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The Plume and the Pistol (1)
Chapter One
When the rumbling stagecoach eased to
its final halt, the ruined manor had already eclipsed the twilight sun,
throwing a long shadow over the hamlet. Pierrepont stepped onto the sodden
earth, closing the carriage door behind him. The driver, in an obvious attempt
to avoid conversation with a known criminal, made a display of tending to the
exhausted horses. It had not been beneath the chauffer to accept an outlaw’s
coin, yet the man no doubt prized his own dignity.
Less
than a dozen wretched buildings huddled beside the cliffs, crumbling and
ramshackle, windows barred by planks of rotting wood, rooftops sagging and in
some places lacerated beyond viable repair. The nearest had the hallmarks of a
tavern, and indeed a sign hung above its front door, although the image once
emblazoned on it had faded beyond recognition. He turned the iron handle and
entered. There were only three tables inside, all unused except for the one
farthest into the corner, where a man sat slumped on a wooden bench, clad in
full plate mail. A helmet and broadsword lay discarded next to him, flecked
with dried blood. The smell was repugnant even from across the room. Pierrepont
ignored it and approached the bar, behind which stood the only other soul
present—a bawdy, greying man who was not shaken by the entrance of a stranger.
‘A
tall mug of ale,’ said the highwayman, then after glancing back at the forlorn figure
in the corner, ‘perhaps with a chaser.’
The
barkeep nodded and prepared a pair of beverages, dark as bark and with an aroma
that began to irritate Pierrepont’s eyes. Payment clattered on the counter.
‘What
happened?’ He spoke in a lower voice, indicating the tavern’s other patron with
a subtle turn of his neck.
‘He
didn’t say. Wouldn’t.’ The man sniffed, his thick moustache momentarily
ruffled. He looked away and began cleaning a used tankard.
‘He’s
here alone? I heard that others had travelled here, in response to the estate.’
‘There
were four of ‘em, yesterday. The woman—Theroulde I think her name was—she’s no
doubt sayin’ her prayers at the abbey. Drinkin’ ain’t for a vestal.’
‘What
about the others?’
The
sombre barkeep pointed at the tavern’s northern window, which afforded a narrow
view of the hamlet’s graveyard, overcrowded with tombstones. A wild-eyed, bespectacled
old gentleman was shovelling a plot. Pierrepont nodded, took a handle in each
hand, and walked over to the slouched soldier in the corner. When he sat down
and rested the drinks on the table top, the other man lifted his vacant gaze,
one eye twitching intermittently, traumatized by some internal malady. The
highwayman pushed one of the mugs across the musty board.
‘Whatever
your affliction is, sire, a drinking partner may mitigate it.’
‘I’ve
fought many battles. I’ve witnessed countless deaths. I… I wasn’t prepared for
this.’
‘Prepared
or no, I have it on good authority that what lies beyond offers rich reward.’
‘What
lies beyond… offers only… madness.’
There
was silence for a time. Eventually, the poor wretch reached for the handle,
shaking but successfully raising the vessel to his bloodless lips. It seemed to
calm him a notch, though his stare still failed to regard the room before him.
‘Madness
or not, it’s of no concern,’ said Pierrepont. ‘I’m ready for anything.’
