A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn )

by Michael Siddall

  Suddenly, there was a loud banging on the hunter’s door. ‘Open up. Open up,' a loud voice shouted. 'Come and see what I’ve found.’

  Both men jumped as if slapped. Then Mathis groaned and climbed to his feet from his wooden rocking chair by the roaring fire and ambled across the room. ‘Who the hell is that at this hour?’ he said lifting the iron bar to open the door.

  A small, old, fat man dressed in rags was standing there with a torch burning brightly in his hand. ‘Come and see what I’ve found,’ he shouted. ‘Come see!’

  Mathis stood in the doorway, mad eyed, backlit by the firelight. ‘What the hell are you doing creeping about in the woods at this hour of night, knocking on peoples doors?’ he snapped.

  Sanson gasped breathlessly. ‘I was poachin’ in the moonlight and found something. Come see. Come see.’

  Mathis swung his head about to fix Thomas’ tired gaze. ‘I better go with the crazy old fool and find out what he’s found, otherwise neither of us will get any rest tonight,’ he said, temper flaring.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said the other climbing to his feet, and within five minutes they were all ambling down a ruined hillside, cut in half by torrential flood waters. Both men were following Sanson closely, guided by bright moonlight, when suddenly the hillside shook and the earth trembled.

  ‘What the hell caused that? I thought the earth was going to swallow us up,’ said Mathis.

  ‘Thomas shrugged. ‘Don’t know, but it’s stopped now so let’s keep going.

  Finally, both men followed the poacher to where the hillside came to an abrupt halt, exposing a pair of ivy covered marble pillars and a cracked lintel stone.

  ‘Is it an ancient tomb?’ asked Thomas scrambling up and over the mud, half- covering the entrance.

  The other two men followed him, sliding over the mud into the entrance, and all three men halted before a huge statue that seemed to be standing guard over the broken stone doorway. Moonlight shone down on the marble of the statue and Thomas stood gazing at the carving, trying to figure out who it was. He stared down at the plinth. The date read: 1194 A.D. and mentioned Richard the Lionheart and the Third Great Crusade, but nothing more of the stone text was legible. The invasive floodwaters of a nearby river had badly eroded it. Is this the Lionheart’s resting place, thought Thomas?

  The statue itself stood almost ten feet tall. On its right arm was a triangular shield and in its left hand was a serrated broad-sword, but Thomas’ attention was not taken by the sword or shield, but by the fact that the warrior whoever he had been was left-handed. Then he noticed that the statues eyes were large, the face angular and the mouth smiling as if it knew something that everyone else didn’t. And the one thing that Thomas knew was that out of the many thousands of soldiers that had followed Richard the Lionheart into battle – not too many had come home.

  ‘He looks very fierce,’ said Sanson.

  ‘A mighty warrior,’ added Mathis.

  ‘Hell’s teeth. Who would dare fight someone that ugly?’ asked Thomas staring up at the cruel, scarred face. He chuckled to himself. ‘I dread to think what his wife looked like. Bet that’s why he joined the army.’

  All three men laughed heartily, the sound bursting around the tomb, echoing eerily from wall to wall. ‘Why would anyone want a statue that ugly guarding their grave?’ asked Thomas as they pushed their way into the main burial chamber.

  Mathis' torch flared brightly in his hand and they could all see a coffin by the far wall. They edged towards it slowly, lifting the cracked lid. A dismal screech as of animal terror rang from the coffin and startled bats spiralled out by the dozen frightening them all. Appalled they sprang back a little in the following silence. Sanson paused taking a deep breath, laying his hand to his heart. His face was ashen and the others could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws. ‘Holy mother of God,’ he snapped, ‘that scared the living daylights out of me that did.’

  Thomas and Mathis breathed a sigh of relief, laughing without humour. ‘Me too,’ they said in unison.

  Once more the ground beneath their feet trembled and shook and Thomas swore as the tremor died away slowly. All three men stood nervously for a few moments and then a second quake hit, hurling them from their feet. The coffin slid sideways from its plinth, struck a boulder and shattered into a hundred pieces. Mathis and Sanson lay hugging the earth for several moments as the rumbling continued, and then silence settled on the land and they rose shakily. Thomas rolled to his knees, climbing to his feet too and all three men stood wide-eyed staring at the contents of the coffin, which was scattered about on the floor of the tomb. There was no body. But there was hundreds of gold and silver coins, diamonds, emeralds and sapphires.

