Redemption

competition. I have also heard that the Queen's troops patrol the roads in large numbers.'

  'Don't worry about them,' Conn said. 'They'll either join us, or, we'll remove them.'

  The sound of shouting voices from outside the tent filtered its way to Conn's ears as he pondered the drawings and slowly, as he studied, they reached a level of distraction that he could no longer ignore.

  'Sort them out will you?' he asked, nodding his head towards the noise, ' 'Cause if you don't, I'll come and bang some heads together myself.'

  Spen stepped away from the table and pushed his way outside.

  Conn smiled to himself. So, he thought, at last they had the makings of a plan. There were a few problems to sort out, such as losing the additional men, but, he was sure, nothing that couldn't be worked through. Gold coin had a power of persuasion that would likely release a few, and the others, well...accidents could happen.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tent flap move, and a shape make his way inside.

  'What was the cause, Joachem?' he asked. 'Did you need to break a few heads in the end?'

  'No heads were broken,' Courtenay said, lifting the hood from his head.

  Conn looked over at the sound of Courtenay's voice and his jaw dropped, not quite believing what his eyes were showing him. The man made his way across to join Conn, and looked down at the charts.

  'What do you need a map for? Not planning on running away are we, Dieter?' Courtenay smirked. 'Not when we still have unfinished business together.'

  'By all that is holy!' Conn said. 'Yours is a face that I thought I would never see again.'

  Courtenay took Conn's hand, shaking it warmly. 'It's a mutual feeling, I can quite assure you.'

  'I assumed that your stay in Highport had ended badly, one way or another, since I hadn't received any instructions.'

  Courtenay reached up and unbuttoned his cloak, removing it and throwing it over the chair. 'That would be somewhat of an understatement,' he said. 'You did not receive my last note, then?'

  'A note? No, My Lord.'

  'Then that would certainly explain quite a many number of things.'

  'I don't understand.'

  Courtenay waved Conn's response away. 'It is no longer of importance.'

  'What went wrong?'

  'Let us just say that certain of my acquaintances made schoolboy errors, errors which eventually led to my discovery.' He pulled one of the chairs across to the table and sat. 'But no worry, that is all in the past and plans can change.'

  'Plans?'

  'Yes, plans can change. The caper is not completed, Dieter. There is more to be done.'

  Conn was naturally curious. If the Hood said that he had a plan then he was sure of one thing, it would be a big one. 'What did you have in mind?'

  'Do you have any of that Brigandian brandy that you like so much?' Courtenay asked.

  'Is the Queen a virgin?' Conn replied, smirking.

  Courtenay frowned. 'Of that I have no idea,' he said, 'but I assume you are implying that she is, and that you do have some.'

  Conn chuckled. 'Humour is wasted on you, isn't it?'

  Courtenay's face was emotionless. 'Humour is such an overrated trait. Life is too serious to waste it on quips and japery.'

  Conn laughed. 'Quips and japery, My Lord? What are they?'

  'Pour that drink,' Courtenay said, 'and I'll tell you what's on my mind.'

  oOo

  The flap of the tent opened and Conn stooped, stepping out onto the mud path that wound its way through the encampment, searching for Spen's face among the crowd of his men. His second-in-command mingled with his comrades, chatting and laughing on the other side of the road formed between the two aisles of tents and as the man looked up, Conn waved him over. Spen jogged to where his leader was standing.

  'Fetch the Hood's horse for him will you, Joachem?'

  'He's leaving so soon? I assumed he would be staying for the night, at least.'

  'No,' Conn replied, 'not this time, he has much to do.'

  Spen nodded and walked across to where the horses were tended. A group of lean-to buildings had been constructed of trees trunks and branches, dragged the many miles into the hills, to keep off the worst of the weather, but still the beasts needed to wear their waterproof blankets.

  Courtenay stepped out of the tent to join Conn. He pulled his cloak around him and fastened the top button. 'Remember, Dieter, the key to all of this is absolute secrecy.'

  'Yes, My Lord, but I will need to tell Spen something.'

  'Granted. A little perhaps. But do not reveal all, least not yet. There is greater risk in the execution of this enterprise than in any to date.'

  'Of course.'

