“Jacques and I have to be on our way tomorrow.”
Ian knocked on the door and Sean opened it wide. Fiona knelt down and hugged Sean as though she hadn’t seen him for a long time.
After a hearty breakfast the next morning, Ian helped Fiona with the breakfast dishes. Jacques packed their gear on their horses and prepared to depart Dublin. He knew how Ian liked to have his saddlebags and parcels organized. He wanted to leave as soon as possible, but didn’t want to interrupt Ian’s last goodbyes.
Fiona and Sean walked Ian out to the front of the pub where Jacques waited with the horses prepared for the ride to Killarney.
“Will you write to me? I have no plans to move,” Fiona asked, a longing in her eyes, and a wistfulness in her voice.
“I’m poor at writing, but I promise to stop by in my travels to see how you’re doing from time to time.” Ian tightened the cinch on his saddle. He turned and Fiona fell into his arms. Ian hugged her, although he felt awkward at leaving her again. Sean grabbed his leg and Ian knelt down and hugged his son ‘goodbye.’ Ian felt he would not be able to hold back tears if he delayed his departure any longer.
“Good morning,” a voice behind Ian said.
Ian recognized the voice as that of the Constable. He stood, turned, and reached out to shake the man’s hand. “I’m afraid I must bid you adieu.” His stoic demeanor returned.
The Constable looked at Fiona, then at Ian, as if questioning the situation. He shook Ian’s hand. A look of relief seemed to cross his otherwise stern countenance. “I’m sorry to see you leave so soon. I thought you might want to settle down here.”
“I can’t stay, but I’m sure Fiona will be in good hands.”
Fiona flustered and the Constable mumbled, “My good sir.”
“Don’t be bashful. Fiona is a fine woman, and I can see you’re a good man. Don’t waste time. Life is too short.” Ian looked to Jacques who was already astride his horse ready to go.
“We’ll return.” Ian gave Fiona a last heartfelt hug. Sean, the son he had to leave behind, hugged him one last time. Ian felt his heart tug at him to stay, so the sooner he left, the better. Ian clambered aboard his horse and followed Jacques down the road out of town toward Killarney. When they were almost to the end of the street, Ian looked back to see the Constable and Fiona engaged in a deep conversation, and thought, all is well.
Five
Ian and jacques halted their mounts on a knoll overlooking the village. “Are we going to put on our full armor to show off for your stepfather?” Jacques asked.
“No, we’re riding in much the same way I rode out over five years ago with my armor in my parcels. There’s no reason to make a show for Dylan. . . or the villagers.”
“As you wish.”
They rode unhurried through the village to Ian’s ancestral farm on the outskirts. Ian noted the countryside had remained much the same as when he left, as it had been the same for the previous hundred years. Some farm houses had been spruced up and some had been allowed to fall into disrepair. Stone fences made semi-permanent boundaries enclosing good fortune, or bad, without judgment.
When they arrived at the family farm, Ian noticed the straw dolly he had fastened over the cottage doorway before he left. He didn’t see Dylan out in the field. He expected to find him in the cottage fixing supper, as the time was right, and a waft of white smoke spiraled from the chimney.
Ian and Jacques dismounted and slack tied their reins to the post in the front yard. The cottage door was slightly ajar allowing the mid-summer breeze to freshen the interior of the cottage and the aromas of a fresh pot of chicken stew to escape to the out of doors. Since Ian had been away for so long, he did not feel it appropriate to barge in, so, he knocked on the door.
A voice from inside shouted, “Enter, the door is open as you can plainly see.”
Ian instantly recognized Dylan’s rough as a cob voice.
“Father, it is I, Ia . . .”
Dylan was at the door before Ian could finish, his arms outstretched. He grabbed Ian in a bear hug. “Ian . . . Ian, I have worried about you every day since you left.” Dylan swept Ian off the ground and squeezed the breath out of him. Dylan set Ian down, reached for his own back, and groaned. “Lord, son, you have become an even larger man than you were when you left. I hope I didn’t sprain my back in my exuberance.”
