Nicholas – The Beginning by John Stevenson
clung to life. Nicholas knelt and held him in his arms, resting the dying man’s head upon his shoulder. “Father.” he wept.
The man's eyes opened a little at his voice. “Nicholas?” he groaned painfully. “...Thank god your alive...” he coughed up blood. “Leave here… run… I... should have known… I should have told...” The knife moved with each the man’s pained words.
With his left hand Nicholas carefully pulled the blade from his father's chest. Fresh blood spurted out. Nicholas tried in vain to stem the wound with his bare hand. His pouring tears mingling with the blood as it spread over his own clothes. “I’ll get help.” He sobbed but he knew no one could.
“Wait...” his father gasped urgently. “…I must tell you…”
“Be quiet. Be still father. Help is coming.” But Nicholas knew it was impossible to halt the flow. The wound was too deep, the cut too wide. The blade had found its mark too well. “I will get help.” He wept. “All will be well. You will see.” He lied, the words choking him as they passed his lips. A feeling of hopelessness and dread overwhelmed him.
His father spoke again. “It is time...” He coughed again, more blood trickling from between his lips. “You must seek the rebellion… for already it may be too late?” He coughed again. “There is so much… we have waited too… long...” The man’s words trailed off as the first throes of death squeezed the life from his proud heart. “Find Simeon... The rebellion...” and with those words his life drained from him.
Nicholas wept uncontrollably; he had no idea for how long. His body ached with such deep sorrow that he paid no heed to the clamor around the open door, or the group of village folk who stood there.
At last he gently laid his father on the floor, stood.
“See. He still holds the knife.” called one sharply.
“Aye and his father’s blood wet upon his hands.” said another.
All Nicholas could do was stare at them.
The blacksmith, a burly man had pushed to the front.
“Give me the knife,” he said softly. “Your deeds here are finished, now it is time you must come with us.”
Nicholas was about to walk over to them until his stunned mind recognized accusation in the voice.
“No. No. I did not...” He said desperately, his mind torn between grief, and growing disbelief. “Please help me… I... they... I have but just walked through the door... Please help me,” he begged.
The tone was soft, yet accusing as the smithy spoke. “It is not up to us. You must come and tell of how it happened to the Alderman.”
“You waste time”, said a voice from the back. There were now a number of men jostling to get through the doorway, and into the room with the smell of ale strong upon their breath. “See he holds the knife...” The unseen man continued.
The blade in Nicholas’s hand suddenly felt like a burning ember and he threw it towards the open fireplace.
“What has happened here is as clear as the nose on your face... even if we had not evidence of the fight.”
For the first time Nicholas caught sight of two soldiers. One a captain in the guard of Quone-Loc-Sie: it was he who now spoke. “I bear witness to that. And to this being the man, foul murder that he is. We need no more. Take him and let justice be done.” The mob lunged forward now that Nicholas was unarmed.
Nicholas could not believe what was happening, but he realized that his situation was grave, and would not improve in the hands of a drunken rabble. He turned to the only escape within his reach, a low opening to a shaft leading to the roof. Quickly he was through it and climbing two rungs at a time up the ladder set against the wall. He had given no thought of where he was going or why, he just ran in blind panic, followed closely by the shouting and curses of the mob.
At the top of the shaft he twisted his head sideways thrusting his shoulder up at the closed hatch without a pause, and snapping it back over against its hinges.
Once out onto the partially flat roof he slammed the cover back over the hole, jumping up onto it so that his weight would hold it shut. Nicholas sat there too stunned to think. He could feel them hammering below, others were running about outside the building looking for a way up. He had broken out in a sweat of fear. Why was this happening; he was a victim too. He hadn't done anything wrong. Why wouldn't they let him explain? He needed time. Tomorrow the alcohol would be soaking into the grass, and the bloodlust would be gone; then they would listen, but now he had to get away
The roof was surrounded by a low parapet. The nearest storehouse was across a gap of some three meters. That was the store of preserving materials. There was nothing else on the roof, or near the roof. He felt the hatch beneath him lifting and heard the Smithy grunting and swearing. He couldn't hold it down forever. There was no other way.
