*
It was now almost noon and the sun shone rosy fingered directly overhead as the forests and meadow-lands stirred to the bold voice of the Abbey bell. More farmers and their families hurried from near and far to their place of sanctuary as it was a time of great danger, Thomas and Dardo told them. Both men had ridden long and hard to the farmers’ homesteads to give warning, and all carried what little belongings they needed to out-wait the holocaust to come.
Up the long, dusty road they came quietly, not stopping or resting until they reached the Abbey, where Brother Mathias stood by the gates with the Abbot, welcoming them all. Grateful thanks shone in their eyes as each one smiled, nodding, knowing they would owe their very existence to the Abbot and his community – and all who entered received food, shelter and sound advice.
Tobin and Lira were the last to arrive, tired, hungry and breathless from their long walk. The Abbot and Mathias began to close the great gates when Lira turned suddenly, looking back down the road, and she could hear the distinct beat of horses’ hooves in the distance. ‘There are two riders coming, but I can’t quite make out who they are,’ she said fixing the Abbot’s gaze.
Brother Mathias gripped his walking staff tighter, thinking that it could be Ozhan and his men, and he felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck as the horses drew nearer. Now they all stood stock-still, peering down the road with their hearts beating fast and their mouths dry. Closer and closer the riders came and Lira could just make out a black cloak flitting in the light breeze. Suddenly, a voice rang out sharp and clear from a high parapet. ‘It’s Thomas and Dardo.’
Lira breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she said to Tobin.
The Abbot and Mathias pushed open the gates allowing them to enter the high entrance overhung with laurels. ‘Good to see you again,’ said the Abbot shaking Thomas’ hand as both warriors dismounted.
‘Is it all right if we rest here for a while father?’ asked Dardo, his face pale and drawn but devoid of expression. ‘We've ridden far through the night and we're very tired.’
The Father Abbot blinked, smiled and nodded, his solemn expression softening. He put his hand around the young man’s shoulders, shuffling his sandals in the dust. ‘Dardo my son,’ he said wearily, ‘if only we could all afford to take life a little slower, we could then live with dignity and humility. Unfortunately, the cruel brute Ozhan with his pitiless heart and booming voice will not allow it to be so. Rest while you can. The both of you are welcome within these hallowed walls – so, come, follow me.’
Thomas and Dardo followed the Abbot and Mathias at a sedate pace in the direction of the Great Hall, strolling nonchalantly past its cloistered walls towards a small dimly lit room filled with pallet beds. Sunlight filtered down in slanting rainbow-hued shafts from a high, narrow, stained glass window in one corner and a million coloured dust motes danced and swirled as they all trod the ancient stone floor.
The Father Abbot halted in front of a door on which hung a small tapestry, and he bid them enter. It was ‘The Room of Silence’, the pride and joy of the Abbey, being the oldest part. Here the Fathers studied quietly before bedtime.
Thomas and Dardo entered, sitting down slowly on the cool sheets of two beds, resting their backs against the wall, and the Abbot studied the wonderment in both men’s eyes as they gazed around the simplistic looking room.
‘Are you surprised by our lack of possessions and comfortable beds in the Abbey?’ asked the Abbot, his hands tucked inside the baggy sleeves of his old, grey habit. He paused, gazing down into Thomas’ dark eyes and nearly tripped over his loose sandals. ‘Good gracious, I must buy a new pair of these,’ he said pointing down at his feet. ‘Rest now and we will speak later.’
He turned and wobbled his way back along the cloisters with Mathias, his sandals flip-flopping beneath the baggy folds of his habit. Thomas smiled, watching him, thinking what a comical figure he cut as he once again tripped over his sandals, saving himself from falling just in time. Every picture tells a story, he thought.
Suddenly, the whole place echoed to the sound of the Abbey bell, and moments later another Brother in a brown novice’s habit entered the room carrying a large wooden tray with a mixture of cheeses, barley-meal and a jug of mead on it, and without uttering a single word, he placed the tray down onto a small bedside table and left. Thomas and Dardo looked at each other, smiling. Then they ate, drank and conversed earnestly in low tones for over an hour, fixing their plans for the baron’s demise firmly in their minds before falling fast asleep.
