Black Rose

(No sex in this one, either, but there is some pretty scrappy and undignified violence.

I don't want to spoil anything, but one of the things this chapter is about is something I write about a lot, namely trauma. How the bad things that happen to people can affect them, further down the line.

This is also where the Freya/Five relationship starts to get more complex.

In Chapter 3, Freya had made a big thing out of them being blood siblings, but then she seemed to forget about that, and let their relationship fall into a more conventional knight/squire thing.

In this episode, under the pressure of trauma, that begins to change.)

***

Chapter 15

The Defence

Freya gave Five a small allowance so he could enjoy himself. But it wasn't easy.

Freya spent much of her time either with Moyra Sperno, reading books, or running, or drilling.

Five didn't know what to do. You had to be there in case she needed you. But she behaved as though she didn't need you.

Besides which, what were you were supposed to do for fun in Memika if you'd little money? Easy enough to see how the rich had a good time; for everyone else it seemed to be mostly gaming, drinking or eating.

Erik had taught Five to gamble not for fun, but to make a steady income on the side. But to do that, you needed stake money, which Five didn't have; and if you got drunk you couldn't look after Freya; and the heat and closeness of Memika made Five feel uncomfortable. Food wasn't a comfort anymore.

Then, one evening, something happened.

***

Five had saved up some money and, after they'd eaten dinner in silence, Freya was reading some book on worms she'd borrowed from Moyra.

Five rose from the table in the boarding house dining room and said 'Lady, if you have everything you need, is it all right if I go out for a drink?'

She looked up at him, slightly startled, as if she'd forgotten he was there, and after a moment she nodded yes and went back to the book.

'All right then,' he said. 'I might be back a bit late, so goodnight.'

She ignored him. Five went out and walked for a while until he found a quiet pub, and went in.

Five didn't have much in mind beyond a few drinks, and maybe a chat with the landlord. Girls made Five feel timid, and you didn't want to seem pushy. But a few beers couldn't hurt; and anyway, not got enough money to get plastered.

The first pint went down very nicely, and so did the next. After that it was starting to get a bit boring, so when the girl slipped into the next seat and smiled, Five was pleasantly surprised.

'You a soldier?' she said.

'Yes,' Five said, blushing. 'Well, I was. I'm in the service of a noblewoman now.'

'But you've seen fighting?' she said.

'Oh yes,' said Five.

It was true;seenplenty of fighting. Just haven'tdoneany of it.

'Tell me about it,' she said.

It was a ploy, obviously, but the attention was flattering and Five bought a couple of drinks.

When the time came that a piss could no longer be held off, Five got up and made excuses with a debonair smile and a quip.

Wow. I'm flying tonight. Maybe this time it'll happen.

Five went out to the yard where the privy was. For reasons to do with an unusually small cock, Five found it awkward to pee standing up, and preferred to squat where possible.

There was the drain hole: lower breeches.

Just about to let go when the door was wrenched open, and Five's head exploded in a burst of pain, and he toppled over.

'Southern shit,' said a voice. 'Give me the money.'

'What?' Five cried, lying on the ground, dazed. A boot crashed into his stomach and he was winded.

The boot connected with Five's eye.

'Stop pissing about,' said the girl, 'and take his money, Marco.'

'He doesn't even fight back,' said Marco. 'Look at this girlboy. He's no more a soldier than you are.'

Five was hauled upright by his shirt and slapped in the face, twice, three times, then punched in the stomach again. He whimpered with pain. Then felt his shirt being pulled up over his head.

'What are you doing?' the girl complained.

'Stripping the bastard,' said Marco. 'That's a good shirt, and those boots'll fetch a couple of quid.'

'No,' whimpered Five. 'Please.'

'Oh, for fuck's sake,' said the girl, and she joined them, helping the guy strip Five's clothes off him.

As they pulled his breeches off him, the boy held up his hand and sniffed his fingers.

'Oh wait,' he said. 'There's piss on these. I'll leave 'em.' He dropped them.

'He's not half funny-looking,' said the girl, looking curiously and with disdain at Five, who huddled naked on the dirty ground, trying to cover up.

'You're right,' said the boy, throwing the trousers into the filthy gutter. 'With tackle like that, no wonder he's a rubbish fighter.'

'Looks like a little thumb,' said the girl. 'Horrible.'

Five stared up at them, feeling the left eye swelling up, whole body singing with pain.

