Men in the Garden

There were men in the garden.

Fen crouched in the wildflowers and tried to make herself small.

"I am a stone. I am a tiny mouse. There is no Fentallion here."

She watched the men spread out across the lawn. When a thing, so long expected, finally arrives, there is a sense that it should be a certain way. She should be bold and resolute. The men should wear shining armour. There should be stamping horses and battering rams and banners flying in the wind, but it wasn't like that at all.

The men were so quiet. They moved without a sound, signalling to one another with little hand gestures, and she knew she should stand and raise the alarm. She should yell out, "There are men in the garden", but she couldn’t move. All she could do was crouch and watch them.

She clutched her little silver knife with the sharp point. Her hands were shaking. Her fingers were soft and weak. She wished she could take it all back, the arguments, the mean things she had said to Esten and Tam.

How would she do it? Would she press it into herself, between the ribs? The thought of cutting the cords in her throat made her cringe. The tough little tendons at the front of her neck separating. The hard lump in her throat opening, choking, blood in her mouth, blood on her hands.

Would she change her mind halfway through? Would she stumble across the grass, clutching herself, trying to hold the blood in? How would it feel, fingers slippery, head lolling, no longer supported at the front? How long would it take for all the blood to come out? Would Mother see her from her window? Would she be disappointed?

"Death knows my name, Death knows my name," she whispered to herself, but Death didn't call to her, so she stayed crouching.

The men were not knights. They wore mismatched leather armour and carried clubs rather than swords. Their cloaks did not billow. Their countenances did not shine like the heavens. Five went towards the Rook, moving stealthily. Two waited by the gate. The rest of them surrounded the house, where mother was.

The gate was open, and more men were coming through, ducking to avoid the stones, and how was the gate open? Who had opened it? She wished Tam was here, but he was not.

Maybe she could pass them, escape them in the woods. But there were two big men guarding it. There was no way out that way. No way out at all.

"I am a small grey stone. I am the moss and the soil. No one can find me."

She remembered the words she had said to Tam, and thought how they must have cut him. It wasn't his fault he had been broken. There were over a dozen men now and at least two women. No one could fight them all, not even Taliette. She hoped it would be quick, but she knew it wouldn’t be. Grandfather didn’t do things quickly.

She clutched her knife. She wished she had practised with it. The bow father had given her was under her bed, and the arrows were scattered on her shelf back in the house, unused. Maybe if she attacked them fiercely enough, they would kill her quickly? A sudden flash of pain. Would that be so bad? It would surely be better than doing it herself.

Where was Llan? He had promised to make it quick, hand on heart he had promised, but he was nowhere to be seen.

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Llandred squinted in the darkness inside the Rook. Esten's comfy place was ruffled where he had lain. His blankets were tangled in a pile. The door was ajar, and the light streamed in through the crack, flowing between the motes of dust like water over pebbles.

"Esten!" he called out. "I want to talk to you. About Taliette. I want to know what you saw when you looked at her yesterday."

There was no reply.

Esten's book was here, splayed out face down. One of the pages was crumpled underneath. Esten always took care of his books.

"Where are you?"

There was a small noise, a darkening. A figure silhouetted against the slot of light in the doorframe.

"Esten?"

The door opened wider. There was another figure. The light ate into the outline of it. Llandred's hand went to his knife. Then everything moved all at once.

The door was kicked open. They were on him before he could draw his blade. One wrestled him around the middle. Two more grabbed his arms. He span around and the men on his arms were lifted up in the air. He felt fingernails digging into his wrist. One of them fell and slid across the floor, knocking over chairs. The man fell quietly, just a tiny grunt. Another jumped up on his back, legs wrapped around his stomach, arms locked around his head, face pressed against his cheek, a woman. He grabbed her arm and pulled hard, yanking her up over his shoulder. She slid up his back, then twisted free of his grasp. She had an angular face, a Vintlander perhaps, knives strapped to her belt but none of them drawn.

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A man charged into his side. He lost his footing, slammed against the bed. Something heavy crunched into his head from behind.

Everything went dim and slow.

His arms were being pulled up behind him. His face was pressed against one of Esten's blankets. He could see every fibre, every tiny hair moving in the slight breeze from the door. Then, he was dragged to his feet.

"Fen!" he tried to cry out. He had to get to her. There was something important he had to do. Something so very important. Again, something crunched into the back of his head, down at the base of the skull, where the muscles joined the neck. His legs wouldn't move, he couldn't see properly. His feet caught behind one another and tripped him. The men were dragging him towards the door.

The Vintland girl had something sharp pressed into his side. He stumbled as they hauled him out of the Rook, out into the light.

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Fen crouched in the grass, listening to the crashes from the Rook. No one could beat Llandred. These men were only commoners. Llan would make short work of them, then he would come get her and she would hold him and tease him about something, and they would all drink honey wine.

The amber stalks swished and swayed and tickled her nose. An iridescent beetle clung there, swinging like a metronome, side to side, side to side.

