Thomas

by Michael G. Manning

  “He's asking if you're well, it’s a common greeting here,” explained Islana, grinning.

  Grateful, Thomas answered, “I'm fine thanks. Is Father Ewen Macaulay here?”

  “Sorry lad, I din' ken ye were from Port Weston. I be Ewen, when the mood suits!” His accent was much less pronounced now that he knew they were from Weston.

  He introduced himself, “I'm Brother Thomas, from the temple of Delwyn. I'm here to deliver some documents.” He started to draw the papers out, but Ewen waved at him to put them away.

  “Nae lad, ye must be puggled from yer journey. Dinnae fash yersel'.” Thomas was confused, but again Islana helped him to understand the thick brogue.

  “He's telling you to take it easy, you must be tired.” Her job translating seemed to be amusing her. With Islana's help they managed to figure out what 'Father' Ewen was saying. After a while it became clear that they were expected to spend the night. The evening's devotions would be starting in a couple of hours so they were led to their rooms and given time to refresh themselves.

  Thomas' room was quite sumptuous, at least by the standards he was used to. It was a relief to finally have some privacy. The difficulties of understanding the local dialect had worn on his nerves. Thomas wasn't aware of having fallen asleep until he heard a knock at the door.

  Islana was standing there when he opened it, but her appearance had changed dramatically. She wore a long green skirt topped by a white chemise. The sleeves were long and full, gathered at the cuffs, while the neckline was modest. Draped round her shoulders was a long plaid stole and a bright sapphire pendant hung at her neck complimenting her eyes. Her hair was free and loose, except for a small braid on one side.

  Thomas’ eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped. He stood gaping for a moment, “What happened to you? How? You look like a native of Drumaness.”

  Islana smirked at him, “May I come in? Or do you plan on leaving a lady standing in the door?” It wasn’t really a question since she was already stepping inside. After a moment, she explained her change of appearance, “My father has some business dealings in Drumaness, so—when I was younger, Mother and I would sometimes come with him. She loved it here, so we often spent several weeks at a time. As a result, I made a few friends. These…,” she gestured at her garments, “…are from my friend, Nansaidh.” She pronounced the name much like ‘Nancy’ but with a slightly different lilt.

  “Now your familiarity with the speech here makes sense,” said Thomas. This was a new facet of Islana, one that he’d had no hint of before. “Did she lend you that necklace as well? It’s lovely. It perfectly matches your eyes.” Fool! If ‘beautiful’ upset her what will that remark do? he silently cursed himself.

  Islana’s reaction was entirely different however; she smiled and looked away for a moment, rising to look out the window, which hid her slight blush from his view. “No, it was from Mother, she bought it for me on our last trip here together. That’s probably why I brought it.”

  “You’ve never said much about your parents,” it was more a question than a statement.

  “No… I haven’t.” She gave him a serious look before breaking the tension, “Have you ever danced a strathspey?”

  “A what?”

  She laughed, “A strathspey, one of the country dances they have here. You’re going to have to learn, there’s a Feis tonight.”

  That required some explanation, but it turned out that they had arrived on the day of a small festival. Consequently, the temple of Kaelan would be full of people that night. With a bit of cajoling she walked him through the steps of the strathspey, humming a tune to keep time.

  After a bit, he started to get over his anxiety at the thought of dancing. “That’s not so bad,” he commented.

  “If you do well at that, maybe I’ll try to teach you a reel later, but we’ll need live music. I can’t hum it,” she told him.

  “Did you visit the temple before, when you were younger?” Thomas was curious about the change that had come over Islana in Drumaness. In some ways, she almost seemed a completely different person. She’d never been so forthcoming about her past before, either.

  Islana feigned shock, “Oh no! Father wouldn’t let me anywhere near this place; entirely too much drinking and wild behavior for his daughter to be seen here.”

  The time was getting late so they went down to the main hall again. It had been transformed from its previous arrangement. Several large trestle tables in the center had been moved back, creating a clear space, which was full of people standing and talking. One corner had a makeshift platform erected, on which stood several musicians idling.

