by J. P. Ashman
A gentle chuckle and she stirred. He hadn’t meant to wake her, but struggled to contain his continuous adoration for the girl besides him.
She rolled, met his eyes and smiled back, blue eyes sparkling.
‘You are the manifestation of the perfect dream,’ Quin said, voice catching through emotion or a night’s sleep, he had no idea, but he suspected it to be the former.
‘And you’re soft in the head.’
They both laughed, hers sounding to him like the tinkling of delicate wind chimes.
‘I need to leave,’ she said, rolling away, up and off the bed.
‘So soon?’
‘Yes.’
He watched her back now, bared by the falling of her night dress.
‘You’re not making it easy for me to accept your leaving.’
A laugh, short this time, no chimes present.
‘I’m to work, Quin, nothing more,’ she said whilst pulling on her layers. ‘You have the same to do most days. I can’t help having to do it at different times. We can’t all be apprentice shipwrights you know.’
He watched her bend and retrieve, watched her lift and watched her pull on her final layer, the tightly-woven green wool dress she wore most days; not the burgundy dress he’d bought her.
‘When I’m a journeyman, I’ll buy you the most fabulous dress,’ he promised, sure now that she hated his gift.
Emms spun on him. ‘A tavern maid in a silk gown?’ She laughed, mocking him. ‘Not likely.’
Quin sat up. ‘I’ll make it so, and you’ll need not serve ale and food any longer.’
She paused at that. ‘But I enjoy what I do. And anyway, a silk gown, any gown, wouldn’t hide the marks on my face.’
He never saw the marks from the illness she’d had as a child. He knew they were there, but he saw past them every time.
‘A lady wouldn’t pass for much with these,’ Emms went on, prodding her pitted cheeks with both index fingers.
‘My lady would!’
Fingers fell away and blue eyes narrowed in all seriousness. ‘Stop it,’ Emms said. ‘You’re either making fun of me or building me up to something I’m not. At least in the tavern I’m somebody—’
‘Because men pinch your bottom and coo at your golden hair?’
Emms’ face reddened. Without another word, she stomped from the bed chamber, Quin’s bed chamber, and slammed his door behind her.
Quin sighed and his stomach twisted. ‘Why does it always come back to this of late?’ he whispered, head resting back on the pillow as he slid down the bed. ‘When will she learn that I can offer her so much more?’
The only response to Quin’s question was a dual, throaty hiss from under the bed.
***
Smoke sensitive eyes tracked two men as they walked into the low-ceilinged tavern. One had to bend over so as not to bump his head on the oak beams, the other gingerly prodded at the swelling around his right eye, which distorted the tattoos surrounding it.
‘Pleased you could join us, lads,’ Gleave said from a table, winking at the two men and holding a pot of ale up high. Sav and Fal smiled, although their smiles slipped when Correia sat forward, from the shadows.
‘Fuck,’ Sav said, smile fading completely.
‘Fuck indeed, Sav,’ Correia said, ‘because that’s what you two are: fucked.’ Both men sat on the bench opposite Correia and Gleave, shifting Starks along in the process.
‘Aw…’ Sav’s smile returned, ‘were you worried about me?’
The table allowed enough room for a boot to connect with Sav’s shin.
Fal grinned at the following grunt.
‘I don’t know what you’re grinning at, sergeant?’ Correia chided.
‘Sorry.’
‘You two were sent forward to scout, with Errolas. Not piss about… Where’s Errolas?’ Correia frowned and looked about the dingy tavern.
Sav shrugged and waved for one of the tavern girls, wincing as he did so.
‘He’s about,’ Fal said. ‘Somewhere.’
‘That’s accurate,’ Starks said, after taking a swig of small-beer. All eyes turned to him. ‘Oh, these jokers can say whatever they like, but if I—’
‘Leave it, lad,’ Gleave said. ‘She’s not in the mood.’
Starks slumped and scowled, but said no more.
Correia looked back to Fal, head tilted, nostrils flared.
Fal held his hands out wide and rolled his bottom lip.
‘You’re bloody useless, the lot of you.’ She sat back into darkness.