  Spen returned shortly, pulling the reins of Courtenay's horse. The mount followed willingly and Courtenay nodded in thanks as he took the reins and climbed up into the saddle.

  'Wait for my instructions,' Courtenay said to Conn, pulling the reins and guiding the beast towards the path that led over the hills and to the east.

  Conn watched him go, and when he had lost sight of the Hood around the bend in the path he turned to face Spen, the widest grin forming on his face.

  'Where's he going?' Spen asked.

  'White Haven City, Joachem.' Conn clapped his second-in-command on the back.

  Spen frowned. 'Why's he going there?'

  'Come inside, out of the rain, and I'll tell you.' Conn chuckled, as Spen passed him to enter his tent. 'But you better brace yourself,' he said, following soon after.

  'Why?'

  'Because, you are going to love this.'

  8

  The Twenty-fifth day of Midspring,

  Imperial Year 2332

  The Great Hall thronged with castle attendants as Winterburne strode through the doors that lay at its south end. Lady Amanda, like a queen bee directing her hive of drones, still ordered the workforce about in the clearing up from the feasting of the previous evening, and the cleaning was still ongoing. The long table and benches had been moved to one side to make it easier to pick up the debris; bits of food that had been dropped onto the floor, and already some of the staff had paired up to lift the benches in readiness to replace them back to their original positions.

  'My, my,' he said, smiling as he approached her, 'you do like to roll up your sleeves and get stuck in, don't you?'

  Turning towards him, she replied, 'Well they can't say I don't try my best can they?'

  Something had clearly caught the woman's eye as she raised her hand in the direction of the offence.

  'No!' she called, pointing across the hall. 'Put it over there! That's where it goes!' She shook her head.

  Winterburne smiled as the two men bearing the brunt of his mother's wrath, and carrying a long bench, diverted their direction and manoeuvred back they way they had just come.

  'Honestly,' she added, 'they can be so useless sometimes. They do this every time. It mystifies me as to why they cannot seem to learn.'

  'I'm sure you have them well under control.'

  Lady Amanda crossed her arms as she watched the men reach the correct spot. 'Better!' she called, and nodded.

  The two men lowered the bench and then returned to the back of the hall to collect the next item of furniture.

  'Have you seen your brother this morning?' she asked, looking back towards Winterburne.

  'Actually,' he replied, 'I've just come from his chambers.'

  'How do you think he is today?' She still looked across the Hall as the workers scurried from one side to the other.

  'He's been eating better these last few days, I fancy,' Winterburne said. 'I also think that he may be responding to me a little more, but it is difficult to tell for sure.'

  'Thomas,' Lady Amanda said, 'I know you mean only the best for him, but I fear that he may have gone deeper into this malaise than even you can help with.'

  'We cannot just leave him to rot in a chair, mother.'

  Winterburne felt himself becoming deeply frustrated
with his brother's situation. He fully appreciated that the people around the man were not experienced in helping the ailing, but even so, they seemed to have fallen into the same acceptance of his brother's situation as he apparently had himself.

  'He seems comfortable for now,' Lady Amanda said. 'What else can we do?'

  'There must be something,' Winterburne said, thinking hard.

  He was no physician, he knew that, but the men who ran the hospit back in Highport seemed to be ordinary people with only limited resources, there was nothing extraordinary about them. There must be something about the air, or the practices that they had that helped people get better after illness. Then, it occurred to him that the garden they had built there must have been done so for a reason.

  'For a start,' he said, 'a period of time in the fresh air must surely help him.'

  'And how will you get him outside? Carry him, I suppose?'

  'If I have to, yes.'

  'Oh, Thomas, but what about the poor man's dignity?'

  'To hang with his dignity! Some things are more important than how a man looks. This is about saving his life.'

  Winterburne was beginning to understand more and more about why Robert had been able to slip into the state he had. There was no doubt in his mind that everyone around him cared deeply, but staring at four blank walls day after day would be enough to send any man mad.

  'Do as you feel right,' Lady Amanda said, 'but I do not hold out hope.'

  'I remember how he was when I left, My Lady. His eyes were bright, and even though he had his problems, he seemed to find life light. It breaks my heart to see him so. I must at least try.'

