At the sight of blood a hush fell on the spectators, who looked to the Earl to end the exhibition. But he made no move. So it was the Earl’s plan, thought Chareos and anger flared within him, but he held it trapped. He could not kill Logar, for then the Earl would have him arrested and on trial for murder. Coldly furious, Chareos circled, then moved swiftly to his right. Logar lunged forward. Chareos parried three thrusts, then slashed his own blade high over Logar’s sword. The point of Chareos’ rapier split the skin above Logar’s right eye and sliced on across his brow. Blood billowed into the swordsman’s eyes and he fell back.
Chareos turned to the Earl. ‘Is the exhibition over, my lord?’
That was foul work,’ said the Earl. ‘You could have killed him.’
‘Indeed I could, for he is not very skilful. But for good luck this blow,’ said Chareos, pointing to the cut on his own cheek, ‘would have pierced me to the brain. Happily there is little harm done; his cut is not serious. And now, with your permission . . .’ A sound from behind made him spin on his heel. Logar had wiped most of the blood from his face and was running at him with sword extended. Chareos sidestepped and rammed his hilt guard behind Logar’s left ear and the champion fell unconscious to the marble floor. ‘As I was saying,’ said Chareos coldly, ‘with your permission I will leave.’
‘You are not welcome here,’ hissed the Earl, ‘nor anywhere within my jurisdiction.’
Bowing, Chareos backed three steps and took up his sabre and knife. He marched from the hall with head held high, feeling the hostility following him.
Out in the courtyard most of the petitioners had remained to watch the flogging. Chareos descended the steps, his eyes locked to the writhing form of the villager as the lash snaked across his skin.
Approaching the Captain of the Guard, he asked, ‘How many strokes has he suffered?’
‘Eighteen. We’ll stop at fifty.’
‘You’ll stop at twenty,’ Chareos told him. That is the penalty for insubordinate behaviour.’
‘The Earl did not specify the number,’ the officer snapped.
‘Perhaps he thought you would know the law,’ remarked Chareos as the lash sounded once more.
That’s enough,’ said the Captain. ‘Cut him down.’ They dragged the villager out through the postern gate and left him lying beside the path.
Chareos helped him to his feet. Thank you,’ the man whispered.
‘You’ll not get home in that state,’ Chareos told him. ‘You’d best come with me. I’ll book a room at the Grey Owl tavern and we’ll see to your back.’
*
The Grey Owl tavern was a rambling building, built around an ancient inn which sat on the mountain road leading to Gulgothir. At its centre was an L-shaped hall, where drinkers and diners were waited upon by serving-maids. Two new buildings had been constructed on the east and west sides, and a stableyard added to the rear.
As Chareos eased his way through the milling taverners, his jutting scabbard cracked against a man’s leg.
‘Watch what you’re doing, you whoreson!’ hissed the drinker. Chareos ignored him, but as he walked on he gripped the hilt of his sabre, holding the scabbard close to his leg. It was a long, long time since he had worn a sword-belt and it felt clumsy, out of place.
He passed through a doorway and mounted the circular stair to the first-floor corridor. At the far end he entered the double room he had paid for that afternoon. The villager still slept, his breathing deep and slow; the draught of lirium administered by the apothecary would keep him unconscious until dawn. Chareos had cleaned the whip wounds and covered them with goose-grease, pressing a large square of linen to the villager’s back. The lash cuts were not deep but the skin around them had peeled back, burnt by the leather of the whip.
Chareos banked up the fire in the hearth on the south wall. Autumn was approaching, and a chill wind hissed through the warped window-frames. He removed his sword-belt and sat in a wide, deep leather chair by the fire. Tired now, yet his mind would not relax. The sanctuary of the monastery seemed distant, and depression hit him like a physical blow. Today the Earl had tried to have him killed – and for what? All because of the actions of an arrogant child. He glanced at the sleeping villager. The boy had seen his village razed, his loved ones taken, and had now been whipped to add to his agony. Justice was for the rich … it always had been. Chareos leaned forward and threw a chunk of wood on the fire. One of the three lanterns on the wall guttered and died and he checked the others. They were low and he pulled the bell-rope by the west wall.