After some minutes a serving-maid tapped at the door. He asked for oil and ordered a meal and some wine. She was gone for half an hour, in which time a second lantern failed.
The villager groaned in his sleep, whispering a name. Chareos moved over to him, but the youth faded back into slumber.
The maid returned with a jug of oil. Tm sorry for the delay, sir, but we’re full tonight and two of the girls have not come in.’ She refilled the lanterns and lit them with a long taper. ‘Your food will be up soon. There is no beef, but the lamb is good.’
‘It will suffice.’
She stopped in the doorway and glanced back. ‘Is he the villager who was scourged today?’ she whispered.
‘He is.’
‘And you would be Chareos the monk?’
He nodded and she stepped back into the room. She was short and plump, with corn-coloured hair and a round, pretty face. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t speak out of turn, sir, but there are men looking for you – men with swords. One of them has a bandage upon his brow.’
‘Do they know I am here?’
‘Yes, sir. There are three men in the stable and two others are now sitting in the main hall. I think there may be more.’
‘Thank you kindly,’ he said, pressing a half silver piece into her hand.
After she had gone he bolted the door, returned to the fire and dozed until there was another tap at the door. He slid his sabre from the scabbard. ‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘It’s me, sir. I have your food and wine.’
He pulled back the bolts and opened the door. She came in and laid the wooden tray on the narrow table by the chair. They are still there, sir. And the man with the bandage is talking to Finbale – the owner.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You could leave through the servants’ quarters,’ she offered.
‘My horses are in the stable. Do not fear for me.’
She smiled. ‘It was good what you did for him,’ she said and then she left, pulling the door shut behind her. Chareos pushed home the bolt and settled down to his meal. The meat was tender, the vegetables soft and overcooked and the wine barely passable; even so, the meal filled his belly and he settled down to sleep in the chair. His dreams were troubled, but when he awoke they vanished like smoke in the breeze. Pre-dawn light had shaded the sky to a dark grey. The fire was almost dead, the room chill; Chareos added tinder to the glowing embers, blowing the flames to life, then piled on larger chunks. He was stiff and cold, and his neck ached. With the fire blazing once more, he moved to the villager. The youth’s breathing was more shallow now. Chareos touched his arm and the villager groaned and opened his eyes.
He tried to sit up but pain hit him and he sank back.
‘Your wounds are clean,’ said Chareos, ‘and though they must be painful I suggest you rise and dress. I have bought a horse for you. And we leave the city this morning.’
‘Thank you … for your help. My name is Kiall.’ The youth sat up, his face twisted by the pain clawing at his back.
‘The wounds will heal well,’ Chareos told him. ‘They are clean and not deep. The pain is from the whip-burns, but that will pass in three or four days.’
‘I do not know your name,’ said Kiall.
‘Chareos. Now get dressed. There are men waiting who will make our departure troublesome.’
‘Chareos? The hero of Bel-azar?’
‘Yes,’ snapped Chareos, ‘the wondrous giant of song and tale. Did you hear me, boy? We are in danger. Now get dressed.’
Kiall pushed himself to his feet and struggled into his troos and boots, but could not raise his arms to pull on his shirt. Chareos helped him. The lash marks extended all the way to Kiall’s hip and he could not fasten his belt. ‘Why are we in danger?’ he asked.
Chareos shrugged. ‘I doubt it is to do with you. I had a duel with a man named Logar and I would imagine he is feeling somewhat humiliated. Now I want you to go down to the stable. My horses are there. Mine is the grey and the saddle is by the stall. You know how to saddle a horse?’