  They found a seat just as the music started, and Ewan stopped to talk to them for a time. A bewildering conversation with the priest of Kaelan made a few things clear, with Islana’s help of course. One, the Brothers of Kaelan didn’t care nearly as much about the written agreement as the temple of Delwyn did. Second, they were expected to drink, dance and enjoy the evening. Apparently, a long drinking session was the best way to seal any arrangement. Thomas was starting to grasp the true reason the abbot had sent him instead of coming himself; Father Whitmire had sworn off drinking years ago, after finding a certain orphan.

  The music had grown louder, forcing them to lean in closely to hear one another. Islana was saying something about ale, but the words were unfamiliar, so she still had to repeat herself before he understood. Drumaness boasted a number of good ales, but they were most famous for their mead, which wasn't produced in many other places. Thomas knew next to nothing about ale, so he took Islana’s advice and they both had the sweet mead, which turned out to be an amazingly delicious drink.

  After one glass of that Thomas knew it would be a good idea to wait a while before drinking more, but Father Ewan was having none of it. He wouldn’t leave them alone until he was sure they’d both had a second glass and were considering a third. Then he wandered off to talk to a few others.

  At last the musicians started to play a tune suitable for the strathspey, and Thomas was lured from his perch by a combination of the mead already in him and Islana’s coaxing. The alcohol had loosened him up, and after successfully managing the strathspey he felt confident the ‘reel’ would be easy. They paused for a few more sips of mead, and then he led her back onto the floor.

  The ‘reel’ was quite a bit faster than the dance before and soon Thomas was quite lost. Islana was laughing at his predicament, but neither of them was willing to give up. Thomas improved over the next hour and soon they were swirling and skirling with the others on the floor, caught up in a mad frenzy. During the breaks between dancing, they found themselves very thirsty, which was easily remedied; the mead was flowing freely.

  Later, they stumbled out of the crowd, breathless and perspiring; they were utterly exhausted when they dropped into their seats at the large trestle. The drinks and dancing had set their heads spinning and put a flush in their cheeks. Peering at Islana from the corner of his eye, Thomas wondered at his luck, dancing with such a lovely woman. The cacophony was even louder now, so he inclined his head to reach her ear, “We should have done this before!”

  “You never asked,” she shouted back.

  “I’ve never danced before; you should have told me it was so much fun!” he responded.

  “Huh?” she asked.

  She couldn’t hear him, so rather than shout louder, he leaned in until his lips were close to her ear and repeated himself. It seemed like a good way to talk, so they crowded close together, exchanging words and glances over the music. It also felt quite natural having his arm around her, after they had been dancing so long.

  “Why did you ask me to a picnic that time?” They had stopped talking, and he’d been staring deeply into her eyes for a minute or more, when he said this. Thomas was certain that she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  Her answer was slightly slurred, “I wanted to make you smile.” That got him to questioning, in the serious manner that drunks
the world over are prone to—until finally she explained, “You were always so serious, so mysterious. You were worrying about other people, but I could tell you were bearing a great weight. Then you smiled at me, that day after I got sent to the Abbot. The world lit up when you smiled, and I thought—if I could just make you smile again, maybe...” Her eyes were huge, liquid pools drawing him into a mystery he could hardly fathom.

  The room seemed to be moving under him, an unwelcome distraction. “I think we've had too much to dink, m'dear.” He rose to his feet unsteadily, and then proffered his hand, “if the lady wishes, I can eshcort you to your room.”

  She giggled at his poor articulation as he helped her up. Navigating in eccentric curves and zigzags, they at last made it up the stairs and to their rooms, coming to a halt outside Islana's door. Neither of them had retained much balance, so she leaned back against the wood with her hands folded behind her.

  Thomas bid her good night, then looked back. She was still there, with a look that made him sure he had left something undone. Turning, he put his hand on the wooden panel beside her head, “I think I forgot something.” His voice was deeper now.

