LOTHAR PAUSED, CLOSING his eyes as a gust of wind blew dust in his face.
His feet throbbed, but he walked on until he reached the crossroads. Only then did he stop to examine the village.
Don’t get into something you can’t get out of, he reminded himself. ‘What a shithole,’ he murmured, looking around.
He saw a collection of wooden shacks, leaning against each other on either side of the two roads that met here. The only substantial building was the church, set in its own grounds on the north-east edge of the village. He smiled to himself bitterly. Poor fuckers the world over kept themselves poor by giving all the spare money they had to the Church. It was the ultimate long-odds gamble of the desperate and the hopeless.
Footsteps behind. He knew them to be Mirko’s.
‘Shithole,’ said a gravelly voice.
Lothar nodded. He considered the wooden shacks and the people who lived inside. ‘What possesses someone to decide to live their life in a place like this?’ he asked.
‘Because the place they’ve left is worse.’
Lothar turned around to look back down the road that had taken them here.
Two more figures approached on foot. One was a young man, big framed, with impossibly large shoulders and a thick torso that was equal parts muscle and fat. He walked in an awkward fashion, as if his body had yet to master the mechanics of the movement. Second was an old man, paper thin and worn looking, as if each passing year had made him more transparent. Another winter and he will disappear completely, Lothar speculated.
‘This it?’ asked Karl, the old man, as he and the young man caught up.
‘Yes. We’re expecting him to arrive from the east.’
Lothar pointed down the east road. It was empty, just like the others.
‘Good,’ said Karl. He began to shuffle with his trousers, tugging at the string and pulling them down.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ demanded Mirko.
‘Need to relieve myself.’
‘Not in the middle of the street. We don’t all need to see your shrivelled slange, you dirty old man.’
Karl shrugged, as if he had long ago given up on understanding the complexities of decorum, and tottered off to a narrow alley between two shacks.
‘Emil,’ said Lothar. ‘Can you keep an eye on the east road for a few minutes while we get a drink?’
‘Sure, Stiff.’
Lothar looked around.
‘Over here,’ said Mirko, walking over to one of the wooden houses.
A picture of a beer stein hung on the wooden door, indicating that the wife inside had brewed a fresh batch. Mirko knocked before they entered.
The wife was ready for them, had perhaps been peering at them through the cracks in her walls. She motioned to a couple of wooden chairs and a table.
‘Very civilised,’ commented Lothar, pleased to give his feet a rest as he sank into one of the chairs. ‘Is it a good brew, missus?’
‘Yes,’ she said, as she opened the tap in the barrel and began pouring out the first drink. ‘I only made it yesterday.’
She served them their ale.
‘Two coppers each,’ she said.
Lothar dug a silver piece out of a pocket. He offered it to the wife.
‘For me and my friends.’
The woman took it, staring at it just long enough for Lothar to guess it was one of the few times in her life she had held a silver piece, then put it in her apron.
‘Much obliged,’ she said with a nervous smile.
Lothar took a long swig of ale, keen to quench his thirst. It was sour to the taste and watery. By no means the worst batch of ale he had tasted.
Mirko smacked his lips. ‘Nice and sweet. Dates in there, is it?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said the wife, looking pleased with the praise.
His thirst somewhat quenched, Lothar took a proper look at the wife. She was young, and though her hair was tucked away under a wimple, he could still tell she had a pretty face.
‘I’m Mirko,’ his companion continued. ‘What are you named?’
Lothar didn’t like where this was going.
‘Never mind exchanging names. Drink up. We’ve got work to do,’ Lothar said, draining his drink and placing the stein on the table with a thud.
‘Emil’s on lookout, isn’t he?’ said Mirko, his face twisting into something ugly.
‘Emil’s waiting for his turn to come in here for a drink,’ said Lothar, standing up, his chair scraping along the floor.
Moments passed as Lothar stood and Mirko sat. The wife moved to the other side of the house, busying herself with nothing.
‘Very well, Stiff,’ said Mirko at last, finishing his drink and cracking the stein onto the table, before stalking out of the house.
‘Many thanks, missus,’ Lothar said to the woman. ‘My two other friends will be in shortly. They are... no bother.’
‘You’re welcome, sir,’ said the wife, her nervous smile now replaced with a neutral expression.
‘What the hell was that?’ demanded Mirko as Lothar stepped outside. ‘No exchanging names?’
‘Don’t get into something you can’t get out of,’ said Lothar mildly.
‘Oh, don’t start with that shit,’ said Mirko, storming off towards the east road. ‘Your turn,’ he shouted over to Emil and Karl, nodding towards the house. ‘Just don’t ask missus inside what her name is,’ he added.
Lothar followed him.
‘What he say?’ Karl asked Emil as they passed Lothar on their way to the house.
‘Don’t ask the wife her name,’ answered Emil.
Karl frowned, as bemused as ever by the rules of etiquette.
Lothar sat by the side of the east road. Mirko was positioned on the opposite side. Neither was in the mood for talk, so time passed by in silence. Lothar would have enjoyed the rest, were it not for the flies that pestered him and the clouds of dust that swirled up when the wind blew.
