The Secrets of the Unweather 1

The day began badly and got worse.

The two vagabonds who woke him before dawn were after his food and money. He had little of either and now he had none. It was careless to sleep in the woods but he’d been tired and the next village was several leagues away.

The soldiers who now searched his wagon were a far more dangerous proposition on this final dank day of the year of our Lord 726 AD. He hoped 727 would fare better but he’d hoped for that last year. And the year before.

The soldiers

He stood at the side of the rutted track, wet mud oozing over the tops of his cracked boots, rain fluttering in the air. He tried to look disinterested as the two soldiers ransacked his belongings; he fixed on his ‘another day, another security check’ face.

The sergeant observed him warily from a few feet away, a hand poised over his sword handle. Inside, his creaking body trembled. It was not the cold or the fear of the sergeant's sword but what they might find if they searched thoroughly.

A chilled north wind blew across the open rolling fields behind him and blasted the back of his hood. The dark heavy clouds were the vanguard of the January unweather fast approaching the Southern Kingdom.

A soldier flung a cloth bag out of the end of his wagon and it splashed into a puddle throwing his clothing across the muddy track. These soldiers were the King’s Guard, little more than the King’s enforcers. Bullies and thugs.

While they cowed the population, real soldiers fought the interminable border wars along the northern edge of the Kingdom; protecting them from the heathens. Or that’s what King Aethelred said.

He flinched as one of the soldiers picked up his guitar and strummed it tunelessly, a stupid grin smeared across his face. Their glassy eyes told him they’d been drinking.

He made a move towards them. The sergeant stepped forward, his hand wrapped around the sword handle. He unsheathed it a couple of inches and its smooth polished steel threatened. A distant growl of thunder sounded a second warning.

The man limped back again, trying hard not to look at the spot from where the soldier had picked up his guitar. A trap door to the false wagon floor.

“A minstrel. Aren’t you a bit past it for that type of thing, old man?” The sergeant was enjoying his control. Three armed men, the King’s vicarious power and their swords against one unarmed traveller.

He fixed on the sergeant’s dull eyes. “We all have to make a living somehow, Sergeant. I choose music.” His thoughts added the unspoken implication, “…and others make more malign choices.”

The sergeant let his sword fall back into the sheath with a thin metallic slide. He let out a single grunt, the ghost of a thought that the old man had left his meaning hanging. He decided to let it go. It was late and he was hungry. And thirsty.

“Come on men, there’s nothing here. He’s just an old man with a battered guitar.” The sergeant looked to the sky. It was getting black and spots of rain hit the ground. He flicked a gloved hand along the direction of the track. “Go thy way, old man.”

The two soldiers jumped from the wagon, their light body armour chinked and the relief on their faces was palpable. They wanted to get back to their barracks before sunset and the onset of the unweather. The old man had nothing of value for them to loot.

The three soldiers got on their horses and were gone.

The Traveller limped to his horse who stood benignly shackled to the wagon. He stroked its nose before retrieving his muddied and soaked belongings and pulling the cover over the wagon.

The Village

He had around 30 minutes until sunset. He’d arrive at the village after dark; the moon was hidden by the thick clouds and it looked as if a baleful artist had brushed the countryside with shades of grey.

He climbed up to the driving bench and took the reins. He tugged his hood further over his face and rubbed his grey-whiskered chin. He wasn’t as old as the sergeant had thought but that suited him; it spared him from the soldiers searching his wagon with more care. What danger was an old man with a limp?

They were searching for terrorists, or that’s what they called them. Those who fought back against tyranny and censorship are what he called them. Not that he was a terrorist, he’d done his fighting. No, the Traveller’s secrets were far more dangerous to the Crown.

His hair had greyed prematurely from his experiences in the border war. His limp was the result of an enemy lance that had pierced his left leg and missed his arteries by no more than the width of a single barleycorn.

On the plus side, his injury had invalided out from the army. He wished he’d thought of it before. It might have saved a lot of his non-physical pain.

The next hour on the road was free of thieves and soldiers’ roadblocks; the oncoming unweather and New Year’s Eve kept most people at home. Even if home was a shelter in the woods or a cave.

His horse followed the water-filled ruts towards the village, head down. It was one of the Traveller’s favourite places which is why he’d headed for it on this night. For providing an hour or two of respite from their hardship with his music and song, the villagers gave him a hearty pottage, rough bread and a bed.

He approached the village and pulled his horse to a stop. There were no candlelights or torches burning. The village’s wooden stockade gates were flung open and unguarded. No hens picked at the ground and no dogs barked at his arrival.

The day had started badly and was becoming worse.

End of part 1