In the fall he came down out of the hills into the tiny cluster of houses that was
the village of LoGrenne. He was covered with a hatch work of partially healed wounds,
obviously one of the soldiers from the siege of Laffayte, a deserter. But nobody
in the village cared one way or the other about the siege or the deserters, as long as they
didn't steal or bother the women. This one did neither. He collapsed in the street
right in front of the smithy. Just as the smith was deciding whether this impediment
to the village traffic should be removed or not, Old Farmer happened along with his
old wooden barrow filled with manure to be spread on his poor fields. The old man
stopped and studied the body without smile or frown. Finally he simply loaded the
soldier on top of the manure and continued on his way up the road to his farm on the very edge
of the dale. The smith shrugged, and, freed from the need to make a decision, put
the scythe blade he was repairing back into the fire to heat.
That Old Farmer had picked up the stranger was a nine days wonder in the village.
There was much speculation as to his motives. Nobody wondered at the stranger. Strangers
were strangers.
* * * * * *
Young Farmer pushed the rickety old wheel barrow up the street, carefully manoeuvring
it around the potholes. It wouldn't last too many more trips in its present state,
but Old Farmer insisted that he fetch a full load of pungent manure from John Merchant. The soil on the old man's farm was so full of clay that it needed constant fertilising.
That meant more manure than Old Farmer's one cow and one horse could produce. It
also meant a weekly trip to the village to pick up the fragrant load. And every week
the young bucks were waiting for him. Henry the Smith's son, and Bill, who was the
son of Rolph Two Cows, the only man in the village beside John Merchant who had more
than one cow, Andre could usually be counted on to make an appearance, sometimes
there were others, sometimes not. None of the elders had the knowledge or the will to intervene.
After all he was the stranger, it wasn't like he was one of them.
"Hey, is that smell you or the dung in that barrow?" Young Farmer sighed and put the
barrow down, he needed the rest anyway.
"Are you sure you want to go with this guy." Henry pretended to address the manure.
"You know what he is going to do?" He shook his head sadly. "He is going to eat you!
But after all he isn't a farmer, so he doesn't know any better."
Young Farmer sighed again. Sometimes he thought the worst torture was having to listen
to them same routine every week. Their heads were as thick as their biceps. He had
been listening to them every week for almost a year, rain or shine, sun or snow,
they were there with the same inane comments and the same honking laughter. At first he
had tried to ignore them and walk on, but they knocked over the barrow, and he had
had to return to John Merchant for another load. Strangely, they had never tried
to attack him. He didn't realise how intimidating his battles scars were. He never looked at
the scars. Old Farmer had nursed him back to health physically, but there wounds
in his heart that the old man's rough nursing couldn't touch. They had teased Old
Farmer too, but he simply didn't care enough to fight back. Young Farmer wouldn't fight, he
would never fight. He would never fight, but he would talk.
"Look," he said. "I am dying of boredom here. I know that you have reached the pinnacle
of your wit, but couldn't you say something different, just once?" The bullies stopped
and looked at the stranger, both puzzled and angry.
"Like what?" Asked Andre.
"Like..... 'Say man, may I have some of your perfume, because it is spring and the
young cows are thinking about love?' or perhaps "You don't look like a mushroom,
so just what do you do in the dark with all that dung?' or even a simple 'There must
be a better way to get a soft bed." A light tinkling laughter broke the dumbfounded silence.
"I must say it is good to see a man who has a sense of humour." Joanny Merchant's
daughter dropped out of the tree from where she watched every week. "I daren't approach
too close fair sir, or my mother would chide me for playing in the roses, but I thank
you for the laughter." She mock curtsied and walked back down the road to the village.
Young Farmer was watching her saucy walk, so he didn't see Henry hit him, and since
he lay stunned in the road, he didn't see the young men of the village smashing the
old barrow and kicking the dung onto his back. When he dragged himself upright they
were gone. Having no barrow and no load of manure, Young Farmer groaned and began
the walk back to the farm to explain to the old man that there would be no more loads
of fertiliser. At least, not until they built a new wheelbarrow.
Henry and the others never came back to tease Young Farmer on his trip to town. Not
that they left him alone, but their pranks came now in less public places and with
no chance for Young Farmer to turn their fun against him. Their teasing took on an
edge that made the young man both wary and angry.
