Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“They’re criminals-outlaws on the run with the justice of the church on their heels.”

The old man leveled a harsh look. “Lord Marbury is no criminal, but that didn’t stop him from being arrested. Now dish them each a bowl.”

“These two aren’t Lord Marbury. You shouldn’t help them. It’ll get you in trouble.”

“I’ve been in trouble before.”

“It will get us in trouble too. Think about me. What about your son?”

The man paused only a moment, then pulled the boy around so he could look the lad in the eye. “There’s doing what’s right, and there’s doing what’s safe. Most of the time you do what’s safe because doing different will get you dead for no good reason, but there are times when doing what’s safe will kill you too. Only it’ll be a different kind of death. The dying will be slow, the sort that eats from the inside until breathing becomes a curse. Understand?”

The boy nodded, but Royce knew he hadn’t a clue. Probably wasn’t the point, though. The farmer expected that one day the boy would have cause to remember the time thieves had burst into their house. Maybe then everything he was saying would make sense, or more likely it wouldn’t and he’d shake his head thinking what a fool his father had been.

The woman glared, then sighed. Grabbing a stack of wooden bowls, she moved to the hearth.

“What’s your name?” Hadrian asked the farmer.

“Tom. Tom the Feather. This here is my son, Arthur.”

“Good to meet you. And thanks for the hospitality.”

Bowls were set out. Royce ate his near the door, sitting on a bench he managed to drag over. He wanted to keep an eye out but couldn’t keep standing.

The rain pinged the puddles and ran off the thatch roof into a narrow gutter that circled the house as a drain. How can dogs track in the rain? It didn’t seem fair. Dear Maribor, how he hated dogs. Still, the rain must make it harder for the dogs to follow a scent, and there was always a chance that a squirrel or rabbit would ruin the whole affair. If nothing else, the weather would take a toll on the men. A knight used to sitting out storms in warm castles must hate the idea of wandering rocky fields in the wet. When faced with the expansive countryside, might he trade the soggy search for a dry hearth and a hot meal?

The woman handed Royce some lamb stew-a thick gravy rich with generous chunks of meat, carrots, and potatoes. He could taste thyme and even salt. Everything was fresh. It was the best meal Royce had eaten in months, which left him puzzled. Royce imagined that the life of a farmer would be miserable, repetitive, filled with backbreaking labor easily destroyed by the fickle nature of weather. Yet, he supposed, when times were good, when the harvest arrived with a smile, they ate like kings.

Yip!

Royce heard the singular faint sound and paused, holding his breath.

Yip! Yip!

Dogs.

He pressed his forehead to the door where it met the jamb, staring out the crack. His sliver of the world revealed the road and movement.

“They’re coming.”

First the yelp and bay of dogs, then the shouts of men followed by the beat of hooves. Hiding in the back room with Hadrian and Tom the Feather’s wife and son, Royce caught bits of conversations as they took their time getting to the door.

“Miserable sods.”

“…sheep farm…”

“…any daughters would be…”

“…always clean them up…”

“Still, you’ll never get the stink of sheep off.”

“Not often.”

“By Mar, why would you?”

Laughter.

The farmhouse and its three rooms were built around the chimney and the open-back hearth, allowing it to heat and light each of the rooms. The four of them clustered in one with little more than a great straw-mattress bed while Tom waited in the main room. Even though everyone had waited for it, they all jumped when the hammering began on the door.

Royce could tell when the door opened by how the voices lost their muffled sound.

“Who are you?” a voice demanded.

“Tom the Feather.”

“The feather?” Someone farther away chuckled.

“He is a bit lean,” another remarked.

“We’re looking for two men. Thieves. Wounded. One my size, the other a bit smaller.”

“You’re the only strangers I’ve seen.”

Royce heard the door bang against the wall.

“We’re not strangers. We’re your church. That’s Sir Holvin of the Seret Knights outside.”

Silence.

“Our dogs tell us the thieves came here.”

“Then your dogs are mistaken.”

“Uh-huh.”

A shifting of feet and Royce heard the table move.

“This is my home. You can’t-”

“You miserable little woolly, out of my way!”

“You have no right to-”

A grunt, a stumble, then the sound of a sword pulled from a scabbard.

Royce saw in Hadrian’s eyes what he was going to do even before he moved. Royce was a fast learner, especially when it came to the study of people, and Hadrian wasn’t much of a mystery. The man was suicidal as long as he was acting for the benefit of someone else. He didn’t try to stop him, because this time it didn’t matter. After the knights killed Tom, they would be coming in anyway. But guessing Hadrian’s mind a second before he moved, Royce was able to follow right behind him.

Entering the main room, he saw Tom on the floor, a stool turned over. Two men in leather and helms waited near the door. One in chain mail stood over the farmer. The guy near Tom was drawing his sword, his eyes on the fallen man, lips in a sneer. He was angry at the impudent farmer who dared to do whatever it was he’d done. He also wasn’t wearing his helm. The soldier stood sideways to the bedroom, his head turned slightly, presenting the hollow of his neck.

Hadrian still had three steps to go when Royce threw Alverstone, which flipped half a turn before lodging in the man’s throat. The man collapsed with a gurgle and metallic thud as if someone had dropped a pot filled with rags. What surprised Royce was how Hadrian reacted. Without missing a beat, without surprise or pause, he ignored the falling man and went for the ones at the door. Neither of them had time to draw steel, and with a free swing, Hadrian’s massive sword cleaved the next closest man’s head from his shoulders. What impressed Royce the most was that his initial swing was from left to right, leaving the point of his sword aimed at the last man at the end of his stroke. A quick thrust and Hadrian finished the fight. At least in battle Hadrian saw three moves ahead.

A heartbeat later Tom’s wife saw the scene and screamed.

“The door!” Royce shouted.

Outside, the rest of the troop started for the house, but Hadrian was able to slam the door and slide the wooden brace into place, locking it. A moment later pounding began, making the door rattle.

“Now what?” Hadrian asked as everyone stared at the door.

“I’m pretty sure this is the point where I remind you I was right,” Royce said. “You should have left me on that tower.”

Royce retrieved his dagger from the guard’s neck and wiped it off. As soon as Hadrian was sure the door would hold for a while, he returned his big spadone to its scabbard and picked up two of the soldiers’ swords. The farmer’s wife clutched the boy to her as she stood between the rooms, staring at the dead bodies. Getting up, Tom went to her. They embraced as a family, the wife whimpering into the chest of her husband.

“Hobart! Beecham!” someone shouted from outside, and they continued to throw themselves against the door.

“There’s no other way out of here,” Royce said.