by Mark G Heath
Tomorrow, back permitting, he intended to meander through the lanes on the southern side of the village and also to discover whether any thoroughfare afforded passage to the mysterious tower beyond. He would also take the track, which he suspected led down to the riverside and if he was able, obtain an audience with the priest. He dabbed the last letters on his map and gently blew across the ink to dry it. He placed the cork stopper back in the top of the ink and placed it on the mantelpiece along with the quills. He decided he would leave the map to dry out on his bed, it was no secret that he was a mapmaker and the map he had created only described what was at the locations thus he had no fear of discovery about what he really thought of each place he had marked out. Again the rain hammered against the window and he stood before the fire pleased to be indoors when his door opened and Kathryn Dromgoole made her customary unheralded entrance.
“ Good evening and how are you, not too wet I hope?” she asked flouncing into the room. Thaindire saw that she wore a short dress that exposed her shapely legs and a tight corset, which accentuated her breasts behind the low cut blouse that she wore. He quickly glanced at the floor fighting the urge to drink in her beauty, as he waited for the inevitable wall of scent to come crashing over him. It was barely moment as a spicy scent wrapped around him, the strong concoction circling him as if it were alive.
“ No, all dried out now thank you,” replied Thaindire.
“ Father has asked that you join him for a drink, now that you are better able to move,”
“ I would be delighted to,” answered Thaindire. He had completed his mapmaking and whilst it was cosy in his bedroom he would welcome the opportunity to see more of the villagers. He glanced at his sword leant in the corner and did not think that it would be seen as appropriate to take it downstairs with him, especially as he had not yet acquired a scabbard within which to house it.
“ Wonderful,” trilled Kathryn planting a flirtatious hand on his chest. Thaindire reached for his boots and was glad of Kathryn’s assistance in putting them on as he struggled in some discomfort to remove them earlier.
The pair descended, arms linked as they reached the lower landing. As soon as his black boots touched the hardwood floor of the landing, a door opened and once more the man of jewellery emerged. He wore a white silk blouse and about his neck was a golden pendant, which housed some kind of ruby. His trousers were fashioned from an expensive cloth and were striped, red and yellow, before being tucked into a pair of high boots whose shiny leather put to shame the scuffed nature of his own boots.
“ Good evening,” remarked the man.
“ Good evening,” replied Thaindire and Kathryn in unison as the bejewelled man passed them and descended two stairs at a time.
“ Who is that?” asked Thaindire quietly, “ Every time I arrive on this landing I bump into him coming out of his room,” he admitted.
“ That’s Cyon Lancaster,” confided Kathryn as they made their way down the split staircase. “ A rich man. He comes and stays with us for a few weeks at a time. I think he just likes to get away from his wife,” laughed Kathryn.
A wall of heat and sound struck Thaindire as he entered the main room of the tavern. A great fire burned in the wide fireplace and all the seats and tables around the open floor area looked occupied by a collection of laughing, conversing and drinking villagers. To the left of the fireplace a young man was playing a lyre and singing, a small group sat about him joining in with the song. He sang well, his melodious voice lifting above the general murmur of conversation, although Thaindire was unable to discern what the subject of his ballad was. Kathryn steered him towards the bar about which a number of figures were sat on the tall stools before it. One was empty, just right of the centre and Kathryn motioned for him to sit at it. Thaindire obliged.
“ I will be back soon, just have some serving to do,” she leant in and pecked him on the cheek. Benjamin Dromgoole turned around from tending to the casks, his broad face red from the heat of the room and no doubt the effects of his own brews.
“ Good evening Master Thaindire, delighted you can join us, now what will you have, naturally your first is on the house,” boomed Dromgoole.
“ You choose for me,” answered Thaindire slightly bewildered by the number of barrels that stood waiting behind the bar. Dromgoole regarded him for a moment and then clapped his hands.
