The din of a lone horse's hooves pounded across a narrow wooden bridge. The rider carried a flaming torch which he hurled with accuracy at the roof of a bulging wheat warehouse just inside the walls of the manor grounds.
The unusual noise drew out a number of male tenants. To their surprise, as the equestrian figure galloped by, he let slip a packet—which, when opened, revealed a score of daggers. The men quickly parceled them out amongst themselves. Thackery's knaves had stripped them of any weapons they possessed, leaving them completely helpless to defend themselves or their women against the scoundrels; for in addition to the theft off all knives, even the farm implements were required to be locked up at night.
Soon tales of a tall, black cloaked rider were being spread throughout the district. Some claimed that he had but one arm. Others that he was a ghost. A man here inferred that he was the devil, while a man here averred him to be an avenging angel sent from God. What men thought of him varied widely, but the stories began to show a definite pattern—the house of Thackery, with it's cruelty and evil, was under attack.
Common folk and lords alike began to pray for the preservation of the mysterious man.
~~~~~~~~~
Philip closed his eyes in a brief prayer. His hand gripped the pommel of his saddle and his left foot slid into the stirrup; seconds later he was astride his leggy mare. She danced with anticipation as Philip checked his scabbard's secureness to the saddle. Satisfied that everything was tight, he eased into a slow lope. He controlled the mare entirely with his legs as his one hand had to serve for two. For the majority of the time, she was a gentle, easy-going animal, but upon occasion, he was constrained to seize the bridle rein to remind her to heed his instructions.
After an hour, horse and rider slowed to a quick walk. The dawn was waking and with it the morning songbirds began tuning up. Philip signaled a halt and the mare obligingly stopped and sniffed the air. The farmer's Clydesdales smelt friendly. They nickered greetings to one another.
Philip made no attempt to quiet the mare, for he knew at whose cottage he had stopped. It was the home of one of the men who had rescued himself and his father that night exactly five years ago.
As if the horses' greetings had been some sort of signal, a light went on at the back of the small cottage and shortly thereafter, a balding man emerged from the interior, still tucking his coarse linen shirt into rougher woollen trousers. He made straight for the fringe of woods as if bent on gathering kindling for his wife to cook breakfast.
Reaching the interior of the outer fringe of trees, he greeted Philip with directness and humbleness.
“Good-morning, m'lord! I am pleased to see you. Munford informed me you would be through this morning. The information you are interested in is this: Thackery's collection knave,” he spit the words out distastefully, “should be passing through the village around noon.”
Bowing, the aging man moved off and soon reappeared with an armload of twigs. As he disappeared into the house, Philip eased his horse carefully through the forest. What would transpire in roughly six hours was going to be the most dangerous adventure yet.
~~~~~~~~~
The villagers were lined up, unwillingly, throughout the square. There was subdued murmuring and covert glances of extreme distaste shot towards a towering figure seated at a table borrowed from the ale house for the express purpose of holding the parchments and ink of the tax collector. Ranged about him in various positions throughout the market place, stood a total of six guards.
The collection agent, Thackery's nephew Hugh, was as large as the rest of the Thackery clan and carried a disfiguring scar across his face from the bridge of his nose down beside his right ear. It was rumoured that the man who gave him that scar had died a gruesome death.
Hugh Thackery started naming off peasantry and one by one they approached and laid out their livelihoods onto the table. Some were thoroughly cowed; but others dared to glare into Hugh's face with defiance.
With a startling suddenness, the proceeding were interrupted. A slim man cloaked in a black cape and a full face mask swept into the square, his sharp saber gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun.
A gasp went through the square, as it passed from one man's lips to another: “The masked man! The masked man!”
The guards found themselves mysteriously unable to near their chief, for the peasantry, without seeming to do so purposely, effectively blocked them.
The masked man rode up to the table and kicked it over with his foot. The leggy mare side-stepped as it crashed and nickered a little nervously.
