Chapter  1      The Cloaked Man

 

 

 

Arrow shafts of light pierced the beech forest's deep under shadow.  Rusty leaves flickered through the rays, whispering as they fell.  With each breeze, the forest yielded more ground to the growing patches of light.

It was morning.  As far as the eye could see, a quilt of ocher and sienna lay gently against bone colored trunks, and where light touched a trunk, an island of white burned brightly.  In all directions, thick roots, stunted hollies, and dark silhouettes of decaying branches protruded from the leaves.  The air smelt of winter, and though the sunlight shone warm, the air felt cool.  What green there was seemed dusky and old.

Occasionally, a beechnut broke loose and clattered to a rushy impact in the fallen leaves.  Always, a silence followed.  Mole crickets, chirping from hidden excavations, paused.  Distant ravens, croaking genially in their flocks, suspended commerce.  Then, as if on signal, they all began again.

The tall man in the dark serge cloak noted these things, as well as the steady breathing of the horse he rode and the creak of leather from the pack saddle on the old, gray-muzzled war horse he led by a braided leather rope.  He listened to the sounds of the leaves and the erratic movements of air.  He listened to the rhythmic footfalls of his palfrey and to the heavier footfalls of his old destrier.

He also listened for a repeat of the tell-tale hum of a crossbow string in tension.

The sound had come from up ahead, probably from behind one of two massive beech stumps flanking the narrow road.  From the depths of his hood, he scanned the area without appearing to do so.  He almost turned to signal the woman who no longer rode with him, then remembering, forced himself to the present.

Where was the crossbowman hidden?  Nothing but the stumps offered adequate cover.

He could turn off the path and avoid the stumps, but that would almost certainly invite the crossbowman to shoot.  The sound of the bowstring had been too close to hope avoiding the bolt of any but the most unpracticed hand.  At the same time, he had been close enough for some seconds for the crossbowman to have loosed his bolt, had that been his intent.  No, his best course was to sit still and continue his present attitude of half-sleeping daydream.  Highwaymen, generally, were content with robbery.  Murders tended to bring out the sheriffs and bailiffs, and such attention boded ill for business.

The cloaked man came abreast the stumps, whereupon three men stepped out.  One held a cocked crossbow fitted with a serrated, broad-tipped quarrel.  It was the sort of bolt point one used to frighten rather than kill.

Another man, wearing a red woolen cap with the ear flaps tied securely under his chin, held a quarterstaff.  A man who looked as though he might be an innkeeper wiggled a short sword suggestively.  The innkeeper had a weak look about him.  The one with the quarterstaff seemed capable, though very young, about eighteen.  More energy than balance.

The crossbow pointed straight at the cloaked man's chest.  The hands that held the device were rock-steady, as were the dark eyes that aimed it.  The crossbowman was over fifty, given to too much ale, but solid, experienced.  Obviously, he led these caterans.

The cloaked man looked up with surprise and despair.

"Stand down, good sir," said the crossbowman.  "My friends and I would have a word with you."

"A word with me?"

"Yes, sir.  A brief word."

The cloaked man spent a couple of moments gathering his wits and eying the weapons arrayed before him.  "I have very little money," he said, "but I would willingly share it with you."

"Would you!" laughed the fellow with the short sword.  He nudged the man holding the quarterstaff.  "He will share it with us!"

"Very Christian of him," grinned quarterstaff without moving his eyes.

"Stand down, sir.  Do not make me repeat myself."  This came from the crossbowman.

"Yes.  Of course.  Please be careful."

"Be careful," mocked short-sword.

"Do not worry yourself, sir," said the crossbowman with a most unhumorous lilt.  "I have never shot anyone I did not intend to strike."

"No," said the cloaked man, "I did not mean to offend."  He clambered off the horse like an elderly man.  He stayed well within the folds of the cloak.  Beneath the cloak, he knew, they had no idea how old he was within twenty years.

The crossbowman stepped to the side as the cloaked man touched the ground.

"I will have to ask you to loose your purse," said the crossbowman.

"My purse?"

"Yes, sir.  Now, if you please."

"Of course."  He began fumbling with the pouch which was tied to his belt, but try as he might, he could not get the knot loose.

"I have seen dead things faster than that!" complained short-sword.  "How about if I just cut your damned hands off?  You might work faster with stumps!"

"No.  Please.  Just a moment."  He fumbled a little longer.

"Damn!" said short-sword in exasperation.  "I will cut the damn thing off!"  He stepped forward to relieve the cloaked fool of his purse.

Too late, he saw the fumbling fingers suddenly flash out and take his wrist in a grip that felt like ice.  He saw his sword turn, almost of its own will, and thrust upward into the hollow of his chin.  He did not feel his back receive the bolt intended for the cloaked man's chest, and he was totally unaware of fending the first blow of his former associate's staff.

The cloaked man spun short-sword's body into quarterstaff, deftly retaining the sword, then turned to face the crossbowman, who now held his weapon like an axe, over shoulder and ready.  The bolt spent, the crossbow was now little more than a club.  The crossbowman had seen real battle.  He knew his position.  Without doubt, there would be a dagger or two hidden in his coat as well.

