Tales of the Old World by Marc Gascoigne, Christian Dunn (ed) - (ebook by Undead) Read Free Book Online

of him myself. He’s
a tough old beast that one, the hard muscles of his chest kept the spear from
going too deep. He’ll have a nasty scar to show off, but he’ll live.”
    Relieved beyond words, Leofric swung his legs from the bed and said, “My
thanks, Havelock, you have done me proud. I’ll not forget this. Nor the kindness
of the peasants of… actually, where are we?”
    “Ah…” said Havelock. “Funny you should ask that.”
    “Funny?” said Leofric. “Funny how?”
    Havelock was spared from answering by the arrival of another man at the door,
his build powerful and his bearing martial. Dressed in the rough clothing of a
huntsman, he carried a quiver of arrows over his shoulder and had a long bladed
sword partially concealed beneath his hooded cloak. Beneath his peaked and
feathered hunter’s cap, his face was rakishly handsome and Leofric saw a glint
of mischief there that he instantly disliked.
    “Who are you?” asked Leofric. “And where am I?”
    The man smiled. “My name is Carlomax and you are in the Free Peasant Republic
of Derrevin Libre.”
     
    Leofric sat on the wall on the edge of the village, his breath coming in
shallow gasps as he walked the circumference of the village to regain his
strength. He wore his armour, for a knight of Bretonnia had to be able to fight
in his armour as though it weighed nothing at all, though he felt very far from
such fitness.
    The blade of the undead champion had wounded him grievously, and despite the
healing power of this village’s fay woman, it was going to take time for his
strength to fully return. He set off again, feeling stronger with each step and
casting an eye around the village of Derrevin Libre.
    Two score buildings of a reddish orange wattle and daub comprised the
village, though at its centre stood a largely dismantled stone building that
must once have belonged to the noble lord of this village. Only the nobles of
Bretonnia were permitted to use stone in their dwellings, but such laws
obviously held no sway in this place as Leofric watched gangs of peasants
chipping away the mortar and ferrying the stone to the ground via a complicated
series of block and tackle.
    A tall palisade wall of logs with sharpened tops formed a defensive wall
around the village and Leofric knew that this was higher and stronger than most
villages could hope for. Having climbed to the top of the wall earlier, he had
seen a bare swathe of the forest where the logs had come from and knew that the
revolting peasants had put their brief time of freedom to good use in preparing
for the inevitable counterattack. Hooded Herrimaults with longbows patrolled the
walls and land beyond the village, alert and ready for the attack from the local
lords that must surely come soon.
    The village was thronged with laughing peasants and Leofric found the effect
quite unsettling. Men and women worked in the fields beyond the walls and
children played in the earthen streets, chasing hoops of cane or teasing the
local dogs. The villages Leofric remembered from Quenelles were a far cry from
Derrevin Libre, their peasants surly and hunched with their faces to the soil.
    The sun was hot and he could feel his skin reddening, though he had refused
Havelock’s offer of a hooded Herrimault cloak, seeing it as an acceptance of
what had happened here. The few people he encountered in his slow circuit of the
village were amiable, if wary of him, as they had good right to be. For Leofric
represented exactly what they had rebelled against six months ago.
    Leofric still found it hard to believe that a peasant revolt had managed to
survive this long, but if there was anywhere it could do so, it was the
fractious dukedom of Aquitaine. He did not know the names of the local lords,
but knew it was only a matter of time until they came with fire and sword and
put an end to this futile dream of freedom. Strangely, the thought of the status
quo being restored here did not