Hugh Thackery was on his feet in an instant, baleful ire gleaming from his clear blue eyes. His sword leapt to his hand, but he did not strike at the deathly quiet figure on the dancing horse.
The hush that had fallen was broken by a voice. Once again, the villagers found themselves startled. It was a young voice...was he a mere boy?
“Hugh Thackery...this collection is unlawful. The King's taxes have already been collected; as you well know. The governor, being paid by the King, has no further claim on the purse of the people. Quit ye this village immediately...and tell your foul uncle that justice rides. He will be found out.”
Hugh laughed harshly and spit at the black caped man, “You instruct me, you knave? Begone before I bathe my sword in your blood!” and he raised his arm menacingly.
The crowd gasped, then hesitantly cheered as the scene unfolded before them: the stranger calmly unclasped the cape from about his throat. His next movement took Hugh off his guard, for it was as unexpected as it was wily. Philip, for it was he, swung the cloak swiftly and caught the upper portion of Hugh's body in it's thick, heavy folds. Rapidly seizing his sword from the pommel, where he had balanced it, he sprang rearward off his animal and attacked just as Hugh succeeded in freeing himself from the envelopment of the cloak.
The quicker witted of the peasant men simultaneously threw themselves on the frustrated guards and restrained them while the two champions faced off in what both knew to be a duel unto death. Hugh had little doubt of the outcome; he had never lost before and this one-armed mere stripling, as his voice betrayed him, had not a chance. Philip, on the other hand, his soul committed to God and determined to see justice done, was fearless. Fall this giant must...or else all hope was lost for his people. With such a burning resolution in his heart, he proved a formidable foe to the skillful Hugh.
The clashing of one bright steel blade upon another rent the air. A sensation of pent up excitement hovered over the market place. The women peeked out of their cottages.
A moan went up. The masked man had been hit! There was blood running from his right shoulder!
Philip staggered backwards a pace or two, panting with his efforts. His teeth were clenched against the pain that seared his shoulder. Swiftly Hugh Thackery descended upon him, sure of his victory.
Hugh's eyes dilated and a subdued roar issued from his open mouth. The villagers shouted. The one-armed man was the victor!
Philip reeled back, barely escaping the final attempt at his life. Hugh fell face first as his opponent's saber ripped out of his body. He lay gasping for a few moments before a violent shudder overtook him and then he lay still. He would never again mistreat man, woman, or child. He was dead.
The peasantry's cheers were quelled by the upraised hand of the man in the mask. He spoke then to them, his voice pained and tired.
“An evil man has fallen today;” stooping, he set the table upright, then collected the money pouch and the parchments. “These unlawful taxes will be returned to their rightful owners.”
He scanned down the list and started reading off names. As each man's name was called, he stepped up and received his money back from the hand of the bleeding, yet sternly silent masked man.
After all the monies had been returned to their owners, an old peasant clad in rough woollen trousers and a coarse linen shirt came up beside the bleeding man in black. “M'lord, do me the honour of allowing me to tend to your wound.”
Philip, knowing and known to the man, quietly allowed himself to be led off to be tended to. Just as quietly, the whereabouts of the man in the mask became an enigma. He stayed no longer than it took to get his shoulder bandaged before he disappeared into the afternoon sun.
~~~~~~~~~
Warren Thackery sat at table in the great hall, surrounded by scoundrels of various hues and stripes. On his right sat his elder son, Warren the Younger, who smelt vilely of ale and snarled at his personal attendant for a mere drop of drink splashed. To his left sat a tall, broad, somewhat stupid looking young man of no more than twenty-four. Justin Thackery was indeed bigger than his brother, his corn coloured hair resembling a haystack and blue eyes that mimicked the sky on a summer day. If he had not been a Thackery, one might have said that he looked like an ox of a peasant. Beside Justin sat a beautiful girl of twenty. She held a broad-shouldered baby of eighteen months on her lap. The boy was busy tangling his fingers in the leather fringe of his father's hunting shirt and giggling as a bony dog licked his bare-toes. Gloria shifted slightly, an unexplained apprehension gripping her as a quartet of dark-garbed men entered.
