A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn )

by Michael Siddall

  Both men mounted their horses, and then for the next fifteen minutes the three friends galloped across scores of roads, alleys and avenues, lines of shops, stalls and workplaces, passing the lion statues on the Nottingham Bridge – until they hit the Great North Road, leading to Ozhan’s mansion. She swung her horse, angling it southward down the long dusty road and Thomas and Dardo followed closely, trying to remember landmarks as they passed several horses exercising in a nearby field. Neither of them had ever seen the baron’s palatial mansion up close, but had heard it was a fortress in its own right.

  Finally, after crossing several barren fields his home with its fine lines and spires, buttresses and bulwarks came into view. Thomas scanned the layout. The stories are true, he thought, it is a fortress. They stopped short, their gaze wandering across the floor of the courtyard and stables, catching sight of several riders heading their way. Thomas turned his head, staring at the neighbouring checkerboard of meadows and fields, dissected by a meandering river and he noticed more riders coming. ‘The baron’s taking no chances today,’ he said smiling weakly.

  An odd haze hung over the whole hillside partly obscuring their vision, but they could pick things out and see mostly what they were looking for. The mansion was a mile distant from where they sat astride their horses, and it was swathed in mist and shadows, backed by a forest. They squinted against the muted light of the morning sun to see more clearly. More riders headed their way from the courtyard and stables, and within moments had closed on Thomas and his associates, surrounding them.

  ‘What are you doing wandering about in this meadow?’ snapped their leader, a tall stick-like man with a sudden glint of suspicion in his cold, grey eyes. He wore a mercenary’s attire. ‘This is the baron’s land.’

  ‘Master Ozhan is expecting us,’ said the woman warrior fixing his gaze firmly.

  ‘You are Nelan and Thomas Flynn?’ the guard asked. 'Then, who is this other...?’

  ‘This is my good friend Dardo,’ Thomas interrupted, not caring for the look of the man.

  ‘I was told that there would be only two of you,’ the guard said, impatience in his tone.

  ‘Well, now you see that there are three of us,’ Thomas countered, shaking his head stubbornly.

  The guard hesitated briefly and then shook his reins, heeling his horse forward, angling it back towards the mansion. ‘Follow me,’ he snapped bad-temperedly.

  Thomas, Nelan and Dardo swung their horses around, following the guard and the troop of riders did the same, cantering in unison at the rear. They rode back through the fields and within a minute were riding beneath the great grey walls of the mansion. The man himself stood at his high balcony window, gazing out towards the North, but he suddenly switched his gaze, waving his men into the courtyard and then disappeared from the window.

  The troops finally swung their horses to the left, riding onto the high ground of the courtyard, through the open iron gates and stopped. The leader dismounted. Thomas and his friends dismounted also and the guard beckoned them to follow him towards a high entrance overhung by ivy, where another guard came forth to fetch them. He took Nelan by the arm. ‘The Master is waiting for you in the Great Hall,’ he said, leading her up a flight of spiral stone steps.

  The troop of riders dismounted and disappeared into the stables to feed their horses. Thomas took a deep breath to steal his nerves, relaxed and climbed the stairs followed closely by Dardo, whose eyes were shifting nervously from side to side, expecting attackers to leap out at them at any moment.

  At the top of the steps the guard opened a door and a cool draught chilled them. Nelan entered first, unhooked her black sable cloak and draped it over a chair. She stared at the fine artwork that decorated the silent and serene room. Thomas and Dardo entered, striding across to a high arched window, looking out. Their gaze wandered across the floor of the valley and the view was breath-taking. It looked like a magical kingdom. Another door at the far end of the room opened suddenly and a voice boomed out. ‘Well then, here you are at last. Come on through.’

  Dardo was so startled by the voice that he jumped a foot and then froze on the spot.

  Thomas ambled across the room casually. Then Nelan entered the Great Hall followed by her comrades. It was light and airy inside with whitewashed walls and many intricate oak beams supporting a low ceiling. Sunlight flooded through the windows and as Thomas stepped into view he realised the situation was every bit as bad as he feared it would be. There were already at least forty men present in the hall and they were some of the largest and strongest in Nottingham.

