The Fragile Fall At Tallow Bridge (The White Blood Chronicles Book 1) (11 page)

The warmth from the fire lit by Thomas Dromgoole, had soon dried off Thaindire after his return from the gibbet to the inn. The rain, however, had not abated and now rattled against his window, buffeted by the wind, which had not relented all day. Darkness had descended on the village and from his window, Thaindire could see the dotted orange glows of fires and lanterns about the village as the inhabitants sought to keep warm. He had eaten well at dinner, his appetite increased by his walk around the village. He was thankful that the silent Thomas had attended to his fireplace and victuals as he was in no mood for the levity of Kathryn. Thaindire stretched his feet out savouring the flames’ effect on his feet and sipped at the wine that had accompanied his meal. His cloak hung over the rack and he noticed that the rainwater had not soaked into the material but rather had run off it as it if had been treated with some kind of tar. His right wrist prickled a little, the scratch marks made by the nails were visible and he hoped that no poison had been secreted. Thaindire twisted away from the fire and back to face his bed where he had a piece of parchment laid out and was delicately crafting ink strokes as he drew a map of Aftlain. He had created a circle, which amounted to the village “square” which tapered at the eastern and western ends. Carefully he had etched the road leading back to Lancester and the opposing road over the bridge. With delicate dabs of the inked quill he marked on points of interest, the tavern, the seamstresses, the large house with its unwelcoming plants, the alchemist’s residence and so on. He had also located the apothecary which he had identified as he walked back to the tavern. It was the last building before the bridge on the side opposite from the bakery. It was a low wide building with hanging baskets at its front. He had not bothered to venture or even look inside Thorne’s dwelling, for the weather had become foul and besides he wanted to dedicate the appropriate time to her and her practices. Whilst he was undoubtedly grateful for the poultice, which had aided his recovery from his wounds far quicker than normal, he was not comfortable with being a patient to what he regard as unnatural crafts. If questioned by his Order about his acceptance of the work of Thorne he would point to it as being a means to an end, the sooner he recovered the sooner he could peel back the layers that shrouded this village’s secrets and do something to extinguish them.

              His mind wandered back to the grim image of the skeleton in the gibbet and whether it was truly Sanctus. He knew that if he made enquiry of Dromgoole or his daughter he may get a reliable answer, although their performances concerning the tower did dent his confidence somewhat. If they confirmed his fears, he did not think that he would be able to mask his reaction and thus would expose himself to them, something he could not yet do. He needed to maintain his appearance as a cartographer so he could move about the village and accumulate the necessary evidence to take back to the Order and aid it as it reached its wise decision. Oddly, he considered whether Melissent Priestcote might prove more reliable. Her conspiratorial behaviour in the seamstresses’ that morning spoke of a desire to help him and without the knowledge of her cousin. He mulled over the proposition. Somehow he doubted that she left the confines of her house much, the pair almost seemed to be part of the apparatus that churned out the magnificent clothing and therefore may not know of the body in the gibbet. Furthermore, such was the eerie nature of this village and those who dwelled here, he suspected that he could not entrust any of them as to his true purpose or queries. No, the evidence pointed towards the skeleton being Sanctus but was not completely conclusive and part of him hoped that instead Sanctus’ blade had been used to dispatch the evil occupant of the rusted cage and he had gone elsewhere.

              Tomorrow, back permitting, he intended to meander through the lanes on the southern side of the village and also to discover whether any thoroughfare afforded passage to the mysterious tower beyond. He would also take the track, which he suspected led down to the riverside and if he was able, obtain an audience with the priest. He dabbed the last letters on his map and gently blew across the ink to dry it. He placed the cork stopper back in the top of the ink and placed it on the mantelpiece along with the quills. He decided he would leave the map to dry out on his bed, it was no secret that he was a mapmaker and the map he had created only described what was at the locations thus he had no fear of discovery about what he really thought of each place he had marked out. Again the rain hammered against the window and he stood before the fire pleased to be indoors when his door opened and Kathryn Dromgoole made her customary unheralded entrance.

