“I-I must’ve misspoken,” said the man with a rising blush.
Bellinda glanced toward Duncan in wonder as she proffered the corrected amount.
“What?” he said defensively. “You should add things up yourself before you just accept what someone tells you to pay.”
“I hate adding,” Bellinda replied, “especially money. It’s all so confusing, odd numbers of one coin making up another. It makes me want to find whoever designed such a system and slap them across the head.”
The merchant handed her the bagged spices, which she placed in her basket. He spared a sullen glare in Duncan’s direction, but Duncan ignored him.
“You would’ve lost a whole shilling right there,” he told Bellinda as they started back down the road.
She shrugged. “It’s Alberta’s money. I don’t think she would mind very much. Did you add all those numbers in your head as he said them?”
He’d had conversations similar to this too many times. “Yes,” he said warily.
“But you can’t read.”
“I can’t read letters. I can read numbers just fine. You don’t have to be able to read them to know them, though.”
“What’s twenty-three times forty-two?” Bellinda asked on impulse.
“Nine hundred sixty-six,” he answered instinctively.
Her lips turned downward in a pout. “I’d need some paper to check whether you were right or not.”
Duncan sighed and shook his head.
“I imagine Alberta can test you quite nicely,” she added, much to his horror. “She’s ever so much more inventive than I am when it comes to this sort of thing.”
He wanted to plead for her not to tell her sister, but he remembered his place just in time. Even if Princess Bellinda wore the clothes of a common peasant at the moment, she was still a princess, and he was still a lackey.
They returned to the castle via the same narrow gate through which they had left it. “There now, that wasn’t so bad,” Bellinda said. “Don’t you like me a little better now?” She smiled up at him winningly.
Duncan averted his eyes. “You should wash your face before you go back into the castle,” he told her.
“Of course,” she said with a nod. “You take your horse back to the stables, and I’ll go on ahead. It’s up to you to smuggle everything we got up to Alberta’s room, you know.”
His heart sank. Of course he would have to smuggle it all. Who else would carry such an assortment of goods? He supposed he should be grateful that Bellinda took the basket of herbs with her. He was left with an array of bottles and crocks, though, and he envisioned several trips up and down the back staircase to get them all to their final destination. Or, he realized, he could just keep them in the saddlebags and pack them up like he was a mule.
“What’s she going to do with all of this?” Wildfire asked when he was safely inside his stall and knew that no one could overhear them.
“Probably going to open her own apothecary shop,” said Duncan dryly.
Wildfire stared.
“That’s what all those ingredients have in common,” he clarified. “They’re used for making soaps and balms and perfumes and oils and tinctures and such.”
“And how do you know that? You can’t even read the word ‘apothecary.’”
“My mother was an herbalist,” Duncan replied flatly. “She often mixed things for our village apothecary. She used most of those ingredients, too—not the ambergris or the civet. They’re too expensive, and she could only ever afford the cheaper musk oil, but even that is pretty potent stuff. My father let her do it because it brought in some extra money for the farm.”
“But what’s Princess Alberta of Meridiana doing pretending to be an herbalist?” Wildfire asked.
“Princess Bellinda claims Princess Alberta made her what she is,” said Duncan with a shrug. “Maybe it’s her hobby.”
Wildfire still wasn’t convinced, but Duncan didn’t have time to discuss the issue further. “I’d better cart this stuff up to her before she decides to send someone after me,” he said, and he hoisted the pair of saddlebags over his shoulder.
The white horse snorted a goodbye and buried his nose in his oat bin.
Duncan received several strange stares and a few inquiries on his way back to the castle. “Princess Alberta sent me on a wild goose chase,” he replied with a foolish smile. No one asked any further. No one needed to ask any further. It had become general knowledge that Alberta was amusing herself by making the halfwit Scurvyhead perform meaningless tasks.
Up the servants’ stairs he went, and the saddle bags seemed heavier with each step. When he finally reached the top, he cracked the hidden door and checked to see whether the corridor was clear before he proceeded.