Nicholas jumped off, running back several meters he spun kicking himself off the opposing wall and tore across the roof. The smithy was half out of the opening as he ran by. The man reached out his fingers briefly tugging on his coat, before the material ripped from his grasp.
The wall came up fast and for a moment Nick thought he had mistimed his steps, but thrusting his foot out with all his strength, he leapt.
There was shouting as he sailed over the men below, and between the two buildings. For a second neither he nor those wishing him to fall, thought he would make it; but he did, crashing half over the parapet of the adjoining roof. The breath was violently knocked from him as his chest impacted against the solid crete. Ignoring the pain his fingers scrabbled for a hold. For long seconds he hung half on, half off, recovering his breath. Then to the dismay of the baying mob below Nicholas clambered over and dropped onto the roof.
The buildings were not very high, but to follow him over that distance was enough of a risk to deter his pursuers, and those on the ground were now running in all directions, completely confused by the myriad instructions being shouted down to them from men now pouring onto the other roof.
Alongside where he stood ran the gangway. It climbed up to the top of the bulk stores to allow the grain to be tipped down into the storedomes; it was along this that Nicholas ran.
By the time he was at the end they had gained the second rooftop and at last started up after him. He looked back. He could see those on the first roof scrabbling to get back down the shaft. There were very few where he could see now. He guessed the others would all be making for the ramp, or in the store, or coming up the ladder. He was trapped. In seconds they would be upon him, justified in their accusations by how he had attempted to flee.
He looked over the side. The smooth crete fell away from him; below was quiet and deserted. As a boy he and a friend had for a dare slid down the side of this very same storehouse. That time he had earned himself a broken leg for his trouble, and punishment from his father when that had healed.
He stepped over the rail, holding it behind him he let himself down onto his back. Holding his arms and legs stretched out to prevent rolling, and his head up from the scraping of the crete. He let go. “By the powers of mercy, don't let me break my leg again.” he muttered as he felt himself slide away.
The slight ridges became as large as rails, every one banging against his spine; the friction heated his clothes as the earth zoomed toward him and the crete disappeared into a blur. He relaxed his legs hoping to cushion the impact.
With a heavy thump he stopped, his body was thrown up and he collapsed forwards into a heap, and lay still on soft earth in acceptable pain. In the dim light he guessed, but mainly by the smell, that he had come to rest in the house animal pen. At least here the ground had been soaked in water and trodden into mud by the creatures.
High above he could hear voices. They seemed confused. The confidence replaced by calls of questions. It would not take long for them to realize where he had gone, so he lifted himself up onto his knees. He ached all over, but there were no broken bones. Shouts were raised again, maybe his escape had not gone unnoticed, or his pursuers had guessed quickly of the slid
e.
Nicholas was off again; he ran to the timber rail, once over the fence he made for the forest. If he could reach there he may lose them in the mists, or at least gain time to think.
He had age and sobriety on his side, and was soon into the first field. This one not been tended since before the dry, and with the exception of the occasional clump of high grass the ground under him was swift going. The following three fields were different, these were the ones he had crossed on the way to Jonathon’s and had been freshly ploughed. He sank, stumbled, and fell all the way across them, and at the far side felt considerably fatigued.
But he was now into the edge of the forest, and had gained some distance. Here it was lightly timbered, but with innumerable young trees. After falling over two of these saplings Nicholas decided it would be safer to skirt around the edge and follow the path until he could lose himself in the heavily timbered woodland
Dozens of times he ran off the trodden surface, and into the long grass. It slowed him down but it was still preferable to more collisions with trees. He was covered in grazes on his face and hands. It would have been worse if it had not been for the cloak, but even that was by now half torn to shreds.