That night it was cool inside the Great hall as the Abbot sat down slowly on the cold stone floor, resting his back against the wall. ‘Come sit with me awhile my children,’ he said, addressing the congregation. ‘We are men and women of peace,’ he continued as his flock gathered around him, looking bewildered, ‘but the time has come when strength of character is needed. I myself vowed a long time ago to heal the sick, care for the injured and give shelter and aid to the impoverished, but today a great evil overshadows us all and Ozhan is his name. Luckily, we have a legendary swordsman to aid us.’
As the Abbot spoke, so his tone increased in volume and intensity. ‘Thomas Flynn is a fierce, fearless fighter who has faced the enemy many times in single combat with sword, bow or simply fists and feet, and I'm quite confident that even against overwhelming odds, he is capable of driving the merciless and formidable monster and his bunch of murderous cut-throats from this land to emerge victorious. However, a little help would not go amiss. Even the thunder of the heavens has lightning’s support. Thunder rolls and lightning forks, tearing trees from the earth, and then raindrops spear the ground as they stretch into silver rods in the same fashion a hail of arrows from fifty good bowmen would spear Ozhan’s henchmen. So, who will volunteer to deliver a winged message to these murderers?’ the Abbot finally asked, not knowing that Thomas had already recruited a good number of men himself.
The crowd of shocked listeners looked horrified, shaking their heads at the Abbot’s suggestion, and they wittered amongst themselves in hushed tones until one man stood up and called out. ‘Father, we're farmers, not warriors. We know nothing of bows and fighting.’
The Abbot scratched his chin. ‘Hmm, I know my son, but sometimes we have to be bigger and braver than we are, and I would rather live one minute as a free man, than a whole lifetime as a slave to the baron.’
A small boy of no more than six years approached and placed his hand gently down onto the Abbot’s shoulder. ‘I'll fight,’ he suddenly said, fixing his gaze solidly. ‘I'm not afraid.’
‘Yes indeed, I believe you will fight,’ said the Abbot smiling, searching the faces of the congregation. His heart couldn’t help but soften towards their awful plight, but Ozhan was coming, this he knew – and death was coming with him.
Chapter 10
Hearty cheers interrupted the Abbot’s speech one hour later as Thomas and Dardo entered the Great Hall. ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Thomas. ‘Me either,’ agreed Dardo.
Ooh’s and ah’s greeted their arrival and they were patted on their backs as they pushed their way through the crowd of poor but proud people toward the Abbot, who was still sitting with his back against the wall.
Thomas silenced the hubbub by raising his hand. ‘Cock your ears and listen to me,’ he said turning to face them. ‘Men and women of Nottingham, I see that there are those amongst you who are far too old and infirm to take up arms against the baron and his followers, but there are also those amongst you who are young, strong and able to fight. Death will come to you sooner rather than later if you don't take up arms against those with murder in their hearts. I realised this a long time ago when I sought to escape my problems by fuddling my wits with gin and strong wine. Drunk or sober there is no escape. So, would it not be better to die at a time and place of your own choosing, rather than having it forced upon you? No one wants to die. I don’t want to die, but if I must, I would rather face it as a free man – wouldn’t
you?’
One member of the congregation stood up, clapping Thomas’ oration. Then another stood and clapped. And another, until the whole gathering was on their feet clapping. Now they cheered louder than before. ‘I'll fight,’ said one tall, young man. ‘I too will fight,’ said another broad shouldered youth. ‘I will fight,’ said another. Then another volunteered and another, until there were so many hands in the air that Dardo couldn’t count them all.
‘You are indeed an eloquent speaker, Thomas. You have a way with words,’ said Father Abbot. ‘I spent an hour trying to do what you did in less than a minute.’
Thomas smiled. ‘I had a little more to say on the subject, but as you can see, they need no more convincing.'
