by Kari August
Some giggling maidens, who looked to be about twelve or thirteen, walked speedily by, one of them whispering loudly, “He’s cute.”
“Mandy, he’s too old for us. He must be at least thirty.”
Dickie smiled to himself. He was nearly thirty-three when he lost his life. He must look about that age now. So the innocents thought he looked cute? So had Annie when she was their age.
Suddenly, intense feelings of nostalgia, yearning, and, deep, deep sorrow beset Dickie as he recalled his wife with abrupt clarity. He couldn’t believe he had hardly thought of her up to this point. The thrill of recent events must have overwhelmed him. But he certainly missed her now. He could barely remember a time he hadn’t cared for her. They had practically grown up together.
He walked over to a bench and sat down, memories rushing back intensely. Dickie had learned his skills of knighthood and diplomacy in her father’s household, living under his tutelage until he was sixteen, the age of his majority. Annie had liked to watch him practice jousting. He had teased her while sharing suppers together.
Her father had also been Dickie’s cousin. Wealthy Richard Neville, better known as Lord Warwick, had been named “the Kingmaker”—his influence in the kingdom had been so powerful. Of course, his domineering affect had only been until Lord Warwick and Dickie’s older brother George had both tried to take control of the monarchy away from his eldest brother, King Edward IV. Dickie had remained unswervingly faithful to Eddie and had helped suppress that unfortunate rebellion. Dickie’s father had always stressed the importance of loyalty, and how his close cousin, let alone his brother George, could have been so unfaithful was still a mystery to him.
So many deaths, so much unnecessary upheaval. Why couldn’t George and Lord Warwick have been as devoted to Eddie as Dickie had always been? Yes, there had been problems with the kingdom under Eddie’s rule, with too many favors and offices given blatantly to Eddie’s lowly in-laws, but did that mean you turned your back on your close cousin and brother, for God’s sake?
And there was Annie, caught in the middle of all this manipulating—but that was only until Eddie had allowed Dickie to marry her. Dickie had vowed to protect and be faithful to her from that day forward. Oh, he had had his dalliances before marrying. Even fathered beloved children with a commoner. But sweet Annie had helped raise his illegitimate kids—practically as if they were her own. And for a while their life had been blessed. Despite Annie’s weak constitution, she had given birth to their own son, Edward, who had lived to the age of nine. . . .
Oh, Edward! Dickie shook his head. Some memories were just too painful. To think he had lost both his son and wife to illness within a couple years of losing his own life in battle. Dickie had trouble catching his breath.
He swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders, knowing he needed to compose himself. Well, he would be seeing his dear family once he made it into heaven. As soon as he had things tied up to satisfaction in this twenty-first century. He was more than ever determined in his purpose now.
After a moment more of contemplation, Dickie stood up from the bench and started slowly trudging back to the car. He glanced up at the store sign across the street: The Rockies’ Best Knife Shop.
He stopped and read the print in smaller letters: Medieval Swords and Lances.
Dickie allowed himself a small smile. Why, this was just the place he needed right now to help turn his current mood. Ned’s home definitely could use some weapons for proper defense! He hadn’t seen even a bow or arrow in the cabin while cleaning this morning. And besides, Dickie felt practically naked without his sword.
He crossed the street and entered the shop, his eyes widening as he took in the vast assortment of goods. Dickie grinned as he let his excitement soar. A middle-aged man with a shaved head, but a full beard and mustache, approached Dickie. “What can I help you with today?”
“Good man, I’m looking for a sword, a dagger, a mace, and a bow and arrow.” He glanced around the display walls. “I don’t see any lances. Where are those?”
“Lances? Sorry, we don’t carry those anymore. Got too many protests from the mothers.”
Dickie frowned. Since when did a woman’s opinion count when it came to weapons? “Let’s start with the swords.”
The man pointed to the wall next to Dickie. “We have all brands. How much were you interested in spending?”
