With a Jester of Kindness

by K. C. Herbel

  “Well, I’ve a likin’ to go straight to Dyven and take the first ship for Caithnessshire. There be kin there, in the Highlands, who’ll need to be told of Duncan’s daith. An’ besides you’re just out of sight from home as it is. Please dock me whatever ya think fittin’.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend the night warming yourself by our hearth?” asked Lady Myrredith from behind her husband.

  “Aye, milady. The sooner I unburden myself of this news, the better. It might even end a feud.”

  “Then here,” said Sir Aonghas, handing him a bag of coins, “and good journey to ya.”

  Llyren took the bag and felt its weight. Then with a curious face he looked into it. His eyes grew large, and he said to Aonghas, “This is far more than our agreed price, sir.”

  Sir Aonghas looked sternly at him. “It is your and Duncan’s entire pay. The rest is heriot, for his family.”

  “Aye, sir! Thank ya, sir!” piped Llyren. He then bid his farewells to the others.

  When he came to Billy, he smiled and said most affectionately, “As for you, my wee friend. You’ll be welcomed at my clan-fire anytime!”

  With this said, Llyren slapped the rear of his horse and rode up the river, waving behind him. Before he was out of earshot, he shouted back, “And Billy . . . don’t forget to practice that trick I showed ya!” Then he went out of sight around the bend.

  Sir Hugh, still looking after Llyren, inquired, “What trick?”

  “I’ll show ya tonight,” Billy answered with a gleam in his eye.

  They moved across the river onto Cyndyn lands. The boards of the old bridge creaked their misery at the wagon’s passing.

  Suddenly Billy asked, “Say, what did he mean, I was welcome at his ‘clan-fire’?”

  One of the guards heard Billy and rode up next to the wagon. “He honors ya greatly, for amongst the Highland clans, only a member of the clan can attend the clan-fire.”

  Billy looked to Sir Hugh who nodded his concurrence.

  “Tis true,” Hugh said and then added, “You have a good friend in him, for he will not forget you. Such words are not spoken lightly by a Highlander.”

  As they traveled still closer to Cyndyn Hall, Billy was happy knowing he had made such a good friend as Llyren the Glum. However, as he seemed to be surrounded by so many friends of late, his greatest joy came from knowing that, for a short while, he had helped the proud Highlander to forget his woes.

  Billy’s excitement grew as he and his friends passed by fields and orchards bordered by endless rows of hedges and stone walls. Billy looked out into the passing greenery and saw the life that abounded there. Hundreds of tiny flower blossoms filled the air with their perfume. The insects, birds, and ground squirrels all made the hedgerows their home. He even saw a small red fox trot out of the shrubbery with dinner in its mouth then dart back into a hollow. Occasionally a farmer would look up from his work then wave or bow before resuming the final tasks of his day.

  The sun was setting, and Sir Aonghas hurried the horses to get home before dark. At the next bend they entered a lane lined with great elm trees, carefully planted long ago and now reaching across the road far above their heads. The large branches were like beams in the arched ceiling of a hall, and indeed it felt as if they had entered a great hall.

  Aonghas called one of the guards up next to the wagon.

  “Ride ahead and tell the chamberlain we come . . . with guests . . . and have the servants prepare a feast . . . and quarters for our guests . . . Well, what are ya waiting for? Do you want me to tell him myself?”

  “No, milord,” the man said with a smile and kicked the flanks of his horse. He rode swiftly down the road and out of sight to warn the Cyndyn household of their master’s return.

  The wagon creaked and rattled as Aonghas urged on the horses. The countryside was quiet and serene, with gently rolling hills and cottage farmhouses set back from the road behind fields and clumps of trees. Wisps of smoke escaped their chimneys and wafted over the trees into a darkening sky of red and violet streaked clouds. The common folk were all in by now, and small lights flickered in the windows of their homes.

  The sun was all but gone as Billy looked away from the side of the road to look ahead. “What—I mean—Is that . . . ?” he said, climbing to the front with his head between Sir Aonghas and Lady Myrredith.

  “Aye, lad,” said Aonghas proudly, “Cyndyn Hall!”

