by P. T. McHugh
The wagon began to slow as we moved farther into the village, and some of the noise fell behind. At that point, I lifted the cloth just enough to expose one eye. This was my first time in an old English crowd, after all, and I wanted to see what the people were like. I glanced back along the road, where I saw a scattering of people, homes, carts, and animals. The people wore thick, heavy clothing in colorless browns and beiges. Most of the men wore shirts with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, over pants that weren’t much different from what I was wearing. The women were dressed in full-length tunics in varying colors, with undergarments peeking out under the hems. Some women wore veils and head dresses as well, to cover their hair. None of them showed any skin beyond their faces.
“Looks like a Renaissance fair,” Paul whispered. I glanced quickly toward him to see that he and Tatiana had drawn their covers to the side as well. I could see two sets of curious eyes, taking the scene in greedily. I couldn’t blame them–it was the oddest thing I’d seen in my fifteen years, and I couldn’t get enough of it.
Paul was right–it looked and felt like we had ventured into an amusement park, or gone on a school field trip to a Renaissance exhibit, where people dressed up in costumes to play make believe for the day. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see musicians, resplendent in velvets and lace, strolling by.
Of course there was one difference. These people weren’t playing make believe. There was no parking lot in the background, or bus waiting to take us home. These were strangers, potentially violent ones, who kept things like swords and daggers in their costumes, and knew how to use them.
Further, they were people who would label us wizards–or worse–and turn us in to the authorities for a few coppers or a spare pig.
At that thought, the color and excitement drained away from the scene behind me. I settled back into the wagon, but kept one eye on the people, wondering anxiously how close we were to getting out of town. I’d seen enough.
Just then, though, we passed a row of targets, supported by haystacks. I peeked out, impressed–I’d always been secretly in love with archery, though I’d never actually seen it done. Now I gasped as the boys in front of the targets loosed a round of arrows with a sharp ‘twang.’ Each hit the targets at their centers. Perfect bulls eyes.
“Archery wasn’t a game to these people,” Tatiana whispered next to me. “The tournaments and practice were an important part of life.”
“That’s right,” I agreed, remembering. “It was England’s big advantage in war–her archers.” My dad had read me a Bernard Cornwall book about it once, and become obsessed himself. For months it had been all he talked about. He’d even dressed as one for Halloween. I smiled at the memory, clearly seeing my mother’s appalled–but amused–response.
The smile died on my lips when I heard Katherine gasp.
“Danes,” she said, her voice low and worried. “We must hide.”
“Too late,” Reis answered. “I believe they’ve already seen us.
Seconds later, I saw what they were talking about.
Several men dressed in sleeveless leather jerkins and tattered chain mail appeared behind us, walking quickly enough to catch up with our slow-moving wagon. They were large, rough men, with hard, ugly faces and long, dirty blonde hair. They also looked distinctly unfriendly.
“I thought the Danes were kicked out of England two hundred years before this time period,” Tatiana muttered, her voice low and worried.
“Apparently not all of them,” Paul replied quietly.
The men were now less than 15 feet behind us. All four of them kept their eyes squarely on our cart, their hands on their battered swords. One of them had a battle axe slung across his chest. They all wore several silver rings around their arms. I cast my memory back, trying to collect any information I had on Danes. They came from the North, I knew. They wore their rings as signs of wealth and conquest. The more rings, the more potentially dangerous the man. They were traders, sometimes, but more often mercenaries and soldiers. Bullies. Raiders.
When they came peacefully, they were called Danes. When they attacked the English people, they were called Vikings instead.
The acid rose from my stomach to my throat, and I gulped heavily. The men behind us were looking less friendly with each passing moment. They meant to cause trouble, and no mistake.
“We need to move faster,” Tatiana said in little more than a whisper.
“Reis, we’ve got a problem here,” I snapped, not caring who heard. I was far more concerned about getting away from those men than confusing the townspeople at that point.
Instead of moving more quickly at my warning, though, the cart suddenly stopped.
I popped up from my hiding place, desperate to know what was going on. “What on earth are you doing?” I snapped, reaching toward Katherine. Before I could touch her, Tatiana grabbed my shoulder.
“Be careful,” she murmured, nodding at the road in front of us. I turned to look, and my heart jumped into my mouth.
Two more Danes stood in the road before us. One of them had his hand on our horse’s bridle. Both had swords drawn.
I glanced slowly from the men in front of us to Reis, and then to the side to meet Paul’s eyes. His face had lost all color, and I didn’t think his eyes could open any wider.
“Not good,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.
I nodded wordlessly, and the three of us crept forward, closer to Reis and the best protection we had.
“Is there a problem?” Reis asked casually. He carefully turned around to glance at the four men who approached us from behind, realizing just as I had that we were surrounded. He pressed his lips together at that, and shot one more sharp look in our direction. He didn’t need to use words for that one–we were to be prepared. For anything.
