*
Every mercenary standing in the low-roofed hall twitched with fright as Ozhan’s loud voice rang out. They could feel their hackles prickle and shivered despite the heat from the roaring fire.
A huge warrior nudged his friend and whispered, ‘Listen to him. He thinks he’s a god.
The warrior’s friend pricked up his ears and whispered back. ‘They say his presence stops the birds singing; wilts the leaves of trees and he has the power of life and death. I’d say he comes pretty close to being a god.’
The huge warrior wrinkled his nose. ‘They’re old wives tales. He doesn’t scare me and I’ll only do as I’m told for so long. So if he wants to shout and stare at me with those odd eyes of his, he had better prepare for a short, sharp, shock.’
The baron rapped his calloused knuckles on a trestle table. ‘Give me your advice, brother,’ he said pointing a finger at the warrior. Then he paused and stared at him in an odd manner. ‘Hmm, do you know, there is something about you which annoys me – what should I do about it?’
The warrior laughed his face hardening as he fixed Ozhan’s steely gaze.
‘Did you ever hear the story of how I came to power in Nottingham?’ the baron asked with an air of menace in his voice. He paused and waited for a reply.
The warrior shook his head, looking surprised by the question.
Ozhan rounded on the man and stood by his side. His voice dropped to a secretive whisper and the warrior leaned forward apprehensively. ‘It will one day be written in the Chronicles of Nottingham that I was probably too young to be a great warrior at the time of my rise to power, and like you, I was impulsive and had feelings of invincibility. It will also be written that in times of trouble I had the gift of being a natural leader – trouble being my middle name – so when I'm speaking, no one else should.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction, saying nothing more.
The warrior suddenly felt a touch of fear as he gazed into the baron’s eyes, for they seemed to glow eerily as he turned suddenly, and then turned back quickly, slamming a dagger into his chest, driving the blade up to the hilt. The man gasped and staggered back in shock, falling to his knees, his barrel chest slumping forward until his brow thudded against the wooden floor.
Ozhan sneered. ‘It will also be written that I killed everyone and destroyed everything standing in my way, because nothing and no one was going to stop me from fulfilling my true destiny.' He waved his hand, dismissing the corpse. ‘You obviously didn’t hear how I came to power, otherwise you wouldn’t be dead.’
He put his arm around the shoulders of the dead warrior’s friend. ‘Come with me,’ he said, his voice low and deep. He pushed open a pair of double doors and they entered a large, circular room ablaze with the light of fifty lanterns. ‘You seem to be a sensible man m’dear,’ he said, his voice faintly mocking. ‘What price would you put on a man’s life… fifty pieces of gold… one hundred… two hundred?’
‘I suppose it would depend on the man,’ replied the other, and together they walked the long corridors of Ozhan’s huge mansion and descended a circular stone staircase to the lower levels. Dozens of torches shone on the bare walls and the air carried the smell of coal oil.
A thin, malnourished, rat ran across their path as they moved towards two locked iron gates, and then a small, fat man wearing long robes of black suddenly appeared, darting out from a room off to the left, bowing deeply. He was bald, the skin of his face stretched tight around an angular skull. ‘What can I do for you Master?’ he enquired, bowing for a second time.
‘I want my friend here to witness something,’ Ozhan replied, waving his hand, dismissing the man.
After he had gone, the baron unlocked the gates and entered, followed closely by the mercenary who looked decidedly worried. Just beyond the gates but out of sight, laid on an altar was a naked young girl, strapped by her arms and legs. The warrior was visibly stunned by her great beauty and suddenly seemed seized by a qualm of faintness.
The young girl shook her head. ‘Oh, please my lord, set me free,’ she begged and she started to cry.
Ozhan swung to look at her. She was barely sixteen. He smiled and stroked her hair.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ she begged.
The baron stared at her. ‘Be silent child,’ he ordered, plucking a large curved dagger from inside his waistband, and he plunged it down into the young girl’s heart. Her slender body arched up and a strangled cry tore from her lips as he dragged the blade clear. ‘She was innocent of any crime,’ he whispered, ‘but to establish any kind of control over my fellow men, I have to be completely ruthless – and I am completely ruthless.
The warrior listened gloomily. He feared Ozhan’s feverish manner and ruminated awhile before answering. ‘No disrespect intended milord, but the killing of a mercenary or an innocent child doesn’t prove that you are completely ruthless,’ said the other, looking very nervous.
The baron smiled crookedly. ‘But killing my own daughter for no apparent reason should prove it, don’t you think?’ he countered. There was no emotion whatsoever in his voice.
The warrior’s eyes widened with alarm. ‘Your daughter? Yes, yes my lord, that would prove your point to anyone,’ he whispered, hanging his head in despair.
Swinging away from the man, Ozhan bid him to follow. He locked the iron gates, leading him back up to the upper levels of the mansion and back into the great hall, where the other mercenaries were sitting around the floor, diligently sharpening their own personal weapons. As soon as he entered, their strong faces showed signs of fear.