Princess Bellinda’s voice met his ears, and her words caused his heart to plummet for the umpteenth time that day.
“He’s quite good with numbers. I was astonished when he stopped some merchant from cheating me out of a whole shilling. I hadn’t been following the prices at all. I wonder if anyone else cheated me today.”
“Probably,” said Alberta. “I wish you’d be a little more careful with my money, but I’m not really surprised that you’re not. And you shouldn’t be surprised that a commoner can add money properly, either. It’s much more precious to them than it is to you.”
“It’s not just money,” Bellinda protested. “I asked him to multiply a couple of random numbers, and he did it off the top of his head—didn’t even need to write them down!”
“Was his answer correct?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have any paper with me to check.”
Duncan chose this opportunity to enter the room, tired as he was of overhearing conversations about himself. “Where would you like your things, your Highness?” he asked with a customary servants’ bow.
“Bring them here,” said Alberta, and she gesture to the table beside her. “And what’s thirteen times seventeen?”
He glanced reproachfully toward Bellinda. He wanted to dodge the question, but some inborn compulsion made him answer honestly. “Two hundred twenty-one,” he said as he knelt to unpack the saddlebags.
“Fifty-three times sixty-eight?” Alberta asked after a short pause.
“Three thousand six hundred four.”
“You see?” said Bellinda.
Her sister hummed. Duncan glanced up to see that she was working the random sums on a blank page in one of her books. She suddenly flipped back several pages. “What’s one fourth of three-eighths?”
“Three thirty-secondths,” said Duncan warily.
“What if it’s three-eighths of a cup and I want the measurement in tablespoons?”
“Three-fourths,” he told her.
“In teaspoons?”
“Two and a fourth.”
“How many halfpence in fifteen shillings three pence?”
“Fifteen times twenty-four plus six,” he said. “Three hundred sixty-six.”
She slammed her book shut. “Why do you know so much about mathematics?”
“Mathematics?” he echoed in confusion.
“Numbers,” she clarified.
“Oh. That’s because numbers are a farmer’s life,” he answered mechanically. “Is there anything else you need from me?”
Alberta surveyed the array of bottles and jars on her table. “No. You can go back to gardening. I don’t need you tomorrow, either, so don’t bother coming up here.”
He nodded and took his leave. Behind him he heard Bellinda start to ask her sister a question, but he shut his ears to it. He was just happy to escape, and even happier to have a day of reprieve ahead of him.
Chapter 15
The day of reprieve turned into two, and then three, and then a whole week. Princess Alberta did not once summon him in that time, and he began to think that maybe he had paid his dues for injuring her.
Even though he may not have seen her, he did hear plenty about her.
“She’s
making potions up there, like a regular witch!” a chambermaid whispered to a stable hand at dinner one evening.
“I heard she’s brewing her own liquor, and that she almost burned down her room setting up the still,” he replied in much the same tones.
“I heard she’s making deadly poisons,” said one of the cooks as he handed them both a hunk of bread. “I wouldn’t put it past her, either. She really is a witch.”
Everyone seemed to be in agreement on that point, which made Duncan wonder how many of them had ever seen the back rooms of an apothecary’s shop. A still acted as the centerpiece there, and any number of “potions” lined the shelves.
He didn’t have the luxury to worry about Princess Alberta’s antics, though. He was busy making up for all the chores he had missed under her service. Gardener had seen no reason to lighten his workload during that time. By the end of the week, exhaustion weighed down upon Duncan’s bones. He trudged into the stables to tend to Wildfire late one morning, only for the horse to tell him the last thing he wanted to hear.
“Your mother’s sick. You need to take off the afternoon to go visit her.”
“What?” cried Duncan. “No!”
His mother, of course, had died years ago. His mother being ill was the excuse Scurvyhead always gave when he needed to get away from a job to play the role of Sir Goldmayne.
