Cyrano scratched his head. ‘Good evening and welcome,’ he said amiably. ‘What can I get you?’
The newcomer smiled. ‘A goblet of your best ale innkeeper. I've been told that you serve the finest ales and wines here.’
Cyrano nodded. ‘That is good news. Would I know the man who told you this?’
The stranger laughed turning back around, his eyes focusing on Ozhan’s scarred face in the open doorway, and there was no hiding Cyrano’s emotions – his fear was obvious. His face trembled as he sat down at a small stool behind the bar.
‘I’d like a word,’ said the baron, his tone harsh.
Cyrano looked terrified. ‘So much pain in the world,’ he whispered.
‘You’re not a wise man, for you laugh in the face of misfortune,’ Ozhan said.
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ said Cyrano, wiping the sheen of sweat from his furrowed brow. ‘Can you explain?’
A golden haired man stepped in front of him. 'I'll explain it to you,' he snapped.
‘Shut up while I‘m talking,’ the baron scolded, holding the man back with an outstretched arm. ‘Last week my merchant, Stard, came to collect a debt you didn’t pay, and that makes me very angry. Everyone else in Nottingham has paid except for you. Well, I supply the ale you serve, but you haven’t paid for it and therefore your inn is closed for business until you do pay the debt in full.’ The baron fell silent, walking around the bar, coming face to face and nose to nose with the innkeeper, who was shaking like a leaf, terror etched on his face.
‘I understand,’ said Cyrano in a husky whisper.
Ozhan’s iron hand shot out gripping his throat, hauling him up into the air. ‘You better you old bastard. You have seven days to pay what you owe, or your lights go out forever, and I’m not talking about the ones around your walls.’
Cyrano whimpered. ‘I – I guarantee payment.'
‘There are cheaper wines and ales, old man, but the best rarely comes cheap. You have just seven days to come up with the money – don’t waste them,’ said Ozhan releasing his grip. Cyrano fell to his knees gasping for air as the baron marched towards the double doors, pitching along as if his next step might bring him to his nose. His men followed behind, slamming the doors shut, changing the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’, and they disappeared into the night laughing, cheering and jeering noisily.
Cyrano was breathless with fear and remained on his knees considering the threat. Ozhan didn’t make idle threats that much he knew. ‘I’m a dead man,’ he whispered.
Thomas and Dardo suddenly entered the bar-room by the stairwell door looking confused because he was still on his knees, clasping his throat. ‘What’s going on?’ they asked in unison, looking around the empty room.
Cyrano rubbed his hand across his mouth as if trying to wipe a bad taste from his lips. He shook his head, fear shining in his eyes. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
Thomas looked hard at him, his dark eyes raking the innkeeper’s face. Cyrano scrambled to his feet, fear causing his heart to pound. Standing silently he shivered, jaw agape, realising the enormity of the baron’s threat. ‘What am I to do?’ he asked finally, his eyes haunted. ‘How can any man restore order where there is no order to restore?’
Dardo shook his head. ‘The man talks in riddles!’
Thomas approached Cyrano, hooking an arm around his neck, letting him feel his strength. ‘You look troubled my friend. What’s your problem?’
Cyrano was traumatised and visibly shaking. ‘I thought I was going to die. It was horrible,’ he suddenly said. ‘The demon Ozhan is coming for me in seven days. This inn has never made much money and I owe him a debt that I can never repay. He’s going to kill me, I know he is.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Over my dead body he will.'
‘And mine.’ agreed Dardo, running his fingers through his mop of curly hair.
‘Unfortunately taverns with reputations for violence tend to lose money rather than make it,’ said Thomas, ‘and that’s why we have to get rid of the filth that makes this place stink, figuratively speaking of course.’
‘But, how do we do that with the baron breathing down our necks?’ asked Dardo, a glint of doubt in his eyes.
‘Look on the bright side,’ Thomas said. ‘We have seven days to find out, before he comes back.’
Dardo nodded and Thomas ambled over to the double doors, opening them. He turned the closed sign around, changing it to open.
