by Martin Owton
“The Lady’s judgement.”
“If the Lady has a price for this, then I will pay it to get my son back.” She turned towards the door. “And if that price is a child, then a way will be found. Now there’s an end to it. We will not speak of this again.”
***
The caravan moved slowly through the soft rain away from Nandor town. The rough muddy road wound between dry stone walls bordering the pastures where the sheep that had provided the load grazed. Only the merchant rode. Everyone else, the merchant's servants and the Nandorans, in keeping with their disguise as guards, walked beside the laden mules, including Tancred. The displeasure was evident upon his face as the mules splashed through the ruts left by the local farm carts. Aron walked at the rear of the caravan as far away from Tancred as possible, and smiled to himself at what he took to be Lady Alice’s manoeuvre of making Tancred play the caravan guard. No-one spoke, and as the rain dripped off the edge of his hood and ran down his face, Aron had plenty of time to think: the road ahead, what was happening in the Holy City, how to avoid clashing with Tancred. All these passed through his mind, but mostly he thought about the women of Nandor.
The caravan made about a dozen miles before they stopped at dusk at a dismal inn in a grim little village. The inn was clearly much used by trade caravans as there was a dormitory for guards and muleteers built over the stable. Tancred, spurning the fiction of being a caravan guard, bought a room in the main part of the inn. The rest of the men grumbled to each other and played a little dice over mugs of ale in the taproom. Aron retired to the dormitory conscious of his exclusion but uncaring. He checked over his gear and cleaned his boots, giving them an extra layer of waterproofing grease. Then, damning the rest of the group to sore heads in the morning, Aron took to his bed, his stomach growling in protest at the undercooked vegetable stew he'd been served for supper.
He spent an uncomfortable night on the verminous straw mattress, disturbed at least twice in the night by someone retching into the bucket that had been left by the door. The next day dawned similar to the previous, with rain clouds smeared across the sky. After a meal of watery porridge and stale bread the party set out again. Tancred, looking fresh and well-rested, rejoined them having breakfasted in his room.
The mules plodded onward through the mud in a generally south-easterly direction and Aron plodded after them. The clouds hid the tops of the hills and the wind whipped a stinging drizzle into Aron's face. There was little need to keep a look-out for bandits as the trade on the Nandor road was too thin to sustain even a modest band of thieves.
The rain ceased as the day drew onward, and the caravan reached a major junction where two other roads joined the route to Sarazan. A large inn and market stood nearby bustling with activity. The merchant took his party into the compound and Aron found that they were to share their lodgings with two other sizeable caravans. At least their party had their own dormitory; it was not unknown for parties of guards to take a savage dislike to each other, and it was poor business for the innkeeper to have to rebuild his inn because he had only one sleeping area.
Tancred again bought a private room and retreated to the dining room without a word to the rest of the party. The other men took themselves down to the taproom to discover if the other guards knew dice. Aron had no interest in watching them lose their money and lay down on his bed with the aim of catching some extra sleep.
The sound of a heavy impact, angry voices and splintering wood woke him. He sat bolt upright in his bed. The fight was in the next room. There was no sign in the dormitory of any of the others in the Nandor party. The row transferred to the landing outside. There was a hefty thump on the door, more shouting and then the sound of many boots on the stairs. Aron's curiosity was aroused; he sat up, pulled on his boots and then made for the stairs.
There was no-one about, but there were drips of fresh blood on the steps. Aron followed the trail out into the courtyard where the scuffs in the dirt showed something or somebody had been dragged towards the paddock. Raised voices floated through the cool evening air from the far side of the field. The rain clouds had dispersed leaving the sky clear, the first stars of evening were beginning to show, but there was still enough light in the sky for Aron to see by. In the far corner of the field five men were beating a sixth. Two men held him by the arms, two others took turns to swing blows at him and the fifth roared encouragement. Aron ran lightly across the grass with a sickening certainty growing in his mind. The five men carried no weapons he could see, but they were large and hard-faced with an air of muscular solidity; caravan guards. They were so intent upon their victim that they did not notice Aron until he spoke.