Warren the elder sat straighter in his seat and scowled at the four roughed-up looking men-at-arms. They shifted uncomfortably, glancing uneasily amongst themselves. The silence was finally broken by Lord Thackery's blood-chilling calm voice: “Where is Hugh?”
“D-d-dead, M'lord.”
The man who had been pushed forward by his comrades stuttered in his discomfort.
“What?? How?” roared Warren, rising from his chair like a mad bull, his fist making the dishes rattle down the length of the table. The baby began to wail in terror and Gloria rose in haste with him as her father-in-law leveled a steely glare at her. Justin did not move, except to tranquilly take another bite out of his lamb shank. Warren the younger hiccoughed and leaned back to glare at the four men.
He added to his father's inquiry, “And the other two of you rats, what of them?”
The spokesman stammered, “A-a man with one arm, m'lord...in Wilmere...the peasants constrained us...we could not help him...”
“Enough!”
Thackery's roar shook the beams. His eye's blazed. After ordering the men severely whipped and placed in the stocks, kind treatment indeed for their failing, he joined in discussion with his sons and a few trusted advisers.
“This one-armed bandit...this is not the first we have heard of him...”
“Though,” the Younger interrupted, “this is the first that he has dared attack one of us!”
“And requisition the tax-money,” Justin remarked blandly.
His father and brother glared at him.
Thackery continued, as though he had not been interrupted, “Up until now, this fellow—whoever he is!-- has been little more than an irritation...”
“Rather like a misqueto...” this from Justin...
“But now, he has struck and really drawn blood. We must discover his identity and bring him low!”
Once again the contents of the table leaped in response to his fist crashing down.
Heads were put together and schemes were propounded...
Warren the Younger suddenly recalled, sobering up some from his swill, six months earlier, a one armed youngster standing alertly beside an insulting, youthful, plump banker.
Warren the Elder nodded thoughtfully, “I think we should pay a visit to Master Simms and Son...”
To be continued....
The unusual noise drew out a number of male tenants. To their surprise, as the equestrian figure galloped by, he let slip a packet—which, when opened, revealed a score of daggers. The men quickly parceled them out amongst themselves. Thackery's knaves had stripped them of any weapons they possessed, leaving them completely helpless to defend themselves or their women against the scoundrels; for in addition to the theft off all knives, even the farm implements were required to be locked up at night.
Soon tales of a tall, black cloaked rider were being spread throughout the district. Some claimed that he had but one arm. Others that he was a ghost. A man here inferred that he was the devil, while a man here averred him to be an avenging angel sent from God. What men thought of him varied widely, but the stories began to show a definite pattern—the house of Thackery, with it's cruelty and evil, was under attack.
Common folk and lords alike began to pray for the preservation of the mysterious man.
~~~~~~~~~
Philip closed his eyes in a brief prayer. His hand gripped the pommel of his saddle and his left foot slid into the stirrup; seconds later he was astride his leggy mare. She danced with anticipation as Philip checked his scabbard's secureness to the saddle. Satisfied that everything was tight, he eased into a slow lope. He controlled the mare entirely with his legs as his one hand had to serve for two. For the majority of the time, she was a gentle, easy-going animal, but upon occasion, he was constrained to seize the bridle rein to remind her to heed his instructions.
After an hour, horse and rider slowed to a quick walk. The dawn was waking and with it the morning songbirds began tuning up. Philip signaled a halt and the mare obligingly stopped and sniffed the air. The farmer's Clydesdales smelt friendly. They nickered greetings to one another.
Philip made no attempt to quiet the mare, for he knew at whose cottage he had stopped. It was the home of one of the men who had rescued himself and his father that night exactly five years ago.
As if the horses' greetings had been some sort of signal, a light went on at the back of the small cottage and shortly thereafter, a balding man emerged from the interior, still tucking his coarse linen shirt into rougher woollen trousers. He made straight for the fringe of woods as if bent on gathering kindling for his wife to cook breakfast.
