A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn )

by Michael Siddall

  Dody smiled. ‘You're a wise man, I do know that, and that's why I've found my own true vocation. I vow to help the sick, care for the injured and give aid to the wretched and impoverished wherever we travel, I so swear,’ he said.

  Thomas nodded. ‘And that's why we're deeply honoured and highly respected wherever we go. Keep to those standards and you will be treated with kindness and courtesy by all men,’ he said with a stern gaze. The young man was completely humbled, but ever more enlightened.

  They rode on past the old Abbey, where Brothers Alf and Mathias were weeding the graveyard, noticing the enormously fat, Friar Hugo busying himself rebuilding the stone walls. He cut a comical figure, wobbling his way from one part of the wall to another, breathing heavily, his large sandals flip-flopping beneath the baggy folds of his habit. A thick vein throbbed at his temple and he was sweating profusely.

  Now they rode on past a farmyard full of hay wagons, until they came to a river where a man was playing and fighting with a fully-grown grayling. They watched him wade into the shallows to secure his catch, dragging it up the bank-side gasping for air. Then they rode on for the next hour, always angling their journey down the long, dusty road – until finally the great city walls came into view.

  Thomas scanned the horizon in the direction of the Dog and Duck inn. ‘Hmm, nice to be home again. Not much longer now and we’ll be sat eating pie and vegetables with rich, thick gravy.'

  Dody sighed. ‘It’s just as well, because I was happily thinking of eating my horse, I’m so hungry.’

  ‘Wonder if Dardo will be at the inn?’ said Thomas scratching his chin whiskers. He clapped his friend on the back heartily. ‘It’ll be good to see him again if he is.’

  Dody’s young head was in a whirl. He couldn’t remember being so happy in all his days, while Thomas wondered if anyone would have kept the cellar stocked up as it had been his responsibility before they left Nottingham. His thoughts suddenly turned to Lira, his wife, and he couldn’t wait to see her and the baby.

  A chorus of ooh’s and ah’s from a gathered crowd greeted their arrival as they finally entered the city gates under Methuselah’s ever watchful gaze. The old man had been the gatekeeper for what seemed an eternity. Aptly named he was. Now, all eyes were on the two swordsmen as their white stallions cantered side-by side along the roadway with both men sat bolt upright looking rather regal. Thomas waved his welcome to the onlookers and Dody doffed his cap and feather smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  ‘I always feel like a celebrity whenever I come home,’ said Thomas smiling broadly too.

  His friend nodded, waving his arms like a windmill until they began to ache, and then suddenly the thunder of hooves roused them both. The loud noise seemed to fill the very air about them as it gathered momentum and the ground began to tremble and rumble. Thomas’ sixth sense warned him to get off the road, so both men heeled their horses through a gap in a hawthorn hedge and waited.

  Dody gasped with shock moments later as a giant horse galloped past, its mane streaming out, eyes rolling in panic, and then another horse shot past and another. In all there must have been twenty, and the riders were huge men, bigger than most and their heavily tattooed arms waved a variety of weapons – pikes, knives, longbows and spears.

  The leader of the bunch was the biggest, fiercest, most evil-looking man that Dody had ever set eyes on, and he noticed that in one hand was an axe, while the other grasped the reins of his horse and what looked like a decapitated head. He gasped. ‘Did you see that?’ he asked.

  Thomas nodded gravely. ‘I saw it – but I’m not sure I believe what I saw,’ he said. ‘The leader looked like a demon.’

  Both men wheeled their horses around, heeling them back through the gap in the hedge. Stunned by what they had seen, Thomas and Dody decided to head for Tobin’s farm in the hope of finding out what had been going on while they were away – and there was no one better to ask than Lira’s father. As the local blacksmith and Recorder of the Nottingham Archives, he would undoubtedly know all of the gossip.

  The sun was clearing the eastern hills, bathing the forest in golden light as they angled their journey towards the Old Nottingham Road. Once there, they cut across several homesteads using well-known short-cuts to get to Tobin’s estate, and as they rode on through stands of birch and alder, passing under a spreading oak, Thomas’ mood lightened. He had always loved trees. They seemed timeless, unlike humans, and as a child he had spent many an hour climbing them, swinging from the branches like a monkey, way above the ground.

