King of the Last Days by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781788635134
Publisher: Canelo Books
Published: 2019-09-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

“Undoubtedly, my good sir,” said the Prioress, “you were sent by God.”

“Do you know, I think I was,” said Sans-Avoir politely.

“Anyway, I thank you, and that monk over there…” She glared at Brother Ancel whom she blamed for the loss of the sword in the first place, “…the one who keeps lying down, he thanks you as well.”

Brother Ancel was lying down on the greasy settle in the inn’s ground-floor room because he felt distinctly unwell; the blow he’d received on the head in the scuffle with the Bretons had landed almost exactly on the bruise given to him by the Calvados-makers.

“It was no trouble,” said Sans-Avoir, and indeed it hadn’t been. He had caught up with the Breton and squire only three miles north of the inn on the road to Séez. They had stopped, thinking there was no pursuit, and dismounted and were attacking the cross with their daggers for some reason, by a wayside shrine where a rushlight lumen christi burned at the foot of a crucifix alongside some wild flowers.

He’d been on them before they knew it, sword drawn, and pulled his horse up so that it loomed over them with its hooves inches from their knees, and he had just said, “Give it back.”

God knows what they had seen in his face in that light; perhaps that he didn’t care whether he killed them or not, perhaps that nothing the West could produce could frighten him – anyway, they had passed it up like lambs. He had cradled it in his left arm, cut the reins of their horses and tapped their rumps with the flat of his sword to send them careering into the blackness before he himself had started back for the inn.

They had run after him then, shouting strange things, but he had taken no notice. As was proper when a sword had been unsheathed, he’d said a paternoster before putting it back in the scabbard, and the words had been more than usually heartfelt.

The Prioress was charmed with his efficiency. “It is too late for you to continue your journey now, and we should be glad of your protection, and I’m sure we should all like something to eat. Innkeeper. Inn keeper.”

The man came shambling in as if lassoed. “Ik hoerde,” he muttered.

“He’s a Fleming,” explained the Prioress. “Scum of the earth, Flemings.” Certainly the innkeeper was not a prepossessing example even of a race which provided most of the mercenaries of Europe. He was thin and, like his inn, extremely dirty. Even Brother Ancel regarded him with disfavour.

“Why didn’t you help us?” he asked. “You could have sent for help. Your son was able to go; so why didn’t he? Where did he go?”

The innkeeper went on smelling and glowering and saying nothing.

“Oh, bring us food,” said the Prioress, “and something to drink.”

“Nick viske. ”

“Is it Friday?” She had lost track of time. “We have travellers’ dispensation for light meats. Bring us what you have.”

By the Prioress’s standards what

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