Lockeran (Prince Ciaran the Damned Book 2)

by Ruari McCallion

  It was a couple of days before I came across a likely looking town and very well placed it was, with a bridge over a river. That was something that had been a matter of concern. I could have headed due north, up to the narrowest strait between the Frankish kingdom of Neustria - still in Clovis’ realm - and the British mainland. But that would have landed me in the Saxon kingdom of Kent, with Mercia to its north - the maximum amount of possibly hostile country to travel through on the way to my destination. It would also be an awkward journey; the River Thames extended from one side to the other. I decided to go further west and see if I could get to the British kingdom of Dumnonia, located in Brittany, and see if I could get a ship over to its twin in the south-west of Britain. From there, I could travel through mostly British and Welsh territory all the way to Elmet. This was a good plan; all I had to do was get across the River Seine. If the river the township was sitting on was the Seine then I could achieve two objectives in one.

  But I was cautious about taking the pack animal and my fortune through any town and especially so if I was planning to stay overnight. Why, there could be dishonest people about who would want to rob me of them…

  The woods above the town were pretty thick and little-travelled. The hillsides sloped up fairly steeply and were capped by some crags that rose almost vertically to the tops. That was promising; it indicated the possibility of a cave or two. I looked for a reasonably substantial stream and followed it back up the hill. It was tough going but our determination was rewarded straight away, with more than we could have reasonably hoped. We found a small gorge, with a cave right at the back and enough grass to keep at least one horse satisfied for a couple of days, if necessary. Perhaps more. And there was no problem with water.

  Horses are sociable animals so the one that was left behind was not going to be happy about losing their companion. The one I was taking with me was unlikely to be much pleased, either. But at least we had another traveller with us: Wolf. I would explain to him that I wanted him to stay and look after the packs and the remaining horse. The question was; which mount would I take into the town? I decided on Onion. Sage got on quite well with Wolf, while the packer was still wary - the dog’s adolescent playfulness could get to be too much. Once my mind was made up it also occurred to me that arriving on a fine gelding might not be the best of ideas; it would be too likely to draw attention. A lower-grade beast would be more suitable for the image of the itinerant warrior I was seeking to project.

  The cave was very hospitable. The entrance was narrow and concealed from casual glances, behind fallen rocks and a fold in the cliff. Inside, it opened out and extended deep into the hillside. There were indications that it had been used as a camp of sorts at some time in the past but there were no signs of recent occupation. No sign of a bear or wolves, either. Nor of dragons! There were large rocks inside the cave, as well as smaller passages and hollows feeding off the main cavern. Plenty of room to conceal my saddles, tent, bags and baggage, including the Frankish treasure. I took out a long rope from one of my bags and formed it into a tether that would allow Sage to wander reasonably freely out of the cave and across the grass. I secured one end to a handily-shaped stone and the other to the horse’s bridle. It seemed happy enough.

  I sat down and called Wolf over. He responded as ever - with pretty much boundless enthusiasm, skidding to halt in a shower of stones just before he crashed into me. He enjoyed the cliff-edge excitement of that little performance. I removed a few pieces of grit from my mouth and ordered him to sit down. He obeyed and looked directly at me. I instructed him that he was to stay and guard the horse his friend and all the baggage in the cave. I told him I would be back in no more than three days, and spent a moment making sure he understood; three sunsets and three sunrises. He grasped it. He wasn’t happy about being left but I impressed on him how important his job was, and pointed out that he had his horsey friend to keep him company. I reassured the horse that I would be back and he would have Wolf to look after him. I fully expected to return no later than the following day but you never know - the town might have its particular attractions. It might be market day, or a saint’s day, or something. Saturday, for example. The eve of the Christian Sabbath was as good an excuse as any for a bit of a fiesta and some carousing.

  I led Onion carefully down the hillside, picking our way through the trackless woods and splashing through a stream for the last half-mile or so. We joined the road two or three miles outside of the town and were at the gates a couple of hours before sunset. Plenty of time for a scout around and to check out the lie of the land. I had brought enough in the way of baggage on my horse to alleviate suspicion; a bedroll, a modest pack, a shield and a short lance. I looked exactly like a down-at-heel mercenary; one of hundreds that would be wandering around the Frankish kingdoms, seeking employment from any who had need of a sword carried without much in the way of scruples. We were waved through without a second glance.

  The town was centred towards the river, as was to be expected. The crossing point and the wharfs were the hub of activity. After looking around carefully I settled on a modest inn - away from the market square and riverside wharfs but not too far as to be the preserve of the self-styled and self-appointed nobility. I could afford to stay wherever I fancied but drawing attention to myself with spending above my apparent station was not a clever idea. It had decent stables that looked reasonably secure. The establishment was prepared to let me have a bath, with hot water no less. Who could ask for more?