  As the warmth of the sun began to dispel the creeping, knee high, mist that had gathered around the trees making Thomas and Dody look like ghostly figures, their horses seemed to float through the mist like swans on a lake, and after a fast, racy ride they arrived at Tobin’s homestead and their horses pulled to a halt, giving a long pealing whinny. Both men slipped from their saddles, tying their mounts to a hitching post and Tobin’s red setter barked announcing their arrival. He came out to greet them, followed by the dog. It looked about sharply, growling at them with its ears down, flattened back against its head.

  ‘Shh, they're friends Blood, surely you remember them,’ said Tobin. He ambled over and shook their hands fervently.

  Thomas winced slightly. ‘That’s still one hell of a grip you’ve got there blacksmith,’ he said. ‘I think you’re even stronger than the last time we met, and it’s so good to see you again – you look well.’

  Dody nodded his acknowledgement and smiled, stroking the dog as it leaned into him. Tobin bid them come in and they followed him into the farmhouse with the dog growling at Thomas, but wagging its tail at his friend.

  ‘That damn dog of yours has never liked me,’ said Thomas.

  ‘The dog has taste and is a good judge of character. He likes me,’ said Dody, and he laughed.

  Thomas laughed without humour. ‘That doesn’t mean the dog has taste. It just means the dog follows a follower rather than a leader, and I am a leader,’ he countered.

  Inside the farmhouse both men fixed their eyes on Tobin. He was still a tall, powerful, proud man with a thin clean-shaven face, but his dark curly hair was greying giving away his age.

  Thomas stared down at Tobin’s hands. They were trembling. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Why are you shaking and why is the dog so skittish? What’s been going on around here while we’ve been away?’ He had hardly uttered the words when a look of abject terror and despair succeeded Tobin’s expression of friendliness.

  The blacksmiths blood froze. ‘More gutter scum have arrived in Nottingham,’ he said sullenly, ‘and they've been threatening the homesteaders and farmers. I’ve been threatened too.’

  Thomas felt the irritation rise in him and anger flared. ‘What exactly did they threaten to do to you and the others?’ he asked.

  ‘They threatened to beat me up and break my bones with axes and hammers if I didn’t give them what they wanted.’

  ‘Which is what?’ asked Dody.

  Tobin sighed. ‘My life’s savings.’

  ‘Did you give it to them?’ asked Thomas.

  Tobin shrugged, nodding his head. ‘I had no choice, believe me – they would have killed me for less.’

  ‘I dare say they would have,’ agreed Thomas shifting uneasily from foot to foot, fixing the blacksmiths gaze. ‘I think they passed us on our way into Nottingham, twenty or so of them, all big men, meaner and moodier looking than most, and their leader looked more like a devil than a man does.’

  ‘That sounds like them,’ said Tobin wiping sweat from his face as he marched into the kitchen. ‘I'll make us all a cup of nettle tea.’

  ‘Have you any rose-hip instead?’ asked Dody. ‘It’s my favourite.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Tobin. ‘It’s made to Lira’s own recipe.’

  Within moments the kettle was boiling. Tobin wrapped a cloth around his hand, lifted it from its bracket and went over to the table, filling three cups with boiling water, adding a muslin ba
g to each. A sweet aroma filled the room. He stirred the contents of each, hooking out the bags, passing one cup to each of his guests.

  Thomas tasted the brew and smiled. ‘Thanks, it’s much appreciated and very kind of you.’

  Dody nodded, smiling his appreciation too.

  However, Tobin groaned, hanging his head in despair. ‘It doesn’t matter how much time passes, death or slavery is all us wretched humans can look forward to,’ he said sullenly, gazing upon Thomas’ calm features.

  ‘The man I saw, the leader of the group bore an uncanny resemblance to Ozhan,’ said Thomas squinting at Tobin, ‘and for a single moment I thought my eyes were deceiving me. I really believed it was he. Even the man’s odd gaze shone in the same fashion.’ The leader’s blunt, scarred face and eyes floated before him, nagging and tugging at his thoughts. Was the man a relation of the baron’s – his son perhaps? There certainly was an uncanny resemblance. ‘Don’t worry so much old man. We got rid of Ozhan and can do it again if needs be – even if he is a ghost,’ he said, a steely glint in his eyes.

