by K. C. Herbel
Sir Hugh grabbed up his dishes and left the tent. Before Billy could take breath, Hugh returned and handed him the dishes.
“Here,” he said half dazed. “Would you please wash these for me? I’ll pack up the rest of our little camp and then we’ll be off.”
Billy started out of the tent but was stopped by the warrior’s gentle hand. “My friend,” he said timidly, “I’m afraid I don’t even know your name.”
“Billy.”
“William, is it?”
“No, only my father and Lady Myrredith call me William.”
“I see.”
“Billy is what my friends call me.”
“Then Billy it is . . . and glad to make your acquaintance!”
The two shook hands and stared at each other for a moment, both secretly feeling that a bond had been forged between them, a bond that would link their future paths in some uncertain way.
Chapter VIII
The Journey Continues
Two weary travelers wandered into the firelight of the camp that night. Though very different in build and attire, their faces were the same: both drawn long with the fatigue that comes from a difficult journey.
The first man was tall and well built, with long brown hair, which he wore pulled back from his fine, firm features. He was dressed in quality blue clothing and pale leather armor, the latter exhibiting signs of battle. He carried a heavy war saddle flung over his shoulder and a long blade in an elegant scabbard at his side.
The other man appeared to be little more than a boy, although his weary countenance added many years to his visage. His breeches and shoes were of a coarser material than his companion’s and were obviously well worn. His jerkin was the only thing that did not fit the rest of his image. In fact it seemed not to fit him at all and would have looked more natural upon his friend’s tall frame. It was smooth and white with a high collar and extra long flouncy sleeves. The bottom of the shirt was untidily tucked into a wide belt.
Straggling behind the two dusty travelers came an equally dusty packhorse, carrying a larger load than would be normal for such a beast of burden. It dragged tiredly along, the small man tugging on its lead.
Deep wagon ruts and trampled earth surrounded the camp—left behind by the large caravan that had been there. Now only one wagon, one tent, and a few horses remained. Around the dying fire slept several men, all having the rough appearance of mercenaries or caravan guards.
The smaller man’s face showed relief as they entered into the dim light, but the tall man glared about and pursed his lips together tightly.
“What is it?” asked Billy, seeing his companion’s jaw tense.
“They sleep!” hissed Sir Hugh through clenched teeth.
He marched to the space between two of the sleeping men. He tapped both with a light kick and cleared his throat. Both men showed little sign of waking. One turned on to his side mumbling, the other did not budge. Hugh was fuming. He took a deep breath and let it out. In one move, he dropped his saddle on the man to his left and drew his sword with his right hand. Billy saw only a flash, as the dim firelight danced off the long silvery blade. The edge of the blade stopped sharply at the one man’s throat, as the saddle thudded noisily on top of his partner.
Instantly the men around the fire came to life. Those who could sat up grabbing at weapons and blinking their puffy eyes as they gaped nervously about the camp. Two of them, however, found this extremely difficult. One had the weight of a saddle on his head, the other, the cold steel of a blade at his gullet. The latter chose not to move at all.
“What is it?” exclaimed one man, facing out from the campfire into the darkness.
Sir Hugh released the man under his blade and tapped this bewildered bloke on the shoulder. The man turned to find that he now had a sword at his throat. Foolishly he made a desperate move to bring his sword around, but the angry knight dashed the blade aside and riposted to bring his blade back under the man’s chin.
“I should have slain you all where you lay for such lazy foolishness!” spat sir Hugh. “But dead, you would not learn your lesson, and would be of little use in Her Ladyship’s defense.”
The guard pinned by Hugh’s saddle finally pushed it aside. “Who in the blazes are you?” he said angrily.
“It’s Sir Hugh,” said the man next to him, “the King’s Champion.”
Recognition and embarrassment flooded into the men’s faces as they learned who had entered their camp as they slept. Each man grumbled some feeble excuse as well as a few curses under his breath.
One sour-faced guard finally spotted Billy. “Oh, so the young scalawag has finally returned!” he said disgruntled.
