by Euan McAllen
Breamston the blacksmith came storming out to confront Gregory. It was like they had unfinished business.
‘What are you doing here again?’
‘You’re looking well Breamston.’
‘Don’t play games with me Valadino. What do you want!’
Timothy looked at Gregory and his mouth trickled open.
‘Lodgings Breamston, for me and my companions. We will pay you well. And it’s Gregory, remember?’
Breamston remembered.
Iedazimus wanted to shake his purse at the idiot: he now remembered that the village blacksmith was an overbearing idiot.
‘And perhaps your services, for which we will pay you well. Isn’t that right Iedazimus?’
Iedazimus stepped forward, wishing to take charge, stamp his authority, for he was the leader of this adventure.
‘That’s right,’ he said, and looked the blacksmith straight in the eye. ‘You recognise me blacksmith?’
‘No?’
‘You should.’
A suspicious Breamston, eyebrows furrowed, studied the face hard. Then it hit him and memories were whipped up. They were a mixed bag. Breamston remembered the arm wrestling when they had both been drunk; the whoring; the drunken fights over the woman who was now his wife.
‘You’re the sod from the castle!’
‘That’s me. I was here sixteen, seventeen years ago.’
‘I remember.’ Breamston didn’t want to. ‘I left you on the floor, drunk, unconscious after I knocked you out.’
Iedazimus laughed, just. ‘Probably, but forgive and forget I say.’
He slapped the blacksmith on the back, just to annoy him.
‘You remember my friends here Jeno and Tippo?’
They pushed forward, perhaps to shake the blacksmith’s hand, perhaps to beat him up. Breamston examined their faces. Yes, he recognised them. More trouble, he thought. But he wanted the money.
‘I remember,’ he said as he backed away.
‘We remember you,’ said Jeno, as if he had unfinished business.
‘Why are you scoundrels back? The Elders told you to get out if I remember correctly.’ He did.
Esmeralda meanwhile was stuck on Timothy and Mutz, as they were stuck on her.
‘Just passing through,’ said Gregory, wishing to reassure.
‘Back to the castle,’ added Iedazimus.
‘You want to go back there?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’
‘How are things on the Outside? You found God yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Gregory. ‘But I’m working on it.’
Iedazimus laughed. Timothy didn’t.
Esmeralda saw a dog, a lovely little dog, just begging to be cuddled. She had always wanted a dog but Mrs Breamston didn’t like dogs.
‘You’re a dog!’ she exclaimed, and rushed forwards to stroke it but Stevie backed away, to hide behind Timothy.
‘He’s timid,’ explained Timothy. ‘Only just getting used to people.’
‘What’s his name?’ she asked.
‘Stevie.’
‘What’s your name?’ she asked next, as if going down a shopping list.
‘Timothy. I’m a friend of Gregory’s - sorry Valadino.’
Saying the name ‘Valadino’ felt peculiar. He looked at Valadino, wishing to have a strong word and get something off his chest. Gregory looked back at him, knowing pretty well what was coming. Suddenly Breamston cut in and told her to stand behind him, then on second thoughts, sent her packing back inside. He wanted her out of the way, away from these young men.
While he and Iedazimus negotiated a price for lodgings Timothy grabbed his chance to confront his oldest, closest friend and guardian over a secret he had decided not to share with him, Timothy!
‘Your real name is Valadino?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Timothy spat the words out.
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course I do. But I wanted to protect you.’
‘Protect me? From what?’
‘From him, from Adolphinus.’
That made no sense to Timothy. ‘Were you ever going to tell me?’
‘Of course! When we reached the Village, but Breamston beat me to it.’
Gregory looked back at Iedazimus and saw him open his purse. He was paying a deposit in silver. Breamston pocketed the silver, to hide it from his wife. Business done (for now) he led his guests to the spare rooms in the building which backed onto the forge. Esmeralda watched from the kitchen window while the Mrs Breamston took notes from the safety of the kitchen doorstep.
Later Iedazimus negotiated further while he chewed on fresh bread and cheese. He wanted four swords - sharpened, second hand would suffice - along with four helmets, and five horses: Gregory and his kid would have to share. As for the old monk, he was not part of the arrangement: he would have to fend for himself. Breamston’s eyes lit up when the list was made. He almost licked his lips, as would his wife, on hearing the news. It would take ages to put all this together, in which time he would be earning good money from renting out a couple of crap rooms and charging for food, and perhaps washing - perhaps new clothes?
Esmeralda made one fleeting appearance: to give the poor little dog a bone. As she held it out Stevie looked up, uncertain, for she was looking down, uncertain. She had given up asking for a dog. Dogs are trouble, Breamston had always said, and Mrs Breamston would never have one in the house. They end up going wild, he always said. Timothy watched her. He was not going to share Stevie with anyone.
Food done, they crashed out on beds; even Timothy, even though he desperately wanted to go talk to the girl: Esmeralda, what a beautiful name. Perhaps she might know something of his dead parents? He felt he had finally arrived, home, but something was missing: his roots. Later Iedazimus and his mates would awake and go searching for a place which sold beer.