  Mathis gasped. ‘It looks like a fortune,' he said.

  Speechless, Thomas nodded and stared with a backward glance into the darkness of the tomb to make sure no one had followed them.

  Sanson threw himself onto the ground amidst the treasure, grabbing handfuls, his eyes fever bright. ‘We’re rich!’ he yelled laughing madly, and so lively was his excitement that he stood up quickly, laying a hand on Thomas’ arm shaking him again, crying out that they were now all wealthy men.

  ‘Pull yourself together man,’ snapped Thomas.

  Sanson’s eyes widened, but his face slackened. He stared hard at Thomas but said nothing more.

  ‘Where do you think all this treasure came from?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Turks. It’s obviously Saracen loot,’ said Mathis. ‘The coffin plinth is dated 1194 A.D. and mentions The Great Crusade and Richard the Lionheart, so I assume it was his plunder.

  Thomas looked quizzically at Mathis. ‘Is this Lionheart dead?’ he asked having no recollection of the man or his crusade.

  ‘He better be. They buried him,’ said Mathis dryly.

  ‘Then I think we’ve inherited a fortune,’ said Sanson shaking Mathis' hand, and he laughed feverishly.

  Thomas stood thoughtfully for a moment, and then his hand rose covering his mouth. He sighed heavily. ‘I’m rich – but I don’t even know who I am...’

  *

  Ozhobar rode like a phantom across the moonlit landscape with his long cape flapping behind him. Cracking a bull-whip loudly above his head he galloped on through the cold night, digging his golden spurs into his horse’s sweaty flanks. Forty huge warriors followed him closely.

  Ozhobar himself was the biggest, most savage warrior who had ever crossed Nottingham’s countryside, save for his father, Ozhan. Now he was on a mission. Word of Thomas’ disappearance had spread like wildfire and he was going to take full advantage of the fact. All would fear him and follow him or they would die. Beresford, his second in command rode beside him, carrying a long pike with a human head fixed at the top. He had killed the man only an hour before, toying with him cruelly before beheading him.

  Wild-eyed with the smell of blood in their nostrils they plunged ahead without a conscious thought, and straight on their panicked horses galloped past the milestone lodged in the earth at the roadside as they hit the Old Nottingham Road, heedless of the letters graven in stone: Ferret’s Farm, fifteen miles.

  Ozhobar needed no instruction as to his objectives whereabouts or its distance. He knew the farm very well. As a child he had spent many an unhappy hour there at his father’s request, until the age of fifteen when he had run away to sea. Four years later after crossing the wide oceans and treading the jungles of the world, he jumped from ship to shore after learning of his father’s sudden violent death. Now he wanted what was rightfully his by birth right, every inch of land that his father had terrorised and murdered for, and he fully intended to get it back by inflicting as much pain and suffering as possible on the unsuspecting sleepy population of Nottingham. Thomas, their great protector was gone – and that’s all he needed to know.

  Hellfire burned in his odd glowing eyes as he galloped on through the darkness, determined to do what only he could do in anger. The people of the area could nev
er imagine that years after Ozhan’s demise, someone even worse than the Devil himself might come to collect what was now theirs.

  Ozhobar shook his reins furiously, his horse galloping itself into a lather, striking hooves on packed ground, carving out deep divots. He dug his golden spurs into the horse’s sweaty flanks again and roared. ‘Vengeance shall be mine,’ and he cracked his whip laughing madly as he stared into the darkness at his men with a backward glance. They hardly needed encouragement. At a thunderous gallop they raced headlong towards Ferret’s farm, and as the passing echoes of speeding hoof beats died away slowly, dust clouds rose in the horses’ wakes.

  Soon there will be smoking ruins smouldering in the moonlight, the crash of collapsing timbers, and nothing remaining of the farm but fiery ashes that will grow cold and still and blow away, thought Ozhobar. There shall be nothing left but the moaning wind.

