The Burden of Ash and Blood - 7. Chapter 7

The aroma of spiced meat pies hung in the air as Sam and Graeme rode through the market square. After days of plain fare catered by the wayinns, it was enough to cause Sam’s mouth to water. Upon finding the source—a cramped stall tucked between two loftier booths—Sam pointed it out to Graeme. A queue of customers, crowding around the edges, attested to its popularity. Sam dismounted and handed the reins to Graeme.

“I’ll get you one, too,” Sam said, and the knight nodded eagerly in a rare show of enthusiasm.

The queue progressed swiftly, evidence of deft management from the woman who operated the stall. With coin ready in hand, Sam made a hasty trade for two steaming pies, then squeezed through the crowd to escape. The golden crust promised delight, but he denied himself the first bite. He wanted to enjoy it with Graeme, but first they needed privacy for the knight to remove his helmet. Scanning the periphery of the market square, he caught sight of a narrow street. Holding the pies precariously in one hand, he took back Winx’s reins and called out to Graeme.

“Follow me.”

Unsure of Sam’s intention, Graeme tilted his head in curiosity but followed nonetheless. The side street was subdued, though not deserted. They continued until an alleyway opened to their right. The snug corridor came to a dead end. With no entryways lining the walls, they would not be disturbed.

“What is your objective here?” Graeme asked.

Sam entered the quiet space, holding out the pie as a lure. “You can take your helmet off and eat with me. The horses will block anyone’s view.”

Graeme glanced around uncertainly, then back toward Sam. “I can bide my time until an inn presents itself.”

“It’ll be cold by then.”

The knight’s heavy stare lingered until, at last, he dismounted and closed the space between them. After one final check toward the street, Graeme reached for his helmet, but instead of lifting it off, he pulled the visor up. The craftsmanship was so precise, Sam had no idea the helmet functioned in that manner. Even the hinge was imperceptible. Despite the ragged scars the fire had wrought on his face, Graeme’s friendly smirk was clear. He likely understood Sam’s secondary motives—to grow accustomed to revealing his face.

Sam proffered the stuffed pastry with a smile, which Graeme accepted, and they both took a hearty bite. The savoury meat hidden within was nothing short of bliss. Lost in the simple pleasure, both ate in silence, though it only lasted mere moments before their snack had been devoured.

“Thank you,” Graeme said. “You were correct. Partaking while the pie was hot was the prudent choice.”

Sam wiped his mouth of crumbs. “And I didn’t want my knight to go hungry.”

“Indeed? Am I your knight now?”

The question was spoken in jest, yet Sam bit his lip in realisation of how overly familiar he’d become with Graeme. At what point would his subtle flirting be considered too presumptuous? Regardless, he felt it important to speak his mind. “This might sound silly, but knowing you’ll raise your visor only for me, it makes me feel honoured somehow.”

With a subtle scoff and shake of the head, Graeme replied, “If only others saw me as you did. But then, that would ruin what makes you special, wouldn’t it?”

Sam’s heart fluttered at the knight’s gentle words, and wanting to hide his reddening face, he hustled past to mount up. The knight slammed his visor back into place—its distinctive metallic clank pulling a memory from Sam’s mind. Yes, he’d heard it once before while they were on the road, resting under a tree to eat lunch. At the time, he couldn’t interpret the source.

Sam took the lead, making a point to ask passersby for inn recommendations. More than once, they endorsed the Happy Goat Inn, and it stood nearby. Laying eyes on it now, Sam realised they’d passed it earlier. Given its clean whitewashed stone walls with darkly polished timber beams, it should’ve caught his attention, but the bustle of the crowds had masked such details. He dismounted and handed Graeme the reins again.

“I’ll check if they have a room available.”

Window boxes spilt over with rosemary and thyme, their pleasant scent drawing him in farther. He pushed on the heavy door, and the warmth from within caressed his face. Once again, the contrast acted as a reminder of the cooler weather. A few patrons sat at round tables in soft conversation. None except for the innkeeper behind the bar lifted their gaze at Sam’s arrival.

“Welcome,” the keeper said, gesturing for him to approach. He was an older gentleman, bald on top with a mess of white curly hair around his ears. A sizeable paunch revealed itself from beneath his apron.

“Hello. Do you have a room available?”

“I certainly do.”

“Uh, it would be for me and a friend. I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying—a few days at least.”

“That’s fine. You can pay by the day. There’s a laneway at the side leading to the stables.”

“Great. We’ll get our horses taken care of and settle the payment.”

A wide grin broke across the man’s face. “But you haven’t even asked the price.”

“People vouched for you, so we’re good with your price. Just don’t take advantage of us, yeah?”

The keeper laughed jovially, his paunch jiggling in time. “Perish the thought.”

Sam and Graeme found the stables—well kept compared to the draughty sheds of the wayinns. Graeme led Tusk all the way to the back stall in the hope no-one would approach the gruff warhorse. A rack held plenty of fresh hay, and a hand pump with a water bucket allowed them to fill the troughs. These simple yet considerate additions only confirmed that the innkeeper cared for his patrons.

Upon re-entering the inn with their belongings in hand, Graeme’s presence roused the other patrons, who watched in incredulity. The keeper, likewise, jumped to attention.

“Goodness. You didn’t say your friend was a knight.” As he stepped toward Graeme, he wiped a hand on his apron and offered to shake. “Mr Casselford, at your service.”

