With a Jester of Kindness

by K. C. Herbel

  Finally Billy’s curiosity got the better of him, and he exploded. “Father?”

  “Um-hum,” John hummed in acknowledgment.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, what is it?” John answered half singing.

  “That’s what I was goin’ to ask you.”

  “What do ya mean?”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  John stopped his humming and looked at Billy. Then with a smile he said, “I just had a premonition . . . that our glorious guests will be leavin’ us soon.”

  “And that would please you, Father?”

  “Well, let’s just say that even a fine meal can get caught in one’s bowels for too long. The trick is to flush it out.” With that said, John let out a laugh.

  Billy turned his head to one side and, looking up queerly at his father, asked, “And how do you know that they’ll be leavin’?”

  “Because . . .” John paused for a moment, searching for the right words to say. “Because I couldn’t possible top my strawberry surprise pies.”

  Suddenly a spark of an idea went off in Billy’s head. He held the spark for a moment, encouraging it to grow.

  “What’s the surprise, Father?”

  “Ah, that comes in the mornin’,” his father said with a grin as broad and sharp as a butcher’s knife.

  Suddenly the spark Billy held in his mind ignited his thoughts, and he walked briskly to the cupboard for final enlightenment. There, amongst the numerous clay jars of handpicked herbs and spices, was the jar his father had used when he sprinkled the pies. It was an old jar, and one that was seldom used. Billy remembered that it was usually on the back of the shelf, but since his father had done most of the cooking all his life, he couldn’t remember what was in it. He got a footstool and reached up to grab the jar from the shelf. Slowly he lowered the jar and read the hand-painted label. The name was familiar enough to him, but he still couldn’t place it. He looked over to his father who was watching him with his arms crossed and the same knowing smile on his face. He lifted the lid and smelled the now-empty jar. Suddenly his memory of the herb came flying back into his mind. His face went white, and his eyes grew to the size of goose eggs. He looked up again at his father. Then his mouth opened as if to say something, but his jaw just kept on opening until it had dropped as far as it would go. He let out a gasp.

  John, now playing it dumb, asked coyly, “Why, what is it, my son?”

  Billy answered, still stupefied by his father. “Ya didn’t.”

  “I did,” said John flatly.

  “You didn’t!” repeated Billy, still unable to believe.

  “You saw me.”

  “You did!” said Billy as he put his hand over his eyes. Slowly he slid his hand down over his face, and a small nearly undetectable grin peeked out around the corners of his mouth. Quickly he pursed his lips together to stop from smiling, but then his eyes darted about quickly, and John could see the fire sparkling bright within them. Suddenly Billy laughed through his nose, making grunting sounds like a pig. His lips quivered uncontrollably and then drew apart, the ends curving up in a fashion that would cause rocks to crack open in smiles. Then he looked again into the jar.

  Billy remembered the last time his father had dipped into this jar. He was very deliberate with its contents, only using a tiny pinch to create his home remedy for constipation.

  “A whole jar, Father?”

  “Well, I . . .” John finished his sentence with a shrug.

  The two innkeepers laughed and then started into their chores, each of them smiling and humming. Before they knew it, the guests had finished their dinner, and all they had remaining were a few dirty dishes.

  “I’ll finish up, Father,” said Billy.

  “That’s fine, Son. I’ll just see to any last requests from our guests.”

  “Have they all retired for the evening?”

  “As much as this crowd ever does. Well, g’night, Son.”

  “G’night, Father.”

  Billy turned back around to his pail of dirty dishes and started to clean. He couldn’t help but hum to himself. As he finished the last of the dishes, he said, “It’s amazing how fast the chores get done when one really enjoys one’s work.”

  The next morning, there was a surprisingly small contingent in the dining hall.

  “It seems that the majority of the earl’s entourage are not at all themselves this morning” was all that the earl’s physician would say, shortly after which he too was not feeling at all himself and had to make a dash to the back of the inn.

