Everything became dust and elbows until suddenly the two children were pulled apart.
By Katie, Age 12
That night, the two lords dined, as usual, with King Fred. After a sumptuous meal of Baronstown venison, accompanied by the finest Jeroboam wine, followed by a selection of Kurdsburg cheeses and some of Mrs. Beamish’s featherlight Fairies’ Cradles, Lord Spittleworth decided the moment had come. He cleared his throat, then said:
“I do hope, Your Majesty, that you weren’t disturbed by that disgusting fight among the children in the courtyard this afternoon?”
“Fight?” repeated King Fred, who’d been talking to his tailor about the design for a new cloak, so had heard nothing. “What fight?”
“Oh dear … I thought Your Majesty knew,” said Lord Spittleworth, pretending to be startled. “Perhaps Major Beamish could tell you all about it.”
But King Fred was amused rather than disturbed.
“Oh, I believe scuffles among children are quite usual, Spittleworth.”
Spittleworth and Flapoon exchanged looks behind the king’s back, and Spittleworth tried again.
“Your Majesty is, as ever, the very soul of kindness,” said Spittleworth.
“Of course, some kings,” Flapoon muttered, brushing crumbs off the front of his waistcoat, “if they’d heard that a child spoke of the crown so disrespectfully …”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Fred, the smile fading from his face. “A child spoke of me … disrespectfully?”
Fred couldn’t believe it. He was used to the children shrieking with excitement when he bowed to them from the balcony.
“I believe so, Your Majesty,” said Spittleworth, examining his fingernails, “but, as I mentioned … it was Major Beamish who separated the children … He has all the details.”
The candles sputtered a little in their silver sticks.
“Children … say all manner of things, in fun,” said King Fred. “Doubtless the child meant no harm.”
“Sounded like bally treason to me,” grunted Flapoon.
“But,” said Spittleworth swiftly, “it is Major Beamish who knows the details. Flapoon and I may, perhaps, have misheard.”
Fred sipped his wine. At that moment, a footman entered the room to remove the pudding plates.
“Cankerby,” said King Fred, for such was the footman’s name, “fetch Major Beamish here.”
Unlike the king and the two lords, Major Beamish didn’t eat seven courses for dinner every night. He’d finished his supper hours ago, and was getting ready for bed when the summons from the king arrived. The major hastily swapped his pajamas for his uniform and dashed back to the palace, by which time King Fred, Lord Spittleworth, and Lord Flapoon had retired to the Yellow Parlor, where they were sitting on satin armchairs, drinking more Jeroboam wine, and, in Flapoon’s case, eating a second plate of Fairies’ Cradles.
“Ah, Beamish,” said King Fred, as the major made a deep bow. “I hear there was a little commotion in the courtyard this afternoon.”
The major’s heart sank. He’d hoped that news of Bert and Daisy’s fight wouldn’t reach the king’s ears.
“Oh, it was really nothing, Your Majesty,” said Beamish.
“Come, come, Beamish,” said Flapoon. “You should be proud that you’ve taught your son not to tolerate traitors.”
“I … there was no question of treachery,” said Major Beamish. “They’re only children, my lord.”
“Do I understand that your son defended me, Beamish?” said King Fred.
Major Beamish was in a most unfortunate position. He didn’t want to tell the king what Daisy had said. Whatever his own loyalty to the king, he quite understood why the motherless little girl felt the way she did about Fred, and the last thing he wanted to do was to get her into trouble. At the same time, he was well aware that there were twenty witnesses who could tell the king exactly what Daisy had said, and was sure that, if he lied, Lord Spittleworth and Lord Flapoon would tell the king that he, Major Beamish, was also disloyal and treacherous.
“I … yes, Your Majesty, it’s true that my son, Bert, defended you,” said Major Beamish. “However, allowance must surely be made for the little girl who said the … the unfortunate thing about Your Majesty. She’s passed through a great deal of trouble, Your Majesty, and even unhappy grown-ups may talk wildly at times.”
“What kind of trouble has the girl passed through?” asked King Fred, who couldn’t imagine any good reason for a subject to speak rudely of him.
