The Sword and the Plough (14 page)

Lars smiled dreamily. “I’d like that,” he
said.

“But in the meantime young man,” his mother
said with a sudden briskness, “there’s work to be done. I want you
to deliver some eggs, milk and bread over to our new neighbour,
Hakim.”

“Has he moved in already?” Lars asked
excitedly, jumping to his feet. Hakim was seven years older than
Lars, but the closest thing to a friend for dozens of
kilometres.

His mother nodded. “Yes, your father and the
other neighbours finished the roof of his cottage yesterday, and to
celebrate I want you to invite him over for dinner, tonight, at
seven.”

Martha Kelmutt caught her young son by the
arm as he attempted to rush by her.

“
Not so fast,” she said laughing. “Remember
the eggs, milk and bread –
and
– don’t forget to ask your sister. She might like
to go too.”

But Lars was already on his way.

“
Wait for your sister, Lars,” Martha
Kelmutt called. “Wait for your sister…
wait for your
sister… wait for your sister…

* * *

Lars awoke with a start.

“
It’s all right, Lars,” a voice said
reassuringly. “You’ve been dreaming. A bad dream I think, about
your sister, Helen.”

The voice was warm and feminine, and had the
distinctive cut glass accent of an upper-class Earth education.
Lars remembered the voice well.

He was lying on his back. He forced his sole,
uninjured eye to focus. The laser cut black stone walls shone dully
in the thin light of a small solar bulb.

He attempted to sit up, but was astonished
when his efforts failed him. Pain numbed every sensation, save its
own.

“Lie still,” a man’s voice said with some
impatience. Lars saw a head of almost pure white hair; a man in his
late fifties, wearing a red uniform heavy with gold braid. “We
can’t tend to your wounds if you don’t lie still.” He shook his
head indignantly. “Those Megran bullies certainly gave you a
thorough going over.”

Lars was lying on a narrow wooden tabletop,
which was too short to support his whole length, so that his legs,
from the knee, hung limply over the edge. There were three people
gently cleaning and bathing his many wounds; the white haired man,
Caroline and another woman, perhaps a similar age to the man.

The pleasant perfumes of the women were in
stark contrast to the overall stale stench of the cell.

“We know you’re worried about your sister,
Lars,” the man continued. “But the captain’s already asked about
her and we should have an answer soon if she’s here in one of the
cells.”

“How can you…” Lars tried to speak, but his
words came out as a hoarse whisper.

The man smiled. “You want to know how we
communicate with the other prisoners?”

Yes,
Lars mouthed

“Water pipes, Lars,” the man said. “The same
pipes go through each cell. The captain’s on the job now, and
Rupert over there, is keeping an eye on the corridor for any
unwelcome visitors.”

Lars’s one working eye caught a blurred
image of a tall man with a tanned complexion
and dark brown hair, standing at the cell
door. He too, was wearing the queen’s red.

Lars began to remember… When he arrived,
there were five others already in the cramped two-bunk cell. Two
middle-aged men, both tall in the queen’s red, a thin middle-aged
woman, with grey hair, wearing a nondescript brown dress, a young
captain from the queen’s garrison, suffering a shoulder wound, his
jacket gone, his white cotton shirt heavily bloodstained, and the
pretty auburn haired young woman with the hazel eyes.

He could not remember how long he had been
with them.

The water pipes sounded. A message was coming
through from another cell; a coded message tapped out with a
spoon.

The young captain turned to the group, his
pale face jubilant.

“
They’ve found her. Helen’s here!” he said.
Beads of perspiration dotted the young man’s brow, and there were
signs of fresh bleeding at his shoulder.

“And there’s a question. She wants to know if
you’re all right.” He grinned at Lars. “Shall I say that you’re
okay?”

Lars gave his most emphatic nod.
Yes
, his lips
formed.

The young officer bent back to the pipes, and
the spoon recommenced its resonant tones.

“She’ll be quite safe, Lars,” Caroline said.
“The captain’s men and the other prisoners will look after
her.”