  Lady Myrredith tugged on Billy’s arm, inviting him to sit with them in the front of the wagon. Billy, entranced by what he saw, plopped down on the seat between them. His jaw dropped open, and his eyes attempted to match his mouth’s widening size.

  Before them, a mountain of squared rock and masonry approached. Its rugged form was silhouetted against the sky—a dark giant, abruptly jutting upwards from the surrounding flatlands.

  The last ray of sunlight faded. If not for a string of newly lit torches lining the last stretch of road, they would be in darkness. Billy could hardly take his eyes off the huge form of the fortress, but light coming from over the hill caught his attention.

  “What’s that glow, over yonder hill?” he asked.

  “The city,” answered Lady Myrredith.

  As Billy’s eyes gleamed with thoughts of exciting days ahead, she added, “but you will see that soon enough.”

  “Are we so close? When shall we go there?”

  Lady Myrredith smiled. “Soon enough, my impatient friend, but tonight I think we should rest and recover from our long journey.”

  “I don’t know if I can sleep. So much to see, so much to do! I don’t know where to start!”

  “A good meal perhaps,” offered Sir Aonghas.

  “Aye, and a night’s rest on a real bed,” added Sir Hugh.

  “Yes indeed, sir. Yes indeed.”

  Seeing the two knights in such gentlemanly agreement made Billy feel wealthy, warm, and well fed. Indeed they had been acting more like old friends than old rivals for the past two days.

  “Tomorrow,” said Lady Myrredith, “I shall show you the dwelling my family has called home for ten generations!”

  Chapter IX

  Cyndyn Hall

  The huge fortress loomed over them, seeming to rise infinitely beyond the torchlight, becoming one with the nearly starless night sky. The wagon rumbled across the drawbridge and through its arched gateway, which looked to Billy more like the gaping mouth of a monster, with its sharpened portcullis teeth, than an entrance to someone’s home.

  They entered the main courtyard. Echoes of the horses’ hooves clattering on the closely placed stones filled their ears as the dark rock of the great inner walls repelled volleys of sound.

  Billy was firmly on the ground before the wagon came to a complete stop. With eyes as big as apples, he trotted past two rows of confused servants, up the large steps of the main hall, spouting “Good evenin’” to all. He arrested his charge in front of the thick deeply carved doors to survey the vast courtyard and wagon below.

  Lady Myrredith was being helped down by a frail-looking, elderly servant, somberly dressed from head to toe in grey and black. Even his thinning hair followed suit. Around his neck he wore a dark chain, and from the chain hung a large silver key.

  When Her Ladyship finally reached the ground, she took a wide stance with her hands on her hips and faced the great hall. The entire ward seemed to hold its breath. Her eyes scanned the edifice, checking the placement of every well-remembered piece of masonry. Satisfied, she cast her eyes once more on the darkly dressed chamberlain and nodded.

  “Welcome home, milady,” said the old man, bowing deeply.

  “Welcome home, milady,” echoed the cheerful crowd of servants, and then they likewise bowed.

  Billy, being the only soul standing erect on the steps, stood out like a scarecrow in a winter field. Feeling aware of his prominence, he too bowed deeply . . . too deeply.

  The ensuing spectacle might have been normal, even commonplace among a troupe of traveli
ng acrobats, but to the assembled household staff and nobles, Billy’s tumble down the steps was awe inspiring. For Billy, finding himself neatly kneeling before Lady Myrredith, so far from where he had started to bow, was simply mystifying.

  “Well . . .” remarked Sir Hugh, breaking the silence, “that’s certainly the most interesting bow ever visited on the masters of Cyndyn Hall.”

  With that, the chamberlain snapped his fingers and the entire courtyard exploded into action. Some servants began unloading the wagon while others tended to the horses. Still more ran back into the hall or other parts of the castle on numerous duties—all orchestrated by the chamberlain’s snapping fingers. It was all Billy could do to keep out from under foot. He couldn’t even take a second to get onto his feet.

  Amidst the bedlam, Lady Myrredith bent to help Billy back to his feet. “Are you hurt, my dear?” she asked him.

  Billy immediately took inventory of his body, patting himself all over for broken bones. Much to his surprise, he hadn’t a scratch.