“What’s going on here?” The five turned as one and their victim slumped to the ground. It was Davo.
“Caught him going through our packs, so we're teaching him a lesson.”
The man who had been encouraging the others to beat Davo spoke. Aron weighed him up; he was at least ten years older and a handswidth taller with a deep chest, thick shoulders and the face of an unshaven pig.
“That's enough. He's had his lesson.” Aron spoke firmly and evenly.
“We're goin to hang ‘im.” One of the others said, sticking his unshaven chin forward in challenge.
“No, you're not.”
“You gonna stop us?”
The five spread out as if to surround Aron. It had to be quick and it was. The short-bladed knife came from Aron's left sleeve. His left hand caught Pigface's right arm in an armlock and Aron had the knife pressed against his throat before he had time to react.
“Step back,” He said to the four men that faced him. “Tell them to step back.” He pressed harder with the knife, a spot of blood appeared at the tip.
“Alright, alright. Do what he says, lads.”
Sweat broke out on Pigface’s brow. His cohorts moved back leaving Davo sprawled in the dust.
“Run. Get away from here. I want to see you head over that hill.”
Aron waved at the road that climbed a hill away from the inn. The four roughnecks paused. Aron twisted the knife slightly.
“Run, run you dogs,” Pigface choked.
The four turned and loped off towards the road. Davo moaned and stirred in the dirt.
“Pick him up.”
Aron released the armlock, but kept his knife pressed against his prisoner's throat. The man bent slowly and lifted Davo across his broad shoulders. Aron removed Pigface's belt knife with his left hand and then stepped back satisfied that he could handle anything the man might try.
“Carry him back to the inn,” Aron commanded.
Pigface moved off slowly with his burden bouncing awkwardly. Davo groaned again. Aron kept three steps back all the way back to the inn. The caravan guard may have considered all manner of schemes, but they reached the dormitory without incident.
“Put him down.” Aron gestured to the nearest pallet. Pigface deposited Davo in the bed. “Out,” Aron commanded and followed the man out into the yard. Aron threw Pigface's knife at his feet. “It finishes here if you want.”
Pigface bent down to pick up his knife keeping his eyes on Aron as his fingers searched for the blade. He found it and straightened slowly still looking at Aron. Aron held his gaze coolly, knife in hand. Pigface did not speak but slowly sheathed his blade, turned and walked stiffly away. Aron watched him out of sight and then headed back to the dormitory.
Davo was sitting on the edge of his bed dabbing gingerly at his nose, one eye closed by a bruise that covered one side of his face. Aron did not remark on his recovery, suspecting that Davo had had much practice at playing dead.
“Guess I owe you my life,” the little man said, his speech slurred by his swollen lips.
“Guess you do.”
“None of them other bastards would've bothered. They'd have hanged me there but for you. I may not be much, but I pays me debts.”
Aron did not feel overwhelmed with gratitude. Indeed he wan
ted to kick Davo for creating the situation, but he knew it was pointless. If beatings were going to cure Davo of thieving then it would have worked a long time ago.
“Let’s get one thing straight. You were going through their gear.” Aron did not make it a question.
The little man nodded and opened his still-bleeding mouth to justify himself. Aron held up his hand to halt the flow before it began.
“I don't want to hear it. You can start paying back your debt by staying out of trouble. No more thieving and no more tricks.”
Davo was right about the attitude of the rest of the party as word of the confrontation spread quickly. Aron headed for the taproom to get a drink, but the story was there before him. No sooner had he got a stoup of ale than Thomi and Kriss left their dice game and came over.
“S’true then?” Thomi's tone was certainly not approving. “You saved the little bastard's neck.”
“True enough,” replied Aron, looking into his ale.
“Don't know why ye bothered. I wouldn't have.”
Aron looked up at Thomi for a long moment.
“Do you know your way around Sarazan? We’re going to need him.”