His mouth grew dry and his mind kept drifting to the missus and her barrel of sour ale.
Then he heard hoofbeats, distant but clear nonetheless. He looked over at Mirko, who gave a barely perceptible nod before looking away.
Lothar looked down the east road but saw nothing yet. The sound grew louder, and he began to feel the reverberations through the ground.
Then the horseman came into sight. Lothar knew instantly it was who they were waiting for. The rider had made no effort to hide the luxury of his clothing. Fine leather boots were tucked into stirrups, and a cloak, deep blue, billowed behind him as his stallion cantered up the distance to the crossroads.
Lothar and Mirko made no movement as the rider approached. He didn’t slow his pace, showing no interest in them or the shitty little village they lazed in.
But he should have been more careful.
Suddenly, Lothar and Mirko were up on their feet, a length of rope held between them reaching across the road. The stallion reared up in alarm and the rider tilted backwards on his mount. It was an easy thing to nudge him with the taut rope so that he fell off the beast, landing on his back.
Lothar quickly moved over, drawing his short sword from its scabbard and placing the blade to the neck of the rider.
He looked over to Mirko, who carefully approached the horse, reaching for its reins.
‘Easy boy, panic over,’ Mirko said reassuringly.
Turning back to the prone body on the floor, Lothar met eyes with the horseman. He had a long face, framed by chin-length straight brown hair. Lothar gestured for him to sit up.
Mirko appeared with the length of rope.
‘Do you know who I am?’ the man demanded, words and diction confirming his nobility.
‘Of course we fucking do,’ Mirko replied, beginning to wrap the length of rope around their captive.
The captive wasn’t ready to play along.
Once they hauled him up, he made a run for it, legs pumping fast despite his arms having been bound by Mirko’s rope. Mirko sprinted after him, tackling him to the ground. Lothar caught up to them and put his weight on the nobleman. When Mirko approached, a murderous look on his face, their captive lashed out with his legs, kicking him in the shins. Mirko roared in pain, then let forth a torrent of expletives loud enough for the whole village to hear. He launched himself at their captive, landing several punches on his face.
With his arms tied, there was nothing the nobleman could do to protect himself, and Lothar called a halt to the punishment.
Mirko walked off a few steps, his aching hand under his armpit. ‘Damn, he’s got a bony face.’
Lothar looked at their captive. There was a bit of blood but didn’t seem to be serious damage to the face. He looked dazed and no longer resisted when Lothar yanked him to his feet.
‘Let’s get him into the church,’ said Lothar.
Lothar led the captive; Mirko opened the doors and led them inside. It was a single-roomed hall, dark, and smelling of sweat and rotting wood.
‘Hey!’ said Mirko.
A figure lurked in the shadows at the far end of the church. Lothar saw that he wore the habit of a clergyman.
‘We need to borrow your church, priester!’ Mirko informed him, sounding reasonable enough.
The clergyman didn’t argue. As the three men made their way into the building, Lothar guiding their captive down the aisle of the church, the priest manoeuvred past them towards the door. He was much smaller than them, poor looking. Probably can’t read much himself, thought Lothar. Just enough to impress his ignorant flock.
Lothar watched him sidle out of his own church and leave them to it. Not that Lothar thought less of him for that. He agreed with the course of action wholeheartedly. Don’t get into something you can’t get out of.
Lothar returned his attention to their captive. The far end of the church was partitioned off, presumably the priest’s living quarters. He prodded the nobleman past the musty smelling curtains into the small space and sat him down on the priest’s mattress.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Go to hell.’
Mirko cracked his knuckles. ‘Don’t make me hit you again. I’ll use the pommel of my knife next time.’
‘Alright.’ A pause. ‘My name is Alexander. What do you want from me, you filthy thugs? Give me my sword and you won’t feel so brave.’
‘Oh,’ retorted Mirko, ‘I didn’t realise we were dealing with a fucking hero.’
‘Not a hero, just a man. Real men don’t punch defenceless prisoners in the face.’
‘I really don’t like you,’ said Mirko quietly, his knife finding its way into his hand.
Lothar looked around. There was nowhere for their prisoner to escape to. He made eye contact with Mirko and nodded in the direction of the nave.
Reluctantly, Mirko followed him, not yet prepared to return his knife to his belt.
They brushed past the curtains and made their way to the far end of the church.
‘It’s definitely him,’ Lothar murmured.
‘So what now?’
‘Take him to whoever wants him.’
‘Who wants him? And did they specify he had to be alive?’ asked Mirko, fingering the blade of his knife.
‘I’m not sure,’ Lothar admitted.
Mirko looked at him suspiciously.
‘Not sure about what? Who wants him, or whether they want him alive?’
‘I’m not sure about either.’
Mirko stared at him with dead eyes. ‘I should have fucking known…’ he said in a resigned tone, which Lothar found unfair.
‘It’s like this,’ Lothar began. ‘I overheard a conversation in the inn, someone offering a large bounty for this Alexander, heir of Berkhopen.’
