Part Two:
Young Roy blew on his fingers in a
poor attempt to stop them freezing. His breath billowed like white smoke,
curling around his shaking digits. It mirrored the sweeping icy winds that
howled about his poor shelter of a snow-covered gorse bush. He moved his arms
to find comfort, but instead they scratched and bled against the spiky
underbrush.
Six hours ago – or so he reckoned
– he had been about to tuck into tender Scottish beef along with the rest of
the Blackthorne farmstead. His father and cousins had raided north the week
before, crossing the invisible border atop the heather-clad moors, through
twisting winter meadowland, and across frozen mountain streams. Five heads of
cattle they had taken from the Scottish Rutherfords, along with several sacks
of raw wool.
There had been other foods for the
Christmas feast: market sausages baked with late-picked apples, and roast
turnips hooked from the solid ground by his own hands.
He looked at his shaking fingers
again, raising them tentatively to the tears frozen to his face. He could still
hear the screams of the burning dead… his father… his cousins… the few tenants…
All were dead, murdered by the
Craws. Timbers had been hammered against the door to prevent their escape, and
oil had been poured through the small windows…
He was the last of the
Blackthornes.
They had all been on the spiced
ale, filling their bellies with the strong drink as the meat leaked its juices
into the hot yellow flames.
“How long now?” Roy had asked, his
stomach grumbling.
His cousin Jesamiah turned the
spit with a laugh, “Done when it’s done!”
Roy was about to say that looked
perfectly good as it was until his father called him from the other side of the
bastle house. “Boy! Come here!”
The fortified farm – or bastle –
had belonged to the Blackthornes for generations. The hall was always a hive of
activity, with his father acting as some minor chieftain.
“Boy – fetch more ale from the
stores! Your mother said she’d do it, but she’s been gone half an age! See
what’s holding the daft besom up will you?”
Roy grunted. There was snow
outside, and he was nicely warm by the roasting beef.
His father laughed, waving his
empty pot. “And be quick about it! Man could die of thirst!”
“Aye!” His uncle roared in
agreement, “Die of thirst!”
Snatching his father’s old coat,
he descended the stone steps to the stout oak door – the only way in and out of
the bastle.
He looked up at the white feathery
breeze. The snow had slowed its descent onto the frozen courtyard – usually a
morass of black peat and pig swill, but now as solid as the blocks of sandstone
that made up the Blackthorne residence. He stepped upon the crisp snow,
relishing the squeaky crunch underfoot.
He was halfway to the outer stores
when he noticed the jumble of footprints to the large barn. As far as he knew,
only his mother was meant to be out of the main hall…
Did they have visitors?
With a frown he crept closer to
the outbuildings. He had always been light on his feet, and he slunk through
the dark shadows. His ears picked up the briefest of sounds: hushed voices. One
of them was his stern mother, he heard her pleading with someone. What was
going on?
He moved through the shadows to
the side door that gave easy access to the animals’ winter fodder.
“You must do it quickly!” His
mother hissed.
“Wisht lass, ye’ll spoil
everything!” A man answered. Roy didn’t recognise the voice – but it had a
Scottish twang, not too dissimilar from his mother’s own.
He moved atop the hay to listen
further, thoroughly confused by what was happening.
“Lord Craw, I have been wronged
long enough have I not?” His mother asked.
“Aye my niece, that ye have, but
what of ye bairn? Does he not feast in tha’ hall with the rest of them?”
His mother paused for a moment. “A
fresh start you promised me. All Blackthornes are to die tonight.”
At his mother’s dark words he felt
a chilling stab of fear through his spine. Surely this was some sort of
misunderstanding? Surely his mother had not just uttered such a thing? But the
Craws… Roy knew of the Craws. His grandfather and great grandfather had reived
their lands for decades.
“Ye’re as hard as steel lass… as
hard as ye grandmother ever was.” Lord Craw clicked his tongue. “Very well. We’ll
make it happen.” He snapped some commands in the darkness, and amidst the
flashes of flint and tinder to lanterns, Roy finally saw those inside the barn.
