Solomon Kane (6 page)

The boy gazed deep into his eyes and saw no hint of mercy. His own face grew stiff with resignation, and he turned away to stride down the long room. Josiah’s voice pursued him. “I will cut you off,” it thundered.

The servants watched the boy covertly as they performed whatever tasks they could find. Kane thought he discerned sympathy on at least one face. Father Simnal took another pace towards the boy, but the hands that stretched forth from the long sleeves looked ineffectual now. “You will be a landless vagrant,” Josiah warned his son, and the priest made to put his hands together in some kind of prayer for Kane if not for obedience. “Is that what you want?” Josiah demanded.

His words seemed to shake the flames of the candelabras. Perhaps the boy’s flight did. He was set on his course now, and nothing could stop him. He had the sureness of youth – of knowing he was unappreciated and misunderstood. He strode into the corridor that led to the outer doors, but even here his father’s voice was at his back. “Walk out now,” it declared, “and you may never return.”

Kane knew this was true, and would have grasped his younger self by the shoulder to detain him if he could. The boy seized the rings set in the stout doors and twisted them, and a squeal of metal echoed through the corridor. “Do not defy me, Solomon,” Josiah cried.

His voice was overwhelmed by the rumble of timber as the boy flung the doors wide. They might have been the entrance to a furnace, because fire was waiting beyond them – waiting for Kane, who could no longer stay separate from his younger self. The fire streamed along the blade of the molten sword held by the hooded figure he recognised all too well. The sword had been raised high to greet him, and now it swept down. It seemed to part Kane from his consciousness – from everything he had been. For a moment, unless it was an eternity, there was only the absence of light, a void too total even to be described as darkness, and then Kane grew aware of a face hovering above him – an innocent face,
a young woman’s face. In that first instant he thought that, unworthy though he was, an angel had descended to earth to save him.

T
he world swayed around Kane as he regained consciousness once more, and at first he thought he was at the mercy of a storm at sea. Light flared above him, but it was not the blazing sword that awaited him at the end of every awful dream. It was weak sunlight, and his eyes flickered open to fasten on it. He was still being rocked from side to side by the vehicle that carried him, but there was no storm. He lay beneath a canvas roof, and above him he saw a young woman’s face.

He had seen it before, when he had struggled free of the dream of his banishment from Axmouth. The small delicate face was crowned by a white cap that might have been the garb of a nurse rather than the headgear of a Puritan. “Be calm, sir,” she murmured. “You are safe.”

Kane saw that they were not alone in the covered wagon. A boy was watching them, and now he parted the flaps at the back and jumped down. “He’s awake, father,” he called. “That man, he’s awake.”

The wagon lurched over some unevenness in the road. As it steadied, the young woman leaned closer to Kane, unstoppering a leather flask. “Here,” she said softly, “take a drink of water.”

Kane found that he was lying on a bed as narrow as the bench on which he had slept in his monastic cell. When he attempted to raise his head from the pillow, he managed
just an inch before the effort revived pains all over him – a throbbing of his head, a soreness of the stomach, a dull bruise over his ribs. He remembered the blows that had caused them all, but any rage at his assailants was too distant to grasp. Perhaps he had learned to put such feelings from him. As his head sank to the pillow the young woman murmured “Sir, let me help. Drink if you can.”

She slipped a soft cool hand behind Kane’s head and lifted it. When she put the flask to his lips Kane sipped and then drank. At last he gasped, and the young woman let his head rest on the pillow. Not just the water seemed to be giving him back some strength; Kane thought her concern for him did. At first glimpse he had taken her for an angel, and it still seemed to Kane that in some way she was capable of redeeming him. “Who are you?” he said and was dismayed to hear how feeble his voice had grown.

The young woman stroked his forehead and then straightened up as if she might have presumed too much. “My name is Meredith,” she said.

“Meredith.” Kane lingered over the syllables, which sounded almost like a gentle prayer, as she turned away to acknowledge a newcomer. “His fever has broken, father,” she said.

In a moment Kane recognised the pockmarked weather-beaten face, the eyes underlain with a trace of humour at odds with the sombre Puritan raiment. “Thank the Lord, sir,” the man said and made his way along the swaying wagon. “By His grace you will be well.”

He reached for Kane’s wrist and found the pulse, which he contemplated for some moments before nodding in approval at his daughter. “My name is William,” he said. “William Crowthorn.”

“And mine is Solomon.” For a breath Kane wondered if his whole name might be renowned for the evils he had perpetrated, but concealing it would be vain and a hindrance to repentance. “Solomon Kane,” he said.

Crowthorn gave no sign of recognition, and Kane found he might have hoped the man would know of Axmouth. The wagon had not been travelling from that direction, and realising this reminded Kane “You offered me a ride.”

A paternal frown narrowed Crowthorn’s eyes, conveying regret rather than rebuke. “I did,” he said.

“I should have accepted.”

“You should.” The frown faded, and Crowthorn’s eyes grew reminiscent. “The good Lord must be watching over you,” he said. “He guided us to your rescue.”

“Master Crowthorn...” As much as the drink of water, the sense of being in the bosom of a family seemed to be restoring Kane’s vigour. “Perhaps you have set me back on the road to my destiny,” he said.

“It shall be as God wills.”

Kane’s words had fallen short of expressing what he felt – that the Crowthorns were somehow bound up with his fate. They must have turned back to find him, unless they had been led astray by the tracks through the forest – in fact, led true. And had Meredith not seemed to stand between Kane and the reaper in his dream? It would hardly be proper to speak of this, and he held his peace as Crowthorn raised his voice. “Edward, pull over now,” he called. “We’ll make camp for the night.”

“I see the place that has been provided for us, father.”