  *

  Ten miles to the north, high on a treacherous hillside, all the fires of Hell were being unleashed, raining down upon the small settlement of ‘Tor’s Deep’, inducing an overwhelming choking fear. Men, women and children were panic stricken, screaming, moaning and praying to God. It made little difference, because no one could stop the huge fireballs from rolling down from the hillside and setting fire to everything. The land and buildings burned and screaming warriors hacked and slashed the villagers to pieces.

  At the end of this dreadful event an unearthly, haunting laughter resounded throughout the hillside as more warriors arrived to wipe out what was left of the settlement. Now nothing remained, not even hope. The raiders had stripped the land to the bare bones and no one survived the horrifying onslaught. High on the hillside overlooking the settlement with a beautiful raven-haired woman by his side, a lone warrior watched the destruction and carnage and he laughed feverishly, his sword glinting in the sunlight. ‘What do you think about Ozhobar when you’re in a killing mood?’ asked the young woman, her deep brown eyes holding to his insane gaze.

  ‘I think of the devil and the power he possesses and I get very jealous. What do you think about when I'm in a killing mood Kira?’ he replied.

  She shivered. ‘I'm a courtesan. A whore for the nobility and love and admire wealthy, powerful men – but you're one of a kind Ozhobar, truly. So, I think of pleasuring you, always.’

  *

  Later that evening, Thomas opened the bar at the Dog and Duck. Golden lantern light glowed at the windows and there were log fires burning at either end of the long, oak beamed room. The whole place was crammed with rowdy revellers, and as always Thomas eased his way through the mixture of noblemen, privateers and farmers, chatting and making conversation. Then he sat at his favourite table, his back to the wall and ordered meat and potato pie from a beautiful blonde serving wench.

  When his meal arrived, a musician appeared also, playing light and lilting dance music. The atmosphere was jovial with fine wine flowing freely and good food being served piping hot, and everyone was behaving and having an excellent time. The inn was different now Ozhan and his band of cut-throats, thugs and thieves had disappeared from the clientèle.

  Thomas was sat eating his meal when Dody came through the dining room door with a big smile on his face. Dardo was following him. ‘Look who I’ve found,’ he announced looking pleased with himself. Both men ambled over and sat down.

  Dardo was already very drunk, staring happily at Thomas. ‘My… my very good friend,’ he slurred loudly, putting his hand on the warriors shoulder, ‘it's so good to see you and Dody. Please don’t leave me again, I don’t like it.’

  Thomas laughed, spinning his head, fixing his gaze. He stared hard into his friends shining green eyes. ‘I won’t leave you ever again, because you drink all of the profits while I’m away.’

  Dardo stripped off his shirt, showing his rippling muscles and he threw it across the room at a friendly looking whore. She smiled, beckoning for him to join her. ‘You'll have to excuse me my... my friends,’ he hiccupped. ‘I've business across the room with yonder wench and she awaits my coming.’

  ‘Nothing's changed,’ said Thomas watching him weave his way clumsily through the crowd towards the girl.

  Dardo collapsed onto woman's lap and she began stroking his curly blond hair. ‘My hair is strong and wild like me,’ he announced, kissing the girl full on the lips.

  Thomas smiled, shaking his head. ‘Like I said – nothing ever changes.’

  Dody laughed. ‘You wouldn’t want him to change really, would you?’

  ‘No, he’s big, broad and clumsy, but I wouldn’t want him any other way,’ Thomas admitted.

  Just then, the door of the tavern burst open and four men entered, including one a full head taller than anyone else. He was a huge man with dark, curly hair, a chin beard and obviously the leader. Thomas stared hard at the men. All were dressed in forester’s garb of fringed buckskin and looked like they would cut their own mother’s throat without a second thought. The big man scanned the room, instantly spotting Thomas and he pushed his way through the crowd with his men following, staring mad-eyed at the warrior. Stopping short, he folded his hugely muscled arms across his barrel chest.

  Thomas looked up into the man’s scarred face. ‘Is there something I can do for you,’ he asked amiably, ‘because I don't believe we've met before?’