  Much to Billy’s delight, the lady with the kind eyes was there and had more pleasant conversation for him. She told him many things about court life. She talked about grand feasts and elaborate celebrations in great old halls of stone. Within minutes, they were chatting and laughing like lifelong friends.

  Billy hung on every word and learned many things about her. She was the Lady of Cyndyn Hall and a distant cousin of the king. The unpleasant man who had tripped Billy was unfortunately her husband.

  “You should see him at home, away from this lot . . . when he’s sober . . . he’s much more courteous then.”

  “I’d like that, milady,” spouted Billy.

  “Well, yes. I’d like to see it more often myself. Perhaps when you come to Dyven you can visit our home?”

  The lady’s statement took him by surprise. Had she really invited him to visit her? She had said it, but did she really mean it? He looked again into her kind eyes and knew that she had spoken earnestly, even if she had spoken lightly.

  “What is it, William?” she said.

  “I . . . I don’t think that will be possible, milady Cyndyn.”

  “Oh please,” she said with a laugh, “call me Lady Myrredith. Lady Cyndyn is only a title, and Cyndyn Hall is a great distance from here.”

  “Yes, mi—Lady Myrredith,” said Billy, then quickly added, “And won’t you please call me Billy? Everyone else does.”

  “Oh no,” she answered. “As I said before, you look far too much like a William to me. Now, why don’t you think it will be possible to visit me next time you go to Dyven?”

  “Well, that’s just it, mi—Lady Myrredith. I don’t think I’ll be goin’ to the city.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, I’ve never gone.”

  “Never?”

  “No—never, milady.”

  “My dear boy, whyever not? I should think a clever young man like yourself would do well to go to the city.”

  “But how would I go? What would I do? Where would I stay?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, William. I’ve already invited you to stay with me. I would take care of everything.”

  “But how would I get there?”

  “Well . . . you could leave with us.”

  “But, I . . .”

  “Enough buts, William.”

  Billy stopped dead in his tracks. “I’m sorry, milady.”

  Lady Myrredith put her finger under his chin, raised his head, and looked him straight in the eyes. “I can’t get over how familiar you look. Especially when you pout . . . Well, that’s of no consequence. It’s decided. You shall leave with us on the morrow and visit us at Cyndyn Hall.”

  Billy’s head was spinning. At long last his childhood dream of going to the city and seeing all its wondrous spectacles was about to come true. And to be visiting a lady of the court in her home! Why surely that was the most anyone could ever hope for.

  “On the morrow?” Billy said abruptly.

  “Yes, we are planning to leave for home in the morning.”

  “I must tell my father!” Billy said excitedly. Then suddenly his whole face fell into a look of defeat. “My father.”

  Lady Myrredith seeing Billy’s sudden disappointment and concern said, “Your father can run things for a short time, while you’re gone. Let me speak with him, William.”

  Billy looked at her and forced a smile. “No. Thank you, Lady Myrredith. I think I
had better talk to him.”

  * * *

  Once John made up his mind about something, it might just as well have been carved in stone. So when Billy tried to convince him that the pretty courtier’s intentions were honorable, it was not easy going. As Billy’s enthusiasm chiseled away each of John’s arguments, they became sharper, until all he was saying—or rather shouting—was “No, no, no!”

  Billy couldn’t understand his father’s obstinacy. He only knew that in his heart he had always longed to go to the city.

  “I’m never going to leave here. Am I, Father?”

  “Is it so bad here?” asked John.

  “No, Father,” said Billy, shuffling toward the door.

  “Wait,” John said as Billy pushed on the door, “I don’t think it’ll do any good, but . . . perhaps I should talk with this Lady Myrredith, before she tries to run off with the best dragon slayer in the realm.”

  “Father!”

  “I’m not making any promises, mind you.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Well, where is she?”

  “She’s gone to the stables, Father.”

  John started for the back door with Billy following. John turned around, looked his son squarely in the eye, and said, “You wait here.” He then walked out the door and closed it behind him.

