Stone Rising (8 page)

             
At those last words, Will, who had until now been sitting quietly, observing through half opened eyes, drew back his cloak, revealing the suede handles of two daggers, sharp and ready. The big man smiled once more, seemingly unalarmed by the sight, yet he raised his hands palm-forward as though to placate the pair.

             
“No threat intended, my boy. No, none. Just simple observation from a fellow, weary traveller.”

             
The Boy narrowed his eyes, but it was Will that spoke, his tone low, measured.

             
“Your observations are both incorrect and uncalled for, friend.”

             
A mere nod from the brute, his face merely amused at the words.

             
Calls from the men mounted on the outside of the covered cart, then a cessation of movement, the occupants rocked as the wagon jolted to a halt. A face appeared at the back of the vehicle, lined and tired, hair matted down in the drizzle.

             
“Ladies and gents, pray make yourselves scarce as its time we rested these poor steeds for the night.”

             
The travellers made their way out, the big man holding back, bowing and sweeping his arm with a grin of mirth to allow the pair out before him. The Boy leapt out, his scuffed leather boots landing with a squelch in the mud, pulling his cloak about him against the wind. Will spoke to him as the passengers dispersed, said something, but the Boy didn’t hear, his attention dragged by his eyes upwards, up, up, to the top of the mount, to the castle that sat, wind-swept and rain-lashed, like some ever-watchful taskmaster at the centre of the town.

             
The driver followed the Boy’s gaze, smiling as he regarded the savage fortifications.

             
“First time, in the town, lad?” He grinned, teeth stained brown from the tobacco he chewed. “Welcome to Nottingham.”

***

The door slammed shut behind them, more from the force of wind than by choice, the thick wood deadening the noise of the incessant gale and the patter of heavy rain on cobbled road. The Boy’s senses took in the interior; the sweet, sickly tang of spilled ale and the minerally scent of ancient stone; the flickering orange of torchlight from sconces on the hewn walls; the air, thick with the smoke of a dozen lit clay pipes; the cloying, heady bitterness of cheap tobacco that caught the back of his throat and threatened to make him cough.

             
A tavern. How long had it been? That begged another question; how long had he been with the Outlaws in the forest? Two years? Three? He smiled as he followed Will down into the bar area, the rough-hewn tables with barrels about them that served as seats, filled with drinkers, all hunched low, heads down, minding their own business and paying no attention to the newcomers. Felt like longer, he thought. He’d had a name back then.

             
The Boy. That was his only name now.

             
The landlord turned to them as they rested against the bar, polishing a pewter mug against his greasy apron, eyes furrowed in a perpetual frown.

             
“What’ll it be, gents? Ale?”

             
Will sniffed, his nose running now he’d come into the warm, trying his best to angle himself towards the hearth whilst still facing the barkeep.

             
“Something that’ll warm us up.”

             
A nod and a grunt.

             
“Ale it be, then.”

             
He grabbed two mugs that were hanging above the bar, filling them from a tapped barrel behind him as the Boy leant over to speak.

             
“Interesting name this place has…”

             
“Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem?”  The barkeep gave a quick grin as he placed the foaming mugs back on the counter, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “This is the last stop for many young men such as yourselves, before shipping out to the holy lands.”

             
The Boy raised an eyebrow in puzzlement as he handed over some copper coins, but it was a voice from behind that answered his unasked question.

             
“The Shiriff’s coin is what awaits most lads in here, my young friends.” The man sat, hunched by the fire, atop the one, shorter stool that allowed for his meagre frame. He was old, his hair white, skin parchment-dry and riven with advancing years. “Only by luck have you missed them tonight. Or it’d be service for you two as well…”

             
The pair of outlaws looked at each other, then made their way over to the man’s table, relishing the warmth of the hearth as they sat on the barrels. The barman went back to his business as the three began to talk.

             
“The Shiriff’s coin?” enquired Will, a slight smile playing his lips. “This is where they come to conscript you say, old man?”

             
A sage nod.

             
“Aye. One of many. Each of the taverns offers them pickings of a night; a drunk youth is oftentimes easily swayed with promise of gold or glory. And call me Nathaniel…”

             
“Will,” the youth replied, before gesturing to his companion. “And this is the Boy.”

             
Nathaniel raised his eyebrows in amusement as he took in the strapping youth.

             
“The Boy? Perhaps once a suitable title, but surely the years necessitate a change at some point?”

             
The Boy stared into the flames as he pondered his reply.

             
“A person’s name gives him power. Likewise, knowledge of that name can then give power to his foes. The Boy suits my purposes for now.”

             
The old man nodded, then replied as he drew forth a pipe, proceeding to fill the bowl with tobacco.

             
“Wise words, if not a little paranoid, if you don’t mind my say so. I have heard tell from holy men that a demon can be controlled by the knowledge of its name. But you are no demon, lad, or at least you hide your horns well, if that you be. I’m sure whatever doom you feel might befall you upon use of your true title would not be as bad as you imagine…”

             
The Boy didn’t reply, instead taking a deep gulp of the hoppy ale, face half in shadow, half lit orange by the flickering flames, as Will began talking anew.