They both looked back to the curtained area of the church where their captive waited.
‘They described him and said he would likely be coming in this direction. So, we have him, we just need to find out who wants him and why. Could turn out to be our biggest pay day yet.’
Mirko considered the situation. ‘But if this man was offering a large bounty, we’re not going to be the only ones after him.’
‘No,’ said Lothar, wondering why some people needed everything explained to them as if they were children. ‘There’s always potential dangers when the reward is so high.’
A shout came from outside. It sounded like Emil.
‘Stiff!’
Lothar hurried out through the doors, closely followed by Mirko.
‘It’s riders, Stiff!’ said a panting Emil, pointing west.
Lothar could see them at the crossroads, a cloud of dust stirred up by their arrival was still swirling around them.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ asked Mirko.
‘Hide the horse,’ Lothar instructed him tersely.
Mirko ran over to Alexander’s mount and led him back towards the church.
‘How many are there?’ Lothar asked Emil.
‘Seven.’
Seven riders, Lothar considered. If they’re wealthy enough to arrive on horseback, they’re likely to be well armed too. The odds didn’t seem good.
‘Where’s Karl?’
‘He stayed in the house, Stiff. Sent me to get you.’
‘As if he’s going to make one jar of difference either way,’ commented Mirko, arriving back from the church.
Lothar thought about their situation. We could leave right now. Give up our prize. Don’t get into something you can’t get out of. But giving up now when he had got so close?
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘We hide out in the church. With any luck they ride on out of here and we leave with Lord Alexander, sell him, get the money. Agreed?’
Mirko and Emil nodded, but neither of them gave the impression that they were feeling lucky.
Stiff!’ came the shout.
A woman’s voice. And a familiar one at that.
Lothar looked over to Mirko, who rolled his eyes. Emil sat on the mattress next to Alexander, his weight making it sag alarmingly.
‘Emil,’ Lothar began, ‘you stay here with him. Mirko and I will go and talk to her. With any luck—’
‘Please, don’t,’ interrupted Mirko.
Lothar made his way to the doors of the church, reluctant and excited to see her at the same time.
As he made his way out into the sunshine, Anke stood waiting for him, hands on hips. Peter was with her. That was a shame. They waited for Lothar and Mirko to approach.
Her hair was bleached from the sun, tied back out of her face. Her skin was tanned too; maybe a few more lines than last time he had seen her. But they somehow added to her beauty, made her even more desirable. He felt a lurch in his chest at the sight of her.
‘Hello boys,’ said Peter, that sardonic smile playing on his lips.
‘Hello fuck face,’ responded Mirko.
Peter smiled, making a decent job of pretending to find the remark amusing.
Why was he here with her? Had he become Anke’s second-in-command already? Lothar wouldn’t put it past the smug bastard. Was he screwing her? The thought made him feel sick. He felt his jaw tighten and he made himself take a calming breath.
‘Seems like we have a shared interest in a certain nobleman,’ said Anke.
‘What do you mean?’ Lothar asked, allowing himself a little smile.
‘Oh, come on, Stiff,’ said Anke. She wasn’t amused, looking away from him into the distance.
The doors to the church opened and Alexander emerged, still bound. He glanced their way before turning around and running in the opposite direction. Lothar had to admire his form. He had a long stride and pumped his knees up high as he ran. If he had the use of his arms, Lothar would wager he could outrun any of them. As it was, Mirko ran him down, then began directing some brutal kicks to his midriff.
Emil poked his head around the door, looking sheepish.
‘Sorry Stiff!’
‘You were saying?’ asked Anke with one raised eyebrow.
‘Oh. That nobleman.’
‘We might need him alive, you know,’ she added.
‘Mirko!’ Lothar shouted.
Mirko gave their captive one last kick before desisting.
‘I see you’re still working with the same high-quality professionals,’ said Anke.
‘Is he my replacement?’ asked a grinning Peter, nodding over at Emil, who was helping Alexander to his feet.
‘Yes, a more than ample one. Best shot I’ve seen with a bow since Sven Silkbeard.’
Silkbeard was a name that garnered immediate respect amongst those in the business, and Anke nodded at him, looking over at Emil in an appraising way.
‘And that’s not an invitation to steal one of my hands again.’
Anke sighed. ‘If you paid your people properly, Stiff, they’d be less likely to leave you.’
Lothar thought up a retort, glanced at Peter, and decided to keep it to himself.
‘We’ll take it from here,’ she added.
‘Like hell you will,’ Lothar countered. ‘We got him first.’
‘It’s my job. You’ve stolen it.’
‘The job was given to me too.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Anke, and Lothar thought he could detect a dismissive tone.
‘Come on, Stiff,’ said Peter. ‘There’s seven of us here. All professionals. We’ve been preparing for days. What have you got? A fat archer, a psychopath, an old man supping too much beer, and you’ve somehow blundered into a score. You’ve always been sensible. Known when to take a risk and when to back off.’
Patronising shit, thought Lothar, feeling himself rile up. Since when do I take advice from him?