  Billy peeked through the door as John walked to the stables and approached Lady Myrredith. She was riding a beautiful brown palfrey that pawed the ground eagerly. John gave her a curt bow, and she dismounted. They stood by the horse talking for, what seemed to Billy, hours. In fact it was only a few minutes, but Billy was still a child when it came to time.

  Occasionally one of them would pet the magnificent mount, and at times they even seemed to be discussing it. John put his hand to his chest, a gesture Billy recognized as a sign that he was deliberating over something important. Lady Myrredith nodded and smiled earnestly at John.

  Billy stayed at the door the entire time they talked. Lady Myrredith caught him watching them and gave him a reassuring smile before returning her attention to John. Oh how he wished he could hear what they were saying, but alas all he could do was watch and keep his fingers crossed.

  Finally John gave Lady Myrredith a curt bow, excused himself, and walked back to the kitchen. Billy couldn’t see her expression, so he studied his father intently as he approached. He could see that John was still fondling the front of his shirt, pondering something.

  Quickly, Billy backed away from the door and busied himself with straightening the dishes. When his father walked through the door, Billy looked up nonchalantly. John’s fingers tightly crimped his shirtfront; his eyes were focused on the floor, and his face was pale, but stern.

  John saw Billy, and his expression became neutral. Billy recognized this as his gambling face—an expression no one in the valley could penetrate, not even Billy. Then John’s expression settled into one of resignation.

  “William, I’ve talked to Lady Myrredith and I’ve thought it over . . . but I can’t let you go.”

  “What?” exclaimed Billy. “But . . . why?”

  “I can’t explain right now. There are many things . . .”

  “You never let me go anywhere,” said Billy nearly in tears. “I’ve always had a longin’ for the city! I get this one chance in a lifetime and you . . . you’ve never understood!”

  Tears started to flow down Billy’s face, and he turned to run for the door. John futilely called after him. Billy rushed by all the startled guests in the commons room and didn’t stop until he was in his room, lying on his bed.

  By suppertime, Billy’s pillow was soaked with tears, and he was all cried out. He got up lethargically and plodded downstairs to help his father with his usual chores.

  Billy hardly gave his father a glance as they worked in silence. Conversely, John repeatedly had to drag his eyes away from his son in order to prepare the meal. Fortunately, there were few guests interested in an evening meal, and so there were relatively few chores to complete.

  Billy retired to his room, without a word to his father. The night passed slowly, as it will when one cannot sleep. Billy’s mind still churned with thoughts of his depressingly boring future as an innkeeper, forever stuck in the Valley of the Yew.

  He got up from his bed and went to the window. The moon shone brightly in the sky, painting the court between the inn and stables with blue light and purple shadows. He looked up and caught a falling star crossing the horizon.

  “Star light, star bright, first star ere I see tonight . . . Oh, what’s the use. I’ve made that same wish every time . . . and nothin’ ever happens.”

  At that moment, Billy heard the back door to the kitchen open and close and saw his father crossing to the stables. The yellow light from John’s lantern surrounded him in a pale hallow, keeping the purple shadows at bay until the stable door had closed behind him.

  Movement from the corner of Billy’s eye caught his attention. He focused on it and saw the figure of a cloaked man skulking in the shadows on the stable wall. The man crept towards the barnlike doors and stopped. He cast his eyes about the court suspiciously then slipped through the door like milk from a pitcher.

  John was busy pitching hay into the stalls when the dark man entered the stable behind him. A sudden chill ran through him, and he straightened. John felt the ring go cold under his shirt and turned around as the man entered the light of his lantern.

  From his high soft boots to the hood on his cloak, the man was smothered in deep brown. He pushed back the hood and opened his cloak, revealing oily black and silver ringlets of curly hair that framed his long angular face and the leather armor that sheathed his lean body. A bulge in the side of his cloak betrayed the presence of a weapon hanging on his hip, beneath it. However, it was his bulging dark eyes that triggered John’s memory and sent another chill through him.

