The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (3 page)

Chapter Five

The
day broke. Tarn woke and stretched noisily after a blessedly dreamless night.
Hard work seemed to ward off the dreams. He felt the pain of his father’s
passing, like any normal child and oftentimes in his dreams.

            In
many ways, he never had time to be a child. Life was too hard for childish
flights of fancy. Too hard for laziness. Too hard for mourning. Unimaginative
in many ways, maybe, but he understood well enough that had he been raised
differently - foolishness could have meant his death.

            Even
at his age Tarn knew his tears would not bring his father back. More
importantly, the Thane of Naeth’s soldiers wanted him dead. Tarn might lack imagination,
but not intellect.

            They
would return for him.

            He
knew, too, that he should leave. That had been his father’s way, to avoid
staying in one place.

            Gard
and Molly, however, gave him something he hadn’t realised he needed.

            He
pulled on his clothes and his cloak. The snow would not be long. Already the
air hung still, waiting for the first flurry.

            ‘Tarn!
Get up boy, we must leave,’ called Gard impatiently through the door.

            ‘Where
are we going?’

            ‘Surprise.
Come on.’

            ‘I’m
ready,’ Tarn said, emerging from his room. ‘But what about breakfast?’

            Molly
smiled. She liked to see a man eat.

            ‘We’ll
eat when we get there,’ shouted Gard, ignoring Molly’s frown. ‘Come on!’

            Tarn
had arrived with nothing but his clothes, but Molly sewed him a leather pack,
in which he kept all manner of things. Bird bones and feathers he found, a
horseshoe, and a small knife Gard gifted the boy. The pack was slung across his
shoulders.

            ‘Here,
Tarn,’ said Molly, giving him some small coins. ‘See if there’s anything you
want to buy.’

            ‘What?
Where?’

            ‘Oh,
Gard...’

            ‘Alright,
woman. The fayre, Tarn. The fayre. Now come on!’

            ‘The
fayre?’

            ‘Yes,
yes,’ said Gard, grinning. ‘You coming or not?’

            ‘Coming.
Thank you, Molly.’ Tarn reached up and kissed her on the cheek.

            ‘Let’s
go then, time’s wasting,’ growled Gard.

            Molly
put her hand to her face as if to hold the kiss there and watched them go.

*

Chapter Six

Gard
and Tarn set a fast pace for an hour and a half. They did not speak on their
journey. They just put one foot in front of the other.

            Finally
the village, the Wherry, came in sight. Tarn’s heart warmed. The sight always
made him glad. The smoke curling from chimney stacks, the cosy feel of the
houses bunched together around a thin stream. It reminded him of all the times
he and his father emerged from the woods, where just the two of them hunted, to
find people and the love and joy they shared. Sure, there were wicked people
among them, but with his father at his side Tarn could never be harmed.

            The
thought reminded him of the pain. He looked to his side, where Gard strode, and
held on to that thought. Still protected. Still safe, with the big man, the
warm-hearted giant.

He
had needed someone to take him in and care for his wounds, and he had found two
people who loved him without question. He knew luck well enough when he saw it.

            They
neared the village, resting in a dip between the fields. As Gard and Tarn
approached they saw the bunting draped between the one and two storey houses.
There were a few stores in the centre of town, around a rough square dominated
by a towering oak. Not as large as some of the places he had seen, but enough
to see after a long time spent in the company of just two people.

            His
feeling of fear and being exposed again briefly surfaced, and he fingered the
scar on his right cheek, but changed the gesture midway, running a hand through
his unruly dark hair.

            ‘There
aren’t many people,’ Tarn remarked.

            ‘Well,
there won’t be yet,’ replied Gard. ‘It’s still early. Wait ‘til this afternoon,
though. There’ll be plenty of people by then.’

            Tarn's
stomach growled.

            ‘Let’s
get something to warm our bellies,’ said Gard, smiling.

            There
was a boxing ring near the food stalls. It was common for fist-fights to be
included in fayres, and Tarn secretly enjoyed the bouts, even though his father
refused to watch them, calling them barbaric. Ulrane had been a big man, but
never competed. Violence in its place, he said, and not for entertainment.

            Tarn
felt sad until his stomach told him there was ham on offer.

            He
nodded as Gard indicated the butcher’s stall. Gard paid, and the two of them
savoured the warmth of a chunk of roast ham, with their backs against the
meeting tree in the centre of the village. Other visitors were sitting there,
and Gard occasionally greeted them, or other people who passed by.

            The
big man seemed to know everyone in the village. Even the children greeted him.

The
two wandered the stalls. By mid-morning there were many more people milling
about. The children ran and played, and there were mothers with babies in their
arms or in slings around their chests. There were a few old men sitting outside
the two-storey tavern, drinking already and laughing soft laughs full of
phlegm.

            They
made a few purchases, but bought nothing large, as their packs would not take
it and the walk back to the farm would mean aching backs by the time they got
there. The day was supposed to be a day free from toil.

            ‘Big
man, would you mind if I wandered alone for a time?’ said Tarn after his lunch,
somewhat tentatively. He almost hoped Gard would say no. ‘I won’t go too far.’

            The
big man thought about it for a while, but without acknowledging his fears for
the boy, he couldn’t very well deny him. Besides, it wasn’t like he was the
boy’s father. The boy would do what he wanted to do. Although Gard was secretly
pleased Tarn asked permission.