Ian grasped Dylan’s arm, “Are you alright, Father. I didn’t mean to be such a burden.”
“You were never a burden to me. The years have been difficult for me working the farm alone.”
Ian started to speak, but Dylan interrupted with, “How tall are ye now . . . What do ye weigh?”
“I’m about six foot two inches tall and weigh over 15 stones when well fed and rested,” Ian hinted while trying to be subtle about being hungry. “I’m slightly taller too, under the same conditions.” The lamb and vegetable stew made his mouth water.
Oblivious to Ian’s hints, Dylan asked, “And who is your handsome companion?” Dylan reached out to shake Jacques’ hand.
“I’m Jacques LeFriant.” Jacques gave Dylan a firm handshake.
Dylan stared at Jacques’ face, a handsome French knight, but realizing there was a story to tell, said, “Where are my manners, you must be starving. Come inside and sup with me.” Dylan beckoned for Ian and Jacques to follow him into the cottage and sit on the two tree stump chairs. He took three bowls out of the pantry, stepped over to the fireplace, lifted the lid on the pot, and sniffed. “It’s ready.” He ladled soup into two of the bowls, and offered the chipped bowl to Ian and the second bowl to Jacques.
Ian stared at the chipped bowl, and said, “This was my mother’s favorite bowl.”
Dylan replied, “Aye, it was, God rest her soul,” then he poured a bowl of soup for himself. He pulled a chunk of wood from next to the fireplace and used it as a chair. Almost as an apology, he said, “Your mother’s chairs gave out, and I haven’t had time to fashion new ones. I’ll say Grace and then you can tell me your whole story . . . from beginning to end.” He looked at Ian and then Jacques, lowered his head and said, “Oh, Lord, we thank thee for our bounteous blessings and this food, Amen.” Dylan scooped up a spoonful of stew and, prior to putting it in his mouth, said, “Well?”
Ian wondered how he could tell Dylan even a fraction of what had transpired in the past five years. “Please excuse my bad manners; your other dinner guest is my brother, Jacques LeFriant from Toulon, France.” Ian waited for the information to sink in.
Dylan paused his eating, expecting an explanation.
“I met Jacques on my way to Jerusalem and his family took me in, trained me to be a knight and adopted me. We traveled to Jerusalem with Raymond, the leader of the First Crusaders’ Army and captured Jerusalem for the church.”
Dylan studied Ian and Jacques for a few moments. “You’re both French knights? Amazing.” Dylan finished the rest of his bowl of stew without comment, while he assimilated Ian’s story. “Have you returned from your journey?”
“Only for a short visit, then we must return to our duties.”
“Which are?”
“Jacques is the head guard for the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and I am the head guard for the Palace and the King.”
“I know you always were an honest boy and I could not doubt you now, but what you’re telling me is too amazing to be true.”
“I understand, and there’s more, much more, but maybe we should feed you details over the next couple of days and let everything sink in. I do have to say you were right about many things.”
“Such as?”
“The need for me to train for combat, the need to learn languages, how incredibly horrible warfare is, and much more.”
“I thank you, son, for your hard earned wisdom. You have grown into quite a man.”
The next day Dylan took Ian and Jacques out into the field to show them how much of the land he had cultivated that spring.
“Father, this is less than half the fa
rm.”
“It’s all I am able to do by myself, the taxes are greater this year than last, and I was told by the tax collector that I still owe back taxes for last year.”
“Could you get by with some help?”
“There are men willing to work, but they need to be paid, and I have no money to pay them.”
Ian walked over to the stone fence separating his farm from the neighboring farm and studied the fallow fields. “Has no one bought the McCarthy farm since they all passed away?”
“There is no living to be made on these farms anymore, what with the tax man taking what little excess there is, and more. He has threatened to take our farm before I can harvest this crop.”
“How did this man become such a nemesis in our village?”
“Our old Chieftain, Aedan Barbour, was a good man. He was Chieftain by birthright and common consent. He collected only those taxes needed to protect our village from raiders and to support our widows and orphans. He had a beautiful daughter, Moira, and a stalwart wife, Gwendolyne.”