In the meantime Joanny continued to hide in the tree at odd times and drop out of
its branches to talk with the stranger. She was fascinated by his reticence and went
to great lengths to tease a few words out of him. He was the only person in the village
who hadn't been born in this vale or the next, and so he became her way of escaping
her existence. As the merchant's daughter she might as well have been nobility as
far as the village was concerned. She even knew how to read and do figures, taught
by the priest who had wandered through the village on infrequent occasions before finally
expiring on a mountain trail. She helped her father run the business, so she knew
more about the villagers' affairs than they did themselves. Except for the stranger
with the scars of war and the silent tongue. Though not always silent, as Joanny learned.
He had as quick a wit as anyone she had ever met, and she usually fumed at his retreating
back thinking of all the things she should have said. So one day she decided to put
him in his place and brought one of her books with her as she waited in her tree.
Young Farmer plodded by her with his pungent load in a new wheelbarrow. She waited
until he was just past before dropping off the branch. The need to guard the precious
book threw her off balance and she stumbled against the young man. Somehow without
her seeing he had dropped the barrow and turned to catch her. She felt the calluses on
his hands and glared at him. At least she meant to glare at him, only she found herself
looking into his eyes, and seeing not blue eyes but twin pools of pain and sorrow
so deep that it left her bereft of words.
"Steady there lass." His deep voice steadied her and she stepped back away from him.
"I brought a book to read to you." She had to speak past her racing heart. "Please
sit down." The young man glanced around. then shrugged and seated himself in the
grass. Joanny took a moment to compose herself and played up finding just the right
poem.
"The ravens and black crows gathered about." She faltered a moment, in all her fuss
she had got the wrong page. But she continued, refusing to show her mistake.
"Brother gathered against brother to war.
Each death and pain and sorrow to give out,
Ready to fall to e'en an untold score.
The arrows and stones less fatal a rain
Than words driven cruel, deep in the heart
Of brother and son and father and friend
Already dead but for the dying part
." Joanny dropped the book. "What a dismal poem. All death and dying and pain. I meant
to read something more edifying, about honour and duty perhaps.
"There is more death and dying in war than honour." Replied the young man. "May I?"
He carefully picked up the book and flipped through until he found the page.
"The city ramparts broke, crushing their bones.
Leaving one in the gap standing alone.
Death was his shield and death his fate,
Thus he and the black sword became the gate.
Together they dealt death and dealt it well,
And yet winning the day they won only hell
." Rubbing at one of his scars, he handed the book back to the merchant's daughter.
"It is by L'beal." Speaking to himself. "He was there, and he got it right, mostly
anyway." He was brought back to the present by the tremendous slap that Joanny landed
on his face.
"You can read. You can read, and you didn't tell me! It isn't fair." She ran down
the road toward her home with unknown tracks of tears on her face leaving her precious
book on the dusty road. Sighing he rubbed his face and picked up the barrow, then
he looked at the book. If he left it there it might get ruined, if he took it with him
she would think him a thief. So he set the barrow by the side of the road and book
in hand followed after John Merchant's weeping daughter.
John himself met Young Farmer in the yard. His face was set like stone.
"My daughter came home in tears."
"I am sorry I upset her. She didn't know I could read."
"I will not have my daughter upset by any vagabond farm hand. You will not come back
here again. You will stay away from my daughter."
Young Farmer felt a brief twinge from something long forgotten. But he pushed it away
before he could recognize anger.
"Yes Sir." He held out the book of poems. "This is hers."
John Merchant took the book and glanced at it.
"Useless nonsense." He threw the book into the mud at his feet. "Don't get above yourself,
boy." The merchant stomped into his house and the young man stalked out of the yard
with what he told himself was not anger, could not be anger. Neither man saw Joanny slip out and pick up the book and try to brush the mud off it's sullied pages.
She stood a while and looked up the road at a slowly shrinking figure.
* * * * *
Old Farmer was sick. Without the constant fertilising his fields grew poorer, they
weren't growing enough to eat. Old Farmer had no coin to buy food, so he grew thinner
and thinner. Young Farmer had to make hay that summer where ever he could. Wandering
over the vale he had opportunity to gather nuts and berries. The old man had turned
inward and refused to eat anything that was not farm produce. He sat all day in the
dingy hut the two men shared growing still. One day Young Farmer came home to find
the old man cold and dead. He laid out the body on the bed headed into the village.
A crowd had gathered outside John Merchant's house. A stranger had come to the village.
