by K. C. Herbel
Sir Hugh reached for the door. The question had no meaning for him.
Ergyfel addressed him. “Sir Hugh! Where is the ring?”
“What?” asked Hugh, his mind still on his dying king.
“The ring,” said Ergyfel impatiently. “You were supposed to bring back the ring as proof that the boy was dead.”
“But . . .” said Hugh, turning from the door.
“No!” shouted Ergyfel. “Your quest was to bring back proof of the boy’s death, not excuses.”
Hugh stared long and hard at his adversary. He walked towards him with slow deliberate steps. “Billy and your precious proof are at the bottom of the sea, thanks to you. What’s more, I discovered that it wasn’t Billy, but Don Miguel, who killed Princess Kathryn!”
All present cried out or gasped—some saying that it was hogwash, while others exclaimed their shock.
“Hush, hush!” said Ergyfel, calming the nobles. When they were quiet, he continued. “And Don Miguel . . . ? Where is the Spaniard?”
“In hell,” said Hugh.
“So he is dead?”
“Yes . . .”
“Then that is all we need know,” stated Ergyfel. “Justice is satisfied. The guilty have been punished.”
The mob of Ergyfel’s parrots cheered their agreement. Hugh considered the nobles and frowned. It was a waste of breath to try and tell them anything more.
Ergyfel addressed Sir Hugh in a resounding voice. “Sir Hugh, you have failed our king and our great kingdom for the last time!”
Ergyfel droned on, but Hugh was oblivious to his rhetoric. His mind was submerged in thoughts of his king, his sin against Billy, and his love, Myrredith.
“And furthermore,” continued Ergyfel, “as Chancellor and sole heir, I strip you of your title as the King’s Champion, and all rights, duties, and privileges accompanying that station. In addition, all lands and property now held by you are forfeit to the Crown.”
“You took the land when I was a child,” said Hugh, refashioning his sorrow into anger, “or have you forgotten?”
Ergyfel regarded Hugh. He perceived the muscles of the warrior’s jaw growing taut. “Not broken yet,” he muttered.
“Allow me to read something,” said Ergyfel. He opened Sir Sedgemore’s journal and read aloud: “And now, though I am surely named a traitor, I know I have done only what was right! I shall uphold my vow to the child’s . . . mother!”
Ergyfel closed the book. “It appears your father felt his vow to our king was less important than one to his wife! It’s gratifying to see that I showed such good judgment.” He turned his back to Hugh and ascended the dais. “After all, we don’t want the land to fall to the son of a traitor.”
Hugh’s anger exploded. He grasped for his sword with one thought: to rid himself of Ergyfel once and for all. His fingers clutched at his naked side, reminding him that his sword had been lost to the sea. Suddenly, the conflagration inside him consumed all its available fuel and fizzled.
Hugh nearly collapsed. He was in shock. There had been no cries from the assembled lords—not one peep. They all stood by, quietly acceding. These men whose lives had been made comfortable, thanks to Hugh’s defense of their country, were turning their backs on him. Like carrion birds, they silently watched as all his aspirations and dignity were ripped from his carcass.
“Get you hence . . . Hugh,” said Ergyfel, seating himself on the throne. “This is a place for lords and noblemen.”
Hugh turned and plodded from the great hall. He collected his shaggy mount and left the donjon. Before long, he meandered into the chapel. Hours later he was still there.
Hugh remembered coming to Orgulous, shortly after winning his spurs. He had been victorious in battle, and triumphant in numerous tournaments. In due course, he challenged and defeated the King’s Champion and then took his place. It was in this same chapel that he pledged his all to serve King William.
His father had driven him all those years and, in part, all the years since. Never visible, always present, he had hung over Hugh’s life like a specter. Despite what was said, Hugh could now lay his father to rest. He knew in his heart that Sir Sedgemore’s honor was secure. He would haunt Hugh no longer.
Hugh had a private smile, but it didn’t last long. Thoughts of what lay ahead soon brought him back to earth.
Now the kingdom was in more peril than it had ever been; the war with Gwyddea was certain, King William had one foot in the grave, and Ergyfel had one cheek on the throne. Hugh knew that for the kingdom to survive, he must be more vigilant than ever. The days ahead would be grim, and the gravediggers shorthanded. Hugh prayed that King William and he would not be in need of their services.
