Finding a criminal proved harder than it had first appeared. I strolled about town in expectation of crossing paths with the ‘right’ kind of person. As fate would have it, all criminals seemed to have taken the night off. The drunks dozed off in alleyways; I tried waking a few, but most of them were too far gone in delirium to make any sense, let alone be of use to me. The common cutthroats were as trustworthy as their name suggests, and they too seemed to have retired for the night. The same went for pickpockets, though I searched them out in preference to violent criminals. My next bright idea took me to the local prison; I figured that an incarcerated criminal would be more cooperative than ones with nothing to gain. Heck, I could offer them food in exchange for aid. It’s not like anybody bothered to feed the prisoners except family members, if they had any.
Drentwych had a prison too large for a medium-sized town, but with the amount of immigrant traffic it made sense, in a sad kind of way. As I walked the corridor of the prison I was filled with a sense of dread and compassion for the human suffering around me. The moans, gentle sobs, and sometimes hushed prayers touched and softened my heart. I couldn’t even bring myself to imagine the kind of lives these people lived, probably not so very different from my own. I imagined that most were incarcerated for crimes lesser than my own. I was, after all, a murderer, a traitor, and a liar. Confronting the inmates’ misery afforded me a rare glimpse behind the mask labeled ‘convict’. At this point I stopped seeing them as criminals; they became just men. True, there was a rough face peering at me from behind bars here and there, but the vast majority of prisoners seemed to be only feeble and suffering. My heart filled with prayers for the ill-accused and all those in distress; may God grant them mercy, for no man would.
It was when these thoughts were occupying my mind that I found my candidate. Green eyes gazed silently at my walking form. I paused and turn to him, only half-conscious of what I was doing. I started to smile but then stopped, unsure if smiling was the proper gesture. His hair was blond, though unkempt and dirtied by crusted sand. He was shorter than me — even shorter than the average man of my time. Consequently, I took him for a half-breed, the result of an unfortunate union between a Scots warrior and a Briton woman. The vast majority of these half-breeds are the result of rape, though most often the women are killed after the men have had their fun. Some women are spared, or manage to escape, though their offspring are cast away by both the Scots races and the Welsh.
“Come to gloat, soldier?” He asked, interrupting my thoughts and catching me off balance.
“No, why?” I asked innocently, before my conscious mind focused.
“You’ve been staring at me as if I have the plague,” he said.
“My apologies; that wasn’t my intent,” I replied.
“You’re apologizing? That’s a novelty. Are you sure you’re a soldier?” He asked mockingly.
“Yes, I am. My name is Raymond of Dren-” I began, when he interrupted.
“You daft or something? I don’t bloody need an introduction. Just be about your business and gloat; leave me the hell alone, or even better, get me out of here,” he said.
“I’m not daft Or weak in the head,” I said angrily, “Speak to me like I’m your wench and you can be as certain as hell that I’ll leave you here to rot,” I said. He just glared at me and said nothing — probably too proud for an apology or too dumb to flatter me. Good, I preferred working with someone honest.
“I can set you free,” I offered.
“Then why don’t you?” He asked.
“Because I want something from you first,” I retorted.
“And how can I be of service?” He asked, smiling casually and leaning closer, with tensed muscles. He was intrigued, but trying to hide it.
“You can start by giving me your name and why you’re here,” I answered.
“And once we’re done with our formal introductions?” He asked on edge.
“And once you answer my questions without backtalk, I’ll tell you,” I replied.
“Fine then. My name is Simon of the Roads,” he said. “And I’m here ...” he began, and I interrupted.
“Wait! What does it mean; ‘of the Roads’?” I asked.
“Means I’m a vagabond, you know? A drifter without home,” he explained.
“Fine. Why are you here?” I asked, a bit irritated by his manners.
“Because I was starving and stole some bread,” he responded after pausing and taking a deep breath, obviously not keen to confess as much.
“And?” I asked.
“And what?” He replied.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” he responded.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Two days. I’ll probably be dead in a day or two,” he replied. “Unless you get me out of here.”
“Let me get this straight. You were caught stealing bread when you were starving, so they put you here for two days without food,” I said.
“A week actually, I was sentenced to a week,” he corrected me.
“If what you’re saying is true, I’ll try to get you out,” I replied and turned to leave.
“What do you mean, ‘If’?” he asked urgently. “I may be a thief, but I’m no liar,” he said.
“My apologies. I’ll try to get you out,” I replied. At the time being a liar was only a short step from being a traitor, and both were worse than being a thief as far as offenses goes. Unless you stole a horse, in which case, you were dead by torture. You might as well have killed people, rather than steal horses; it would get you a lesser penalty.
I checked with the warden and he told me that Simon was a common pickpocket, and that he had indeed been caught stealing bread. The warden made it sound as if Simon was a dangerous criminal, emphasizing the word ‘pickpocket.’ I told the warden that I’d been assigned to a Lord’s retinue, and that he wished this criminal to be set free. The warden wanted to resist, but I told him that he could speak to my commander if he’d like. Without further trouble he released the unlucky thief.
“Thanks … sir!” Simon said when I sprang him free, and hastily moved to get away from me as soon as we left the barracks.
“Hold on there,” I called back to him, my hand moving to grapple him of its own accord. I stopped its movement as soon as I noticed it and tried to depend upon my words instead of force. Simon slowed but did not stop, turning his head wearily towards me.
“I pulled in a favor back there, and I’ll be in a whole lot of trouble if you flee on me,” I said.
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” he replied after a moment of silent consideration, and turned again to get away.
“I probably won’t,” I said.
“Life’s tough and to each his own,” he retorted lightly, taking pleasure in my seeming disadvantage.
“Will you hold on a minute? I’m not giving chase. Hear me out and then leave when I have finished, if you’re not inclined to help me,” I said, angry at myself for this show of weakness — angrier still that I had let the situation get out of hand. I told myself it wouldn’t happen again.
“Fine, I’m listening,” he said.
“Thank you,” I replied. I took a couple of deep breaths to recollect my thoughts and then spoke. “I’m trying to find a few people who’ve gone missing in town and I need your help,” I said.
“I’m no investigator. Maybe you should try to find a lord or something,” he said, interrupting my speech.
“Let me finish, please,” I replied, somewhat angrily. “I’m no investigator either, and there is a lord investigating. But the lord’s mainly concerned with some rich merchant gone missing, while I’m trying to find them all,” I said.
“Why?” He asked.
“What do you mean, ‘Why’?” I asked.
“Don’t play innocent with me, I know soldiers of the guard variety well enough,” he said, and I clenched my teeth yet, remained silent. “What’s in it for you? Why do you care?” He asked.
“Nothing’s in it for me,” I replied angrily.
“Liar!” He replied.
“Bloody hell!” I spat angrily.
“Liar!” He repeated.
“Fine! Fine!” I protested, surrendering. “I hate the bloody lord!” I said.
“And ...” Simon said.
“And I bloody want to shove this investigation in his face. Pompous bastard, I want to find ‘em all myself, claim the glory, and watch him stroll back to his ivory tower knowing full well that he was outwitted by a simple soldier,” I lied.
“That’s much better,” Simon said, satisfied. “Let’s get one over on the Lord!” He added.
“Fine!” I said.
“Fine!” He agreed. And so I told him of my situation.