“We’ve been waitin’ here, lookin’ for ya for four lousy days!” spouted another.
“Where ya been?” asked a third.
“Where’s Duncan?”
There was silence as they looked around the camp for their friend Duncan, who had disappeared with Billy earlier that week. Then they all stared at Billy.
The roughest of the guardsman approached Billy and went to one knee. He pushed back a stock of unkempt black hair from his face and restated the question. “Where’s Duncan, lad? Where’s my cousin?”
Billy looked at the man’s face with cloudy eyes. Then suddenly tears poured out of them, and he turned away from the man. Duncan’s kinsman turned to fix his eyes on Sir Hugh, his face a perplexed frown.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
Sir Hugh’s face was somber, but he had replaced the anger, which had been there, with sympathy. He looked directly into the kneeling man’s eyes and spoke low. “I’m sorry. Your cousin is dead.”
“What?” cried the man. “But . . .”
The man’s face slowly went from disbelief to one of somber acceptance. His eyes were downcast as he asked the inevitable question, which seldom has a satisfactory answer. His voice was flat and squeezed out in a half whisper.
“How did he die?”
The King’s Champion widened his stance, as if the very answer would sway him with its weight. He swallowed hard and looked about him at the faces of the men who had been companions of the deceased. Finally he spoke, trying to ease the men’s pain.
“He died well . . .” Hugh said, cutting himself short. He realized that the grieving relations might not want to know that their loved one was digested by a monster.
Duncan’s cousin raised his head again to look at the knight. His face was stern, and his eyes searched those of Sir Hugh.
“By what means was he killed?” the man asked and then bitterly added, “Who shall pay for Duncan’s blood?”
Sir Hugh recognized the man as a member of the Highland clans and knew their penchant for reprisal. They feuded amongst themselves for generations, to the founding of tradition. This was a root of weakness and a source of strength.
At last Hugh sheathed his sword and answered the man’s query. “He died . . . fighting a dragon.”
The man’s face paled, as did all the others around the fire. Their eyes widened, some staring nervously into the darkness.
“But fear not,” Hugh continued, “your cousin’s blood is already avenged.”
He went to the packhorse and, with some effort, relieved a large bundle from its back. He paced back to the fireside with the dragon’s hide. The men scrambled back as he unfurled it and revealed the hideous huge head. Its large dead eyes stared at the men. Its face was frozen in a vicious, hateful snarl.
The monster lay still on the ground with its snout crinkled and lips curled back. Long sharp teeth protruded from its powerful jaws while the tongue lolled to one side. Though it was clearly dead, its visage still made them shiver.
“I thought Duncan would be safe, away from our feud,” said Duncan’s cousin. “That’s why I brung him here.”
“What passes here at this late hour?” grumbled a voice from behind the men, startling all those around the dying fire.
Each man turned to view the Lady of Cyndyn’s husband coming from t
he wagon. In private, he was often referred to as “the Lady of Cyndyn’s husband,” as he was not considered the true Lord of Cyndyn by most. In truth, he wasn’t a lord of any kind by birth. He had merely married into it. He won his noble wife’s hand in a foolish tourney held by her senile, widower father, the late Lord Cyndyn.
Sir Aonghas, as he was also known, grasped in his right hand a large mace, which he repeatedly lifted and let drop into his left hand. The hefting of this heavy weapon would have been a rigorous chore for an average man, but he was not an average man.
Sir Aonghas was a lumbering, brutish hulk, with hair covering his body and face, the coarseness of which matched his drunken sense of humor and perpetuated the epithet: Boar of Dyven. He looked like a giant as he approached the silent men at the fire’s side. He wore a large dark fur draped over his frame, the color of his thick beard. Underneath, he wore naught but a white night gown and a pair of ridiculous soft ankle boots of red velvet. His appearance would have been comic had he not been so menacing.
“Your Lordship,” said Sir Hugh, with a curt bow.
The giant man nodded. “Sir Hugh, what a pleasant surprise,” he said bitingly. With this he gave the knight an ironic smile, which gave some inkling to the others that it was not so pleasant a surprise, for indeed it wasn’t.