The response sounded more elderly than the speaker, whom Kane guessed to be in his twenties. He heard the driver urge the horses onwards with an impatient clicking of the tongue that Kane could have taken for a
sound of disapproval. Soon the wagon rumbled to a halt. “Pray excuse us, Master Kane,” Crowthorn said and set about unloading the wagon. “Rest now and regain your strength.”

Meredith gave Kane an encouraging smile as she picked up utensils before following her father. In the calm after the incessant thunder of the wheels Kane heard a horse snort, the soughing of a wind in trees, the placid rippling of water. He lay and listened until the rattle of cooking utensils and the thuds of poles driven into earth made him feel idle. He raised his head without wavering, and found that he was capable of sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed. His various pains came with him, but he had suffered worse in battle, and they should be no excuse for indolence. With barely a stumble he made his way to the back of the wagon.

It stood in a glade beside a river. Despite the muffling of the sun, he could tell that the muted light denoted late afternoon. Traces of frost outlined the bark of the trees, but for the moment there was no sign of snow in the air. At the edge of the river the water raced over stones, stretching weeds away from them as if the ripples were combing drowned hair. Meredith and her mother had set up a cooking pot on a stand beside the river. Crowthorn and his elder son were building a rough shelter for the night while the boy Kane had seen in the wagon was stooping to the river, collecting stones to keep or to skim across the water. “Samuel, water the horses,” his brother called to him.

The boy stayed in his crouch. “Why me?” he protested.

“Samuel,” his father called more sternly than Kane would have expected of him. “Edward has given you a task. See you set to it at once.”

Kane saw the elder son fix a disapproving look on
Samuel. Unlike the boy, he had inherited their father’s features, though not all the strength of his mouth. Kane thought his lips seemed secretly a little petulant, hence more determined to wield power. Or was he interpreting the young man’s face in terms of his own troubled memories? Samuel opened his hands, and the stones clattered into the river. As the boy trudged to unhitch the horses, Kane stepped down from the wagon.

Crowthorn’s wife hurried over to him, stretching out her hands. They must once have been delicate, but they were worn with toil. “Master Kane,” she protested. “You should be resting.”

“I can hardly repay your hospitality with idleness.” Kane flexed his muscles and experienced no immediate loss of strength. “Give me a few minutes to clean up,” he said, “and then I’ll come and help you as I can.”

Concern gave way to resignation in her eyes. Perhaps she was used to the stubbornness of a husband and two sons. She laid a hand on Kane’s and then turned back to her family. Kane’s bag was in the wagon, and proved to contain the few belongings the robbers had left him. He found a cloth and made his way across the ground strewn with leaves to the river.

He came to the edge not far from Samuel, who was waiting to lead the horses away once they had drunk their fill. He was aware of Kane but did not glance at him. “You tend them well,” Kane said. “No task is unimportant if it does good.”

He stopped short of assuring the boy that his father and his brother would be proud of his attentiveness. They might well take it for granted, Edward in particular, and in any event it was hardly Kane’s place to offer the opinion. “What is your name, boy?” he said.

He wanted to prevent him from realising that Kane had
heard Edward say it like a rebuke. Samuel affected not to hear, gazing hard at the endless transformations of the ripples on the stones. “You need not fear me,” Kane said. “Tell me your name.”

The boy only lowered his head as if he meant to emulate the horses at the water. Kane heard soft footsteps on the leafy earth, and saw that Meredith had interrupted her task to come over to him. She had brought colour into the wintry glade with a red shawl draped over her shoulders. Kane remembered the glimpse of red the wagon had afforded him as it left him behind, how many days ago? The shawl put him in mind of a favour given at a tournament – an offer of a lady’s colours that he had failed to accept – although it was rather a token of rebelliousness, a hint of resistance to her austere Puritan life. “Your younger brother has lost his tongue, I think,” Kane said.

“He’s just shy of strangers.” Meredith shook her head in mock reproof, dislodging a lock of glossy black hair from beneath the white cap. “Remember your manners, Samuel.”

As Samuel raised his head and risked a sidelong glance at their companion, Meredith offered Kane a bunch of herbs that she had picked. “Marjoram for your bruises,” she murmured.

“You are skilled in the ancient ways, then,” said Kane.

“My father says that every natural thing has been put into the world for us. It is our task to learn the ways God means us to use them.”

Kane had not meant to accuse her of practicing magic, but he could not know how strict the prohibitions against the old arts had become during his time at the monastery. “Thank you,” he said and accepted the herbs. “For all your care.”

He was conscious that Samuel was watching him and Meredith. The boy’s attention seemed to hold them in an awkward tableau. “Well,” Kane said, “perhaps you have other... I mean to say, I need...”

“Of course, you came to wash.” For a moment a tinge of the colour of the shawl showed in Meredith’s cheeks. “I should be at my tasks,” she said.

As she started back to her mother Kane wondered how intimately she might have had to minister to him in his fever. He laid the bunch of herbs on the grass beside the river and pulled his shirt over his head. The garment was torn and stained brown with dried blood. He plunged his hands into the racing water and splashed handfuls over himself. The river was carrying the essence of an even colder place, but after the first violent shiver the icy chill began to invigorate him. He was bathing his face when he noticed the boy staring at him. “Speak to me, Samuel,” he said.

“What are those?” Samuel said with a bluntness characteristic of his age, and pointed at him.

“The marks of a robbery. I would not bear them,” Kane said, “if I had accepted Master Crowthorn’s invitation. Your family is a protection to you, Samuel.”

“Not those,” the boy said impatiently and pointed harder. “All that.”

Kane finished wiping himself dry and set about rubbing the herb on his bruises. The marjoram felt cool on them yet spread a warmth through them. “Some of these are of my own making,” he said. “No, all of them must be. I made them by the life I chose to lead.”