  The baron was sat at the back of the hall. Stood beside him to his left was the grey haired giant – his second in command – and to his right was a tall slender swordsman in forester’s garb of fringed buckskin. Thomas strode across the room to a chair and sat calmly, facing the baron. Nelan and Dardo did likewise. None spoke.

  ‘Welcome friends, good to see you’ve finally come to your senses,’ said Ozhan, his face devoid of expression. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘No,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Something to eat?’ asked the baron amiably.

  No,’ said Thomas again. The others shook their heads.

  ‘Well, suit yourselves,’ said the baron.

  Thomas scanned the room, finally fixing his gaze on a portrait hanging on the far wall.

  ‘My father,’ volunteered Ozhan.

  ‘Looks like an important man,’ said Thomas.

  ‘He was a whoreson bastard,’ the baron snapped. ‘But you’re a smart man, aren’t you? You just haven’t been too realistic of late. God, I’m just like you, brought up the hard way in the backstreets, and when I came to this city it was nothing, until I made it something. God-damn-it, King John visited here once because of me. You ask anybody and they’ll tell you.’

  Thomas’ blood began to boil and his anger flared. ‘You’ve gotten rich and fat off the poor people of this city,’ Thomas admonished with an icy stare.

  The baron laughed. ‘Perhaps I have, and I’m going to get a lot richer. I believe we all have a purpose on this earth – a destiny. I have faith in that destiny. It tells me to gather unto me what is mine. For God’s sake man, you’re a paid killer. Tell me you don’t love it. Of course you do. You wouldn’t be the man you are if you didn’t. You’ve killed many men, supposedly in self-defence. But you and I know that isn’t so, don’t we? So tell me how much it’s going to cost, now that you are working for me?’

  Thomas shifted uneasily from his seat to a nearby window, watching Ozhan’s men edge towards the door, blocking their only exit. ‘It’s a trap, he thought. Of course, it is, I should have known. ‘There is no amount of money that could persuade me to work for you, you son-of-a-whore,’ he snapped drawing his swords, vaulting a table, unleashing a kick against the grey haired giants head, knocking him senseless. He sliced air above the baron as he threw himself from his chair, rolling to safety.

  Dardo reacted instantly, pulling a heavy wooden cudgel from the recesses of his tunic. Taken unawares he felled several men where they stood. Then he suddenly held his hand up in front of one man’s face and shouted, 'Stop!' Everyone froze. ‘Look Ozhan, I thought you liked a fair fight?’ he said breathlessly. ‘I count at least forty of you – and there are three of us. That isn’t exactly fair...’

  The baron smiled and shook his head.

  ‘...But we don’t mind waiting if you want go and get another forty men,’ continued Dardo sarcastically, and he began pounding heads again with his cudgel. Thomas was too busy to laugh. And Nelan was gone. She had vanished.

  Dardo struck heads with lightning speed, throwing in the odd uppercut for good measure, while Thomas’ swords flashed from left to right and back again, thrusting, cutting and slicing as his friend pummelled and pounded the enemy into the ground. Bodies fell everywhere, moaning and groaning, covered in blood.

  Now the baron was gone too and it was a like scene from hell, the stench of death lingering hea
vily in the air. Still outnumbered but not outclassed, Thomas decided to retreat and regroup, even though there was only the two of them, but as they made a dash for the door he ran one way down the corridor and Dardo went the other.

  Four swordsmen suddenly rounded a bend, and with a blood-curdling scream Thomas charged at them. His sword sliced through the skull of the first, the throat of the second decapitating him and the ribs of the third. He stumbled fleetingly and then leapt upon the forth using one of his swords as a dagger, driving it down through the man’s chest into the lungs. Thomas fell on top of him and then staggered upright. A spear flashed past him and he spun around on the spot, swaying away from a wild slashing cut from another swordsman. His riposte passed through his attacker’s wrist, sending his hand spinning through the air as more of Ozhan’s men rounded the bend in the corridor.

  Thomas rushed them, his sword hilts clubbing left and right knocking them senseless, and then he plunged both swords into the last man’s chest. ‘Die you son-of-a-bitch,’ he snapped. And as the sound of more pounding boots came echoing down the corridor he slunk into the shadows, waiting for the men to pass. He grabbed the last man in a headlock, inching further back into the darkness, pricking a blade under his chin. ‘The baron, where is he?’ he asked, an icy tone in his voice.