  Finally, they found the farm waiting for them in the lands skirting Nottingham. Ozhobar held up his hand for his men to stop and his eyes gleamed in anticipation of what was about to take place – murder, mayhem and destruction with no damning consequences to him. He pulled a blood-soaked scroll from inside the top of his boot, unrolling it, and his eyes seemed to erupt into flame as he began to read:

  'I have written that the forces of nature and destiny shape our lives with events that defy explanation, and certain individuals soar to the stars while others fall to earth. However, legends are not born; they are forged in the fires of Hell, where there is no way of understanding things greater than ourselves, so we must be instinctively greater than our own destinies and nature. Long live Ozhobar the Great. Now kill every last man, woman and child.’

  In his mind’s eye he re-lived that fateful moment when a lean shadowy figure, shrouded entirely in black had visited him to reclaim him as his own. His father with his inhuman features, odd glittering eyes and mocking grin had come in the dead of night to this very farm – which by contrast would make Hell itself seem a welcoming place – to collect him. He shook off the tormenting memories and forced himself to concentrate on his task.

  The shadowy outline of the farm stood before him shrouded in mist and the night wind howled, seeming to carry the reek of brimstone as his sombre eyes surveyed the house, watching wooden shutters swing open and shut in the gale. It was an eerie scene, set in midnight black.

  Very slowly he rode forward with the bloodied parchment and nailed it to the door, nodding grimly, and then his men proceeded to burn the place down with everyone in it. Thick black smoke began to rise from the blazing building, billowing towards a barn, and soot began to stain the whitewashed walls as acrid fumes seeped from the narrow windows. There was an inferno burning inside.

  Suddenly, there was horrific screams as the blazing farmhouse began to collapse in showers of sparks and rubble tumbled to the ground. Ozhobar’s men laughed loudly as more thick smoke swirled, drifting away from the house in long trailers, and the smell of burning flesh lingered heavily in the air. Even after they were convinced that they had killed their terrified victims, their blood lust was still not sated.

  Spooked by the terrifying scene, Ozhobar's stallion whinnied in fear, trembling beneath him, the man himself consumed by hate, greed and blood lust. Laughing, gripping his reins tightly with one hand he rode the skittish horse up to the collapsed building and reached down into the ashes, snatching the scrap of parchment from the smouldering door. ‘Now it's over with,’ he said.

  Suddenly, a swinging door on the barn squeaked, the shrill sound cutting through the darkness. His head spun, eyes rounding on the sound and his terrified horse reared up on hind legs, front hooves pawing wildly at the empty air. Steam jetted from its flaring nostrils and its frantic eyes rolled in their sockets.

  ‘There’s someone in the barn,' he snapped. ‘Get them out here now and we’ll have a hanging.’ There was the sound of someone dropping a metal bucket and running footsteps. His startled stallion snorted, shaking its head violently. ‘Easy boy,’ he urged, but in its agitated state, froth flecked its lips and more steam jetted from its nostrils. He tightened his grip on the reins, fighting to control the panicked horse.

  Someone threw an empty noose over an oak beam protruding from the barn wall and it hung and swung back and forth ominously in the howling wind that wailed like an army of damned souls. Then Ozhobar’s maniacal gaze locked on a solitary figure limping towards him. It was a boy of no more than nine years and he was sobbing.

  ‘Why won’t somebody help me?’ he said as he approached. His breathing was shallow and his throat rattled from inhaling the thick black smoke. Glassy eyed he stared blankly into eternity.

  Thunder rumbled on the horizon and a torrid wind whipped up the dust at the boy’s feet enveloping him, forcing him to close his eyes. The dust devil disappeared quickly and the boy opened them again. ‘You son of a whore,’ he swore for the first time in his young life, firmly fixing Ozhobar’s gaze. ‘You’ve murdered my whole family.’

  The other smiled mercilessly. ‘I lead a wild sinful life, filled with drugs and liquor, and have far too many rebellious women to pleasure me but, I have to be honest with you, the shocking truth is – I get far more pleasure from violent killings than anything else. What's your name whelp?’

  The boy stood in tearful silence for a moment. 'Godwin, son of Berwyn from the House of Longmire,' he said. Then he began to pray. ‘Please Lord; don’t let this evil monster claim my soul. Rescue me and I promise to go to church every day and never utter another sinful word.’ His haunted eyes stared up into his tormentor’s brutal face searching for any spark of humanity. He found none. Then he stared up at the starry night sky overhead knowing that God wouldn’t answer his prayer. He knew he was going to die.

