With a Jester of Kindness
Page 7
“This must be my lucky day,” said Banarel. “I get the ring, and the . . .”
Before Sir Banarel could finish, John smashed the rogue’s foot with his pitchfork. He followed this up with a swift kick to the groin and a shove, which sent him into the opposite wall.
Banarel gritted his teeth and glared at John. “You shouldn’t have done that, old man,” he said, still leaning against the wall. “Now I’m really going to make you pay.”
Just then, a horseshoe from the wall clunked down on Banarel’s head, crossing his eyes. He wavered for a moment before the second shoe struck. Then he fell to his knees as the last two shoes hit the floor.
Banarel held his head and stared at them with one eye squeezed shut.
“Come on, Father,” said Billy, grabbing John and pulling him towards the door.
Showing amazing fortitude, Banarel jumped to his feet and charged after them. John turned and held out his pitchfork. He caught the man square in the chest, but not before Banarel had thrown his dagger.
The weapon sliced through the air at Billy, who instinctively closed his eyes and held up his hand before his face. There was a sound, like the clank of a broken bell, as the dagger struck the ring on Billy’s hand and fell harmlessly to the floor.
Billy opened his eyes and saw the dagger at his feet. He blinked twice then looked up as his father pushed Banarel back with the pitchfork.
Sir Banarel stumbled backward towards the nearest stall. Suddenly his thighs caught the gate-rope. He flapped his arms for a moment then flipped over the rope into the stall. A moment later, the horse inside whinnied, and Banarel sailed back over the rope, landing facedown on the floor.
Father and son started to make a run for it, however John looked back over his shoulder as he reached the door. Sir Banarel was not moving, and so John stopped. He watched a moment longer and then, sure that the man had been subdued, gave a quick, sharp whistle in Billy’s direction.
Billy stopped halfway to the kitchen and spun to look at his father. “What?” he whispered.
John looked back into the stable, then back to Billy. “I think he’s out,” he whispered in reply.
Billy scanned around the court then shrugged to his father. “Where is he?”
“No,” said John, “not out-out . . . knocked out. He’s just lying on the floor.”
Slowly Billy went with his father back into the stable and approached Banarel. The knight remained still—too still.
John finally bent down and placed his hand on the man’s back. He shook him then kneeled and placed his ear to the man’s chest.
Billy watched his father and the door. Torn between staying and running, he settled for quaking with an occasional baby step towards the door. His eye caught the dagger on the floor, and he picked it up. Now, a tiny bit braver, he walked back towards his father.
John straightened suddenly, and Billy jumped back. “Come, Father!” he yelled. He held out the dagger in front of him and waited for his father. John remained kneeling next to Banarel.
“What is it, Father?” asked Billy. “Has he got a weapon on you?”
“No,” John said flatly. “He hasn’t even got a heartbeat.”
Billy returned to his father’s side. He dropped the dagger next to the body, and together they rolled Sir Banarel onto his back. Immediately they saw the U-shaped gash on his forehead and the small pile of bloody straw where his head had been resting.
“What’s goin’ on here, Father?” asked Billy, staring at the body.
“I’ll explain later,” said John, subconsciously reaching for his shirtfront. He felt for the ring momentarily then stared at Billy’s hand.
Billy looked down at the ring. It appeared and felt the way it always had to him, except he had never dared to wear it before. Slowly he reached down, removed the ring from his finger, and held it out to his father.
John continued to stare at the ring then reluctantly held out his hand. Billy placed the ring in his father’s palm and gently closed his fingers around it.
“What do we do now, Father?”
John looked back at Banarel and said, “I’m thinkin’.” He put his hand over his heart. His thumb and first finger played with the front of his shirt while he squeezed the ring into his sweaty palm. He remained silent for a full minute, never budging. At last, John picked up the dagger and slid it back into the scabbard on Sir Banarel’s belt.
“Go to your room, Son,” said John. “Go to your room and I’ll take care of this . . . and talk to no one!”
“But, Father . . .”
“No buts!” barked John.
Billy stepped back. He had never seen such intensity and anger in his father. Slowly he turned and walked towards the door.
“Wait,” said John stepping away from the body.
“Yes, Father.”
John walked to Billy and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Then, looking into his son’s eyes, he said, “You must never tell anyone about this . . . Never! It would be best if you forgot it altogether.”
“But, Father . . .”
“I know, Son. I know. I raised ya to always tell the truth, but this will have to be our secret. If someone asks . . . you weren’t here. Sir Banarel’s death was an accident. That’s all you have to say. Now off with ya.”
* * *
Billy lay restlessly in his bed. He couldn’t get the image of the dead man out of his mind, nor the rage in his father’s face. John was acting so strange, as was Sir Banarel. A knight shouldn’t act like a common thief. And what of the ring: had it actually flown across the stable to land on his finger? Surely it was an illusion.
“It must have been flung by Banarel’s dagger,” Billy said absently. “When he threw that dagger at me . . . he was so close! How did he miss?”
There came a soft knock upon the door. Then Billy heard, from beyond the door, the voice of his father.
“May I come in?” he asked, seeming to know that Billy was still awake.
