The sound of voices woke him. Tom looked to the sky, it was shortly after dawn. Startled, he sat up; somehow he’d slept the rest of the afternoon and all night. He hadn’t been that tired, at least not physically. Maybe the peace of the forest had lulled him.
That peace was broken now. Voices, a ways off, were arguing. Tom focused his attention on the voices. “Please, lord, I have no more... my wife and I have given you all we’ve got,” whined a scratchy old voice.
“But, peasant, it’s not enough, Baron Orscezy demands four coppers for every man, woman and child in his domain. That’s twelve coppers for your family. Yet you only give me nine. Can you not see the justice in paying your fair share of taxes? After all, the Baron graciously protects you and your family from harm,” a smooth and arrogant voice replied. “Surely, now that I have shown you reason, you will give me the other three coppers.”
“But lord, I have no more. I cannot give that which I do not have!” The voice was becoming defiant.
“Liar! All you peasant scum are the same. Greedily you grab at each little piece of money. Little do you think of the comfort and purse of your betters. What right have you to hoard coppers? This is not your land... it is the Baron’s. All that comes from it is rightfully his, and so should you pay him what you indisputably owe him. Pay, now. Else I will take payment in your hide.”
“Please, we have no more, he’s telling the truth,” a woman’s voice begged.
“Keep out of this, woman, your man knows what he owes.”
Was this for real? Tom wondered. He thought this sort of thing only happened in corny medieval melodramas and fantasies. He decided he had probably better investigate though. Slowly he got up. As quietly as possible, which was slightly difficult in this form, he walked towards the voices.
“Please, no,” begged the woman.
Crack. Snapped something that sounded like what Tom imagined a whip on a man’s back would sound like. A grunt of pain came through the undergrowth.
Crack. This time it was followed by a moan. “Please, we don’t have any money!” cried the woman.
Crack. The arrogant voice laughed. “I might just believe you old woman. But if you don’t, then your man must pay ten lashes for every coin he doesn’t have.”
By this time, Tom was close enough to peer through the trees and bushes. In a small clearing stood a small stone cottage with a thatched roof. Outside the open door to the cottage, near a small well, stood a stout, but older woman. Between her legs was a child about four. Nearby in some hay, lay a man, he was probably in his late fifties, but looked to be in his late sixties, as did the woman. Over the man stood another man. This man wore a red and black uniform. Actually, it was a red hauberk, trimmed in black, which covered a set of leather armor. In his hand was a massive bull whip, with which he was striking the downed man. At his side was belted a fine sword, behind him, near the edge of the clearing was his horse.
Crack. “Aaahhhh!” cried the old man and arched his back in pain. His eyes shut as he blacked out.
“Granpy...” screamed the young child, who suddenly dashed from the woman’s skirts towards the old man. She tried to catch him but failed. The soldier, whose attention had been fixed on the old man, and was raising the whip again, was startled. Turning quickly, he brought the whip down on the child.
The child screamed in pain. The whip lanced across his face and down his chest, through his thin shirt. The child’s frail skin could not withstand the might of the whip. It split wherever the whip hit. A large gash appeared, down the child’s face, and down his entire torso. The child fell to the ground.
Horrified and angered, Tom stepped from the forest, onto the path opening into the clearing. “Little bastard got what he deserved, trying to interfere,” the soldier said as he turned back to whip the man some more.
The old woman was on her knees by the child, frantically trying to stop the bleeding. Tom stepped into the clearing, breathing quite heavily in his frustration and anger, forgetting that he didn’t need to breathe. The sound must have alerted the soldier. He turned, and his mouth fell open. Fear lighting his face.
Tom said nothing; he simply advanced into the clearing. The woman looked up, scared, but too concerned with her grandchild. The whip was still in the soldier’s lax hand. He simply stared in terror at the nightmare that approached him.
Suddenly he seemed to realize what might happen to him if this creature got its hands on him. Fear for his immortal soul provided the impetus. He brought up his whip. Quickly, and without thought, he brought it down. Down upon Tom’s chest.