“ A flagon of Lost Soul seems apt to me,” he grinned and broke into a laugh. The landlord snatched up a flagon in one of his immense hands and addressed it to the nozzle of a barrel nearby, twisting the tap on it and letting a dark brown liquid spill into the container.
“ Your recovering health,” he declared slamming the flagon down on the bar.
“ My thanks,” replied Thaindire as Dromgoole stood over him waiting for him to drink. He raised the flagon to his mouth and a warm, creamy smell was apparent. He took a mouthful of the ale and swallowed, savouring its taste, which left a slightly honey-like aftertaste.
“ That’s good,” he declared and took another mouthful. Dromgoole smiled and moved away to serve somebody to the right of Thaindire. He sat up from the bar and looked to his left. Two men were sat immediately to his left, huddled inwards, deeply engrossed in conversation and beyond them a group of four villagers was laughing at some story or joke, one slapping his friend on the shoulder. He could see beyond them a doorway, which no doubt led to the kitchens and stores. The bar turned to the right and thus had two lengths to it. Kathryn was collecting flagons that her father was setting on as tray for him at this end and as she saw him looking across she winked at him and he smiled back.
Thaindire felt a little wrong footed. After the horror of the gibbet and its contents, his antipathy for the villagers had intensified, yet now, amidst the warmth, the rich smell of ale and pipe smoke, which drifted through the air, the village took on an altogether different complexion, one which was far less ominous. Surely not all of those who resided here were beholden to dark ways? He looked again at the four friends, most likely farmers. Their relaxed manner and camaraderie appeared far removed from anyone who would slay one of his companions and leave them hanging as a grisly reminder in the cold wind.
“ Did you have a good look around the village?” asked a voice to his left. Thaindire glanced towards the voice and found a man, shorter than himself now stood at the bar besides him. He raised a hand and scratched at his head, his hair shorn short in a failed attempt to mask his creeping baldness before he proffered his hand to Thaindire. Thaindire shook the man’s hand that then rubbed at the end of a rather protruding and thin nose.
“ Yes, yes I did,” answered Thaindire.
“ Aye, I saw you earlier crossing the square. I’m Rainier Emory.”
“ Samael Thaindire.”
“ Ansell tells me you took something of a mauling off the wolves. Damn creatures, poor Edmund there,” Rainier indicated with a stubby forefinger towards a man sat nearby, “ Lost four sheep to them last week.”
“ I am sorry to learn of that,” consoled Thaindire.
“ And Linet even had a calf slain by them the same week.” continued Emory with his catalogue of livestock slaughter, pointing across the room to another farmer.
“ Again too bad.”
“ Doesn’t affect me as much, I keep bees. Do you like honey?”
“ Er, yes, yes I do. “ replied Thaindire.
“ Beatrice likes honey don’t you my love?” commented Emory as a serving girl, young like Kathryn, approached the bar.
“ Oh yes, anything sweet suits me.” answered the girl smiling at them both from beneath her blonde fringe, her full green eyes widening in suggestion. She paused for a moment as if waiting for Thaindire to speak and when he did not, she moved towards another customer for his order.
“ She is a delight,” confided Emory leaning in towards Thaindire, his gaze moving up and down the lithe frame of Beatrice who was easily half the age of the beekeeper.
Thaindire kept his silence.
/> “ She will look after you, mind,” continued Emory giving Thaindire a slight nod before taking a drink.
“ You just need to get her attention. It’s all in the eyes. All in the eyes,” he confided pointing to his own pale blue eyes.
“ Isn’t that right Beatrice?” commented Emory raising his voice.
“ What’s that Rainier?” she asked moving back along the bar.
“ It is all in the eyes,” responded the beekeeper leaning over the bar so he could stare more directly at the girl. She let out a short laugh and placing her hands on her hips, locked her own gaze with that of Emory, widening her eyes in an exaggerated fashion before tapping him playfully on his nose and walking to elsewhere along the bar.
“ It’s just a question of time,” added Emory, although he seemed to be talking to himself more than Thaindire. He prised himself off the bar and calling Beatrice’s name, followed her to the other end of the bar, leaving Thaindire to shake his head.
