‘Good morning Master Ozhan,’ another young woman greeted.
‘Morning,’ he mumbled, fidgeting with the bags.
All eyes were on the fat, flatulent, fifty year old windbag and his ugly face, which looked like an ill kept grave. With an air of dignity he handed the bags over to the woman’s accompanying colleague – a tall man with greying hair and sunken eyes – who grasped them firmly and shuffled off into a back room, closing the door behind him
In the Great Hall of the Treasury, the candles burned brightly in their sconce's and there was the nervous buzz of whispered conversations between the clerks as they scurried about their business avoiding the baron's evil, scowling gaze, but his wild eyed, stern expression, softened as the young woman hooked her arm through his. He wiped the perspiration from his brow with his free hand and smiled at her, showing his crooked teeth. ‘Does your husband suspect what you are doing?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she whispered, walking him back to his awaiting carriage.
He chuckled. 'Good.'
Chapter 6
The old cart rolled on gently down the long dusty road approaching the city gatehouse, pulled along by a single grey gelding. It was almost high noon. Lira tugged on the reins and stopped by the Iron Gate, smiling and nodding at Methuselah, the ancient Gatekeeper of Nottingham as he opened the iron grill, gazing up at her. He nodded back silently, his leathered face pale and drawn. Shaking the reins, the old cart rolled on gently again towards the ruined church of Saint Matthias, where she could hear the wash of a nearby stream blending in with the clatter of iron shod wheels and the clip clop of the horse’s hooves.
As she rode, turning recent events over in her mind, she thought mostly of Gorl’s terrible murder. She had treated him at her surgery on many occasions for bumps and bruises, mainly when he had clumsily tripped and fallen over his twisted leg. She had liked the old man. He was a gentle soul, very fatherly, and less than a week ago she had seen him playing ‘Ring of Roses’ awkwardly with his grandchildren in the garden on her last visit. He hated the game with a passion, but was always willing to participate even though he felt foolish because of his impediment – he was that kind of grandfather and a loving soul to all.
Suddenly, and without warning, the thunder of hooves roused her from her daydreaming, and at first she couldn't determine which direction the sound was coming from. It seemed to fill the very air about her as it gathered momentum and the ground began trembling with the rumbling noise. A strange sense of danger warned her to pull over to the side of the road and take cover, so she shook the reins hard and the powerful sweating horse gave a mighty heave, propelling the cart through a gap in the hawthorn hedge. Jumping down she wedged the wheels firmly with stones.
Then she gasped with shock as a dozen or so huge horses galloped past, their manes streaming out, eyes rolling in panic. Ozhan was leading the evil group, laughing madly, cracking a long whip, followed by a band of mercenaries, bigger than any she had ever seen, and their heavily tattooed arms waved a variety of weapons – pikes, staffs, spears, knives and long broadswords. They swayed back and forth in their saddles as their horses clattered off down the road, disappearing around a bend, and as suddenly as they had come, they had gone.
*
Scornful laughter and derisive snorts broke the silence. Dardo was instructing Dody in the manly art of ‘Fisticuffs’. ‘No. No. No. You hold your fists too low,’ he enlightened. ‘Keep your guard up at all times and protect your face with your fists and your stomach with your elbows. If you were shadow boxing the shadow would win.’
Thomas watched from the side-lines, awed by his friend’s passion for the brutal art of boxing. Why anyone would want to fight with their fists is beyond me, he thought, clutching the twin hilts of his swords.
The loud toll of the distant church bell ended Dody’s first lesson, and both master and pupil wiped the sweat from their brows, shaking hands vigorously. It was getting late, and through a high slitted window, Thomas could see the glaring red and gold fingers of dusk stealing down into the courtyard of The Dog and Duck. Soon it would be time for the inn to open, and he had many mixed feelings about his chaotic job as doorman, stirred throughout many months, but this was a time of change for the warrior – a great upheaval had begun. The catalyst to this event was the murder of the crippled old man named Gorl. He felt a great responsibility for the old man’s death and it weighed heavily upon his broad, young shoulders.
