed, covering herself with thick blankets and she fell fast asleep. It came easily and she dreamt of her days under the command of Master Gallus, her mentor, fifteen long years earlier. She had been only ten at the time and Gallus was an old man even then, and long dead now, but in his prime he was the greatest swordsman the world had ever known. ‘Unfortunately time is not on our side and old age can be unkind,’ he himself had said in a moment of wisdom.

  In his darkest hour, however, he had accepted a rare challenge from one of his own students and come to grief. Thomas Flynn was the student’s name and at times he showed inspired brilliance in his own swordplay, but to Gallus’ dismay he preferred to fight with twin short-swords rather than a broadsword. Hot-headedly and foolishly to prove a point, Thomas in a moment of complete madness challenged him to a duel using real weapons rather than the blunted training weapons. Gallus had accepted, hoping to prove his own point by outwitting and disarming Thomas, but the duel went horribly wrong when he tripped and stared down in disbelief at the blade embedded in his chest. With a dreadful groan he fell to the dirt dead.

  The accident mortified Thomas as he had great love and respect for his teacher and no intention of causing him harm. Nelan however, swore vengeance for his death as he had been like a father to her since her own parents died of a plague. Five years later, Thomas and Nelan had duelled for two unbelievably long hours and she nearly killed him in the process.

  Now as always the dream was the same. She was crying and Gallus was trying to find her, to protect her from an ugly, shadowy shape with a corpse grey face and yellow eyes. She screamed and then screamed again. 'I don't want to die.'

  ‘But you’re already dead and so is Master Gallus,’ whispered the opal-eyed thing. ‘And the one responsible is Thomas Flynn.’ She awoke with a start, her heart pounding, her skin damp with sweat. Rolling back the bed covers she climbed to her feet. It was morning so she dressed quickly, and then there was a knock at the door. She answered it and a spidery stick like figure with sunken eyes loomed over her. She glanced up. ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘The Master requires your presence downstairs milady,’ said the servant.

  ‘Tell Master Ozhan I’ll be down directly,’ she told the man, closing the door in his face. Turning, she picked up her sword belt from the back of a chair, looping it around her slender waist, fastening it, and then reached down placing her dagger into the hidden scabbard in her boot. This was something Thomas had taught her, and it had saved her life on several occasions when her swords had been knocked from her hands by an adversary. Finally, she swirled her cloak around her shoulders, opening the door. There was no sign of the servant as she walked down the long, narrow corridor towards the staircase and descended, listening to the clattering sounds of swordplay.

  Suddenly, she became aware of the echoing murmur of voices and the cushioned sound of panting. Screwing up her nose she squirmed, choking, the breath freezing in her throat because of the stink of stale sweat and ran
cid breath in the air. And as she rounded the bottom of the stairs she came face to face with several warriors who crowded around her instantly, butting her shoulders, grinning and whining their greetings as she pushed her way through them, whispering gruff threats that offered great violence if they didn’t allow her to pass. They drew back as the baron's harsh voice ordered them to and he offered his greeting to her. She feared none of them.

  He approached her, hooking his arm around her neck, leaning heavily against her slender frame, pushing her off balance. Edging away, she took a seat by a large open fireplace with a granite hearth, closing her grip around the leather bound hilt of her sword. She drew the blade from the sheath, polished iron sliding silently on oiled cow’s hide as the dawn sun burst through a high-arched window over her shoulder setting fire to her hair. She raised her weapon in a salute to him. ‘I offer my help to tame the warrior Thomas Flynn if you so ask it,’ she said softly.

  Ozhan grinned. ‘If you can do the deed, you shall have all the gold you can carry.’

  Chapter 5

  Thomas stood on the hillside overlooking Nottingham for a long time in silence. He was rigid; a vertical frown line etched on his brow, his body shivering like a leaf in the cold rain. Taking a deep breath he wrapped an arm around Lira’s shoulder folding her into him. Even though it was raining heavily the sun shone from behind, throwing long shadows that pooled at their feet, and an easterly wind whipped about their bodies lifting their cloaks of black wool. Thunder drummed out in the heavens and forks of lightning burst, illuminating the darkening sky.