He took a long pull on his ale. Thomi and Kriss looked at each other for a moment then turned to return to the dice game. Aron finished his drink and returned to the dormitory. He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep, but his mind was too alert as he relived the evening’s events. That was a desperately dangerous thing to do. All it would have taken would have been one caravan guard who was drunk enough to move and I could not have withstood them all. I’ll leave him next time. But there was still a thrill of pleasure at the danger survived, that he’d bested the lot of them.
***
Next morning Tancred was beside himself with anger when he found Davo too damaged to walk, and Aron had to take charge of him to prevent him being left behind. Rearranging the burdens of the pack mules, Aron made space for Davo to ride for the day's journey. The two of them travelled at the back of the caravan, studiously ignored by the rest of the party. Davo was not a great conversationalist when intact; injured he said nothing for hours on end. Aron, plodding uphill through the mud behind Davo's mule and trying to avoid the mule dung and larger puddles in the track, found his mind wandering to a pair of blue eyes.
I wonder if Lady Edith would find this adventure enough? He thought as the mule slid into a puddle splashing him with dirty water.
So the day passed until the caravan reached the next stopping place. The inn was the largest they had yet stopped at, reflecting the growing number of trade-routes that had joined the road. The rest of the party continued to ignore Aron and Davo through the evening meal; no-one invited Aron down to the taproom so when Davo headed for the dormitory, Aron went after him.
Sitting on his pallet Aron reached into his pack for his mail shirt. Tomorrow they would cross the border into Sarazan where, despite the Duke's fearsome reputation, serious banditry was not unknown as the trade routes grew richer. Aron drew out the steel chain shirt and, as he did so, a piece of cloth fluttered to the floor. He bent to retrieve it and held it up to the dim lantern. It was a lady's fine linen handkerchief embroidered with the crest of Nandor and an ornate E.
“Beautiful girl, Lady Edith, but then so's her sister.” The words were barely distinguishable so swollen were Davo's lips.
“So?” Aron did not conceal the edge of annoyance in his voice.
“Can't keep nothing secret in a castle.” Even through bruised lips Davo's satisfaction was evident.
A thrill of alarm ran through Aron. How long would his visit to the Countess stay a secret? “What are you getting at?” he said, trying to keep his voice level.
“Just wondered why you're going along with this. Now I know. Which one d’yer want?” Aron relaxed. If Davo doesn’t know about the Countess, then no-one else does.
“What makes you think I'm doing this for them ?”
“Yer gorra better reason for doing it? Yer crazier ‘an I thought.”
“Thanks very much. What makes me crazy? Saving your skin?”
“That too. Crazy for thinking we can ger ‘im out.”
“You don't think it can be done ?”
“Gerring in maybe, gerring out even. Stayin’ alive afterwards is the trick.”
“How come?”
“Yer don't know Sarazan like I do. Place’s rotten with spies and snitches. I ain't bin there for ten years, but everything I've ‘eard says it's worse than I remember it were, and it were bad enough then. Soon as e's missed, the whole place'll go up like a dry haystack. Be impossible to hide.”
Aron pondered this information for a minute before speaking again. “So we'll have to get away from the city as soon as we have Maldwyn.”
“Yeah, if we can ger him at all. So which one d’yer want?” Davo's bloodshot eyes glittered with interest. “Celaine’s got bigger tits.”
CHAPTER 9
The road was busier as they drew near the border, with several merchant caravans as well as smaller groups of travellers and lone horsemen. They reached the border around midday, Aron sweating uncomfortably under his mail shirt in the thin sunlight. The post on the Nandor side of the border was deserted. On the Sarazan side, however, a large squad of hard-eyed men examined trading permits and meticulously searched the packs of everyone who sought entry. Davo cringed back under their scrutiny, pulling his hood down as far as it would go over his face and trying to hide behind Aron, but the guards paid him little notice and concentrated on the contents of the packs. Tancred's temper frayed by the minute as everyone in the merchant's train had their goods probed thoroughly. Aron watched with mounting concern, expecting an eruption to blow their cover at any minute. The wool merchant also looked nervously at Tancred. He’ll sell us out the moment Tancred causes a scene, thought Aron.
