Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

“So, you’re awake now, are you?”

“Ah.” No words could convey the same anguish and pain as the simple, soft and quiet groan that broke from Harold Greencliffs lips as he tried to sit up. Moaning gently, he rolled on to his side and peered through slitted eyes at the man who stood looking down at him with grave concern. When he opened his mouth, it felt as if there was a week of dried saliva encrusted around his lips, and he winced as his skin cracked.

“Keep quiet, friend. Sit back. You can’t go anywhere.”

As his eyes began to focus, Greencliff stared at him. He was dressed in thick and warm-looking woollen clothes, his tunic woven of heavy cloth and his cloak lined with fur. He must be a wealthy man.

His face was arresting. Swarthy and weather-beaten, square and wrinkled, it seemed as rugged as the rocks around them. Two gleaming black eyes gazed back at the farmer with interest under a thick mop of deep brown hair. Although there were lines of laughter at the eyes, now they contained only concern, and Greencliff realised what a sorry figure he must appear. Then, as the memories returned, he felt a sob rack his body in a quick shudder of self-pity.

“Calm yourself. Drink this.”

The liquid was almost scalding hot, but he thought he had never tasted anything so wonderful. It was a warmed wine fit for the king himself, Greencliff thought. Though he sipped carefully, it still seared the flesh around his mouth and burned a trail down his throat, seeming to form a solid, scalding lump in his stomach. Meanwhile his host crouched and watched.

After a few moments, Greencliff took stock of his surroundings. He was in a cave of some sort. Outside, through a small doorway, he could see the fire, whose heat wafted in with the smell of burning wood. He was lying on a straw palliasse with his blanket over him, and his new friend had clearly let him sleep on his own bed because a roll and blanket on the floor showed where he had slept.

“Do you feel well enough to eat?” At the question, the farmer felt his stomach wake to turbulent life as if it had been hibernating until then, and a low rumbling started to shake his weakened frame. The man gave a short laugh. “Good. I’ll have some stew ready in a little while. I have bread too, so don’t worry about losing your own food.”

An hour later he felt well enough to rise from the mattress and walk outside to where the man crouched by the fire, meditatively breaking twigs and branches to feed the flames. He looked up as Greencliff came out, bent double to save himself from hitting his head at the low entrance.

“How’re you feeling now?” the Bourc asked.

Wincing, Greencliff sat warily on a rock near the fire. “A lot better. I’m very grateful, if you hadn’t helped me, I’d be dead.”

“One day, I might need help, and I hope that I will be protected as I protected you.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m called John, the Bourc de Beaumont.”

“You are not from here?” It was an innocent question, and the farmer was surprised by the laugh it brought.

“No! No, I come from far away, from Gascony. I would not live here from choice!”

Greencliff nodded, morosely staring at the moors all round. “I can understand that!” he said. “So, why are you here?”

Grimacing, the Bourc explained about his decision to cross the moors. “The wolves chased me here, and I was attacked by one – night before last, that was. I killed it, but I got little sleep, so I chose to stay here for another day. Anyway, I thought it was easier to defend myself here. If they catch you on horseback, they’ll chase you ‘til your horse drops.”

“Why were they trying to attack you? Are they just evil?” asked the farmer, shivering at the memory of the slavering mouths tearing at his belongings.

“No, not really. It is just the way they are. They saw me – and you – as a meal, that’s all. There is not enough food for them right now. They thought we’d be easy enough to catch.” He almost shuddered at the memory. The way that the beast had leaped at him had terrified him. In his mind’s eye he could still see the jaws opening and smell the foul breath. In that moment he had been sure he was about to die.

The fear had almost caused his death. It slowed his reactions, so that the huge creature had almost succeeded in tearing his neck with its wickedly curved fangs, just missing and slashing his shoulder. The pain had woken him to his danger, and turning quickly, he had stabbed deep, again and again, in a fit of mad panic.

Afterwards he had built the fire and waited, nursing his shoulder, but they had chosen not to attack again. The next day they were still there, and he had kept an eye on them as he sat and kept warm.

He glanced up shrewdly. “So why are you here? Who or what are you running from?”

“Me?” His start of surprise seemed to strike the Gascon as comical.

“Yes: you! Nobody who knows this place would come here to the moors in the snow unless they had a good reason. Especially at night. It’s a good way to make sure of death, but nothing else. Who are you running from?”

“I…” He paused. There was no reason to doubt his grim-faced saviour, but the truth was, he had no wish to admit to his guilt. Opening his mouth to speak, he found the breath catching in his throat again, and he had to keep silent. The sob was too close. He gave a small cough, an involuntary spasm that could have been from misery or joy, and covered his face in his hands.

“You’ve been through pain, I can see that,” said the Bourc matter-of-factly, finishing his wine. With his eyes on his guest, his mind ran through the items he had found from the satchel. A little food the wolves had left, a flint and a knife. A long-bladed ballock knife: a single-edged blade with two globular lumps where the wooden grip met it, held in a leather sheath. When he had found it, he had been going to return it, but then he had wondered. If this boy was an outlaw, if he was escaping from justice of some sort, it might be better to keep his knife back for now. “Of course,” he thought, “if he wants to tell me what made him leave, I can give it back. But not yet. Not quite yet.”

It wasn’t just the distrust of a man for a stranger in these difficult times. It was also the thick clots he had found on the blade, the dried brown mess of blood.

“Wait here!” Mark Rush ordered as he dropped from his horse. He wandered slowly and carefully round the little dip in the ground, following the line of staggering footprints. “Yes, he was here. He walked up here, tripped and fell. There’s the mark where he lay. Looks like he got up and then began to make a fire. Not much of one, though.” Kneeling, he sniffed contemplatively at the blackened twigs. “Not enough to keep him warm for more than a minute. He sat here.”

Rising, he stood and stared at the ground for a minute, hands on hips as he considered. Glancing up at the bailiffs face, he shrugged. “Didn’t wait long, from the look of it. Seems like he made his fire, sat by it for a bit – not for long – and went on.”

“Fine. Let’s get on after him, then.”

Tanner ambled forward. “One minute, Bailiff. Mark? How was he when he left here?”

The hunter pulled his mouth into a down-curving crescent of dubious pessimism. “Put it like this: I wouldn’t gamble on his chances. I’d rather put my money on a legless, wingless cock in a fighting ring.”

Nodding, Tanner glanced back at the men behind, then at the bailiff. “Sir, we may as well send the others back. The three of us are enough to catch him, even if he’s well. The way things are, all we’ll need is a horse to bring his body home.” When Simon nodded. Tanner turned to the men, telling them to return. The bailiff instructing one to ensure that a message went to the inn, to be passed on to Simon’s wife, to say that they were well. Not that it mattered much, as Tamer knew. There was little hope that they could find the boy alive now. They should be able to return home before long.