I looked at the men at the horse’s head, and then back toward the others, wondering what we were getting ourselves into. All six of the Danes were very large. Now that I looked more closely, I saw that two of them had scars across their cheeks. Several had missing teeth, and all of them had grossly unkempt facial hair hanging down their chests. Two of the men behind us had gained horses from somewhere, and now rode, their shields and long bows out. They moved forward, toward the men at the front of the wagon. These men wore heavy cloaks despite the warm summer temperature, and additional wooden shields dangled from their saddles.
They were better armed than we were.
“You’re a stranger to these parts, yes?” the first horseman barked, riding closer to the wagon and notching an arrow.
For a moment Reis let the question go unanswered. I noticed that the noise from the crowd had died down. Even the chickens were quiet. The people had drawn quickly back into the alleys and buildings, hushing their children and leaving us to the mercy of the Vikings. This wasn’t the first time they’d seen this kind of situation, and they didn’t want to get involved.
“Did you lose your tongue, lad?” the second horseman snapped rudely, jerking his horse toward Reis and Katherine.
“I don’t see how that’s any business of yours, lad,” Reis replied, his tone deep and unfriendly.
“You’ll not be passing through this town without paying a tax,” the first horseman said. His horse rammed into ours, knocking her to the side and nearly off her feet.
Reis snorted. “Tax? We don’t need to pay your tax. We’re on a mission of the church.”
The two men on horseback laughed at Reis’s denial, and crowded closer to the wagon.
The second horseman drew even closer, leaning toward the bench and leering at Katherine. “Your company says otherwise, boy, and your speech brands you a stranger.” His eyes flicked to Tatiana, and ran quickly up and down her body. He grinned suddenly, showing a row of broken and rotting teeth. “Though I believe we can negotiate your tax, given what your companions have to offer.”
Tatiana began to growl under her breath, and I saw Paul’s hands flexing. Katherine had grown as still as a
trapped bird on the bench, and I could practically see her thoughts racing. This situation was going from bad to worse, and I didn’t think any of my companions were going to keep still much longer.
In front of me, Reis adjusted his body slightly, loosening his robe. He moved his foot slowly to the side, throwing open the bag in front of him to reveal the butt of the assault rifle.
My eyes flitted from the body guard to the rifle to the men in front us. Why oh why hadn’t Reis given each of us weapons? I didn’t think he could take all six of these men by himself.
“We’ve recently arrived from Rome,” he said evenly. “As I told you, we’re on a mission for the church.” He carefully shifted the reins from his right hand to his left, freeing his shooting hand. It disappeared slowly beneath his robe.
Daggers, I thought. That’s what he had on him. And a handgun. Perhaps that would be enough, after all.
“I do not pay homage to your God,” the second horseman rasped. “Give us the church’s silver, and we will allow you to pass.”
Reis shook his head. “You’re not listening, friend. I told you, we don’t have any money.” His tone was hollow, laced with an obvious warning.
“Do you wish to live?” the second horseman asked suddenly.
Reis didn’t bother to answer. He yanked his hand from his robe, along with the handgun, and shouted something unintelligible.
The Vikings shrieked in response and surged toward the cart, brandishing a number of swords, axes, and daggers. An arrow flew through the air, brushing my ear, and I ducked, pulling Tatiana and Paul with me.
A thunderclap of sound erupted above us, deafening me, followed by a blur of action and blood.
In a smooth, practiced motion, the second horseman reached behind his back, retrieved an arrow, notched the 36-inch-long projectile, and brought the bow up, aimed directly at my heart.
“We’ll take what we–” The Viking’s words were cut short as another thunderous roar tore through the village. Fire erupted from under Reis’s robe, blowing it upward to expose the assault rifle underneath. The shots ripped through the Dane’s body, sending him to the ground, dead. Several of the bullets continued on past where he had been sitting to decimate the building on the other side of the road.
As he fell from his saddle, his loosed arrow cut through the warm, humid air, coming to rest in the throat of one of the Vikings behind us. He fell to the ground with a strangled cry and lay there, his body jerking in the mud. The horse belonging to the remaining rider reared up in terror at the sound of Reis’s weapon, throwing its owner from his saddle. The man landed face-first on the ground and rolled quickly to the side. But he wasn’t quick enough; the horse pounded him into the ground in its panic to get away from Reis and his guns. It thundered through the village, scattering chickens and pigs as it went.
I could hear the locals screaming in the alleys around us, terrified, and wondered fleetingly how long we had before they began to riot.
Reis must have had the same thought. He pushed Katherine, who was stunned and sitting absolutely still, into the back of the wagon, and grabbed the horse’s reins. She was no happier about the gunshots than any of the other horses, and was lunging forward and back in panic.
Instead of trying to control her, Reis brought the reins sharply down on her rump and shouted, “Ha!”
The horse didn’t need any further encouragement. She shot forward, rushing through the wide main street of the town. We weren’t out of the woods yet, though. A shout from Paul drew my attention to the back of the cart, where I saw that one of the Vikings had jumped up before we left, grabbing the edge of the vehicle. He clung to the side now, one hand around Tatiana’s wrist, threatening to pull her out of the cart. She glanced to me, mouthing the word ‘help,’ and I looked around the cart, desperate for a weapon.