  The big man stared down at Thomas. ‘You know, with your reputation, I thought you would be much bigger,’ he said.

  Thomas glared at him, smiling without humour. ‘How many times in my lifetime have I heard that same sarcastic sentence?’ he countered.

  ‘You are Thomas Flynn, aren’t you?’ asked the man.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am,’ said Thomas wearily, and a hush fell over the whole room as his eyes roamed from face to face scanning each of them, and then back again to the big man. ‘Like I said, have we met before?’

  ‘We've not met before, because if we had, you would be dead,' snapped the other drawing his sword.

  ‘Then, what's our quarrel?’

  ‘I simply want you dead,' said the man, slamming Thomas’ table aside, knocking him to the ground.

  By this time Dody and Dardo were on their feet, rounding on the other men.

  ‘Stay out of this,’ snapped Thomas, anger flaring, pushing the table off him and to one side. He rolled to his knees, hauling himself upright. ‘My friend, you're going to wish this day had never begun for you, because if you want a fight, I’ll give you one.’ His swords flashed into his hands with the speed of thought. ‘How many pieces do you want to be carried to your grave in?’

  The giant man backed away, slamming more tables aside, giving himself room to move, and the tavern’s clientèle edged away from both men to a safer distance, giving them even more room.

  ‘I'd like to know the name of the man I'm about to kill,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Stard,’ snapped the other, launching a sudden attack, sword raised high.

  Thomas leapt back and then launched himself forward; catching the man by surprise and his right hand sword hilt lashed down onto his adversaries head, stunning him. Stard staggered back, vision blurring, but he managed to aim a wild cut at Thomas’ head. The blade slashed high as Thomas dropped to one knee and then rose smoothly again, his left-hand blade snaking out, pricking the shoulder, tearing skin. Stard fell back with a gasp.

  Thomas grinned. ‘You’re good, lucky too – but I’m better.'

  Stard launched another sudden attack, aiming for the belly, hoping to catch Thomas off guard.

  It didn’t. Thomas blocked it effortlessly. ‘You overestimate your talents,’ he said fixing the man’s gaze, and one of his blades slashed down onto the man’s hand chopping it away, the sword falling clear.

  Stard screamed, charging forward, plucking a dagger from his belt. ‘You whoreson bastard.’ Then terrible
pain exploded in his body as he stared down at Thomas’ blade embedded in his chest. He dropped the knife, his knees buckled and an agonized groan burst from his lips as fiery pain filled his whole body.

  Thomas drove the blade deeper, holding the man upright, staring into his disbelieving eyes. ‘I've changed my mind, you were neither skilled nor lucky today,’ he said. Pushing the man backwards with his booted foot, he dragged his blade clear and the body toppled to his left.

  Thomas stared icily at the other three men. ‘I found no joy in killing your friend, so take the body with you and leave before I kill you all,’ he announced darkly.

  ‘I don’t want to die today,’ said one man backing away, fear shining in his eyes.

  ‘Then leave before I change my mind,’ Thomas told him.

  Together the three men lifted their dead comrade, heaving him over the shoulder of one of them. Then they pushed their way through the crowd and left the inn by the way they had entered. Thomas strode to a window, watching them heave the body over the saddle of a black stallion and then they mounted and rode away. He swung around to his friends. ‘I’m grateful you did as I asked and left well alone,’ he said. ‘If you two had helped, the others would have joined in and it would have been a bloodbath with innocent people getting hurt.’

  ‘Never thought for one moment that you couldn’t handle the four of them,’ said Dardo.

  Dody nodded confidently. ‘Me too.’

  They rearranged the tables and chairs back to how they were before the fight and the music began again, changing from light and lilting to the powerful rippling chords of dance. The crowd reformed and the buzz of conversation was in the air again as the smell of cooking filtered into the bar, rich and heady, and normal service resumed with serving wenches taking customers from the bar into the dining room for their prepared meal. Thomas looked around him, scanning the customer’s faces. It was as if nothing had ever happened – a sign of the violent times they were living in. A man’s life didn’t count for very much and if you lived beyond twenty-five years, you were lucky. He was extremely lucky, but then he was extremely skilled in the art of killing men.