He fell again, this time his forehead hitting a glancing blow on a rock, he lay there for some time his mind floated in the state between
The man's eyes opened a little at his voice. “Nicholas?” he groaned painfully. “...Thank god your alive...” he coughed up blood. “Leave here… run… I... should have known… I should have told...” The knife moved with each the man’s pained words.
With his left hand Nicholas carefully pulled the blade from his father's chest. Fresh blood spurted out. Nicholas tried in vain to stem the wound with his bare hand. His pouring tears mingling with the blood as it spread over his own clothes. “I’ll get help.” He sobbed but he knew no one could.
“Wait...” his father gasped urgently. “…I must tell you…”
“Be quiet. Be still father. Help is coming.” But Nicholas knew it was impossible to halt the flow. The wound was too deep, the cut too wide. The blade had found its mark too well. “I will get help.” He wept. “All will be well. You will see.” He lied, the words choking him as they passed his lips. A feeling of hopelessness and dread overwhelmed him.
His father spoke again. “It is time...” He coughed again, more blood trickling from between his lips. “You must seek the rebellion… for already it may be too late?” He coughed again. “There is so much… we have waited too… long...” The man’s words trailed off as the first throes of death squeezed the life from his proud heart. “Find Simeon... The rebellion...” and with those words his life drained from him.
Nicholas wept uncontrollably; he had no idea for how long. His body ached with such deep sorrow that he paid no heed to the clamor around the open door, or the group of village folk who stood there.
At last he gently laid his father on the floor, stood.
“See. He still holds the knife.” called one sharply.
“Aye and his father’s blood wet upon his hands.” said another.
All Nicholas could do was stare at them.
The blacksmith, a burly man had pushed to the front.
“Give me the knife,” he said softly. “Your deeds here are finished, now it is time you must come with us.”
Nicholas was about to walk over to them until his stunned mind recognized accusation in the voice.
“No. No. I did not...” He said desperately, his mind torn between grief, and growing disbelief. “Please help me… I... they... I have but just walked through the door... Please help me,” he begged.
The tone was soft, yet accusing as the smithy spoke. “It is not up to us. You must come and tell of how it happened to the Alderman.”
“You waste time”, said a voice from the back. There were now a number of men jostling to get through the doorway, and into the room with the smell of ale strong upon their breath. “See he holds the knife...” The unseen man continued.
The blade in Nicholas’s hand suddenly felt like a burning ember and he threw it towards the open fireplace.
“What has happened here is as clear as the nose on your face... even if we had not evidence of the fight.”
For the first time Nicholas caught sight of two soldiers. One a captain in the guard of Quone-Loc-Sie: it was he who now spoke. “I bear witness to that. And to this being the man, foul murder that he is. We need no more. Take him and let justice be done.” The mob lunged forward now that Nicholas was unarmed.
Nicholas could not believe what was happening, but he realized that his situation was grave, and would not improve in the hands of a drunken rabble. He turned to the only escape within his reach, a low opening to a shaft leading to the roof. Quickly he was through it and climbing two rungs at a time up the ladder set against the wall. He had given no thought of where he was going or why, he just ran in blind panic, followed closely by the shouting and curses of the mob.
At the top of the shaft he twisted his head sideways thrusting his shoulder up at the closed hatch without a pause, and snapping it back over against its hinges.
Once out onto the partially flat roof he slammed the cover back over the hole, jumping up onto it so that his weight would hold it shut. Nicholas sat there too stunned to think. He could feel them hammering below, others were running about outside the building looking for a way up. He had broken out in a sweat of fear. Why was this happening; he was a victim too. He hadn't done anything wrong. Why wouldn't they let him explain? He needed time. Tomorrow the alcohol would be soaking into the grass, and the bloodlust would be gone; then they would listen, but now he had to get away
The roof was surrounded by a low parapet. The nearest storehouse was across a gap of some three meters. That was the store of preserving materials. There was nothing else on the roof, or near the roof. He felt the hatch beneath him lifting and heard the Smithy grunting and swearing. He couldn't hold it down forever. There was no other way.