Dickie lifted the closest one. It weighed practically nothing. Surely the owner didn’t mean these swords. “This has no heft. The balance is off also. It might be useful when training your squire, but I need one more substantial.”
Dickie walked over to the display of daggers and then touched the toy mace. What a disappointment this store had become. He sighed loudly. “None of these will do. They’re for children, not grown men.”
The owner half smiled. “I see you’re a man of distinction. I keep my best stuff in the back room.” He motioned with his hand. “Follow me. I like dealing with real customers.”
Dickie walked into the chamber and was immediately drawn to the sword in a display case. “I’d like to look at this one.”
The owner frowned slightly. “I’m not sure I’m going to sell that. I obtained it last year online. It didn’t have any papers guaranteeing the history; however, that sword is purported to have once belonged to Richard III—you know, the king they’re doing that play about in town?”
Dickie smiled. “I need to study it then, most certainly.”
The owner hesitated. “Well, as I said, I’m not sure whether I want to sell it, but I’ll let you look at it.” He took the sword out of the case and handed it over to Dickie.
Dickie scrutinized the handle and blade. It looked to be from his time period, but it definitely had not been one that he had owned personally. “It didn’t belong to Richard III, but I’ll buy it anyway.”
“It’s going to cost a premium for me to part with it.”
“Show me your other items, and we’ll negotiate the price after I’ve made all my selections.”
After choosing a dagger, a bow and arrow set, and an additional sword—all modern-era, but decent quality—Dickie then decided on an antique mace, a shield of armor, and, lo and behold, he found a lance.
Dickie wangled over the price. He didn’t really know what he was doing. He couldn’t appreciate what was expensive or not in today’s currency, but when the owner came down a third, Dickie figured he had done well.
Shortly thereafter, carrying his clothing bag in one hand, another huge canvas bag sagging from its heavy weight in his other, the bow and quiver of arrows over one shoulder, and a sword strapped around his waist, Dickie returned to Ned’s car and groaned loudly. He dumped all his purchases on the hood and unstrapped his sword. Now what was he supposed to do? Some new car had pulled in front of Ned’s and another one had pulled in back, making a tight fit. And what was this? He pulled a piece of paper from under the windshield wiper. He read: Parking too close to curb. Fifty Dollars. Dickie threw the meaningless paper over his shoulder and tapped his finger on his chin.
He looked down the street and saw another poor soul getting into his car in a similar situation, blocked in by other vehicles. But what was this? Somehow he was managing to back up and move forward, angling out. Dickie ran down the street and knocked on his window.
The driver, an elderly man who reminded Dickie of kindly Father Charles back home, lowered his window and smiled warmly. “Can I help you, son?”
“Explain to me how you’re going to get your car out of this predicament.”
The man chuckled. “My wife hates parallel-parking also. I’m an expert at detailed instructions. You see, first you need to turn your steering wheel as far as it will go in this direction. . . .”
Dickie watched attentively and waved as the man drove off. He trotted back to Ned’s car, opened the door, placed his purchases inside, and sat behind the wheel. He shrugged. It didn’t look too hard. He started the car and turned the wheel as far as it
would go before putting his foot on the pedal. Crunch. He slammed on the brakes and frowned. Ah, oh. He must have hit the car in front. Ned wasn’t going to be too happy if any damage had been done to his car. Dickie lowered the corners of his mouth. Bet the owners of that car in front wouldn’t be too pleased, either. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. He needed to get out of there before anyone discovered his mistake.
With rapid repetitive movements he turned the wheel to the right and then to the left, backed up and moved forward, hearing slamming noises as he went, until he finally managed to get Ned’s car free. He lurched forward onto the street, made a complete turnaround on the road, and headed back to Ned’s cabin.
Now confident in his abilities the farther he drove, he decided to speed up some more. Dickie heard a loud whining noise just as he screeched to a brake at a red light where other cars had stopped in front of him. He looked into his rearview mirror and noticed glaring lights on top of the car in back of him.