* * *
Meanwhile, Ergyfel had entered King William’s chamber with Sygeon and asked the king’s doctor and nurse to wake him. When the king awoke, both Ergyfel and his half brother knelt, waiting for King William to speak.
“What is it, Ergyfel?” asked the king weakly.
“Your Majesty,” started Ergyfel solemnly. “I have some rather distressing news.” He stared at the doctor and nurse until they moved to the door, out of earshot.
“Well . . .” prompted the king.
“I don’t know how to tell you, my good Lord.”
“Just say it!” ordered King William, finding Ergyfel’s tactics tedious.
“Very well, Your Majesty,” said Ergyfel. “My brother, Sygeon has just brought me news regarding Billy.”
“Does he yet live?” asked the king, hopefully.
“Alas no, Your Majesty,” said Ergyfel, glancing at his brother, “but we have confirmed Hugh’s report. He was indeed your and Eleanor’s son.”
Ergyfel held out his fist before the king. He opened his hand, revealing a small tangled cord—stained and aged grey—resting in his palm. He pulled on the ends of the cord, and all the knots were released.
At that moment, King William’s mind became clear for the first time in fifteen years. His head filled with the memory of killing his beloved Eleanor with his own hands, and the sound of his voice pronouncing Billy’s death sentence. They struck at him like daggers. A terrible weight descended on his heart, and he felt the icy kiss of death on his lips.
Ergyfel leaned forward and whispered to the king. “I thought you should know before you died, that it was your command and your hands that killed your son and Eleanor.”
The clarity of the king’s mind expanded, and he could see in great detail how Ergyfel had manipulated and destroyed him. He looked up at his cousin’s gloating face and knew the horrible, damning truth. Magic or not, he had allowed Ergyfel to pull his strings, and it had cost him his beloved wife, his only son, his kingdom, and now his life.
Ergyfel rose with a smile as the king started to slip into eternal sleep. King William watched his destroyer turn and walk triumphantly away. Hatred filled his being.
Suddenly, the king rose and grabbed a knife from the physician’s tools next to his bed. His nurse gasped in astonishment, and Ergyfel looked back over his shoulder. The king was upon him, the blade of his weapon coming fast. At the last instant, the magister cringed out of the way, and his attacker plunged the knife into Sygeon’s neck. Blood sprayed from the wound as both men fell to the floor.
Ergyfel’s half brother squirmed on the floor, gagging and slipping on his own ichor. Within a minute he would be dead. His slayer, the King of Lyonesse, was dead already.
“Brother,” croaked Sygeon, holding out a bloody hand to Ergyfel.
Without a word, Ergyfel turned and strode from the room. He went directly to the great hall where he announced the death of King William and his own ascension to the throne.
* * *
Hugh got up to leave the chapel. He stopped abruptly at the door and knelt facing the altar.
“Lord Jesus, watch over my beloved Myrredith. And if it be your will that I should meet my death in the coming conflict, I beg you: may I gaze upon her face before I see the glory of your kingdom. Amen.”
Hugh started to leave Castle Orgulous. He didn’t know where he was headed, or what he would find when he got there. He just felt the need to keep moving.
A rider coming through the great gatehouse interrupted Hugh’s thought. Despite his dirty, torn tunic, Hugh identified him as a royal page. Hugh could tell that the boy had been riding hard for quite some time, perhaps days. As he broke into the dim evening light Hugh recognized him as Luke, the close-lipped boy sent to fetch him after Billy’s trial.
“Luke!” called Hugh.
The young page looked up, his face a mask of fear and confusion. Luke slowed his lathered mount and stopped before Hugh. He gazed about as if unfamiliar with his locale, and Hugh noticed a dark blood stain on his leggings.
“Made it,” said Luke with a sigh.
Suddenly, the boy slouched and slid from the saddle. Hugh rushed forward and caught him before he could fall to the cobblestones. Gently, he laid the page on the ground and cradled him in his lap.
“Water!” cried Hugh to a nearby servant. “And have someone fetch a doctor! Now!”
