Redemption Page 13

to sell; baskets of vegetables or flowers in the arms of some, while others brought goods that they had made by hand, sewn, woven or hammered together.

  It wasn't long before the first of the buildings that edged the village came into view. They were mainly rough farm houses; board-built buildings lacking any particular features other than a door or perhaps a window or two, but nonetheless they seemed functional and no doubt weatherproof to all but the most vicious of storms. The first dwelling he came across stood in a yard of sorts, bounded by rough wooden fencing, rotten in places. Within the yard roamed chickens of varying colours picking their way around their surrounds and looking for sustenance. A large red-combed cockerel strutted around the yard, prince of all he surveyed.

  A little further along, and chewing frantically as it eyed him with suspicion, posed a rough-coated brown and white billy goat, sawn horns on its head and belligerent look on its face. Winterburne had never liked goats; their key-slot eyes and intelligent thinking made him feel distinctly uncomfortable and many times it had struck him that there was something most unnatural about them. And, he thought, this particular beast looked like a bad bugger. He wasn't sure why he had always felt that way about the creatures, it had been so for as long as he could remember, but it might have been something to do with the severe butting he'd received from a particular nasty piece of work that he had come across while apple scrumping as a child. This one looked on, evaluating him, working him out no doubt, and he found himself glad that it was on the other side of the fence.

  The road weaved on, past more similar dwellings and farmhouses, until finally it finished in what looked like the Emlyn equivalent of the town square. People mingled in and around the clearing, passing to and fro across the muddy expanse. Most of them were making their way to the far side of the village where, he remembered, the market would be set up at its edge. Villagers eyed him as he passed, sideways glances shot towards him as he made his way into the hamlet accompanied by glares and frowns and whispers. Most likely none of them would remember him, he guessed, but the appearance of a stranger in their midst was enough to generate such behaviour in most normal folk within the walls of Highport, so why would Emlyn be any different. At least, that's what he hoped.

  Away to the right of the square sat the tavern, and out front had been fitted a pole to which two horses had already been secured, their owners, most likely, inside and partaking of the hospitality. Winterburne aimed his beast towards the building. That should be as good a place as any to start a visit, he decided.

  As he arrived, he climbed down from the horse and tied the leather reins to the pole. Looking around him, he sensed that he was still the subject of stares and comments from the people around the place but he ignored the feeling of unease that came with the glances. He was not in Highport now, he reminded himself, there was nothing personal about the actions, and he would certainly not be in danger, he considered. The doors to the tavern had been thrown open to the street. He smirked as he looked up and saw the familiar hanging sign denoting the name of the establishment: The Wild Boar.

  Compared to the brightness of the exterior, the inside of the tavern was dark and dingy, and it took his eyes several seconds to become accustomed to the gloom. Tables lined the room, and it struck him that the place looked more like a barn with furniture and a bar, rather than a purpose-built drinking-hole. The men seated at the tables - and they were all men, he noticed - looked up from their tankards of ale and stopped talking as he entered, following him across the room with their eyes. The bar-keep wiped the surface of the counter with his cloth, and he eyed Winterburne suspiciously as he approached.

  'What can I get you, friend?' the bar-keep asked.

  The man was stocky but not fat, and his dark hair and clean-shaven face topped off the package.

  'What do you recommend?' Winterburne asked, looking around.

  The watchers were still staring across the room, and it was obvious that one or two of them were talking about him, although as he looked in their direction they turned their heads away.

  'The mead always sells well,' the man replied, and reached down to a shelf below the bar to bring out a mug.

  'That sounds good.' Winterburne pulled some coins out of his purse and placed them down.

  The bar-keep turned behind him and reached down to pull the tap on a barrel, holding the mug below it. The sound of the pouring liquid reminded Winterburne of his thirst and he licked his lips as he waited for the home-made brew. The man placed the mug on the bar and took the money, slipping it into his apron.

  'You seem a little familiar, friend,' he said.

  'You think so?'

  'Have you been here afore?' The bar-keep squinted as he looked Winterburne up and down.

