The Viscount

A woman wielding a broom charged at them, looking as much like a witch as anyone Hadrian had ever seen. Matted black hair spilled down in brittle locks, leaving only one eye and the tip of her nose visible. The peasant skirt she wore hindered her escape from the thickets, and had enough rips and muddy stains that Hadrian was certain she had tripped on it more than once.

 “Stop! I need help!” she cried in desperation as if he and Royce had been racing down the road. In truth the two were riding their horses at a pace just slightly faster than a man could walk. Hadrian pulled his reins, halting while Royce continued for a bit before turning around with a curious look. Over the past year Hadrian had seen the expression often enough. He knew from experience that the puzzlement would turn to irritation as soon as his partner realized Hadrian was stopping to hear what the old woman wanted. Then would come the scowl. Hadrian was not certain what that meant—disappointment perhaps? Next, Royce’s eyes would roll with open contempt and then frustration would display itself in the form of folded arms. Finally anger would rise along with his cloak’s hood. Royce pulling up his hood was always a bad sign, like fur bristling on a wolf’s back. It was a warning and usually the only one anyone ever received.

“You must help me,” the old woman shouted as she plunged through the brush, climbing out of the ditch at the side of the road. “There’s a strange man in my barn, and I’m scared for my life.”

“Your barn?” Hadrian asked while looking over the woman’s head where no barn could be seen.

Royce and Hadrian had been traveling north on the Steward’s Road near the city of Colnora. All morning they had passed numerous farms and cottages, but they had not seen either for some time.

“My husband and I have a farm ’round this bend.” She pointed up the road.

“If you have a husband, why doesn’t he take care of the man?”

“Dear old Danny’s away. Went to Vernes to sell our spring lambs. Won’t be back for a month at least. The man in my barn is a drunken lunatic. He’s naked—violent and cursing. He’s probably been bit by a sick dog and now has the madness. I’m afraid to go near the barn, but I need to feed our livestock. I just don’t know what to do. I’m certain he’ll kill me if I set foot inside.”

“You’ve never seen him before?”

The woman shook her head. “If you help me, if you run him off my land, I’ll see that you get a fine meal for both you and your horses. I’ll even wrap up some extras to take with you. I’m a fine cook, I am.”

Hadrian dismounted and glanced at his friend.

“What are you doing?” Royce asked.

“It will only take a minute,” Hadrian replied.

Royce sighed. The sigh was new. “You don’t know this woman. This isn’t your problem.”

“I know that.”

“So why are you helping her?”

“Because that’s what people do. They help each other. If you saw a man lying in the road with an arrow in him, you’d stop, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” Royce replied, “anyone would. A wounded man is easy pickings, unless you could see from your saddle that someone else has already taken his purse.”

“What? No! No one would rob a wounded man and leave him to die.”

Royce nodded. “Well, no. You’re right. If he has a purse and you take it, it’s best to slit his throat afterward. Too many people live through arrow wounds, and you don’t want the bugger recovering and coming after you.”