The Brave Apprentice

by P. W. Catanese

  Cecilia smiled at the old man. “Do you know the story, Patch? Young Will swatted seven flies that landed on his bread and jam, and he embroidered that belt to celebrate the deed. But people thought he’d slain men, not flies, and took him for a great warrior. Before long, Will was asked to battle dangerous foes—giants, even. And with courage and wit, he turned out to be a brave little tailor indeed. He became a valued adviser to Milo’s father, and then to Milo. It is only in the last few years that he has begun to slip away from us.

  “At first these spells of his, this wakeful dreaming, came once in a great while. Then they grew longer and more frequent. Now he is lost to us more often than not. Only on the rarest occasion does he lift his head and speak. But when he does, you realize that he is always listening.” She patted the old man’s hand. “A real hero, as you said. But you’ve been a hero yourself, Patch.”

  “Not me.”

  “You saved your friend, at the bridge in your little town.”

  Patch shook his head. “I didn’t save anyone, Your Highness.”

  “You didn’t kill the troll?”

  “I guess nobody knows that part of the story,” Patch said wearily. “I killed the troll, all right. But Osbert—my friend, the fellow on the bridge with me—he died anyway. Just an hour later. He was very sick. We buried him on a hill, just outside of the town.” Patch slid off the chair and sat on the floor. There was a poker leaning against the hearth. He used it to prod the logs, sending crackling sparks into the air. “So I didn’t save anyone. I didn’t accomplish anything. That’s why … that’s why I wanted to help, with the trolls. I wanted to do something right, without something going wrong.”

  Cecilia sat beside him on the floor, crossing her legs and smoothing her long dress around them. “Look at me, Patch,” she said.

  Patch met her gaze, staring into eyes that were both green and brown, both compassionate and wise. “It seems to me you accomplished much on that bridge,” she said. “You saved Osbert from a far worse fate than the one that took him. You stayed and fought for him, so he knew he was loved. How proud he must have been. What more could someone offer a friend?”

  Patch drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “But I’ve messed things up badly now. You should let me go home, Your Highness. Before anyone else gets killed because of me.”

  “You can go home if you want, Patch. But know this: That was a good plan you had. You couldn’t have known what would happen, what would go wrong.”

  Patch groaned, remembering the awful turn of events that began as the fool was led out of the troll’s cave. Then he sensed something, a quiet thought that until then had been drowned out by his head-splitting despair. “Hold on,” he said. “Isn’t it strange that the trolls would think to have someone taste the wine? And just a day after they killed Constancius and drank all the wine without a second thought? They’re supposed to be stupid creatures. It’s almost as if …”

  “As if someone warned them?”

  “I know, it doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone do that?” Patch prodded the logs again with the poker. “You know what I think? I think it’s that Hurgoth.”

  “Hurgoth?” the queen said, crinkling her nose.

  “The leader of the trolls. He’s smarter than the others. You should hear him talk.”

  “But is he clever enough to suspect a trap?”

  Patch shrugged. “Maybe we were too obvious. Sending another wagon right down the same road. Maybe Hurgoth is that smart. Maybe he’s behind all of this, leading the trolls so far from the Barren Gray. I just wish that we knew more about them—that we could get close to them, spy on them.” He dropped the poker suddenly and clapped his hands to the side of his face.

  “What, Patch?”

  “Simon!”

  “Simon?”

  “The fool—the troll’s wine-taster! He was their captive, for a day at least. And he got away somehow when the trolls attacked us. Maybe he heard something, saw something. We have to find him!”

  The queen stood. “Stay here and keep my old friend company—perhaps he will speak to you again.” She went to the door and opened it, and the girl who had led Patch to the room stepped inside.

  “Emilie, go find the constable, dear. Patch, there is something else I must do now. When the constable arrives, tell him how he might find this Simon of yours.”