“I remember Moira. She was a couple of years older than I, and had a beautiful smile,” replied Ian.
“Moira fell in love with a young man, Jared O’Connor, who had nearly completed his farrier apprenticeship. They planned to marry once he set up his own blacksmith shop. Aedan liked Jared and sanctioned the betrothal.”
The Chieftain from a nearby village, Brian Ahearn, wanted Moira for his son, Kane, and tried to negotiate a marriage contract with Aedan, but Aedan loved his daughter and refused. His daughter’s happiness was more important to him than an alliance with another Chieftain.”
“What happened?” Jacques asked.
“Well, Brian Ahearn claimed our Chief became unreasonable and belligerent, drew a sword and attacked him, so Ahearn had to kill him in self-defense. But no one believes Ahearn’s story.”
“So why let him run roughshod over the village?” asked Jacques.
“Ahearn came to the village with his son, Kane, and several hired chicken thieves who bullied everyone. He appointed Kane as his tax collector.”
“What did Friar McCarthy do?”
“He confronted Ahearn, but Ahearn threatened to burn the church down and hang the Friar from a tree if he interfered. Rumor has it that he runs rough shod over his own village of Killorglin, keeping it and our village under the heel of his boot.”
“Where are Gwendolyne and Moira?”
“They escaped to the countryside right after Ahearn killed Aedan.”
“Can you introduce me to this tax man, Kane, and his father, the Chieftain?”
“Kane will be here tomorrow to demand my tax payment, and take our property if I can’t pay.”
“Is he Anglo or Irish?”
“Irish, but he’s a shameful example of an Irishman.”
“Let me handle him.”
“So be it, Mr. Knight.”
Early the next morning Ian, Jacques and Dylan waited in the cottage until Kane, the tax man, arrived. Dylan watched Kane approach the door and stepped outside, “Sire, I have your taxes.”
“How could you have obtained the money in so short of a time?” Kane looked to his band of henchmen, and motioned for them to remain back.
“I thought the only thing that was important was to pay the required taxes, not where it came from.” Dylan paused as the tax collector glared at him. “Do you want to collect the taxes or not?”
“Of course.”
“I need a receipt showing I’m paid in full.”
“I don’t give receipts.”
Jacques stepped out of the front door in full battle regalia, and declared in French, “No receipt, no tax money.”
Kane, surprised at the presence of a Frankish knight, looked at Jacques with trepidation, “What did you say, Sire?”
Ian stepped out of the front door also attired in full battle regalia and stood next to Jacques, “He said, no receipt, no tax money,” in Gaelic. “We will escort you to your Chieftain to make sure everything is recorded properly.”
“Yes, sire, yes sire . . . of course sire,” Kane deferred to the two impressive looking knights. Kane started to comment on the exotic looking scimitar at Ian’s side, but thought better of it. “Follow me.” Kane motioned for his henchmen to accompany them.
Ian and Jacques mounted their horses and followed Kane to the village. Kane entered the largest cottage in the village, which used to belong to the previous Chieftain, Aedan Barbour, and addressed the elderly gentleman seated at a roughhewn wooden table. “Father, we have visitors.”
Ian stepped forward to the doorway so the man inside could get a clear view of him, and said, “Sire, we are here on behalf of the villagers in this hamlet. We request that you cease taxing them out of their homes.”
“Who are you, and what business is this of yours to interfere with the lawful gathering of taxes?” The elderly man stood up tall and his head nearly bumped against the cottage ceiling. “I’m the Chieftain and designated magistrate for this village. I will fulfill my duties as I see fit.”
“Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Ian LeFriant and this is my brother Jacques. We have traveled to your fine village to visit an old friend and find that injustice is served here. We have come here to convince you to correct your ways.”
“You cannot intimidate me in my own home. Now be gone.”
“Our friend has the funds to pay his taxes, but he wants a receipt for the payment.”