Hugh examined the boy as guards and servants crowded in around them. A servant set a bucket of water next to the boy, scooped out a bowlful, and handed it to Hugh. Hugh gingerly placed the bowl to Luke’s lips and tipped it back.
Luke opened his eyes and looked up at Hugh. He turned away from the water and spoke. “Sir Hugh,” he said with some difficulty, “we are lost. The battle is lost . . .”
“What has happened?” asked Hugh.
“The Gwyddnies landed in Wyneddhamshire,” said Luke. He took a swallow of water then continued. “The earl led us against them, but they fought like wild men—thousands of them. It was slaughter.” Luke started to pass out again, and Hugh shook him.
“Where are the Gwyddnies headed?” Hugh asked the exhausted youth.
The boy fought to stay conscious. “They went in the direction of Dyven.”
“Dyven!” exclaimed Hugh. “Myrredith . . .”
Hugh grabbed the arm of a servant and pulled her down to his level. He quickly moved Luke into her lap and stood. Without a word, he mounted his horse and galloped from Castle Orgulous.
Hugh had a direction now. The last time the army of Gwyddea invaded, he met them and threw them back into the sea. This time, he was determined to teach them a lesson. This time, he would show no mercy.
Without warning, an image started to expand in Hugh’s mind, pushing his thoughts of blood and battle aside. All his other thoughts slid away from it like broken roof tiles, falling from a swelling tower. He spurred his mount on, his mind besieged by the image—the image of Myrredith.
Hugh left Nyraval on the King’s Road, galloping in the direction of Dyven. As he crested the high pass, a strange sound penetrated his thoughts, and he stopped. Every bell in Nyraval and Orgulous rang out plaintively.
From his position, Hugh could see all of Nyraval and the surrounding area. There were no armies—no threat he could detect. The bells were not an alarm. A moment of reflection, and Hugh knew the meaning of the bells.
Hugh tore his ragged tunic and cried, “My King! My King.” Then in a whisper added, “Godspeed.”
Hugh turned his horse in the direction of Dyven and urged it forward. He never looked back.
Chapter XXX
Beyond the Horizon
Billy woke slowly, aroused by the whisper of waves gently lapping on a sandy shore. He was wet and sore. He felt hard, damp wood under his face and the morning sun warming the other cheek. A memory of the Gyldan Mene gradually formed in his head then progressed rapidly to the storm . . . and Hugh . . . and the fire!
Billy sat up hastily and fell off his perch into water. He thrashed about until he realized that the water was quite shallow. The child’s coffin, brought aboard the ship by Hugh, drifted next to him in the bright, clear water. Billy looked at the casket and vaguely remembered climbing on to something that had floated by in the storm.
“Sir Hugh!” cried Billy, scanning the sparkling sea. He jumped up and ran forward. “Sir Hugh!”
The only answer was the soft lapping of waves being pushed by a cool breeze. He fell to his knees and wept.
As Billy’s tears were added to the sea, his blurred vision caught them striking the water. His right hand tingled, and an image began to coalesce on the tiny ripples. Billy concentrated, and the water within the ripples became smooth as glass. Upon the surface he saw Hugh—alive! His noble companion looked a little worse for wear; however, he bore a very determined expression that made Billy smile. He felt a twinge from the dragon’s scar on his chest and knew that someday he and Hugh would meet again.
The sound of waves again entered his consciousness, and he smelled the perfume of flowers over the briny sea. He turned and was knocked over by what he perceived. He splashed water into his face and blinked repeatedly to rid his eyes of the apparition before them.
A beach of pink sand and lavender rocks waited a few yards away. Beyond the beach stood a beautiful lush forest of giant trees. There were fat ancient oaks between slender evergreens and varieties Billy had never seen before. Some had radiant colorful leaves and bark that glistened like silver. Bright, yellow, blue, and white flowers snuggled up against their feet like adoring children, and a multitude of eye-catching birds sang and played in their branches.
Where am I? wondered Billy. Is this Erin? It looks more pink, than emerald.
