‘If you’ve come to kill me, you'll find it to be no easy task,' shouted Ozhobar.
Thomas swayed, feeling faint and nearly fell, but he managed to stay upright even though the pain of his wound was intense. Blood was flowing freely inside his tunic, staining it crimson and movement was agony, but he scrambled forward into the shadows as another quarrel flashed past his head with a loud hiss. Pulling the first quarrel from his shoulder he dropped it to the floor just as the sound of pounding boots came from the top of the stairs. He swore quietly, stumbling further back into the shadows, and only the shimmering glow of the wall lanterns upon his sword blades offered any light.
The catacombs went off in many directions and he could have made a run for it, but he waited, watching the flickering shadows as four of the baron’s men descended the stairs, swords drawn.
The first man to reach the bottom step peered around warily, noticing the glint of polished steel within the shadows and he lunged at Thomas, whose sword swept across his neck slicing through it. Blood sprayed, flecking his face. The second guard swayed away from a slashing cut to his belly, but Thomas reversed the move with his other sword, slamming the blade deep into the man’s chest right up to the hilt as another crossbow bolt hissed past his head. The man groaned, falling to the floor. Thomas pulled his blade clear using his booted foot for leverage as the third guard rounded on him with a blood-curdling scream, his sword held high. Hurling himself forward in great pain, his wounded shoulder seeping blood, Thomas sliced through the skull of the guard and swung around to face the last man standing, who stumbled awkwardly on the bottom step dropping his sword.
Thomas leapt upon him using one of his swords like a dagger, and he drove it down through the man’s shoulder into his heart and lungs. Withdrawing the sword he staggered under the sheer weight of the man as he fell to the floor dead, and he stumbled briefly; then hauled himself upright as another crossbow bolt hissed past his head. He swayed away from it. ‘A pox upon you Ozhobar. I'm not ready to die just yet,’ he called out in agony. ‘I’ll let you live if you set my wife and child free and leave Nottingham forever.’
The baron laughed feverishly, his voice echoing down the tunnels. ‘When are you going to get it through your thick skull that I'm in control? I've got the crossbow. Come on. Come and die!’
Of the several tunnels in front of him, Thomas couldn’t tell which one the baron was in because of the echoes. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, gazing down at his blood-drenched shoulder. There was no feeling in it now and his vision was swimming. ‘Where are you, you ugly bastard?’ he shouted. ‘I will kill you if you don’t do as I ask. Set my family free now and I’ll let you live.’
Ozhobar ignored Thomas, who took three steps backward with impossible speed as the crossbow sang again and another bolt hissed past him. Then he was just about to rush forward into the middle tunnel when the sounds of fighting on the upper levels died away, replaced by the sound of pounding boots coming from somewhere overhead. ‘Oh, no, not more guards,’ he said spinning around on his heel, only to see Dardo and Dody on the crest of the staircase. Lira and Olivia were with them, safe and unharmed. He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God,’ he whispered, trembling. ‘Don’t come down here,’ he shouted, his voice deep and resonant as it echoed through the great halls of the catacombs. ‘I'm going to end this pathetic game by showing Ozhobar the entrance to Hell.’
Lira began to climb down the staircase. ‘Thomas, for the sake of Heaven and your daughter, let’s just find a way out of here,’ she snapped.
Dardo grabbed Lira by the arm. ‘It’s too late for that. He has to finish it. Now it’s personal,’ he said.
‘I’m coming to kill you Ozhobar,’ Thomas shouted, his voice echoing through the tunnels.
‘Please let’s get out of here while we can. Please Thomas,’ Lira begged.
Olivia ran down the few steps to her mother, taking her by the hand. ‘Daddy knows what he’s doing. The bad man must die before he hurts anyone else,’ she said softly, gazing up into her mother’s piercing blue eyes.
Lira squeezed Olivia’s hand gently. ‘I know darling, I just wish it weren’t so.’