  Patch sat in the chair next to Sweeting and gazed at the fire. After a while he called the old man’s name, but there was no response. “The queen says you’re always listening, so let me tell you what I think,” Patch told Sweeting. “You said you heard clues. Well, I’ve been remembering what Griswold told us about the trolls. I have this strange feeling, like the answer is right in front of us, but I just can’t figure it out. It’s all so confusing. The trolls are so strong—why do they stay in the Barren Gray? I always heard they don’t like the sun, but we’ve seen them in the sun. Is it the warmth they hate? No—fire doesn’t hurt them; it only sends them into a rage, so it can’t just be the warmth. And what about the troll that Griswold said started beating itself on the head, then dropped dead? Or the troll that chased the little girl toward the meadow, then turned around and ran, terrified of something? What does it mean? I don’t understand—”

  There was a knock on the door, and the constable came into Sweeting’s room. He said loudly, “Hullo there, Will,” and sighed as the old man kept staring at the embers. He turned to Patch. “So young man, I’m told there is someone else to find?”

  “His name is Simon, sir. The last time I saw him we were in the middle of the lake,” Patch said. “He’s very tall, and thin, and he’s … well, he’s not like most people….”

  The constable tilted his head to one side. “Wild yellow hair, tongue hanging out of his mouth, wearing about seven shirts, one on top of the other?”

  Patch blinked at the constable. “You’ve seen him?”

  “Seen him? The madman showed up at the gatehouse right after you. Been telling us to let him inside so he can find his ‘small friend,’ his ‘little hero’—is he talking about you?”

  Patch’s head shrank between his shoulders. “I suppose he is.”

  “He’s an entertaining fellow, at least till he starts to drive you crazy. Tell you what—I’ll find a place to keep him until Her Majesty calls for you.”

  After the constable left, some time went by before the door opened again. Emilie and another servant came in. Emilie signaled for Patch to follow her, while the servant stayed behind with Sweeting.

  Patch and Emilie passed quietly through corridors and down staircases, keeping out of sight. At last she opened the door into yet another room, where the queen was waiting. Patch was going to greet her, but what he saw in the room struck him speechless. It was a sewing room of some kind, with tailor’s tools spread out across many a table. There was bolt upon bolt of cloth, in more textures than he’d imagined existed, and a glorious riot of hues that a rainbow would envy, with spool after spool of thread to match.

  “Thank you, Emilie, you may go,” the queen said. She looked at Patch. “We needed a quiet room to speak to your friend. I thought you might appreciate this one.”

  “Oh, yes,” Patch said. There was a scrap of lovely gold cloth lying on the floor. He picked it up and rubbed it between his fingers. “I—I just wish my master, John, could see this. He’d think he was in heaven.”

  “Choose any color. No, choose three. And I will have them sent to your master.”

  “Three! Honestly?”

  “Honestly,” she said, smiling.

  There was a noise outside, an absurd and familiar voice talking far too loudly. The door opened and the constable appeared, holding Simon by one arm, steering the fool through the threshold. “Oh, another delightful room,” he said, gawking. His gaze fell upon Cecilia, and he squinted at her. “And exactly who are you supposed to be? Ouch!”

  The constable had pinched Simon’s arm. “That’s the queen, you simpleton!”


  Simon’s legs turned to liquid, and the constable had to seize him around the waist to keep him from collapsing. “The queen …,” moaned Simon, swooning. The constable scuttled about to keep the fool upright, and they seemed to be dancing awkwardly together. Patch dragged a chair over and slid it behind Simon’s knees. Simon’s head flopped backward, and when he saw Patch standing behind him, he sprang to his feet and hugged him. Cecilia watched all this with enormous eyes and a hand held in front of her mouth.

  Simon clapped Patch on the back and wept with joy. “It’s you! My dearest, dearest friend in the world! What did you say your name was?”

  “It’s Patch, Simon. Now sit down, the queen and I need to talk to you.”

  “The queen,” Simon moaned again. His eyes rolled up and he slumped into the chair.

  Cecilia took one of Simon’s hands and clasped it between hers. “Welcome, friend,” she said. “I am so glad you came. The king needs your help.” Simon raised his head and looked at the queen. Eyes bulging with awe and mouth stretched wide, he looked like a frog.