‘Now do you understand why I have their complete attention whenever I enter a room?’ he asked. ‘They live to please me and die if they displease me – usually very painfully I might add.’ For a moment he was silent, his expression thoughtful but hard. ‘I've always yearned for the unattainable,’ he suddenly said, stroking the many scars of his face, ‘and when I’m disappointed, which I usually am, I kill the people who have let me down. That’s fair isn’t it?’
The warriors face was thin and drawn, his eyes dark rimmed and haunted, having watched his friend die and then the girl. ‘Exactly so,’ agreed the man nervously, not knowing what else to say. ‘But why did you sacrifice your own daughter? Had she displeased you in some great way?’
‘Not at all, I simply wanted to prove my point. My warriors must fear me above all things, otherwise when facing the enemy they would probably take off like startled pigeons. Death can be quick and painless, but you’ll fight twice as hard for me if you know that I will make your murder long and painful. Now you know that fact for sure, don’t you?’ said Ozhan, an icy tone in his voice. He hawked and spat on the toe of the man’s boot, pushing him back among the other warriors who were now beginning to stand. ‘You may be new here, but remember what you've seen today and you will probably live longer than most.’
The man pushed his way back among the ranks as the baron’s cold unblinking gaze fastened on him. ‘A man needs to know his limitations. I have none,’ he whispered.
*
After two successful campaigns against the baron’s men, many came forward, pledging their service and allegiance to Thomas. Most were farmers and their workers, but some were whole families who for generations had fought in many wars. Even barons who could trace their bloodlines back centuries came forward to help rid Nottingham of Ozhan and his thugs.
Now it was almost midnight and the Dog and Duck was packed to the rafters with armed men and women, listening intently to Thomas’ every word. ‘The map,’ he said to the gathered crowd, his voice deep and resonant. ‘Look at the map. Wherever there is a red dot – and there are dozens – Ozhan has murdered, burned, pillaged and raped without a conscious thought.’ He pointed to several destroyed homesteads on the map, folding his arms into his chest. ‘I've started something that I'm going to finish, with or without your help, but your help will make the task much easier,’ he said.
Dardo and Lira had taken a seat to his right. Tobin,
Lira’s father appeared and sat on his left.
‘The baron had consumed a good portion of the land around Nottingham before King John died, and has acquired much more since in his ‘cat and mouse’ games, using the most barbaric and brutal tactics,’ continued Thomas, and then he hesitated and swung around to look at each of his friends in turn. He stiffened, shaking his head stubbornly. ‘But this is no longer a cat and mouse game, for the cat is now the mouse and the mouse has become a demon with bloodied eyes and fiery breath.’
Even as Thomas spoke, a sharp frightening hiss seemed to rip through the stillness of the night, lingering and dying slowly into silence, until it seemed to be only part of the crowd’s imagination.
‘We’re with you,’ a man in the crowd shouted.
‘We’re all with you,’ chorused the whole gathering.
‘Nothing will compensate Ozhan for the losses he is about to suffer in men and money. We'll hit him hard, and keep hitting him until nothing and no one of his still stands,’ said Thomas boldly.
There was nothing more to discuss. The whole gathering had nominated Thomas unanimously as their leader with a full vote of confidence. Now all that remained to do was to prepare for the coming hostilities. No doubt, many will die on either side, thought Thomas, but I know the good and innocent people of Nottingham will suffer and die dreadfully anyway if they don’t take up arms and make a stand against the baron’s tyrannical rule. He dismissed his would-be army to the sounds of cheers and they dispersed quickly, out through the main doors, disappearing into the cold night looking happier, and much, much more determined than when they had arrived.
However, will their resolve change in the cold light of day with the rising of the morning sun he wondered as he watched them leave? His volunteer army had now swelled from forty men, good and true, to more than three hundred. All had signed his articles of war. All knew exactly what they needed to do, and most importantly, all were now mentally prepared for the hardship to come – and none were in any doubt that it would come.
*
Early the next morning, the high, warm sun shone down on Thomas, Dardo and Lira as they galloped past the engraved milestone lodged in the earth by the side of the road. It read, ‘Nottingham Abbey twenty miles’.
Abbot Alfred, a good friend of Lira’s father was expecting them. He was to bless them and their dangerous venture, seeing Ozhan as the devil incarnate. The Abbot was however, now confident in the present and full of hope for the future, since Thomas’ arrival in Nottingham. It seemed to him to be yet another manifestation of the playing out of the eternal struggle of ‘good versus evil’ with Thomas as their guardian angel.
Leaving the main Nottingham road they took the old forest road, riding swiftly towards the distant hills under a filigree of overhanging branches, watching sunlight dapple their trail while listening to the endless rhythm of stream and river. Bird-songs sweet and piping filled the air and it was surprisingly warm for a winter’s day. And once again the scent of the forest intoxicated them all.
For most of the morning they rode steadily, angling their journey to the north-east, and by mid-day they could see the great black outline of the Abbey with its towering stone and wrought iron spires rearing up before them like the jagged peaks of mountains on an elegant backdrop of blue sky and white cloud. It stood squarely on the north-east border, flanked on two sides by woodland shade, while the other half overlooked undulating sweeps of hillside and meadowland with its elaborately carved ancient gates facing down the long winding road to the western perimeter.