  “I think you did...,” Islana lifted her chin, looking up at him with challenging eyes.

  Lowering his lips to hers, he thought at first to make the kiss simple and straightforward, but that was not to be. Her arm encircled his neck, and he felt her lips parting as the kiss grew deeper. Without conscious thought, his own arms were around her waist, pulling her close.

  Islana was swept up in a storm, her passion driving her to abandon. Thomas' lips seemed to be everywhere as he pressed her against the door. She could feel one hand cupping her bottom, kneading and pulling her hips against his, while his mouth had found the side of her neck. Suddenly the door opened behind her, and he was walking her backwards toward the bed. Her body felt as if it were on fire as she pulled him down atop her.

  An eternity passed as their long-repressed feelings became manifest through their lips and hands. The alcohol had numbed Islana's senses, but Thomas' hand felt like a living brand as it snaked under her shirt, questing, caressing. I never imagined he contained so much passion, she thought, moaning even as he kissed her again. Was it like this for Delia? That thought stopped her cold.

  “Wait—stop—Thomas!” She pushed him off the bed and sat up, confused and flustered.

  “What!?” He was vexed, rubbing a sore spot on his head.

  “You need to go, this is wrong.” I will not be a consolation prize.

  “Aghh! You are the most confusing woman alive!” Gaining his feet, he headed for the door, narrowly missing the chair.

  I'm not the woman you should be trying to figure out, she thought. Then the tears started and wouldn't stop, not for a long while. She felt as though the world was crumbling around her, and it seemed like hours before she finally fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.

  Lying in the hallway, Thomas listened to her sobbing. He hadn't quite managed to make it to his room, instead discovering that the floor seemed much more comfortable. Much later, he woke in the darkened hallway and barely managed to make it outside before he threw up. Surely I couldn't have had this much in my stomach.

  When he got back to his room he lay on the bed, trying to make the world stop spinning, “This trip to Drumaness has turned into a stunning success.” One woman tries her damndest to force me, the other tempts and rejects me even though I'm willing. Sleep, when it finally came, was a welcome relief.

  Chapter 11

  A Night Under the Stars

  Neither one of them was awake to greet the dawn. It was nearly noon before they met Father Ewan downstairs, and they made a point of not speaking to each other. Their mission had been a success, at least as far as the priest of Kaelan was concerned, so he fed them and sent them on their way in the early afternoon.

  It was several hours before Thomas spoke, “About last night...” The sun was close to setting. “I'm sorry, I was drunk and maybe I misread things. I hope you can forgive my actions.” His voice was wooden.

  “You idiot.” Why does he always blame himself? she thought.

  “Well yeah, that's what I mean, I was an idiot. What I did, that's not the sort of man I'm trying to become. You have every right to be angry, and I'm thankful that you stopped me when you did,” he told her somberly.

  “Yes, it's a good thing I did. Obviously, if I hadn't, you might have ruined me,” her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Thankful, you're thankful! Did it ever occur to you, that perhaps you weren't the only one involved? Is it so inconceivable that I had something to do with what happened?”

  “Well if you weren't being mauled by me, if you were a willing participant, what the hell happened?” His frustration from the night before had returned in full force.

  “I came to my senses. I got caught up in the moment, and we nearly made a mistake. Our friendship is more important to me than that, just don't try to devalue my part by assuming that you were making all the decisions last night.” Surprisingly she felt much calmer now.

  Thomas nodded, “You're right. Our friendship is important. Not only that, we both have responsibilities given our new roles at the temple. We are still friends, right?” He waited, not sure what she might say.

  “Yes, we're friends, but don't push it, I'm still mad at you.” She started walking again, trying to pick out where they would do best to set up camp.

  Once again Thomas was confused, “I don't get it, why are you mad? Yesterday you tell me you didn't want to be friends, but we are, now you say you want to be friends but you're mad at me.”

  “You just need to figure out who you don't want to be friends with,” she replied primly.