Lars tried to answer, but the young woman put
a finger to her lips. “Hush! Don’t try to talk anymore.” She smiled
down at him. “You must rest now.”

For a moment, his one good eye watched the
shiny auburn of her hair fall like a curtain, hiding the lovely
profile of her face as she bent to tend his wounds again. Then a
black wave washed over him…

* * *

“Look, he’s sound asleep already,” Caroline
whispered to the white haired man standing beside her.

The man gave a nod. ”He’s been through
quite a lot in the past day or two by the look of him,” he said
quietly. “But he seems a pretty determined young man.”

Caroline passed the bowl of blood-tinted
water to the man who poured it down the cracked china washbasin in
the corner.

“Yes father,” she answered smiling softly. “I
believe he is.” She wiped her wet hands down the chartreuse silk of
her hips, and shrugged at her father’s questioning look.

“It can’t get much dirtier,” she said.
“Anyway, I’ve no intention of ever wearing this gown again.”

She sat down tiredly on a stool and leaned
her back against the stone wall of the cell, her hands resting in
her lap.

Her father spoke. “Well, that’s all we can do
for Lars at present,” he said. “Sleep is the only medicine we
have.”

He spoke to the man at the cell door.
“Rupert, we’ll shift Lars onto the bunk now. I don’t think he’ll
waken.”

“Right governor,” the man answered.

They lowered Lars’s sleeping form gently onto
the dubious comfort of the narrow paillasse and arranged the thin
pillow under his head.

The young captain was lying on the only other
bunk in the room. His wound was throbbing fiercely. Rivulets of
perspiration trickled down his ashen forehead. He slept a feverish
and fitful sleep.

There is little that can be done in the
field for a light-bolt injury; the burnt flesh is decaying – dying.
Specialist surgery with ready grown flesh and growth hormone
applications is the only hope.

* * *

Caroline sat and watched Lars sleeping. She
still knew so little about him. Her first recollection was the
vividness of his blue eyes, almost violet, and the firm line of his
jaw.

His soft lilting brogue clearly identified
him as a local, and he had said something about ploughs, so maybe
he was farmer. Ah yes, his cotton field clothes might attest to
that.

Her gaze focused unhappily on his battered
face. It was black and blue with bruises, with one eye swollen
shut. Some of the cuts on his forehead and cheeks would leave
permanent scars – battle scars she thought grimly.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. He
had been her knight in shining armour – her paladin. She shuddered
inwardly. Without his intervention, things might well have turned
out much worse than they had. There was much to admire in him. His
courage, as he launched himself at her captors - his willingness to
help her when he should have left and gone home.

Strangely though, she had the feeling she
had always known him; knew what he was like and the things he might
say and do. Strange, for in all her life she had never met a
farmer.

Caroline opened her eyes and surveyed the
length of the tall young man where he lay. It would take some time
for him to recover fully. She scowled to herself. The Megran
troopers who had done this to him were evil. Civilisation in the
22
^nd
century had moved beyond such
acts. There was no question. The Megran regime must be
destroyed.

* * *

The cell door flew open suddenly with a
squawk, and the giant Megran sergeant ducked his head and squeezed
his way through the gap. His bearded face was puffed out in an
inane grin. The Meredith side arm hung from his enormous girth like
a child’s toy.

The big man’s voice rumbled out of his barrel
chest. “Ah, our guests are waiting for their dinner.” He beckoned
to his sidekicks. “Bring it in lads, don’t keep them waiting.”

Behind him, two Megran guards crowded into
the cell wheeling a trolley bearing a large steaming pot of
broth.

The giant sergeant glanced round the cell.
“So-o-o, there’s a sleeping beauty here, is there?” He turned to
his men. “And who’s going to wake him up with a kiss, eh?”

His eyebrows rose quizzically and his men
grinned in reply, enjoying the pantomime.

The big man shoved a stool next to the bunk
where Lars was sleeping, and lowered his immense weight slowly onto
it, testing its strength. The brass buttons of his green shirt
strained against the packed folds of flesh, and the back of his
trousers stretched, alarming the stitches along the seam. He leaned
toward the sleeping form, his large stubby fingers spread wide on
his huge rounded knees.