The black door slammed open on its hinges, sending a shower of dust tumbling down from the carvings above it. Black-clad figures emerged from the darkness, hauling Llandred. He was kicking and struggling like a Midwinter pig on the killing block, but his movements were jerky and uncoordinated. One foot caught behind the other, and he fell.

A maggoty man with a greasy moustache followed behind. She watched him raise his club, drifting up as though in a dream, smashing down against the back of Llandred's skull. Llan lolled forward, eyes open, unfocused.

"No," she whispered, and she knew she should run screaming at them with her dagger, but her body wouldn't move. The hand gripping the blade was not her own. It shook. Her body was a cold, frozen lump.

The kitchen door crashed open. A cry of "Erin!" rang out. Seskie, the gardener, stood before the Caer Llandrel, a white cloak hanging from her bony shoulders. She carried two shining blades, one thin and long and the other short and broad. Fat old Gwyn bustled out after her, wearing a breastplate. She carried a shield and a long white dagger.

Fen had never seen the servants armoured before. They looked strangely comfortable in the white plates and mail. They held their weapons confidently. Mother had told her that they had once been something in the old country before they had fled away. They were old, but with the flowing cloaks, they looked impressive.

"For Erin!" howled Seskie again, crashing her swords together. Fen had never heard her shout before, but she sounded like she knew what she was doing. Her swords were bright, and her white cloak shone in the sunshine.

Grandfather's men took note. They spread out in a semi-circle around the two old women, billy clubs held out to the side.

Fen was watching Seskie, but Gwynn charged first, head down, heavy as a bull, she was not quick but she made up for it in weight. The leather-clad men backed away from her. Her blade rang against her shield. Seskie stayed behind, guarding her rear. Back to back, they stood in the ring of men, turning slowly, blades up.

A tall blonde man with floppy hair jogged up, calling directions to his men, keeping everything contained. Seskie twirled her long sword.

Everyone moved at once. Gwynn lunged forward, slashing with the long sword, pushing with the shield. Seskie brought her sword round in a quick swinging blow that made the wind whistle. The men scattered before her. Still, the tall blonde man stood back, watching.

The greasy fellow with a thin black moustache strolled over from the Rook. He was smiling as though it were some sort of game. Gwynn and Seskie were fighting well, couldn't he see it? He was acting as though it were all a big joke. He pulled a knife from his boot, watching the fighters, tossing his knife from one hand to the other, weighing it, then casually hurled it into Seskie's back. There was the smallest of sounds, like a spade digging into fresh earth. The old woman stood very still. Then her eyes went glassy, and she fell.

"No," Fen whispered. Her arms were trembling. "No." She tried to grip her dagger, but her fingers were numb.

The circle of men tightened around Gwynn. She turned, trying to keep them all in view. One dashed up behind her, his club raised high, then it smashed down on Gwynn's old head.

"No!" Screamed Fen, and she was on her feet, running at them. Somehow, she got her knife out. She picked a dark figure at random and sprinted towards him, breath in her ears, feet quiet in the grass. He turned as she came, but he was slow. She held the knife with two hands, gripping the blade as well as the handle, feeling the sharpness and wetness of her own blood running down her fingers. He started to say something. She didn't stop. She rammed her white blade up into him, up through the soft flesh under his ribs. Her knuckles sank into him. He made a small sound like a sigh. As he bent over, he came face to face with her.

He was old. Just an ordinary old man, like any other with crinkles around his hazel eyes. He smiled at her and the crinkles creased up a little. His hand came up and touched her on the shoulder.

"Good girl," he whispered. "Not your fault."

She felt the breath sigh out of him. Then his face went blank, and he fell towards her.

Her knife was still stuck in his body, but he was lying face down, and it was underneath him. She yanked at it, trying to roll him, putting her feet on his chest and pulling, but someone had her by the hair and someone else had her by the arms. She let go of the knife and made a globe of fire pop into life between her hands. Someone smacked her from behind and the globe winked out again.

Then, she was being dragged by her hair across the lawn. She reached behind her head, trying to get hold of her hair. She scrambled with her feet, desperate to get them under her. The grass caught at her heels. She flailed behind with her nails, trying to scratch someone. Then she was lifted. Her arms were pinned by her sides. Someone yanked her head back. She kicked out and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. Something smashed into her head again, and she saw stars.

The world sang. As if in a dream, she watched a huge, scarred brute hauling mother from the house. She was twisting in his arms, snarling and biting, but the massive scarred man paid her no attention. He was matter-of-fact, like Seskie taking a rabbit to the block.

Another big man had Old Gwynn. He had her arm twisted up behind her back. Her blade and shield were gone, though she still wore her cloak and breastplate. She looked foolish now. Old. A fat old woman playing dress up. How had she ever looked otherwise? She was bent over almost double with the way the man was yanking her arm up.

Where was Esten? Maybe he was hiding. She hoped he had got away safely.

A small group of men were dragging Llan. His arms were bound. He was spitting and cursing them under his breath.

"Death knows my name," she whispered. "My name is known by Death. Death knows my name."