‘I’ll give you 50 pieces for your trouble, Stiff,’ said Anke, making it sound generous. ‘You turn a tidy profit for a day’s work, everyone gets to leave with their reputation intact.’
Now she was doing it. Trying to buy him off for spare change. But Lothar knew something was up. He knew Peter and Anke plenty enough to tell that. Both trying a little too hard to appear nonchalant.
He glanced over at Emil and Mirko leading Alexander back to the church, and took a couple of backward paces towards them. He touched a hand to the hilt of his sword.
‘He’s our prisoner, Anke. We took him fair and square. I suggest you back off.’
‘Stiff,’ she replied, her voice sounding strained. ‘Don’t be fucking stupid. If you make us take it off you, we will.’
He raised his eyebrows at that, gave a little smile, and retreated back into the church.
They weren’t expecting that,’ Lothar announced, shutting the doors behind him. ‘I could tell. They expected Stiff to give up, back off. Well, not this time.’
Silence greeted him. Lothar looked at the three men. Alexander was slumped on a pew, beaten up, defeated looking. Mirko stood next to him, looking back at Lothar, eyes narrowed. To one side was Emil, looking down at the floor. No doubt still embarrassed about letting his captive go.
‘One thing I got from that conversation,’ Lothar continued into the silence, ‘they want it. Not him. It.’
He moved over to Alexander.
‘What have you got, boy?’
Mirko’s eyes lit with interest. His knife had found its way into his hands.
‘I’ll make him talk, Stiff. I’ll get it out of him.’
Alexander looked up to the timbered roof of the church, as if looking for answers from heaven. He sighed. His long face looked morose; tragic. Lothar kind of admired it. If he had pulled that face he would have just looked pathetic. But this nobleman possessed a heroic countenance. He despaired, because the gods were against him. But at least they had noticed him. Whereas Lothar knew the gods didn’t give a holy shit about his miserable existence.
‘Letters,’ said Alexander finally. ‘They’re in my cloak pocket. I’ll give them to you if you let me go.’
Mirko looked to Lothar expectantly and he nodded back. Mirko wasted no time in cutting the rope restraining Alexander, then unwinding it.
‘Don’t even think about trying anything,’ he warned him, placing the blade on Alexander’s neck. With his other hand he rummaged around in the cloak, before pulling out a stack of parchment, tied in string. He tossed it over to Lothar, who caught it and examined the spidery black writing.
‘What’s it say, Stiff?’ Mirko asked.
Lothar frowned. Surely Mirko knew full well he couldn’t read. In which case, was he trying to bluff Alexander into thinking he could decipher the writing? He shook his head. No, that was altogether too clever for Mirko.
‘Who wrote this?’ he asked Alexander.
The nobleman sighed.
‘Lady Francoise,’ he announced dramatically.
Lothar’s crew looked at each other. Mirko opened his mouth, no doubt to ask who the fuck Lady Francoise was, but with a barely perceptible shake of the head Lothar persuaded him to shut it again.
‘To you?’
Alexander nodded.
‘You’d better explain,’ said Lothar.
‘Until last summer I was at the royal court. I had a passionate affair with Lady Francoise. But the king took an interest in her. I was sent away. We continued to write each other, and in those letters is evidence of our love. Now, she is due to marry the king. These letters, if they get into the wrong hands, would ruin the match.’
‘Why?’ asked Mirko.
‘Because they demonstrate that she is not a virgin.’
Mirko laughed. ‘So?’
‘Hush, Mirko,’ said Lothar, getting annoyed. ‘So, her family want these destroyed?’ he asked Alexander.
Alexander nodded. ‘And their enemies want to get their hands on them before the wedding.’
Lothar whistled.
‘What is it, Stiff?’ asked Emil.
The simple boy was looking at him earnestly, not understanding the significance of what they had.
‘These,’ said Lothar, holding up the bunch of letters, ‘are the most valuable items I have ever held. They will decide who will be the power behind the throne for the next twenty years. If Lady Francoise gives the king children, she and her family will control the court. Many powerful men stand to lose or gain, should that happen.’
Lothar thought about it, tapping the papers into the palm of his hand. Anke would have been offered a small fortune to get these letters. But who was she working for?
‘And where were you riding off to in such a hurry?’ he asked Alexander.
‘I had a meeting with an agent of the Bishop of Aplerbeck. He was going to pay me for the letters so that his master could stop the marriage.’
‘You would give the letters to the enemies of Lady Francoise?’
‘The enemies of her father! I want the marriage stopped, so I can have her back!’
Mirko laughed again. ‘I think the young miss may have accustomed herself to the idea of becoming queen by now.’
‘We are in love!’ cried Alexander.
Mirko snorted. ‘Women fall in love with whoever has the most money. She was happy with you until she saw she could land a bigger fish.’
‘Quiet, Mirko. Now, Alexander, listen. This second crew who have arrived are being paid by Lady Francoise’s father. If they get these letters they will destroy them, and the marriage will go ahead. But if you tell me about this bishop’s agent, I will take the letters to him, and you will get what you want. Do you understand?’