“Come in, Father.”
This custom his father had, of knocking on his door before entering, was one that Billy found odd and unnecessary, but one his father had insisted on when Billy reached the age of manhood. In fact, Billy having his own room was a luxury his father had insisted on as well.
John opened the door and stood in the passageway, holding a dimly lit lamp. Without a word, he entered and sat next to Billy on the bed, placing the lamp on the small table. He sat quietly for a moment, staring solemnly at his son.
“What is it, Father?” asked Billy.
Again, wordlessly, John reached up and took the leather thong from around his neck. He removed something from it and offered it to Billy. In the dim light, Billy could just make out the ring in his father’s palm. It was the ring he knew had belonged to his mother. John showed it to him years earlier and again when Billy asked to see it. Then he had seen it that very night, when it made its miraculous landing on his finger, but until that moment, Billy hadn’t realized that John kept it around his neck.
No matter how many times he had gazed upon the ring or held it in his hand, Billy found it most exquisite and felt that his mother must have been equally beautiful. Just holding the ring, he felt closer to her, and even though he had no memory of her, she formed a very clear visage in his mind. Billy stared at the ring, marveling at its hypnotic beauty, and conjured up the beautiful image of his mother.
John spoke and brought Billy back from his dreaming. “This, ya know, was your mother’s,” he said.
Billy nodded, and John took his hand. He placed the ring in his palm, and Billy felt its familiar, comforting warmth.
“Now it’s yours to keep,” said John. “Your time has come to go out and make your way in the world. Your mother wanted ya to have it. Perhaps it may somehow guide you to your destiny.”
These words sounded strange to Billy. Never before had his father talked of destinies. He looked at the ring and then back to John.
“Am I leavin’, Father?”
“But what of the inn, Father? Won’t you need my help?”
John smiled with his eyes and said, “I’ll manage somehow.”
“Has this got somethin’ to do with Sir Banarel?”
John hesitated then said, “Aye.”
“Is he really dead, Father?”
John nodded then said, “The earl’s physician confirmed he was killed by the horse. He’ll inform the earl of the unfortunate accident after breakfast.” Billy frowned and John added, “That’s the way it must be remembered, Son. We can ill afford to explain it any other way.”
“As you wish, Father.”
They fell into a quiet spell for a moment, and then John spoke what was most on their hearts. “You haven’t been farther from me than I could holler since . . . since you were christened,” he said. “You haven’t—I didn’t . . .” John sighed then said, “Fifteen years, and I haven’t prepared ya. I thought I’d have more time.”
“Prepared me for what?”
“For anythin’—everythin’.” John sighed. “The worst part of it is, I already miss ya.”
“I’m only goin’ for a short while, Father!”
“That may be so,” John replied unconvinced, “but it’s the way of the world to make it hard for a man to return home.” He paused momentarily. “Lady Myrredith is a kind and good woman. I trust her. But there are many you will meet who are not so kind—as you well know. Be careful of those other lords and ladies. They make games of other people’s lives. Be ’specially wary of any stranger, and most important of all . . . don’t show anyone the ring. Someday . . . someone, who wants that ring very badly, will try to hurt you to get it.”
“Yes, Father,” Billy said, sensing John’s need for a confirmation.
The two of them stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, and recognition passed over them that things would never be the same.
“Good . . . Good,” said John rising to his feet. Then he crossed to the door, taking the lamp with him. “Now, try to get some sleep, my son.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
“Yes, Father. G’night, Father!”
“G’night, William.”
Then John was gone. The door closed behind him, leaving Billy alone to wrestle with his thoughts, as the darkness returned to his little room. Eventually the long day’s activities and the late hour caught up with Billy, and he nodded off.
* * *
The next morning the inn was thrown into utter chaos as the guests prepared to depart. Each spoiled member of the entourage wanted his or her things taken down “now” and not a minute later. Of course, there were more waiting for their things to be brought down than there were those who were doing the bringing. Added to this were the many trying to get in a last drink or bite to eat, and the earl settling up with John—making arrangements for Sir Banarel among other things. Finally, as all the guests mounted their horses and wagons, the commotion escalated, so much so that no one noticed a young man saying good-bye to his father for the first time.
Chapter VII
An Unexpected Adventure
The wheels of the wagon squeaked to a stop. A muted groan was the only warning of the sudden halt that catapulted Billy, head over heels, into the muddy rut, just behind the horse. Those witnessing this spectacle burst into laughter, and soon all in the vicinity were watching the scene with a great deal of interest. All laughed as the little man’s muddied face came up, and he spat out a chunk of turf.
Billy crawled blindly out of the rut and found his hand on the hard, rough hoof of a horse. He blinked his eyes and looked up at the man mounted on the steed above him. The man leaned over in the saddle to have a better look at Billy. The shoulder guard of his bluish armor glinted as it dangled loosely on its straps.
“What’s the matter, little man?” the guard asked, his ironic grin revealing a large gap in front where once there must have been two or three teeth. He backed up his horse a step and continued, saying, “Don’t you like the taste of the King’s Road?”