He took another drink from his flagon enjoying the taste of the ale and set his cup down, before turning to his right. Thaindire found a face staring right at him from barely a pace away. A tall man, with greasy, lank black hair, which fell from beneath a peaked hat, was stood close to him. He had a sharp, hooked nose and slanted grey eyes which carefully regarded him. The man wore several days’ growth of dark stubble and there was a small scar on his left cheek, which the stubble did not yet cover. He scratched at his chin, jutting his jaw outwards. The unwavering gaze of this fellow was slightly unsettling but this was not as great as the discomfort Thaindire felt when he noticed that the man was wearing a military uniform. It was black or possible a deep navy blue in colour, but what struck him was the front of the tunic with the stitching about a double set of dull metal buttons. The design was exactly that which he had seen on the imps. Thaindire immediately noticed that the solider also wore his sword at his side, some kind of sabre in a scabbard. His frame was sinewy and Thaindire suspected he was likely to be an effective swordsman and no doubt an officer if he carried a sabre. He glanced to the man’s shoulders and saw epaulettes with pips on them.
“ Eustace Reznik,” spoke the soldier in a low voice, extending his hand towards Thaindire,
“ Captain Eustace Reznik.”
“ Samael Thaindire,” replied Thaindire.
“ Yes, I know. Our new arrival. I saw you wandering up to the bridge this afternoon,” he commented before taking a long drink from his own flagon.
“ You’re from Lancester right?” asked the Captain.
“ Yes I am. Have you always lived in the village?” replied Thaindire.
“ No. “ came the curt reply,” What do you make of Aftlain then?”
“ Well, I am still getting used to it after thinking I would never arrive, it is quite some distance from anywhere else.”
“ That’s true, that’s why I like it, on the edge of the world and of course,” Reznik raised his voice and turned to the address the pub, “ Its one way in.”
“ And one way out!” shouted a voice back from the throng of people.
“ And if you don’t like it,” chorused several voices at once.
“ You’ll get a clout.” finished yet more of the villagers joining in before laughing.
The Captain turned back to Thaindire and afforded him a slight smile.
“ Queer bunch eh?”
“ Well er,” floundered Thaindire unsure of what to say following the impromptu declaration of Aftlain’s isolation and he opted instead to take another drink.
“ Don’t worry, it is a fact,” continued Reznik.” But I like them. I have lived in many places and this suits me best,” he explained.
“ Presumably because of your soldiering?”
“ That’s right,” replied Reznik.
“ Where have you been?” asked Thaindire his curiosity piqued.
“ Why?” snapped Reznik as he motioned for Dromgoole to refresh his cup.
“ Just wondered, making conversation.”
“ I’m jesting with you,”Reznik let his thin mouth open into a smile, “ I have criss crossed Albion, been across the sea to Ardvur, travelled south to the Ganfrey Peninsula and as far east as Serengonia.”
“ Impressive. Under whose command do you serve? That isn’t the uniform of the Duchy,” commented Thaindire, indicating the dark tunic with a tilt of his flagon.
“ My own command,” came the reply, “ Sure I started out taking the coin of the Earl of Linderdale but I soon found that, shall we say, an independent approach suited me best and I recruited accordingly. I prefer flexibility when it comes to whom I am fighting for.”
“ I see and are you still soldiering?”
“ Why, fancy joining me do you?”
“ Oh no, I am no swordsman,” protested Thaindire.
“ Really, so that display at the smithy was just showing off?” retorted Reznik. Damn, so Reznik has seen him do that also. He ought to have known better really that he would be under the scrutiny of the villagers being a stranger to them.
“ Well, er, I can wield a sword but what I mean is I am no soldier,” he back-pedalled.
Reznik gave a slight snort apparently unconvinced.
“ I base myself in Aftlain now,” said Reznik rather vague as to whether this meant he continued his soldiering. Thaindire nodded and finished off his ale. He caught Dromgoole’s attention and paid for a second flagon of Lost Soul.