Nicholas jumped off, running back several meters he spun kicking himself off the opposing wall and tore across the roof. The smithy was half out of the opening as he ran by. The man reached out his fingers briefly tugging on his coat, before the material ripped from his grasp.
The wall came up fast and for a moment Nick thought he had mistimed his steps, but thrusting his foot out with all his strength, he leapt.
There was shouting as he sailed over the men below, and between the two buildings. For a second neither he nor those wishing him to fall, thought he would make it; but he did, crashing half over the parapet of the adjoining roof. The breath was violently knocked from him as his chest impacted against the solid crete. Ignoring the pain his fingers scrabbled for a hold. For long seconds he hung half on, half off, recovering his breath. Then to the dismay of the baying mob below Nicholas clambered over and dropped onto the roof.
The buildings were not very high, but to follow him over that distance was enough of a risk to deter his pursuers, and those on the ground were now running in all directions, completely confused by the myriad instructions being shouted down to them from men now pouring onto the other roof.
Alongside where he stood ran the gangway. It climbed up to the top of the bulk stores to allow the grain to be tipped down into the storedomes; it was along this that Nicholas ran.
By the time he was at the end they had gained the second rooftop and at last started up after him. He looked back. He could see those on the first roof scrabbling to get back down the shaft. There were very few where he could see now. He guessed the others would all be making for the ramp, or in the store, or coming up the ladder. He was trapped. In seconds they would be upon him, justified in their accusations by how he had attempted to flee.
He looked over the side. The smooth crete fell away from him; below was quiet and deserted. As a boy he and a friend had for a dare slid down the side of this very same storehouse. That time he had earned himself a broken leg for his trouble, and punishment from his father when that had healed.
He stepped over the rail, holding it behind him he let himself down onto his back. Holding his arms and legs stretched out to prevent rolling, and his head up from the scraping of the crete. He let go. “By the powers of mercy, don't let me break my leg again.” he muttered as he felt himself slide away.
The slight ridges became as large as rails, every one banging against his spine; the friction heated his clothes as the earth zoomed toward him and the crete disappeared into a blur. He relaxed his legs hoping to cushion the impact.
With a heavy thump he stopped, his body was thrown up and he collapsed forwards into a heap, and lay still on soft earth in acceptable pain. In the dim light he guessed, but mainly by the smell, that he had come to rest in the house animal pen. At least here the ground had been soaked in water and trodden into mud by the creatures.
High above he could hear voices. They seemed confused. The confidence replaced by calls of questions. It would not take long for them to realize where he had gone, so he lifted himself up onto his knees. He ached all over, but there were no broken bones. Shouts were raised again, maybe his escape had not gone unnoticed, or his pursuers had guessed quickly of the slid
Nicholas was off again; he ran to the timber rail, once over the fence he made for the forest. If he could reach there he may lose them in the mists, or at least gain time to think.
He had age and sobriety on his side, and was soon into the first field. This one not been tended since before the dry, and with the exception of the occasional clump of high grass the ground under him was swift going. The following three fields were different, these were the ones he had crossed on the way to Jonathon’s and had been freshly ploughed. He sank, stumbled, and fell all the way across them, and at the far side felt considerably fatigued.
But he was now into the edge of the forest, and had gained some distance. Here it was lightly timbered, but with innumerable young trees. After falling over two of these saplings Nicholas decided it would be safer to skirt around the edge and follow the path until he could lose himself in the heavily timbered woodland
Dozens of times he ran off the trodden surface, and into the long grass. It slowed him down but it was still preferable to more collisions with trees. He was covered in grazes on his face and hands. It would have been worse if it had not been for the cloak, but even that was by now half torn to shreds.
He fell again, this time his forehead hitting a glancing blow on a rock, he lay there for some time his mind floated in the state between