“I’m sorry,” Wildfire told him flatly, “but according to the people coming in and out of this stable, there’s a band of rogues not five miles from here searching for the infamous Goldmayne. They’ve been accosting the average citizenry in their search, and we can’t have that. Go tell Gardener that your mother’s sick, and that you’re taking off the rest of the afternoon. Really,” he added, “we’re pretty lucky to have gone this long without any altercations.”
In all the places Duncan and Wildfire had traveled thus far, they encountered treasure-seekers within the first week or two, and Goldmayne necessarily made an appearance shortly after that to drive the fellows off in a different direction. Scurvyhead, meanwhile, paid frequent visits to his sick mother for the duration of his stay in any place.
“I’ll go tell Gardener,” he grumbled in resignation. “What if he doesn’t let me go, though?”
“Quit your job,” Wildfire retorted. “The king himself is riding out on a hunting excursion in another hour. If he starts running off these brigands personally, they’ll band together and come after him, thinking he wants to hoard Goldmayne’s treasure all to himself. Do you want to invite that sort of trouble?”
“All right, all right, I’m going,” said Duncan. The last thing he needed was the guilt of setting a pack of treasure-seekers against the crown of Meridiana. Besides, if it came to quitting his job, he wouldn’t have to worry about demands from domineering princesses anymore. He thought this was a good enough incentive to seek out Gardener and request some time away from work.
He found the man in the second greenhouse and made his excuses. Gardener looked him up and down once, and his mustache swished unhappily, but in the end he simply waved Duncan off with disgust.
Upon his return to the stables, Duncan discovered a flurry of commotion. The stable boys darted about to prepare for King Edwin’s outing. A handful of soldiers were to attend the hunt, and they stood idly by, supervising. Duncan slipped past them with downcast eyes. A couple greeted him jeeringly, and he took the time to smile at them like a halfwit before he hurried back to Wildfire’s stall. He and the horse slipped out the back door and made their way to a far gate that opened into a field beyond the castle walls.
“How are we supposed to find the rogues before King Edwin does?” Duncan asked as they rode toward the abbey ruins to retrieve Goldmayne’s armor. Time had never been of much importance in previous encounters. More often than not, the ruffians were near enough to Scurvyhead’s hiding place that Duncan could trace them quite easily.
“We ride up and down the nearest highways,” Wildfire answered. “They’ll find us.” News of Sir Goldmayne always seemed to travel faster than wildfire, as the saying went. Luckily, the horse Wildfire was speedy enough when he wanted to be and always outran his pursuers.
Duncan dragged the bundled suit of armor out from beneath the hollow tree and quickly unpacked it. His sword was there too, tied into the pack. He would’ve preferred a lance, but it was too cumbersome to carry when he traveled.
“I should’ve thought to take one from the king’s armory,” he mumbled as he looked over the blade. The sword made it necessary for him to have close confrontations with ruffians, and he would’ve rather avoided that.
“Fayet-mec-hwit,” Wildfire said behind him.
He whirled and was nearly blinded by the sudden whiteness of the horse’s coat. Gone were the gray muzzle and the spots along his flank. His mane and tail were now snow-brilliant instead of dingy-dull. Even his saddle and bridle had gone bone-white in color.
“Fayet-thu-hwit,” the horse said to the pile of armor, and it blazed the same dazzling white. The only part that remained unaffected was the long tassel of golden hair—Duncan’s own, from the first batch Otis had cut from his head—that sat atop the helmet.
“Not the armor too!” Duncan complained. He was used to Wildfire changing his color when they rode out like this. Sir Goldmayne could hardly be seen astride a horse that bore resemblance to the one ridden by foolish little Scurvyhead. The gleaming steel of the armor had always been good enough before, though.
“You’re going to make a spectacle for the king today,” Wildfire retorted. “It’s only natural that you put your best foot forward. That means the armor too.”