Young Farmer had been living in the vale for three years, and this was the first
outsider he had seen come to the village. He saw Joanny standing to one side her
eyes downcast. Henry and Andre were alternately staring at her and glaring at each other.
Young Farmer ignored them. His attention was caught by the stranger. The man was
dressed in casual finery that made John Merchant seem grubby. He wore a sword and
dagger in his belt, and both were obviously meant for use. He was waving a paper in front of
the merchant trying patiently to explain its contents. Obviously without much success.
"Girl." John Merchant had never been heard to call his daughter anything but Girl
in anyone's memory. "Come here and read the fool piece of paper this boy is waving
in my face." The paper crackled as the man, who was older than Young Farmer restrained
his annoyance. Joanny came over and looked at the paper and frowned.
"It is all written funny, Father. I can't make it out."
"Like I was saying Sir it is simply a decree setting out the new rules for taxing
and collection of taxes. If you would just put your mark here...."
"I wouldn't do that John Merchant." Young Farmer found himself stepping out of the
crowd. Both men looked at him like they wished the ground to open up and swallow
him. Young Farmer thought he would appreciate the ground granting their desire, but
he had started on his course. "May I?" He took the paper out of the stranger's hand and looked
at it carefully.
"I told you not to get above yourself boy." John Merchant's voice shook with anger.
"Don't pretend that you can read." Joanny opened her mouth then closed it again.
Young Farmer ignored both of them as he struggled through the intricate legal wording.
The paper was snatched from his hand. The stranger smiled.
"Give me the quill, Girl." Young Farmer put his hand on the older man's arm.
"Don't sign it yet." Joanny stared at him with wide eyes. There was a moment of deep
silence.
"Don't be foolish John. Listen to the man. Joanny said he could read." Ann, John Merchant's
wife took the paper and handed it back to Young Farmer. "Well go on man, read the
thing."
His hand shaking a bit from the attention the young man again held the paper while
he worked out its meaning.
"It appears to be about a lot more than just taxes. It is saying that the King wants
each village to be under a sheriff. That person will be ordered to keep the King's
law and to gather suitable taxes from the people. If the village doesn't appoint
someone then someone else will have the job. This fellow probably." He waved a hand at the
stranger. "The sheriff will be paid a small amount yearly for their trouble." Young
Farmer looked at the Merchant. "You can sign it now as the village representative,
or you can wait and ask the others who they want as sheriff." He handed the paper back
to the merchant. The older man looked at the paper, then at the young man in front
of him.
"Well?" He turned to the gathered crowd. "Do I sign the paper now, or do as this man
says and ask who you want?" There was a murmuring as the villagers took in that John
Merchant had called Young Farmer a man, and then more as the talked over the import
of the question.
"Well, I don't want to put myself forward. But I am thinking that we don't want any
of the young folk. My Bill, it would go straight to his head, it would. But beggin'
your pardon, you already have enough to do with the village. It ought to be someone
more neutral like. I be thinking that Smith has a good arm, and a good head too when he
cares to use it. Let him be the sheriff." There was a general nodding of heads.
The merchant shoved the paper back at Young Farmer.
"Make it say that the Smith will be our sheriff." Joanny handed him the quill she
was holding and Young Farmer carefully found the place on the paper and scratched
in the village's decision. Then handed the paper to the stranger who was standing
grimly by.
"You ain't a farmer by the looks of ye. You a deserter?" It was spoken so softly that
only Young Farmer and the merchant and his daughter heard.
"I am a farmer." Young Farmer pushed the flashes of memory away.
"Where d'ye get the scars then?"
"Laffayte"
"Gor, now that was a mess. I barely got out with a whole skin." The stranger stared
intently at the young man. "I get this feeling I should know ye. I never forget a
face ye know."
"Well then, you will remember me the next time we meet."
"I will Farmer, I surely will. My name is Robert Sargeant, so you won't forget who
I am." He gave a curt nod to John Merchant and strode off to where his horse was
tied. "Someone will be around to explain to your Smith what he is to do." He mounted
up and rode past the villagers and away down the road.
Joanny put her hand on Young Farmer's arm.
"What was he talking about?" Curiousity and anger fought on her father's face, and
curiousity won; he stayed silent.
"It was a battle a some years ago. We were both there, and both lucky to survive,
a lot of people died there."
"It was war, man." John Merchant stared at the young man.
"No sir, not just war, it was a slaughter." He shook himself. "I should talk to our
new sheriff. Old Farmer died this morning. What do I do now?"
