Authors: David Wingrove
It could have been worse. Corrupt as many of Branagh’s officials were, there was a limit to their greed. They knew precisely what they could get away with, and with whom.
For the last mile or so Tom had dozed off again, and Jake had been left to his thoughts. He had been musing about what Tom had said the previous day. About how they had ‘got off
light’. It wasn’t true. Frank Goodman wasn’t the only one who had lost a brother. There was barely a family who had
not
lost sons or brothers, or who had had wives or
daughters raped or beaten. Added to which there had been deaths from disease and accident and all manner of misfortunes. All in all, it had been a hard life these past twenty-odd years. Harder than
he could ever have imagined. And yet rewarding, too, compared to the life he’d had.
Jake sighed. As ever, he shied away from thinking about all that. It was better to think about the present. Better to live life in the now.
They had stayed up late last night, talking to the locals. Wool itself had been attacked twice in recent months, the last time only a week or so ago. From the sound of it, it was the same bunch
of rogues they had encountered in the woods, but that news was far from good. The party they’d dealt with was, it seemed, part of a much larger, marauding band, some forty or fifty in number.
It was only because Wool’s defences were so good that they’d not been overrun. That and the fact that, like their friends from Corfe, they had the better weapons.
He wasn’t expecting the raiders to try again just yet. The two who’d got away would have told the others just what they might expect, and he’d have been surprised if
they’d come back for more. Not only that, but this part of the county was well patrolled.
If they
were
going to try again it would be on the way home, tomorrow.
Unless…
Unless they’ve gone to try their luck against Corfe itself.
The thought had formed in his mind last night and, concerned that he might just be right, he had paid the landlord a crown to send one of his boys back to Corfe that very evening, to warn them
to take care, and to give them the news about Tom.
He had written a note to Mary, for the boy to deliver, telling her not to worry; that Tom’s injury was a scratch and that they were taking good care of him, signing it simply, ‘From
your good friend, Jake’, nothing more.
Tom himself had had a reasonably good night. Thanks to the tablets and the earlier dose of morphine he had slept like a log and woken refreshed, with a far better colour. The doctor had come
just before they’d left to check the wound and bind it again for the journey, expressing his satisfaction with the way it was healing. But Jake was still worried. He couldn’t help it.
He had seen it too many times: how a simple wound could kill a man in days from gangrene or blood poisoning. It was one of the big disadvantages of living in a post-technological age. That said,
there was a hospital in Dorchester, and a good one at that, and Jake was determined to get Tom looked at just as soon as he could. Doc Padgett was a good man, but he was no expert.
Another mile had fallen behind them. The tiny hamlet of Warmwell was to their right now. Ahead, about a mile and a half further on, was Broadmayne, where the first of the watchtowers that
encircled Dorchester stood. A couple of miles beyond that, was the town itself.
It was as they passed the village of Conygar, where the ancient pylons lay, fallen and rusting in the fields to either side, that they met their first patrol. Six men on horseback, led by their
‘boss’, a big, muscular man by the name of Hewitt, who had been their guest at Church Knowle many a time.
Ted Gifford slowed the ponies and brought them to a stop. Seeing who it was, Hewitt gave the signal to his men to wait, then climbed down and came across.
‘Hey up there, me lads… how’s things?’
They gathered about Hewitt, letting Jake do their talking.
Noticing Tom, Hewitt asked Jake what had happened.
‘We ran into a raiding party. Sixteen strong. We killed fourteen of them. Built a pyre of their bodies back on the roadside near West Holme. Tom got hit late. We thought we’d got
them all, but three of them was hiding further back.’
‘I saw to one of those buggers,’ Frank Goodman said, and laughed.
Hewitt was grinning. ‘Fuckin’ good news, lads. Fourteen dead, eh?’
Jake nodded. ‘Yeah. Only they were part of a much larger group that attacked Wool a week or so back. The villagers fought them off – gave them what for, by all accounts – but
there’s still thirty or more unaccounted for.’
Hewitt’s smile had gone. ‘Thirty, eh? And well armed?’
Jake shook his head. ‘They’re just kids. Teenagers. Shanty-dwellers, by the look of it. Though what they’re doing this far west this late in the year I don’t
know.’
‘No…’ Hewitt stroked his beard thoughtfully. This was unwelcome news.
