With a Jester of Kindness

by K. C. Herbel

  “Nicely done, Sir Hugh,” said the sanctimonious ambassador, “but I do not think you speak for your countrymen. After all, you are implicated in the murders!”

  Hugh’s grip tightened on his sword. “The charges are base. They are completely false, and I will challenge any man who says otherwise.”

  “The evidence is rather convincing . . .”

  “Snegaddrick!” spat Hugh, his temper still running hot. He grabbed the pudgy man by the front of his tunic. “If you were a man . . .”

  “Are you . . . threatening me?”

  Hugh released the ambassador and turned to face the assembled lords. “I claim trial by combat as is my right,” he said, throwing a gauntlet to the stone floor. “Is there any among you who would care to press the charges? Any who would put forth a champion to face me before the Lord Almighty?”

  “How dare you place your hands on me!” spouted Snegaddrick.

  Hugh ignored the ambassador and stared at the face of each lord present. Many turned their faces away or hung their heads. Only a few could give Hugh their eyes.

  “I’ve never been so insulted in all my life!” squawked Snegaddrick.

  “I doubt that,” said Hugh, still showing the ambassador his back.

  Ambassador Snegaddrick spat and sputtered, completely flustered by Hugh’s behavior. He turned and scurried to the large doors of the hall. “Sir Hugh!” he managed to shout when he reached the doors. “You . . . This is war!”

  Sir Hugh glanced at the ambassador. “Oh . . . I thought you were going to say something important.”

  Snegaddrick shook with anger. His face became radish red. Then he grunted and strutted out of the hall.

  Some of the lords of Lyonesse snickered at the ambassador’s exit. Some were agitated and cried out for him to stop. Sir Hugh remained completely calm, giving Snegaddrick no more thought than he would an insect. He looked down at the gauntlet resting on the floor, untouched.

  “Then I expect never again to hear of this lie,” said Hugh, picking up his gauntlet.

  “Not so fast,” said the magister.

  “What is it, Ergyfel?”

  “Besides the fact that you’ve just thrown us back into a war with Gwyddea . . . ?”

  “That fat, preposterous snake,” said Hugh, “is no more capable of starting a war than he is of stopping one. It’s only a matter of time before Gwyddea invades again. With Prince Gaelyn slain, nothing will dissuade them from their bloody revenge.”

  “He’s right,” Hugh heard from the crowd of lords.

  “Quite true, Hugh,” said Ergyfel. “I had no idea you were so well versed in politics.”

  “The politics of the battlefield,” answered Hugh. “You forget the many times I’ve had to fight them.”

  “Well . . .” started the magister, “there is still the small matter of your possible involvement in the murders.”

  Hugh said nothing but tossed the gauntlet at Ergyfel’s feet. He then stood back and crossed his arms.

  Ergyfel eyed the glove momentarily and then looked to Hugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sir Hugh,” he said with a smirk. “You are the King’s Champion. I am the king’s heir. Besides, there isn’t a man in the kingdom who would dream of taking up arms against you.”

  “Then bring someone from another kingdom!” said Hugh.

  “An interesting idea,” mused Ergyfel, “but that isn’t the point.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Your martial prowess is well known. What knight or warrior could best you in single combat?”

  “If I were guilty, my crimes would hang like great stones about my neck. Without the Lord’s strength, I could not be victorious.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t share your faith in that notion. It’s far too new and untested.”

  “King William established the trial by combat himself.”

  “That may be so, but as I said before, no one will fight you.”

  “Then as the King’s Marshal, I will lead the army into battle against Gwyddea, and prove my loyalty in the field.”

  “No,” said Ergyfel, “there’s too much at stake. If you falter, so might our army.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in trial by combat.”

  “I don’t,” stated Ergyfel, “but it’s a notion I’ve seen spreading like your faith. With a commander whose resolve is in doubt, the men would have all the morale of frightened sheep. If something unforeseen were to occur . . . and it was misinterpreted . . . No. You must not lead the army.”

  “I think King William should decide that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said an anonymous lord.

