The door was thrown open and an angry red face appeared. “Why are you knocking on a poor widow’s door like that? Have you no respect?”

  “Mr. Hobbfoot sent us,” Bryn said brightly. “He told us you would be pleased to provide us with a room and an evening meal, in exchange for our company.”

  “Did he now? Well, I shall have something to say to that old fool when I catch hold of him,” she said. She pushed past Bryn and stomped off towards the centre of the village.

  “Well,” Gosling said, “we won’t be recommending her hospitality to fellow travellers.”

  “Perhaps we caught her at an inopportune moment,” Bryn said.

  “You were raised by your father, weren’t you?” Gosling said. “I bet he did drop you.”

  §

  Bryn woke and found the little assassin’s side of the bed empty. He hoped Gosling had gone to fetch him a breakfast tray, but knew this was unlikely: even if he’d managed to find the kitchen, he’d never have found his way back to their bedroom. He pulled on his breeches and went downstairs.

  Widow Snitkin sat by the fire doing some mending. “If you’re looking for your friend, he’s out back washing his face in the piss bucket,” she said.

  “An old assassin’s trick,” Bryn lied. “It... er... stops your victim catching your scent as you creep up on him.”

  “Those things in the forest can probably smell that little shit-stain from here,” she said.

  “Things?” Bryn asked.

  “Did I say ‘things’? I meant... er... thieves.”

  “Oh,” Bryn said. “Is there breakfast?” 

  “No one said anything to me about breakfast. Evening meal, that’s all I was told. And a jug of ale – between you.”

  “I see,” Bryn said, “don’t want to go spoiling us, eh?”

  “You should think yourself lucky I’m giving you a room,” she said. Then her expression softened very slightly. “That used to be my son’s room.”

  “Ran away, did he?” Bryn asked.

  “No, he didn’t. He married a nice young man in the next village. Why would he want to run away?”

  “Oh, well... you know what boys are like...”

  Widow Snitkin looked her half-naked houseguest up and down. “You’re very well-made, but don’t seem much like an assassin to me,” she said.

  “If I looked like an assassin, my victims would see me coming and scarper, wouldn’t they?”

  “Had many ‘victims’ have you?”

  “The last I killed was a sour-faced harridan who never stopped complaining: I put an axe in her skull. And cut off her head with my sword.” Bryn patted the hilt of his sword – then realised he wasn’t wearing it.

  Widow Snitkin swallowed. “Why don’t I go and see if I can’t find you a bit of bread and some milk for your breakfast?”

  “Goat’s milk?” Bryn asked. It wasn’t his favourite.

  “No, cow’s. Why?”

  “I thought I smelled a goat.”

  “That’ll be your friend coming back from his wash. Try and keep him off the furniture. I dread to think what my sheets will be like.” She shuddered and moved towards the kitchen. Bryn followed her.

  “Mr. Hobbfoot said your husband had passed away recently,” he said.

  “Useless fool fell from a bridge and drowned, if you can believe it.”

  “Fell?” Bryn asked. “He didn’t throw himself off?”

  “Of course he didn’t. Why would you ask that?”

  “No reason,” Bryn said.

  “Mistook the side of the bridge for the wall behind the tavern. I told him to wear his eyeglasses, but would he listen to me?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have kept those eyeglasses, would you?” Bryn asked.

  §

  “Is there breakfast?” Gosling asked, coming in through the back door.

  “There’s bread and milk,” Bryn said. He was sitting at the table, fully-dressed now and finishing off his own food.

  “What does she think I am, a piglet being weaned?” Gosling asked.

  “She said you were a walking shit-stain. And you’re not allowed on the furniture – she put a flour sack on the chair for you.”

  “Not big on hospitality, is she?”

  “She’s probably still in mourning,” Bryn said.

  “I know what she needs to put a smile back on her face.”

  “I wouldn’t go suggesting it – unless you want to feel her scissors at your scrotum.”