"Bury him, and keep on farming. No one else wants that place." The older man turned
to go in, his eyes giving the lie to his gruffness.
"One more thing, sir." Young Farmer took a deep breath. "You have some books, would
you have any books on farming?"
John Merchant stunned everybody by roaring with laughter and clapping the young man
on the shoulder.
"Farmer you are a treat, you can read, but you can't farm! Learn farming from books.
Ha!" He walked into the house still laughing to himself.
"You can come and look at the books sometime, Farmer, if you want." Joanny gave his
arm a squeeze and followed her father. The village folk were laughing among themselves,
imitating Farmer and their merchant. Except for Henry and Andre who looked at him
with pure hate in their eyes, then stalked off
"Hey," said Rolph, "Whose gonna tell the Smith, that he's been made sheriff?" Everybody
looked at Farmer. Rolph chuckled. "Isn't he gonna be mad."
* * * * *
The Smith was mad, Farmer thought. The smithy was freezing even with the fire burning
hot just a few feet away. Yet the Smith sat wearing only his breeches and leather
vest struggling to read the paper in front of him. He might have already turned to
ice but for his lips forming the words in front of him. For nearly six months Farmer had
been coaching the new sheriff in reading and writing. The skills were required to
do the work and the taciturn Smith refused to admit he couldn't do the job he didn't
want to do. Over the months Farmer had taught the old man the basics, and he had to admit
the Smith picked up the knack much faster than he had thought possible. Soon Farmer
wouldn't need to come by every few evenings, but he would come anyway. The forge
was a welcome shelter from the constant attacks by Henri and his followers. It was ironic
that he was safest only a stone's throw from where Henri lived, but there it was.
The young men of the village had united in their resentment of Farmer's new status
in the village. He was still an outsider, but he was now an outsider who had some importance
to the village.He was given an respect the other young men didn't receive. Elders
even nodded at him as he passed. John Merchant had unbent so far as to let Farmer
look through the eclectic piles of books that he had accumulated over the years. It seems
that in the balance of events the merchant felt that he had come out ahead. So Farmer
had access to books, and to Joanny. As Young Farmer he had never considered any future past his next meal, or the next wheelbarrow load of manure. Now he allowed himself
to consider possibilities. Between the Smith and Joanny, Farmer was getting nostalgic
about life with Old Farmer. The old man had never spoken but to give an order, but
at least he was predictable. Joanny was anything but. One day she would sit and argue
for hours about what they read in the books, another day she would studiously ignore
him. Even so Farmer found himself daydreaming about her company, and that brought
him back to worrying about the young men who had found way past their reluctance to physically
attack him. Probably because Farmer never fought back. His hands clenched and his
muscles screamed to wreak mayhem on his tormentors, but his heart was a cold rock
in the fire of his anger. He would not fight, not now, not ever.
"Would you mind not breaking that chair." The Smith's voice was deep and gravelly
from lack of use. Farmer reddened and loosened his grip on the arm of the chair that
had been creaking in protest..
"What are you going to do about this gang of thugs who are tormenting you. It isn't
good for you or them." Farmer sighed, they had been having this argument in one form
and another since the first day he had walked into the smithy with bruises on his
face.
"I will not fight back. I will not, so there is no use arguing."
"But your refusal to fight is just encouraging them."
"And if I do hit back, then the next time they carry knives and clubs, then either
they or I will die."
"And if you don't defend yourself then you will die, and I will be hanging my own
son." Farmer heard the pain in the other man's voice, and felt more helpless than
he did under the fists and boots of his tormentors.
"Then I must leave." Farmer was surprised to here his voice break. Somehow in the
years this hard village had become home.
"Huh!" The smith snorted. "And give my son airs because he won, and proved you the
coward he is always saying you are. It is not so hard to hit someone the once." The
two stared into the fire, each feeling defeated by the other's stubbornness. The
younger man stood and walked to the door, but didn't open it. His hands opened and closed
as if he struggled with an urge to break the door. He lifted a heavy splitting axe
off the wall, and carried it to the Smith.
"Strike me with this."
"Don't be ridiculous, I would split you in half. I am old, not feeble." Indeed the
Smith was a much larger man than Farmer.
