Weekend Wind Down – A Bad Mistake

England, September 1642.
The King has raised his standard in Nottingham to summon those loyal to the crown to fight for him against his own Parliament.
Gideon Lennox, a lawyer from London, accepts the job of delivering a message to the brutal and enigmatic mercenary commander, Philip Lord. However, he has no idea about the dangerous world he is about to step into…

The moment he entered the alehouse Gideon Lennox knew he had made a mistake.
The air was thick with smoke as the hearth had a poorly set chimney. Mingled into the smoke was the flat malt scent of cheap ale, the reek of crude tobacco and rancid mutton from the spluttering rushlights. Beneath it all was the human taint of sweat, vomit and piss.
Chatter and laughter faded as he opened the door. By the time he took a pace within, every head turned in his direction. He became acutely aware of how his lawyer’s clothing must make him appear in a place like this.
If things had gone as planned, he would have been here in daylight, but his mare had a loose shoe and he had wasted a couple of hours finding a farrier to restore it. If he hadn’t been running out of time to fulfil his commission, he might have chosen the wiser course of seeking a respectable inn overnight, rather than chancing his fortune here after dark.
Patches of light punctuated the gloom but showed no one who matched the description of his quarry: It is a simple task. You will know him when you find him. He is distinctive. White hair, hook nose and eyes that the ladies would pluck to set into rings if they could.
The room was silent. Cheerful conversation replaced by hostile coldness. These were unsettled times and the rule of law was far from secure—especially here where the sons and grandsons of border reivers had never fully neglected their violent heritage.
Gideon pretended not to notice. He continued forward, trying to draw reassurance from the length of steel he wore on his hip and trying not to recall the scathing comments of his fencing master regarding his ability to wield it. It was too late to regret allowing the man provided by his employer for his protection to wait outside.
A middle-aged woman emerged from the shadows with a jug of ale and a nearly toothless smile.
“How may I be of service, good sir?”
At least Gideon hoped that was what she said. The mix of dialect and missing teeth made for an accent so thick she could have been cursing him for all he knew. He mustered a return smile for her benefit and pitched his voice to carry to the whole room.
“I am making some enquiries, which will be both to my profit and that of your guests—so a drink for all here, if you please. Then if you have a private room, I will have my ale there and be glad to reward any man who may wish to bring me news of one called Philip Lord.”
He had expected the promise of free drink would take a little of the chill from the atmosphere. It usually did. But the woman stared at him and shook her head. Benches scraped as a number of the men stood up. Glancing around, Gideon realised belatedly it was a long way back to the door.
A man blocked his retreat. His muscles would have made a blacksmith weep, although no one would ever envy his face. ‘Homely’ was probably how his mother described him, but Gideon doubted the rest of the world would be that kind. At least not behind his back.
“Philip Lord?” echoed the gargoyle. “Not a name we’ve heard before in these parts. So you can be on your way.”
“Then you have done me a favour indeed,” Gideon said lightly, although his heart was thudding hard. “I can take my leave without wasting the time of any here. Thank you for that.”
He took an experimental step towards the door and its human barricade. The gargoyle showed no sign of moving. Instead, his facial expression shifted into something that might, on any normal face, have been a smile.
“But maybe your—uh—friend comes by one day. If you tell us your name, we could let him know you’re looking for him.”
“You’re too kind,” said Gideon, his mouth dry. It seemed foolish to think a London lawyer would get any consideration from such people. “You can say Sir Bartholomew Coupland wishes to speak with him.”
A hand with a grip like a manacle seized his wrist from behind and before he could react beyond a gasp, his sword vanished from its scabbard, and he was spun around. Off-balance, he staggered back into a solid wall of muscle, losing his hat in the process. A powerful forearm wedged under his chin. The gargoyle’s other huge hand gripped both Gideon’s wrists together behind his back.
The hostess picked up a rushlight. By the yellow flickering glow Gideon stared into a face framed by hair so pale it looked white. The face had gemstone-clear aquamarine eyes that held no trace of emotion as they studied Gideon from behind a finely shaped patrician nose.
Yes. This face was certainly distinctive. Distinctive in a manner that would have women turning to look twice and men wishing they could have a similar distinction. A moment later the face was transformed by a predatory smile of even, white teeth.
He was taller than Gideon himself. His body was well proportioned, and he carried himself as a man with full confidence in his own ability. Gideon placed him somewhere in his early to mid-thirties.
His clothing, by which so much about a man could generally be judged, was extravagant in cut, typical of the new breed of military man, returned from Europe at the first whiff of powder smoke. A pistol was stuck negligently into a broad crimson sash. On his left hip was a long-bladed sword, basket hilted, with a pommel that was curved on the top and had two small triangular points. It looked well used and cared for, the tool of a craftsman. Gideon’s own sword, though it had cost him a deep purse, was like a lady’s embroidery needle next to it.
Gideon needed no introduction to tell him that he had found Philip Lord. The realisation froze the blood in his veins.
“I would know your secret, Sir Bartholomew. It will make me more gold than the alchemists’ stone.”
His accent was northern English but subdued beneath educated southern tones, with traces from across Europe and the Mediterranean. As exotic as the immaculately groomed appearance of its owner.
“My s-secret?”
“The secret of regaining lost youth. Although I think most would prefer to keep their original face rather than find a stranger staring back at them from the mirror.” The chilling gaze flicked to the man holding Gideon. “But there might be those who would welcome the chance to be recast as someone new and start afresh. Eh, Thomson?”
Which earned some laughter. But Gideon stayed silent, his mind spinning with fear, trying to seek firm ground.
“Coupland sent you to find me,” Lord made it a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“What are you worth to him in one piece?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Just answer the question,” said the Gargoyle. The arm muscle at Gideon’s throat tightened making it harder for him to breathe.
“Thomson,” Lord said, his tone one of amused tolerance. “Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but let the man get some air beneath his ribs so he may speak.”
The pressure at his throat eased and Gideon gasped. The thick, alehouse atmosphere that invaded his lungs was as welcome as a spring breeze. Philip Lord moved closer, any trace of humour gone, his eyes as merciless as the North Sea in winter.
“Since you are clearly not Sir Bartholomew, who are you?”
“Gid—Gideon Lennox. I am a lawyer.”
At the slightest nod from Lord, Gideon found himself suddenly free and nearly collapsed to his knees at the abrupt release. A strong hand gripped his arm and steadied him, brief and impersonal.
“Thompson, tell Shiraz to deal with the man who was with him.”
A draught of clean air marked the opening of the door as the gargoyle left.
“Gentlemen,” Philip Lord made an elaborate gesture to include all within the room. “We have rehearsed the steps of this dance. Make ready.”
There was a swirl of purposeful movement as Gideon was steered towards the rear of the alehouse.

From The Mercenary’s Blade by Eleanor Swift-Hook – only 99p/c on Kindle. It is the first book in Lord’s Legacy, a six-book series set in the opening months of the First English Civil War.

Art by Ian Bristow.