Seven

A Charitable Cause

It was dark in the shop. That was good. More cover. From where she stood, Gratia could see the silhouette of the shop keeper behind the till. He was a stocky man, well built. His broad shoulders and upper arms rippled with large muscles, there was no way she would survive if he caught her. She ducked back down behind a cabinet.

A few minutes passed and the man finally walked back to the door, took one last sweeping look and then locked the shop. Gratia held her breath, listening to the sound of the owner departing. It was now very quiet in the shop and twice as dark. Slowly, she began to emerge from her hiding place. She allowed a faint smile to cross her lips. It had been so easy, she could hardly believe it. Although she knew what she was about to do was seen as wrong in the eyes of many, there was nothing else for it. She had no money and nothing to barter with. She began to approach the counter. Slipping underneath the board flap, she went to the far wall. For a moment she examined the stock: throwing knives, maces, short swords, long swords, butterflies, dusters, daggers... almost every weapon she could think of, and many she preferred not to. 

Thinking for a moment, she gently removed a stiletto from its pinned position. Turning it to the light she began to examine the blade.

Her contemplations were rudely interrupted by a low growling sound that came from the darkness behind her. Spinning around she found herself face-to-face with a huge wolfhound baring a full set of gleaming white fangs. Gratia’s eyes narrowed. The dog’s ears were pressed flat against its head, clearly ready to tear her throat out should she even dream about so much as breathing.

All gypsies could fight. It was how disputes were settled and battles won. It was in their blood. All young gypsy children were encouraged to nurture this little violent streak, as it always came in handy in later life.

The dog attacked. Lurching forward, it catapulted itself into the air with colossal hind legs. At the exact same time, having followed the animal’s thoughts, Gratia fell to the ground, rolling clear of the beast’s claws. Twisting back onto her feat she leaped onto the counter and crouched, ready for the next move.

The huge hound shook its head in confusion. It had not banked on an enemy so swift. Turning, it looked up at her with bloodshot eyes, allowing another throaty growl to escape its gnarled lips. Taking a couple of steps backwards it bent its hind legs again, as if compressing a massive spring. Once again it leaped forward, clearing the counter and disappearing back into the darkness.

For a moment, Gratia remained tense. The creature hadn’t even attempted to take her down. Then she relaxed. Now all she needed was a way out of here. Slipping gracefully from the counter, she made her way gingerly back to the main shop door which was securely locked. She sighed and a shot of agonising pain blew through her body. The huge hound knocked her to the floor, sinking its teeth deep into her side.

In the haze of her mind she cursed herself for dismissing the creature so quickly. She raised the sharp knife high over her body and brought it down sharply into the dog’s side. It shrieked with pain and released its grip on her. Struggling to her feet, she twisted the knife in its side and withdrew it. The animal fell to its knees and made a harsh coughing sound. For a minute or two she stood there, watching the animal suffer. The blood was pouring from its side now and the creature’s vicious expression had turned to one of terror and pain. Eventually she straddled its back, pulled its head back in a lock-type grip and slit its throat.

Discarding the limp body she resumed her search for an exit, still doubled with the painful tare in her side. She looked back to the bloodied stiletto in her hand; it would be more then adequate.

There was another door in a corner of the room. It was also locked, but it was rotting. A closer examination showed that the hinges and lock were rusty. Taking a throwing axe from one of the cupboards, she began to hack along the hinged side of the door. Within minutes the entire thing caved over. The noise was like thunder in the silent room. Wasting no time at all, she stepped out into the tiny alleyway and hastily followed it round to the main street where a few people were still making their way home. Pulling her makeshift shall around her head and neck, she made her way down the street to a tavern. She could hear music and loud voices coming from within.

The blood was still dribbling from her side. Her dress was badly torn and her head was throbbing from having hit it against the stone floor when she was knocked over. She made her way to the back of the tavern. As if in answer to her prayers, there was a small window looking down into the cellar. Prising a loose cobble from the pathway, she waited for the fiddler’s music to start a frenzied jig before drawing the rock back and breaking the glass. Shards flew down into the pitch black room. Again, using the stone, Gratia began to clear as much of the glass as possible from the remains of the window frame. 