Strange echoing noises filled the boundless silence in his head throughout the long hours of night, almost driving him mad, and out of the chaotic mess, a purer thought rose up within him and gradually became so heavy that it seemed to hang over him like a great, dark, storm cloud. Part of him was hesitant and uncertain about what to do to Ozhan and his band of thieves and thugs, but another part of him screamed like a wailing banshee through the halls of his mind… kill them all.
As time passed, everything seemed to be in confusion. He contemplated long and hard, consulting those he trusted, but none could give his thoughts order. ‘We can talk until our strength drains from us, but we are powerless to change what has happened in the past. You must see beyond Gorl's death and not blame yourself,' Lira had said in despair. ‘And we must look to the future.’
Then, almost in answer to his anxious wonderings, a new thought entered his head like a divine miracle. He knelt down, raising his eyes to the heavens, begging God to bless his endeavours, and he swore an oath to create order where there was none. All agreed that there was no one more suited to the task as he was the bravest and fairest of all warriors – whereas Ozhan was spineless, floating in his own endless sea of evil darkness, despair and misery.
‘In place of chaos and anarchy, let there be laws for growth and development,’ said Thomas to his friends and neighbours at one gathering after another. It would be an immense task even though he was tall and strong as an oak tree, but he knew he was the only man capable of subduing Ozhan and his paid assassins to restore order.
*
The farmers dashed off, bumping clumsily into each other in panic as they tried to get through the farmhouse gates together. They had seen Ozhan and his men coming down the hillside at lightning speed, armed with bows, pikes, swords and flaming torches, greedy for plunder and hungry for blood. We’re doomed, they all thought as arrows filled the air like rain and screams of the dying echoed along the hillside.
The baron and his mercenaries rushed to form a barrier around the trapped farmers and he laughed madly. ‘Defend yourselves if you can,’ he shouted as each of the farmers tried to hide behind the other. Then he and his thugs charged headlong into the hapless men, baring their teeth, eyes slitted, lashing out wildly with long swords, their huge horses bowling the farmers left, right and centre, until they fell back and scattered in disorder. Everything seemed shrouded in a red mist as the cries of the victims rang out and barns blazed. Cattle and horses bellowed in pain and Ozhan thrashed about killing and laying waste to all in front of him like a phantom figure, until all were dead – men, women, children and animals.
Glancing about at the scenes of desolation and destruction wreaked by him, Ozhan laughed insanely, his odd coloured eyes glinting in the bright morning sunlight, and as he rode away from the dreadful scene, glancing back, he saw all the bloodshed, misery and death he had caused. His eyes were cold and grim, filled with hatred for his victims, and his long hooded robe was drenched in sweat and blood. He laughed again and rode on with his thugs trailing behind.
One hour later, Thomas, Dardo and Lira were amongst the many mourners at Gorl’s funeral when the news came in of the farmers’ massacre. A timid hand tapping Thomas on the shoulder had snapped him from his respectful reverie with a start, and then a strange, oddly garbed figure with a deep icy voice had informed him of the terrible news. Sweat dripped from his clenched fists like stinging acid and he stumbled forward in shock, the news hitting him like an earthquake. The newcomer placed his hands on Thomas' shoulders, holding him uprig
ht, but his lungs felt as if they were bursting.
Now he floated through the red mists of anger and saw himself wielding two dazzling short-swords. They were weapons of terror with battle-scarred blades that had a single word etched on each – revenge. He cursed silently as his leaden limbs disobeyed him and he sank to his knees into the icy mud, and then for the first time ever in his life he understood the meaning of mindless fear and panic. He shivered, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with his shaking hand as the loud toll of the church bell brought him whirling back from the realms of his living nightmare to cold reality. He stood, turning slowly, his face ashen, his eyes misted and haunted. ‘What in God’s name is happening around here?’ he asked.
Lira shook her head gravely. ‘I don’t know,’ she said hooking her arms through his and Dardo’s, and they walked on through the graveyard together. All were speechless and deep in thought. Had they voiced their thoughts, it would have been what to do next? All of them had heard the report of the massacre. There were forty men dead, thirty-two women and fifteen children, the farmhouses and barns burnt to the ground and livestock slaughtered. They walked on in a daze, wondering who would be next.