“Do not tell me how to manage my affairs.”
“Do you want to collect the taxes, which, in my opinion, are greater than is reasonable?”
Kane stood nervously by, fingering the sword hanging from his sash.
“Bring the payment to me this afternoon. I will provide the desired receipt.”
“Very well. Also my friend would like to purchase the McCarthy farm for the taxes owed.”
“That farm is not available.”
“Why not? It lays fallow as we speak.”
“My son, Kane, will be taking over the McCarthy farm and he will hire tenants to work the land.”
“I see. Is your purpose to tax all the farmers in the village out of their lands, then install them as tenant farmers on their own ancestral homes?”
“This is no business of yours, Frenchie. Now leave. Return with my taxes this afternoon, or I will take your friend’s property tomorrow.”
“We will return this afternoon.” Ian and Jacques backed away from the cottage lest Kane strike them from behind with his sword as they departed. Once on their horses, and headed back to the farm, Ian asked, “Jacques, what do you suggest we do?”
“We should bring the tax money to them as requested, but if they try any foul play, deal with them as we would deal with any scoundrels.”
Back at the farm, Ian and Jacques explained to Dylan what had transpired. “We’ll pay off your taxes and obtain a receipt.”
“I cannot pay you back.”
“We will also leave you enough money to hire some help and assist with tax payments for the next couple of years until we return again.”
“I cannot accept so much.” Dylan’s eyes began to tear up.
“Father, as the one who raised me, I could do nothing less.” Ian embraced his stepfather for a moment. “All I ask is for you and the other villagers to band together against these evil men and halt their thievery.”
“Don’t you want me to go with you to the Chieftain?”
“I want you to bring as many of your neighbors as you can to his cottage this afternoon so they can witness our stand against these men. We may have to use force to convince the Chieftain and his son to stop taxing the people out of their farms. Maybe he can be convinced to be a fair man, or maybe he is a scoundrel through and through. We will let his actions be his judge. The villagers must band together to stop men like these from taking advantage now, and in the future.”
Ian, Jacques, Dylan, and several of the local farmers approached the Chieftain’s cottage in the vi
llage of Killarney. Ian spotted several hired chicken thieves and slipshod warriors standing out front waiting for them to arrive. Ian dismounted, still wearing his Crusader armor, and carrying a six-foot long, two-inch diameter pointed oak staff. Jacques followed Ian carrying a similar staff. Jacques remained behind Ian to protect his back.
Ian lifted his helmet visor as he walked up to Kane, and said, “We have returned as promised. We are here to pay the taxes due on the farm of one Dylan O’Donoghue.”
“Mr. LeFriant, as I said earlier, we don’t appreciate French knights interfering with our affairs.”
Ian stamped the blunt end of his staff against the ground. “Your affairs have displaced many of the local farmers from their homes, causing them to either have to tenant their own farms, or leave. It’s apparent that someone needs to interfere.”
“You will have to deal with my father who is Chieftain over all this land.”
Brian Ahearn, a bull of a man, much more impressive on his feet than he was sitting down at table earlier in the day, emerged from the cottage, elegantly attired in fur and linen, his hair and beard combed and a large sword, befitting a Chieftain, hanging at his side. His eyes smoldered as one who is used to giving orders and having them obeyed. “Why have you knights returned to stir up my villagers against me?” Ahearn pointed at the farmers behind Ian who were armed with pitchforks and other farm implements.
“We’re not here to start trouble, but to prevent trouble. We wish to pay the taxes due and receive a receipt in peace.”
“You don’t look peaceful. Who is this troublemaker that sent you?”
“He’s no troublemaker. He is an old family friend and a poor farmer who merely wishes to pay his taxes, and obtain a receipt for having done so.”
“Can’t he make the payment himself?”
“He could, but we have advised him to let us serve as his representatives. Are you going to provide a receipt or not?”
“We keep our own records. The peasants have no need of records. Most of them cannot read nor write.”
“Records of taxes paid and titles of land owned are important, even for peasants.”
The Noble Mercenary Page 8