When that was done, she held her breath as tight as she could manage and gently slipped her legs inside, feeling for anything that might act as a step. She felt nothing. Undeterred, she continued to lower herself down, one or two splinters of glass catching on her bare arms. Still there was no step. Finally, she had to let go of the side. The drop was deeper than she had expected and the floor she landed on was muddy and damp. Catching her breath for a moment, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She could vaguely make out rows of shelves, and what appeared to be large black crates – barrels, maybe. Struggling to her feet, she made her way towards one. Brushing aside the dust she peered at the large white painted label on the side: RUM.

Well, that would do. Taking the stiletto in one hand, she began hitting it with the cobble. Eventually, she had created enough of a hole in the barrel to allow a small trickle of rum to escape. Lifting up her dress, she knelt down. She bit the blade of the knife between her teeth and dipped the corner of her shall in the rum until it was soaked through.

In the darkness, a gypsy woman set her side on fire with the stinging pain of the cure. She bit so hard on the blade that it now contains teeth marks.

A few hours later, Gratia walked up the stairs to the tavern and slipped up to the second floor. She was standing in a long corridor with doors on either side. Each of the doors led to a bedroom. There was also a youth, propped up against a far wall, quite obviously drunk. Tiptoeing up to him, she was delighted to find that he was sound asleep. A quick check of his pockets failed to reveal a key, and his coinage came to little more then the price of a mug of ale. Cursing, she got to her feet and scanned the hallway again. Nothing, or at least nothing that would help her gain entry.

Making her way back down the stairs, she noticed that there was a board behind the counter. It was lined with tiny silver hooks and on almost every hook there was a key. The only problem was the stern-looking landlord and his wife. They were busy serving, yet no doubt very alert.

Removing her makeshift shall, Gratia stiffly drew herself up to full height and flicked her hair out behind her. One or two of the punters, who were still sober enough to see in single vision, gave her curios looks before returning their full attention to their mugs.

“Good day to you, sir.”

The young boy looked up at her but continued to screech out a frantic, if somewhat grinding, tune on his small wooden fiddle.

“Ma’am?”

“I was wondering, may I try my hand at such a beautiful instrument?”

“You may if you have five farthings.” The boy shot her a mischievous and somewhat hopeful grin.

“Ah. Well, I just might have better than that.” Gratia smiled sweetly. The boy raised his eyebrows questioningly as he swayed from side to side.

Gratia bent down and whispered to the young boy. After a couple of seconds the boy’s face lit up and he flung the fiddle into her hands, dipped his cap and ran off in the direction of the cellar.

A few of the punters shot her a querying look as they realised that the music had stopped. Plucking at the strings, Gratia quickly tuned the fiddle and placed it under her chin. 

The gypsy magic began.

Hands reached out for her as she danced and spun along the bar. The occupants of the tavern leered and whistled appreciatively as the mass of crimson silk swayed and billowed with the music. The sound of the fiddle wove its merry way around the room, pulling on people’s lips until the only one left without a smile on her face was the landlord’s wife, who had shouted something to her husband about this being a reputation fit for a brothel, but no one had paid much attention and so she had stormed off elsewhere. There were even people coming in off the street just to see what all the commotion was about.

Eventually, she made her way to a man who seemed to be fit to jump up and dance across the counter himself. She thrust the fiddle into his arms and nodded at him. Her judgement had been right, he could play, and again the delightful music struck up, leaving Gratia free to dance as she pleased. The first victim was an old man with a long silvery beard. He sat on a chair in a corner, so caught-up in the erotic movements the gypsy girl was making on his lap that he completely failed to notice her hand slip into his pocket and remove his purse.

By the end of the night, the occupants of the tavern were a good deal lighter and Gratia’s bosom had grown outwards by a good few inches. As she finally danced her way around to the back of the tavern once more, she emptied her bodice and counted up her pickings. They came to quite a handsome amount for a few hours of playful merriment.

Suddenly, a noise in the alleyway made her freeze. She listened, fully alert. There it was again...

Gratia threw back her head and let out a joyous laugh. 

There it was again. The sound of a little drunken fiddler’s hiccups drifted up from the cellar of the tavern and out into the early morning air, closely followed by a light snore.