***

It was another two nights before the Shiriff’s men called in again at The Trip and the Boy had begun to despair that their money or their livers would give out before they had a chance at receiving the Shiriff’s coin. It was not to be so. The militia called in.

             
The two outlaws, called up.

             
They stood, side by side, along with other youths, mostly thin, bedraggled and hungover looking sorts, blinking their eyes in the harsh sunlight of the castle courtyard as they stood for their first morning inspection. The Boy scratched at his lower back, the rough, spun-wool red tunic that was the recruits’ attire itchy on his skin.

             
   “Belay that, boy!” barked a low and rasping voice. The veteran that stood and watched the parade marched over, figure gnarled lean and whippet-like by years of hard service. He stuck his face right in the Boy’s, one eye milky-white from the scar that bisected it and ran down his cheek. “Arms down by your sides and leave them there and be damn thankful I’m here to tell you. If the guardmaster was ‘ere, you’d be in for a beasting…”

             
As if on cue, the grinding of metal on metal as a bar was drawn back, then the creak of hinges as the gate swung open to allow figures to march into the courtyard. The recruits snapped to attention. Three men, better dressed than the recruits, strode forth onto the flagstones, the sound of their heavy boot steps echoing loud and clear, cloaks flapping behind them in the cool breeze.

             
“Oh, shit…” came a whispered sigh from The Boy’s side, that could only have been Will.

             
He risked a glance to the left, a shiver of cold familiarity passing down his spine as the three marched into place before the youths, inspecting them with the same sneering, distasteful looks as one might inspect dog dirt on the bottom of your boot. The leader, whom The Boy could only assume was the guardmaster himself, scanned the ranks of young men, his cruel eyes narrow in his scarred face. As his gaze passed the two outlaws, it paused for a second, his lip flickering for an instant into a smile of recognition, revealing black teeth, but only for an instant before he continued his inspection. Finally, with a brief nod to himself, he spoke.

             
“Welcome, o’ brave and honourable volunteers to the Shiriff’s service.” He smiled, as did the three beside him, his two officers and Scarface, as the recruits gazed about at each other.

Could any of them remember volunteering for anything? They could remember little through the haze of hangover. Only two of the throng stood and met the guardmaster’s gaze, defying him now, even as they had two nights before in the wagon on the way to town. The man continued.

“I’m Guardmaster Cooper. But you sorry lot can call me ‘sirrah.’” His tone changed, as did his eyes, becoming hard like flint. “In three days’ time, the Shiriff himself comes to inspect you. I have three days in which to turn you maggots into men. During that time, you eat when I tell you, sleep when I tell you, shit when I tell you. You take the shilling wanting glory and gold, your life becomes forfeit. Perhaps one day you can earn it back. Until that day, your life is mine.” He smiled again. “Do we have an understanding…?”

             
The two outlaws looked at each other for an instant, wondering what they’d let themselves in for, certain that the following days would be full of hardships, then turned back to face the officer along with the other men at their backs.

             
“Sirrah, yes sirrah!”

***

              “Oh, for pity’s sake…”

             
Iain’s incredulous voice filled the hut, the messenger staggering back a step as though expecting the man to throw an object at him for bearing such news. John placed a meaty hand on the Outlander’s shoulder, guiding himself aside and stepping forward to speak to the messenger himself, eyes serious in his bearded face.

             
“And you are certain it was them, man? The shadows played no trick on your eyes? Nor indeed ,the ale?”

             
The man shook his head vehemently.

             
“No, John. It be them, clear as day, I tell thee. Saw ‘em with me own eyes taking the Shiriff’s shilling in the Trip, not two days ago.”

             
A look of sorrow flickered across John’s face, then he nodded and bid the man be on his way, before turning back to the table behind him, Iain at his side as they looked to the figure that sat, silent, up until this point.

             
It was Iain’s voice that broke the pregnant silence.

             
“What do you think, my lord?”

             
Alann looked up from his contemplation, pausing for a moment, before speaking to John.

             
“What do we know of your man from the town? Is he trustworthy?”

             
Eyes closed in sadness, the big man nodded slowly.

             
“Aye. Franklin has been a friend to us for a goodly time now. I have no reason to suspect he lies about this.”

             
“Hmm.” Alann looked thoughtful. “Then we are forced to acknowledge that the two have indeed joined up with the Shiriff’s men. The only question is, why…?”

             
To their credit, none of the two before him voce the obvious: treachery. Will had been with the outlaws since the beginning, fleeing his village along with several others, joining the exodus to the countryside before the arrival of the Foresters.

             
The Boy, however, had appeared later on, perhaps two years ago. Stumbling, wounded and starved, through the depths of the dark wood, where the outlaw scouts had found him, brought him in. It had taken a long time before he would even speak, catatonic from whatever traumatic experiences he had suffered. And then, when he finally had spoken, all he voiced was his hatred of the false king and his men. A hatred he had proven in battle half a dozen times since those early days, each time slaying the Shiriff’s men with his deadly accurate bow-fire.

             
No, treachery was not at play here. Instead, something more subtle.

             
And far more foolhardy.

             
The last words of Rodney the tax-collector sprang to mind and the eyes of all three widened as comprehension dawned.