Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

‘Is that so? Who does the whipping?’

The man nodded towards the forge. Michaels set a coin on the table. ‘See that someone feeds and waters my horse.’

He stood for a while considering the woman and child. To intervene might prevent him making any further search for Beatrice. He remembered his offer to Mrs Westerman to kill Manzerotti and disappear into the forests and make his own way home. He thought of his wife and children in Hartswood. He didn’t want to make the life of Mr and Mrs Clode more difficult, but he couldn’t unsee this, and there’d be no real point in going home at all if he couldn’t look his family in the eye. He realised in truth the decision had been made before he even started to think on it. He crossed the square and walked into the smithy the man had nodded at. He found hammer and chisel on the work-bench and turned to go, when a shout stopped him.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ A man his own height and wider by some margin came lumbering out of the back of the building, pulling his breeches closed. A young thin-looking woman followed him, smoothing her skirt. She slipped past Michaels and turned the corner without looking back. Michaels considered the man. His head was shaven and there were veins pulsing round his neck. His flab hung in bags at his waist, but his shoulders were broad, his arms long and his hands heavy-looking. Again Michaels thought of his mother’s fairytales.

‘Just borrowing these,’ he said, and walked out of the house. He heard the man shouting behind him. He sounded confused. Michaels lifted the hammer and chisel as he walked; he saw the woman’s face, frightened and tear-streaked. She held up a hand as if to ward him away, but before she could move further he placed the chisel on the chain and struck it. It split apart and the ends ran free of the ringbolt with a satisfying clatter. The woman took the boy’s falling weight and Michaels heard the child groan. He had just enough time to turn and duck under the hammer blow aimed at his head. The blacksmith staggered.

Michaels stepped away from him, and the blacksmith charged again. Michaels waited, then again danced away from the blow. The blacksmith was panting.

‘There now, you’re just wearing yourself out, fella,’ Michaels said. ‘Not used to hitting people who ain’t been tied up first, are you?’

In reply, the blacksmith dropped the hammer and charged at him head down, but this time he was ready for Michaels’s dodge and twisted enough to grab him round the waist. Michaels went down, but managed to squirm out from under the blacksmith’s falling body and scramble to his feet. The blacksmith’s left hand shot out, caught Michaels on the ankle and pulled him down again. Michaels kicked out hard with his right leg, bringing his heel down on the blacksmith’s face, and felt the nose break. The man roared with pain and let go of his ankle. Michaels threw himself across his back, got his arm around the man’s throat and pulled. The blacksmith’s arms paddled in the dirt and his eyes bulged.

‘Which arm do you use for your whipping?’ Michaels spoke through clenched teeth.

‘Get him off me, you bastards! Get him off!’

‘No one’s coming, fella.’

‘I’ll kill every bastard one of you for this! Fuck you all, fuck you all to hell!’

There were people watching from all sides now, silent, expressionless.

‘ Which arm? ’ Michaels punched him sharply in the kidneys so the blacksmith yelled and writhed.

‘Left! Left , you motherfucking son of a bitch.’

Michaels paused for a second, remembering the hammer blow. ‘Nice try.’ He stood and dragged him through the dirt to the stone steps leading up to the flogging post, then knelt on his back and yanked the blacksmith’s right arm out so the forearm rested between the two lowest raises. The blacksmith yelled out again but Michaels drove down with his open palm and felt the bone snap. The blacksmith screamed. Michaels stood, spat onto the dirt and watched for a moment. Then knocked some of the dust off his coat and turned to go.

‘Murderer …’ the blacksmith managed. Michaels paused.

‘What’s that, fella?’

‘You heard.’ The words came out between sharp pants. The blacksmith’s face was yellowish-white, like milk on the turn.

‘Bollocks. It’s a clean break. You’ll mend.’

‘You’ve murdered me, I tell you! If you go now, they’ll kill me,’ he hissed.

Michaels looked about him. A couple of sour-looking youths had emerged from the buildings around them to watch the fun. One had a shovel in his hand. His face was pinched and he carried his head forward and his shoulders high. There was a glittering in the air and Michaels knew the taste of it. Normally when a fight was done, tension fell away, it was the same lightness that came after a thunderstorm. This air, this sense of heaviness, meant violence to come. He cursed under his breath and crouched down. The blacksmith’s cheek was pressed into the dirt, the fat of his face forcing his right eye closed.

‘You got any friends here willing to shelter you?’

His left eye glittered with hope and he spoke quickly, his words flickered with spit and fear. ‘The pastor’s — Pastor Huber … His house is down the track past the forge.’

Michaels looked at him. The man was worth nothing, and to take him would rob the growing crowd of its revenge for all the beatings he’d given out. He thought of his wife again, remembering an argument they had had about some business in Hartswood. ‘You’re not God, Michaels!’ she had said.

‘We’re going now.’ He got the man’s good arm over his shoulder and hauled him up, thanking God he hadn’t broken the bastard’s legs. He felt the crowd watching him, jealous, angry, but it was leaderless now. If one man had stepped forward and claimed the blacksmith, the rest would have followed, but no one did. ‘We don’t run, we don’t dawdle,’ Michaels said, and taking as much weight as he could, half-dragged the blacksmith from the square.

After some minutes breathing in the fresh air, Harriet found that Crowther had joined her. He stood a few feet away from her, leaning on the head of his cane and watching. It was typical of him, she thought, to remain at hand, but not approach her too solicitously. Rather he waited until she had recovered enough to speak. At last she lifted her head and looked about her. It was still early. The entrance to the Lady’s Chapel lay in a small enclosed courtyard, high-walled and hardly overlooked. There were a number of neat piles of workmen’s tools and a stone bench against one wall. Its plainness was a relief in comparison to the rest of the palace, and the slight chill in the air was welcome. The two men guarding the chapel doors kept their eyes on the empty air in front of their noses.

Crowther saw her lift her head, and nodding towards the bench, he crossed the space between them and offered his arm. She took it and let herself be guided. As soon as they had taken their seat he reached into his coat-pocket and produced a document, much decorated with ribbon and seals.

‘What is that?’

‘The order for Daniel’s release.’

‘Krall gave it to you?’

‘He procured it while we had our coffee and had it in his coat all the time. I feel as if it is a reward for having spotted the trickery in the placing of the body.’

She took it from him and traced with her fingertip the impression of the seal of Maulberg. ‘How strange. We came all this distance to obtain this. I should feel elated, should I not?’

He began to twist his cane between his palms. ‘We came to save Daniel, yes. But we also came to know the truth. To find out what has happened.’