Lost Sovereignty

Chapter 3 - Spring Fling (con't)

Someone was speaking to him and the buzz had worn off.

A faint smell of tulip perfume, unnoticed before, hung in the air. He didn't feel the warmth of another body, or sense a loving presence. His dreams had been void, but realizing his reality, he had no greater wish to be awake.

Yet, his reality had other plans. The bed shook and creaked on its frame, not in the rhythmic way it had the night before, but from the erratic crash of a heavy boot. The gentle tones of feminine pleasure were absent as well, replaced by the annoyance of an amused and gravelly voice. As he heard his name desecrated and compared to the desires of a stable fly, he began to understand that the voice did not fit the images still floating in his mind of a woman with sensual curves.

He labored to open one eye. His mouth was dry and his eyelids drier. Each crash of the boot sent painful sensations through his aching head. Stop, please. His voice didn't make it out of his mouth. Finally, one eye broke the crust of its eyelid and for a blurred moment roamed in circles around the room. A large blur to his right was cursing him in between chuckles of laughter. He tried to move his arm to motion an end to the madness, but he was entangled in the blanket and not yet strong enough to break free. His tongue licked the inside of his mouth like a seed core scrapes the inside of dried gourd and croaked mercy.

“Water.”

For a moment the pounding stopped. Relieved, Rimidalv closed his eye and started to fall back asleep, when he heard scrapings on the floor boards and the sound of water rushing into an empty bucket. With what strength he could gather, he thrust himself over the edge of the bed in time to miss the deluge of a cold bath water. A groan of vexation came from the blur as Miche's plan was foiled.

“Miche, stop torturing me.” Rimidalv swayed on all fours on the floor. Finding the wall by feel, he did his best to crawl up it. Standing there, he hugged the plaster and let the coolness of the wall sooth his pounding temple. To make matters worse, Miche opened the drapes and let the sunlight, amplified from the newly fallen snow, elbow its way into the room and his head.

“Nothing like a little sun to help wake you up and make you eager to start the day,” Miche intoned joyously. Rimidalv was sure that he had said this same line to Miche once upon a time and now it was payback. “Where’s your courtesan? What’s the matter, she tire you out? Come on man, there'll be no daylight by the time you open your eyes. We have miles to cross. The horses will be ready and your breakfast is coming.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“As long as we have been working together you are always in a hurry, and now you ask why? I have been asking why for nearly ten years.” Miche was enjoying himself too much.

“You're hurting my head, Miche.” Rimidalv moaned. “Why are you torturing me?”

“I enjoy it.” Miche looked around the room now that the sun was coming in. He noticed Rimidalv’s coat lying on the floor. It was a small detail, but if Rimidalv wasn't wearing his coat at night, then it became a pillow tucked securely under Rimidalv's head. Rimidalv was always willing to strive in new directions, but he formed habits when he found systems that worked and stuck to them.

“How was your lady friend, Rimie?” Miche picked Rimidalv’s coat off from the floor and brushed it clean.

“She was medicine better than aeltaen herbs.” Rimidalv grinned despite the pain running through his head. “I think I’m in love.”

Miche sniffed and pulled his hand from Rimidalv's inside coat pocket, “What if I told you she made off with the log, would you love her then?”

Somebody could have stabbed him in the gut and he wouldn't have known the difference, nor cared. Bile rushed into the back of his throat. He held his stomach with an effort and lurched forward from side to side as he sought his balance. He pulled the coat from Miche's hands. Cursing, he searched and knew in an instant that Miche was not playing a cruel joke. The pocket was empty, and the diary was gone. He checked the room over, but knew what he'd find: nothing.

She'd actually stolen from him.

Rage and despair curdled his insides. Miche took a step back as he saw his friend's eyes grow distant and black. Rimidalv charged the coat rack and threw it to the floor; he upended a bureau and kicked his clothes across the room. When Rimidalv kicked his bag, Miche's ear discerned that Rimidalv's gold was still there. That woman had not stolen randomly, but with intent, and she'd felt no need to cover the fact. Retrieving the coat rack, Rimidalv began using it as a bludgeon, smashing candle sticks, breaking chairs, and turning the wall mirror into a fly's eye that fell from its socket. Miche looked on with awe, staying just out of reach.

Hearing the commotion, Boleo entered hollering at the top of his lungs, “Get out, get out! What are you doing you crazy bastard? Get out!” He looked at Miche expecting him to do something. Instead, Miche cowered. Boleo had something right; his friend was crazy and Miche had known it for a long time, but he had never seen it demonstrated quite this way. It wasn't until he saw Boleo with a club in his hand that he acted.

Waiting for Rimidalv to start his swing, Miche rushed his friend and crushed him to the floor. Rimidalv raged blindly against his assailant, but Miche knocked him hard and yanked him out the door. “It's time we were leaving, my friend,” Miche said firmly. Waitstaff stood aside nervously as he came down the hallway.

He heard Boleo cursing behind him. “I want money for this, damn you! Bastards!” Barking out the name of one of the waitstaff, he ordered them to throw Rimidalv's clothes into the street. Miche heard Boleo's triumphant exclaim as he found Rimidalv's sizable stash of gold. The man's rage subsided after that, and soon Miche was out of earshot. He grew angry as he realized he was going to miss breakfast which made him grip Rimidalv's arm harder and drag him without regard to the stables. Giving him a last violent shake, Miche threw the struggling Rimidalv headfirst into the hay and rousted the stable boy.

“You, there.” Miche accosted the boy as he loaded a wheel barrow with horse dung. “Did you see a woman leave here late last night?”

The boy straightened his back like one beyond his years. “When the tavern doors closed I saw some women leave, but no one boarded a horse here last night, all were local.”

“Do you know a local woman with long black hair, educated, a good looker?”

“There is only one educated woman in this town and she don't look so good to me, unless you like married women who are plump with flaxen hair.”

“Burn her,” Rimidalv growled under his breath, rising from the chaff. “Burn her.”

The boy looked at Rimidalv anxiously. “Excuse me, sir, she may not be good looking, but she is the mayor's wife.”

“Don't listen to him. We need our horses now,” Miche urged, “before this one gets in any more trouble.” The boy moved off hurriedly and the waitstaff showed up throwing Rimidalv's belongings into the mud. Still in a rage, Rimidalv pulled on his clothes and slung his pack over his shoulder. No one hung around to see what he would do.

Rimidalv's old gelding was brought out first. The boy seemed eager to let Rimidalv be off. Mounting without effort, Rimidalv heeled his horse to a trot, oblivious to everything around him. Miche thought to see him turn down the main street and be gone, but instead he circled and came back to Miche.

“I have no more work for you,” Rimidalv said in a strained harsh voice.

It was all the man could say. His eyes were like flaming ice and more distant than Miche had ever seen them. He knew that his friend was humiliated, but strongest was the pain of his heart. Ride and find peace, friend, watch your back while I am unable.

 Rimidalv's back was the last thing Miche saw.