“Wakey, wakey,” he warbled softly.

There was no response, save the deep regular
breathing of the sleeper.

The big man leaned closer. “Are you in there,
Lars?” he asked in a singsong whisper. “This is your good friend,
Sergeant Wykes.”

A loud snigger came from one of the Megran
guards.

The sleeper slept on.

“Lars,” the man cooed. “I want you to wake up
and have your dinner.

But no answer came.

“Lars!” The sergeant’s singsong was rising in
pitch and volume. “I’m losing my patience.” He paused and leaned to
within a few millimetres of the young man’s face. “Are you going to
wake up?”

Lars slept on.

The vast chest swallowed a deep breath.
“Lars! It’s time for your
din-ner,
” the big man thundered, bawling the last two
syllables directly into the young man’s ear.

Lars shuddered and startled into
consciousness. His one eye opened to gape in shock at the fat face
with the small dark eyes leering down at him.

The red mouth in the thick black beard opened
and the giant sergeant laughed out loud, the sound coming up from
the very depths of his massive belly. The guards were laughing too,
enjoying the performance. The prisoners alone kept their
silence.

“Right, up to the table with you, Lars,” the
mammoth man ordered. “And see what Sergeant Wykes has brought you
for your evening meal.”

A huge hand took Lars by the arm, plucked him
from his bunk, and shoved him in the direction of the table.

What the sergeant had brought was a bowl of
mud coloured broth thick with globules of fat, its smooth oily
surface disturbed only by the occasional morsel of grey meat.

The sergeant tousled the young man’s hair,
cuffing him in the process.

“Come on,” he crooned. “Eat up, Lars. You
don’t want your Uncle Wykes to have to feed you, do you?”

Lars began to eat. There was little flavour
beyond that of the fat, but it was hot and served to appease the
sudden hunger that he felt.

“Good boy, Lars,” the giant sergeant warbled.
“My favourite prisoner and the best eater of them all. You’re doing
very well for your Uncle Wykes.”

Lars, remembering his role as fool, beamed
broadly at the fat giant as much as his swollen face would allow.
“Thank you, Uncle Wykes,” he declared. “Thank you very much.”

“Right now, lads.” The sergeant nodded to his
men. “Let’s serve their lords and ladyships their dinner.”

“Aye, aye, sergeant.” The grinning guards
chanted in unison.

The other prisoners were now ushered into
place around the table. They sat wedged beside each other on the
small wooden stools.

The guards set about their task, bumping into
one another in their feigned eagerness to serve. Trails of broth
dripped and dribbled everywhere.

“Careful lads,” the giant sergeant cautioned.
“Don’t spill too much on the floor. We don’t want to leave any
stains on the dining room carpet.”

“Yes sergeant, we’ll be careful,” the guards
assured him.

“Oh tut, tut,” the sergeant sighed woefully.
“That man there! You’ve spilt broth all over his lordship’s lap.”
The big man produced a broth soaked rag. “Here, wipe it up and say
you’re very sorry.”

The guard set about making matters worse;
spreading the broth stain even further over the governor’s clothes,
despite the latter’s muted protest.

The sergeant shook his head. “Oh dear, oh
dear, we’ll be getting a bad reputation, and no one will want to
come here anymore. Anyone would think you men weren’t fit to serve
the aristocracy.”

“Sorry sergeant,” the guards sang in chorus,
broad smirks on their faces.

The sergeant pretended a scowl. “Right
then, well
please
try and remember what I’ve taught you.”

* * *

The prisoners remained silent as the meal
progressed. There was no doubt in Lar’s mind that the sergeant was
attempting to goad his prisoners into some display of anger. It was
like a scene from a bitter burlesque, with the Falstaffian figure
in the leading role. Lars wondered how the next act might play. It
was not long in coming.

The sergeant had been silent for a time
watching the antics of his men, the grin on his face growing
broader. Then, all at once, he was speaking again, and though his
tone sounded as affable as before, the words had changed and his
intent become clear.