  “I’m . . . fine,” he said after a moment. Then he looked up at her kindly eyes and gave her one of his rock-shattering, ear-to-ear smiles.

  Lady Myrredith laughed and, taking Billy by the shoulder, walked him up the steps. Hugh and Aonghas followed. Then came the caravan guards a few steps behind them.

  “William,” said Lady Myrredith as they entered the main hall, “I think you’ll get along here just fine. I just have to keep the scullery maids from falling completely in love with you.”

  “That’s just what we need,” said Sir Aonghas, “another distraction for those already distracted rumormongers.”

  “Oh now, they’re not all that bad!”

  “Oh no?”

  “They’re like that everywhere. Remember what it was like in His Majesty’s court?”

  “Aye,” Sir Aonghas sighed and grumbled half under his breath, “That nest of vipers!” Then suddenly aware of Sir Hugh at his side he added, “No offense intended, good sir.”

  “None taken, sir . . . none taken,” said Hugh with a laugh. “Who knows better than I, the bite of those venomous servants of my lord?”

  Although the King’s Champion made this statement with jocularity, he unintentionally bit off some words, telling those listening carefully that the subject was more sensitive to him than he was letting on. Sir Hugh caught Billy’s concerned look and, placing a hand on his shoulder, forced a smile. Billy returned the smile, and they entered the hall.

  The travelers shed some of their belongings and cloaks in the antechamber. However, Billy could see a large fire blazing in the next room and rushed ahead of the others.

  The central chamber of Cyndyn Hall was immense. Billy thought of his father’s inn and the cozy, simple commons room. If his father had a commons room this large, he could serve many times the customers he did presently. Then Billy laughed when he thought of the enormous stack of dishes that would be dirtied.

  “What is it?” asked Lady Myrredith descending the steps to join him on the main floor.

  “How many dishwashers do ya have?” he asked absently.

  “What?” said her ladyship with a laugh. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s so . . . so big!”

  “Oh that,” she said smiling. “Legend says that Cyndyn Hall was built by giants. It was known as Fomorllech-Dunom in those days.”

  Billy’s eyes and mouth sprung open in astonishment. “Giants?” he said. Then his eyes darted around expectantly, but the only creature that came close to meeting his expectations was Sir Aonghas.

  “No, little man,” grinned Aonghas. “They’re all gone now—slain by the first Ruddar.”

  “My father . . .” started Lady Myrredith.

  “God rest his soul,” interjected a passing servant.

  “My father, Ruddar the second, was named after him.”

  Billy absorbed the short history lesson as he drank in the sights, sounds, and smells of the busy hall, being readied for their homecoming feast. Servants rushed from place to place around the banquet table, setting down dishes and cups, trays of food, and pitchers of water, wine, and ale.

  The service was all of copper, silver, and pewter, each reflecting its own rendition of the firelight—the main source of illumination. The fire pit, which was almost floor level, was located in the center of the room. The smoke and flames tasted a pig, spitted over the pit, before they journeyed up into the conical flue that rose like a huge column to the dimly lit arches of the distant ceiling. For a moment Billy thought he saw some movement in the dark recesses of the ceiling but dismissed it as shadows dancing a counterstep to the firelight.

  Leaning against one of the flume’s supports, at first unnoticed by Billy, was a slender shadowy man, with a lute slung around his neck. His inky clothes were cut unlike any Billy had seen before, with many ribbons and gobs of fancy stitchwork. A floppy feathered hat topped him off. Billy thought he looked like a great stuffed raven. The stranger was talking quietly with the caravan guard who had ridden ahead. Both were drinking from pewter tankards and looking into the fire.

  “Who’s that?” inquired Billy.

  “Who?”

  “That man with the lute!”

  Lady Myrredith focused on the ebon man. “I don’t know.”

  “That,” proclaimed Sir Hugh, “is the scalawag of all minstrels!”

  The lute-toting man turned to see who was making such a fuss. His dark eyes fell on Sir Hugh and widened. Finally, his mouth opened into a smile too sweet to be honest, and he spoke.

  “Sir Hugh!” said the man. “What an unexpected pleasure it is to see you again.”