Quarterstaff fended away the body of his comrade and started to move behind the cloaked man, but was frustrated by the presence of the horse.  The palfrey rolled its eyes and side stepped away.  It smelled blood, and the smell made it nervous.

The cloaked man tossed his head back to remove the hood of his cloak.  Time to let them see he was not an old man who had gotten lucky with a first move.  All was strategy and timing.

The caterans saw dark brown hair with a utilitarian cut and deep-set, brown eyes commanding attention from a face that bespoke of unusual determination.  Fine wrinkles around the eyes conveyed a sense of experience and intelligence, yet the expression was blank, almost freezingly so.  There was no look of fear, or for that matter, of confidence, merely an openness for whatever was to come next.  It was a face that had disconcerted more than one adversary.

Quarterstaff glanced to the crossbowman for direction, then away when none was forthcoming.  The crossbowman raised his chin slightly to the right, a puzzled acknowledgment of the cloaked man who stood before him.  An old memory stirred.

The cloaked man spoke.  His voice was strong, but ageless.  "There need be no more death today," he said matter-of-factly.  He looked at the fallen ruffian, who lay in an awkward heap, surprisingly bloodless due to the absorptive powers of the leaves.

"Bastard!" whispered quarterstaff, and glanced again to the crossbowman.  The young man had the same dark eyes as the fellow holding the crossbow.

The crossbowman gained a line of tension in the muscles of his brow, but said nothing.  He was focused half inward, half outward, ready for a surprise from either direction.

"There is nothing gained by prolonging this," said the cloaked man.  "Withdraw and tend your families.  With winter on, they will need you."

"We can take him!" said quarterstaff, working himself into a fury.  "He killed Philip!  We can not tell little Harry we did nothing to avenge his father!"

"And who would tell your son, Leonard?" asked the crossbowman.

Quarterstaff looked at the crossbowman as if he had spoken treason.  "Are you afraid of this fool?" he asked derisively.

"Watch that wagging tongue," said the crossbowman, shifting his gaze for the first time from the cloaked man.  "Good gamblers know when to end the game.  I am ending it."

As quarterstaff watched disbelievingly, the crossbowman lowered his weapon.

"You may pass, stranger," said the crossbowman.  "There will be no further spill of blood today."

The cloaked man watched, motionless.  "I would be more comfortable if you gave me your crossbow," he said.  "I will leave it for you a ways up the road."

The crossbowman paused, looked at his weapon, then at the cloaked man's outstretched hand.  He held the crossbow by the tapered stock and offered it to the cloaked man, who grasped the cocking stirrup and lowered the device to his side.

"Now, back off the road a few yards," said the cloaked man.

Quarterstaff began to protest.

"Shut up!" commanded the crossbowman.  "We are through today."

"But...!"

"We are through today," said the crossbowman, emphatically pacing his words.  He stared into the flickering eyes of quarterstaff.  Quarterstaff looked away, letting the pole relax to his side.

The crossbowman took a step backwards, off the rutted path of the road.  Quarterstaff made as if to follow, but when he crossed directly in front of the cloaked man, he whirled into a crouch, deftly propelling the end of his staff toward the cloaked man's stomach.  In a blur, the sword the cloaked man held deflected the staff into empty air.  Before quarterstaff could recover balance, the cloaked man rolled him over backwards and rested the point of his sword on the young man's left cheek, just below his eye.  The cloaked man's left hand held a scruff of the young man's tunic.  Quarterstaff's body locked as he focused on the sword.

"You should have listened to your father, young sir," said the cloaked man.  The wild glance the young man gave the older man confirmed their familiar relationship.  "You have gotten yourself into a dangerous spot."  To the crossbowman, he said, "You have taught him well, but he lacks patience and the virtue of hospitality.  You have instructed him poorly."

The older man watched with concern the point of the sword.  "He is just a boy."

Quarterstaff swallowed, motionless, trying to control his breathing.  The cloaked man gestured the crossbowman to remain where he was.

"A boy?" asked the cloaked man.  "What kind of a boy robs strangers on the road?"

"It is my doing," said the older man.  "He does his father's bidding."

"Then the father should be beneath my edge."

"I would trade."

The cloaked man contemplated the father, unmoving, perhaps unmoved.

"In punishing the son, one also punishes the father," said the cloaked man at last.  "Is this not so?"

"It is so."

The cloaked man turned his attention to the boy.  "Look at me, young man."

The young man did so.

"I want your word you will never again haunt these roads, nor rob, nor murder travelers as long as you shall live."

Quarterstaff swallowed.  The words stuck.

"Say it," repeated the cloaked man.  "Or your father will see justice done.  Swear it to God upon your immortal soul, may it burn in Hell forever should you lie."

Quarterstaff's eyes widened even more.  He attempted to shift his gaze to his father.  Dead leaves scraped against one another.  Dead leaves caught in the wool of his red cap.