  'Then do whatever you think best,' Lady Amanda said, glancing back at the men working across the hall. 'Would you have me do anything to help?'

  'Not yet,' Winterburne replied, 'but I do have an idea.'

  oOo

  As Winterburne approached the castle workshop he could hear the tapping from inside and the sound of hammer on chisel took him right back to his childhood as he remembered the ringing of the pounding hammer as it hit the white hot iron resting on his father's anvil. It had been the accompanying sound to his playing from a very early age and as soon as he could remember he had joined his father in the forge. They were good days, when he was allowed to help in the smithy for a few copper coins.

  The large boarded double doors were closed to him, but he pushed one of them hard and it swung slowly inwards. The hammering stopped.

  'Who's there?' a voice called out. 'What do you want?'

  The carpenter looked up from his work bench, but as he saw who had interrupted him he nodded his head in a shallow bow.

  'My apologies, My Lord, but I did not expect—'

  'Think no more of it,' Winterburne replied, stepping further into the workshop.

  He glanced around the walls of the workshop where saws and chisels hung from the shelves along with half-completed pieces of work. Offcuts of timber lay in neatly ordered piles waiting to be fashioned into useful objects. To his left, a planed piece of timber resting on a pile of similar wood caught his eye and he picked it up, rubbing his hand across the smooth surface. He nodded, impressed with the workmanship, and as he placed it back he looked across to the burly red-faced carpenter, his apron pulled tight around his bursting middle, his large hands gripping a mallet and chisel.

  Winterburne leaned on the bench. 'I hope you do not mind me disturbing you, Master Carpenter,' he said, 'but I wanted to speak with you about something.'

  'Of course, Lord.'

  The man rested his tools down onto the bench. He wiped his hands on the apron and placed them on the edge of the table, leaning his weight forward.

  'I have an idea,' Winterburne said, 'and I would like your opinion as to if it might be possible.'

  The man nodded and cocked his head as he listened, reaching up to remove the thin charcoal stick that he had placed behind his left ear.

  'I would like my brother to spend more time out of the castle, and I have a thought that it might be possible to change his chair so that it had carrying bars.'

  The man was silent for a moment, and one eye closed a little. 'Like a bier you mean?'

  'Yes! Just like a bier.'

  Winterburne's eyes opened wide as he realised that the man could already visualise something of what it was that was in his mind. It would certainly make the conversation that much easier.

  The man shook his head. 'It would have to be carried, though. You couldn't drag it like a bier.'

  'I had anticipated that it would be carried.'

  'I assume that you were thinking that Lord Robert might be able to be more...mobile?' the carpenter said.

  'Yes,' Winterburne replied, 'not far, though, around the castle grounds perhaps. Then, when he is stronger, further afield perhaps.'

  The man wagged his finger. 'I could adapt a chair, I'm sure, and put carrying poles on either side, but it would be heavy. Not so much a problem for four men, though.'

  He turned behind him and took a scrap of timber from the shelf, placing it on the bench. He drew some shapes on the timber to represent the chair and added poles to the drawing. 'A little like this?' he asked.

  Winterburne nodded. 'Can we do that?'

  'Yes, I don't see why not.' He looked down at he drawing for a moment and then back up to Winterburne. 'But, some might say that it would be a waste of man-power. You would have to allocate four attendants to him at all times.'

  'That is true. If not all the time, then certainly for periods.'

  'I wouldn't have thought that her Ladyship would take too kindly to that. She has more than enough work to keep the men busy for most of the hours of the day.''

  'Perhaps you are right.'

  The carpenter thought for a moment longer, silent as ideas churned in his mind. 'May I make a suggestion, My Lord?'

  'Certainly.'

  'What if we did that for a start, it would only take an hour or so at the most to fix the poles to the chair, and then we could do something else, something that would mean he might only need one man to help. Perhaps, even none.'

  'How is that possible? He can't carry himself.'

  The carpenter laughed. 'No of course not, My Lord,' he said, smiling. 'But,' he continued, 'what if I was able to build a small cart, perhaps with smaller wheels than you might usually see. No more than, say, waist or chest height. Ideal for, maybe, one of the ponies to pull.'