Gleave and Starks made to argue, mouths opening and then closing, thinking better of it.
‘We’re to ride to the keep, to see Baron Towton,’ Correia said, ‘but not without the elf. So, I need him with us by morning. Do you think that will be doable, gentlemen?’
All four nodded.
‘Good, now go find him.’
Gleave and Starks moved to finish their drinks, but two curved swords emerged from the shadows. They forgot their drinks, stood and left, Fal and Sav in tow.
Correia took a deep breath, sheathed her swords and caught the attention of one of the tavern girls – the one who’d ignored Sav.
‘Yes, milady?’
‘Bring me a recipe.’
‘Eh?’
‘Tell your cook that Lady Burr requests his finest recipe, then bring it to me.’
The girl looked confused, but offered an awkward curtsey all the same, before rushing off.
At least I’ll get one decent report out of all of this. Correia reached for and downed the forgotten ales.
***
‘Where is she?’ Quin asked at the bar, after having to push his way to it.
‘Working,’ the woman said, spittle flecking Quin’s face. He wiped it away and frowned.
‘I know that, Mag,’ he looked about, ‘but where?’
‘Here and there, on errands,’ Mag said, shaking a clay jug in Quin’s face. ‘You drinking ale or your own drool for that girl?’
Unable to stifle a laugh, Quin smiled and nodded. ‘Go on, one won’t hurt.’
‘Ooh, how about some mead, if it’s just the one?’
A coin rapped on the counter and Quin grinned.
‘Someone’s got paid today, have they?’
‘Someone has, yes.’ Quin beamed and reached into another pouch on his belt. ‘And someone…’ he went on, as Mag filled clay pot from barrel and placed it in front of Quin whilst snatching up his coin, ‘…has bought someone else this…’ He held up a silver ring, its dull shine illuminated by the tallow candles behind the taproom’s bar.
Mag’s eyes widened for a second, before narrowing.
‘No, no!’ Quin said, hands out in defence. ‘I’m not going to, you know…’
‘Well see that you don’t, Quin. Despite bards’ tales, girls don’t want to be battened down as soon as sailed, if you get my meaning.’ Before Quin could respond, Mag erupted into a coughing mess of a laugh, before turning and making for a young but large lad who’d approached the bar further down, two more flanking him.
Following Mag’s movements, Quin looked away when he saw who she now served.
‘Badham, my boy!’ Quin heard Mag shout, but he managed not to look. Whisking the ring away, into his pouch, he did his best to slink through the throng of patrons to a small table in a shadowed corner, away from the taproom’s central fire pit, which gave off most of the tavern’s light, as well as the cloying smoke the patrons were used to.
‘Quinnell!’
The sound sunk into Quin like a teratorn’s talons. He groaned before quaffing the pot of mead in one. Woah, that’s strong, he thought, eyes widening a moment before he placed the empty vessel on the table and stood.
‘Quin!’ the shout came again, as did the lad voicing it; as did his two companions, faces as grim as the Adjunct’s Guard.
‘Badham,’ Quin greeted, managing to keep the shakes from his voice. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Is it?’ Badham’s eyebr
ows raised, forehead creasing up to the smoothness of his shaved scalp.
‘Of course, Badham,’ Quin said, holding his hand out to placate the big lad, ‘it always is.’
Eyebrows down but lips now pursed, Badham came forward quickly, suddenly, and took Quin’s offered hand, his own dwarfing Quin’s. The crushing shake brought tears to Quin’s eyes, but he bit the inside of his cheek and continued the shake until Badham released him.
‘Take a seat,’ the brute said, nodding to the stool Quin had risen from.
Nodding, Quin did as he was told, for there was no denying Badham anything. Those who did, well, it didn’t bare thinking about.
‘Take a walk, see what you can see,’ Badham said over his broad shoulder. His two friends, if they could be called that, disappeared into the nervous crowd.
‘So, what’s new with you?’ Badham asked, attention back to Quin. ‘No floor sharks with you tonight?’ Badham scanned under the table and about their feet before looking back up.
‘Erm—’ Quin started, glad he hadn’t brought his polecats.
‘Great stuff,’ Badham interrupted, eyes flicking about rather than settling on Quin’s eyes.