Alexander looked at him, perhaps for the first time really looked at him. What does he see? Lothar wondered to himself. A man he can trust? Or a man so desperate he’s risking his life, and that of his crew, for a stack of foolish love letters.
‘Very well,’ said Alexander, in a resigned tone. ‘I’ll tell you where I had agreed to meet him.’
Stiff!’
Anke’s voice.
Lothar peered outside, through a gap in the church wall.
‘Seven of them,’ he said.
Anke’s crew stood in a fan shape in the road outside the church. Anke, hands on hips, in the middle. Not far from her Peter, his sword still scabbarded. Gerard, muscular and bearded, gripped a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. Hild, Anke’s tracker, held a light spear. Three other men, armed with spear or axe, whom Lothar didn’t recognise.
‘No archers,’ he added.
‘Emil could put two of them down before they could react,’ suggested Mirko, looking out. ‘That would even out the odds.’
Lothar nodded and turned to Emil. ‘Find a location you like,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and talk to her one last time. Otherwise…’
Emil nodded, serious faced.
Lothar knew the young lad would do his best if it came to it. Moving slowly, as if he could delay the confrontation forever, Lothar opened the church doors and walked towards Anke’s crew.
The wind swirled dust about them. Five of them held their weapons at the ready. They could chop him down in seconds if they chose to. Lothar didn’t make a habit of walking towards armed adversaries, but he made himself walk steadily, as if they were of no concern. Anke and Peter had yet to draw their weapons, which suggested they were not going to kill him. Yet.
He stopped in front of Anke. She looked angry. He imagined her forgiving him, riding off with him to collect the bounty, renting a room together above an inn where they would schtup all night and day for a week.
‘My crew all want paying, Stiff,’ she said instead. ‘I’ve promised them. If they have to kill you to get paid, they will. Hand him over.’
‘Do you want the letters as well?’
Peter started. Anke didn’t miss a beat.
‘So you’ve found out about the letters. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘It does, Anke. We can burn those letters. On a signal from me, or if your crew get threatening in any way, Mirko will burn them.’
Anke sighed. A look of hatred briefly crossed her face. Lothar found that he didn’t mind so much. Hatred was better than derision.
‘And if you don’t hand those letters over, we’re going to cut you down.’
‘Indeed. No-one wins either way.’
‘What are you saying, Stiff? If you have a proposal, spit it out. I’ve already offered you money, and time is of the essence right now.’
‘We join up. For this job. We all get paid for the letters. From no-one wins to everyone wins.’
Anke looked at him. ‘Alright. You’re not giving me much of a choice, are you?’
Lothar smiled. ‘I’m giving you the choice to get very rich. It just means I get rich too. There are more of you, so we keep the letters until the handover.’
He held his hand out.
‘Anke!’ It was Hild.
He kept his hand out. Anke was a woman of her word. One shake of hands and he would be rich.
‘Anke!’
Anke turned to her tracker.
Hild pointed back to the crossroads. ‘Riders!’
They stared in stunned silence for a few moments as the shithole of a village filled with armed riders.
‘Forty?’ asked Peter.
‘At least,’ said Hild.
‘Who are they?’
‘Whoever they are, it can’t be good,’ said Anke. ‘And we’ve left our horses up there. Thanks to you,’ she added, glaring at Lothar.
‘Hide in the church?’ he asked.
‘They’ve seen us already,’ said Hild.
‘You lot get in the church,’ said Anke, ‘so we can hide our numbers. Make it look like there are a lot of you.’
‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Lothar.
Anke shrugged. The rest of her crew turned to the building.
‘Do I shoot them, Stiff?’ came a voice.
Anke looked at him. Lothar offered a hand. Wordlessly, Anke took it and they shook.
He couldn’t see his archer but had no doubt he was ready to fire. ‘No Emil,’ he shouted, ‘there’s been a change of plan.’
Half a dozen riders, armed with spears, trotted toward them, as Lothar watched and waited with Anke. It seemed ridiculous under the circumstances, but he liked that they were now working together.
‘So, who are you going to sell the letters to?’ he asked.
‘The highest bidder,’ she responded. ‘Who is likely to be the Bishop of Aplerbeck. He is desperate to stop the marriage.’
An arrow flew from the roof of the church to land in the dirt a few feet in front of the riders. They pulled up. Lothar was close enough to see one of them rummaging in a saddlebag before they held up a white rag. Anke held up one arm and indicated that they should approach. They did, more cautiously than before.
Lothar could see their chain mail armour was in good condition. They wore no identifying livery. Even if, as he suspected, they were some nobleman’s retinue, they would not advertise it when engaged in clandestine work such as this.
The six men stopped a few feet from them, eyeing them up. They glanced over to the church. Emil had his bow trained on them from the rooftop. Gerard stood outside the door, which was open enough to reveal more armed men inside.
‘Am I speaking with your leaders?’ asked one of them finally.
‘You are,’ replied Anke.
‘I have an ultimatum for you from my lord, no negotiation. Deliver up the letters and we will leave you alive, along with your mounts. If you do not do so within one quarter of an hour he will order his soldiers to kill you all.’