Some twelve men stood with Lord
Craw and his mother. They were dressed in thick coats, heavy fur boots, and
many pistols and blades about their persons. They were dressed for murder.
He knew he should move, he knew he
should warn his father and the others, but he was as frozen as the clods of mud
in the courtyard. He couldn’t even shout for help.
His heart beat faster as he turned
to watch the illuminated men leaving the barn. Some of them had barrels they
rolled along the snow. He could see his mother standing at the larger door,
leaning against the timber frame.
The dull thuds of hammering came
next. He shuffled atop his place on the hay. He couldn’t quite make out what
was happening. But he could hear the shouts of confusion from inside the bastle.
Would his family burst from the
hall with swords drawn? Would they fight in the snow? Would he see their
crimson blood against the stark white snow?
After a few minutes of thudding,
there were no sounds of gunfire, no clashing of blades, only the shouts and
curses of protest. And then something else entirely.
Light flashed from around the
corners, reflecting off ice, and a rush of hot air hit his face.
The shouts turned to screams and
the roar of curling flames.
***
For a while none of those sat around
the crackling fire said anything. Roy hefted his wooden leg to scratch at an
invisible itch, then added slices of yam to the bubbling fish fat in the griddle.
“Fucking hell matey…” Jacob
breathed. He’d rarely heard the older buccaneer speak of his childhood, and now
he realised why.
Bart lowered the bottle of rum
half way to his lips. “You did not lie when you said it was a grim tale my
friend.”
“Ah well…” Roy spat into the
flames, “all in the past now ain’t it?”
“So you lost your father on
Christmas? That is a sad thing indeed.”
“No – I lost my father and mother on Christmas. But I ask for
no sympathy.” He turned sharply to both of them, as if daring them to console
him.
“Of course,” Jacob dipped his head
with a soft nod. “Did you ever find out why she did it?”
They both watched as Roy broke the
fish into flakes, mixing it with the green plantain. “Aye,” he said after a
while, “truth be told, I did find out. I sought her out many years later. I’d
already served in the King’s navy twice by then, and been buccaneering a’tween
times also. I was no longer a running child. I was a battle-hardened man, and I
went to confront the old witch. I went looking for justice.”
“Did you find any?” Bart asked,
wiping his lips after a generous glug from the bottle.
“Sort of,” Roy shrugged. “She told
me how as a child my grandfather had taken her from the Craws. Our families had
an old feud going back as far as anyone could remember. Even though she married
my father, even though she bore a Blackthorne child, in her heart she was
always a Craw. She said every time she saw my face she was reminded of the
crimes against her. I think she regretted it… all of it…” He paused, his lower
lip shaking slightly, “She said sorry, called me her bonny laddie – as if that
made it all fine.”
“Do you hear from her still?”
Jacob asked.
“No,” Roy shook his head firmly,
“she had the bloody flux when I confronted her – looked like a sack of old
bones. Perhaps that’s why she apologised. She knew death was about to take her…
and it did shortly after.”
Jacob stared into the flames as
Roy carried on cooking. “Well… that was hardly festive.” He forced a wide grin
to his face, “Don’t we have anything a bit happier for the evening?”
“That’s all I’ve got,” Roy said
with a frown.
“I have one,” Bart said slowly, “a
story about love.”
“You? And love?” Jacob’s grin was
genuine this time, “Oh this I have to hear matey… We could do with a laugh
after Mister Miserable’s tale of woe.”
***
Thanks for reading the second part of a free online exclusive piratical tale written just for Christmas. I hope you've enjoyed it!
Did you miss:
This work was written primarily as a result of the fantastic Google+ group SaturdayScenes. Look for the work of new and exciting authors every weekend under that hashtag.
If gritty historical fiction is your thing, you could do far worse than look for my published nautical tales ROGUES' NEST, GENTLEMAN OF FORTUNE, and SMUGGLER'S HILL...
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thank you for visiting my Blog. If you have enjoyed your brief forray here, I'd love to hear from you...