Reaching the interior of the outer fringe of trees, he greeted Philip with directness and humbleness.
“Good-morning, m'lord! I am pleased to see you. Munford informed me you would be through this morning. The information you are interested in is this: Thackery's collection knave,” he spit the words out distastefully, “should be passing through the village around noon.”
Bowing, the aging man moved off and soon reappeared with an armload of twigs. As he disappeared into the house, Philip eased his horse carefully through the forest. What would transpire in roughly six hours was going to be the most dangerous adventure yet.
~~~~~~~~~
The villagers were lined up, unwillingly, throughout the square. There was subdued murmuring and covert glances of extreme distaste shot towards a towering figure seated at a table borrowed from the ale house for the express purpose of holding the parchments and ink of the tax collector. Ranged about him in various positions throughout the market place, stood a total of six guards.
The collection agent, Thackery's nephew Hugh, was as large as the rest of the Thackery clan and carried a disfiguring scar across his face from the bridge of his nose down beside his right ear. It was rumoured that the man who gave him that scar had died a gruesome death.
Hugh Thackery started naming off peasantry and one by one they approached and laid out their livelihoods onto the table. Some were thoroughly cowed; but others dared to glare into Hugh's face with defiance.
With a startling suddenness, the proceeding were interrupted. A slim man cloaked in a black cape and a full face mask swept into the square, his sharp saber gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun.
A gasp went through the square, as it passed from one man's lips to another: “The masked man! The masked man!”
The guards found themselves mysteriously unable to near their chief, for the peasantry, without seeming to do so purposely, effectively blocked them.
The masked man rode up to the table and kicked it over with his foot. The leggy mare side-stepped as it crashed and nickered a little nervously.
Hugh Thackery was on his feet in an instant, baleful ire gleaming from his clear blue eyes. His sword leapt to his hand, but he did not strike at the deathly quiet figure on the dancing horse.
The hush that had fallen was broken by a voice. Once again, the villagers found themselves startled. It was a young voice...was he a mere boy?
“Hugh Thackery...this collection is unlawful. The King's taxes have already been collected; as you well know. The governor, being paid by the King, has no further claim on the purse of the people. Quit ye this village immediately...and tell your foul uncle that justice rides. He will be found out.”
Hugh laughed harshly and spit at the black caped man, “You instruct me, you knave? Begone before I bathe my sword in your blood!” and he raised his arm menacingly.
The crowd gasped, then hesitantly cheered as the scene unfolded before them: the stranger calmly unclasped the cape from about his throat. His next movement took Hugh off his guard, for it was as unexpected as it was wily. Philip, for it was he, swung the cloak swiftly and caught the upper portion of Hugh's body in it's thick, heavy folds. Rapidly seizing his sword from the pommel, where he had balanced it, he sprang rearward off his animal and attacked just as Hugh succeeded in freeing himself from the envelopment of the cloak.
The quicker witted of the peasant men simultaneously threw themselves on the frustrated guards and restrained them while the two champions faced off in what both knew to be a duel unto death. Hugh had little doubt of the outcome; he had never lost before and this one-armed mere stripling, as his voice betrayed him, had not a chance. Philip, on the other hand, his soul committed to God and determined to see justice done, was fearless. Fall this giant must...or else all hope was lost for his people. With such a burning resolution in his heart, he proved a formidable foe to the skillful Hugh.
The clashing of one bright steel blade upon another rent the air. A sensation of pent up excitement hovered over the market place. The women peeked out of their cottages.
A moan went up. The masked man had been hit! There was blood running from his right shoulder!
Philip staggered backwards a pace or two, panting with his efforts. His teeth were clenched against the pain that seared his shoulder. Swiftly Hugh Thackery descended upon him, sure of his victory.
Hugh's eyes dilated and a subdued roar issued from his open mouth. The villagers shouted. The one-armed man was the victor!