  ‘He'll kill me if I tell you,’ the man choked.

  ‘I'll kill you if you don’t.'

  A crossbow bolt suddenly slammed into the man’s forehead and he slumped to his knees. Thomas let go of him and he crumpled to the floor. The baron’s laugher echoed down the corridor so the warrior leapt over the corpse and charged. Another crossbow bolt tore into his left knee and he darted back into the shadows, the pain intense, blood flowing freely inside his leggings, pooling in his boot. Movement was agony now but he scrambled further up the corridor searching for cover.

  Another crossbow bolt flashed past him as he spun on the spot, swaying away from it. He reached down and tore the first bolt from his knee as Ozhan appeared in front of him with blood spattered on his face, his eyes seemingly glowing eerily. Thomas hesitated, his face pale, eyes haunted and his mind empty of all emotion – save one: the burning need to wreak revenge for Cyrano’s death. His brown eyes held to baron’s insane gaze for a moment and he was silent, but then Ozhan’s fist struck him full in the face, sending him sprawling down the corridor.

  Bright lights shone before his eyes, dizziness swamping him as he slumped back onto the hard floor. Through a great buzzing in his ears he heard Ozhan’s laugher, and then an iron hand gripped his throat, hauling him upright. ‘I told you to leave well alone,’ the baron whispered. ‘Now I’m going to cut out your eyes and eat your liver.’

  The swords knocked from his hands, Cyrano’s face swam before Thomas’ eyes – the life torn from him – and he faltered briefly, filled with panic, his resolve failing. The baron seized the moment, drawing a dagger from his belt and it flashed for his chest. Thomas’ left hand shot out, his fingers closing around the baron’s wrist and the blade stopped short by only an inch. ‘Faster than a thunderbolt,’ he said, his eyes gleaming once more.

  Ozhan struggled to pull away from his grip as Thomas’ right hand came up, sunlight gleaming on the silver blade of his own dagger, but before he had time to use it; a grey goose-shaft hit the baron’s knife-hand knocking his blade clear. He looked visibly stunned, staring incredulously at the arrow through his palm.

  Excruciating pain seared up his arm as he cried out in agony, and his fat, scarred face, bloated from rich living jerked as if slapped, a vein throbbing at his temple. ‘Are you mad? I own this city!’ he snapped, swinging around to see Nelan notching another arrow to her bowstring.

  ‘I’ve never been saner,’ she countered, firing for a second time.

  This time the arrow took him in the belly, lifting him from his feet, throwing him hard against the wall. Fear welled up in him. ‘No… you can’t do this… I own this city,’ shouted Ozhan in a blind, bottomless rage. He let out an animal cry.

  Dardo appeared from out of the shadows, bow in hand. ‘We own this city and don’t you ever forget it,’ he said staring icily. Levelling his bow, he let fly. There was a hideous shriek as the arrow hit the baron in the chest, the bloody point emerging from his back. He stared down at the arrow in disbelief as an acid fire filled him and he slumped to his knees, but stayed upright. ‘I – I own this city… it’s mine,’ he groaned.

  Dody stepped forward from the shadows too with his sling cocked. ‘No, we will always own this city and you can go directly to hell,’ he said staring hatefully. Something had died within him with the passing of his father and a terrible coldness had settled on his soul. Darkly exultant he extended his arm and let fly. The others watched in awe-struck silence as the black pebble thudded into Ozhan’s forehead with such force that the top of his head exploded, sending blood and shards of bone spraying through the air. He pitched backwards violently, falling face upwards onto the floor where he lay with his neck twisted to one side. He vomited and died there and then in a pool of his own blood.

  The four of them gazed upon the corpse, which moments before had been a terrible threat. But there were no cheers and congratulations, just relief. Thomas said nothing, standing stock-still, his wounded body rigid, but Dardo placed his hand on Dody’s shoulder. ‘It’s over, the baron's dead,’ he said turning his face towards him. Tears were trickling down the young boy’s face.

  Nelan pulled a scarf from her belt and gave it to him. ‘Wipe your face now boy,’ she said giving a weak and weary smile. ‘It is over!’