  “Obviously, that made sense.” Thomas was developing the fine art of sarcasm.

  “Yes, yes it did,” said Islana, and she refused to comment further.

  They made camp, but this night they took the extra time to set up a cook-fire and heat their meal. Despite the confusion, they had settled into an uneasy truce. By mutual consent they put their bedrolls on opposite sides of the camp, as far apart as practical.

  ***

  Islana started awake, a large hand was covering her mouth, forcing her head against the ground. More hands caught her arms and someone was gripping her legs. At least three men held her, trying to lift her. They smelled of smoke and sweat, an acrid stench that filled her nostrils. Panic threatened to overwhelm her but she fought it down, clearing her mind to deal with the present. Think Islana, think! What do they want? Sir Brevis had spent considerable time making sure his students knew that every trial began with winning the battle inside yourself. Islana would not fail that task.

  They were moving now, carefully working to get her away from the camp as quietly as possible. They're separating us. A chill went down her spine, she knew what they wanted. She quickly inventoried her position, my armor is by the fire, so are the weapons. They were already fifteen feet or more from there, and steadily getting farther away. My own weapons are too far, what do they have?

  The men holding her were clad in rough leather, and she thought she could see the hilt of a knife at the belt of the man holding her mid-section. Her assessment didn't get very far; Thomas rushed out of the darkness, charging into them. He came in low, knocking the feet out from under two of them, and everything dissolved into chaos.

  Two of her assailants had lost their grip on her legs and arms, they were scuffling on the ground now. The one holding her head jerked her upright, one hand still over her mouth while his other arm sought to pin her hands. She saw a club rising and falling in the shadows as Thomas fought to stand. Once, twice, it struck him in the stomach, then his arm, until finally it found his head. Soundlessly he crumpled to the ground.

  She bit down hard, ripping a chunk of flesh from her opponent's hand. He screamed and lost his grip, slipping on the dry leaves littering the ground. He never recovered. Twisting to the side, she swept his legs out from under him. He started to ri
se, but she grabbed his head with one hand and drove her knee into his face.

  Teeth cut into her leg through her linen shift as his jaw broke, it should have been painful yet she felt nothing. Reaching down, she drew a short, cruel sword from his waistband. The other two men had not been idle. One was striding toward her, club raised, already laughing at his companion's misfortune. Her eyes flicked to the one behind him, he had a long-knife in hand, preparing to deliver a coup-de-grace to the unconscious priest.

  Time slowed as she sped up, the man before her swung with his club. Rather than dodge, she stepped into him, and the cudgel struck poorly, glancing down her shoulder and back. Not pausing, she shoved the overbalanced man, sending him falling sideways. Her next step brought her in range of the man with the blade, and seeing her, he brought his knife up between them. The sword in her hand swept forward, slicing the outer part of his hand away; the return stroke opened his throat. Blood fountained outward, spraying across her in an obscene shower as he fell back, dying.

  Turning back, she saw that the man with the club had already risen. She smiled at him, her teeth stained crimson. His wild swing failed to connect, and then she impaled him, driving the sword upward, through his sternum and out his back. Almost gently, she eased him to the ground, sliding the sword from its bloody sheath in his chest.

  A sharp pain blossomed in her chest and she looked down, not comprehending the feathered shaft standing out from her breast. The man with the broken jaw stood a few feet away, a crossbow in hand, now empty. She closed quickly, before he could recover, but her sword failed to find purchase as she struck. A long gash opened up along his arm, dark and ugly. Dropping the crossbow, he caught her sword arm before she could finish him.

  The struggle that followed was slow and desperate. Unable to keep her balance, she wrestled with him on the ground. At the end, she sat atop him, driving the sword slowly downward with the weight of her body. He was clutching the blade vainly with his hands, the edge cutting through his palms. Hands slick with blood he could no longer maintain his hold on the steel blade as she inexorably pushed downward. She could hear him begging as it slid into him, slipping between his ribs. His final sobbing breaths were cut short when it finally pierced his lungs.