‘Might as well make the best of the time we have,’ he said walking back over to Cyrano, patting him on the back. He slumped down into his usual chair, at his usual table with his back against the wall and bid Dardo to sit with him. Cyrano served them ale, watching them playing ‘Push Penny’ just for something to do.
Within an hour the tavern was heaving with regulars and everyone was behaving, mindful of Thomas’ awesome presence. The blind harpist appeared from a back room, playing his usual mixture of light and lilting dance music, and the delicious smell of beef stew, liver and onions wafted gently into the bar room as if blown softly by a butterflies wings.
Cyrano served his customers but was in a world of his own, mindful of the fact that he could think of no one who would advance him a single silver piece, never mind the sum of five hundred silver pieces that he owed the baron. I’m going to be tortured and die horribly, probably with my fingers cut off one by one and then my throat slit, he thought. He had heard many rumours concerning Ozhan, about what he did to those who owed him money and didn’t pay. It had not mattered that they were unable to pay, because he took great delight in torturing the innocent besides the guilty.
One such rumour had reached his ears recently about the baron’s so called ‘Choir’, whereby he would kidnap as many as ten people at a time, strap them in chairs in his dark cellar, forming a circle and place a cloth bag over each of their heads, tying it about their necks. Then he would smash each one in the face with his big hard fists, making them scream, and beat their bare feet with an iron hammer, smashing their toes, causing them to scream in even higher tones. This, he unmercifully called his Choir. Finally, he would silence them by driving a long nail into their foreheads with an even bigger hammer when he could stand their screams no longer.
Cyrano came back from his daydreaming with a start when Thomas tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Stop looking so worried. Evil carries the seeds of its own destruction and the baron will certainly come to a sticky end well before you do,’ he said.
His panic faded slightly, but a quiet longing to be youthful again by at least thirty years, and fearless like Thomas replaced it. There are those who walk through life never knowing fear. How lucky they are, he thought. He sighed, his heart heavy.
‘Cheer up,’ Thomas scolded. ‘We’re not going to let anything happen to you, or your son.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, you’re not a frail human with wasted muscles and arthritis. I’m a self-confessed coward too,’ Cyrano told him wearily.
‘Stop enjoying your despair. Feeling sorry for yourself is a waste of your energy,’ said Thomas in a disdainful whispering voice. ‘You’re not alone. You have many friends, most of them in the same situation. I will stop Ozhan. Do you understand what I am saying? Well... do you... and do believe me?’
Cyrano looked up into the earnest young man’s glittering eyes and shrugged.
Thomas looked visibly shocked. ‘You don’t believe me do you? No, but then why should you? No one else has ever stood up to the baron before have they?’
‘No, never,’ said the other, trying to quell his mixed emotions of hatred and fear.
‘Thomas’ swords suddenly flashed into his hands.
The innkeeper’s spirit reeled from the shock of it, but there was no doubting what he had just witnessed. He was awed. ‘I’m… I’m sorry for doubting you. Please don’t cut me,’ he said on the verge of panic.’
Thomas looked stunned. ‘Calm down. Did you think I would? I was just trying to prove the point that I am fas
t, skilful and capable of bringing Ozhan’s murderous reign to an end.’ He slammed both swords back into their sheaths in the blink of an eye.
‘Don’t know what to think any more,’ whispered Cyrano, his eyes wide.
Thomas shook his head. ‘I’m not a murderer for hire. I believe that I have the seeds of greatness within me, and for that reason and that reason alone, I offer you my esteemed friendship and protection. Do we understand one another?’
The other nodded nervously.
As the night wore on, Thomas and Dardo were getting very drunk, singing and swaying as if on a ship’s deck. Thomas insisted upon doing tricks with his dagger and swords and by midnight they were dancing and fooling around, making fun of Cyrano when the doors of the inn swung open with a bang. Thomas jerked as if slapped in the face. ‘W-what in God’s name?’ he said, startled and dizzy, his eyes blurred and unable to focus properly.
A man and a woman entered, shaking the rain from their hair and heavy black coats. They stood glancing about sharply, first to the left, then to the right and then they approached the bar.