“ So where did you get to in the village then?” asked Reznik turning and leaning against the bar, nonchalantly regarding the crowd of patrons. Occasionally he gave a nod of recognition as a greeting of “ Captain” could be heard from those who entered the tavern.
“ I just went round the square and up to Tallow Bridge,” explained Thaindire, “ Tell me, what do the statues on the bridge signify, they had no inscription and I did not recognise the sculptures?”
“ Haven’t a bloody clue,” muttered Reznik, “ They’ve been there a long, long time, far longer than my living here or anyone else’s for that matter. The best person to ask is Campion he knows his history.”
“ Who’s Campion?” asked Thaindire.
“ Thomas Campion, the priest. That’s his sexton, Oliver along the bar there,” the captain raised his flagon towards one of the two conversing men.
“ Oi, Oliver, is your master about tomorrow, Thaindire here wants to see him about something?” shouted Reznik.
The Sexton swivelled around and nodded before turning back to his companion.
“ Excuse me, need the piss pot,” grunted Reznik, pushing himself off the bar and making his way through a doorway beside the staircase. Thaindire sat drinking his ale watching the room. He spotted Lancaster who was sat by the window flanked by two young village girls. The wealthy fellow had his arms around each of the girls as they nuzzled into him, laughing at whatever charms were issuing from his mouth. On the far side of the fireplace he could see Ansell Redway sat with presumably his wife and another couple, although Thaindire noted Redway's hands wandered to the back and rears of both women, slowly kneading their fleshy rumps. Closer to the bar was Fenton Senechal who was tickling a younger woman who was sat across his lap, her shrieking laughter rising above the other noise of the tavern, as Senechal’s hands groped and roamed over her. The bard was singing louder, his fingers working swiftly across his instrument, a pulsating song, which several noisy villagers were joining in with. The bard caught his gaze and gave him a wink and a grin as he continued his song. The noise and the heat of the room seemed to have been increased, as if the villagers fed off one another’s growing enthusiasm and bawdiness.
“ Evening,” said a voice beside Thaindire. He turned and two men stood by him. The taller one smiled, creases forming besides his blue eyes. His companion was shorter, with a long nose and little hair on his head, that which did remain had been shaved short.
“ Excellent music,” remarked the taller man.
“ Yes, everyone seems to be enjoying it,” replied Thai
ndire.
“ He's quite the talent is our Balthazar. He has sung all across the county you know. He's very popular at weddings. Apparently his songs have brought blessings on the new husbands and wives that he has sung to. He ensures they are blessed with children.”
“ Is that so?”
“ Oh yes, you should ask him to sing something about you, it might help you get better, quicker,”
Thaindire frowned.
“ I think I will let my body heal naturally,” he said.
“ To be fair, I can understand that, but believe me, that man's voice has magical properties,” asserted the taller man.
“ I've never heard that said about a bard before.”
“ Well, you have now. I'm Pula Broor by the way,” said the blue-eyed man and he extended his hand. Thaindire shook hands.
“ This is Aindrew Ackerley.” The shorter man gave a nod.
“ Show me your teeth,” said Ackerley.
“ Sorry?” said Thaindire.
“ Show me your teeth. Your teeth. Teeth.”
Thaindire looked at Broor, slightly unnerved by Ackerley's demand.
“ He's a barber,” laughed Broor.
“ Oh, I see,” said Thaindire. He put his teeth together and drew his lips back. The barber reached out a finger and tapped Thaindire's teeth.
“ No work there for me,” he said a look of disappointment crossing his face.
“ How are you finding the village?” asked Broor.
“ Oh, fine, just taking a look around, for my maps, you see.”
“ Yes, I saw you walking around earlier on,” said Broor.
“ We all did,” added Ackerley.
“ So, you are staying here at the inn?” asked Broor.
“Yes and it is very hospitable.”
“ I'll wager it is,” grinned Ackerley.