A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn )

by Michael Siddall

  For a moment there was no answer. Blood their dog didn’t bark either. Panicking, he rapped on the door a second time, but still there was no sign of life. Now his heart pounded in his chest like a blacksmiths hammer on an iron anvil and he was hyperventilating, almost passing out from breathing so hard and fast when the door flew open. A dark figure, backlit by a single lantern lunged forward in the doorway almost scaring him to death.

  ‘Have you completely lost your senses man?’ a voice shouted. ‘Do you know what time it is? Only thieves and cut-throats are abroad at this ungodly hour. Or are you the worse for ale?’

  ‘No! No!’ Thomas said, ‘Lira, where's Lira, I must see her!’

  ‘Go home man and sleep it off,’ Tobin insisted trying to shut the door.

  ‘No! No! You don’t understand!’ said Thomas forcing the door open again.

  Tobin pushed him away. ‘There's nothing to understand, I can smell the ale on your breath.’

  ‘Please let me explain. Really you don’t understand,’ insisted Thomas.

  ‘Understand what?’ a silky voice asked from behind Tobin. Lira pushed past her father, rubbing her sleepy eyes.

  ‘He’s drunk. The man’s full of ale,’ Tobin blustered.

  'Lira, thank God you're safe,’ Thomas whispered, throwing his arms around her. He kissed her forehead softly, a great relief washing over him like a tidal wave as he smelt her rosewater perfume.

  ‘What is it Thomas? What’s the matter?’ she asked, gazing up into his dark eyes.

  He passed Lira the brown parchment. She unrolled it and read the message, her eyes widening in horror. ‘Good Lord,’ she said swinging back to meet her father’s gaze. She handed him the parchment and he read it quickly, instantly realising the implications. He was speechless, looking stunned but embarrassed.

  Now Thomas’ eyes widened too and the swell of relief he felt knowing Lira was safe disappeared. ‘Then if you're in safe hands, Dardo must be the one who is in deadly danger,’ he said.

  ‘Do you really think so?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Maybe it’s just an idle boast to scare us all.’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘The one thing Ozhan never does is make idle threats, you know that. He tried to hang your father for no good reason,’ he said, his expression hard as nails.

  ‘He's right,’ said Tobin, ‘but how did you know he tried to hang me?’

  ‘I saw the rope burn on your neck a few days ago. Now get back inside, barricade the doors and windows and arm yourselves. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and no matter what happens, don’t open the door to anyone but me,’ Thomas ordered.

  Lira stepped back quickly and the door slammed shut in his face, the draft blowing back his hair. He swung around, ran and vaulted the tethering post onto his horse. Grabbing the reins he angled the stallion back in the direction of The Dog and Duck, taking off like a bolt of lightning the way he had come in a mile-eating gallop.

  Passing under the spreading oak he rode back down the muddy trail, this time heading for the main Nottingham Road. Now there was no time for caution or changing direction. Time was of the essence and the only thing he hoped was that he would find his friend alive.

  Finally, when he reached the main highway he heeled the horse harder, following the wide tree-lined road. The weather was still clear and the moon shone brightly through the low hanging branches, dappling his trail, and as he rode his mind was razor sharp recalling better days, wishing for his friend’s sake that he had more lives than one to give for him, as he remembered his own tortured history and years of abuse.

  The last leg of his journey was up past the lake and he shivered, confused and uncertain, his mind racing as he heeled his horse harder still. He had listened to stories of heroes in the Workhouse when he was a child and they spurred him on, but no hero would feel as he did now – sombre and helpless. He could even hear the baron’s mocking laughter in his mind.

  Fifteen miles and thirty minutes later his horse slid to an abrupt halt outside the Dog and Duck. Now the lights were on and the doors open. Thomas' veins seemed to be full of stimulants to violent activity and he was ready for anything, but his mouth was bone dry and his heart beating fast. Memories of Dardo’s friendship flared, lifting his spirits as he jumped down from his stallion and entered full of hope.