Quin sat there, not daring to speak or move or think, whilst the known thug and killer looked him over. The silence between them grew tense and Quin’s stomach turned circles. He wished he hadn’t drunk the mead; his head already felt thicker than it should.
Badham lunged across the table and Quin rocked back, would have fallen if his head hadn’t connected with the tavern wall.
‘Calm yourself, Quin,’ Badham said, his lunged retrieval of Quin’s empty pot bringing a smile to the big lad’s face. ‘You scare too easily.’ Badham sniffed the empty container.
Quin said nothing.
Turning the cup over several times, Badham eventually put it down and looked up. ‘Pay day?’ he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.
‘What makes you think—?’
‘The mead, Quin. Expensive stuff is that.’
Quin felt hot all of a sudden. Hot and bothered. Before he could think of what to say next, Badham smiled and winked.
‘You scare too easily. I don’t want your money, Quin. We’re old chums, aren’t we, lad?’
Lad? We’re the same age. ‘Of course—’
‘Great, you won’t mind sharing something with me then.’
I’d rather chew my own arm off. ‘Sure thing, Badham.’ Or not, as it seems.
Badham looked about, eyes narrowing. ‘Where’s Emms? Where’s that sweetheart of yours?’
Quin’s stomach dropped through the sticky floor. He managed to bunch his jaw muscles three times before losing the courage to keep Badham waiting any longer. As he made to answer, Badham brought a large knife from beneath the table and proceeded to pick his filthy nails with its hooked tip.
‘I scare too easily?’ Quin offered, pleased with himself as he cottoned on to Badham’s string of jokes at his expense.
‘Aye, you do,’ Badham agreed, looking up from his nail picking, ‘but sometimes it’s wise to be scared.’ He stood. Quin hit his head on the wall again. ‘Not tonight though, friend.’ Badham winked. ‘Tonight’s your pay night and you should enjoy it with your girl. Say hi from me though, eh? To Emms.’ Another wink and a flash of white teeth and Badham was gone, his bulk lost to the press of bodies in the tavern.
Breaths coming faster than they had the night before, or that morning, Quin balled his fists and struck the rickety table, sending his empty pot clattering across its top.
‘Quin?’
All fear, all anger and all frustration rushed to the floor and washed away as Quin looked up to see Emms’ face appear before him.
‘Thank the gods,’ he said, smiling once more.
‘You alright?’ She rushed to his side and sat on his lap, arms about his neck. ‘You look flushed, like you’ve had a fright.’
Letting his head drop to Emms’ shoulder, Quin took in her scent with a deep breath and let it out in a satisfied sigh. ‘I am now, my love. I’m alright now and no, there’s nothing to worry about. A hard day is all. A good one, but a hard one in ways.’
‘Well you’re with me now, Quin, so how about we sneak off upstairs and see if we can’t make something else hard, eh?’
Looking up, Quin felt a stir before his mind could even catch up to what she’d said.
‘How about I show you what I got you first, and we’ll head up after.’
Beautiful eyes widening in intrigue, Emms nodded for him to go on.
‘Oh,’ she said, as Quin rummaged in his pouch with the tips of his fingers.
‘Yes?’ he said, eyes meeting hers as he found what he was looking for.
‘I saw Badham as I came in.’ Her smile widened. ‘He said he’d seen you. Pointed you out, in fact.’
‘Oh, that’s good of him.’ Quin’s fingers turned the ring over once, twice, before letting it drop back into the pouch. His stomach turned more than the ring had done; more than his stomach had done when Badham sat before him.
‘You know,’ she said, trying to look at what he was doing by his belt, ‘I swear that lad’s got bigger since the last time I saw him in here.’
‘You think?’ Quin said, closing his pouch again and bringing his empty hand up to the table.
‘Yeah, I reckon,’ she said, frowning at Quin’s empty hand. ‘Now where’s this surprise?’
‘I think I’ll get another drink first, my love, before showing you. If that’s alright by you?’
‘Oh, yes, if you like.’ She climbed off his lap. ‘I’ll get them in—’
‘No, I will. It’s my pay day, you see.’