Hmmm, now that was kind of odd. Then Herman’s droning voice came back to him—something about flashing lights. Cocksblood! This must be the sheriff of the shire.
Chapter Eight
The fellow behind the wheel was motioning with his thumb, as if he wanted Dickie to pull off to the side of the road. Dickie hesitated, not sure what to do. The surly gent then frowned, and Dickie decided to pull over. A tall, muscular man with very short hair got out of his car and walked up to his side. Dickie lowered his window and read his badge. Indeed, “County Sheriff.”
“License and registration.”
Dickie swallowed. “Pardon me?”
The sheriff smirked. “Do you own this car?”
Dickie tried to smile. “It belongs to my cousin, Ned York.”
“Your name?”
Dickie quickly made a decision. Did he want to be known as Richard Plantagenet, his family name, or not? He sensed it was a bit long and complicated for this twenty-first century. He decided to take Ned’s last name instead. Besides, his beloved father had been the Duke of York, so York was a good-luck name. Dickie spoke up. “My name is Richard York . . . uh, the third. Can I leave now?”
“Not so fast, rich boy. I need to run a search.” He walked all the way around Ned’s car before returning to his own flashing car.
Dickie watched from his rearview mirror as the sheriff sat behind his wheel, talking for what seemed an eternity, at times to himself?
The sheriff suddenly seemed agitated and hurried back to Ned’s car. “I’ve been called away, so we’re going to make this quick. First off, I picked up on an accent. Are you a foreigner?”
Richard sat straighter. “I’m English.”
“Passport?”
Was that the little booklet Herman had given him? He thought so. “It’s back at my cousin Ned’s cabin.”
“I take it your cousin is Edward York, who is registered with the tags. Anyway, you were clocked at seventy in a thirty. No license or identification. Broken headlights, front and back, rear bumper falling off. No driving until they’re repaired. Three-hundred-dollar fine, summons to court for you.” He handed Dickie a couple pieces of paper.
Dickie sputtered. “Now might I leave?”
He handed Dickie a pen. “Sign the papers.”
Dickie hadn’t grasped even half of what the sheriff had said, but he had comprehended “summons to court.” He was outraged. No sheriff summoned the King of England to court! As far as Dickie was concerned, he had been as compromising as possible, trying to fit in with the commoners, most of whom he had found a pleasant sort. But this was too much. This obnoxious shire sheriff needed to be taught a lesson. He needed to learn just who he was dealing with.
Dickie snatched the modern version of a pen from the sheriff and with a flourish signed his Richard York name in large letters at the bottom of the page. But Dickie didn’t stop there. Oh, no. He started writing the many titles he had accumulated over his life, including Lord High Constable of England, Lord High Admiral of England, Governor of the North, Great Chamberlain of England, Chief Steward of Wales, Chief Justice of North Wales . . . in fact, Dickie had been given so many honors and positions—Eddie had valued him so much during his reign—that he started writing them along the right-hand side of the paper, then turned the paper around and continued on the top border, then turned the paper again to head down the left edge. He finally ended with Richard III, King of England.
He handed the papers back to the sheriff, who tore off one copy before declaring, “Hope this gets you contempt of court, wiseacre. Oh, and I better not catch you doing anything illegal behind a wheel again.”
The sheriff shook his head disgustedly before trotting back to his car. Dickie raised his window and drove slowly back to Ned’s. Wait until Ned heard about this sheriff’s outrageous behavior. Why, Ned might even help Dickie build a dungeon in the basement of the cabin. It could really come in handy with persons of this sort.
Ned walked through the back door of the cabin whistling. He had thought his birdwatching class couldn’t be beat, but that was before he had gone to his beaver-habitat seminar. Those critters were absolutely fascinating, burrowing tunnels to their homes sometimes hundreds of feet long, then rerouting waterways so that they could send logs down the thoroughfares more efficiently. Talk about utterly stupendous work. Ned walked toward the kitchen, drawn now by the fragrant aromas emanating from the room. He found Dickie peering into the open oven door, pink apron wrapped around his waist. “Holy mackerel, what smells so good?”