  “Let the king decide,” said another.

  Ergyfel hesitated for a moment and then finally nodded. “Very well,” he said, “if His Majesty will grant you the command of his army . . .”

  “My lords,” said Hugh, “make preparations for war.”

  “When we return,” added Ergyfel, “we will announce the king’s decision.” Then he and Sir Hugh turned and left the king’s great hall for the king’s bedchamber.

  * * *

  Hugh entered the royal suite first. King William was resting in bed, his nurse sitting beside him. Hugh’s jaw went slack when he saw the king. The great ruler’s pale skin had a bluish tint and seemed to be drawn over his bones like wet, wrinkled parchment.

  The king mumbled and thrashed sporadically, as if fighting off some creature in his dreams. Hugh looked to the nurse who shook her head and said, “He hasn’t sleep well for years.”

  Hugh knelt at the side of the bed and waited while Ergyfel sauntered into a dark corner. The nurse nodded, then Hugh reached out and gently gripped the king’s hand. “My King,” he said softly. “My King, it is I, your servant, Hugh.”

  The king’s eyelids fluttered and slowly opened. “Hugh?”

  His champion bowed his head and answered, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “What are you doing here, Hugh? I thought you’d be halfway to Cyndyn Hall by now.”

  “Sire, you summoned me.”

  “I did?” said the king, almost nodding off. Then suddenly he opened his eyes again. “Oh yes, I did.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Hugh humbly, “I’m afraid I have hurried us on our way to war again with Gwyddea.”

  “Snegaddrick?” said the king.

  Hugh nodded his head.

  “Did you kill him?” asked the king, weakly smiling.

  “No, Your Majesty,” said Hugh, “but I must confess I was tempted.”

  “Do not confess to me, Hugh,” said King William with a cough, “I’m no priest. Besides, I too have felt that desire.”

  “What?” said Hugh.

  “Oh, many times. And in my . . . reckless youth,” continued the king, “I’m afraid I would have killed him.”

  Hugh gripped the king’s hand and smiled.

  “War was inevitable, Hugh.”

  “Yes, but you have worked so hard to . . .”

  “You know,” started King William, “each morning, when I awake, I find I cannot remember with any certainty the events of the previous day, happy or sad. Despite this . . . vacancy, for which I should feel nothing, I am descended upon by a black melancholy, but for what I haven’t a clue.

  “The distant past is often cloudy, but occasionally I remember a few days from my youth. Those were bold days, my boy!” The king wheezed and stared off across the room as if he were looking across time itself. “I remember,” he said with a grin, “my first battle, the first girl I ever loved, my mother, my queen . . .” The king’s voice trailed off, and his teary eyes fixed on Hugh. “And your father.”

  “You remember my father?” asked Hugh, surprised.

  “Oh yes,” answered King William. “Your father was a great knight.” The king’s eyes drooped tiredly and then closed. “Some days my right hand reaches out, on its own accord, expecting to find him.”

  “But still he was torn down by accusations of treason,” said Hugh, half to himself.

>   King William’s eyes popped open. “Your father? He would never . . .” Then his eyes closed again.

  “Then allow me to clear his name and my own by trial.”

  “Trial?” asked the king.

  “Trial by combat, Your Majesty,” said Hugh. “It is my right to ask it, and I know the Lord will grant me the strength to defeat these lies once and for all.”

  “No, no,” mumbled the king half asleep. “You must lead my army.”

  Immediately Ergyfel appeared beside Hugh. “I do not believe that is wise, Your Majesty.”

  “Wise, cousin?” said the king, opening one eye.

  “No, Your Majesty,” continued Ergyfel. “First, Hugh must clear his name. An army will not follow a man whose piety is clouded.”

  “But if no one will grant me trial by combat, how can I clear my name?” asked Hugh.

  “To prove your fealty . . . you could bring back the boy,” suggested Ergyfel.

  “Bring back Billy?” exclaimed Hugh.

  “Preferably, his head!” said Ergyfel coolly.

  “Yes,” said the king, looking at his champion drowsily.