Philip reeled back, barely escaping the final attempt at his life. Hugh fell face first as his opponent's saber ripped out of his body. He lay gasping for a few moments before a violent shudder overtook him and then he lay still. He would never again mistreat man, woman, or child. He was dead.
The peasantry's cheers were quelled by the upraised hand of the man in the mask. He spoke then to them, his voice pained and tired.
“An evil man has fallen today;” stooping, he set the table upright, then collected the money pouch and the parchments. “These unlawful taxes will be returned to their rightful owners.”
He scanned down the list and started reading off names. As each man's name was called, he stepped up and received his money back from the hand of the bleeding, yet sternly silent masked man.
After all the monies had been returned to their owners, an old peasant clad in rough woollen trousers and a coarse linen shirt came up beside the bleeding man in black. “M'lord, do me the honour of allowing me to tend to your wound.”
Philip, knowing and known to the man, quietly allowed himself to be led off to be tended to. Just as quietly, the whereabouts of the man in the mask became an enigma. He stayed no longer than it took to get his shoulder bandaged before he disappeared into the afternoon sun.
~~~~~~~~~
Warren Thackery sat at table in the great hall, surrounded by scoundrels of various hues and stripes. On his right sat his elder son, Warren the Younger, who smelt vilely of ale and snarled at his personal attendant for a mere drop of drink splashed. To his left sat a tall, broad, somewhat stupid looking young man of no more than twenty-four. Justin Thackery was indeed bigger than his brother, his corn coloured hair resembling a haystack and blue eyes that mimicked the sky on a summer day. If he had not been a Thackery, one might have said that he looked like an ox of a peasant. Beside Justin sat a beautiful girl of twenty. She held a broad-shouldered baby of eighteen months on her lap. The boy was busy tangling his fingers in the leather fringe of his father's hunting shirt and giggling as a bony dog licked his bare-toes. Gloria shifted slightly, an unexplained apprehension gripping her as a quartet of dark-garbed men entered.
Warren the elder sat straighter in his seat and scowled at the four roughed-up looking men-at-arms. They shifted uncomfortably, glancing uneasily amongst themselves. The silence was finally broken by Lord Thackery's blood-chilling calm voice: “Where is Hugh?”
“D-d-dead, M'lord.”
The man who had been pushed forward by his comrades stuttered in his discomfort.
“What?? How?” roared Warren, rising from his chair like a mad bull, his fist making the dishes rattle down the length of the table. The baby began to wail in terror and Gloria rose in haste with him as her father-in-law leveled a steely glare at her. Justin did not move, except to tranquilly take another bite out of his lamb shank. Warren the younger hiccoughed and leaned back to glare at the four men.
He added to his father's inquiry, “And the other two of you rats, what of them?”
The spokesman stammered, “A-a man with one arm, m'lord...in Wilmere...the peasants constrained us...we could not help him...”
“Enough!”
Thackery's roar shook the beams. His eye's blazed. After ordering the men severely whipped and placed in the stocks, kind treatment indeed for their failing, he joined in discussion with his sons and a few trusted advisers.
“This one-armed bandit...this is not the first we have heard of him...”
“Though,” the Younger interrupted, “this is the first that he has dared attack one of us!”
“And requisition the tax-money,” Justin remarked blandly.
His father and brother glared at him.
Thackery continued, as though he had not been interrupted, “Up until now, this fellow—whoever he is!-- has been little more than an irritation...”
“Rather like a misqueto...” this from Justin...
“But now, he has struck and really drawn blood. We must discover his identity and bring him low!”
Once again the contents of the table leaped in response to his fist crashing down.
Heads were put together and schemes were propounded...
Warren the Younger suddenly recalled, sobering up some from his swill, six months earlier, a one armed youngster standing alertly beside an insulting, youthful, plump banker.
Warren the Elder nodded thoughtfully, “I think we should pay a visit to Master Simms and Son...”
To be continued....