“She … her name is Daisy Dovetail, Your Majesty,” said Major Beamish, staring over King Fred’s head at a picture of his father, King Richard the Righteous. “Her mother was the seamstress who —”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” said King Fred loudly, cutting Major Beamish off. “Very well, that’s all, Beamish. Off you go.”
Somewhat relieved, Major Beamish bowed deeply again and had almost reached the door when he heard the king’s voice.
“What exactly did the girl say, Beamish?”
Major Beamish paused with his hand on the doorknob. There was nothing else for it but to tell the truth.
“She said that Your Majesty is selfish, vain, and cruel,” said Major Beamish.
Not daring to look at the king, he left the room.
Selfish, vain, and cruel. Selfish, vain, and cruel.
The words echoed in the king’s head as he pulled on his silk nightcap. It couldn’t be true, could it? It took Fred a long time to fall asleep, and when he woke in the morning he felt, if anything, worse.
He decided he wanted to do something kind, and the first thing that occurred to him was to reward Beamish’s son, who’d defended him against that nasty little girl. So he took a small medallion that usually hung around the neck of his favorite hunting dog, asked a maid to thread ribbon through it, and summoned the Beamishes to the palace. Bert, whom his mother had pulled out of class and hurriedly dressed in a blue velvet suit, was struck speechless in the presence of the king, which Fred enjoyed, and he spent several minutes speaking kindly to the boy, while Major and Mrs. Beamish nearly burst with pride in their son. Finally, Bert returned to school, with his little gold medal around his neck, and was made much of in the playground that afternoon by Roderick Roach, who was usually his biggest bully. Daisy said nothing at all and when Bert caught her eye, he felt hot and uncomfortable, and shoved the medal out of sight beneath his shirt.
The king, meanwhile, still wasn’t entirely happy. An uneasy feeling stayed with him, like indigestion, and again, he found it hard to sleep that night.
When he woke the next day, he remembered that it was the Day of Petition.
The Day of Petition was a special day held once a year, when the subjects of Cornucopia were permitted an audience with the king. Naturally, these people were carefully screened by Fred’s advisors before they were allowed to see him. Fred never dealt with big problems. He saw people whose troubles could be solved with a few gold coins and a few kind words: a farmer with a broken plow, for instance, or an old lady whose cat had died. Fred had been looking forward to the Day of Petition. It was a chance to dress up in his fanciest clothes, and he found it so touching to see how much he meant to the ordinary people of Cornucopia.
Fred’s dressers were waiting for him after breakfast, with a new outfit he’d requested just the previous month: white satin pantaloons and matching doublet, with gold and pearl buttons; a cloak edged with ermine and lined in scarlet; and white satin shoes with gold and pearl buckles. His valet was waiting with the golden tongs, ready to curl his moustache, and a pageboy stood ready with a number of jeweled rings on a velvet cushion, waiting for Fred to make his selection.
“Take all that away, I don’t want it,” said King Fred crossly, waving at the outfit the dressers were holding up for his approval. The dressers froze. They weren’t sure they’d heard correctly. King Fred had taken an immense interest in the progress of the costume, and had requested the addition of the scarlet lining and fancy
buckles himself. “I said, take it away!” he snapped, when nobody moved. “Fetch me something plain! Fetch me that suit I wore to my father’s funeral!”
“Is … is Your Majesty quite well?” inquired his valet, as the astonished dressers bowed and hurried away with the white suit, and returned in double-quick time with a black one.
“Of course I’m well,” snapped Fred. “But I’m a man, not a frivoling popinjay.”
He shrugged on the black suit, which was the plainest he owned, though still rather splendid, having silver edging to the cuffs and collar, and onyx and diamond buttons. Then, to the astonishment of the valet, he permitted the man to curl only the very ends of his moustache, before dismissing both him and the pageboy bearing the cushion full of rings.
There, thought Fred, examining himself in the mirror. How can I be called vain? Black definitely isn’t one of my best colors.