Before I could move, Paul flew into action. He lugged one of Katherine’s bags of flour up over his shoulder and heaved it at the Viking. Tatiana ducked at the last second, and the man took the bag across the face. He dropped like a rock to the road below us.
An ominous bump two seconds later suggested that he met a quick fate via the wheels of the wagon.
“Get down!” Reis screamed, handing the reins to me. He swung around with his rifle, looking for other enemies in the area, and covered our escape.
We stopped twenty minutes later, at a small inn by the road.
“Is everyone okay?” Reis asked. He turned to face us, breathing heavily.
“Are you?” Paul responded quickly.
Reis nodded. “I think so.”
“What now?” I asked, taking in our surroundings. I didn’t think we’d been followed, but I didn’t trust any of the people here, now. I wanted to know who was around us at all times.
Reis rolled up his sleeve and glanced at his watch. “We’ve got a long way to go and very little time to get there,” he said. He paused, thinking. “I’m afraid that little incident is going to draw a lot of attention, and that’s not good. Word is going to get out about my guns, so our cover is blown.” He jumped off the cart and gestured toward the row of horses hitched to the tying post in front of the inn. “Gather your things. Choose a horse.”
“What?” Paul spluttered, jumping down. “We can’t just take horses! What about the cart?”
Reis turned, his face dark. “Listen to me, Paul,” he said quietly. “That little show back there blew our cover. We’re labeled as people with guns, and strangers, and guess whose territory we’re in right now?” He paused, waiting for an answer.
“Dresden’s,” I muttered. He was right–we were in a lot of danger. More now than we had been. My legs kicked into action at the thought, and I was out of the cart before I knew it.
Reis nodded. “Exactly. Now he’s going to be searching for us, and he’s going to know exactly who and where we are, thanks to those townspeople. We need to get moving, and we need to move a hell of a lot faster than we were doing in the wagon.”
“So we’re just going to go in and ask someone if we can borrow their horses?” Paul asked, shocked.
“Not at all,” Reis replied, smiling. “I have a plan.”
24
DONCASTER, ENGLAND
Dresden’s personal chamber took up the entire room at the top of the castle’s tallest tower. It stretched nearly 18 feet from floor to ceiling and housed just under 1000 square feet of living space. Six brightly colored rugs were strewn about the stone floor, with one massive rug depicting the royal crown of England lying at the foot of his bed. On top of the bed was a bright red bedspread made of silk, lavishly embroidered with silver and gold horses and birds of prey. There were dozens of multicolored pillows on the bed–rash signs of wealth in this day and age. Two tall stained glass windows stood on either side of the large desk, and paintings of stars, moons, and horses decorated the plaster walls in purple, gold, and turquoise. To anyone else, the chamber was breathtakingly beautiful, lacking nothing and even flaunting colors and materials that the royals called their own. To Dresden, these sumptuous decorations and signs of wealth were the hard-won gains of his climb to power. They were ostentatious, but they were also his due. He didn’t hesitate to remind people of that.
Dresden himself was sitting at his desk, recording the day’s goals, when the Bishop of Fairhaven rushed into the room, his nose swollen and bloody. Both of his eyes were blackened. He had one of his priests with him, presumably for moral support. Dresden looked up, frowning with displeasure.
“I do not recall summoning you,” he said, going back to his journal. “What on earth happened to your face?”
“I was attacked!” the Bishop snapped angrily. “A ruffian attacked me without warning or reason, and I demand that he be found and punished! No one should be allowed to strike a servant of God, not in my kingdom!”
Dresden snorted as he leaned back in his chair. Men of the church were flighty and self-righteous, and he had far more important things to do right now. A war was coming, and he needed to be p
repared. If things were going to go the way he wanted…
“Make no mistake, your Holiness, this is not your kingdom, and you are no more a servant of God than I,” he snapped. “Further, I have important business to see to, and little patience for your petty arguments. I suggest you handle this yourself, or I will finish what this other man started.”
“As lord of this region, it is your duty to see justice done!” the Bishop protested. “Would you allow mercenaries to beat members of the church?” Suddenly his voice grew low and crafty. “I wonder how my superiors would feel about that. I wonder whether they would find another man … worthier of your place.”
Dresden drew a long, whistling breath through his noise, his nostrils pinched. The Bishop was an idiot, but he knew how to play at politics. Just like every other self-serving church official he had met in this period. The Bishop would tell his superiors, he had no doubt, and Richard couldn’t afford to lose the church’s backing. Not now.
Of course the Bishop could only tell his tale if he left here alive.
Dresden’s mouth quirked, and he glanced toward the drawer where he kept his personal pistol. “Well when you put it that way, Bishop, I find it hard to argue with you,” he muttered, his voice smooth and slippery. “Do tell me, then, who was this ruffian?”
The Bishop smiled at the small victory. “There were four of them. I don’t know who they were. They were … strange.”
Dresden lifted his eyebrows in mock fascination. “Strange? How so?”
“They spoke…” The Bishop took a deep breath, his eyes sliding to the side. “They spoke like you, my Lord.”
Dresden frowned, his mind trying to make sense of what the fool had said. Suddenly he noticed something hanging from the man’s wrists–gray, dense material, which reflected the light back at him.