  Gosling shuddered. “I’ll keep my distance from Mistress Cutpurse,” he said.

  As Gosling sat down and tore a chunk off the loaf, Bryn got up and went over to a shelf on the wall by the door.

  “Here, try these on.” Bryn moved quickly, coming up behind him and placing the framework on the bridge of Gosling’s nose and hooking the two loops of leather cord behind his ears.

  Gosling blinked owlishly. And then blinked some more. He stared at Bryn. “Who are you?”

  “Bryn.”

  “I thought you were older. And less blond. You look like a wench I once had behind the King’s Arms in Thruxton.”

  “Perhaps the lenses are too strong,” Bryn said, stepping forward to retrieve them. Gosling batted his hands away, looking all around and smiling.

  “The lenses are fine,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

  “They belonged to a dead man,” Bryn said.

  “You killed a man for his eyeglasses?” Gosling frowned. Then he unveiled his brown teeth. “I’m so proud of you!”

  “Widow Snitkin let me have them – they were her husband’s.”

  Gosling frowned again. “What did they cost you?”

  “A bath.”

  “You promised you’d give her a bath?”

  “No, I told her you’d take one,” Bryn said.

  “Do you think I need one?” Gosling lifted an arm and sniffed his armpit.

  “She says the outlaws will be able to smell you from here.”

  “She’s only saying that because the smell of a man is getting her juices flowing!”

  “She’s saying it makes her eyes run.”

  “I bet she said she wouldn’t mind rolling her sleeves up and rubbing soap all over me.”

  “She said the pigs wouldn’t mind if you used their water trough in the yard,” Bryn said.

  “She wants me naked outdoors – saucy minx!”

  “Don’t keep her waiting,” Bryn said. “And don’t get the eyeglasses wet.”

  “I’m keeping them on – there’s things I haven’t seen in donkey’s years.” 

  Part II

  Gosling’s skin was usually a dirty russet colour. Now it was cleaner and had a blueish tinge. His brown teeth were chattering as he climbed out of the trough. “B-bathing outside at this t-time of year is not r-r-r-recommended. I should have – should have waited until summer.”

  Bryn had set light to a small pile of sticks in the back yard, because Widow Snitkin had said she wasn’t having a naked man in her kitchen.

  “W-w-w-where are my clothes?” Gosling was wearing only his boots and had his hands tucked in his armpits, dancing from foot to foot in front of the little fire.

  “Widow Snitkin is washing them,” Bryn said.

  “W-why?”

  “I think she wanted to find out what colour they were.”

  “W-what – what am I going to wear? I’ll fr-fr-freeze to death!”

  “She sent you these,” Bryn said. He held up a pile of neatly folded clothes. “They belonged to her husband.”

  “They’re not the clothes he died in, are they?”

  “Of course not – he was buried in those. I think. Here.”

  “What are those?”

  “Underwear – she thinks you should wear some,” Bryn said.

  “I never wear braies, they’re too restricting. You need to let your tackle breathe.” Gosling thrust his groin forward and waggled it, but his tackle seemed to have gone into retreat.

  “Put them on before you get frostbite,” Bryn said. “If it goes black, we’ll have to cut it off.”

  Gosling snatched the pale garment. Stepping out of one boot, he stood on one leg, wobbling as he pulled on the braies. He repeated the performance with the other leg. He tied the ribbon at the waist, folding the fabric over so as to hitch them up. “It’s like a baby’s clout,” Gosling said. “I look ridiculous!”

  Bryn bit the side of his cheek and turned his lips inward, determined not to laugh. “It looks fine. No one’s going to see them.”

  “Except maybe that doxy we met in the village last night,” Gosling said.

  “She’s not going to be looking at your braies, I promise you,” Bryn said.

  “You’re right, her attention will be elsewhere. Please tell me they’re not hose,” he said, as Bryn held forth some items of folded reddish cloth. “I can’t wear hose. Look at my legs. They go all wrinkled and baggy at the knees.”

  “How can legs go baggy at the knees?”