            ‘Of
course. I’ll see you by the meeting tree in about an hour. We’ll watch the
fights together.’

            ‘I’ll
see you then, big man. Are you going to fight?’

            ‘No,
boy, I’m too old for the ring. When I was younger, perhaps, but not now.’

            ‘No,
I don’t suppose your old head would take the punishment nowadays,’ said Tarn,
smiling.

            ‘Mind
yourself, or I’ll put you in with the youngsters.’

            ‘No,
my father forbade me to fight for entertainment.’ It was the first time the boy
had spoken of his family.

            Gard
didn’t think it was time to ask him more. He merely said, ‘Sounds about right.
See you in a while, then. Don’t get into any trouble.’

            Tarn
waved him goodbye.

*

Chapter Seven

Tarn
wandered for a time, always keeping Gard in sight. Tarn knew the big man kept
an eye on him. He smiled. The big man and his wife were good people.

            After
a while he wandered further, out of Gard’s line of sight.

            As
he passed the farrier’s on the edge of the village, a smart wooden building, he
heard a commotion out near a copse of trees, and to his surprise they spat out
a young girl in a pretty dress. She was crying.

            Tarn
stopped for a moment, unsure as to what to do. He had never been confronted
with a tearful girl before. Crying girls weren’t part of his education.

            Before
he could move, a group of large boys emerged from the woods, taunting the girl.
Tarn could not make out what they were saying, as the boys all spoke at once.
The girl ran away from them and toward Tarn. She made it a few steps when one
boy, the largest, shoved her hard. She landed in the mud, ruining what Tarn
could only imagine was her best dress.

            He
knew nothing about crying girls, but he knew about this.

            Instantly
incensed, he clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.

            His
father raised him up to protect the weak.

            Even
if it meant putting himself in danger of death or discovery, his father had
never stepped down when someone needed help.

            Tarn
wouldn’t tarnish his father’s memory by standing idle.

            ‘Hey!’
Tarn called, rushing to the girl’s side. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

            There
were four boys, all of them larger than Tarn.

            ‘Get
lost, midget. We’re playing with the witch and it’s none of your business,’
said the largest boy.

            Tarn
drew close to the boy, making him back off. ‘There’s nothing wrong with
witches, as you should well know. Who birthed you, lummox?’

            ‘My
mother, titch. Now go away.’

            ‘Your
mother and a witch. Leave the girl alone.’

            The
girl picked herself up out of the mud. ‘It’s all right. I can look after
myself.’

            ‘What
are you going to do, cast a spell on us?’ There was a round of sniggers. Tarn
felt his face flush and he took his anger and held it in his fist.

            The
boy made to push the girl in the mud again, but Tarn, too quick for him, hit
first.    There was a wet crack and then a splash as the largest boy hit the
mud. His friends stood dumb, not believing what they saw.

            Tarn
shook his wrist. That had hurt.

            ‘The
next one of you to lay a hand on her also gets a broken nose,’ said Tarn,
menacingly. He looked like a wild animal. His father had taught him controlled
rage had its place in a good fight, and in avoiding a bad one. Tarn didn’t
think he could take all three remaining boys, but they didn’t look all that
brave. Perhaps he could bluff it.

            ‘Now
get lost, or I’ll lose my temper.’

            The
boys looked at one another, pulled up the largest boy and made to go.

            ‘I’ll
remember you,’ said the largest boy, his voice slurred with blood and snot. ‘I
am Gothar, and you have made an enemy today.’

            Tarn
turned his back on the boys, taking the shaking girl’s arm and leading her
away. He studiously ignored the boys stalking off behind him. All it would take
was for them to band together, but they only muttered, leaving him alone.

            ‘Are
you going to the fayre?’ he asked the girl, kindly.

            ‘I
was. But now look at my dress. I’ll have to go home.’

            ‘Well,
let me walk you.’

            ‘Thank
you, I’ll be fine.’

            ‘I
insist,’ said Tarn.

            She
really was quite pretty. Long blonde hair with soft curls, and a pout. Her hair
was muddied, but Tarn could tell it was pretty hair. She had a flower in it.

            ‘My
name’s Tarn. What’s yours?’

            ‘Rena,’
the girl said. ‘You can let go of my arm now.’

            ‘Oh,
sorry,’ Tarn blurted and dropped her arm sharply. ‘Where do you live?’

            ‘About
a mile away. It won’t take long. And thank you.’

            ‘Don’t
mention it.’

            ‘What
happened to your face?’

            ‘I
got hit by a sword.’ Tarn felt his explanation somewhat lacking. ‘A big sword,’
he added.

            ‘Oh,’
said the girl, quite directly. Guile would come later. Rena thought the boy
fair, despite the scar. In fact, it made him look quite handsome. She noticed
his dark blue eyes, but somehow they seemed to twinkle with light. Her mother
told her that much could be gleaned from a simple look in the eyes, if you knew
how to look. But she was still young, and to her, his eyes were merely
intriguing-- of a colour she had not seen before. She looked on unabashed, but
he merely smiled at her. She blushed and looked away.

            He
walked beside the girl, slowly being drawn into conversation as they headed
into the deeper woods. He forgot all about his meeting with Gard.

*