Michael Sullivan: The Rose and the Thorn

“So?”

“So they say deaths come in threes.”

“Who says?”

“People.” Reuben unhooked the sword from his side and hung it next to his father’s. It gave him no sense of pride, to do so at last. “I was just wondering, you know, what went on up there on the nights when I’ve seen the light.” He bent down to pull off his boots, and when he looked back, his father was staring again.

“Don’t be going near that tower, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean it, Rue. If I hear you’ve been anywhere near there, I’ll give you a worse beating than the squires did.”

Reuben stared at his feet. “You know about that?”

“Your face is all marked up, you’ve got a line of blood staining the back of your tunic, and there’s a slice in your smock. Who else? Don’t worry,” he said, blowing out the lamp. “Next week you’ll be a castle guard.”

“How will that help?”

“They’ll give you chain to replace that cloth.”

A woman wielding a broom charged at them, looking as much like a witch as anyone Hadrian had ever seen. Matted black hair spilled down in brittle locks, leaving only one eye and the tip of her nose visible. The peasant skirt she wore hindered her escape from the thickets and had so many rips and muddy stains that Hadrian was certain she had tripped on it more than once.

“Stop! I need help!” she cried in desperation as if he and Royce were racing down the road. In truth the two were riding their horses at a pace just slightly faster than a man might walk. Hadrian pulled on his reins, halting while Royce continued for a bit before turning around with a curious look. Over the past year Hadrian had seen the expression often enough. He knew from experience that the puzzlement would turn to irritation as soon as his partner realized Hadrian was stopping to hear what the old woman wanted. Then would come the scowl. Hadrian was not certain what that meant-disappointment perhaps? Next, Royce’s eyes would roll with open contempt and then frustration would display itself in the form of folded arms. Finally anger would rise along with his cloak’s hood. Royce pulling up his hood was always a bad sign, like fur bristling on a wolf’s back. A warning-and usually the only one anyone ever received.

“You must help me,” the old woman shouted as she plunged through the brush, climbing out of the ditch at the side of the road. “There’s a strange man in my barn, and I’m scared for my life.”

“Your barn?” Hadrian asked, looking over the woman’s head but not seeing a barn.

Royce and Hadrian had been traveling north on the Steward’s Road near the city of Colnora. All morning they had passed numerous farms and cottages, but they had not seen either for some time.

“My husband and I have a farm ’round this bend.” She pointed up the road.

“If you have a husband, why doesn’t he take care of the man?”

“Dear old Danny’s away. Went to Vernes to sell our lamb’s wool. Won’t be back for a month at least. The man in my barn is a drunken lunatic. He’s naked-violent and cursing. Probably been bit by a sick dog and has the madness . I’m afraid to go near the barn, but I need to feed our livestock. I just don’t know what to do. I’m certain he’ll kill me if I set foot inside.”

“You’ve never seen him before?”

The woman shook her head. “If you help me, if you run him off my land, I’ll see that you get a fine meal for both you and your horses. I’ll even wrap up some extras to take with you. I’m a fine cook, I am.”

Hadrian dismounted and glanced at his friend.

“What are you doing?” Royce asked.

“It will only take a minute,” Hadrian replied.

Royce sighed. The sigh was new. “You don’t know this woman. This isn’t your problem.”

“I know that.”

“So why are you helping her?”

“Because that’s what people do. They help each other. If you saw a man lying in the road with an arrow in him, you’d stop, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” Royce replied, “anyone would. A wounded man is easy pickings, unless you could see from your saddle that someone else has already taken his purse.”

“What? No! No one would rob a wounded man and leave him to die.”

Royce nodded. “Well, no. You’re right. If he has a purse and you take it, it’s best to slit his throat afterward. Too many people live through arrow wounds. You taught me that. No sense risking that he might come after you.”

The old woman looked at Royce aghast.

Now it was Hadrian’s turn to sigh. “Don’t mind him. He was raised by wolves.”

Royce sat with his arms folded and a glare in his eyes. “I should never have told you about that.”

“Look, it’s a beautiful afternoon and we’re in no hurry. Besides, you’re always complaining about my cooking. I’m sure you’ll be happier with her meal. I’m just going to have a quick talk with this guy.” Hadrian added in a whisper, “He’s probably just some poor fella desperate for shelter. I’ll bet that if I can get the two of them to talk, we can work this all out. I can probably get her to pay the guy to help while her husband is away. The woman will get a hired hand, and he’ll get some food and a place to sleep. What’s more, we’ll get a hot meal, so everybody wins.”

“And when this good deed ends in disaster, will you listen to me next time and let people take care of their own problems?”

“Sure, but it’ll be fine. He’s just one guy. Even if he’s completely unreasonable, I think we can handle a drunken squatter.”

The fall had been a wet one, and the road was a muddy mess. Dead leaves hid puddles, trees were becoming black skeletons, and the songs of birds were few. Hadrian always missed them as the leaves fell and was surprised in spring at their return, having forgotten their whistling music.

Just as foretold, around the next bend was a farmhouse, if it could be called that. All of the homesteads they previously passed had been neat whitewashed cottages with thatch roofs that stood out brightly against reds and oranges. Each had fields full of golden wheat or barley ready for harvest. The woman’s farm was a dilapidated shack of withered boards and tilting fences. Rising in his stirrups, Hadrian couldn’t see a planted field anywhere.

“The barn is just down the hill that way.” She pointed. “You can see the roof. If you like, I’ll set your horses to some grain and water and start making your meal.”

“You say it is just the one man?” Hadrian asked as he slipped off his horse and let the woman take the lead.

She nodded.

Hadrian, who already wore two swords hanging from his belt, unstrapped a long spadone from the side of his horse. Slipping the baldric over his shoulder, he let the massive weapon hang across his back. It was the only way the sword could be carried. The spadone was a knight’s weapon, intended to be used on horseback. If he wore it on his side, the tip dragged.

“That’s a lot of steel for one drunken fool,” the woman said.

“Force of habit,” Hadrian replied.

Royce dismounted alongside him, touching down with his right foot, then more gingerly with his left. He opened his pack and rummaged around for a bit. The woman waited until he finished; then with a final round of gratitude, she took both horses up to the house, leaving Royce and Hadrian in the farmyard.

A fieldstone well formed the centerpiece of the open space between the house and the outbuildings, and down a slope stood the barn. The whole place was badly overgrown with knee-high grass and dandelions gone to seed. Royce paused a moment and sat on the foundation of what looked to have been a small building-a chicken coop most likely, as it was too little for much else. He lifted his left foot and examined it. Hadrian could see a row of puncture marks in the soft leather.