  “The king needs me?” he said. “The king needs Simon Oddfellow?” His eyebrows rose so high they disappeared under his unruly stack of straw-colored hair.

  “Yes, Simon. We all need you. You may be the most important man in the kingdom right now. Patch and I have questions for you. I want you to listen carefully and think about what you learned while you were a prisoner of the trolls. Will you do this for me?”

  Patch marveled at the serenity in the queen’s voice. It was like hearing the wind sweep across a field of wheat, or a brook splashing through a stony bed. And while it was Simon that the queen was trying to soothe, Patch felt some of his own anguish melting away. Even the constable, who was clearly worried for the queen’s safety with this odd character in the room, relaxed enough to take his hand off the hilt of his sword.

  Simon straightened up in his chair, put his hands on his knees, and nodded solemnly. The queen looked at Patch, ready for him to begin.

  “Simon,” Patch said, taking her place in front of the fool, “when did the trolls capture you?”

  Simon scrunched his features together, concentrating. “Why, last night, I’m wandering about, and I find some folk keeping warm around a fire. So I start to entertain them. And suddenly, they scream and run away. So I shout,‘Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to bathe for a while!’ But then there’s this hot breath on the back of my neck, and I’m picked up and stuffed into a sack. Well, I have a merry ride for a while, bouncing all about. Then I’m dumped out, and find myself surrounded by trolls!”

  Patch turned to the queen. “So they captured him last night. After the plan was made to poison the wine.”

  “You must have been frightened,” Cecilia said to the fool.

  “Frightened? I was confused! That was the strangest audience I ever had. I drew pictures for them in the dust. They gathered around, and they seemed quite interested, and suddenly one of them hit me so hard I rolled over six times! The same thing happened when I sang my song. One moment they’re laughing and the next, pow! They hit me again!”

  “You sang for the trolls?” Cecilia asked, smiling.

  “Oh, yes,” Simon said, rising from his chair. The constable stiffened and prepared to draw his sword again. Simon cleared his throat and put the splayed fingers of one hand on his chest. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “Simon, I don’t think—,” Patch began, to no effect.

  “Listen to the hound

  ’Cause he smells the fox’s blood

  When he’s running through the mud

  And he makes his happy sound

  Bark, bark, bark bark bark,

  Bark, bark, bark bark bark!

  Listen to the cat

  As she prowls around the house

  Till she catches master mouse

  And she leaves him on the mat

  Mew, mew, mew mew mew

  Mew, mew, mew mew mew”

  “Simon, please stop,” Patch pleaded.

  “Listen to the bees

  ’Cause they must be making honey

  When they’re sounding rather funny

  As they buzz about the trees

  Bzz, bzz, bzz bzz bzz

  Bzz, bzz—”

  “Simon!” Patch snapped, poking the fool on the shoulder.

  “That’s just when the trolls hit me!” Simon said, sounding wounded.

  “Small wonder,” the constable said from the side of his mouth.

  Patch rubbed his temples with his thumbs. “Sit down again, please, Simon.”

  “Simon, did you overhear the trolls talking? Did they say why they are here?” asked the queen.

  Simon crossed his arms. “Well, my queen, I hardly think I should be snooping into anyone else’s business.”

  “Simon, these trolls are dangerous—you have to tell us anything you heard!” Patch said.

  “Oh, I see—well, I don’t think any of you are in danger. It’s somebody named ‘Dartham’ they’re after.”

  The queen gasped. Patch dropped to one knee in front of the fool and clasped his arm. “Simon. This is Dartham. The castle you’re in now. Where the king and queen live, and where they rule over the kingdom.”

  Simon’s face lit up with recognition. “Ooooohhh! Then we’re in a great deal of trouble, because I heard one of them say, ‘Tear Dartham to pieces.’ And I thought, ‘I wouldn’t want to be that Dartham fellow!’”

  “When, Simon?” The queen’s voice was suddenly toneless. “When will they tear Dartham to pieces?”