With a great effort Thomas staggered forward, his mind empty of all emotion save one – the burning desire to wreak revenge upon his enemy. His forest greens were filthy and blood covered, his dark hair greasy, his face pale and worn, but his resolve didn’t waver. Yet the baron in his arrogance didn’t believe that Thomas would get this close. However, had there been many more of the enemy, Thomas would have killed them all, and had there been walls in front of him he would have torn them down. Such was the power of the hatred that pricked his soul.
Suddenly, black bolts flashed in the air around Thomas. He scrambled forward, panic welling up within him, and he even saw a bolt flying towards him and hurled his body out of the deadly line of fire as it flashed by him, plunging into the wall by his side. Ahead of him now was a wide entrance in the catacombs. He knelt, pausing fleetingly, trying to save his strength, and then he hauled himself upright, took a deep breath and began to walk the whole length of the immense cavern, keeping to the darkness of the shadows.
More than one hundred paces he took until he arrived at a huge iron gate, which barred his way. It was the portcullis and locked from the inside. Now he could hear the high-pitched screams of many men all shouting to be free, and the further inside the catacombs he went, the more the temperature plummeted with ice forming intricate patterns on the walls, bright and white against the red rock.
Now the wailing of human suffering filled the air, and he could feel the pulsing of his own blood like ice through his veins as the cavern echoed to the dying screams of tortured men. Then suddenly, a crossbow bolt tore into his left leg just above the knee and a high-pitched scream tore from his throat as intense pain filled his body and mind. The bolt hit with such force that it staggered him, spinning him from his feet and he dropped his swords.
‘Do you feel mortal now Thomas?’ came a taunting voice from the darkness of shadows behind him. More of the baron’s mad laughter echoed down the long tunnel.
Blood seeped from the second wound, soaking his leggings as he lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, but he pulled the bolt from his leg, screaming, ‘No! Never!’
Ozhobar threw the crossbow from the shadows to the floor and it landed in front of Thomas, who seemed strangely at peace with himself, despite his injuries. Stepping out into the dim light the baron drew his sword. ‘It’s over. Time to die,’ he said with the light of madness in his eyes, and he raised his sword high above his head and paused, savouring the moment.
Thomas however, had other idea’s flaring in his mind and reached into his boot, drawing the hidden dagger from the scabbard, and without a moment’s hesitation pushed himself forward, stabbing the astonished baron deep in the belly, time after time, and then he left the blade there. Ozhobar pitched backward without a sound, looking down at the blade embedded firmly in his stomach, and a terrible pain exploded in his body. His face was a picture of disbelief as he dropped his sword and his eyes met Thomas’ steely gaze, which seemed darkly exultant. Finally, his knees buckled and a gurgling groan burst from his lips as he slumped to the floor dead.
‘Now it’s all over, and provided your father has no more successors – so is my long history of violence,’ whispered Thomas hauling himself upright, breathing hard and groaning in pain.
He and his companions spent the next hour freeing every single prisoner in the dungeons, and every one of them took his hand and kissed it, blessing his courageous soul. And with their spirits lifted, they all left the mansion by the same way that Thomas and friends had come.
*
When Thomas awoke the next morning the sun was already up and the shutters on the bedroom windows were open. White linen curtains fluttered in the breeze and it was a beautiful bright day outside with a clear blue sky. He eased his torn, bruised, bandaged frame out of the pallet bed wearing only his black leggings. Th
en he limped across the room to gaze out at the Nottinghamshire landscape, and for the very first time in a long time, everything seemed serene and peaceful. Will it remain so, he wondered. He could only hope.
Epilogue
The following is an extract from Nottingham’s archives by Lira – daughter of Tobin the Blacksmith – who took over as recorder from her father after his murder. Here is part of her written record:
It is the beginning of the summer now and I have never known such joy. Only yesterday, God blessed me with another child, a baby boy, and he is healthy and strong like his father, and we named him Benjamin after his great grandfather.
Thomas, my husband is away again, doing what he does best as usual – protecting the weak and innocent. Dody, Cyrano’s son went with him. He has grown even taller, stronger and more handsome. Dardo stayed behind to look after their business interests, and though boisterous and untamed he still lives with the same serving wench in the Southern Quarter of Nottingham, practising with sword and bow every day. Thomas’ mastery of both weapons has definitely rubbed off on him.