It was dark. Disturbed by the sound of Iedazimus dragging Mutz from his bed, Timothy crept out of his room, to see Gregory - Valadino? Gregory? - talking to the girl, like he talked to him; intimately, openly concerned, like her well-being was of utmost importance to him - or like she had something important to tell him. Timothy wanted to join them but instead remained hidden - until Stevie gave him away. Seeing him, Esmeralda fled the scene, leaving Gregory slightly annoyed.
‘Don’t be a sneak Timothy. It doesn’t become you.’
‘I wasn’t,’ pleaded Timothy.
Gregory flashed him his usual look of scepticism - a look which Timothy had grown up with and so a look which now made no impact. Together they went and found a convenient place to take a leak then heading back inside, bladders emptied, feeling relieved. They had got this far and were still in one piece.
Part Three: Village People
Timothy awoke late. It took him time to remember where he was, but not why. He looked around. Mutz was gone. Gregory was gone. Fargo was gone. They were all gone. He felt as if he had been left to defend for himself, and he was hungry. He headed straight for the kitchen. There he found the blacksmith’s wife, alone. She looked him over when he asked for breakfast. She replied with a simple, stony ‘yes’ and beckoned him to sit down. She had to feed him. It was part of the contract, but she didn’t have to like doing it. She served up a bowl of hot porridge from a big pot - spilling some - and left him to it.
‘I have work to do,’ she declared as she headed out, always thinking the worst of sleepy, empty-headed teenagers.
As he scooped it up and into his mouth he heard shouting coming from another part of the house: a high pitched voice of a girl - probably Esmeralda - was clashing with that of a hoarse male voice - probably Breamston. It sounded nasty. It stop
ped when a door slam shut then through the window he saw Esmeralda storming out. He wanted to follow her bad - tap into her energy - but he also wanted his porridge bad. He scooped it up in double quick time, nearly choking on it. Finally, when done, he was up and away in a flash. He ran outside, stopped and looked around - she was gone. As he rushed round the side of the building he almost crashed into Mutz. Mutz was beaming. He looked happy, like he had just had sex. He had, the night before.
‘Where have you been?’
Timothy demanded to know.
‘A brothel.’
Suddenly they were in competition: Timothy had to balance the score. He looked past Mutz to see Esmeralda disappearing fast down the track.
‘Want me to show you?’ asked Mutz.
Timothy’s ego resisted the offer. ‘No, I’ll find it.’
He saw Esmeralda reached the road, then disappear out of sight. He rushed after her and at the end of the track stood, wondering whether to turn left or right. He turned back: in time she would return appear - this was after all where she lived. Added to that he felt a little sick: the porridge which he had thrown down so quickly was now retaliating. He needed to sit down, settle his stomach. It was not to be: he was ambushed by Fargo. He was on his way to church.
‘Come on Timothy, there’s a church in the village. Join me. We can pray together.’
Timothy did not take to the offer. He did not fancy doing anything ‘together’ with Fargo.
‘No thanks.’
‘No?’ Caught on the hop, Fargo looked bewildered, like a doctor whose sick patient had just refused his tried and trusted medicine. He tried again but Timothy was adamant. He was in no need of God today. It was female companionship he needed - and sex. A disappointed Fargo watched Timothy rush off - away from the monk - in search of the brothel. He headed into the village. I was born here, he told him. This is my village.
***
Mozak turned a corner and nearly ran himself over. Timothy had to jump to one side. Swearing - despite his training he knew how to swear - he turned to confront the idiot, and found himself facing himself - as did Mozak. The space between them crackled as it threatened to discharge its electricity. Time twisted, slowed, and seemed to grind to a halt, leaving them isolated in their private little bubble of joint existence. Their faces locked together, leaving the rest of their bodies unable to respond. Neither could quite take in the exact resemblance, the perfect copy; the mouth, lips, cheeks and most of all the eyes - the windows into the soul, if you knew where to look. Only the hair broke the spell. It provided the one honest difference which allowed each to hang on to their sanity - and the clothes of course, but they didn’t count as much for they were simply attachments to the flesh.
Timothy’s hair was very short, having recently been shaved at the monastery. Mozak’s was long now, grubby and greasy, and tied back. Neither could speak. Neither could break the spell which had descended. Each measured up the other for differences which would give them a way out, an explanation. Each sensed an infringement upon their own existence. Mozak, being a prince, felt it more and managed to speak first.
‘You, who are you peasant?’
Timothy shot right back. ‘I might ask the same of you, peasant.’
Neither was prepared to give an answer so stalemate descended, during which time each studied the other’s clothes. Mozak saw a simply dressed peasant boy with attitude beyond his station. Timothy saw a well-dressed, smug village lout with attitude beyond his years. He felt something awful bearing down upon his soul: was God playing tricks on him? Was God punishing him? Was this place, his birthplace, now his nightmare? Was this stranger family? It was all too much to take in. They looked down at each other’s boots: different but both covered in mud. Timothy turned and ran off, to find the one person who could give him answers; and if not answers, reassurance.