  Inside the inn the atmosphere seemed fresh and clean and a golden light radiated throughout the room, bathing the walls and dancing on the low ceiling. Scanning the room he could just make out the shape of Cyrano’s huge dog in a corner beside the bar, and as he approached, it growled baring its teeth. He laid a hand on the fierce animals head and stroked it softly and soothingly until it quietened down.

  Then he noticed a strange bundle curled up in a corner beneath the bar. It was Dardo and he stank of drink, was out cold and he couldn’t rouse him. ‘Oh, thank God,’ he whispered. Suddenly he noticed another crumpled bundle at the far end of the bar and he leaned forward slightly, hunching his shoulders, trying to get a better look at it. He moved closer. It smelt of a mixture of soot and coal oil. The wolfhound growled, baring its teeth at him again. ‘What is it boy?’ he said softly as the dog growled again, seemingly protecting whatever was lying on the floor.

  Making his way over to the end of the bar he stopped as if frozen for a moment, his hand hovering near the bundle. Something wild and frightening burgeoned in his stomach just from looking at it, and his heart came up and darkened his eyes. He touched it. It was stone cold. He stared at his blood stained hand, his eyes bleak and haunted, despair washing the colour from his face as he realised it was a dead man. He pushed the corpse to its back. It was Cyrano. Half of his face was burnt away and a dagger was buried deep in his chest with a piece of parchment attached to it.

  Thomas took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh… my…God,’ he said, his eyes misting over.

  Someone had tortured Cyrano and stabbed him to death. Thomas’ face was grey, his hands covered in sweat and blood, and for the first time ever since he was a child he began to cry.

  The dining room door suddenly burst open. Cyrano’s son, Dody stood in the doorway staring down at the corpse and his eyes sank deep into his skull, recognising his father’s torn body. He began to scream hysterically. Thomas reached out, grabbing the boy, cuddling him, but he struggled and screamed again. ‘Get off me. Go away and get out of here. That’s not my father, I know it’s not. He’s asleep in bed and he’ll be getting up soon. Get off me!’ he shouted, wriggling free, and beat on Thomas’ chest.

  Thomas held him off until he calmed and then his arms encircled the boy’s shoulders, drawing him close. Dody was murmuring in a shocked voice and whispering that God wouldn’t let anyone take the life of his father – he just wouldn’t. Deep, rasping sobs tore from the boy’s throat as he finally broke free of the warriors grasp, ran back into the dining room and disappeared.

  Now Thomas knew positively it was real. The man, who had come in search of him and been so kind and fatherly to him, was dead. Drawing the knife blade clear of Cyrano’s chest he removed the parchment and held it up to the lantern light. It simply read, ‘It was tails.’

  Thomas ran outside, ran from the things that tore at his heart and made him ache worse than any physical pain he had ever experienced. He ran to the tethering post, beating his fists upon it, startling his horse. He beat it until they ached and blood ran from the many small cuts. Screaming in pain and anger, he lashed out at the empty night in search of his imagined adversary; then dropped to his knees, his eyes swollen and red from the rubbing. Looking up at the crescent moon and the millions of stars, he swore an oath to all who had died under Ozhan’s hands, and swore it again to almighty God that not another soul would perish if he could do anything about it – and he knew he could.

  *

  ‘…When Thomas comes, and he will come I assure you, don’t try and disarm him, just kill the bastard and have done with it,’ Ozhan warned Nelan.

  She didn’t move or speak at first and then she shrugged. �
��Whatever you say Master.’

  ‘Are you sure you can take him?’ he asked.

  She nodded confidently. ‘I did once before. I should have killed him then while I had the chance.'

  ‘You have no idea what a relief it is to hear you say that, after seeing what the man is capable of.’

  ‘I’m in a killing mood,’ she said.

  ‘Then it would be a shame to spoil your mood. Maybe you will allow me to soften it after you have done the deed,’ he said and he laughed, his leering eyes unblinking, fixed firmly on her more than ample breasts.

  ‘I think not. I never mix business with pleasure,’ she countered shaking her head, feeling disgusted by the thought.