  ‘I miss my father,’ he said wiping away the tears.

  ‘We all miss your father,’ said Thomas finally. ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘He was generous and gentle too,’ added Nelan.

  ‘And funny,’ said Dardo brushing his hand through the boy’s hair.

  Thomas reached out and held the boy, and in that instant Dody heard his father’s voice echoing in the halls of his mind. ‘You will be handsome, tall and strong one day just like Thomas,’ he had said. But he never mentioned being alone.

  Epilogue

  The following is an extract from Nottingham’s archives by Tobin the Blacksmith who took over as recorder from the original recorder, Abbot Alfred after his death. Here is part of his written record:

  It is the beginning of summer now and I have never known such joy. Only yesterday my daughter, Lira, blessed us with a baby girl. Thomas the warrior, my daughter’s husband is away now doing what he does best. He took Dody with him. He grows taller and more handsome with each passing day and may even be mistaken for Thomas’ own kin.

  Dardo has not changed at all. He is still boisterous and untamed, but now lives with a serving wench in the Southern Quarter of Nottingham. He practices every day with sword and bow and is much improved. Thomas’ mastery of both weapons seems to have finally rubbed off on him, and because of his intervention against Ozhan and his thugs, Nottingham has never seemed so peaceful and tranquil. Every day that passes is a joy. We hold festivals regularly and nice people come from everywhere to participate in some of the strangest events that I have ever seen. All belie description and beggar belief, so come see for yourself.

  The Dog and Duck is now the best inn for a family to visit in the whole of the county. No more rowdy customers frequent it any more since Thomas and Dardo took over ownership from the late Cyrano – and the food is exquisite and served on time while still fresh and hot.

  The crops are growing particularly well this year and show much promise. God has been good to us all in the last four years and we pray that it remain so. I will finish my entry now and go back to my duties as blacksmith, and please be sure to make time to visit Nottingham should you be passing. We have renovated the old Abbey, installed a new and bigger bronze bell, and this one thing alone makes the visit worthwhile.

  Tobin the Blacksmith (Recorder of the Archive)

  TO BE CONTINUED... IN PART TWO...

  Chapter 11
r />   Four Years Later...

  Thomas Flynn cut a heroic figure dressed in his favourite black and gold leather tunic and matching leggings as he rode his white stallion down the long, dusty road, back towards Nottingham with his good friend Dody – now a young man of 16 years. Pausing briefly they gazed up at the cloudless sky and their sable cloaks fluttered in the light summer breeze blowing gently southward. Dody’s tunic, leggings and boots matched Thomas’ attire perfectly, right down to the twin short-swords. He was almost a perfect replica of the swordsman, right down to the finest detail of his long, dark braided hair. In fact, even his grey-green eyes shimmered and glittered in the same fashion.

  Thomas had moulded him, shaping his persona and skills for four years, ever since his father’s death. Now he was big, strong and ready to take up the warriors' mantle, wielding sword and bow, but to Thomas’ dismay his favourite weapon was still his slingshot, because he could knock out the eye of a toad at fifty paces. Both men feared no living thing.

  Now they rode on past the milestone lodged in the earth at the roadside, heeding the letters graven in the stone: ‘Nottingham – twenty five miles’. Thomas spat over the edge of the milestone as three young children playing in a field waved, watching them pass. He smiled, waved and bid his friend to do the same. He did it willingly, squinting as the high warm sun shone down. ‘Do you think you're the greatest and bravest swordsman who has ever lived?’ asked Dody suddenly.

  Thomas had a fearless smile on his face. ‘If I said yes, it would make me seem rather conceited wouldn’t it?’ he replied in his husky tone, studying the wonderment in the young man’s eyes.

  Dody stared in admiration. ‘I suppose,’ he admitted, looking at Thomas like a priceless treasure.

  ‘Listen,’ said Thomas fixing his gaze. ‘You've been like a son to me since you were orphaned, and I love you like a son, but have you not learned anything in all these years? We are men of peace, and peaceful men find strength when needed. I can, and do when required to, but doubt whether that qualifies me as the greatest and bravest warrior who has ever lived. Nor would I want it to.’