  Ozhobar’s eyes seemed to glow and burst into flame. It set the boys teeth chattering, and the more he trembled, the more avidly the other’s eyes gleamed as though they were soaking up every ounce of terror. ‘You're going to die now, and it will feel worse than you can possibly imagine,’ he said finally.

  Sheer, unrelenting panic washed over the boy like a tidal wave and he sobbed fitfully. ‘Please don’t kill me,’ he begged.

  Ozhobar nodded his approval to his men and they grabbed the boy, dragging him screaming to the noose. Tying his hands behind his back they looped the noose over his head, tightening it about his neck and he sobbed and screamed uncontrollably as he awaited execution. They hauled him unceremoniously into the air, kicking and thrashing wildly. The baron watched the boy choke; dying slowly and painfully for what seemed an eternity. Then he swung his horse around, bid his men to do the same and rode off into the darkness of the night without so much as a word or backward glance.

  Chapter 14

  Lira stood at the top of Nottingham hill amid fragrant bluebells with a bright blue sky overhead. She was staring at the initials and inscription ‘T & L are in love forever’, carved into the bark of an old elm. Golden sunlight gently warmed her.

  She had carved those words four years earlier and felt a bitter-sweet pang inside her heart as she contemplated life without Thomas. She sighed. ‘This whole nightmare started when I lost my temper and said those awful words to you a month ago,’ she said ruefully, ‘and now I’m so sorry and miss you more than you will ever know. Where are you? Are you dead or alive? Are you hurt and helpless? The not knowing is the worst of all.’ She took a moment to mourn Thomas’ loss once more and would always regret that her harsh words had been her last to him and cost her so dearly.

  Hours later, back at the Dog and Duck her eyes glistened moistly. She had been crying all afternoon and was beside herself with grief. Olivia was crying too, making the situation even worse. Memories flared and flooded into her mind of them kissing and making love beneath the spreading branches of a majestic oak tree. She had conceived Olivia that day and it was a beautiful, romantic, unforgettable day. A cool breeze had wafted over the land, and no one, not even the Devil himself could have spoiled the moment. Now she was alone. They
were alone.

  She still couldn’t believe what had happened, wouldn’t come to terms with the fact that it might have been her fault, didn’t want to exist without the love of her life because one argument had gotten completely out of hand. There was no bitterness or anger in her thoughts – only regret.

  Not so very far away, Thomas still had no knowledge of his past life or fame, no inkling of his past mistakes, nor any great purpose in life – but what he did have was a new destiny to fulfil.

  Now a whole year flew by like fast moving clouds on a windy day, and over time, the legend that was Thomas Flynn faded, even though the memory of his great exploits lingered on and would never die. He stood gazing out of Mathis’ cabin window at a beautiful morning with the high sun shining down and birds chirping away merrily in the trees. Taking a deep breath he wondered what his mission in life was, when suddenly his friend the hunter crashed through the heavy oak door like a bolt from a crossbow, knocking it off its hinges.

  Hitting the hard stone floor of his cabin, he skidded beneath the table. He shook his head trying to clear the dizziness swamping his mind and bells rang in his ears as he pushed the table over, slamming it out of his way. It crashed against the far wall. Rolling to his knees he climbed to his feet, hauling himself upright. ‘C’mon you son of a whore,’ he snapped as a huge, barrel-chested man loomed in the doorway, backlit by the bright morning sun. He was big, scarred and tough looking with ragged hair and crooked teeth, wearing a black patch over his missing left eye. The gamekeeper had lost an eye, torn out in a fight with a poacher. The poacher had lost his life.

  Thomas stood stock-still watching the gamekeeper hunch his broad shoulders, bending his head to enter the cabin doorway. Wild eyed with the smell of blood in his nostrils he hawked and spat. ‘You never learn do you Mathis?’ he said with a sneer. ‘I think I’ll spit roast you now.’ The gamekeeper had never looked more menacing. His eye glowed with the fervour of his profession as he threw back his head, relishing this long-awaited confrontation, and his crooked black teeth showed as he gave a broad smile, laughing mirthlessly. ‘Knew I’d catch you one day. It was only a matter of time.’