"Please, I need you to understand." The Smith sighed and swung the axe halfheartedly
at the smaller man. Farmer caught the axe easily and pushed it back. "Please, swing,
hard as you are able." When the Smith hesitated, Farmer snarled and kicked the table
over. "Swing, old man, show me you aren't going feeble!" The Smith gave an inarticulate
shout and swung the axe so the air whistled. Farmer didn't budge and the axe head
cleft the air in front of his chest. With a groan the Smith brought the heavy steel
around in a narrow arc and aimed it at the young man' s head. Farmer watched and felt
time slow, as it had on that day, years ago. The axe crawled toward him, the whistle
of the cleaving air deepening and quieting. He could smell the fire, and hot metal,
but no blood. Not today. He put out his hand and took the axe. The Smith staggered in
slow motion from the sudden imbalance. Farmer buried the axe deep in the oaken block
that held the smith's anvil. Silence.
"What did you do?" The big man rubbed his arm and looked at the axe in the oak block.
"I will never get that out." He looked at the young man standing before him, and
for a moment didn't recognize him. Then Farmer's eyes returned from whatever place
held them and looked at the Smith with naked agony.
"I did not say I can not strike back, but I will not. Would you wish me to strike
that blow against your son?" He wrenched the axe loose. "I didn't think I had a choice
then, but today I do. I choose not to deal any more death."
"But couldn't you just scare them? You scared a year's life off of me."
"I don't know if I could stop. It is not for me I fear, but for them. They are bullies,
but they don't deserve death."
"Son, when you first came here. you fell down on the road. Just out there. I just
looked at you until Old Farmer came and loaded you on his barrow." He reached out
a hand tentatively and put it on the young man's shoulder. "You were a stranger.
I couldn't decide if it was worth helping you." He looked straight into Farmer's eyes. "You are
stranger than I knew, but you are worth helping. Don't leave, and don't give up.
We will find someway. We will." He tried not to hear the helplessness in his own
voice. The young man clasped the Smith's arm briefly then turned and went out into the winter
dark.
It was something completely unexpected that broke the deadlock and changed everything.
Farmer's horse and cow died, from bad feed Rolph told him. Whatever the reason it
meant that Farmer was destitute. The old farm stead was worthless, and Farmer had
little food and no coin to buy any. The elder's met and with much head shaking and discussion
proposed a solution. John Merchant would hire the young man to cut wood for him to
sell. It solved several problems. Farmer would have work, he would be out of reach
of Henri and his followers, giving the elders time to try to talk sense to the boys.
Lastly in the merchants's mind, it got the stranger away from his daughter. She was
much too taken with the young man, and he was not at all suitable. So Farmer went
out pulling a sledge, taking axe and saw for tools and canvass for shelter. He was gone
days at a time, struggling through the deep snow and swinging the axe as if it were
head and not wood he was cleaving.
It was turning toward spring when the wolves came. A large pack driven down from the
mountains by hunger and deep snow. They were thin and ravenous, and very dangerous.
Farmer heard from the Smith how they had swept through Two Cow's holdings attacking
the cows, and when Rolph went with his son to drive them away they turned on the men.
Now Rolph had lost one of his precious cows and was likely to lose his son to fever
from bites. Farmer went to the door and stared at its blackened iron bands. He went
over to the oak block and looked at the great notch in the hardwood.
"I will look for their tracks."
"Leave it, we have sent for some hunters. They will catch the beasts."
"And if next they attack some children at play?" He hefted his axe. "Wolves I can
kill."
"Don't be foolish. Those wolves are the most dangerous animals alive."
"No," replied Farmer. "I am."
Taking a bundle of food put together in a flurry by the Smith's wife, and watched
by a sneering Henri. Farmer set out with the sledge toward Rolph's farm.
The tracks of the beasts were easy to pick up. The grey skies promised snow to cover
them so Farmer set a hard pace for himself In spite of his words to the Smith he
wasn't sure of himself, but needed to prove himself. To whom, or for what purpose
he didn't know. The trail headed across field and fence, and up hill much of the way. The
wind began to pick up and snow blew across his face. Ahead a dark blotch was a copse
of trees and shelter. Farmer pulled the sledge into the lee of the trees. Sighing
he dropped the traces and stretched. Fire first, then the canvass shelter. He picked up the
light axe and went looking for dry wood. It was almost pitch black under the trees,
so he heard the growls before he saw the wolves. They were painfully thin, but their
teeth were bared and sharp. Nervously they circled the man . But hunger was driving
them, so one and then another lunged forward to nip at him and then jumped back.