Dickie closed the oven door, straightened, and smiled. “Venison roast. Thought you might like that.”
Ned frowned. “Venison? We didn’t purchase any venison last night. Did you buy some in town today? Dickie, look, I really mean it—we can’t afford luxuries such as that.”
Dickie rolled his eyes. “Purchase it. Why would I do that? I shot the deer myself this afternoon. It was just casually wandering in your front yard today as if it didn’t have a care in the world. You’d almost think it was tame.”
Ned’s eyes turned to saucers. “What do you mean, you shot it? With what?”
“My new bow and arrows. I bought them, along with the sword and other weapons I put on the dining table.”
Ned looked over, horrified, at the collection of arms scattered on the tabletop, price tags still attached to some. But he had more important problems to address right now, such as a dead deer in his front yard.
“Ned, we really need to have a talk about your defensive measures in this cabin. I also want to speak to you about installing a dungeon. . . .”
Ned didn’t hear the rest of the sentence as he tore out the front door to see for himself what Dickie had done. He came upon the dead carcass about thirty feet down the hill. He gasped. Oh, no. The deer was tagged, which meant it was one of the protected ones in the park. For all Ned knew, it might even have a tracking device placed under its hide. This was a disaster.
“Clean hit, wouldn’t you say? I got it right in the chest. I cut out the haunch from the rear flank.”
Ned looked over to see Dickie smiling smugly, still wearing his apron.
“Dickie, what have you done? You can’t just shoot any deer you want to; there are laws to be obeyed. My God, we’re going to be in trouble if the authorities find out about this.”
Dickie placed his hands on his hips. “Authorities. I have had about enough of them today—”
Ned cut him off. “Dickie, not now. First thing we need to do is lug this deer off my property and into the park. Then we’d better cover our tracks. If anybody comes knocking and asking whether we know anything about this deer, make sure you tell them we don’t know a thing.”
Dickie shook his head as if Ned had gone crazy, but then resignedly said, “Fine, Ned. Whatever you say.”
As the two hauled the deer toward the park, they passed by Ned’s car in the driveway. Ned dropped his end of the deer and stood in shock, mouth open. He then turned on Dickie and fairly shouted, “What happened? Yo
u drove my car? I didn’t give you permission to do that!”
“Now, Ned. You most certainly did. You told me after I’d mastered the kitchen appliances and the vacuum cleaner that I would be ready to drive. Of course, you hadn’t explained how hard it would be to get the automobile out of a parking space when other cars have you practically blocked in, but a kind, elderly man gave me directions and . . .”
Ned crouched down on the ground, head in hands, no longer able to stand. “Don’t tell me any more. Not now. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.” Ned took a deep breath and stood again. “First things first. We need to get back to getting this deer off my property.”
By the time Ned and Dickie had disposed of the deer—with Dickie explaining in detail the whole while about his encounter with the sheriff—then brought Ned’s car into an auto repair shop, walked back home, and reentered the cabin, the roast smelled ready.
Ned shook his head as Dickie pulled the dinner from the oven. “Holy shit. I had forgotten all about it cooking. Thank God it didn’t burn the cabin down while we were gone.”
“Personally, I can’t wait to eat it. Have a seat, Ned. I’ll carve it with my new dagger and bring you a plateful.” Dickie walked over to the dining room table and picked up the blade, testing the sharpness with the tip of his finger.
Ned sat in the end chair and rested his head on the table while he waited to be served. He was beginning to feel resigned to the fact that as long as Dickie was living with him, his life was going to be a series of upheavals. He might as well try to go with the flow. Of course, he could just kick Dickie out, and yet . . . he didn’t want to. Not yet.
Dickie placed the serving in front of Ned and then took a seat at the other end of the table. Ned sampled the roast. “It’s actually quite tasty.”
Dickie swallowed a bite. “I’ll say. So, Ned, what time do we need to leave for the play?”