‘Who is your lord?’
The messenger turned to Lothar with a humourless smile. ‘You do not need to know that. You just need to know his offer. I was instructed to inform you of this only.’
The rider pulled on his reins with one hand, turning his horse around.
‘And if we destroy the letters?’ Lothar called after him.
The riders trotted their horses away, ignoring his question, but he saw them share a smile amongst themselves.
‘Hmm, I don’t think they mind if we destroy them,’ Lothar said.
‘Agreed. Which would mean they are working for the Count of Vechelde.’
Lothar raised an eyebrow.
‘The father of Lady Francoise,’ Anke added, shaking her head at his ignorance.
‘Do you think they’ll attack?’
‘I think the Count of Vechelde would sacrifice a few of his soldiers to secure the marriage of his daughter to the king. So, yes, I’m pretty sure they mean what they say.’
Lothar nodded. He wracked his brain, trying to think of a way out of the situation.
‘What’s more,’ Anke added, ‘I would think the Count of Vechelde would sleep well tonight if all of us, including Alexander, were dead. Then there would be no danger of stray letters from Lady Francoise reappearing in a few days’ time.’
‘Yes,’ Lothar had to agree. ‘Then we find ourselves in a pickle.’
They entered the church. Mirko and Anke’s crew stood about them, eager for news. Alexander sat at his pew, looking forlornly about him as events began to pass him by.
Lothar thought it best to let Anke explain the situation.
‘Could we make a fight of it?’ asked Mirko when she had laid out the facts.
‘We’re outnumbered four to one!’ said Peter, exasperated.
Lothar looked at Anke’s crew. They weren’t in a fighting mood.
‘What if we give them half the letters and keep the other half?’ asked Mirko.
Lothar smiled at his cunning. He was offering more than Anke’s so-called professionals.
‘That’s the problem,’ said Anke. ‘Once we hand over the letters, what’s to stop them killing us anyway? They’ll want to make sure that we haven’t cheated them.’
Half her crew looked worried at that idea. Cowards, thought Lothar. They were used to making easy money with Anke. Weren’t used to risking anything.
‘The best option we have,’ he said, ‘is to negotiate with them. They’re not interested in negotiations now because they think we’ll just give them what they want. But if we make things difficult, start exacting a price in injured and dead soldiers and time, then they may decide that talking to us isn’t such a bad idea. Then they might decide to part with some coin, for example.’
Everyone was looking at him intently. He knew he was right. Would they agree?
‘As Anke says,’ he continued, ‘handing over the letters means we give away the one bargaining chip we have.’
Once Lothar had finished, the crew turned to Anke. She looked back at them, chewing on her lip. Eventually she sighed. ‘I agree with Stiff. Handing over the letters is a bad call. So, that means we have to defend this church. What are the threats?’
‘Fire,’ said Mirko. ‘The timber’s bone dry. If I were them I’d burn us out.’
‘And a good fire would deal with the letters,’ added Lothar.
‘There’s not much we can do about that,’ said Peter. ‘We don’t have any material to stop a fire.’
‘Tell Emil to target anyone with a fire brand,’ said Mirko.
‘If that’s their plan, they’ll wear full armour,’ said Anke. ‘Emil couldn’t stop them. We’d need to rush out and cut them down. Then we’d be out in the open.’
Lothar shrugged. ‘So, if they burn the church we’re screwed. Anything else?’
‘What about him?’ asked Mirko, gesturing at Alexander.
‘Give me my sword,’ said the nobleman. ‘I don’t want Vechelde to get his hands on the letters any more than you.’
‘Not likely. They don’t want him, do they Stiff? They just want the letters?’
Lothar considered it. An image of Alexander sprinting away came to mind, his knees pumping high as he disappeared into the distance. Not to mention they had his horse tied up outside the church. He didn’t want the young lord leaving on their one means of escape.
‘Tie him up and put him back there, out of the way,’ said Lothar, indicating the curtained-off area at the back of the church. They didn’t need any distractions.
‘Stiff? I said, they don’t want him, do they?’ repeated Mirko.
‘No, Mirko.’ Why did he have to repeat everything twice? ‘Like I said, put him back there, out of the way.’
It wasn’t long before Count Vechelde’s soldiers returned, this time three dozen of them. They came on horseback, the clopping of the horses and the creaking of armour announcing their arrival. They stopped within a few feet of the church. Anke and Lothar were there to greet them.
‘Tell your master,’ said Anke, as soon as it was quiet enough to speak, ‘that we are not giving up the letters without fair compensation.’
A rider pulled up his metal visor. It was the same man they had spoken with earlier.
‘Then our orders are to kill you,’ he said simply.
‘Then my soldiers will be given orders to kill you,’ she responded. ‘Leave now or face the consequences.’
Lothar kept his hand near the hilt of his scabbarded sword, but the soldiers just watched as the two of them retreated to the door of the church, where they stood with Gerard and another one of Anke’s crew, both gripping spears heavy enough to bring down a horse.
The enemy still didn’t move, talking amongst themselves.