‘I saw another lot,’ Jake said. ‘Up on the Wareham road, two days back. A ragged bunch of miscreants. Five adults and three kids. They looked hungry.’
Hewitt nodded, chewing over this new information. Then, as if confiding to them, he leaned closer, lowering his voice.
‘A word of warning, gentlemen. You’re going to market, I can see. Well, bear in mind that things ’ave changed since you were here last. It’ll cost more. A lot
more.’
There were murmurs of discontent among the men at that.
‘What do you mean?’ Jake asked. ‘How much more?’
‘Prices ’ave gone up, that’s all I’m sayin’. You’ll see for yerself and, I hope, ask more for your own produce. No one’s gonna do you no favours, I warn
you. Bad times are comin’, me boys. Bad times.’
Bad times, eh?
Jake thought, once the patrol had gone and they were on the move again.
But why?
Hewitt’s warning concerned him. He had been counting on having enough to pay for Tom’s hospital treatment. It would have been a bit of a scrape even as it was, but if prices had gone
up it might prove difficult.
As a one-time futures broker, he knew instinctively what such things meant.
Trouble. We’re heading full speed into trouble. And the first thing that happens is that things get more expensive. It’s the first sign.
Yes. But what
kind
of trouble?
The answer, most likely, was up ahead, in the taverns of Dorchester. Someone there would know. Someone would have word of what was going on.
The old county capital was directly ahead of them now on the road, some three miles distant to the north-west, its wooden, pallisaded walls coming slowly into view across the meadows. The
ancient Bronze Age mound of Maiden Castle was visible, too, a mile away to the south-west, the stone walls of Branagh’s ‘palace’ sat atop its lush green slopes.
This had been the centre of government for three, maybe four thousand years; a fortress town, bounded by the River Frome to the north. When the Romans came in 43 ad, they had conquered the
surrounding lands and built a wooden fort here – turning the area into what was basically a frontier town. Durnovaria, they had called it, back then. In the next two centuries they’d
expanded their little hilltop fort into a proper town with buildings made of stone – a forum, a marketplace, public baths, and the great houses of the rich. They had built an amphitheatre,
too, and a great aqueduct to the west of the town. By the fourth century the wooden pallisade had been replaced by walls of stone. But the Romans had come and gone, their towns, including
Durnovaria, burned down and plundered by the invading Saxons. In time Arthur had built his Wessex here. Arthur, King of the Britons. It had a ring to it that ‘Branagh, King of Wessex’
had never quite acquired, perhaps because Branagh – in his sixties now – had been a salesman before the Collapse.
The thought of it made Jake smile.
‘Penny for ’em,’ Tom said, leaning up a little on his pallet.
Jake looked to him. ‘It’s nothing. I was just thinking about the history of this place. How’re you feeling?’
‘Not bad. It aches, but…’ He made to touch his shoulder, but Jake reached across and tapped his hand, like he would a child.
‘Leave it be.’
‘Where are we?’
‘An hour short. Broadmayne’s coming up.’
He said nothing about meeting the patrol. Nothing about what they’d learned last night in Wool, or of what Hewitt had said. He didn’t want Tom to worry. Didn’t want anything to
get in the way of him getting better. As for what it’d cost to get him seen to at the hospital, he’d have to do what he could.
‘You know what I was thinking, Jake?’
‘Go on…’
‘I was thinking I might get something… for Mary and the girls. Some little trinkets. There was a stall last time…’
Jake smiled. ‘I was going to look there myself. The woman with the funny eye. Becky, I think her name is…’
‘With the funny eye…’ Tom laughed; the first time he’d laughed in days, only laughing hurt him.
‘Oh damn… Now it’s weepin’ again…’
‘We’ll soon be there, don’t worry.’
Jake smiled reassuringly as he said it. Only he
did
worry. He couldn’t help it. If Tom got ill – badly ill – how would he explain it to Mary?
‘You’re going to be fine. I’m going to make sure of it, okay?’
Tom looked back at him with gratitude. ‘Okay,’ he said softly, then closed his eyes. ‘Just wake me when we’re there.’
They had dropped off their goods at McKenzie’s storage warehouse, parked the wagons and stabled the ponies. Now, while Frank Goodman saw to the dogs, Ted and Eddie went
off to see what they could get for their produce.