Farmer waited for time to slow as it always did before battle, but it continued to
flow fast and furious. An especially desperate wolf drew blood from his leg and he was fighting
for his life. Swinging the axe in desperate circles he tried to break out of the
circle of wolves but they kept pace with him. He crushed the skull of a beast that
tried to hamstring him, but another landed on his back and tried to get teeth into his
neck. Farmer rolled in the snow trying to crush the wolf but the others took it as
a signal and they rushed at him. He fought to his feet and let his axe whistle in
a vicious arc. He could smell blood, his and wolf. Somehow he had his back to a tree and faced
the pack. Several animals were limping and a couple lay still in the snow. Farmer
was breathing heavily and his hands were numb from holding the axe. Predator and
man stared at each other for a long moment, then the wolves turned to run off into the
wood.
"No!" roared the man, "You will not escape." He threw the axe and it broke the skull
of the largest animal.Then he leapt into the circles of wolves and now time slowed
for him. He caught wet fur and wrestled with raving bundles of tooth and claw. They
were many and he alone, but he was more killer than they. He blocked attempts to escape
with throw chunks of wood and attacks he met with the fatal edge of the axe that
he found back in his hand. The wolves were deadly hunters, but they had no chance
against him.
When it was over he staggered about and collected what dry wood he could find. His
hands were shaking so that he could barely light the fire. Once it was lit he wrapped
himself in the heavy canvass shelter and too exhausted to put it up he curled up
beside the warm flames and slept. In the morning he was cold and stiff.Several bites ached,
but he forced himself into motion. Gathering as many of the dead wolves as he could
find he loaded the sledge and set himself toward the village. As he pulled, the world
wavered between here and now, and another day after another battle. Old wounds ached
while the new bled into the snow. He made it to the Smith's door and stared at it
feebly. When it opened he forced his eyes to focus on the gruff old face before him.
"You were almost right." And blackness took him.
The Smith found the sledge with bodies of twelve wolves piled on it. In the torch
light they looked merely pathetic. He had put Farmer in his own bed, almost coming
to blows with his son. Now he pulled the sledge to John Merchant's. He argued the
merchant into having someone clean and skin the animals, then went back to wait at Farmer's
bed. Farmer was luckier than Bill and took no fever from his wounds, but he tossed
and moaned in his sleep. The Smith stayed with him the two days until the younger
man woke. In that time the hunters had arrived in the vale eager for the hunt. At first they
were angry to have missed the chase, but then almost fearful that one man armed only
with axe had routed the wolves. They bought the skins from John Merchant, and returned to the city telling and retelling the story.
When Farmer made his uncertain out of the Smith's house it was to a hero's welcome.
Rolph brought his thanks, and the news that Bill seemed likely to recover, as if
slaying the wolves had also broken the fever. The young men over night decided that
Farmer was their idol, and fell over themselves to be seen talking casually with him. Joanny
followed him with stars in her eyes, even John Merchant looked at the pile of coin
from the wolf skins and thought that perhaps the young man wasn't so unsuitable after
all. Only Henri held on to his dislike. He watched Joanny and Farmer and his insides
churned with anger.
In the spring, John Merchant took Farmer aside and had a quite talk with him about
putting the coin to good use. A bemused Farmer found himself a very junior partner
in John Merchant's business. A farmer with no farm, but he fit into the business
in a way that he had never fit farming. He had farmed because Old Farmer had picked him up
and brought him home one cold day. He had stayed because he had no will to do otherwise.Now
he was a junior merchant. People had called him Young Farmer, because he lived with Old Farmer. Then he was just Farmer, and thus he stayed out of habit. So when Joanny
asked him his real name it came as a shock, more so because he had to stop and think
to remember what it was. Sean, yes Sean it was. Joanny laughed when he told her
it meant John in another tongue. Her tinkling laugh twisted something in his heart and
somehow he heard himself asking her to be his wife. She stared at him for a long
time, seeing that his eyes were no longer deep pools of sorrow and pain. She realised
that she loved him indeed. She threw herself into his arms and covered his face with her
tears and kisses. Farmer in all the years he had been here, had never held someone
in his arms. It felt just fine, he thought.
John Merchant acted as if Joanny naturally went with the partnership, but his daughter
saw the twitch of his lips that said he was very pleased indeed. Ann alternated
between tears and laughter and hugged both her daughter and her son to be. The villagers nodded to themselves. All was right with the world.
But for one person, all was not right. Henri felt deserted by his friends who fawned
over this stranger. He felt betrayed by Joanny because he was going to marry her.