So unusually speedy had Fred been getting dressed, that Lord Spittleworth, who was making one of Fred’s servants dig earwax out of his ears, and Lord Flapoon, who was guzzling a plate of Dukes’ Delights which he’d ordered from the kitchens, were caught by surprise, and came running out of their bedrooms, pulling on their waistcoats and hopping as they put on their boots.
“Hurry up, you lazy chaps!” called King Fred, as the two lords chased him down the corridor. “There are people waiting for my help!”
And would a selfish king hurry to meet simple people who wanted favors from him? thought Fred. No, he wouldn’t!
Fred’s advisors were shocked to see him on time, and plainly dressed, for Fred. Indeed, Herringbone, the Chief Advisor, wore an approving smile as he bowed.
“Your Majesty is early,” he said. “The people will be delighted. They’ve been queuing since dawn.”
“Show them in, Herringbone,” said the king, settling himself on his throne, and gesturing to Spittleworth and Flapoon to take the seats on either side of him.
The doors were opened, and one by one, the petitioners entered.
Fred’s subjects often became tongue-tied when they found themselves face-to-face with the real, live king, whose picture hung in their town halls. Some began to giggle, or forgot what they’d come for, and once or twice people fainted. Fred was particularly gracious today, and each petition ended with the king handing out a couple of gold coins, or blessing a baby, or allowing an old woman to kiss his hand.
Today, though, while he smiled and handed out gold coins and promises, the words of Daisy Dovetail kept echoing in his head. Selfish, vain, and cruel. He wanted to do something special to prove what a wonderful man he was — to show that he was ready to sacrifice himself for others. Every king of Cornucopia had handed out gold coins and trifling favors on the Day of Petition: Fred wanted to do something so splendid that it would ring down the ages, and you didn’t get into the history books by replacing a fruit farmer’s favorite hat.
The two lords on either side of Fred were becoming bored. They’d much rather have been left to loll in their bedrooms until lunchtime than sit here listening to peasants talking about their petty troubles. After several hours, the last petitioner passed gratefully out of the Throne Room, and Flapoon, whose stomach had been rumbling for nearly an hour, heaved himself out of his chair with a sigh of relief.
“Lunchtime!” boomed Flapoon, but just as the guards were attempting to close the doors, a kerfuffle was heard, and the doors flew open once more.
Your Majesty,” said Herringbone, hurrying toward King Fred, who’d just risen from the throne. “There is a shepherd from the Marshlands here to petition you, sire. He’s a little late — I could send him away, if Your Majesty wants his lunch?”
“A Marshlander!” said Spittleworth, waving his scented handkerchief beneath his nose. “Imagine, sire!”
“Dashed impertinence, being late for the king,” said Flapoon.
“No,” said Fred, after a brief hesitation. “No — if the poor fellow has traveled this far, we shall see him. Send him in, Herringbone.”
The Chief Advisor was delighted at this further evidence of a new, kind, and considerate king, and hurried off to the double doors to tell the guards to let the shepherd inside. The king settled himself back on his throne and Spittleworth and Flapoon sat back down on their chairs, their expressions sour.
The old man who now tottered up the long red carpet toward the throne was very weather-beaten and rather dirty, with a straggly beard and ragged, patched clothes. He snatched off his cap as he approached the king, looking thoroughly frightened, and when he reached the place where people usually bowed or curtsied, he fell to his knees instead.
“Your Majesty!” he wheezed.
“Your Maaaaaa-jesty,” Spittleworth imitated him softly, making the old shepherd sound like a sheep. Flapoon’s chins trembled with silent laughter.
“Your Majesty,” continued the shepherd, “I have traveled for five long days for to see ye. It has been a hard journey. I has ridden in hayricks when I could, and walked when I couldn’t, and my boots is all holes —”
“Oh, get on with it, do,” muttered Spittleworth, his long nose still buried in his handkerchief.
“— but all the time I was traveling, I thought of old Patch, sire, and how ye’d help me if I could but reach the palace —”
“What is ‘old Patch,’ good fellow?” asked the king, his eyes upon the shepherd’s much-darned trousers.
“’Tis my old dog, sire — or was, I should perhaps say,” replied the shepherd, his eyes filling with tears.
