South of the Thames in Southwark
The fist cameflying at Gart but, with his catlike agility, he was able to dodge it. Instead, it hit the man behind him, who went sailing back onto the railing of the staircase. Rickety old wood that had seen far too much use and not enough maintenance creaked, groaned, and finally gave way under the weight. Everything splintered and the hapless tavern patron fell back in a heap of rotted wood and embarrassment.
Gart didn’t stop to help the man because fists and weapons were now coming forth at his expense. They were after him and his three companions, one of which had the propensity of getting fights like this started. Battles were never far off when Achilles de Dere was around because, inevitably, the sometimes tactless and always bold knight would say or do something that triggered an explosion of aggression.
Like now.
Now, they were in the thick of it.
“Behind you!” Gart shouted to Achilles.
The enormous knight was wise enough to throw himself forward, down and away from whatever Forbes was warning him about. It turned out to be a man with a broadsword who sliced it over Achilles’ head, barely missing the man.
Infuriated, Achilles regained his footing and lashed out a big boot, catching his attacker in the belly. With a grunt, the man fell backwards and Achilles went after him, all fists and fury. Gart shoved away another accoster by the face, nearly breaking the man’s neck, as a big blond knight ended up beside him.
“Now what?” Kress de Rhydian asked, elbowing a man in the nose who came too close to him. “How in the hell did this get started? My back was turned on a game of chance and suddenly Achilles is standing up, throwing a man across the room.”
Gart grunted, unhappy, as he watched Achilles pound a big, well-dressed merchant in the face. “He was speaking with that man’s daughter,” he said, pointing to Achilles and his victim.
Kress scowled at the pair. “The man currently being beaten within an inch of his life?”
“Aye, the same.”
Kress shook his head, exasperated. “Was he foolish enough to throw a punch at Achilles?”
Gart sighed. “He ordered one of his men to do it,” he replied, “and the rest is as you see. Utter chaos.”
Kress’ jaw ticked as he watched Achilles kick the half-conscious merchant aside when one of the man’s guards hit him across the shoulders with a chair. The chair splintered but Achilles did not; it simply made him madder. It was like pulling the tail of the bull.
“Christ,” Kress hissed. “We must remove him from this place before the entire tavern is turned on end. You know how he can be.”
“Aye, I know how he can be.”
“He will destroy everything in his path.”
“He will, indeed.”
Kress began looking around for the fourth man in their party, spying him over near the hearth in what appeared to be an oddly peaceful conversation with an older man, perhaps a traveler or merchant of some kind. In the midst of the chaotic room, the quiet conversation seemed out of place.
“Look at Max,” Kress said, pointing to their companion at the other end of the rumbling room. “He does not have a care in this world.”
Gart spied their companion as well. “He certainly is not afraid of conversation,” he replied. “He has done this ever since we left Baux, speaking with strangers in taverns, on the road, in churches… I have never known Maxton of Loxbeare to be so interested in the rabble of the world. Now, instead of helping Achilles, he is casually conversing.”
Kress’ blue-eyed gaze lingered on Maxton as the man lifted his hands to emphasize a point, chatting away. Kress opened his mouth to reply but another victim of Achilles’ rage stumbled past him, almost bashing into him, and Kress angrily pushed the man away, right back into Achilles’ orbit, where he was subsequently pummeled to the ground. Kress then continued his conversation with Forbes as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
“Max was oddly quiet during our time in captivity,” he told Gart. “Do you recall that I mentioned this to you? He rarely spoke and when he did, it was oddly philosophical, like the man was reliving his life and trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. Do you see these people he speaks with? Merchants, holy men, anyone who seems intelligent or well-read. Somehow, someway, Max is rethinking the sins of his life. It is my opinion that now that we are free, he believes he has a second chance to right the wrongs he has committed.”
Gart’s focus was also lingering on Maxton off in the corner of the smelly, smoky, and noisy room. “He cannot change his life,” he said. “He cannot erase the past and the man is known for the strength of his sins as well as the strength of his accomplishments. The Marshal has a task for the three of you and Max is an important part of that equation. Has he mentioned to you that he does not wish to agree to The Marshal’s terms?”
Kress shook his head. “He has not mentioned anything to me,” he replied. “But, then again, we do not know all of it. Mayhap when we do, he shall voice his resistance.”
“If he does, then William Marshal will send him back to the Lords of Baux, not to mention what Eleanor will do to him when she discovers her money has been wasted.”
“I would fear Eleanor more than William.”
“As would I.”
Achilles, now bored with his fight because every man involved in it was either unconscious or fleeing, rubbed at his bruised knuckles as he made his way back over to Kress and Gart. There were at least a dozen men picking themselves off of the tavern’s dirt floor. But when Achilles de Dere was involved in a fight, that was the normal aftermath. Achilles had no problem single-handedly taking on more men than he could count on his fingers and toes, or at least he boasted that fact. He was mostly right and no one had the courage to argue with him. A fight with Achilles de Dere was a difficult fight to win.