He was. He took an axe from the smithy and went to meet Farmer. He found his quarry
on a path to the pasture to check on the merchant's cattle. He stood in the path and waited
for Farmer to reach him. The axe he held behind his leg.
"I wanted to congratulate you on winning the merchant's daughter." Henri's expression
belied his words, but Farmer reached to take his outstretched hand anyway. Henri
whipped his hand away and brought the axe around to break his rival's head. Only
Farmer wasn't there. Henri fought the axe into another swing, but again Farmer seemed to
melt out of the way. Henri looked into his rival's eyes and saw, not anger, but a
regret, almost a pity for this attack. He shouted and brought the axe screaming in
a swing at Farmer's head. The axe wrenched in his grasp, and the world turned about him. The
path slammed into his back and drove the breath out of him. As he lay fighting to
bring air into his lungs he heard a soft voice talking to him.
"I know that you love Joanny, in your own way. So think on this. Would she welcome
and love someone who had murdered her love? I would be gone and you would lose her
more surely than when I wed her. For you could be her friend, and mine." Footsteps
moved away, then returned. "Think on this as well. I have been a soldier. Killing is easy,
living with it after is hard, harder than anything you can imagine." A hand came
into Henri's view. It was covered with scars, old and new. It was a hand that could
have slain him at anytime, but had refrained for years. He took Farmer's hand and was pulled
to his feet.
"I....I am sorry. I was going to marry her for as long as I can remember. Then you
came and everything changed. I hated you." Henri shook himself and tried a deep breath.
"A Smith in the next vale is wanting an apprentice. I am old for it, but I learned
some from my Da before I gave up. Maybe I need to see some different places for a while."
He picked up the axe and began trudging away.
"Henri, talk to your Da, first. He does care for you." The retreating figure nodded
but didn't speak.
* * * * *
A year after the wedding, Sean Farmer was sweeping the yard when the strangers rode
into the village. They rode right up to him and sat on their horses staring at him.
Farmer recognised one of the trio as Robert Sargeant, the man who had come with the
paper to John Merchant. The one who had been at Laffayte. The others were utter strangers,
yet they looked at him as if they knew him.
"I told ye I never forget a face." The man looked quizzically at him. "I thought you
had died after the battle. When those hunters came with their tale of ye killing
them wolves all by your lonesome I finally clued in. I knew who ye were."
"I did die after the battle." Farmer leaned on his broom. "What do you want with me?"
"I have heard all my life of the Siege of Laffayte.." It was the younger of the two
others, his voice high and trembling. He looked eagerly at Farmer.
"A short life you have lived then, the siege was but a few years past." Farmer took
up his sweeping again.
"Seven years this winter." Sargeant spoke quietly. "They are still hanging deserters."
Farmer's heart turned cold, he hadn't expected this, not after all this time.
"I have another proposal." It was the young eager one. "I have spent my life training
with the sword, but there have been no battles to equal Laffayte. I want to be the
best swordsman in all the world. But all anyone will talk about is you. How you stood
in that breach in the wall and fought off an entire army." His voice was turning petulant.
"It isn't fair."
"Life is seldom fair." Farmer straightened and stared him in the eye. "What do you
want of me?"
The young one uncovered a long thin bundle to reveal a black sword.
"You will fight me, and I will prove that I am better than you." He made to hand Farmer
the sword but Farmer let it drop to the ground. The young man flushed red.
"You will fight, or you will hang as a deserter." He jumped from his horse and drew
his sword. The inevitable crowd began to gather and there were growing murmurs. The
young swordsman whipped his sword through the air. Farmer leaned on his broom shaking
his head in dismay. Heavy footsteps signalled the Smith's approach, Henri at his side.
Both carried hammers.
"What's this?" Boomed the Smith. "You can come in and disturb our peace this way."
"We have the King's Warrant." The third man spoke up. "We are here to investigate
possible deserters from the King's Army." He stared coldly at the Smith. "Because
of the nature of this case, I have been authorised to allow this rather... unusual
course of events." He glared even more coldly at the young swordsman, who was impervious. "On
completion of a duel with this young man, Sean di L'beon will be pardoned on all
charges."
The Smith looked bewildered.
"Who is Sean di L'beon?"
"I am" Farmer looked around at the faces he had come to know over the years.
"I stood in the wall at Laffayte, and fought with an army."
"The poem..." Joanny stood in the yard holding their infant son. "It was about you?"