  ‘The waters are sweet and good around here, the soil fertile, the grass rich and green, but Ozhan is destroying this community, bit by bit, piece by piece,’ Lira whispered.

  Angrily Thomas nodded in agreement. ‘He must be stopped, and soon,’ he whispered back.

  ‘But how?’ she asked.

  ‘Not sure yet, but it will be by my own hand,’ he assured her.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ she told him. ‘How long is it since you last slept properly?’

  He nodded. ‘Days,’ he said and for a moment he was silent, his expression thoughtful. He gave a tired smile, his face thin and drawn; his cheeks covered in black stubble, eyes dark-rimmed and weary. He shivered, memories flaring of his dead mother, father and brother. You are alone. You will always be alone, they whispered in his mind.

  Over the next seven days there followed a scatter of activity and secret meetings in and around Lira’s surgery. Many, many people came, worried, frightened people. The city folk who had been threatened or violently attacked by Ozhan and his men turned up in their droves to listen to Thomas’ plans for their future safety, and knowing his fierce reputation they felt a little more at ease. There were however, those who were unwilling to take his advice, those who had decided to leave their homesteads for new pastures rather than chance their lives to the protection of the two brave men, irrespective of their status as guardians. This troubled Thomas and Dardo because it sent a clear message to the other farmers and homesteaders to do the same thing.

  ‘It’s wrong,’ Thomas said repeatedly at the meetings, ‘to leave everything you have worked hard for all of your lives just because of one man. If you run now, you will never stop running.’ Lira and Dardo watched and listened, mesmerized by his show of conviction for his plans, but some of the city folk remained unconvinced.

  ‘It’s a complete waste of a lifetimes work if you are just going to pack up and leave at the first sign of trouble. I have the skills to defeat Ozhan and his thugs, but you must put your trust in my abilities,’ Thomas told them confidently.

  His upbringing in the Workhouse in Northumberland had been terribly hard, but it taught him never to worry too much about what people thought, said or did, as focus was the key to unlock any door. At the tender age of seventeen he had fortuitously met Master Gallus in a clearing at the centre of a forest in Northumberland, where together they sat beneath a single giant oak talking of many things – but particularly the power of the mind. Gallus, an expert in the art of sword and bow had explained that the skills of a swordsman came a poor second to the heart of a swordsman. ‘Without the heart, the skills are useless,’ he had said. Thomas had shrugged and asked why.

  ‘When you can tell me that, you will have grown to be the legendary swordsman I know you can be,’ the Master had answered wisely.

  Now in the present day, the lack of support the city folk were willing to give Thomas troubled him, but he wasn’t surprised. Terror filled their hearts.

  An hour after the meetings Thomas tugged on his reins, halting his stallion at a crossroads. Anger flared as recent memories burst to life. If he had known a week ago what he knew now, he might have left well alone, left the city-folk to their own devices instead of getting involved, but he was torn – he was in love with Lira, even if she wasn’t in love with him. The perils will be great, but eventually the rewards should be even greater, he had thought.

  He heeled his horse forward, cantering down a long, tree-lined avenue. The road ahead almost deserted, he trotted towards The Dog and Duck, and everywhere he looked there were the signs of the baron's oppressive rule – innocent people hung in Gallows Square; some poor wretch was dying of thirst in the stocks and women and children starving on the streets.

  Finally, he entered the courtyard gate to the stables. Tugging on the reins he halted, dismounting, and the great white’s head nuzzled him affectionately as he rubbed his hand over the broad brow, leading it into a stall. A wide-eyed groom appeared from out of the shadows, making the horse a bed of straw and Thomas hefted the boy a copper coin. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said, winking. ‘Will you take good care of my horse? His name is Battle.'

  The boy blinked nervously. ‘That’s a strange name for a horse.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘He’s a strange horse!’