Down the ages, diligent monks planting fragrant flowerbeds with many different varieties of summer blooms had tended the beautiful old church grounds, but now it was overgrown and full of weeds as the three friends wandered down past the river, past the berry-hedges, strawberry patch and into the old orchard. This had been Lira’s favourite spot when she was a child, where the aroma of ripening fruit: apples, oranges, pears and plums had mixed, blending in with the subtle fragrance of rose and lily in the summer months. Now it was all gone, weed covered and a depressing sight.
The early morning sunlight glinted off the ripples of the water as they sat beneath a big old chestnut tree. Sweet birdsong filled the air, but it seemed tinged with sorrow. Once there had been a pleasant and peaceful existence in Nottingham, but it had passed with the arrival of the baron.
Lira sensed Thomas’ distress and patted him on the shoulder gently. ‘Somehow things will be fine and we’ll all get through this terrible time together,’ she whispered softly, trying to lift his flagging spirit – but the deaths of the farmers’ and their wives and children had unnerved him badly. His gaze wandered out across the floor of the valley, watching the homesteads smoulder as he puzzled matters through. A huge swatch of green once dominated the central portion of the valley, but now it was burning and a swirling haze smelling of soot hung everywhere.
‘Oh my Lord, what a mess,’ said Thomas staring at the aftermath of the holocaust.
‘Do you think the other farmers should pack up and move now?’ asked Lira.
‘Don’t know what to think,’ he said in despair.
‘Maybe Ozhan will leave the rest of them alone?’ said Dardo.
‘Oh dear… what is to be done?’ sighed Lira.
Thomas suddenly climbed to his feet brandishing his swords. ‘I’ll tell you what's to be done. We’ll be ready for the baron next time. I’m going to find high calibre mercenaries to gather intelligence of future incidents and be waiting.’
Dardo couldn’t help shaking his head in admiration. It seemed that his friend had hidden depths of courage and endless reserves of stamina.
‘Yes, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll be ready,’ said Dardo tapping his nose and winking at Lira as if he had come up with the idea.
*
Ozhan admitted his visitor into a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall paved with flags, warmed by a bright open fire and furnished with costly cabinets of mahogany.
‘... I don’t like Thomas any more than you do,’ Nelan said, trying not to incur her master’s wrath, ‘but I don’t like your methods either. The farmers were totally defenceless and had no chance of survival whatsoever.’
Ozhan’s baleful eyes scanned her face and a sort of sickly smile wandered over his countenance. With a sigh of relief she stared back at him. He’s in a good mood and willing to listen, she thought. Then at lightning speed his hand shot out and grabbed her cruelly by the throat. Lifted bodily from the floor and hauled into the air she howled piteously. In a fit of rage he shook her violently like a rag doll and hurled her, half-senseless towards an open doorway. ‘Get out! Get out!’ he shouted. ‘And the next time you come to me, tell me what I want to hear or I’ll spit roast you in your own juices and eat your liver! Is that clear?’ The angry words rang in her ears. She nodded in agreement, climbed to her feet and staggered away clutching her throat gasping for breath.
*
Thomas rapped the table with his calloused knuckles. He paused and stared into the crowd. ‘Hmm, can we have order please? Order!’ he shouted leaning forward eagerly. ‘Tell me brothers, who among you will join the cause and fight Ozhan?’
A gap-toothed old man wrinkled his nose. ‘I would if I were a lot younger and not so old and stiff,’ he shouted.
The crowd laughed.
Thomas chuckled and paused, staring at the old man in an odd manner and his voice dropped to a secretive whisper. ‘Hmm, see me later and we’ll see what we can work out.'
The crowd laughed again. Then silently each one stood and listened to him, their ears pricked up questioningly, each one armed with a staff, pitchfork, sword or bow.