  Hugh glanced at the nurse, whose face blanched. Her wide eyes stared unbelieving at her sickly master.

  “Bring back Billy,” continued the king. Then his eyes closed, and he sank back into his pillow. “I miss that boy.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Hugh shaking the king. “Your Majesty!”

  The king did not stir but mumbled, “Clear your name, Hugh.”

  “Your Majesty,” Hugh said, desperately hoping for the king to awaken and change his last command.

  “You heard him,” said Ergyfel triumphantly. “Kill the boy.”

  “That’s not what he meant!” said Hugh. Hugh made eye contact with the nurse, who nervously looked away.

  “Oh, I think it was,” attested Ergyfel.

  “The king said to bring him back, but I will not kill him!”

  “Then bring the boy back alive,” ceded Ergyfel, “but if he is killed, bring back his ring, and we will accept this as proof that he is dead.”

  “His ring?” said Hugh.

  “That simple, gold band he wears. I will know it.”

  “And you will proclaim to all that I am innocent?” asked Hugh with his head bowed over the king.

  “Yes.”

  “And Lady Myrredith?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Ergyfel, “and your father too.”

  Hugh’s head came up, and he looked into Ergyfel’s eyes. He stared at their blackness, trying to ascertain the magister’s truthfulness.

  “But fail . . .” warned Ergyfel.

  Although he might finally clear his father’s name and clear himself and Myrredith of all charges, Hugh was set upon by a heavy heart. “Either way, I fear my soul is lost,” he muttered.

  “What is it to be?” asked Ergyfel.

  Hugh looked at his nemesis and said, “I will . . . do my duty.”

  “Good,” said Ergyfel, leading Hugh from the king’s suite. “Now, before you leave on your quest, you and I must announce to the lords who will be marshal of the army.”

  “They can decide amongst themselves.”

  “No!” said Ergyfel. “They will bicker and fight until the enemy is pounding down the gate. You must help me choose.”

  Hugh was taken aback by Ergyfel’s need for his input. “Why me?”

  Ergyfel smiled. “I’m afraid I was a rather poor student when it came to the art of war, but you . . . well you know who can lead us to victory. Besides, I know if you name your successor, they will readily accept him.”

  “The Earl of Hillshire,” said Hugh.

  “What? That old man?” exclaimed Ergyfel.

  “That old man,” said Hugh, “has fought the Gwyddnies since time began. His experience and cunning will be worth more against them, than a thousand knights.”

  Ergyfel seemed to weigh Hugh’s suggestion while they walked to the great hall. As they reached the side entrance, he stopped and turned to Hugh. “The Earl of Hillshire” was all he said.

  * * *

  That day, as the Ambassador of Gwyddea quietly and unceremoniously left Castle Orgulous, there was no one to bid him “good journey.” Moreover, all who passed by Snegaddrick in the gates were in a bigger hurry to leave than he. He counted two dozen royal messengers and nearly as many lords. Not a single citizen of Lyonesse spoke to him as they rushed by. It was as if he were invisible, or a ghost. The thought whipped shivers up his spine. Every dark corner became a murder hole, stuffed with cold-blooded assassins.

  Snegaddrick swatted his mount and galloped through the cavernous gatehouse of Orgulous at top speed. A league passed under the hooves of his horse before the ambassador slowed to a trot and allowed his small bodyguard to rest. Each man sat his saddle uneasily and scrutinized the woods along the road. Something unseen was stalking them. The sweaty ambassador felt its chilling breath in the wind and heard its drumlike voice in the thunder of the horses’ hooves. And while it did not show its face, the ambassador knew its name, for he had called it forth.

  Chapter XXV

  Homecoming

  As evening slipped on her shadowy gown, Billy crossed over the ridge of Cleddyf Point to look down at the Valley of the Yew. He was exhausted and hungry, having ridden the past few days straight through, pausing only long enough for Briallen to rest and water.