'Freak,' said the boy, and leaned over and hit Five's head sharply off the ground.

Then there was nothing.

***

Five was woken up by someone shaking him on the bare arm. It was the bartender.

'Oy,' said the bartender, not entirely without sympathy, 'looks like you've been rolled.'

'Fuck,' Five moaned. Head throbbing. Freezing and ashamed. The barman tossed him his trousers.

'Least they left you these,' he said. 'Go home, son, and clean yourself up.'

'The lady's gonna kill me,' Five whimpered as he pulled on his dirty, piss-smelling trousers. The bartender had the kindness to let him out the side exit, so he wouldn't have to shame-walk through the bar.

All the way home, all Five could think of was how disgusted Freya would be.

Bloody idiot. Nobody to blame but memself.

People stopped and smirked at the flabby, embarrassed youth hurrying through the streets wearing nothing but dirty trousers.

On reaching the boarding house, Five was dismayed to find that it was shut and the lamps were off. However, the window to their bedroom was open.

One skill that Five had learned as a child was climbing trees, and it wasn't all that hard to go up the drainpipe and swing in through the open window and land with a painful thud on the floor.

He groaned again, and any lingering hope he had of making it into bed before the lady saw him was extinguished when a candle flickered into life.

Freya was sitting up and staring at him.

'Sorry,' he gasped, 'I got beaten up and robbed.'

She sprang out of bed and pulled on a shirt, and was kneeling by him in an instant, examining him and inspecting his wounds.

'It's not that bad,' Five muttered. 'They took my money and clothes though. I'm really sorry.'

Freya sat back on her heels, looking at him, and then she swallowed once and nodded to herself.

'Are you hurt?' she whispered.

He was amazed. He'd thought she'd be more annoyed. But she broke her silence to ask after him.

'No, not too bad,' he said.

She nodded. She gestured to him to sit up.

He pulled himself upright and looked back at her, shamed.

Freya stared at him. Then she slapped him hard in the face.

'Ow!' he yelped, staring at her, astonished, but she did it again. And again. She went to do it again and he grabbed her wrist, so she did it with the other hand.

'Stop that!' he shouted, aggrieved that she wasn't being more nice. She slapped him again and he yelped. His face was starting to swell up.

'Why do you keep doing that?' he shouted. She easily pulled her hand free and shoved him hard in the chest.

He fell back. She slapped his face again.

Five wasn't so much hurt any more as infuriated. He tried to defend himself, but she clouted him on the head and, when he raised his arms to defend himself, shoved him in his aching stomach.

He struggled to his feet and shouted at her to stop.

She punched him in the face, not hard enough to break the skin but painful, and his ear rang, and she got him on the other side of the face with a cross.

He shook his head, and, enraged, he flung out his fist.

It connected with her left eye with a smack, and she made a sharp 'Ah!' of surprise. His hand really hurt, but he'd landed a solid enough blow to have hurt her too.

They stared at each other, he in shock, she boring her gaze into his, and then she clouted him viciously on the head again.

He lost his temper and flew at her, screaming in impotent rage, and she grabbed him easily and held him in a firm grip, her arms wrapped around him.

'Why? Why? Why?' Five bawled. 'Why are you doing that to me? What thefuckdid I do? I got beaten up and you beat me up some more? Why did you do that? Fucking tell me! Why?'

'Shhhh,' she hissed. 'Shhhhhhh.''

He paused and stared at her. Her left eye looked slightly inflamed and was bloodshot. She was looking at him with a terrifying calmness.

Five stared back at her, trying to understand why she was doing it.

And then, relaxing, it all became clear.

'Oh,' he said in a small voice. 'Right.'

She smiled slightly and nodded, and then loosened her grip on him.

Fuck, she's strong.

Freya let go of him and stood back, facing him.

'Yes. You're right. I'm rubbish at fighting.'

She jiggled her head in a non-committal way, and smiled.

'Will you teach me?' he said. She nodded. She went to his pack and pulled out a shirt and some cleanish breeches and his spare boots, and tossed them to him. He turned his back on her and changed into them.

He was tired, he ached all over and the pleasant buzz of his four or so beers had completely gone.

But he stood in the room with her, and for two hours, she showed him some moves he'd never even thought of.

She taught him not to use just his fists, but anything handy. Not to be scared of getting hit; he was going to get hit one way or the other, the point was not to mind too much. She showed him the parts of the body where you hit to kill, and where you hit for the pain, and where you hit to knock out.