And because of Thomas’ intervention against Ozhobar some months ago, Nottingham has never seemed so peaceful and tranquil. Every day that passes is a joy, and the poor and needy have shared in the treasure that Thomas and friends found in the Lionheart’s hidden tomb. All bless my husband's soul for the kindness shown to them.
Now we hold festivals regularly and nice folk come from everywhere to participate in some of the strangest games and events that I have ever seen. All belie description and beggar belief as usual, so come see for yourself.
The Dog and Duck is busier than ever and still the best inn for miles around for a family to visit. Rowdy, violent customers no longer frequent it since Thomas, Dardo and Dody went into partnership, and the food is exquisite and served on time while still fresh and piping hot.
The crops are growing particularly well this year and show much promise, and God has been good to us all in the last months. We pray that it remain so. I will finish my entry now and go back to my wifely duties, and please be sure to make time to visit Nottingham should you be passing. The Old Abbey is still one of the most beautiful sights for miles around and this one thing alone makes the visit worthwhile.
Lira, Daughter of Tobin the Blacksmith (Recorder of the Archive)
TO BE CONTINUED... IN PART THREE...
Chapter 17
One year later...
The year was 1231 A.D. and it was the beginning of summer. Nottinghamshire’s beautiful countryside shimmered gently in a peaceful haze, bathed in golden light from the high warm sun, and Henry III was the ruler of England, spending money on building palaces, castles and rebuilding Westminster Abbey, and he chose French friends and advisers over his English ones, which annoyed the barons, particularly because they were led by Simon de Montfort, the king’s French brother-in-law.
In the previous two hundred years, Norman invaders had introduced new customs, a new language; the feudal system and conquered Saxon England, and there were years of violent civil war, which saw Magna Carta signed and the birth of Parliament, besides the wars with Scotland and Wales. However, for now there was peace, even though England was full of castles filled with devils and evil men.
Each castle was the centre of local power, a law court and government office where the barons kept official records of villagers who had paid their taxes and fines, and those who had not. For that reason it was also the local prison.
Nearly all castles had a chapel for prayer, a kitchen for food and drink and a brewery for making beer, usually under the great hall or in the bailey, and within the great hall barons held court, judged land disputes and sentenced criminals. The castle prison was the keep, where weapons and armour were also stored, and in 1231A.D. Nottingham castle was no exception. However, it did hold one special prisoner.
Nottingham castle stood silently on the hillside overlooking undulating sweeps of meadowland, with its ancient gates facing down the long Nottingham Road, and it stood out from the countryside like a blood-red jewel with its sandstone walls covered in several different kinds of ivy, which had taken on a fiery hue since an autumn past, and for a whole year, Thomas Flynn had been incarcerated in its damp dungeons. His crime was none payment of taxes and his imprisonment was slowly driving him mad. He had begun having insane visions and dreams of horrific murders, mostly with women as the victims. Now he had a visitor who neither knew about visions, nor understood his predicament.
The Father Abbot blinked solemnly at Thomas, who was lying motionless on his iron bed, and his stern expression softened. ‘Oh, my son,’ he said wearily, ‘what has befallen you? Once you were like a priceless treasure to Nottingham and now you're like a candle without a flame.’ Shaking his old grey head, not knowing what to say to comfort Thomas, he stooped and helped him to his feet. He stood awkwardly, shuffling on the cold stone floor.
The Abbot put his arm around his shoulders, sensing his anxieties, and he smiled at his friend, speaking kindly. ‘We must talk my son. Walk with me and we'll try and sort out your problems.’
The two friends made their way at a sedate pace down the length of the dungeon, one clad in the brown habit of the order and the other garbed in his favourite black and gold tunic, black leggings and boots, and they conversed at length, earnestly in hushed tones. ‘Father Abbot, I have visions and I know not what they mean,’ said Thomas, his eyes dark and haunted, his skin sallow and chin covered in black stubble.