‘One day the baron and his thugs will be coming down your road. You'll see him and shake with fright. You'll be alone with your families, the birds will stop singing and the grasshoppers will be silent too. It will be a summer or winters day like any other, except you'll be gripped by fear, watching the pale riders coming closer. Their horses will trample your picket fences, knock down the posts and the riders will burn your barns, and when their blood lust is high they will come looking for you… your wife… and your children. They will torture and kill you,’ said Thomas with an icy stare.
The young men gripped their weapons tighter, listening to the graphic details of their demise and they could feel the hackles prickle on the back of their necks. They shivered.
‘Listen to Thomas,’ shouted Lira. ‘He knows Ozhan’s kind and his methods better than most. We need you all to join us to defend this city, because three hundred armed men is a formidable deterrent against most threats.’
Thomas nodded. ‘All we need do is stay together in a show of force, using the element of surprise against them. If Ozhan has a fully armed mob, we'll have a bigger one,’ he said proudly. ‘The baron knows the value of fear as a weapon, so if we show him that we're not ordinary, panic-stricken individuals he will think twice about attacking us. And yes, he’s a fearsome figure with his badly scarred face and odd glowing eyes, but remember – someone else gave him those scars.’
A crippled old man stepped forward. ‘It’s easy for you to talk; you’re a swordsman with a fearsome reputation. He isn’t coming looking for you,’ he said.
‘Then think yourself extremely lucky that I’m on your side and not his,’ countered Thomas and the crowd cheered loudly.
‘Thomas’ right, Ozhan is just a bully. When he realises that you're not afraid of him, he'll leave you all alone,’ said Lira.
Sharp and clear, another voice rang out in the crowd. ‘Can we really beat him and his thugs? Can we?’
Dardo swaggered forward, answering in his friend’s stead. His reply was harsh and unafraid. ‘If Thomas says it shall be so, it shall be so. But if you're a doubter, be gone and take your chances on your own.’
Later that night, Lira’s legs locked about Thomas’ hips, her nails raking his back as she found herself rising towards orgasm. He kissed her lips gently, then repeatedly with increasing ardour. His hands fondled and caressed her breasts and they made love slowly and gently, increasing the rhythm. Then there were moans and sharp gasps of breath as he too began to move with increasing urgency, and she sighed as they climaxed together. Satisfied, Lira kissed his lips, cuddling into him.
‘You're beautiful Lira,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve loved you from the very first moment I saw you in you
r surgery.’
‘Likewise,’ she admitted, cuddling him even tighter.
His arm circled her waist and he hugged her, kissing her full red lips softly. He was a good lover and Lira fully appreciated the tenderness of his skills.
‘I’m a lucky man,’ he whispered.
‘And I’m a lucky woman,’ she whispered back, and she relaxed her mind for the first time since the whole Ozhan affair began. They fell asleep in each other’s arms and dreamt of brighter days.
*
Very, very early the next morning, silence hung upon the air as Thomas, Lira and Dardo held a whispered conference in a clearing at the edge of Nottingham forest. They conferred awhile as Thomas strode out among the crowd, laying his hands on the shoulders of many, trying to stiffen their resolve. It worked. Then he noticed some movement in the nearby bushes and he summoned Dardo hastily, pointing to where he had seen the bushes moving. ‘Over there, to the left of that oak. Look, they’re moving again,’ he said.
‘We’ve got to do something, it might be a trap,’ said Dardo fixing the warrior’s gaze.
As swiftly as possible, Thomas dispersed the crowd of willing followers and hurried towards the tree line, drawing his swords in readiness for action. Dardo chased after him carrying a long pike, and on reaching the spot where the bushes had been moving, Thomas parted them thrusting a sword into them, only to find a breathless boy huddled down on his knees, his face red from running. ‘Dody, what are you doing here?’ he spat.
The lad coughed. Caught red-handed he was embarrassed. ‘Sentry duty. I heard a whisper about your meeting and thought I’d keep watch for you in case of trouble.’ The boy's long, sinewy body was covered in mud.
‘What have you been doing?’ asked Thomas. ‘You’re filthy.’
Two bright eyes shone from beneath a crust of mud. ‘I tripped while running,’ said the lad, blinking hard.
Thomas laughed. ‘You look like someone’s shadow.' Dardo laughed too.
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 9