  His speech was heavily accented and breathy—over emphasizing the h and s sounds—so that he sounded somewhat serpentine. Then he bowed deeply with a great deal of pomp and well-rehearsed swishing.

  “And this beautiful creature must be Her Ladyship, Lady Myrredith,” he hissed. Again he bowed over dramatically and grinned his saccharine smile.

  Billy, who had never heard anyone speak in such an exotic manner, was fascinated. The dark man’s tongue bespoke of faraway lands that he had only heard about in tales. His voice was low and melodic and had a certain subduing quality, even though it was definitely alien.

  “And you are . . . ?” demanded Lady Myrredith, not in the least impressed.

  “Oh, I . . .” the man stammered, thrown by his ineffectual flattery.

  “Allow me,” said Sir Hugh, pushing back protests by the dusky stranger. “This is Don Miguel Medina Scarosa.”

  With this the man gave his most outlandish bow yet.

  While he was still bowing, Sir Hugh continued, “Troubadour extraordinaire, minstrel at arms, and unscrupulous scoundrel!”

  Don Miguel Medina Scarosa straightened as if stabbed in his posterior. He looked Sir Hugh in the eye. “Sir!” he exclaimed. “You-you insult to me.”

  “Only justly,” rebuked Sir Hugh.

  “Well, I demand . . . I demand . . .”

  “Satisfaction?” Sir Hugh supplied with a smile.

  He was in fact asking the minstrel whether he would cross swords with him to regain his dignity. Scarosa understood the knight’s inference and gawped at him, seemingly horrified by the thought.

  “No!” he blurted. When he had taken a deep breath to collect himself, Don Miguel continued. “No, Sir Hugh. I would demand—no, no, is . . . request, yes request—that you give to me another chance to-to-to prove to you that I am no such the rascal that you are thinking I am.”

  Sir Hugh, who was now smiling broadly at seeing the troubadour sweat, broke into a good-hearted laugh and slapped the man on the back.

  “Very well,” said Hugh, “then let us hear some bright music to entertain us while we dine . . . And none of those dark tales of battle you are always tossing about.”

  Don Miguel bowed in agreement and strummed on his lute. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully and conjured up his first ballad from the cobwebs of his repertoire. As the company of nobles an
d guardsmen sat down to feast, he began a gentle song about the first flowers of spring.

  The troubadour droned on through the meal, breaking occasionally to pull a drought from his tankard and snack on a bite of roast pig. While his singing voice lacked luster and his choice of ballads lacked culture, his playing was nimble and eloquent. Sir Hugh, in spite of his apprehensions, seemed to enjoy the music, giving Scarosa the full measure of his second chance.

  “Now I think it is your turn,” said Sir Hugh to Billy. “Give the troubadour a rest and let us sample some juggling.”

  “And perhaps a song!” added Lady Myrredith cheerfully.

  With more coaxing from the others, Billy was out in front of the table, his hands filled with apples. He tossed them up and began to juggle. One—two—three—four—five! The hall fell silent, except for the crackle of the flames and the pitter-patter of the apples in Billy’s magical hands.

  He crisscrossed their paths back and forth, changing rhythm as easily as anyone takes breath. His audience was mesmerized. Even Billy was susceptible to the spell. His mind hardly knew what his hands were doing as he went through the routine of tricks taught to him by Llyren, who admitted he could not perform them himself.

  Finally Billy began to tire and decided to stop before he dropped an apple. He let the apples fall into his hands for the last time, except for the last one, which he caught on his forehead.

  The room erupted in applause. During Billy’s exhibition, the entire kitchen and housekeeping staff had crept into the hall. The tremendous sound from their clapping and cheers shattered Billy’s concentration. He turned to look around the room, and the apple fell from his head. In his struggle to catch the fallen apple, he forgot what he was doing and dropped the other four. The room exploded in laughter and more applause. Billy froze, half bent to catch the one apple. Slowly he lowered his head and then his shoulders, turning his pose into a humble bow.

  Billy glanced up and then meekly kneeled to pick up the fallen apples. One of the apples had rolled to the feet of Don Miguel, who stood passively watching Billy.

  “Don Miguel,” said Sir Hugh, “was that not a most spectacular display?”