“ Good evening and how are you, not too wet I hope?” she asked flouncing into the room. Thaindire saw that she wore a short dress that exposed her shapely legs and a tight corset, which accentuated her breasts behind the low cut blouse that she wore. He quickly glanced at the floor fighting the urge to drink in her beauty, as he waited for the inevitable wall of scent to come crashing over him. It was barely moment as a spicy scent wrapped around him, the strong concoction circling him as if it were alive.

“ No, all dried out now thank you,” replied Thaindire.

“ Father has asked that you join him for a drink, now that you are better able to move,”

“ I would be delighted to,” answered Thaindire. He had completed his mapmaking and whilst it was cosy in his bedroom he would welcome the opportunity to see more of the villagers. He glanced at his sword leant in the corner and did not think that it would be seen as appropriate to take it downstairs with him, especially as he had not yet acquired a scabbard within which to house it.

“ Wonderful,” trilled Kathryn planting a flirtatious hand on his chest. Thaindire reached for his boots and was glad of Kathryn’s assistance in putting them on as he struggled in some discomfort to remove them earlier.

              The pair descended, arms linked as they reached the lower landing. As soon as his black boots touched the hardwood floor of the landing, a door opened and once more the man of jewellery emerged. He wore a white silk blouse and about his neck was a golden pendant, which housed some kind of ruby. His trousers were fashioned from an expensive cloth and were striped, red and yellow, before being tucked into a pair of high boots whose shiny leather put to shame the scuffed nature of his own boots.

“ Good evening,” remarked the man.

“ Good evening,” replied Thaindire and Kathryn in unison as the bejewelled man passed them and descended two stairs at a time.

“ Who is that?” asked Thaindire quietly, “ Every time I arrive on this landing I bump into him coming out of his room,” he admitted.

“ That’s Cyon Lancaster,” confided Kathryn as they made their way down the split staircase. “ A rich man. He comes and stays with us for a few weeks at a time. I think he just likes to get away from his wife,” laughed Kathryn.

              A wall of heat and sound struck Thaindire as he entered the main room of the tavern. A great fire burned in the wide fireplace and all the seats and tables around the open floor area looked occupied by a collection of laughing, conversing and drinking villagers. To the left of the fireplace a young man was playing a lyre and singing, a small group sat about him joining in with the song. He sang well, his melodious voice lifting above the general murmur of conversation, although Thaindire was unable to discern what the subject of his ballad was. Kathryn steered him towards the bar about which a number of figures were sat on the tall stools before it. One was empty, just right of the centre and Kathryn motioned for him to sit at it. Thaindire obliged.

“ I will be back soon, just have some serving to do,” she leant in and pecked him on the cheek. Benjamin Dromgoole turned around from tending to the casks, his broad face red from the heat of the room and no doubt the effects of his own brews.

“ Good evening Master Thaindire, delighted you can join us, now what will you have, naturally your first is on the house,” boomed Dromgoole.

“ You choose for me,” answered Thaindire slightly bewildered by the number of barrels that stood waiting behind the bar. Dromgoole regarded him for a moment and then clapped his hands.

“ A flagon of Lost Soul seems apt to me,” he grinned and broke into a laugh. The landlord snatched up a flagon in one of his immense hands and addressed it to the nozzle of a barrel nearby, twisting the tap on it and letting a dark brown liquid spill into the container.

“ Your recovering health,” he declared slamming the flagon down on the bar.

“ My thanks,” replied Thaindire as Dromgoole stood over him waiting for him to drink. He raised the flagon to his mouth and a warm, creamy smell was apparent. He took a mouthful of the ale and swallowed, savouring its taste, which left a slightly honey-like aftertaste.

“ That’s good,” he declared and took another mouthful. Dromgoole smiled and moved away to serve somebody to the right of Thaindire. He sat up from the bar and looked to his left. Two men were sat immediately to his left, huddled inwards, deeply engrossed in conversation and beyond them a group of four villagers was laughing at some story or joke, one slapping his friend on the shoulder. He could see beyond them a doorway, which no doubt led to the kitchens and stores. The bar turned to the right and thus had two lengths to it. Kathryn was collecting flagons that her father was setting on as tray for him at this end and as she saw him looking across she winked at him and he smiled back.