  One could ask for decent food. That which the hostelry provided was barely edible. The meat was overcooked, the vegetables likewise; they had degraded into a glutinous mass. It wasn’t even hot. I called the landlord over and asked him if he would eat such fare himself. He said something about having had no complaints - a claim that was met with several guffaws. I whipped out a knife and stabbed it into the table between his hands, before he realised what was happening. I complained loudly that his prices were such that I would expect food fit for a king’s table and here he was, passing me off with leftover swill.

  “Is my coin not good enough?” I demanded. To give him his due, he had gone white as a sheet. He was clearly taking me seriously. And so he should; I was annoyed at how bad the food was. It verged on completely inedible. He offered his humble apologies and made to clear the plates away. I grabbed his wrist.

  “What am I to do to satisfy my hunger? Do I need to go elsewhere?” He shook his head, vigorously.

  “No, my lord. If you just give me a moment I will prepare a private room for you. There will be a small extra charge, of course,” he ventured.

  “No, there won’t,” I said. You advertise good food; I have paid for good food. That’s what I expect to get,” he glanced over to a substantial woman that I took to be his wife. Her face wore an expression that would curdle milk. I almost felt sorry for him. But it offered a way out of his dilemma.

  “I will pay for more drink, though - your ale is good, I will grant you. Do you have a fresh barrel ready?” the crowd stirred at this.

  “Yes, sir. I have one just tapped. Wife - bring me a jug of ale!” he called over. The large woman moved to attend to it. I watched her closely to ensure that she didn’t decide to evacuate her foul mouth into it - something I would not put past her, by the look and feel of her. She was made up of three parts bitterness and two parts bile. Whatever milk of human kindness had once been there had long since turned sour. She drew the beer into the jug but gave it to a serving-girl to bring over. It wasn’t full - I hadn’t expected it to be - but it looked good; a decent head and no sign of sediment. I took a cautious sip. It tasted ok. A longer draft; it was actually rather good. I drained the jug and set it down with a bang. The inn had fallen quiet while the landlord and I had our exchange and a mass of faces were now looking at me, expectantly.

  “Landlord, after the poor food you gave me I was sincerely hoping you would redeem yourself with a decent pot of ale. I have to say,” I said, beginning to shake
my head; then I broke out into a smile and looked him straight in the eye. “You have exceeded my expectations. That is an excellent beer. Get me a full pot, if you will!” The landlord broke into a faintly relieved smile and a hubbub recommenced in the bar. As he was making his way past me I caught his wrist and pulled him over. “Don’t take me for a fool. If you treat me well I will pay well. No more of the swill for my table, all right?” I looked up and caught his eye. He nodded, curtly. “And when you have made my private room ready, perhaps you could send a helpful serving maid to look after my needs?” He looked at me. “I will pay,” I assured him. He nodded again and moved off.

  “And landlord,” I called after him. He stopped and turned. “I see a lot of thirsty faces in here. It is rather hot.” A mass of faces swung my way. “Perhaps you could open a window?” A disappointed murmur ran through the crowd. Those who were still watching saw me smile. “And a pot of that new ale for everyone will probably go down well. What do you think?” A great cheer went up and I had made a roomful of friends. After a few minutes, the girl who had brought over the new beer came over to guide me to my private dining room. When I went in there was nothing on the table. There was a window but it was small. Too small for a grown man to get out of. The girl closed the door behind me and I said, without turning around, that I was disappointed that we had not after all resolved our differences.

  “I’m sure we can, sir,” the landlord said. He had been waiting behind the door. “There is a question of payment. You want our finest food and you have ordered a barrel of ale. I think I would like you to pay for the beer before we go any further. Before things go to far, you might say. Forgive me for noticing but you are clearly not a prince, nor a general. If you were, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be off up the castle or in one of those swanky inns up there. But you aren’t. You’re in my house. And I want to know how I will be paid.”

  “How much for the barrel of beer?” I asked. He told me. I reached inside my jerkin and pulled out a gold coin. It was far too much but it would keep him sweet. “I am not long discharged from service with King Sigebert in Austrasia. He is your good King Clovis’ brother, as I am sure you know.” The landlord agreed that he did. “King Sigebert was pleased with my service and gave me a pleasant reward. Not enough to retire but enough to have a good weekend at least.” I flipped the gold coin over to him. He caught it more deftly than might have been expected; maybe he wasn’t as green as he was cabbage-looking. His smile had some confidence in it. “I trust that will cover immediate expenses?”

  “That will do nicely,” he said. “I will bring you some fresh meat presently. Would you like some of the beer you have paid for?”

  “I think I would, yes. I hope it isn’t all gone? Your customers look like a thirsty lot.”

  “They are but don’t worry. There is plenty for all. I will look after your interests from now on.” He nodded, I nodded back. We understood each other. The people in the bar would not be drinking fine new beer all night; they would have something of less quality from now on. I would get it whenever I ordered a drink but I would be told when I left that it had all gone. They would profit from that barrel at least twice over.

  The young serving-girl brought me in another pot of beer. To my surprise, she neatly avoided my hands when I went to pull her over. She turned and looked me straight in the eye.