  'I used to live around here,' Winterburne replied, 'but I've been away for some time.' He lifted the tankard to his lips and supped the liquid. He had to concede that it did taste good.

  'I can't quite place you though,' the man added. 'What did you say your name is?'

  'I didn't.'

  Then, the bar-keep's eyes widened as his memory provided him with an answer to his question. 'My Lord,' the bar-keep said, 'please forgive me. If I'd have realised. Here,' he said, reaching into the pocket of his apron, 'I cannot take these coins from you.'

  Winterburne held up his hand. 'I wouldn't hear of it,' he said. 'Every man has a right to earn a fair price for his labours. Put them away.'

  'Thank you, My Lord.' The man looked nervous, but nonetheless returned the coins to his apron quick enough. 'If there's anything I can do, just let me know.'

  'I will,' Winterburne said, nodding at the man.

  He turned and made his way across to one of the empty tables at the end of the room where no locals had collected, and he pulled out a bench, lowering himself down to sit.

  As he watched the patrons around the room he could see that he had now ceased to be the centre of attention as they went back to their discussions. He had obviously passed the test of the barman, he thought. Some now laughed, others thumped the table in response to a joke's punchline, whilst one or two seemed to be trying to drown their worries. A few more locals arrived as he watched; evidently the owner must see a good trade on market days.

  The door opened and a group of five or so men walked through. They were accompanied by a young woman, perhaps of nineteen or twenty years of age at a guess. She had a haggard look on her face and the lead man in the group had his arm around her shoulder as he spoke some words into her ear. Winterburne could not hear from where he was seated, but they seemed to be words of comfort before the man broke away and made his way to the bar where he leaned over to the bar-keep and said something. The man behind the bar nodded and the leader of the group pulled a stool away from a table.

  Climbing up onto the stool, the man looked around the room at the assembled patrons. He cleared his throat, trying to attract the attention of everyone.

  'Listen up!' he shouted, as he waited for the men to turn in their seats. He looked down at the young woman, a comforting smile crossing his face, then he returned his gaze back to the watchers. 'I said, listen up!'

  'Get on with it, man,' someone heckled from the side and a few of the others laughed.

  'Alright!' the man replied. 'Listen! You all know Ham,' he said, 'and you all know his daughter here.' The man pointed down at the woman. She looked up at the speaker and then around the faces of the men in the bar, a forced smile on her face. 'They both belong to this village, and as you all know, they are one of us.'

  'Here! Here!' a voice replied from the side, others thumped the table repeatedly with their fists.

  The man motioned with his hands, encouraging the people to settle down again. 'As you all know, Ham has been unwell for some time and has been struggling on his farm of late.'

  A murmur rose from the crowd.

  'His fields are unploughed, and he is in danger of missing the last of the growing season if his crops are not planted soon.'

  Again, the
murmurs grew louder.

  'And we look after our own don't we?'

  'Aye,' the crowd called out, some raising their tankards in the air.

  'So, down to business, then!' he said. 'I'm seeking volunteers! Who in the room can help Ham and his daughter plough and plant their fields?'

  There seemed to be a distinct lack of interest at the request, and no one raised their hand.

  'Come on!' the man called out. 'There must be someone that has the time to help out this good family.' The man looked around the room, and several faces turned back to their tables. 'There's a drink in it for you.'

  There were still no replies.

  Winterburne had seen enough and stood, edging his way out from behind his table, pushing his way through the crowd that had formed. As he reached the front, he looked up at the man.

  'I do not know Ham,' he said, raising his voice, 'or his good daughter here, but if there is anything that I can do to help then they can depend on me.'

  The man looked down at him and smiled. 'Well thank you, friend,' he said. 'I do not know you, but this good man and his daughter could very much use the help.' He looked around the crowd, as more and more of the patrons turned away. 'We have our first volunteer,' he said. 'Are there any more?'

  The man looked down at Winterburne again.

  'Do you have a name, friend?'

  'I do.'

  'So,' the man replied, 'are you going to share it with us so