Billy dragged himself and the coffin ashore. The box was heavy and waterlogged. He thought about what it might contain and shuddered. At that moment, something shifted inside, and Billy dropped it. The small coffin landed on the rocks and burst open. Sunlight flashed in Billy’s eyes, reflected off silver.
Billy bent down and examined the contents that had spilled from the broken casket. There was a helmet, gauntlets, a bundle of wet clothes, and a sword. Billy eyed the sword. From the skillfully crafted bone and silver scabbard to the sparkling blue gem in the pommel, the weapon was just as breathtaking as the first time he had admired it in Sir Hugh’s tent.
Billy picked up the weighty sword and pulled it half out of the scabbard. As he examined the elegant blade, a hazy memory of the first time he had held it settled on his mind. He glanced about, nervously searching the woods.
“No dragons here . . . I hope,” mumbled Billy. Even so, I wish Hugh were with me.
He turned to the sea and scanned the flat, calm waters for survivors. As far as Billy could see, there was nothing but blue sky and water.
Billy slid the sword back into its scabbard and started to put it back with the other things from the coffin. Sudden movement in the trees caught his eye, and he drew the sword. Billy watched the strange woods, his heart pounding. As he focused past the wavering tip of the heavy weapon, a fawn appeared between the trees. Billy relaxed his stance then became very still so that he wouldn’t spook the young deer.
The fawn passed through the trees, heading towards the beach. Its spindly young legs wobbled as it stepped on to the loose pastel rocks. Billy held his breath.
Without hesitation, the fawn walked across the sand to Billy and nuzzled his hand. Billy was startled as the creature licked him with its rough tongue. Warily, he reached up and petted its soft fury ears. The affectionate animal moved closer, seeming to enjoy Billy’s touch.
Billy smiled at his newly found friend. Instantly, a group of birds flew down from the tree line and landed on the remains of the little coffin. He continued petting the deer but knelt to survey the birds. There were linnets, robins, sparrows, finches, and several he didn’t know. They chirped at him in all their varied songs.
“Well, you’re a friendly lot!” said Billy.
One of the sparrows half hopped and half flew to Billy’s shoulder. Billy was so surprised that he dropped Hugh’s sword and fell on his rear. The excited little bird fluttered and chirped in his face before lighting once again on his shoulder. Its high-pitched twitter tickled Billy’s ear.
“Welcome! Welcome!” it seemed to say.<
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Billy twisted his head and stared at the little bird. In turn, it cocked its head and stared back at him. Its tiny bright eyes regarded him intelligently. Half convinced this was all a dream, Billy turned his head again and listened. The bird chirped into his ear, and once more he heard words.
“Welcome to Tirn Aill!” piped the sparrow. “Welcome, long-awaited prince!”
The bird’s words were more than a greeting. They were the answer to a question—the question Billy had been asking his whole life without realizing it: Where do I belong?
Billy leaned back on the sand and laughed. He gazed over the quiet sea to the sun, which floated just above the horizon. It might’ve been the dawning of any day, anywhere in the world. Billy savored the moment and knew that it wasn’t. This wasn’t just any day. He wasn’t just anywhere. This was his first day in Tirn Aill. He was finally home.
* * *
End of Book One
The Adventure Continues in
Spellbinder,
Book Two of the Jester King
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue: A Running Start
Chapter I: Fate Takes a Hand
Chapter II: Of Parting and Sorrow
Chapter III: Phoenix
Chapter IV: The Ring
Chapter V: Growing Time
Chapter VI: A Jester Borne
Chapter VII: An Unexpected Adventure
Chapter VIII: The Journey Continues
Chapter IX: Cyndyn Hall
Chapter X: The Spirit of Cyndyn Hall
Chapter XI: The City
Chapter XII: Glad Tidings
Chapter XIII: Wedding Pilgrimage
Chapter XIV: The Guests Are Welcomed
Chapter XV: The Wedding
Chapter XVI: The Wedding Feast
Chapter XVII: Decisions, Decisions
Chapter XVIII: Dark Days
Chapter XIX: Hullabaloo
Chapter XX: Dream Time
Chapter XXI: Fate
Chapter XXII: The Hunt Begins
Chapter XXIII: On Fate’s Path
Chapter XXIV: War