  Some unknown force, beyond the power of the ring and his need to see John, had driven him. It had crept up on him one night as he crossed a stream in a downpour. In the hiss of the raindrops he heard a whisper, “Hurry, hurry! There isn’t much time.” In the days that followed, the dead leaves under Briallen’s hooves seemed to say, “Quickly now, quickly.”

  Billy strained to see The Valley’s Finest Inn. In the dim light he spotted a wisp of smoke over the distant knoll and hurried from the bare hilltop into the trees.

  “Father will be cooking dinner about now,” he told Briallen. “And for you, there’s always fresh oats in the barn, and maybe an apple.”

  Carefully, Billy picked his way down the hills into the valley and skirted the fields surrounding the village. He peered through the trees of the hollow and caught glimpses of light, coming from familiar windows, beckoning him to come closer.

  The cool darkness of night was heralded by the distant barking of a dog and welcomed by the howls of her fellows. Billy turned his attention to the road. It seemed oddly vacant. Even when his father had no guests in his beds, he always managed to have visitors, up for an evening drink or occasional meal, and yet no one traveled the road.

  Cautiously he approached the inn through the woods. He could hear no sounds nor see any lights from the inn. Billy thought for a moment that he had lost his way, and then suddenly the woods ended. A large barren circle of blackened earth and burnt trees stretched before him. Roughly in the center of the strangely naked ebon trees lay a heap of charred, broken timbers.

  Billy dismounted and wandered into the devastated landscape that had once been his home. The inky shadows of bare, crooked trees fell between him and the rising moon. As he approached what should have been his father’s inn, sparse, jagged members jutted up into his view like the shattered bones of some long-dead beast. Still in shock, Billy reached out to touch them. Only feeling the pitch under his fingers convinced him that he was not having a nightmare.

  “Billy!” whispered a voice from behind.

  “What?” exclaimed Billy, spinning around.

  Again the voice whispered, “Billy.”

  Billy scanned the shadows of a large oak, which stood next to the remains of the barn. The great old tree had been Billy’s friend. Without complaint, his coarse wooden limbs had generously held Billy up, while climbing and spying, and protected him from the sun and rain. Now the old fellow’s knobby arms were gone, reducing him to a thick rough pillar.

  Suddenly a dark figure stepped out from within the tree. Billy jumped, thinking it some evil spirit or even the Night Queen bent on st
ealing his soul. Then just as sudden, the shadowy form took on familiar features.

  “Nathan!” exclaimed Billy, relieved to be talking to the living.

  “Aye,” said Billy’s boyhood friend and tormentor, “it’s me. I knew ya would show up sooner or later.”

  “Ya did?”

  “Aye,” answered Nathan. “It’s been a few days . . .”

  “Where’s my father?” spouted Billy.

  “At my house.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  Nathan’s face became grim. His eyes wandered as he kicked at the sooty foot of the oak.

  “What is it?” asked Billy, growing worried.

  “He is an old man, and . . .”

  “Let’s go!” said Billy, running to Briallen.

  “Wait!”

  “I’m sorry, old girl,” said Billy as he mounted Briallen, “we gotta run just a little more tonight before we can rest.”

  Briallen stepped into a trot in the direction of the village. Billy’s mind was on nothing but his father.

  “Wait!” said Nathan, running up behind them.

  Billy stopped and reached a hand down to him. “Climb on,” he said. “Briallen can take us both.”

  Nathan got up behind Billy and clung to his waist. He was now a large man and easily twice Billy’s weight, but Briallen wasn’t one to bellyache.

  “Who taught ya to ride?” asked Nathan.

  Without thought for how dubious it sounded, Billy answered, “Prince Gaelyn.”

  Nathan started to object but thought better of it. Billy nudged Briallen into a canter, and Nathan decided to hold on and keep his mouth shut for the remainder of the ride. By the time they arrived at his home, Nathan was full of questions, but Billy hopped down from the horse and never gave him a chance.

  Braneddwain, Nathan’s pretty wife, opened the door before Billy took three steps. She held it open in amazement as he marched by her.

  “Don’t stand there with the door open!” chided her husband.