  “What can I do for ya, sir?” John asked, putting on a smile.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, John?”

  “Aye, sir. You’re here with the earl’s party. Sir Banarel, isn’t it?”

  The man thoughtfully stroked the closely cropped mustache below his bony nose and the tiny triangle of beard that separated his thin lower lip and applelike chin. He took another step closer and said, “I mean, you don’t remember me from before.”

  “You were here before, sir?”

  “Aye, quite a number of years ago . . . Fifteen years to be exact.”

  “Please forgive me, sir, but my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  Sir Banarel took another step towards John. “I thought my visit would have left more of an impression on you. It was the day your inn burned down.”

  Suddenly Sir Banarel closed the gap between them. He thrust out his hand and shoved John back against the tack wall. He pinned him there with his left hand and instantly produced a dagger with his right. He then held the dagger to John’s throat and leaned into him.

  “No one called me sir in those days, only Banarel. Now tell me, John,” whispered Banarel, “I know that Sedgemore doubled back on us. Did he come back here?”

  “I don’t know who you’re tal . . .”

  Banarel thrust the tip of his dagger harder against John’s throat. “I’d like to believe you, John . . . I really would, but the fact is, I’m still working for the same employer, and my employer told me not to believe you when you denied knowing Sedgemore. We know you knew him. When I killed Lady Enaid and wounded him, he doubled back, didn’t he? Now tell me, did Sedgemore come back here?”

  John remembered the brave and beautiful Lady Enaid. The thought that the man before him had murdered her enraged him. “You know so much,” he spouted, “how come you don’t know . . .”

  Again Banarel applied pressure to his dagger. John winced and stretched up on his tiptoes but couldn’t escape its sharp point.

  “You obviously don’t know whom you’re dealing with, John—the powers involved . . .” Banarel looked around before continuing in a
whisper. “His black magic works its way inside your head, calls on evil spirits, summons things a man can only wish were nightmares. He knows almost everything, sees almost everything . . . but you needn’t be concerned with that. All you need know is that I have my blade to your throat, and I will kill you . . . if you don’t help me.”

  John heard a hint of desperation in Banarel’s voice when he said “help.” He stared into the man’s eyes, but the fleeting moment of weakness had been quickly erased by icy intent.

  “This is your last chance, John. Did he come back here?”

  John took a deep breath and answered, “No.”

  Banarel went nose to nose with John and eyeballed him. “I’m sorry, John,” he whispered, “but I think you’re lying.”

  John felt the man lean into him and the dagger starting to cut. Suddenly Banarel cried out and jumped back. He examined his hand then quickly grabbed John’s shirt again.

  “What’s that?” he shouted. “What’s in your shirt?”

  John smelled burned flesh and looked down to see a faint glow from under his shirt. He couldn’t help but smile.

  “It’s nothin’.”

  “Take it out!” ordered Banarel.

  Reluctantly, John pulled on the thong around his neck. The master key to the inn and the ring appeared, and he let them drop to his chest.

  “Ya see,” said John, “it’s nothin’.”

  Banarel’s eyes widened as he hissed, “The ring!”

  John said nothing but glanced around for a way out.

  “You’ve had it all these years,” said Banarel. He lifted the leather thong with the tip of his dagger and examined the ring. “Then Sedgemore must be dead. And you . . . you know where the boy is.”

  At that precise moment, Billy came through the stable door. He saw John pinned up against the wall by the cloaked man and shouted, “Father!”

  Immediately, a high-pitched hum emanated from the ring, and it began to glow. It shot towards Billy until it came to the end of its leather tether and vibrated there, tugging against the restraint. A second later the thong snapped, and the ring flew across the stable to Billy. Billy reached out to catch it, but instead of landing in his palm, it landed on his finger.

  All three of them stared at the ring as it rested on Billy’s finger, glowing and singing its shrill note. Billy examined it and recognized it as his mother’s ring, but he had never seen it glow before! It frightened him.