“Ah,” said King Fred, fumbling with the money purse at his belt. “Then, good shepherd, take these few gold coins and buy yourself a new —”
“Nay, sire, thank ye, but it bain’t a question of the gold,” said the shepherd. “I can find meself a puppy easy enough, though it’ll never match old Patch.”
The shepherd wiped his nose on his sleeve. Spittleworth shuddered.
“Well, then, why have you come to me?” asked King Fred, as kindly as he knew how.
“To tell ye, sire, how Patch met his end.”
“Ah,” said King Fred, his eyes wandering to the golden clock on the mantelpiece. “Well, we’d love to hear the story, but we are rather wanting our lunch —”
“’Twas the Ickabog that ate him, sire,” said the shepherd.
There was an astonished silence, and then Spittleworth and Flapoon burst out laughing.
The shepherd’s eyes overflowed with tears which fell sparkling onto the red carpet.
“Ar, they’ve laughed at me from Jeroboam to Chouxville, sire, when I’ve told ’em why I was coming to see ye. Laughed themselves silly, they have, and told me I was daft in the head. But I seen the monster with me own two eyes, and so did poor Patch, afore he was ate.”
King Fred felt a strong urge to laugh along with the two lords. He wanted his lunch and he wanted to get rid of the old shepherd, but at the same time, that horrid little voice was whispering selfish, vain, and cruel inside his head.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” King Fred said to the shepherd, and Spittleworth and Flapoon stopped laughing at once.
“Well, sire,” said the shepherd, wiping his nose on his sleeve again, “’twas twilight and right foggy and Patch and me was walking home round the edge of the marsh. Patch sees a marshteazle —”
“Sees a what?” asked King Fred.
“A marshteazle, sire. Them’s bald ratlike things what lives in the marsh. Not bad in pies if ye don’t mind the tails.”
Flapoon looked queasy.
“So Patch sees the marshteazle,” the shepherd continued, “and he gives chase. I shouts for Patch and shouts, sire, but he was too busy to come back. And then, sire, I hears a yelp. ‘Patch!’ I cries. ‘Patch! What’s got ye, lad?’ But Patch don’t come back, sire. And then I sees it, through the fog,” said the shepherd in a low voice. “Huge, it is, with eyes like lanterns and a mouth as wide as that there throne, and its wicked teeth shining at me. And I forgets old Patch, sire, and I runs and
runs and runs all the way home. And next day I sets off, sire, to come and see ye. The Ickabog ate me dog, sire, and I wants it punished!”
The king looked down at the shepherd for a few seconds. Then, very slowly, he got to his feet.
“Shepherd,” said the king, “we shall travel north this very day to investigate the matter of the Ickabog once and for all. If any trace of the creature can be found, you may rest assured that it shall be tracked to its lair and punished for its impudence in taking your dog. Now, take these few gold coins and hire yourself a ride back home in a haycart!
“My lords,” said the king, turning to the stunned Spittleworth and Flapoon, “pray change into your riding gear and follow me to the stables. There is a new hunt afoot!”
King Fred strode from the Throne Room feeling quite delighted with himself. Nobody would ever again say that he was selfish, vain, and cruel! For the sake of a smelly, simple old shepherd and his worthless old mongrel, he, King Fred the Fearless, was going to hunt the Ickabog! True, there was no such thing, but it was still dashed fine and noble of him to ride to the other end of the country, in person, to prove it!
Quite forgetting lunch, the king rushed upstairs to his bedroom, shouting for his valet to come and help him out of the dreary black suit and into his battle dress, which he’d never had the chance to wear before. The tunic was scarlet, with buttons of gold, a purple sash, and lots of medals Fred was allowed to wear because he was king, and when Fred looked in the mirror and saw how well battle dress became him, he wondered why he didn’t wear it all the time. As his valet lowered the king’s plumed helmet onto his golden curls, Fred imagined himself painted wearing it, seated on his favorite milk-white charger and spearing a serpentlike monster with his lance. King Fred the Fearless indeed! Why, he half hoped there really was an Ickabog, now.
The Ickabog Page 3