After those two hours, when she was satisfied that he had been paying attention and had learned enough, she gave him a pat on the back.

'Thank you,' he said sincerely. 'Could I get some sleep now?'

She looked incredulous.

'What?' he said. 'I'm going out again?'

She nodded.

'Where to? The bar?'

She nodded, sitting down and pulling her own breeches on and sliding her feet into her sandals.

'But I'm really tired,' he whined.

She flashed him a disgusted look. Five sighed and nodded.

They quietly left the inn by the window, and Five led her through the streets back to the bar.

***

Marten Beka of Windhorn was a man of his word, and to a certain degree a man of honour.

He believed in the old codes and respected them, even if he didn't always find it convenient to follow them.

He had fought bravely many times, in the service of his liege lord, and at fifty, he found it agreeable to pay other people to fight for him.

He was having a late drink with a couple of friends and his squire, and his squire's girl, in the Lame Duck.

The squire himself was a handful, but the girl was easy on the eye and could be persuaded, behind her beau's back, to give her lips to the service of the lord, if there were cash in it. She was a frisky little thing, and ambitious, and smarter than her boyfriend. She and Marten had an understanding.

It had been a no more than usually profitable night, and it was entering its last hour when Marten noticed a quiet ripple in the bar.

Looking up, he saw a tall, handsome, strong-looking young woman threading her way through the crowd.

She had brutally short hair, and she was wearing a plain linen shirt with a couple of bits of old jewellery, but there was something about the way she walked that Marten found interesting.

She had a boy trailing behind her, a beardless, lumpen youth with a swollen face, and a half-closed eye and a fat split lip. Come to think of it, as they drew closer, Marten could see that the young woman herself had the makings of a lovely shiner. But she looked calm, and not as if she were looking for a fight.

The odd pair stopped in front of their table. The young woman surveyed them, smiling coolly. The youth looked nervous, but also watchful.

'Hey,' jeered Marten's squire, Marco. 'He's come back for more. And he's brought his sister.'

'That's not my sister,' said the youth in a thick southern accent. 'That's my lady.'

'And I'm their lord,' said Marten. 'What's this about?'

'Your lad there beat me up and stole my money and clothes,' said the youth. 'I want them back, please.'

Marten stared curiously at the youth, who had clearly had the shit kicked out of him, but who was looking back with commendable nerve, trembling slightly, but not bricking it. Marten hadn't been in the pub earlier, so he'd not seen him before. He glanced at the young woman, who was cool, calm, smiling, but silent.

'I dunno anything about that,' said he said, 'but why don't the lady speak?'

'She's taken a vow of silence,' said the youth.

'Has she?' said Marten. 'Wunt last long if I got on 'er.' He grinned at her, to show it was a joke. The others laughed.

The young woman merely glanced at him, as if to acknowledge that he'd spoken, but without giving a peep to anything he was saying.

Marten was annoyed. When he flirted with people, he liked them to throw something back. Who did this dark-skinned bitch think she was? And who was this little shit insisting that a fair fight be overturned?

'As I was saying,' said the youth, 'your boy stole my clothes and money, and I want 'em back.'

'What he do in his spare time be his own concern,' said Marten.

'If he's in your service, you're answerable for him,' said the youth.

Marten was more annoyed. This lad clearly knew the code inside out. If there was one thing Marten hated, it was a pedant; someone who loved the rules too much to bend them. It didn't help that the youth's mistress clearly had a bit of who-are-you about her, and wasn't interested in being polite.

'Who the fuck be you, anyway?' he said directly to the young woman, standing up. 'I'm Marten Beka of Windhorn and I like to know who I'm talking to.'

The youth made to speak, but the young woman held up a hand.

She smiled thinly, almost apologetically, at Marten, and pulled aside the collar of her shirt to show him the array of tiny tattoos on her collarbone, that spread in neat little rows halfway down the upper surface of her left collarbone and the upper surface of her breast.

He saw the linked sigils, which told him that she came from the house of Hargest, placing her in his mental map of Yard. He saw the parentage sigils too, one of Hargest himself.

The other, next to it, was a plain crescent moon, meaning the northlands.

Marten Beka, who knew who was who, started to get a cold feeling in his bowels.

He saw the battle sigils, showing the battles she'd fought in; more than he had, because while he'd been running his house for the past years, she'd had nothing to do but fight. There they were, and he knew them well: Arn. Mastryn Leap. The Siege of Vieyle Arbr.