Both men were painfully aware that had Sir Hugh competed in a certain tourney years before, instead of dallying to thwart the invading army of Gwyddea, he would be the Lord of Cyndyn Hall. What’s more, both knew that this would have pleased the current Lady of Cyndyn Hall greatly.
The large man spoke, again well seasoned with irony. “Undoubtedly you’ve been out rescuing damsels and slaying dragons.”
The King’s Champion said nothing but stepped aside to reveal the evidence of his latest victory.
Aonghas’s eyes met the dragon’s and popped open. He stepped back, shaken by the instantaneous fear that took hold of him. He almost dropped his mace but recovered just in time to save his foot and his dignity. His composure regained, he feigned a yawn in pretense of boredom, a poorly executed mimicry of the theatrics employed by the Earl of Wyneddham. As he finished the little spiel, his eyes fell upon Billy, who collapsed against a rock in exhaustion.
In an annoyed tone Aonghas said, “Oh, I see our two lost sheep have returned home . . . FINALLY!” Then he started into Billy, attempting to leave the whole dragon issue behind. “Do you know that I had to apologize to the earl for your absence, and he left us behind anyhow? You’re in a lot of trouble, little man.”
One of the guardsmen interrupted him. “Not two, milord!”
Aonghas, not used to being interrupted, stopped, looked at the man angrily, and then lifted his mace to wag it at Billy. He pointed the weapon at him and took a deep breath to renew his pontificating. Abruptly his expression changed to a combination of curiosity and frustration, and he turned his attention back to the guard who had spoken.
“What do ya mean, ‘not two’?” he spat. “Not two what?”
“Not two lost sheep, milord,” answered another guard.
Sir Aonghas looked at this man and saw the sorrow and anger inscribed on his features.
Duncan’s cousin spoke again. “Only one has come home.” He paused thoughtfully. “Duncan is dead—killed by that horrid monster.” He pointed with disgust at the dragon’s remains and spat.
Aonghas was speechless. He turned away from the fire and mumbled something to Sir Hugh.
“Thank you, milord,” said the knight.
Still mumbling, the Lady of Cyndyn’s husband wandered back to his wagon, annoyed by the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to sleep for the rest of the night.
This however was not the case for Billy or Sir Hugh. After relieving the packhorse of its heavy load, they both found a place to lie down in some soft grass and quickly fell into a deep slumber, neither one dreaming about much of anything.
* * *
The next morning was full of activity as the camp was uprooted and packed away for travel. While the guards attended to most of the preparations, Lady Myrredith was busy fussing over and at Billy. Hugh and Aonghas kept themselves active, staying out of each other’s way. The only time the two of them spoke was in the customary courtesies exchanged when the King’s Champion presented himself to Lady Myrredith. Billy witnessed their formal, but curt exchange, and Aonghas’s failed attempts to usher his wife away from his old rival. Finally Aonghas became impatient and left to take out his frustrations on the procrastinating guardsmen. Billy left too, sensing that the two nobles wished to be alone for a moment, perhaps to reminisce over old times.
At last, with the wagon packed and horses harnessed, they were off. Lady Myrredith had decided, much to Billy’s joy and her husband’s grief, that Sir Hugh must accompany them, “at least until we reach Cyndyn Hall!”
All the travelers were of good spirit as they went along their journey to the great hall, which had been home to Cyndyn lords for generations. That is, all the travelers but three: Sir Aonghas, Llyren, and Billy.
Sir Aonghas stayed much to himself, grumbling and watching his wife as she enjoyed Sir Hugh’s company much more than he thought was proper. Llyren, Duncan’s mourning cousin, was in a mood as dark as the black sash he wore draped over his shoulder.
Billy was something of an emotional chameleon. When with Llyren, he felt deeply saddened by Duncan’s death, yet when he was with Lady Myrredith and Sir Hugh, he was happy and forgot his troubles. This was all very confusing to him, as he bobbed back and forth, caught in the tides of a rough emotional sea.