  His demeanour suddenly became sullen. ‘Just who do you think you are? Do you think you’re too good for me?’ he snapped pushing his face, eye to eye and nose to nose with hers. A sickly smile wandered over his evil countenance and his hand shot out at lightning speed, grabbing her cruelly by the throat. Pulling her closer his tongue flicked out licking the long thin scar on her cheek. ‘We have things in common, you and me,’ he said, his voice deep and his eyes seemed to glow.

  She howled piteously as he lifted her bodily from the floor, hauling her into the air. He shook her violently, as easy as he would a rag doll. ‘I could rape you here and now if I wanted to, you whore-bitch,’ he said, the light of madness in his eyes.

  She was on the verge of passing out, but managed to shake her head. ‘You won’t do that,’ she managed to say.

  ‘Why is that, you bitch?’ he said baring his teeth.

  She gasped for air. ‘Because you need me to kill Thomas,’ she said, ‘and that means more to you than beasting me.’

  In his fit of rage he hurled her towards an open doorway. ‘Get out. Get out,’ he snapped, ‘and think yourself lucky that I do need you.’ His angry words rang in her ears for the second time in a month, but this time she didn’t nod in agreement. She simply climbed to her feet and staggered away clutching her throat, gasping for breath, regretting the day she had fallen in with Ozhan the deranged cut-throat. His maniacal laugher echoed down the hallway as she left his mansion by a back door, thinking how lucky she was not to have incurred his full wrath.

  The morning of the following day, Nelan paced around the base of a spreading chestnut tree that she had slept in as the faint light of dawn appeared. She paused briefly to gaze up at the cloudless sky. I must have been mad to get involved with the baron, she thought as the icy hand of fear gripped her, remembering his last words. Yes, she hated Thomas Flynn with a passion, but now hated and despised Ozhan even more. He was the most brutal, callous, cold-hearted man she ever had the misfortune to meet. In fact, she believed him to be truly evil.

  Now she was beginning to see Thomas in a completely different light, and even began to believe that the death of their trainer Master Gallus was nothing more than a tragic accident, which Thomas had maintained all along. A cold wind whispered across the land, chilling her and she shivered, lifting the collar of her heavy grey coat. What is wrong with me, she thought? I wouldn’t normally work for a scum-sucking bastard like the baron, even though I am alone and friendless. He’s an ugly son-of-a-bitch. I don’t like anybody much but, with Ozhan, what is there to like?

  Within the halls of her own subconscious she felt disappointment with herself and surged back into control. She blinked, taking a deep breath. ‘I won’t be his lackey,’ she assured herself. ‘I just won’t.’

  With the dawn came pangs of hunger and she spent an hour trying to catch a trout in a nearby stream, but each time she scooped it up, it wriggled free and returned to the depths. Finally, she decided enough was enough and ate leaves and berries just to suppress her hunger. Winter was closing in fast and the air was thin and cold against her face. Within a few short weeks snow will come, she thought.

  The new day had begun in a haze of soft sunlight that crept across the countryside, expanding and bursting forth over woods and meadows. Birdsong rang out in the air and the dewdrops on plants, flowers and spiders webs sparkled like tiny jewels. There seemed to have never been a day as beautiful as this, she thought, trying to forget the baron and her problems.

  Finally, she sat beneath the chestnut tree listening to the birds and watching nature’s extravaganza. She marvelled at its glory, but there was a bittersweet to it. How ugly death is, she thought. Yet how beautiful is life, and the two are inseparable. You can’t have one without finally having the other. And as she sat quietly, her mind was far from the ways of a warrior – far from battles, war and killing and far from her own tortured history, for like Thomas and his brother Malcolm, there was abuse in her past too. Her scars, mental and physical were as deep as theirs were, if not deeper, and that’s why she seemed to find some kind of solace in the act of killing. It was her way of getting back at the world.

  She sat with her back against the tree, thinking how good life would be if it were not for people like Ozhan to spoil it, and even as the thought came to her, she could hear his mocking laugher in her mind. She looked out across the elegant backdrop to the City of Nottingham with its sculptured beauty, amid forests, rivers and verdant meadows. One day, nothing will remain if he has his way, she thought, for he will rape, pillage and kill everyone and everything. Even the beauty of the land will be gone.