Farmer nodded
"About me, and about a useless slaughter." He looked up and all could see the tears
on his cheeks. "It changed nothing, it meant nothing. All those people I killed,
and I knew they should have been my friends."
"There was great glory in that battle!" The young man's voice shrilled.
"No glory, only blood and death." Farmer looked at his wife and begged her to understand,
but she was staring at him like he was a stranger. The villagers were shaking their
heads and whispering. Even the Smith was shaken and uncertain.
The young man smiled coldly and lifted his sword to point at Farmer.
"We fight!" He sounded savagely pleased.
"No." Farmer forced the word up through his numb throat. He wasn't sure he even made
a sound."NO." He tried again and his voice ripped his pain from his heart and laid
it out for all to see. The sword flicked his arm and left a thin line of blood on
his shirt. He dropped the broom and folded his arms. For a moment the young swordsman faltered.
Here finally was the man who stood in the breach and defied an entire army to pass
him. Here was the man he came to best.
"Fight!" He screamed and lunged, but his opponent didn't move and he had to twist
his sword to keep from skewering him. He wanted a fight to prove he was the best,
and this farmer was denying him. Just like he had denied the armies who besieged
Laffayte. The younger man punched with the hilt of his sword and knocked Farmer staggering back.
He kicked out and knocked Farmer to the ground and ground his teeth in fury.
"Dog! How dare you defy me!" He kicked the downed man again. "You been a peasant so
long you forget your honour."
"I have no honour, there was never any honour." Farmer spat the words into the dust.
"I fled because I could not bear to be a hero for the likes of you."
"If you will not fight me for honour, you will fight me for your peasant friends."
He pointed his sword at Joanny and his son, young John. John Merchant stood in the
doorway looking old and frail. Ann had buried her face in his coat. "Your peasant
wife and brat. Will you fight for their lives? Will that have meaning for you.?
"Hold," Cried the third man still on his horse. "This is too much."
"Too late, you have already taken the bribe, old man. I will finish this my way."
The sword wavered in Joanny's face. She was frozen with horror and fear. She stared
at Farmer without comprehension. "Fight me, dog, or she dies."
Sean Farmer could see the spittle fly from the swordsman's mouth. Time slowed. He
looked at the black sword on the ground. It called to him. He knew he could take
the sword and split this youngling in half. He could dance around the boy and humiliate
him beyond measure. He could kill.
"No" The swordsman stared at Farmer in disbelief, then his eyes hardened and he thrust
his sword toward Joanny and her son. Time stopped. Farmer was faced with the choice
he had made seven years before. Kill or be killed. Seven years ago at Laffayte, he
made his choice. Now he made it again. The swordsman didn't even see him move. Where
he had been stabbing a peasant and her brat, now his sword was buried in the chest
of the man he came to fight.
Joanny's scream started time moving again. Farmer looked at the steel where it entered
his body and thought. It doesn't hurt as much as I though it would. His knees started
to buckle but there was suddenly a strong arm supporting him and lowering him carefully to the ground.
"Easy friend." Henri's face looked down at him with concern. Another face appeared.
Joanny's, she was crying and trying to hold their son and his hands at the same time.
John Merchant, came and silently took the child from her, and Joanny collapsed as
if the baby had been all her strength. She was holding his hand and weeping.
Farmer was vaguely aware of the young swordsman staring at the bloody length of his
sword, before the other two took it away from him and pushed him to his horse.
"Gor, what a mess." Said Robert Sargeant.
The other man talked briefly to the Smith, then he too mounted his horse. The trio
rode off unnoticed.
"Don't go Sean. Don't die." She shook his hand. "Fight for me. Live for me. Live for
little John." Farmer looked at her, then past her at the villagers gathered around
him. She asked him to fight. But this fight - at its end was life.
"Yes."
* * * * *
Months later the Smith brought him the black sword.
"It was lying on the ground, those three had just left it. I figured it was yours.
You would know what to do with it."
"I do." Farmer smiled "Keep it. Make something useful out of it."
As the Smith was leaving, Farmer called to him.
"What did that fellow say to you, before he left."
The Smith looked at him.
"He said that you were no deserter. Then he said he envied you. I couldn't figure
that. But there is no telling with strangers." The Smith stood and shook his head.
"What was that name those three called you?"
"Doesn't matter. My name is Sean Farmer." The Smith nodded as if he had heard something
profound, then taking the sword, he left closing the door gently behind him.