  “I don’t know, my queen. They’re waiting for something before they start.”

  The queen looked to Patch. “Waiting for what?”

  Patch shrugged. “Simon—the big troll named Hurgoth, the one that had you tied to the rope—is he the leader?”

  Simon nodded briskly. “Oh, yes—that Hurgoth does most of the talking. He’s the one that talked about Dartham, about waiting for something. And when the others start to grumble, he sets them straight, knocks them right on the head.”

  They kept asking Simon questions, but the fool had no more useful information for them. The queen asked the constable to take Simon to the kitchen for something to eat, and to reward him with warm clothes, boots, and a small pouch of gold coins.

  “You were right, Patch,” she said as soon as the door was closed. “And the king must know of this. He is holding another council right now. You should go and tell the court what we have learned.”

  Patch clutched the front of his shirt. “Me? Please, Your Highness—I can’t! They all hate me because of what happened. Addison told me to leave. Mannon wants me dead!”

  “Patch, we cannot wait. You must go, now.”

  “But won’t it mean more if the queen tells them?”

  Cecilia turned her back to Patch for a moment. When she turned to face him again, her jaw was set and there was a fiery glint in her eyes. “Patch, there are important men in this kingdom who don’t like to perceive any weakness in their monarch. And if it were known that I could sway Milo, that he would look to his queen to help him through a crisis, then some of those men might lose respect for their king. No matter how honest or good or wise or fair a man he might be. And we must not let that happen.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, the queen and the tailor’s apprentice.

  “You’re always there, aren’t you? Behind the curtain, listening when the king has his councils,” Patch said quietly. “When the king goes for his walk before making a decision, he goes to see you.”

  “You must never speak of this,” Cecilia said.

  “I never will, Your Highness. But—you were there, when Griswold was speaking. And you heard everything he said?”

  “Yes …?” she replied, inclining her head.

  A notion was growing in Patch’s mind. Just a seed of an idea at first, but within seconds it was fully blossomed. He closed his eyes. Was it possible? How long would it take to get ready? Could it real
ly work? Perhaps …

  “Griswold said their eyesight was weak, didn’t he?” he asked the queen. “And their tempers—he said they lose control when someone puts the flame to them, burns them. Didn’t he?”

  Cecilia narrowed her eyes. “What are you thinking about, Patch?”

  Patch raised his fist and shook it. “Killing Hurgoth!”

  peered out from the archway in the side of the great hall. Almost everyone who’d been present at the first council was there. Even Will Sweeting was in his familiar seat by the fire, perhaps hearing everything, perhaps hearing nothing. A queasiness fluttered in Patch’s stomach as he saw the empty place next to Mannon, who sagged in his chair with a lost look in his tired, bloodshot eyes.

  A page entered the hall and brought a folded note to the king, who once again sat at the center of the table in the tallest chair. The conversation slowed and stopped as Milo took a long time to read it, with a hint of a smile coming slowly to his face. He stood to address the others, tugging at his garments to smooth the creases.

  “Well. This is a day for unexpected guests. Someone will be joining us now, and I trust he will be treated fairly when he appears.” Mannon looked up, realizing that Milo had directed the comment toward him. His brow furrowed, and anger simmered on his face.

  “Come out, Patch,” the king called out, still watching Mannon. Patch stepped into the room, and all eyes turned toward him. He was just ten paces from the table, but suddenly walking felt like a forgotten skill. He crossed the space with his arms swinging awkwardly out of rhythm with his legs.

  “So you have important news for us. We will hear from you in a moment, young apprentice,” the king said. Milo had spoken to him warmly when they first met, but now his tone was as cool as the ice that hung from the sills of Dartham. “But first, we have word of a stranger, also claiming to bear important news. Please have a seat.” Patch hoped nobody heard him gulping. The only open chair was the one between Mannon and Addison. Addison stared at him, as inscrutable as always. Mannon’s nostrils had flared wide, and his meaty fists were threatening to wrench off the arms of his chair. Without another glance at either man, Patch went to the empty chair and sat.