Wudwotha.

Finally, he saw the little stick-figures that signified every man she'd killed.

Marten had acquired some of his own, years ago: a very respectable eight, in a neat row just below his clavicle.

The young woman had an entire latticework pattern of them. He counted seven rows of ten, and six more beneath.

Seventy-six men. She'd personally killed seventy-six men, and those were just the ones that the heralds could agree on.

He knew exactly who she was.

'Oh,' he muttered, and sat down.

'What?' said Marco, looking from her to him.

Marten took a long gulp of ale.

'On your own, cunt,' he said to Marco.

Of all the people to piss off, the lad had to pick Freya fucking Aelfrethe.

She looked at him, and she closed up the collar of her shirt once more. So she didn't want herself known, for whatever reason. He wasn't going to dispute that.

'What?' said Marco. 'Who is it?'

Marten looked up at Freya. She was half his age. She looked down at him calmly, her face perfectly unreadable.

'I'm sorry,' he said, meaning it. 'These young blokes. Don't know they're born.'

Freya Aelfrethe looked amused, and shook her head and rolled her eyes as if to sayDon't worry, I don't blame you.He felt immeasurably grateful.

'Don't you read tattoos?' he said to Marco.

'Anyone can get a tattoo,' said Marco sourly.

'Look,' said Marten, 'you don't just--fine.'

He looked up at Freya. Oh god. It was going to be horrible, but maybe he could persuade her not to chop the boy into a fine paste.

'Make it quick at least?' he said. 'His mother my sister-in-law. She wunt forgive me.'

'What?' said Marco.

Freya frowned, shook her head and pointed at the youth next to her.

'Eh?' said Marten.

'I'm going to fight,' said the youth, sweating and looking nervous. 'This is my fight, not my lady's. I'll fight your squire for me money and clothes. If I lose, I lose. If I win you reimburse me.'

Marco grinned.

'Oh,' said Marten, rather relieved. 'Well, that different. All right. No risk of prejudice if tha lose, eh?'

Freya shook her head with a don't-worry-about-it look. Amusement was flickering around the corners of her mouth, all the time.

'So, whatever the result, this decide it?' said Marten, who liked to know when a deal was a deal.

'No more revenge or nawt?'

'This fight,' said the youth deliberately, 'will decide it.'

Marten looked hard at the lad, and had to hand it to him. The boy was clearly shitting a brick, but he was being right and straight about how it was going to happen.

'All right, lad,' he said, 'but young Marco be a hell of a fighter. But you know that already, don't tha?'

'Yeah,' said the youth in his peculiar boyish voice, looking at Marco. 'I told you. He already beat me up. It won't 'appen again.'

'Side bet on the outcome?' said Marten to Freya.

The bar, half of which had by now turned around to watch, perked up even more.

Freya tilted her head questioningly.

'Loser buys a round for the room,' said Marten.

Freya Aelfrethe looked dispassionately around the room. It was about half-empty.

She nodded, and there were some cheers.

'Right then,' said Marten. 'Square off, boys.'

Marco pulled himself out of his seat and rubbed his face and stood out before the youth, who blinked and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Marten noticed the youth adopting a decent defensive posture, side-on, arms slightly lowered, watching Marco. It occurred to him that Marco was quite drunk, whereas the youth, even though he had only one good eye, was apparently sober.

Marco grinned and stuck his tongue out.

'Go,' said Marten.

They circled each other, or rather Marco circled and the youth circled away from him, keeping his distance. Marco, who was quick even while drunk, landed a slap to the youth's face. The youth flinched, but didn't stop watching Marco. Marco kept circling, kept landing those lightning slaps and hooks of his.

It went on, a little circle of humiliation, Marco constantly slapping the youth, who sometimes dodged but usually didn't, until Marten wanted to bellow at the lad to stop fucking around and just fight, fight back.

The lad made no move to fight back, but continued to back away from Marco in a circle. Marco landed more stings and jabs, and the lad took them, but kept moving.

What he up to, Marten thought. He felt annoyed for the boy's sake, seeing him stand there and get slapped and hit like a fucking girl. Why he come back here, just to take another beating?

Then he saw Marco, who was no longer smiling at how easy it was going to be. Marco was getting annoyed that it was taking so long. He was becoming impatient. He wanted to get back to his beer, and his tart of a girlfriend.