  “I will serve you your needs for food and drink, sir, but there will be nothing more between us and I ask you to respect that,” she said. This was an astonishingly bold response for a servant in an inn. I had not expected it. “There is something about you and I don’t think you are entirely who you seem to be. I would ask you to show me your better nature. The landlord here will arrange for the other to be attended to, I am sure, and I will let you know if he is trying to cheat you. There are plenty of others who will be very willing. But leave me alone.” A wooden cross sat on her chest below her neck, rising and falling with the flow of her breathing. A Christian.

  “Are you destined for a nunnery, then?” I asked. It came out sharper than I had intended. I raised a hand in apology.

  “No, sir. I am destined for my husband’s bed and no other,” she replied. She returned a few minutes later with a tray of food that was much more in line with what I wanted. It was still difficult to keep my eyes away from her breast as it rose and fell but I made an effort to look elsewhere. Her russet-coloured hair, which fell in waves to her shoulders… No, that didn’t help. The white skin on her arms - no. Her waist where it was… no, dammit. I looked studiedly at the plates she placed in front of me.

  “Rib of beef, parsnips, carrots, beans. Bread. Butter. I hope you enjoy it - she has cooked it well. The master was watching her closely. Is everything to your satisfaction?” I nodded and said that it looked pretty good. “I hope it tastes as well. Can I send in anything else?” I noticed the change - she would not be serving me any more. “Another pot of ale perhaps?” I looked up at her and was met with a very steady gaze indeed. She didn’t approve of me, clearly, and her disapproval almost had a dampening effect on my mood.

  “You seem to be poorly disposed towards me, miss…?”

  “Miss will do fine,” she replied. “You are not the first I have seen to play this game of yours. You pretend to be a humble soldier but I can tell you are above that.” I went to protest. I was actually rather surprised, both at her perception and at her courage. I ventured a brief probe of her mind. Her hand going up to brush her temple, as if she had been troubled with a headache, told me all I needed to know. She had a Gift. Maybe the Sight, maybe something else, but she was definitely a sensitive. She continued, with an air of defiance.

  “You come down among us common folk and seek to impress with your manners and your money. You just use us. We are better than your contempt.” I tried to assure her that I did not regard myself as her better, that I knew what it was to live in fear, but she was gone. I would have offered her help with her Gift but that would almost certainly be rebuffed. She might even think I was accusing her of being a witch - almost definitely if she followed the Romans. The Irish Church was much better informed about such things. Her disapproval had even had an effect on my libido. But not completely, and not for long. Nothing another ale or two would not sort out - and the first one arrived just as I was thinking about it.

  A young woman - a little older than the Christian serving-girl but not much - brought it in. Someone closed the door behind her. She made a great show of bending over the table to put the tray on it, giving me a pretty good view down her blouse. It looked interesting. She moved to one side and leaned over me as she took the pot from the tray and carefully placed it by my right hand, the opposite side from where she was standing. Subtlety was not her strong point - and nor was it mine, that evening. I pulled her down onto the bench beside me, where she landed with a feigned giggle of surprise. She smiled and I was relieved to see she had all her teeth and to find that her breath didn’t smell. Things were looking up. She agreed that she might be a little bit hungry, so I fed her some of my beef, piece by piece. And thirsty. So I allowed her to drink from my pot of beer. She asked me if I felt travel-worn and if I needed to get out of my dirty clothes. I agreed that it was probably a good idea and - now she came to mention it - that I did feel a bit weary. So we made our way upstairs to my chamber.

  A bath had been found and filled with water. It wasn’t the hottest I had ever enjoyed but it wasn’t too bad. I invited the girl to join me. She shook her head, at first.

  “What is it about you southerners and water? You should be fish, the amount of time you spend in it!”

  “It makes you slippery,” I said. “Why not come and try it?” She changed her mind and decided to give it a whirl, I’m glad to say. She slipped out her clothes and revealed a body that was young, firm and well-shaped, with large breasts, well formed and still quite perky. She stood there, hands on hips, her hair released from its worktime mob-cap and falling beyond her shoulders.

  “What
do you think?”

  “Not slippery enough,” I said. She giggled and slid into the bath with me. It was a tight squeeze. She caught me gazing at her breasts, with their large, pink aureolae and nipples that were standing proud from them. She looked delicious.

  “Dive in,” she said. So I did. She felt good when clean and even she seemed to enjoy the sensation, admitting that she hadn’t realised that linen sheets were that sensuous. She was adventurous and accommodating, athletic and imaginative, enthusiastic and energetic. I had no complaints at all. When I fell asleep, so did she.

  Chapter Nine

  Visions of Johanna

  I woke in the middle of the night when she was in the process of rifling through my clothes, trying to find my purse. She had been so much fun and seemed genuinely affectionate - I was a little disappointed.

  “That seems a bit greedy,” I said, from the bed. She started and instinctively pulled a sheet up to cover herself. “A bit late for modesty.”