And even as he spoke, a curious thrush perched in an old oak tree outside the window swooped down through the rusted iron bars and landed on his shoulder, pecking at his ear as if it were telling him something, and then it whistled a merry tune, strolling nonchalantly over his shoulder. Finally it flew back through the bars and into the branches from whence it came.
The Abbot smiled. ‘Maybe the bird knows more than we do and can enlighten us both?’ he said as he studied his friends worn face.
Thomas sighed. ‘Oh, Father,’ he said as they entered the central portion of the dungeon, where the rack lay silent and unused, ‘if only I could make sense of my visions and dreams – but I can't and I think I'm going mad.’
It was cold inside the dungeons, even though sunlight flooded down in slanting shafts from the high arched windows, and dust swirled, dancing in the air as the two friends trod the ancient floor.
Suddenly the Abbot halted in front of a carving that was hung on the wall, which was a chronicle of Nottingham’s early history, and he turned to Thomas and sat down on the floor, resting his back against the wall. ‘What is it that you see in your visions and dreams my son?’ he asked.
Thomas sat also. ‘I see a masked man stalking women, but they're more than visions, hallucinations or whatever you want to call them,’ he said. ‘It’s as if I’m seeing through another man’s eyes, watching him kill. I think I’m somehow linked to a mass murderer.’
Shocked by this revelation the Abbot frowned, shook his head and asked a question, the answer to which he was sure he already knew. ‘How many murders have you seen these past six months?’ he said in a small voice, his gaze stern.
Something came over Thomas and he seemed in a trance with an icy stare. ‘Six,’ he said solemnly.
The Abbot looked even more shocked. There had indeed been six murder victims to his knowledge in the past six months. They were women of varying ages, all raped, stabbed and their throats slit – the youngest being seventeen years old, the oldest being thirty.
‘I'm here to secure your release from jail, my son. The Abbey funds have paid your fine,’ said the Abbot smiling kindly. ‘You've done much for the people of Nottingham and should never have been imprisoned. Come with me to the Abbey for a rest before you go home, and we can converse at length there about what you have witnessed in your visions.’ He rolled to his knees, hauling himself upright, holding out his hand to Thomas; helping him to his feet also. Straightening his habit he placed his hands inside the baggy folds of his slee
ves, pausing to look out of the iron-grilled window at the cloudless sky. He blinked solemnly, swinging his gaze around to Thomas. ‘Come, my son,’ he said in a whisper, ‘it’s time to leave this dreadful place.’
The Father Abbot led him slowly toward a rusted iron door that squeaked noisily as he opened it, and a guard to his left nodded reverently at him as they passed through and climbed a flight of spiral stone steps leading to the entrance of the Great Hall. He stopped at the top and turned, waiting for his friend to climb the last few steps and he studied the man. The fire that had once raged within him was no longer there. The heroic-looking figure with the fearless smile was gone, replaced by a malnourished, ill man.
The Abbot hooked an arm about Thomas’ shoulders and they walked the length of the Great Hall together in silence, to where another guard opened an oak door leading into a courtyard and an awaiting horse and cart stationed at a hitching post. From the walls of the castle keep, several guards jeered Thomas, mocking him. ‘Look at the great swordsman. He isn’t so tough now – is he?’ they said booing him and they spat as they raised the portcullis to its highest point and lowered the drawbridge to its lowest.
Thomas looked and felt the worst he ever had in his life. If he could have crawled under a stone to hide, he would have, but he climbed on board the cart and the Father Abbot unhitched the horse from the post.
All eyes stared at Thomas as the Abbot climbed on board too, shaking the reins, signalling for the old carthorse to make haste, but it took off at no more than a snail’s pace, passing through the arches and thick defensive walls of the barbican, out under the heavy portcullis with its iron-shod hooves clip-clopping and the wheels of the cart rattling over the drawbridge. And as they came out into the sunlight with their heads hung low, they were greeted with hearty cheers from a huge crowd of people led by Thomas’ wife, Lira.
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 24