  The boy looked quizzically at him, shaking his head. ‘I’ll go and fill a small sack of grain,’ he said running off to the far end of the stable, returning with the feed sack a moment later.

  Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair as he fed the horse. ‘What’s your name boy?’

  ‘Godwin, son of Berwyn, from the House of Longmire,’ the boy answered proudly with a smile.

  ‘Then, good day to you, Godwin, son of Berwyn, from the House of Longmire,’ said Thomas finally, marching from the stall and out of the stable door.

  A cold wind whispered into the courtyard and a draught chilled his neck. He raised the collar of his heavy grey coat just as it began to rain, and lifted his eyes to the heavens, holding his face to the downpour. For a moment he stood stock-still taking a deep breath. Then he opened the back door of The Dog and Duck, stepping through, entering the dining room. It was dark inside and he could hear a deep, rumbling growl, see two eyes that shone like silver and a set of ivory white teeth bared at him.

  Instantly, something crashed into his chest hurling him to the ground. One moment he was on his feet and the next he was on the floor gasping for breath with the air punched from his lungs. A man’s voice suddenly sounded and the creature backed away reluctantly into a corner. In the dim light, Thomas could just make out the shape of a huge dog. ‘You...you must be a stranger in these parts,’ he whispered, ‘for I live and work here and would remember if we had met before.’

  Moonlight shone through the arched windows and the dogs coat seemed to glint with flecks of steel. Tired and hungry, Thomas rolled to one knee and climbed to his feet, brushing himself down. ‘You could have warned me about the dog,’ he snapped.

  ‘Only bought the mutt this morning. Just opening the place up,’ said Cyrano, stepping forward into what little light there was. ‘You’re lucky I was here, otherwise my hunter-killer friend might have mistaken you for an intruder and chewed on your rosy arse,’ he said. His laughter boomed out as he lit a nearby wall-lantern, then another and another, until a golden light radiated throughout the room, bathing the walls, flowing through the doorways with shadows dancing on the low ceil
ing. In moments the atmosphere of the whole place seemed fresh and clean and even the dust motes in the air gleamed like tiny diamonds.

  Now Thomas could see the dog clearly. It was enormous, a wolfhound of extraordinary size. ‘The bloody thing’s bigger than a donkey,’ he said with a smile. The hound continued to growl, baring teeth, but Thomas laid a hand upon the fierce animals head and began to stroke it softly and soothingly, until it began to whimper with delight.

  ‘Have you no end to your extraordinary talents?’ asked Cyrano, watching through astonished eyes, looking like a man carved from a turnip.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Have you not noticed that I’m good at taming fierce creatures,’ he said proudly. He stood, turned and began climbing the stairs, making his way up to the back bedroom and went inside, closing the door behind him. There was a pitcher of half-drunk ale on a table by their pallet beds and Dardo was fast asleep, snoring loudly in his bed.

  Downstairs the bar and dining rooms were neat and tidy once again, the broken shelves mended, and there was no evidence of the day’s savagery. There had only been one fight and Cyrano had quelled it using the wolfhound as it was Thomas’ day off. Now there were two maidens singing away quietly in the dining room and both worked diligently, setting places for the evening meals. The blind harpist who had been playing disappeared into a back room to practice some more in readiness to entertain while Cyrano milled around, filling the wall lanterns with more coal oil. He drew the heavy, red, satin curtains to keep out the cold night air, then painstakingly and meticulously washed and polished every pewter goblet until they shone like silver. Lastly, he wrapped his white linen apron about his waist and opened the outer double doors, changing the ‘Closed’ sign to ‘Open’, and then he stepped behind the bar and waited. He didn’t have to wait long either. A tall, thin man, wearing long robes of grey velvet entered and approached the bar. His hair was long and dark, his eyes blue and he glanced around the room fixing his gaze upon Cyrano’s tired face, then stood silently for a moment. ‘It’s been a long time since I visited Nottingham,’ he said at last.