Upon shifting his baggage to one arm, the knight accepted it readily. “Well met. You may call me Graeme.”

Mr Casselford then turned to shake Sam’s hand. “And I didn’t catch your name, squire.”

Sam laughed. “I’m no squire. We’re just travelling together. I’m Sam.”

They arranged payment for the room and supper—a reasonable sum—and then Mr Casselford led them upstairs.

“I must say, this is the first time a knight has frequented my establishment. I ought to warn you that my rooms, while comfortable, cannot match the standards of such a regal guest. Please accept my apologies.”

In his attempt to soothe the keeper’s nerves, Graeme repeated his speech of being a knight-errant, but that did little to calm the man. As Mr Casselford ushered them into the modest-sized room, Sam took in the articulate refinements that, yet again, spoke of the keeper’s care for his guests. The floorboards were scrubbed and waxed to a warm sheen, their faint creak softened by a woven rug dyed in muted tones. A sturdy bed stood against the far wall, with mounds of thickly stuffed pillows bolstered against its headboard. Another corner was occupied by a writing desk. Its surface was bare save for an inkpot, quill, and a sheaf of parchment. And by the wardrobe sat a washstand with a glazed basin and pitcher of water.

Mr Casselford fidgeted with the bedclothes, attempting to straighten them, ignoring the fact they were already neatly in place. Relief took Sam at the sight of only one bed. The odds of getting a good night’s sleep had risen.

After minutes of circular conversation to declare the room acceptable, Mr Casselford relented, although his expression remained doubtful. Finally, he closed the door to leave them in peace. Swathed in the room’s silence, Sam discerned a faint ring pressing against his ears. The oppressive clamour of the towns they’d visited—Blakenhall amongst them—was still foreign to him, and to be free of it now was a relief.

Graeme arranged his belongings into cupboard drawers while Sam sat on the bed. It was soft, yielding, and Sam’s weariness proved to overwhelm him. Much had happened this day—the clash with highwaymen; accepting a job he felt ill-suited to complete; not to mention the long hours of travel. Yet upon deeper reflection, he knew what genuinely troubled him.

“I’m sorry for suggesting we kill those thieves. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.”

Graeme hummed pensively in reply, then unbuckled the chin strap of his helmet to doff it. “Mayhaps my trials in conflict have imparted upon me more wisdom than I realise.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Our encounter today was an example of men down on their luck, yet not hardened enough to follow through with their warnings.”

“Oh. I’ll admit I sort of got that impression, too.”

“Yes. A man’s tone, his bearing, his words—these may be feigned to elicit fear without the need to act on their threat. The distinctions are slight, but over many years, the road has been a harsh teacher. And if a man flees my blade, that reveals the truth. I will not hunt them down.”

But Sam knew that wasn’t true. He hated to prove Graeme wrong, but the words spilt from his mouth nonetheless. “At the Lÿmian ruins, that last bandit ran from you, but you chased him anyway.”

Graeme’s head sunk at the memory, and he sat beside Sam on the bed. “Anger had taken a hold of me. Much to my regret.”

“Given how everything played out, I don’t blame you. But if you’d caught him, would you’ve killed him?”

A painfully long moment passed as Graeme deliberated, only to deliver a reply laced with menace. “What fate would have awaited him, I cannot say.” His gaze remained held to the floor. “I acknowledge his capture or death would have had a decisive impact upon your future. That I failed you still weighs heavy on my heart.”

Those words prompted Sam to choke. “No! You did nothing wrong. You’re not responsible for what happened. It was a consequence of my own doing.”

Graeme shook his head. “I cannot fathom how such an outcome is yours to bear.”

Continuing this conversation was the last thing Sam wanted, but it needed to be said to relieve the knight of this unwarranted guilt. “Had I told you the truth—that I could’ve given you directions to the ruins and not insisting on guiding you—I would’ve stayed home. The bandit leader would’ve never recognised me. So even if that last guy had escaped, he wouldn’t’ve killed my parents in revenge. He had no clue I was involved.”

Once again, silence filled the room as Graeme ruminated on Sam’s statement. “This provides a better understanding of your fervour in chasing those thieves we encountered this day, mayhap even to execute them. But you must aim to temper your wrath.”

Sam let out an unsteady sigh. “I’ll admit it scares me. I don’t know where this anger comes from.”

“It can protect you, but you must not allow it to dominate your actions. And despite your wishes, I cannot revoke my guilt entirely.”

“Why?”

“Because, in my hubris, I assumed the last bandit had fled. That presumption lent your village the illusion of security.”

Much to Sam’s dismay, Graeme’s reasoning had merit. “Then I guess we’ll have to share that guilt.”

“To share a burden can provide relief, but we must always strive to learn from our errors.”

“Easier said than done,” Sam replied with a scoff. “And if it makes you feel any better, you saved my life today. How’d you manage to catch that bolt with your shield in time?”

Graeme crooked his index finger to mimic pulling a crossbow’s lever. “I maintained a vigilant watch of his hand.”

“But he was in the back of the group. What about the others?”

“They were held in my periphery. The crossbowman was the greatest threat.”

Explained that way, it was obvious, and Sam found himself feeling foolish for not realising it. He bumped his shoulder against the armoured knight in a gesture of camaraderie. “Well, thanks.”

Graeme offered a warm smile. To witness it directly, rather than infer through the guise of his helmet, was a delight long overdue.