Dardo smiled too. ‘Maybe it’s your solid-looking sensible manner that appeals to them,’ he said patting Thomas’ back.
‘It’s more likely to be my solid-looking, sensible short-swords that’s convinced them, my good and faithful friend,’ laughed the other.
The Abbot smiled at their light-hearted banter and he couldn't help shaking his head in admiration at their stiff resolve, which seemed to have hidden depths.
*
Meanwhile, Ozhan the tyrant was having a bad dream. He had lain down on his four-poster bed for a well-earned rest while his men were going about their allotted tasks and weariness overcame him.
In his dream, dark mist shrouded everything and cries of panic and torment rang out as homesteads and barns blazed and cattle bellowed in pain. He thrashed about, killing and laying waste to all in his path, and then a ghostlike figure appeared. At first, it looked like a bat that kept growing bigger the closer it came, and the closer it came the bigger it got and he didn't relish a meeting with it, so he turned and ran – but the faster he ran, the faster the bat flew.
Glancing back he saw all the carnage the thing had caused in its life and it reminded him of him. He ran on faster still through the dark mist, sweat oozing from his hands and brow like acid and he stumbled, catching himself. He ran on even faster, looking back once more, and he could still see the strange bat hard on his heels, growing larger and larger with its eyes cold and grim, but now the beast was closer it looked more like a dragon wielding large bright claws – and it had grown into a giant.
Although his lungs were almost bursting he put on more speed, but his heavy leaden limbs let him down, finally running slower and slower until he stopped. Cursing aloud vehemently he understood the meaning of mindless fear and raw panic for the very first time. He stumbled, falling, seemingly into icy water and turned slowly realising his fate. The creature was upon him, raising its bright claws up high ready to strike, and then it changed into the swordsman Thomas Flynn and his deadly twin blades struck.
The loud toll of the Abbey bell brought him back from the realms of his dream to stark reality and he shivered, wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. What did the dream mean? Was it a bad omen, he wondered? It had been so vivid and life-like that he shuddered. Then a knock on the bedroom door snapped him from his thoughts with a start.
‘There is someone here to see you sir,’ a voice announced from behind the bedroom door. A servant entered bowing deeply. ‘The lady is waiting in the library.’
‘Very well, tell her I’ll be down directly,’ said the baron chewing his lower lip.
Mere moments later he opened the library door to find the tall woman stood cloaked and hooded in front of a blazing fire. Her back was facing him.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘did Flynn fall for our ploy?’
‘But, of course. I can be very convincing when I need to be. I almost believed it myself,’ said the visitor turning to reveal her bright vibrant blue eyes and dark hair.
The baron smiled, nodding his approval. ‘Nelan, you’re a canny woman,’ he said striding toward her, his eyes scanning her face, ‘and you intrigue me.’ He placed his arm around her shoulders.
She shrugged it off, backing away. ‘This is strictly business Ozhan. I don’t want you to get any funny ideas about me and you. I'm not the sort of woman to hurl myself on my back and open my legs just because you're a powerful, wealthy man,’ she said making her point plain as daylight.
He tensed for a moment, the light of madness in his eyes and for a heartbeat he stood stock-still, and then his laughter boomed out. ‘By heaven, you think highly of yourself woman. I said you intrigued me, nothing more.’
She looked embarrassed but sighed with relief.
‘I may be ugly, scarred and have the face of a demon, but there is one such woman who has captured my heart,’ he said. ‘She is indeed a beauty to behold and works in the treasury. Her husband works there also. However, he knows nothing of our affair, or the fact that the two of us are robbing him blind. Nor will he know. His ignorance is the only thing that keeps him alive.’
She stared at him inquisitively. ‘Do you actually enjoy killing?’ she asked.
‘What I enjoy is none of your damn business,’ he snapped, feeling his irritation rise,’ but the answer to your question is yes. Sometimes I can actually feel the longing for blood growing within me like a rampaging herd of wild pigs.’
She slumped down into a chair by the fire with her legs tightly crossed. He’s as mad as a March Hare, completely and utterly insane, she thought.