  She breathed deeply and the smell of grass, wet from the recent rain made her feel at ease and at one with the land once more. She had always loved the countryside, even as a small child. Swinging her gaze to the left, she noticed the baron's mansion high on the hillside shrouded in mist and it looked evil – as evil as the man himself does, she thought.

  Leaning further back against the bole of the chestnut, she allowed herself to relax, and then a man’s voice sounded, startling her. ‘You must be a stranger in these parts, milady,’ said the voice, and a powerful hand gripped her arm, hauling her upright. She blinked, coming to her feet and swung around, her keen blue eyes staring at an old man

  ‘Who might you be sir?’ she asked shrugging off his hand.

  The newcomer smiled a gap-toothed smile. ‘Berwyn’s the name, poaching’s the game,’ he said almost joyously, laying his coat over a nearby tree stump. ‘Good morning to you milady, sorry if I startled you, but it’s not too wise to be sitting here passing the time of day. Master Ozhan doesn’t take too kindly to us trespassers.’ The man smiled again, holding up two plump pheasants. He was tall, thin as a stick, dressed in forest greens and soft black, leather, boots too big for his feet that curled up at the toes. A hawk-like nose dominated a pinched face and he spoke with a slight lisp.

  ‘The baron doesn’t take kindly to anyone, whether they’re on his land or not,’ she countered, stiffening, a touch of irritation in her voice.

  Suddenly the surrounding woodland burst with the sound of birds fluttering nervously on their branches and rodents scurrying into hiding. ‘Best go, we had, someone’s comin’,’ said Berwyn fidgeting anxiously. ‘Follow me milady and I’ll show you the way out of here safely.’ He picked up his coat from the tree stump, throwing it over his shoulder; then swung around and headed towards the forest to their rear. She didn’t care for his look, but decided to follow him. She wanted nothing more to do with Ozhan or his cronies.

  Berwyn slipped quietly through the forest. He certainly wasn’t shy, but seemed a nervous man, who had more sense than to cross paths with the baron or his men, and she struggled to keep up with the poacher, who obviously knew every square inch of the woods. He paused suddenly and stood stock-still. Ever cautious he waited for several seconds, melting into the shadow of an oak, watching and listening for any movement no matter how small. There was none now so he carried on; speaking little, preferring to cloak himself in silence, but when he did speak it was to give directions only. And so, for thirty minutes they made their way over the forest track – which hissed like the fall of rain as their feet passed over the dried leaves and pine needles – finally leaving the cover of the trees at a crossroad.


  He pointed in the direction she should go and bid her farewell. ‘Good luck to you milady. I hope good fortune favours you,’ he said with his wide gap toothed grin, and he disappeared back into the forest on the far side of the road. She stood silently for a moment. Verdant hillsides greeted her gaze and a glistening stream rippled by the roadside as sheep fed richly on a nearby patch of grassland. Leaving the sheep to graze peacefully on the new grass, she ran up the hillside and along a deer trail. Cresting the last ridge, she ran down into the main street of Nottingham with her heart thumping, and once there, her sullen mood vanished and all thought of the baron disappeared with it.

  However, now she needed new employment and a place to stay, for she only had three copper coins to her name and they wouldn’t get her very far at all. Not knowing exactly where she was, she angled her journey north, hoping to find The Dog and Duck inn – and the swordsman Thomas Flynn.

  Chapter 9

  Thomas stood at his high balcony window gazing out across Nottingham. The anger was still with him but the trembling had stopped now, even though Cyrano’s memory nagged and tugged at his thoughts. The last time he had seen him alive he was laughing, joking and playing with Dody and didn’t seem to have a care in the world, but now the sensitive, caring, genuinely funny man was dead – and for no good reason.

  At first he had felt an overpowering sense of grief, but the feeling grew into something completely different as the morning wore on. Now it was late afternoon and hate, rage and the desire to kill filled him. He stood on the balcony, wondering how he could get to his enemy. Ozhan had paid a fortune to build his house on the hillside with its fine lines and spires, buttresses and bulwarks, and it was more like a fortress than a mansion. So whenever he encountered any kind of resistance, he fled for the sanctuary of his home, knowing that it would take at least a small army to rout his forces.