“I’ve tasted worse,” quipped Billy.
There was a moment of stunned silence before another guard spat out, “Aye, but where have you had better?”
The captain of the caravan guard snuffed out the following round of guffaws with one boom of his voice. “Hey!” he bellowed. “What’s all this then? You two . . . quit gawkin’ and give a hand with the earl’s wagon!”
Billy, over his initial embarrassment, wiped his face off and then washed with water from one of the wagon’s side barrels. Lady Myrredith handed him a cloth, which he took, silently bowing his head in thanks.
The slow-moving caravan had been traveling the King’s Road since the previous day, having reached it one day after leaving The Valley’s Finest Inn. While it was one of the more rugged parts of the road, it had been uneventful, until now. So as soon as he dried his face, Billy’s natural curiosity took over, and he ran ahead to see what had caused the caravan’s most untimely stop.
As Billy approached the wagon belonging to the earl and countess, he saw that it was leaning over in back. It was about to tip over from the looks of it. Several men—primarily caravan guards—were working feverishly to right the heavy, ornate vehicle. Their ardent captain was yelling orders from horseback while his men, ankle-deep in muck, struggled with the broken wheel. Sir Aldrick, one of the courtiers, was gallantly aiding the frightened countess in her escape from the “horrible wreck.”
The red-faced wagon master was desperately trying to placate the earl and remove any guilt as far from himself as possible.
“Honestly, milord,” he said with his head down, “I don’t know what could have happened!”
“Um-humph,” the earl replied.
“I—that is, my man—checked the wagons just this morning!”
“Um-humph.”
“Your Highness, this must be the work of-of-of . . . of faeries!” The large man flashed a sign of protection with his rough, thick hands.
“Faeries, Master Finnian?” the earl said wryly.
“Aye!” The wagon master said, crossing himself for good measure. “What else could have caused such a dastardly trick, Your Worshipfulness?”
The earl cracked a crooked smile at Billy as he peeked from behind a wagon. “You don’t think it could have been hobgoblins . . . or witches . . . ?”
“Oh no, my liege, it were faeries.” He made yet another sign. “Undoubtedly!”
“Undoubtedly,” repeated the earl, somewhat unconvinced. “Perhaps it was that little imp right over there.” The earl pointed to Billy. “He seems to have a bit of the fay in him, wouldn’t you say?”
The large teamster scratched his unshaven chin with the two fingers and thumb of his scarred right hand and measured the boy with his eyes. In his coat of mud, Billy’s appearance was rather like some kindly wood sprite or brownie. He fidgeted uncomfortably under their scrutiny then ducked behind the wagon.
“You see?” said the earl. “Why he’s disappeared just like that!” And he snapped his fingers to punctuate.
Earl Cairmac, who had grinned throughout the conversation, was now laughing as he watched the husky teamster’s face screw up into a scowl. Finnian glanced desperately to either side, sweating. Abruptly, he gave a curt bow to the earl, turned, and walked directly into the ankle-deep muddy water around the wagon.
Aber Finnian was a large man by anyone’s account and many years as an ostler had made him strong as well. So when he put his back to the wagon and heaved to with the others, the wagon took a sudden lurch upwards. This was good for removing the broken wheel, however rather unfortunate for the earl’s physician, who was, at that moment, debarking from the precarious wagon.
The old surgeon sat upright, having landed seat first in the same mire that was causing all the trouble of late. He sat motionless
at first, shocked to find himself on the ground. There was light laughter as he gave a push to get up and discovered that the sticky mud around his bottom had him firmly in its gooey grasp.
“You oaf!” he shouted at the wagon master. “Don’t think I don’t know why you did that, Aber Finnian!”
The wagon master was mortified. He stood paralyzed. He didn’t dare release the wagon until the new wheel was in place, but his face betrayed his desire to be somewhere else—anywhere else. He wrinkled up his face and closed his eyes tightly, as if somehow this might hide him from the irate physician.
The doctor continued to squawk and splash the muddy water at Finnian as his arms flailed wildly about him. Finally he stopped and looked around him. His little scene had the courtiers laughing uncontrollably, many holding their sides as if they would split. His bony mud-splattered face looked pitifully like a poor, lost mongrel, instead of a well-refined court physician.
“Will someone kindly get me out of this muck!” he yelled, before he splashed both fists down into the water in frustration.
Without warning, two small hands slipped under his arms and began lifting. He gave a push and was free from his sticky captor. Relieved, he turned around to see his savior, who was now helping him to his feet. There was Billy, grinning from ear to ear and covered from head to toe with mud, save for his face. The physician flinched with a gasp. Then he blinked his eyes and refocused on the little man’s face.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said disdainfully then pushed Billy aside and strode past him, seeking someplace to clean up and regain some of his dignity.
“That some ragamuffin would come to my rescue,” grumbled the physician, “before a member of this court . . .”
As he disappeared into the bushes, his grumbling became a full-blown rant. “Many of whom I personally delivered into this world . . . !”
The earl, upon seeing what chaos this unscheduled stop had caused, informed the wagon master and the captain of the caravan guard, “You have the rest of the day to fix the wagon.”