Goodman (3)

A Good Husband

“WOLF!” Tillo’s screaming still echoed in his ears. He wanted it to stop, but another part of him hoped it wouldn’t. Let it burn, that moment when he still believed his son was alive. He had run into the woods like a madman, the branches tearing through his tunic. Stabbing into his chest, legs, and arms. It would take weeks for it all to heal.

It would take less time for Agnelia’s practiced hands to mend his old woolen clothing.

But Clodoald was still alive, at least, at the time, he thought he was.

Now what remained of his son was buried beside an old tree. He had played by that old oak as a boy, and often sat beside it, thinking it was a good place for Clodoald to bury him when it was his time. It had never occurred to him…

Tonight, he kissed his wife goodbye, resting his forehead against hers and promising he’d return, even if it were dark. He walked to the stable and wrapped a rope around the necks of two calves. Barely full-grown, he didn’t know if they’d make it through the winter. Being slaughtered by the lord may save the few remaining animals he had.

It was a long walk to the lord’s manor house, an aging estate built from the old stones of a larger Roman Villa, long abandoned. He had grown up taking that walk, and it was often refreshing. The birds sang in the trees along the road. The cobblestones were looser and more worn than when he was a boy, walking with his father. Grass grew tall, and water had pushed aside the rocks at the edges. He would have to start teaching Tillo the route.

Tonight, the bird songs felt distant. The year had been hard on everyone. The fields produced little, and the forests suffered as well. Birds, rabbits, and other rodents were less plentiful. That was why the wolves pressed closer. They had less to eat.

Through the trees, all he could hear was the faint scratching of branches and a few distant songs. As the sun set, darkness crept in closer. The forest felt like a gaping maw, slowly closing in around him as he moved closer to the Argenteuil Manor. The hemp rope kept the cows close behind him. His walking stick was gripped tightly in the other hand.

He spit on the ground, stopping just beyond the manor’s walls.

He breathed deeply before passing through the old walls surrounding Lord Argenteuil’s estate. The walls remained from the original Roman villa. Surrounding the massive residence at the center were smaller homes, repurposed from the stones and timbers of old, for the Lord’s staff. Many pens for animals around the smaller homes stood empty, some with open gates. A faint metallic smell that reminded Sigemar of blood hung in the air.

He gripped his staff tightly, wishing he had something sharper on him. The great Lord’s residence was a tall, imposing building with lamps lit in the windows as the sun set. He could hear noise near the main hall and knew that was where he was expected to deliver the calves.

The hall was large and imposing, gray and pale in daylight, and a sharp, rigid structure at night.

In the darkness, shapes moved. Shuffling feet and familiar voices. Arduin and his estate’s attendants. He hears Boso’s voice, the miller who usually wouldn’t be here so late. And Theudilla, a widow who lived nearby. Her husband had been lost early in the spring. Usually, she kept her distance, far from everyone, and was a vocal critic of the nobility. He could hear her laughing.

She shouldn’t be here. It’s late.

Shadows and shapes moved in and out of the buildings. Sigemar’s heart pounded instinctively, his nerves on edge, and he felt like prey, being surrounded.

Get your money. Get home. It is late. He reminded himself. His eyes darted left and right. His steps took him to the open door of the Argenteuil manor. Yellow lanterns flickered like watchful eyes from the open door. Arduin’s tall, athletic figure stood near the entrance, giving directions to two figures.

Moving closer, the cobbled walkway grinding under his boots, Sigemar made out the figures, Wolfram, a stable boy, and his father, Hrodebert.

“Good evening, Lord Arduin,” Sigemar stops and bows his head, finally in front of the nobleman.

“Goodman Sigemar,” the silver clasp on his cloak glimmered faintly below his neck. A flicker of yellow was reflected in his eyes while he looked at Sigemar. “Welcome. I’m glad you made it.”

A cold chill rattled up his spine.

“As I’m sure you can imagine. We are starving.” Arduin takes the small bag from his pocket.

“Of course, my lord,” Sigemar said, bowing his head, walking forward to accept his coin.

Wolfram runs around Sigemar, taking the cord from him and leading the cows away.

The cows bellow frantically.

Pressure and shock pushed Sigemar forward. Looking back, he expected to see that his cows had kicked him.

The dark figures had moved, a writhing press of cloaked figures. Sharp knives butcher and flay the cows as they fall. Sigemar can’t make out the people. All he can see were bowed heads and flashing blades as meat is sliced and cut off the still-standing cows.

No one screamed. No one shouted.

But the cows bellowed and mooed, their hooves clopping on the ground, desperate to escape.

The knives flashed in perfect rhythm. Flesh peeled, steam rising from the torn muscle as they pushed the pieces into their hungry mouths.

Heat flowed from his back where he had been kicked. He tried to reach behind to touch it, but struggled to bend his arm. Hrodebert drew the knife from his back.

Sigemar choked on his words, blood bubbling up in his throat.

The cows collapse onto the ground while they are stripped of their meat—the slurping sound of raw flesh follows the last slow groaning sound of the beasts.

He settles onto the ground. His body was slowly collapsing under its weight. Darkness faded in and out with his pulse.

“That will be all, Goodman, thank you,” Arduin says calmly, standing over Sigemar.

His last thoughts were the warmth of his wife’s kiss on his cheek before he left, and Tillo screaming, ‘Wolf.’ The last thing he saw was Arduin’s boot silhouetted by the distant flicker of a lantern.

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