Striding to the library shelves he plucked his diary from the bookcase, which covered the whole wall. He sat opposite her, opened the book by pulling the yellow ribbon and stared down at the pages marked ‘Saturday’ and ‘Sunday’. Red ink circled Sunday. ‘Tell me of your plans for Thomas Flynn’s murder,’ he said with no emotion in his voice.’
She felt a sudden chill and trembled, actually able to feel the evil emanating from the monster sat opposite her, but during their meeting there was much useful information exchanged. She told him of her encounter with Thomas, and that they planned to get rid of him by making him think the swordsman had changed sides. Thomas would come to his mansion under the white flag of truce, thus gaining easy access. Once inside he would kill the baron, and so she had baited the trap. Once inside the mansion, he will be the dead one, thought Ozhan.
He interrupted her suddenly by pounding on a small table. ‘That’s good m’dear. Bring him here tomorrow and when he's dead I'll give you exactly what you deserve.’ His words echoed eerily around the brightly lit library walls, sounding more like a threat than a promise.
She reflected that she had used desperate measures to secure that promise, but it had been justified – in her eyes – at the time. The baron was as uncompromising as he was murderous, and she knew if her double-edged plan failed she wouldn't live to see another sunrise. With that in mind she left the mansion and went back to her lodgings to get a good night’s rest. For her plan to succeed she knew she would need her senses sharp and her mind clear.
*
The following morning, high on a hillside overlooking Nottingham as dawn appeared, it ushered in a bright new day. The sky was blue and filled with clouds looking like the sails of ships billowing in a light breeze, but Dardo with exhaustion and anxiety gnawing at his heart didn't feel good. Darkness swept over his soul and his spirit pitched, plunged and seemed to be in shreds and tatters because he had practised for weeks with a longbow up in the hills alone – and he was no better now than when he had started. He needed to be good with the weapon more than ever now if he were to be of any use to Thomas, because Ozhan the formidable monster with a pitiless heart would kill every one of them, taking great pleasure in doing so if given half a chance – this Dardo knew. He also knew his fearless friend needed every ounce of support he could muster because the baron's mind was full of plans for their destruction, and Thomas’ loyal band of followers would suffer a similar fate if they failed their mission.
Now he looked down the long shaft of his arrow for a final time, aiming at the dark braided hair of a child’s doll pinned to a stout tree trunk at some fifty paces, and he waited, his hands trembling. A bead of sweat lingered at the end of his nose
as he closed one eye and took aim. ‘Help me find my mark, Lord,’ he whispered, and compensating for the strong crosswind he released the arrow betwixt his fingers and it took flight. It flew straight and true, piercing the dolls hair, cutting it in half. He couldn’t believe his eyes or his luck and he almost fainted from the shock of it.
Suddenly a cheer rang out from behind him and he sprang around to see Thomas clapping his hands. ‘Well done. Never thought I’d see this day,’ he said smiling.
Dardo smiled back. ‘Me either,’ he agreed scratching his head.
‘Today is the day of reckoning,’ said Thomas tapping the tightly bound hilts of his swords.
Dardo shivered as memories of Cyrano’s terrible murder flared within him. His killers had attacked silently, without warning, and they had burned his face with coal oil so badly that his bone shone through his skin, and then stabbed him to death mercilessly. He could even hear the baron’s mad laughter echoing in his head. Thomas was a killer of men also, but one that he admired for his lethal skills, because he was an honourable man and amiable if left alone. He had no anger or hatred, not even for Ozhan, but there was a score to settle and neither of them would eat, nor sleep now until they had settled that score.
High on the hillside, Thomas and Dardo took a deep breath of fresh air, focusing their eyes on the lone rider heading their way. It was Nelan riding furiously at the gallop, and as she approached she gestured for them to follow her towards the Southern Quarter of the City.
Thomas nodded to her. 'We may not need a fully armed mob to vanquish Ozhan and his paid assassins if our plan works today,' he told Dardo, a tone of hope in his voice.
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 14