Arguing with the white horse was an exercise in pointlessness, Duncan had long since discovered. Wildfire was smarter than him in everything except numbers, and far more cunning. His plans had kept the pair of them safe for two years, too, so Duncan had no real standing to complain or protest.
Thus, he grudgingly donned the dazzling white armor as quickly as he could. It was heavy and cumbersome, and would have been much easier with assistance, even though Otis had crafted it knowing that Duncan would have to put it on by himself.
“If you don’t hurry up, the king’s going to beat us to the chase,” Wildfire told him. Duncan directed a crusty glare upon the horse, who wisely snapped his mouth shut.
“This isn’t exactly easy,” he said as he yanked the last strap through its buckle.
“But it seems like you should have gotten a little faster after all this time,” Wildfire muttered under his breath.
Duncan rolled his eyes. He fixed the helmet atop his head, threaded his sword into place at his waist, and mounted the white horse.
“Don’t forget to drop your visor,” Wildfire told him.
He obeyed, even though he hated it. The visor constricted his view, and it made the helmet hot and clammy in the summer air. It was also essential for keeping any of Sir Goldmayne’s facial features from being distinguished, though, which was reason enough to overlook the disadvantages to using it.
The metal clicked into place.
“And off we go!” cried Wildfire.
Duncan trusted the horse to know where they were headed. Wildfire had heard the accounts of treasure-hunters in the area. He would know the direction to travel, and he would only get annoyed if Duncan asked any questions about it. Together they rode over grassy hills, through green woodland, until they reached the common road. Here they galloped past astounded peasantry who pointed and stared. A couple of riders behind them yelled in excitement and turned their mounts to follow. Wildfire veered off the road into the woodlands again.
The horse liked running more than he would admit, and Duncan suspected that he liked being chased, too. Wildfire was fearless when it came to these altercations. Dame Groach and Goliath these ruffians were not, and the white horse had every confidence that he could outrun them. Indeed, he lost them amid twists and turns through the woodland. Duncan and Wildfire emerged on the other side of the trees to a new road, an expanse
of fields, and a handful of farmers driving vegetable carts home from the market. They continued on their way.
After a couple hours of riding, a similar scenario had played out four times. Duncan realized that Wildfire was running in a very large, rough circle through the countryside. The pair of pursuing riders soon became four, then seven, then twelve.
They had lost the pack yet again and were winding back the way they had come when trouble struck. Wildfire halted near the edge of a patch of woodland; he and Duncan remained hidden by the trees around them. Ahead, a ribbon of road ran through a broad field. On the far side was the collection of brigands and treasure-hunters. Nearer and moving to intercept were King Edwin and his guards, outnumbered two to one by the enemy they charged.
Wildfire cursed roundly. “I wanted to get them further from Midd so that they wouldn’t run into King Edwin at all!” he cried.
“They wouldn’t really fight the king, would they?” asked Duncan. “I mean, he’s the king!”
“What do a bunch of lawbreakers from Borealia care about the King of Meridiana?” Wildfire retorted. “Here, see if you can snatch one of those soldiers’ spears as we go by!”
Duncan did not have time to question this order, for the horse broke into a sprint immediately. Down they charged through the ranks of the king’s guard. He managed to swipe a halberd from one of the astonished soldiers as he passed. He even nodded to King Edwin, who stared with wide eyes. Then, he moved the spear into position to attack.
Wildfire eagerly bore down on the cluster of brigands. They had shouted with excitement when they saw Sir Goldmayne appear, but when they realized he meant to mow them down, their excitement changed. This was not a rabbit hunt, and the ruffians brandished short swords, not spears. Any fool could have seen in the white knight’s posture, in the white horse’s fierce bearing, that this would not be a battle easily won.
Together, Wildfire and Duncan blazed across the open road like a streak of lightning, brilliant and blinding in the late afternoon sun. A couple of faint-hearted scallywags scattered prematurely. Three more were mown from their horses as Duncan plowed through their ranks and broke free on the other side.
Goldmayne: A Fairy Tale Page 18