              Thaindire felt a little wrong footed. After the horror of the gibbet and its contents, his antipathy for the villagers had intensified, yet now, amidst the warmth, the rich smell of ale and pipe smoke, which drifted through the air, the village took on an altogether different complexion, one which was far less ominous. Surely not all of those who resided here were beholden to dark ways? He looked again at the four friends, most likely farmers. Their relaxed manner and camaraderie appeared far removed from anyone who would slay one of his companions and leave them hanging as a grisly reminder in the cold wind.

“ Did you have a good look around the village?” asked a voice to his left. Thaindire glanced towards the voice and found a man, shorter than himself now stood at the bar besides him. He raised a hand and scratched at his head, his hair shorn short in a failed attempt to mask his creeping baldness before he proffered his hand to Thaindire. Thaindire shook the man’s hand that then rubbed at the end of a rather protruding and thin nose.

“ Yes, yes I did,” answered Thaindire.

“ Aye, I saw you earlier crossing the square. I’m Rainier Emory.”

“ Samael Thaindire.”

“ Ansell tells me you took something of a mauling off the wolves. Damn creatures, poor Edmund there,” Rainier indicated with a stubby forefinger towards a man sat nearby, “ Lost four sheep to them last week.”

“ I am sorry to learn of that,” consoled Thaindire.

“ And Linet even had a calf slain by them the same week.” continued Emory with his catalogue of livestock slaughter, pointing across the room to another farmer.

“ Again too bad.”

“ Doesn’t affect me as much, I keep bees. Do you like honey?”

“ Er, yes, yes I do. “ replied Thaindire.

“ Beatrice likes honey don’t you my love?” commented Emory as a serving girl, young like Kathryn, approached the bar.

“ Oh yes, anything sweet suits me.” answered the girl smiling at them both from beneath her blonde fringe, her full green eyes widening in suggestion. She paused for a moment as if waiting for Thaindire to speak and when he did not, she moved towards another customer for his order.

“ She is a delight,” confided Emory leaning in towards Thaindire, his gaze moving up and down the lithe frame of Beatrice who was easily half the age of the beekeeper.

Thaindire kept his silence.

“ She will look after you, mind,” continued Emory giving Thaindire a slight nod before taking a drink.

“ You just need to get her attention. It’s all in the eyes. All in the eyes,” he confided pointing to his own pale blue eyes.

“ Isn’t that right Beatrice?” commented Emory raising his voice.

“ What’s that Rainier?” she asked moving back along the bar.

“ It is all in the eyes,” responded the beekeeper leaning over the bar so he could stare more directly at the girl. She let out a short laugh and placing her hands on her hips, locked her own gaze with that of Emory, widening her eyes in an exaggerated fashion before tapping him playfully on his nose and walking to elsewhere along the bar.

“ It’s just a question of time,” added Emory, although he seemed to be talking to himself more than Thaindire. He prised himself off the bar and calling Beatrice’s name, followed her to the other end of the bar, leaving Thaindire to shake his head.

              He took another drink from his flagon enjoying the taste of the ale and set his cup down, before turning to his right. Thaindire found a face staring right at him from barely a pace away. A tall man, with greasy, lank black hair, which fell from beneath a peaked hat, was stood close to him. He had a sharp, hooked nose and slanted grey eyes which carefully regarded him. The man wore several days’ growth of dark stubble and there was a small scar on his left cheek, which the stubble did not yet cover. He scratched at his chin, jutting his jaw outwards. The unwavering gaze of this fellow was slightly unsettling but this was not as great as the discomfort Thaindire felt when he noticed that the man was wearing a military uniform. It was black or possible a deep navy blue in colour, but what struck him was the front of the tunic with the stitching about a double set of dull metal buttons. The design was exactly that which he had seen on the imps. Thaindire immediately noticed that the solider also wore his sword at his side, some kind of sabre in a scabbard. His frame was sinewy and Thaindire suspected he was likely to be an effective swordsman and no doubt an officer if he carried a sabre. He glanced to the man’s shoulders and saw epaulettes with pips on them.