A Country Life

CHAPTER 3 - THOMAS

Thom focussed on his reflection in the window. What he saw depressed him. A man in his fifties, old now and in all probability within ten years of his death. Long once-black hair turned mostly grey, with a grey beard he kept trimmed and pointed beneath his chin. Unsmiling. A serious face for a serious person. The red sash he wore over his black coat as a mark of his rank gave a diagonal splash of colour to his reflection. He unconsciously reached up with his left hand and grasped the knot at his waist, tugging the sash straight.

Movement at the main gate caught his attention and he refocused his gaze. He saw the boy, Farron, enter the courtyard and walk slowly across, head down, the very image of abject misery. Thom had no wish to add to his distress, but the time had come to see if the boy could help clear up the mystery surrounding the attack on Sable. He turned, collecting his sword from its place by the door as he left.

Farron was just coming in through the courtyard doors when Thom reached the bottom step.

"Farron," he called. "Come with me, if you will." Farron paused for a moment and looked up the staircase, a wretched look on his face.

Probably just wants to go to bed, thought Thom, who knew Farron had not slept much the past two days. But I can't wait any longer. The body is starting to smell.

Farron nodded once, then turned to Thom. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"To the morgue. I would like you to examine the body of the... the assassin. I understand if you are upset by this request, but I believe it necessary and urgent. Have all the arrangements been made with respect to your father?"

"Yes, he's to be buried this afternoon."

"Hmm. I'm sorry for your loss Farron. He was a good man," said Thom.

"Thank you, sir. If you would wait a moment, I need to fetch some instruments."

"By all means," said Thom, who not for the first time was taken aback by the boys maturity. Farron was only fourteen, but his countenance often struck Thom as that of a man much older.

As he waited, Thom reflected on how Sable's death might affect Farron's place in the community. Sable had been Berkeley's Master Healer since almost the moment he'd arrived in the middle of a snowstorm nine years earlier. No-one ever knew where he had learned his skills, and why pry, when the advantages were so great to everyone who lived in the Protectorate? The fact that he had also arrived with the near-dead body of a plague-marked boy who he claimed was his son was overlooked once his skills had been demonstrated. Sable had been clever in his upbringing of Farron. Sable had known that unless Farron was of use to the people in the Protectorate, then his life would be forfeit. Old prejudices and tales of past troubles ran deep in parts of the community's collective memory, and the result was a deep distrust of anybody who looked different, no matter what the circumstances.

From the first, Sable had kept Farron beside him as his apprentice, teaching him as much as possible about the healing arts. In effect, Sable made Farron as indispensable as he was. By the time Farron was twelve, it didn't matter who you consulted if you were ill or injured – Sable and Farron were both as knowledgeable as each other. Remarkable for a boy who at five couldn't walk, speak or control his own bodily functions after the fever had left him. It was a pity so few people trusted the boy. Perhaps things would carry on as normal. Perhaps not. Thom would have to look out for signs of trouble from now on.

Farron returned carrying a wooden box that clinked with each step. Together they crossed to the main gate, out of the castle and towards the healing house. Instead of going inside, Thom led them both around to the rear, where another door led into two smaller rooms. The door was locked and Thom pulled a key from his tunic to let them in. He hadn't wanted anyone tampering with the body. It was as cold inside the rooms as it was outside, but even so the smell of decay inside the morgue – really more of a temporary store until a grave had been dug – was quite strong.