Cyrano sipped at his brandy and then wiped his lips. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Have you rooms for the night,’ enquired the man, his face scarred from many previous knife fights.
‘With soft beds?’ said the woman, her large blue eyes holding to Cyrano’s gaze.
How classically beautiful she is, he thought. Large eyes like a child’s, a small pert nose and full red kissable lips.
‘You’re very beautiful milady,’ he suddenly said without thinking. ‘Umm… that is… if you’ll pardon me for saying so.’
She smiled, her expression cat-like, taking the crystal globe from his hand, sipping the brandy. ‘I’ll be rich soon too,’ she said holding to his gaze, ‘and I'm not offended by your observation. I'm flattered.’
The innkeeper coloured bright red, unable to stop his gaze from dwelling on her tantalising half-exposed, full breasts beneath her tight tunic. He was sixty years old, yet there was something about this female that stirred his blood as no other woman ever had, regardless of the long thin scar running down the length of her face.
‘You're handsome, do you have a mistress?’ she asked almost wantonly.
Her companion looked stunned. ‘Can you not cavort with every man you meet?’ he scolded, his face twisted in anger. ‘We have urgent business to attend to.’
‘Pleasure before business,’ she said. ‘He's sweet and I find him intoxicating.’
Rising from his chair, Cyrano smiled taking the glass from her hand, refilling it. ‘He’s young, strong and has fallen in love with you. His jealousy shows,’ he said.
She shrugged and giggled playfully. ‘I like older men. They use words superbly and with fantastic timing, and they are never in a hurry.’
‘Stop your prattling woman,’ said her companion fidgeting uncomfortably.
She sidled forward, closer to Cyrano, taking the filled globe from him again. ‘Are you happy with your life?’ she whispered.
‘Yes, well, happy enough,’ he coughed, the words almost choking him.
‘I could make you happier, even if only for tonight.’
‘What… what do you mean?’ he stammered.
‘I think you know exactly what I mean.’
Cyrano’s eyes narrowed. ‘You misread me milady,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m genuinely flattered by your proposal but, sins of the flesh no longer interest me. I’m sixty years old and no longer potent.’
Before she could say another word her companion roared, ‘Enough! Have you beds for the night or not?’
The innkeeper smiled, nodded and shouted for Dody, who came running. He stood gawping at the beautiful female as Cyrano took two silver pieces in payment for a one-night stay, asked them to both sign the guest book and bid the boy to take them to their rooms, and as they walked silently towards the stairwell door he breathed a sigh of relief.
Thomas and Dardo had listened intently to the conversation and had heard almost every word. Both men burst out into laugher. ‘The black widow would have eaten you whole Cyrano,’ Thomas cautioned. He climbed to his feet, making his way over to the bar, spinning the register book around; gazing at the two signatures. The male warrior had signed first. His name was Talon. Thomas’ eyes widened, then widened further still. The female had signed Nelan, but he had not recognised her.
*
Gorl stood at his high balcony window gazing out towards the west with his eyes fixed firmly on the dozen or so riders galloping towards his farmhouse. He watched as they surged through a gap in the hillside onto open ground, angling their way up the slopes and heat flared inside his head. He felt the onset of a terrible fear as his enemies mounts bore down upon him; he was alone with no way of getting word to Thomas of his hopeless plight.
At the top of the hill Ozhan pulled up, signalling for his men to surround the farmhouse, which they did. He sat silently, stroking his fingers through his stallion’s black mane and his eyes searched the run-down property. His steely blue left eye searched to the left and then his glowing red eye scoured the right. Gorl watched from behind his bedroom curtains. His trembling had stopped but the terrible fear remained.
At first he had felt an overpowering sense that this was all just a bad dream, born of his torment, but as the morning wore on the awful truth became apparent – the baron was back, knew he was alone and had come to kill him.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ Ozhan's deep voice tormented. ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right – so I’m going to try three wrongs.’
Gorl froze. ‘Go away and leave me alone.’ he shouted from behind the curtains.
