Michael Sullivan: The Rose and the Thorn

“How’s your foot?” Hadrian asked.

“It hurts.”

“He had a good hold.”

“Bit right through my boot.”

“Yeah, that looked painful.”

“So why exactly didn’t you help?”

Hadrian shrugged. “It was a dog, Royce. A cute little dog. What did you want me to do, kill an innocent animal?”

Royce tilted his head, squinting into the light of the late evening sun to focus on his friend. “Is that a joke?”

“It was a puppy.”

“It was not a puppy, and it was eating my foot.”

“Yeah, but you were invading his home.”

Royce frowned and let his foot drop. “Let’s go see about this barn-invading ogre of yours.”

The two headed down the grassy slope that was graced with a bounty of white and yellow wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. Honeybees were still out working, droning between the daisies, bishop’s lace, and wild carrots. Hadrian smiled. At least someone was hard at work farming the land here. As they approached the barn, they found it in no better shape than the house.

“You know, you didn’t have to throw it out the window,” Hadrian said as they walked.

Royce, who was still preoccupied with his foot, looked up. “What did you want me to do with it? Scratch behind the little monster’s ears as it gnawed my toes off? What if it started barking? That would have been a fine mess.”

“It’s a good thing there was a moat right under the window.”

Royce stopped. “There was?”

Now was Hadrian’s turn to scowl. At times like this he could never be certain whether Royce was serious or not. They had worked together for almost a year, but he was still trying to understand his new partner. One thing was certain-Royce Melborn was by far the most interesting person he had ever met but also the hardest to know.

They reached the barn, which was made of wood and fieldstone and supported a straw roof. The whole structure lurched to the side, its eaves leaning against the trunk of an old maple. Several of the clapboards were gone, and the thatch roof was missing in places. The double doors hung open, but all Hadrian could see inside was darkness.

“Hello?” Hadrian called. He pushed the doors wide and peered in. “Anyone here?”

Royce was no longer behind him. He often disappeared at times like this. Being more adept at stealth, Royce enjoyed using Hadrian for the noisy distraction he was.

There was no answer.

Hadrian drew a sword and stepped inside.

The interior of the barn was much like any other except that this one showed signs of serious neglect and recent occupancy-an odd combination. The sagging loft was filled with old rotting hay. The few visible tools were rusted and wrapped in webs.

Enough light pierced the gaps in the roof and walls to reveal a man lying asleep in a pile of hay. Thin and incredibly filthy, he wore nothing but a nightshirt. Grass littered his hair, and his face was nearly lost in the unruly wreath of a wild beard. He was curled in a ball, an old sack acting as his blanket. With his mouth hanging agape, he snored loudly.

Hadrian sheathed his weapon and then gently kicked the man’s bare foot. The only response was a grumble as he resituated himself. Another prod produced a flicker of eyelids. Spotting Hadrian, he abruptly drew himself to a sitting position and squinted. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Hadrian Blackwater.”

“And what is it that you wish, kind sir?” His elocution was more sophisticated than his appearance suggested.

“I was sent by the lady who owns this farm to inquire why you’re in her barn.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He squinted even more.

Well spoken, but no genius. “Let’s start with your name. Who are you?”

The man got to his feet, brushing hay from his shirt. “I am Viscount Albert Tyris Winslow, son of Armeter.”

“Viscount?” Hadrian laughed. “Have you been drinking?”

The man looked decidedly sad as if Hadrian had inquired about a dead wife. “If only I had the coin.” A realization dawned and Albert’s expression turned hopeful. He got to his feet and brushed the hay from his nightshirt. “This is really all I have left, but it’s made from the finest linen. I would sell it to you for a fraction of its worth. Just a single silver tenent. One simple coin. Do you have one to spend?”

“I don’t need a nightshirt.”

“Ah, but my good man, you could sell it.” Albert spit on a dirty smudge and scrubbed the material between his fingers. “If given a good wash, this garment would be beautiful. You could easily make two silvers-perhaps three. You’d double your money most certainly.”

“He’s alone.” Royce jumped down from the loft, hitting the ground beside them, making only the whisper of a sound.

Albert gasped and staggered backward, staring fearfully at Hadrian’s partner. His reaction was not unusual-most people were frightened of Royce. Shorter than Hadrian and bearing no visible weapons, he still put people on edge. The layers of blacks and grays along with the hood did not help. But the real source of menace that caused all but the bravest to step back was simply that Royce was genuinely dangerous. People sensed it, smelling death on him the same way they smelled salt on a sailor or incense on a priest.

“So now I see … you’re here to rob me, is that it?” Albert shouted. “Well, the joke is on you.” He looked down at his feet and made a noise-a pathetic laugh. “I have nothing … nothing at all.” Just then he dropped to his knees, put his hands to his face, and began to cry. “I have no place else to go,” he whimpered. “While it provides little more shelter than the maple tree it leans on, this barn is at least a roof over my head and provides a soft place to sleep.”

Royce and Hadrian stared down at him.

“So this is the great ogre, then?” Royce asked with a smirk.

“If all you needed was a place to rest, why did you threaten the farmer’s wife?”

Albert wiped his face and looked up with a puzzled expression. “Who?”

“The woman who owns this farm. Why didn’t you just ask her permission to sleep here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Old witchy-looking woman? She lives in the house just up the hill. She says you threatened her.”

Albert looked first at Hadrian, then at Royce as if trying to decipher a riddle. “No one lives there. Have you seen it? I sleep here because the house is a disaster. The floorboards are all rotted and there’s a giant wasp nest in the rafters. This farm has been abandoned for years. Any fool can tell that.”

Royce looked to Hadrian, who quickly left the barn and ran up the slope.

The sun had slipped behind the tree line, casting long shadows across the fields and the house. Just as Albert had described, the building was a wreck. A good-sized sapling grew out of the kitchen floor. Even more distressing, their horses were nowhere to be seen. With slumped shoulders, he returned to the barn where Royce was gathering wood for a fire.

“See?” Royce said. “Told you this wouldn’t go well. She’s gone, right? The nice lady you wanted to help has fled, taking our horses and all our belongings with her.”

Hadrian allowed himself to collapse on a fallen oak beam and muttered a curse about the woman.

“Don’t blame her. This was all your doing. You practically begged her to rob us. Now will you listen to me next time?”

“I just can’t believe someone would do such a thing.” Hadrian was staring at the dirt and shaking his head.

“I know. That’s why I had to show you.”

Hadrian looked up. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew.” Royce pointed at Albert. “Like he said, any fool could see this farm hasn’t been lived in for years. And didn’t you wonder why she was hiding along the road like that?”