They reached the Abbey as dozens of terrified families hurried from all over Nottingham to gain safety, before the scourge of Ozhan broke upon them in the impending bloodbath. Up the dusty road they came, mothers protectively herding their children as fathers and older relatives provided a rear-guard.
The Abbot stood by the gates with his sandals peeping out from beneath the baggy folds of his brown habit. He stood stock-still, gazing up at the cloudy sky and then shifted his gaze in wonderment to the oncoming horde of homeless people with their eyes fixed firmly on him. He blinked solemnly and sighed. ‘Oh, good heavens, I need the strength of the lord,’ he said looking weary, sitting down on the cold stone floor, resting his back against the gates.’
Thomas, Lira and Dardo entered the gates of the Abbey to a chorus of loud cheers. Dismounting, they strolled over to a tethering post and tied up their horses, bidding the Abbot a good afternoon. He studied the look in Thomas’ eyes. ‘You are all welcome,' he said laying a wrinkled old hand on the warrior’s broad shoulder.
Thomas shook his other hand. ‘You are highly respected and I am deeply honoured to be in your presence, Father Abbot,’ he said, ‘and it’s nice to know that even a predator like Ozhan will keep the faith and leave these poor people alone while they are within these walls. Will you bless us father and keep us under the protection and the watchful eye of the lord?’
The Abbot’s weary expression softened and his mood lightened as he bobbed a quick bow to his friends. ‘Come my children and eat,’ he said in a small voice, leading them through the gates into the Great Hall. It was cool inside and sunlight flooded down in slanting shafts from the high arched windows, and a million dust-motes danced and swirled in the light breeze wafting through as they trod the stone floor. The Father Abbot marched straight forward, halting in front of a giant painting hung on the grey stonewall. It was magnificent and had been painted centuries earlier by the founding fathers of the old Abbey. He gestured, bidding them sit at a long trestle table beneath it. ‘It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said finally.
The three friends studied it in wonderment. It was a superb chronicle of earlier times in Nottingham. The Abbot sat down beside them on a stool, clapping his hands and a humble Friar entered the hall. The Abbot beckoned him to his side, whispering in his ear, and he left the way he came, returning moments later with two wooden trays full of bread and cheese. ‘How are the cellar stocks, John?’ he asked the Friar politely.
The Friar smiled. ‘Luckily, we’ve enough food and drink to fill the bellies of an army,’ came the reply, and again he left the way he came, returning moments later with another wooden tray, but this time there were four goblets and a jug of wine on it. He placed them down onto the table, bowed and left for a final time, closing the door behind him.
Now the Abbey bell tolled out twelve times from the belfry and all activity ceased as everyone went to his or her allotted place to eat and drink. Thomas and the others stood reverently with their heads bowed as the Abbot said grace, and then they sat again to eat and talked for over an hour until the Abbey bell tolled once more. Then the Abbot took them into the Chapel, blessing them and their brave venture before they left.
Back on the Nottingham road they trotted slowly, chatting cheerfully – blessed by the church – up until the moment when they went their separate ways. Lira headed home. Dardo decided he needed another drink of wine and made a beeline towards the Dog and Duck, while Thomas went sightseeing, making the best of the afternoon sun.
It was just after dark when he returned to the tavern, but there were no signs of life. The double doors at the front had the closed sign on it and there were no lights in the windows. As he dismounted his horse, a cloaked figure approached him from out of the shadows – the newcomer offering him a sealed parchment. He took it out of curiosity, breaking the seal as the mysterious stranger disappeared back into the shadows without saying a word. Thomas unrolled the scroll, holding it up to the bright moonlight. It read, I’ve taken two of your friend’s captive and I hereby give notice and guarantee that one of them will die tonight by my own hand. I shall toss a coin to make the choice of who lives and who dies. It’s a pity that you won’t know which one until it is too late.
It was signed by the baron
Thomas gasped, taking a deep intake of breath. ‘No! No! Oh, God no, this cannot be!’ he said with a strangled cry, and his limbs became flaccid, his eyes shrouded by a red mist. He s
wung to his stallion, remounted and whipped the reins, disappearing into the cold night.
Chapter 8
Out near the lake the rain sheeted down and thunder drummed out overhead. Thomas swore. If lightning were to strike him now he would be a happy man, even though fried alive. He swore again as web of lightning flashed nearby illuminating the inky lake and he bared his teeth at the heavens, but then the storm passed as quickly as it had come and the moon shone bright and clear.
Angling his horse towards Tobin’s homestead he travelled, moving speedily but cautiously, keeping a watchful eye on his back-trail, rarely emerging from the cover of trees and the darkness of night, and he switched direction regularly to ensure that no one was following him. Then for almost twenty minutes he galloped, moving with care but in haste.
Now, high above the point at which he had last switched direction he climbed the hill towards Tobin and Lira’s home, and like at The Dog and Duck, it too was in darkness. The ground beneath the horse’s hooves was muddy from the recent rain and squelched as it paced beneath the familiar spreading oak towards the farmhouse. Suddenly, Thomas leapt from the horses back and ran to the door, pounding on it loudly.
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 11