  “I meant the hose,” Gosling said.

  “Put them on and show me what you mean,” Bryn said.

  Gosling sighed and did the standing on one leg performance all over again. “How do you get them to stay up?” he asked.

  Bryn handed Gosling the belt and watched him fumble, trying to fasten the hose to the belt. “Let me do it,” he said finally and reached for the fastenings. The door banged open, startling both of them.

  Widow Snitkin appeared holding a bundle of dripping clothing. “Are you trying to get him into those or out of them?” she asked.

  “Into them,” Bryn said.

  “Good. Because you can do a lot better than him, you know, a nice-looking lad like you.”

  “We’re not...” Bryn said.

  “I’m going to hang these over the fence and see what the sun can do for them,” she said. “You’ve never seen so much filth come out of something. I’d throw them on the fire, but the smell would kill us, I reckon.”

  “What have you done to my clothes?” Gosling wailed.

  “Beat them with a stick. There was no way I was putting my hands in the water. Now put your shirt on – you look like a chicken that wasn’t worth plucking.” She turned and stomped towards the fence.

  “She was looking at my body,” Gosling said, smiling.

  “That would account for her expression,” Bryn said.

  “She wants me, I can tell.”

  “Put your shirt on before you freeze.”

  “Admit it – you want a bit of me too,” Gosling said, striking a pose.

  “There’s not enough meat on you to be worth roasting. Would you finish getting dressed so we can get off and find these thieves we’re supposed to be killing.”

  “No need to rush,” Gosling said. “They won’t be going anywhere. The pickings here are too rich.” He nodded towards the middle of the village, then pulled the shirt over his head. Caught in the fabric, his movements briefly turned to blind panic, until he got arms and head through the correct openings. “Tuck it in or leave it loose?” he asked.

  “Unless you want the hem dragging in the mud, I’d tuck it in,” Bryn said.

  “I’m not that short,” Gosling muttered, tucking in most of the shirt. He snatched the jerkin from Bryn and pulled it on. “How do I look?”

  Widow Snitkin turned and gave a startled gasp. “Oh my! For a moment, I thought my Dennis had come back. Fair gave me a turn, it did.”

  “Told you she wanted me,” Gosling whispered.

  “Perhaps she’ll show you what she and her husband used to get up to – after you’ve killed the outlaws,” Bryn said.

  “You’re right: work first,” Gosling said, and then more loudly: “We must make our way stealthily into the forest and locate the hideout of the dastardly thieves who are plaguing this fair village!”

  “Go up past the tavern and then follow the path,” Widow Snitkin said. “There’s a clearing about a mile into the trees – that’s where you’ll find them.” She had draped Gosling’s clothes over the posts of the fence around the sty. They looked like the pelts from a small animal.

  “Don’t let the pigs chew them,” Gosling said.

  “They’ve more sense than that,” she said. “You’ll be back for your supper then?”

  “Oh, yes,” Gosling said.

  “If you kill one of those things, don’t bring it back here,” she said. “Burn it where it falls.”

  “She said ‘things’ again,” Bryn whispered.

  “I noticed that,” Gosling whispered.

  “You don’t think it’s something dangerous been attacking the village, do you?” Bryn asked.

  “Can’t be any worse than a dragon, can it?”

  “What about trolls?”

  “You only get them in mountains and caves, not in forests.”

  “Vampires?” Bryn asked.

  “They only lurk around burial grounds. And the chambers of the Exchequer.”

  “Shape-changers?”

  “They died out with the magic,” Gosling said.

  “You mean like dragons?”

  “Good point. We should keep a weather-eye out for shape-changers.”

  “How will we recognise them?” Bryn asked.

  “If they turn from man to beast when they attack you, they’re shape-changers.”

  “There’s no way to recognise them before they change?”

  “Not without magic.”

  “I’ve seen enough magic to last me a lifetime,” Bryn said.

  “And I. No magic then. We shall just have to trust to our wits. Let’s go.” Gosling set off in the direction of the tavern.