‘Now,’ shouted Lothar.
An arrow flew from the roof. Whereas before Emil had shot to intimidate, now he shot to hit his target. The missile struck one of the horses on the shoulder, causing it to rear up on its hind legs, its rider grabbing it around the neck to stay on. Riders began to move their mounts clear of the church, knocking into each other in their haste to put safe distance between their horses and Emil’s bow. The retreat, induced by one archer firing one arrow, was a mess. Without clear orders, the soldiers took it upon themselves to return to the village crossroads, leaving Anke and Lothar’s crews as the victors of the first engagement.
‘They were expecting us to just hand them over,’ said Anke.
‘Indeed. But now they know otherwise, I expect them to return forthwith.’
‘Let’s look,’ she suggested. ‘Stay here,’ she said to Gerard, before leaving the church to follow the path taken by the mounted soldiers.
Lothar quickly caught up to her, and they walked on a few yards before crouching down by a house where they could get a good view of the proceedings. Most of the soldiers were dismounting, and Lothar heard orders being barked, no doubt readying the soldiers for an assault on the church.
‘What if we made a run for it now, before they notice?’ asked Anke.
‘We wouldn’t get very far before they caught up to us,’ replied Lothar.
‘What if we doubled back to get the horses?’
Lothar thought about it. The soldiers would be coming to the church on foot. If they left the church, sneaked back to the crossroads, dispatched any guards and took a horse each, they could ride away before the main body of soldiers had realised what was happening.
‘Anke. That’s brilliant. That could work.’
He grinned at her, and she returned his smile, a big genuine smile that he had never witnessed from her before. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. I could tell her I love her right now. But this is hardly the right time or place for that.
‘Right,’ she said, her voice full of determination, ‘let’s do it. You keep an eye on them here, I’ll go back and get everyone ready.’
Lothar watched her go for a moment, then turned back to the village crossroads. The horses had been gathered together and the dismounted soldiers had been organised into groups of about ten. They seemed ready to head back in his direction. If they were quick, Anke’s plan might still work.
He heard shouting. He could see the soldiers turning to the north road, to his right, but at first, he couldn’t see what they were looking at, his view blocked by the village houses. Then he heard horses. And this time it wasn’t the sound of a single rider, or half a dozen, or even forty. He could hear a hundred horses pounding down the dirt road.
The soldiers occupying the centre of the village seemed to panic. A group on horseback, perhaps the leaders, fled along the west road. The rest began to run over to where their horses were gathered, desperately clambering onto their mounts.
Then the newcomers were on them. In a swirl of dust Lothar could see spear thrusts, hammers smashing down into armour. A few of Vechelde’s men escaped on horseback and were not pursued. A greater number were hacked to the ground. The rest surrendered, dropping weapons and falling to their knees. It was over in minutes.
Lothar turned around. Anke was marshalling her crew outside the church. But the situation had changed. He left his position and ran over to them. Anke paused as he approached.
‘A new force,’ he said breathlessly. ‘About a hundred of them on horseback. Vechelde’s men are either dead, captured or escaped.’
‘A hundred?’ repeated Peter, stunned. ‘Who would send that many men here?’
‘Only a few possibilities,’ said Anke. ‘What do we do now?’ She looked at Lothar.
‘Find out who they are? Maybe it’s good news, maybe it’s someone who’ll buy the letters from us?’
Anke made a face. ‘Men with a hundred soldiers at their back are generally not the best customers.’
Hild pointed back to the centre of the village. Small groups of riders were already conducting a search, knocking on doors. A group of three were heading in their direction.
‘I’ll go and talk to them,’ Lothar offered. ‘Maybe we can negotiate a deal. The rest of you stay here and prepare for the worst.’
‘We’re letting him talk to them himself, with the letters?’ Peter asked Anke. ‘We’ll never see him again.’
‘We’ll come with you, Stiff,’ she said. ‘Gerard, get things ready here if necessary.’
What precisely Gerard was going to get ready should a hundred soldiers descend on the church Lothar wasn’t sure. Their only chance was striking a deal with the new arrivals.
The three riders were looking their way. Lothar walked towards them, both hands in the air.
‘We’re not with Vechelde,’ he assured them as he approached. ‘Take us to your lord. We have news for them.’
The soldiers didn’t look impressed.
‘Who are you?’ one of them asked, his warhorse still skittish under him from the melee at the crossroads.
‘A mercenary crew,’ Lothar replied, as Anke and Peter joined him. ‘We have something your lord wants.’
The soldier pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Then follow on.’
He walked his horse back the way they had come, while his two companions moved to either side of Lothar and Anke. In this way they were led back to the crossroads.
Lothar looked around. A dozen corpses lay bleeding out on the road, already stripped of armour. A larger group of soldiers were sitting outside a row of houses, soldiers with swords and hammers keeping guard over them.
Lothar thought back to a couple of hours ago as he had walked down the west road with Mirko and stared about the deserted village. He looked at the dead soldiers, wishing he had turned around and left as soon as he got here. Don’t get into something you can’t get out of, that was his motto. What had prompted him to abandon it today?