At last the guards waved them on their way before Tancred reached boiling point, but his temper smouldered dangerously for the rest of the day. The caravan marched into Sarazan making much better time along the well-paved road. The rocky hill country of Nandor gradually gave way to gentler slopes, scrawny sheep replaced by plump cattle grazing lush fields between neat hedges as the milestones marked their progress towards the city.
As evening approached they reached a large inn; its yard crowded with wagons and mule trains. Horses and livestock churned about as men unloaded wagons and unhitched horses and led them off to the stables. Stallholders shouted their wares; chickens, children and dogs ran underfoot; and beggars and whores accosted anyone who stood still. Beside the inn stood a small stone-built barrack compound large enough to house fifty or so soldiers, although there were only a dozen men visible.
The merchant went into the inn to arrange lodgings leaving the rest of the party standing outside. Davo became very interested in the girth of one of the pack mules; ducking down behind the coarse-haired beast to conceal himself from the gaze of two men who sat, not drinking from their mugs, under the tree in the inn courtyard.
Aron stood silently taking in the scene, watching a small squad of soldiers go through their weapons drill in the barrack square. The merchant returned with two servants from the inn; one collected the merchant's bag, the other called on the rest of the party to follow him.
The servant directed them to a flight of stairs and handed Tancred a key. Tancred headed for the stairs followed by the others, Aron and Davo last. The dormitory was clean but spartan, with enough bunk beds for twenty. At the end of the room a canvas screen concealed, Aron presumed, a bucket; that he could not smell it spoke a great deal for the cleanliness of the inn.
Tancred looked around the room. “Good enough for you lot, but I'll need my own room.”
He turned and began to make his way back to the stairs until Aron blocked his path.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said Tancred. “Get out of my way.”
“Do you think this will go unremarked? Have you not considered the fact tha
t we are in disguise and our safety depends on us staying unnoticed?” Aron kept his voice low and level.
“I'll take your advice when I ask for it.” Tancred tried to push past Aron, but Aron stood his ground until their faces were only a handswidth apart.
“Caravan guards do not have their own rooms,” said Aron struggling for control. “And Sarazan has eyes everywhere.”
Tancred’s face flushed red and his eyes bulged, his right hand strayed towards the knife at his belt and Aron caught his wrist.
“No, my Lord. We’ll all finish up in Sarazan’s dungeons,” said Thomi.
Tancred twisted around at his words and stared wildly at the half circle of Nandor soldiers.
“Seize him, you men,” he gasped. “Don’t just stand there.”
Aron watched their faces to see if anyone looked likely to stand with Tancred, his right hand gripping the hilt of the knife in his left sleeve.
No-one moved.
“No, my Lord,” said Kriss. “Thomi’s right. We’ll finish up in Sarazan’s dungeons. That merchant will sell us out at the first sign of trouble.”
Tancred stood for a moment glaring at them, then he turned to Aron. He tugged his arm free of Aron’s grip.
“You forget yourself, sellsword. We will speak of this when we return to Nandor.” With that he stalked down to the end of the room.
Thomi stood in front of Aron and favoured him with a broad wink and a slow nod of his head.
“You done right, my lad. We’ll see the Earl knows it.”
Aron let out the breath he’d been holding and released the knife hilt. He felt the sweat trickling down his body underneath his shirt. He chose a bed and sat down, using the breathing exercises he’d been taught to calm his racing pulse. Everyone in the room was silent, their heads down to avoid meeting another’s eyes.
Aron was undisturbed overnight, but did not sleep much. Tancred had always bid fair to be a difficulty, but now a major confrontation seemed inevitable. He was not worried for his own survival, but any return to Nandor was going to be next to impossible if Tancred died at his hand.