Read Online The Bloody North (The Fallen Crown) by Tony Healey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tony Healey
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wind."
Rowan smile s. "I like that. To bend like corn in the wind. It's poetic."
"Yes ."
"Anyway, I have a few possessions I desire to have hidden. I need someone I can trust," Rowan sa ys. "I didn't think there was anyone more trustworthy than a man of the cloth. And no place safer than the house of God himself."
"Your reasoning is sound."
"So here is what I came here to say. I have two bags here, both contain money. One is for me, one is for the trustworthy individual who offers me assistance to do with what he pleases."
"And what do you require?"
"To hide my money," Rowan turns to the long shape covered in cloth. He lifts it, sets it across his knees. "And this."
Father Tasker nod s.
"The day may never come when I need this back. I sincerely hope it does n't. But I will require you to keep it safe and hidden, regardless."
"This is a house of the lord, my son. I cannot have that here."
"You have only to hide it," Rowan says. He shrugs. "Or I can take the second bag of money and find someone else. Though I'll always regret my first choice turned me down . . ."
Tasker r ises, offers his hand. "I will offer sanctuary to the instrument of your sins."
They sh ake hands. Rowan glances back up at the hole in the roof. "God works in mysterious ways, Father. I'm sure he will smile down upon you for making the right decision."
Tasker doesn't look convinced. "I am sure."
As Rowan walks away down the centre aisle he feels as though a weight has been lifted. It was not only his money and sword he's left in the hands of the priest, but the burden of his past, too. Everything he'd been before, tucked away. Left in the shadow of yesterday, just the way he wanted it.
He steps outside into the bright sunshine and can't help but smile, feel good about himself for once. It's almost like being reborn.
It's almost like being free.
Eleven
The shack sat at a crossroads. A low-slung affair built mostly from timber, with a slanting roof either skewed intentionally or the result of years of standing in bad weather.
The place looked sad, like a depressed person sat slumped in a chair. Rowan noted the horses stood out front, confined to a pen. No signs of others anywhere. Just the shack, a shelter for kindling, the horses out the front. A thin wisp of grey smoke wafting up from a tall chimney at the side of the structure.
Muffled screams came from inside, and Rowan's hand went straight to his short knife. He fully intended to go inside, in which case his sword would not do him much good. Rowan pulled the knife from his belt, held it at the ready and proceeded to open the door to the shack. Slowly, inch by inch. Careful not to make any noise. The sounds of struggle came louder and Rowan soon saw the cause. A gaunt man with hardly any hair on his head towered over a young woman. First glance, she might have been mistaken for a girl, but Rowan could see she was a young lady of minute dimensions.
She whimpered on her back on the floor as he stood over her and weighed a whip in his hands. It was a simple length of leather, but menacing enough when he shuffled it from one open palm to the other as he spoke.
"You see? You give me no choice you little bitch. I've gotta teach you a lesson. Show you the errors of your ways," he told her, unaware of Rowan behind him. Unaware of the eyes, narrowed slits of fury, watching the scene unfold. "One day you'll learn the proper respect for me. You'll appreciate what I've done for you, taking you in, giving you shelter, a fucking job . . ."
Rowan crept inside, into the light. The woman caught his movement, her terrified expression changed to hopeful. The man turned around, sensing the movement behind him. Rowan kicked the back of his legs.
He crumpled to the floor, pushed himself up in time for Rowan to land a hearty kick to his ribs. The blow sent him rolling to his other side, gasping for breath, face beetroot red.
"Filthy fucker," Rowan spat. "A woman about your mark, is she?"
"
Rowan smile s. "I like that. To bend like corn in the wind. It's poetic."
"Yes ."
"Anyway, I have a few possessions I desire to have hidden. I need someone I can trust," Rowan sa ys. "I didn't think there was anyone more trustworthy than a man of the cloth. And no place safer than the house of God himself."
"Your reasoning is sound."
"So here is what I came here to say. I have two bags here, both contain money. One is for me, one is for the trustworthy individual who offers me assistance to do with what he pleases."
"And what do you require?"
"To hide my money," Rowan turns to the long shape covered in cloth. He lifts it, sets it across his knees. "And this."
Father Tasker nod s.
"The day may never come when I need this back. I sincerely hope it does n't. But I will require you to keep it safe and hidden, regardless."
"This is a house of the lord, my son. I cannot have that here."
"You have only to hide it," Rowan says. He shrugs. "Or I can take the second bag of money and find someone else. Though I'll always regret my first choice turned me down . . ."
Tasker r ises, offers his hand. "I will offer sanctuary to the instrument of your sins."
They sh ake hands. Rowan glances back up at the hole in the roof. "God works in mysterious ways, Father. I'm sure he will smile down upon you for making the right decision."
Tasker doesn't look convinced. "I am sure."
As Rowan walks away down the centre aisle he feels as though a weight has been lifted. It was not only his money and sword he's left in the hands of the priest, but the burden of his past, too. Everything he'd been before, tucked away. Left in the shadow of yesterday, just the way he wanted it.
He steps outside into the bright sunshine and can't help but smile, feel good about himself for once. It's almost like being reborn.
It's almost like being free.
Eleven
The shack sat at a crossroads. A low-slung affair built mostly from timber, with a slanting roof either skewed intentionally or the result of years of standing in bad weather.
The place looked sad, like a depressed person sat slumped in a chair. Rowan noted the horses stood out front, confined to a pen. No signs of others anywhere. Just the shack, a shelter for kindling, the horses out the front. A thin wisp of grey smoke wafting up from a tall chimney at the side of the structure.
Muffled screams came from inside, and Rowan's hand went straight to his short knife. He fully intended to go inside, in which case his sword would not do him much good. Rowan pulled the knife from his belt, held it at the ready and proceeded to open the door to the shack. Slowly, inch by inch. Careful not to make any noise. The sounds of struggle came louder and Rowan soon saw the cause. A gaunt man with hardly any hair on his head towered over a young woman. First glance, she might have been mistaken for a girl, but Rowan could see she was a young lady of minute dimensions.
She whimpered on her back on the floor as he stood over her and weighed a whip in his hands. It was a simple length of leather, but menacing enough when he shuffled it from one open palm to the other as he spoke.
"You see? You give me no choice you little bitch. I've gotta teach you a lesson. Show you the errors of your ways," he told her, unaware of Rowan behind him. Unaware of the eyes, narrowed slits of fury, watching the scene unfold. "One day you'll learn the proper respect for me. You'll appreciate what I've done for you, taking you in, giving you shelter, a fucking job . . ."
Rowan crept inside, into the light. The woman caught his movement, her terrified expression changed to hopeful. The man turned around, sensing the movement behind him. Rowan kicked the back of his legs.
He crumpled to the floor, pushed himself up in time for Rowan to land a hearty kick to his ribs. The blow sent him rolling to his other side, gasping for breath, face beetroot red.
"Filthy fucker," Rowan spat. "A woman about your mark, is she?"
"
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