He glanced at the picture the stein hanging from the missus' house and grinned to himself. He fancied that Karl was still in there, observing the chaos outside with a cup of ale in his hand.
‘These three asked to speak with you, my lord,’ said the lead soldier.
Lothar hadn’t noticed that they had stopped in front of a man on horseback. As he looked up he instantly knew whom he was addressing.
‘My Lord of Berkhopen,’ he greeted the man.
In front of him was an older version of Alexander. A long, bony face studied him. Devoid of the youthful foolishness of his son, this was the face of a man in control, used to getting what he wanted from people.
‘You know me, but I don’t know you. What are you doing on my lands?’ He waved a hand at the defeated soldiers, indicating the fate of those who invaded his territory.
‘We are the leaders of a mercenary band,’ said Lothar, immediately rejecting any thoughts he might have had of lying his way out of the situation. ‘We came here to take the correspondence between Lady Francoise and your son. The letters are very valuable to certain interested parties.’
‘So I understand. My son has been very stupid. And did you succeed in gaining said letters?’
‘Yes.’
‘And my son?’
‘We have him held captive here.’
Berkhopen didn’t react to this, but continued to study Lothar impassively.
‘And what is it you have come to speak to me about?’
Lothar wasn’t sure. He had the distinct impression that the Lord of Berkhopen would soon order the three of them to be killed on the spot. He turned to Anke, looking for some help.
‘We only wanted the letters,’ she said carefully.
‘Of course you did,’ Berkhopen agreed. ‘Why don’t we cut to the chase, here? I am a man of the world. I know full well that scum like you exist. As far as you’re concerned, it’s not personal.’
Lothar nodded.
‘You have my son. You’re trying to cut the best deal you can. Well, here it is. Return my son to me, and I will let you all ride out of my lands with no consequences. Anything less and you will all be made an example of, which will involve a slow and very painful death. Do we have a deal?’
Lothar swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. He shared a glance with Anke before turning back to Berkhopen. ‘Agreed. We will get him right away.’
Berkhopen inclined his head, before nodding to his soldiers.
Lothar, Anke and Peter turned around and began the walk back to the church.
‘So, that’s it, then?’ asked Peter as they walked, at pace, back to the church.
‘That’s the way it goes, sometimes,’ replied Anke. ‘Sometimes it just doesn’t work out. At least no-one got killed. We might have done it if it wasn’t for Stiff messing things up. Stiff?’ she said, turning to him. ‘What’s the matter?’
Lothar’s insides were churning. He looked across at her.
‘Just something Mirko said.’ He could hear how shaky his voice sounded. ‘When he asked me whether they wanted Alexander.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, sounding concerned. ‘He wouldn’t have done anything, would he?’
‘He would,’ said Peter flatly.
They half walked, half ran back to the church. Emil called out a greeting from the roof. Lothar ignored him. Gerard and Hild were standing outside.
‘Where’s Mirko?’ Peter demanded.
They shrugged.
Lothar flung open the doors. Two of Anke’s crew looked up. He walked past them. He had told Mirko to keep Alexander in the priest’s quarters at the back of the church. He strode down the aisle, Anke and Peter following close behind. He shoved aside the curtains. And there was Alexander.
The whole area was bathed in blood. It was up the walls, on the bed, even on the ceiling. Alexander’s body was slumped on a chair, his head sagging backwards and to one side. Multiple injuries covered his body: neck, torso, face. His hands were slashed and bleeding.
Mirko, perched on the bed, looked up at Lothar. His knife was still in his hands. He had made no effort to clean it and the front of his mail shirt was dripping in blood. He grinned knowingly, a gleam in his eye.
Anke and Peter entered. She gasped in shock.
‘You’ve killed us,’ said Peter, his voice sounding strange, devoid of emotion. ‘You’ve killed us all.’
I think you can leave now,’ said the missus.
Karl thought about it. She was right. He’d heard nothing outside for a good while now. He stood up, swaying a bit in that way you do when you’ve taken on a bit too much booze. He finished the dregs of his ale.
‘Thanking you,’ he mumbled and staggered to the door, letting himself out.
The fresh air hit him, and he had to wait awhile, swaying on his feet, before he felt steady enough to walk.
They’d left the bodies of the dead soldiers lying in the road, and the sight made him feel ill. Not to mention he needed a piss. His bowels gurgled. He needed more than a piss.
He wandered down the road for a bit. There was the church. Bodies lay strewn about, arrows sticking out of corpses. Only the devil knew what sights would assail him inside the building. His friends might be there, and he didn’t want to see that.
He walked in the opposite direction, on the other side of the road, away from the church and houses.
Something on the ground caught his eye. He grinned. The gods were looking out for him today. He reached down, taking the move nice and slow, and scooped up the pieces of parchment that had evidently been blown there by the wind.
He hugged them, admiring their soft texture. They were perfect.
He walked on a bit farther. To a good spot. Karl undid his string belt, letting his hose slide down his legs, and squatted down, the soft parchment with the spidery black text clutched in his hands.