Upon seeing Billy’s face, Hugh said, “You seem to be in a bit of a quandary, my friend. What is it?”
Billy shook his head and answered. “I don’t know! It’s just that . . . How can I feel so sad over the loss of Duncan and yet feel so happy with you and Lady Myrredith, all at the same time?”
“Ah . . . that is a puzzlement, my young friend, for you touch on the very essence of the human heart. I’m afraid that if there is an answer to your question, I know it not. I think perhaps you should be thankful that you have a heart big enough to contain two such warring emotions.” With that said, Hugh took three apples from a basket and tossed them to Billy.
“What are these for?” asked Billy.
“Well usually people eat them,” Hugh said with a grin, “but you told me your friend Duncan showed you another use for them.”
Billy looked puzzled at Sir Hugh.
Hugh’s grin broadened, then he said, “I had it in mind that you should entertain us and lighten your own burden with a little juggling.”
Billy remembered how Duncan had taught him to juggle the apples, and this made him realize that he did have some good memories from his short friendship. He stood up, widening his legs into a good stance, and was just about to start when the wagon heaved to one side with a loud thud, forcing Billy to sit. Then the wagon continued to rumble down the King’s Road.
“But the wagon is moving!” Billy complained.
“All the more entertaining,” said Sir Hugh with a smile.
“And it will be great practice, my charming young friend,” said Lady Myrredith, hoping to draw Billy out of his dark mood.
Aonghas, who was driving the wagon, simply grunted his disapproval. His manner spoke volumes of his contempt for the lot of them and their “frivolous behavior.”
Billy paid him no heed, preferring to believe that he was grunting at his team of horses. Billy carefully took his stance and began to juggle the apples slowly. Toss by toss, mile by mile, he gained confidence and skill in the topsy-turvy wagon until even the larger bumps and lurches were no more than minor inconveniences.
Finally Billy had to stop. He sat down, exhausted, as his audience of two applauded his efforts and commended his skills. Aonghas grunted and urged on the horses.
That evening, Hugh began teaching Billy the basics of playing lute. Together they entertained Lady Myrredith and the guardsmen with juggling, singing, lute music, and eve
n dancing at times. Surprisingly, even Aonghas and Llyren the Glum, as he was now called, were put at ease and smiled large toothy grins as they were caught up in the merriment and camaraderie the two amateur minstrels brought to the road-weary travelers.
They traveled on, and as they did, Billy took advantage of Hugh and Llyren’s presence to learn: lute and singing from the knight and more juggling from the Highlander. Even in teaching him, they found joy. Billy learned quickly, gaining skill with the lute and expanding his already considerable skills at juggling. Llyren, an accomplished juggler, as were many of his clan, and Sir Hugh, equally well skilled in lute, soon found themselves challenged by Billy’s aptitude and insatiable thirst for knowledge. He was truly gifted.
Billy’s singing voice had a calming, birdlike quality, and when given a chance, the guests of his father’s inn had frequently requested to hear it. He was even a favorite at the valley’s festivals, but he was no longer in the company of such simple folk. It never occurred to him that nobles and men as worldly as caravan guards might have the same tastes. Therefore, it was much to his delight when his singing voice was pleasing to the ears of his fellow travelers. What’s more, he had never been able to accompany himself with an instrument before, and this gave him a marvelous feeling of freedom.
Although he only played what simple tunes he had learned on Sir Hugh’s lute, his companions were impressed. Unfortunately, as hard as he tried to be a serious minstrel, Billy continually fell into antics that drew hysterical laughter from his audience. While this might have been a setback of sorts to another, Billy took it all in stride, smiling with great satisfaction when he relieved tensions, especially tensions between the two rival knights.
Thus it went for three more days, when the small retinue reached Plyth, a small village on the edge of Wyneddhamshire. Like most outlying villages it had little to offer the traveler, so they continued. They passed through rich farmland and by late afternoon came to the Canter River, which bordered the lands surrounding Cyndyn Hall. At this point Llyren asked to be released.
“But why?” asked Sir Aonghas. “We haven’t reached Cyndyn Hall yet!”