‘Old man, if you're not out here by the time I count to three, we’re going to burn you out, so it’s your choice,’ Ozhan shouted back, running his fingers through his hair.
Gorl bit his lower lip and trembled. What shall I do, he thought. I’m alone and desperate.
‘One,’ Ozhan shouted.
‘I’ll give you five hundred gold pieces if you go away,’ Gorl called out with a tremor in his voice.
‘Two,' continued the baron.
‘One thousand gold pieces,’ shouted Gorl at the top of his voice.
Ozhan laughed loudly. ‘Old man, why would I accept your offer when I can burn you alive and take it all? Your time's up. Three! Burn the old bastard out,’ he said, his voice cold as ice.
The dozen or so men were milling around, still on their horses, shouting and laughing, making torches from branches and rags doused in coal oil. They lit them, tossing them onto the roof and through the windows and within seconds a great roaring blaze engulfed the farmhouse. Ozhan watched the old man running back and forth clumsily on his short twisted leg in the burning building, desperate to save what he could of his belongings, and his last sight of Gorl was of a screaming human torch, his clothes aflame, staggering past the bedroom windows. To anyone else the sight would have been gut-wrenchingly awful, but the baron laughed, enjoying the spectacle. ‘The silly old bastard should have quit and given up, but he didn’t, so rot in hell,’ he shouted at the top of his voice.
*
It rained heavily in the night, putting out the fire, but Gorl was dead and the farmhouse a burnt-out, smouldering shell. The next morning, Thomas and Dardo stared down into the ashes and saw Gorl’s twisted body there, his features bloated and charred. They couldn’t imagine the sheer terror he must have felt knowing no one could save him, no matter how loud he screamed.
Thomas stood stock still, staring into the ashes, his face pale, his misted eyes haunted. ‘I should have been here. The old man trusted me with his life and I let him down,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘He was such a frail old man and I can hear his screams in my head – gut-wrenchingly awful screams.' Dropping to his knees he raised his face to the heavens, letting out a blood-curdling cry. It was part anger, part pain. He punched the ground hard almost breaking his fist.
Dardo placed his hand on Thomas’ sh
oulder. ‘The old man is no more, my friend, and there’s nothing you can do about it now,’ he said.
‘Yes I can. Very, very soon, I’m going to show the baron and his band of thugs the entrance to hell. There will be no more killing on his part. I’ll do it all,’ Thomas said, a steely glint in his eye, a harsh tone in his voice. He blinked the misted sheen away, climbing to his feet. ‘I swear to you Gorl, by all that’s holy, Ozhan the ugly whoreson will die by my own hand very soon.’ He swung around and climbed up into his saddle as the dawn sun crept into view over the snow-covered hills, making them shine like diamonds. Dardo did the same. They rapped the reins and moved on, heading back towards Nottingham.
*
Master Ozhan’s carriage, beautifully constructed from walnut and silver with seats of padded red leather and velvet curtains was drawn along by two greys. He sat back uncomfortably, not enjoying the ride and the sound of iron-shod wheels rattling over the cobbled street irritated him. His sturdy frame sat astride a saddle suited him more, but he enjoyed the grandeur of his great wealth and loved the poor folk of Nottinghamshire to see him in his carriage.
He heard the driver call out to the horses and they slowed to a stop. His journey had been much slower than anticipated and was the cause of even greater irritation. Bad temperedly he rose from his seat, flung open the carriage door and stepped down into the main street beside the treasury door, swirling his cloak around his broad shoulders muttering profanity to himself, carrying two large black sacks filled with gold.
There was a mass clattering and scraping of chairs and stools as he entered the treasury, and everyone stood as a very pretty, quiet young woman welcomed him. She had the longest eyelashes, the brightest eyes, the most beautiful smile and the whitest teeth. He fumbled with the heavy, gold dust laden bags as he walked, and some of the gold glittered around the edges as the bright morning sunlight filtered down in slanting rainbow-hues from the narrow glass windows. Dust motes danced in the air and sparkled like tiny jewels as his feet scraped across the stone floor.
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 8