  'Can you do that?'

  'I reckon so,' the man said, 'I'd have to fit it around my other duties, though.'

  'Surely,' Winterburne replied. 'How long might it take.'

  The man stepped back and placed his hands on his hips, pulling the air through his lips in a sharp intake of breath. 'A week or two, three at most.'

  'And he would be able to move himself around the estate of his own accord?'

  The carpenter nodded. 'We might have to change things as we try them out, but I reckon so, yes.'

  Winterburne took the man's hand and shook it. 'Master Carpenter,' he said, 'you are a man of true genius!'

  oOo

  Winterburne looked at the target down the shaft of the arrow, his right arm straining as he pulled the bow-string as far back as he could. A stack of hay-bales had been placed at the far end of the courtyard and a cloth target hung down the front. Concentric rings had been painted in black pitch and as the arrowhead lined up he tried to adjust the weapon's angle so that he was slightly high of the target. After one last pull of the drawn string he released it, watching the missile fly towards its destination. With a thud the head buried itself deeply into the bale, but it was a poor shot. He must have over-compensated as he pulled on the extra draw and the arrow had rested to the left, outside of the last ring. Winterburne shook his head. He was a much better shot than that when he had his eye in, but it had been so long since he had practised regularly that deep down he was not surprised.

  He looked around at his brother, but Robert just stared over the scene, no indication on his
face that he was paying any attention to what he saw before him. The carpenter had done a good job in fixing the poles to Robert's chair and between himself and three of the pages he had summoned from the Great Hall it had been no problem carrying him down to the yard. Perhaps the fresh air would help, but certainly it couldn't hurt.

  A pot of missiles had been placed at one end of the range, near where the firing point had been determined and Winterburne drew out another arrow from the holder, nocking it and then drawing the string back as he lifted the weapon to eye level. Again, he sighted down the arrow, but this time he had learned of his tendency to drift left, so he moved the head slightly to the right. He moved his eyes quickly to check the wind marker; there should be no allowance for any breeze, and he released the string. This time the arrow flew true as it left the bow but then, as he watched, it drifted high and wide to the right.

  'Goddamit!' He shook his head in frustration. 'How bloody hard can it be?'

  He glanced across at Robert again. It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn that his brother had a glint of humour in his eye. He turned to look at him.

  'So, you can do better, you think, brother?'

  There was no response from the man but Winterburne hoped that the rebuke might at least encourage him.

  He took another projectile and pulled it up to his line of sight. This time, he thought, he would just forget his two previous, quite woeful efforts and line up true. The arrowhead covered the bulls-eye as he pulled the string tighter with every final ounce of his strength, his arm quivering with the tension. Winterburne released the string again and watched as the arrow flew towards the target. As he watched, it seemed to lose momentum and dropped below the bottom of the outside ring.

  'Shit!' he said, throwing down the bow out of frustration.

  It clattered into the rack, bouncing away to land on the ground.

  'Truly pathetic,' he added, turning to walk towards his brother.

  When he had reached the chair he knelt in front of him, looking into the man's eyes.

  'I fear that it will not be too long before you will be a better bowman than I will ever be,' he said.

  Robert's head lifted slowly, and his eyes focussed upon Winterburne's face. A wicked glint flashed in them for a moment and a half-smile crossed his lips.

  'I already am,' his weak voice said. 'You truly are the worst archer that I have seen in many a year, my brother.' Robert swallowed hard and licked his dry lips. 'I'd wager a gold coin that I could pluck any child of ten years of age from the village and he would beat you.'

  Winterburne was stunned for a moment. And then he laughed, for as much as he was delighted at the response that his actions had elicited from his brother, he also knew full well that Robert was most likely absolutely right.

  9

  The Seventh Day of Hi-spring,

  Imperial Year 2332

  The last time that Winterburne had visited the hamlet of Emlyn, he seemed to remember, was in the final days leading up to his leaving the castle for Highport all those years ago. He was intrigued to see how it might have changed, although he suspected that little would have, nothing ever did out here in the countryside.

  As he guided his mount down the road from the castle, he passed several groups of one or two people, men and women, making their way towards the village. Most carried goods