Mozak shouted after him like any prince would: expecting instant compliance with his wishes.
‘Hey, peasant! Come back here, I haven’t finished with you!’
He was ignored, so he walked on while the corrupted image of his own face wreaked havoc inside his head. He had been floored but he had to carry on and find Foccinni. He wanted to go home. He wanted Rufus by his side.
Timothy returned to the forge, clutching his discovery and his new pain to his heart. He checked up on Stevie, who had been left tied up for convenience - his convenience not Stevie’s - before stumbling into an argument between one aggravated Gregory and one aggressive blacksmith. It sounded nasty. It looked nasty. Timothy retreated to a safe distance from where he kept looking around in the hope that the girl who had raised his temperature would appear and rescue him. After hearing the words ‘she’ and ‘her’ and ‘that girl’ a few times, Timothy concluded that they were arguing about her, Esmeralda.
After the argument tailed off for lack of heat and the blacksmith stormed off in an almighty huff, Gregory turned to see Timothy watching him. Having been caught with his knives out, he worked hard to recover his composure.
‘Timothy? Anything wrong?’
Still suffering from the heat of the confrontation Timothy choked on his words.
‘Is everything alright? Are we in trouble?’
‘No of course not.’
Relieved, Timothy perked up. ‘Well guess what I just saw!’
‘What? A brothel?’ Gregory knew all about the brothel.
The joke passed Timothy by.
‘No. I saw a boy, a boy just like me.’ Timothy corrected himself. ‘A man just like me.’
‘And?’
‘I mean just like me, exactly like me. Me, exactly. It was incredible. He looked just like me, the same, except for the hair. The hair was disgusting.’
Gregory narrowed his eyes and scrutinized Timothy.
‘Exactly the same? It’s been a tough time, you’re tired.’
‘I’m sure, never been so sure.’
‘Did he give his name?’
‘No. We didn’t talk.’
‘Go and find him - but don’t approach. Don’t speak to him. Don’t reveal yourself. Just watch him and report back. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
Timothy didn’t understand. Why couldn’t he speak to his copy? An impossible task, thought Timothy, but I’ll try.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because he may be dangerous.’ Gregory was making it up as he went along.
‘Dangerous?’
‘Yes dangerous. He’s a villager. You’re a shock to his system.’
(He was a shock to Gregory’s system.)
‘OK.’ Timothy trusted Gregory’s judgement in everything.
Before setting off again on his new quest he glanced around one more time for the girl: but still no sign of the girl with the large bosom. Shame. God was toying with him when he wasn’t pulling him apart.
He returned to the spot where he had met his match, this time with Stevie at his heel for emotional support. From there he wandered on, and around, sometimes in a large circle like a lost tourist; trying to take in the sights, like the big bold building which stood two stories high with an enormous sign over its entrance broadcasting its power and status. The sign, made of bronze, said ‘Village Hall’ in big striking letters.
And then there she was: Esmeralda, frozen amongst a sea of people flowing around her, some tutting, some cursing. She was staring right at him, mouth open, looking baffled; as if questioning his right to be in her village. He was glad to see her even if she was not glad to see him. She became more and more anxious as he approached. And then the reason why suddenly hit Timothy.
‘You’ve seen him! My double!’
His words snapped her out of her trance.
‘Your what?’
‘My double, an impostor. Where? Where did you see him girl?�
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Esmeralda puffed out her chest, which went down well with Timothy.
‘Esmeralda. My name is Esmeralda.’
Esmeralda didn’t like being referred to as ‘girl’: she had to take it from the blacksmith and his wife, and sometimes her aunt, but not from anybody else - especially someone her age.
‘Outside the brothel,’ she finally revealed.
‘You spoke to him?’
‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I?’
‘He told you his name?’
‘Yes. Marcus.’
Marcus. A good name, thought Timothy. Better than mine.
‘Take me to him!’
Esmeralda breathed in hard through her nose to look insulted. ‘Say please first.’
‘Please.’ Wishing to stay on her right side he swiftly followed it up with a sorry. ‘Sorry. But please take me to him. It’s important. It really is important.’
Esmeralda recognised a soul in distress. ‘Follow me.’
This was an adventure, she realised and she could be part of it, deep in the middle of it. It might be fun. Stevie kept looking at them both, back and forth, trying to work out who was in charge.
She led Timothy and his dog to the village brothel, a place she knew well but avoided. There they found a young man loitering outside with intent. He looked out of place, shifty, nervous. Esmeralda recognised him. When he saw Esmeralda he smiled - at her bosom. When he saw Timothy his jaw fell open. He could not take his eyes off him. This was a flesh and blood copy of the prince.
‘Who the hell are you!’ roared Rufus.
Timothy roared back. ‘I’m asking you that! Who are you!’
Stalemate, so Esmeralda intervened. ‘Please, we’re looking for your friend Marcus.’
‘Your friend?’ said Timothy. ‘Can you take us to him? I must speak to him.’
He looked away and bit his tongue, having just remembered that he wasn’t supposed to make contact. But what to do? He was being swept along by forces beyond his control.