‘No, it’s fine, Quin. If you want to drink, I’ll fetch them. It’s what I do, and you don’t have to ask my permission every time you want to do something. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.’
Before Quin could say a word, probably ‘sorry’, Emms was off into the crowd, dodging the groping hands and verbally batting away the lude comments she was used to.
Quin, you prick, you have to go and ruin everything.
He wasn’t sure if it was the mead or what had happened with Badham, but a little sick reached his mouth. Swallowing down the burn, Quin leaned back and banged his head against the wall for the third time, this time on purpose.
***
Night had taken the town of Towton, children and women in bed. Most, anyway; those who weren’t soon would be, for a coin or two.
Sav whistled as he walked past a couple of painted ladies. The one with gapped teeth whistled back tenfold.
‘Ha, she likes me.’
‘She likes pennies more’n she likes you, Sav,’ Gleave said, guiding the bruised footballer down a dark alley.
‘Where we off to?’ Sav asked. ‘And why didn’t the other two come along?’
‘They’re off to find Errolas.’
‘And we’re not?’
‘Nope.’
‘Helpful,’ Sav said, pulling his arm free of Gleave’s grip.
An awful din reverberated through the wall Sav leant against, broad arms folded. ‘I want answers, Gleave. This all seems very cloak and dagger to me, and Correia sent us to find Errolas, nothing more.’
Gleave sighed. ‘I wanted a little bet is all. I rarely get the chance these days.’
Sav frowned, although the action was lost on Gleave in the dark alley.
‘Cock fighting,’ Gleave said, matter-of-factly. ‘This town’s renowned for its prize cocks. Stop smirking.’
‘You can’t see my face?’ Sav protested.
‘I don’t need to, now follow me.’
The two men continued on down the alley. A little further down and Gleave rapped on a door. A hatch opened and eyes peered out, along with a roar of men’s hoarse voices.
‘Two for the cocks,’ Gleave said. ‘Stop it,’ he added.
Sav’s laugh halted before it got going.
The eyes betrayed a nod of the head. A bolt slid and the door opened.
&nbs
p; Noise and warm, stale air struck them.
‘Sounds like the game, today,’ Sav said, following Gleave inside. The space was cavernous, which wasn’t at all obvious from the outside. Sunken stalls were set here and there. Around them stood men, all of whom were stamping, shaking fists or holding heads in hands.
Cockerels crowed and others shrieked.
‘I didn’t know they made such sounds…’ Sav thought aloud.
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing, Gleave. Just lead on, but make it quick, I’m not sure this is for me.’ Sav eyed the torn remains of a small, long-legged cockerel dangling from a man’s hand.
Dogs barked across the crowd of men.
‘Pit dogs over that way,’ Gleave said, pointing to the right. ‘But I’m here for the cocks. It’s what I’m best at judging.’
Sav frowned, but followed Gleave to the nearest, quietest stall.
‘Here we go. This one’s yet to start.’
Grand, Sav thought, not sure what he would make of it. A slap on the back rocked him forward, and he looked across to the brazier-lit features of Gleave, who was studying two caged fighting cocks. Their legs had small blades tied to them. Sav cringed.
One bird was farmyard size, with half its wattle missing. Black feathers with white flecks. The cockerel looked mean, if that was possible. The other looked…
‘That’s not on!’ Gleave shouted, pointing at a much larger bird.
Oh shit, here we go. Sav moved his hand to his short-sword, before realising he wasn’t armed.
‘What’s with ye?’ a bald man said, pushing through the crowd and poking Gleave in the chest, repeatedly. Several men turned.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, Sav continued, in his head.
‘That ain’t no fighting cock,’ Gleave accused, removing Baldy’s hand from his gambeson.
‘Ye think ye know cocks, do ye?’ Baldy stepped closer to Gleave.
‘Oh, I bet he does,’ said another, to a chorus of laughter.
Gleave sneered. ‘I do, aye, and even if I did that too, it’d be nowt to do with you lot. Now own up! Who’s running that over fed hen as a fighter? Who’s for taking good folks’ money when it’s a given that it’ll lose?’
Nothing.