Hewitt had been right. Everything was much more expensive. The gate fee – levied on each wagon, cart and sled – had doubled. Similarly their stabling fee had risen, if not by quite
so much. And from what they had glimpsed of prices in the market itself, they were going to have to skimp on one or two items.
But not on Tom, Jake decided, as he helped his friend down the long side alley that led to the hospital. He was going to make sure Tom got the best treatment he could while they were there, even
if it meant skimping on luxuries like tea and coffee.
‘You mustn’t fuss so much,’ Tom protested. ‘I’m fine. It’ll heal of itself.’
‘Maybe,’ Jake answered. ‘But I’m not taking any chances. Besides, it would be a false economy. What would Mary say if you were ill for a long time? How would she cope?
No, Tom. They need you.’
Tom looked down at that. His silence seemed significant, but Jake didn’t know why.
‘Look… we’ll get you checked out. Make sure you’re okay, right? Then we’ll go to that stall we were talking about. Buy your girls something nice.’
Tom looked up again and smiled. ‘You think we can afford it?’
‘Who knows? Maybe we’ll use some of that money Jack Hamilton gave us to get him a bride.’
Tom looked askance at him. ‘But Jake…’
Jake grinned. ‘I’m only joking. I wouldn’t think of it. But if there’s some over… Well, we could repay him later. Jack wouldn’t mind.’
Tom considered that, then shrugged. ‘I guess…’
They emerged out into a busy square. Just across from them was the front entrance of the old building where the hospital was housed. The real hospital had been burned down in an earlier
campaign, and they had utilized this old factory instead. It was far from perfect, but it was better than nothing.
Being a market day, they had to wait some while, but then they were ushered through into a cubicle. A moment later a young doctor appeared, dressed in a long white coat and holding a
clipboard.
‘Right, gentlemen, I…’ Only, seeing Tom he fell quiet. ‘Ah… I thought…’
‘I’ve been wounded,’ Tom said, speaking over the young doctor, as if to prevent the man from saying anything more. ‘The bullet went clean through my shoulder. Missed the
bone. It’s been cleaned and bandaged, but we need to make sure it’s not infected.’
Jake looked from one to the other. It wasn’t even as if the man had introduced himself. But he knew, for a certainty, that Tom knew the young doctor and the doctor knew Tom. Only how?
He watched as the doctor removed the bandage and studied the wound. It looked less bruised now, less swollen, and after cleaning and bandaging it again, the young man looked to Tom and
smiled.
‘It looks fine, Mister Hubbard. Whoever cleaned it up did a good job.’
‘That’s Doc Padgett of Wool,’ Jake said, his curiosity burning now. He wanted to ask what was going on, but Tom seemed keen to get away, now that he’d done what Jake had
asked.
‘Do you need any painkillers?’
‘No,’ Jake answered. ‘I think we’re fine.’
‘Okay…’ It was as if the doctor had a query on his lips, only he wasn’t going to ask it. Not while Jake was there, anyway.
Tom stood. ‘So what do I owe you?’
The young man drew in a long breath. ‘We’ll call it five crowns, yes?’
Five crowns!
Jake narrowed his eyes. What was going on? He’d expected to pay ten at the very least, maybe as much as twenty.
Tom counted five large coins out into the young doctor’s hand, then gave him a nod.
‘Thanks.’
Outside, in the street, Jake made Tom round to face him.
‘What’s going on?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘That doctor. He
knew
you. He’d met you before.’
‘Yeah, well…’
‘Go on… I’m dying to know.’
Tom looked away, unable, it seemed, to meet Jake’s eyes. ‘Last time we were here. I… I came to see him. I had a problem, see.’
‘A problem?’ And then it dawned on him what Tom was saying. ‘You mean…?’
Tom nodded. ‘It must have been the time before that. I saw a girl, here. You know…’
‘At Flynn’s?’
Again he nodded; only there was a look of shame in his face now. ‘I… I got a rash.’
‘Christ, Tom… Those places…’
‘I know…’ Tom glanced at him, then looked away again. ‘Worst part was telling Mary.’
‘You
told
her?’ Somehow that shocked him.
Tom nodded. ‘Had to. Wouldn’t have been fair not to. Didn’t want to give her what I had, did I?’
‘And now? Are you all right now?’
‘Yeah. He gave me something for it. Some cream and some tablets. I…’