  “Shouldn’t we take the weapons?” Bryn called after him.

  Gosling seemed to flinch. He stopped and turned. “Very good,” he said. “I was testing you again. Run inside and get them.”

  “Why do I have to fetch the weapons?”

  “Because you’re the apprentice and I am the Master Guildsman.”

  Bryn paused, thinking he ought to be able to phrase a suitable rebuttal. But he couldn’t. He went into the little cottage to fetch the weapons.

  “Make sure you chop the head off,” Widow Snitkin said when Bryn reappeared. She was looking down at her wet hands and thinking the only way she might get them to feel clean again was to plunge them into the fire. “And burn all the pieces.”

  Bryn and Gosling strapped on their sword-belts and then set off through the village. A few of the locals greeted them with a nod and others turned their heads away or pretended not to see them.

  “Do you get the impression that there is more to this outlaw problem than the villagers are telling us?” Gosling asked.

  “No.”

  “No, of course you don’t. This underwear is really chafing – it’s going to have to go. I’ll whip it off in the tavern.”

  “That will liven the place up,” Bryn said. “We’re going to have a drink there as well, are we?”

  “What do you think?” Gosling grinned.

  “Does that mean yes?”

  §

  “That feels better,” Gosling said as they staggered out of the tavern a couple of hours later. He’d abandoned the braies and the hose, and was now marching along with his bare spindly legs showing between his boots and his jerkin, with only the bottom of his shirt to cover his modesty.

  “You’re not feeling a draft?” Bryn asked.

  “I’m not feeling much of anything. I enjoyed the ale. I’ve had better quality, but you can’t fault the quantity.”

  “Did Widow Snitkin say straight ahead on this path?”

  “She did.”

  “Did she also say that the ground would be swaying like this?” Bryn asked.

  “That’s not the path, it’s a quality of the ale.”

  “Quality or quantity?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Now step lively and let’s go and see what we’re up against.”

  Ahead of them, the path disappeared into the cool dark shadows of the forest. The trees here were mostly stout old oaks, some of them centuries old. It was the sort of place you could imagine magic lingering.

   

  §

  “They don’t look like outlaws,” Bryn whispered.

  Gosling was peering through the lenses of the eyeglasses and not liking what he was seeing. He and Bryn were hidden in the undergrowth, looking into the clearing where they had been told the thieves had their camp. The sight had sobered them instantly.

  “Widow Snitkin said to cut off their heads and burn their remains,” Gosling said.

  “She did. And that man in the tavern warned us not to get within biting distance,” Bryn said.

  “Yet still you didn’t think there was anything suspicious about the whole situation?”

  “Who could have imagined this?” Bryn asked.

  The shadowy figures lurching around the clearing were not outlaws. They were not even men. Not anymore.

  “What are those things?” Bryn asked.

  “They’re cursed,” Gosling said. “Dead men who still walk.”

  “Why do their faces look like that?”

  “Because they’re dead. The flesh is decaying.”

  “Those two don’t look rotten,” Bryn said, pointing.

  “They must be the two villagers who have ‘joined’ the group,” Gosling said.

  “The curse can be passed on?” Bryn asked. “How?”

  “Judging by the teeth marks on some of them and the man in the tavern telling us to stay out of biting distance, I’d say...”

  “What’s that smell?” Bryn asked.

  “Don’t look at me: I had a bath this morning.”

  A sound behind them made them both turn suddenly. One of the undeadmen was reaching towards Gosling’s neck. Gosling gave out a little eek.

  “Don’t attract the others,” Bryn warned. “Keep this one’s attention.”

  “How?” Gosling squeaked.

  “Try and look edible.”

  “You said there wasn’t enough meat on me.”

  “Then improvise!” Bryn was trying to back away from the creature and its prey, just far enough to draw his sword and swing it.

  Gosling blew out his cheeks to try and make his face look fatter, and then stuck out his tongue and waggled it.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7