Servant of the Crown

by Paul J Bennett

  Slightly shaken by the encounter, he decided to return to the cottage for a rest. Leaving the ladder where it was, he made his way back home, stopping at the shed to find the usually latched door swinging open. He looked inside, noticing that a trowel and small hand rake were missing. His first reaction was to fume, but he took a deep breath; the tools belonged to the estate, and he needed to let go of his anger.

  He returned his tools to their proper place, closing the door to the shed, turning to go into the cottage. He made his way to the bed, plucking a book from the bookshelf as he did so. He sat on the bed, his back leaning against the wall, his legs extended in front of him, and began to read. Though he sometimes struggled with words, he found books, in general, to be very interesting, particularly when they dealt with soldiering. Soon his eyesight began to blur, and after reading the same paragraph three times, he nodded off, the book falling into his lap.

  A banging noise woke him, and he was instantly alert, for years of working on the frontier had kept him sharp. He realized that the sound he heard must have been the shed door and he leaped off his bed, forgetting for the moment his bad leg. It gave out beneath him, and he scrambled to steady himself. He cursed as he grabbed the edge of his bed, his leg twisting painfully.

  His damaged leg would not stop him this time. He grabbed his crutch, and was soon outside, making his way to the shed, determined to discover the culprit. He rounded the corner of the cottage to see the shed door closed, just as he had left it. He yanked it open revealing the tools exactly where they should be, including the missing trowel and rake. He looked around, desperate to spot some sign of the thief, but to no avail. Whoever had returned the tools was long since gone. He turned around to the shed to close it back up and froze. The ground was still damp from an early morning shower, and he saw a footprint of a huge dog in the mud

  He stared at the print for several moments before shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid,” he muttered, “a dog’s not going to use a trowel.”

  He scrutinized the area for signs of a Human footprint, but none fell within his view, and he soon grew weary of searching. With the adrenaline wearing off, he felt the soreness of his leg sapping his energy, the lethargy from his morning romp returning; without the numbleaf, the effects of his wounds were ever present.

  At mealtime, he avoided all mention of the beast, lest they think him crazy. He asked about the maze, but Hanson told him there was no map. He had thought of looking down on the maze from the second floor of the Hall, but again the old steward said that the maze was so badly overgrown that the path was not distinguishable. Later that afternoon, he returned to continue his work.

  Disappointed, but not surprised, Gerald made his way to the entrance armed with food, in case he once more encountered the dog.

  The way in was thick with overgrown branches. He began by cutting away the largest offending growths, piling them by the entrance to burn later. He worked steadily, using the bucket and chair to ease the pain of his leg, and soon saw a marked improvement to his surroundings.

  He stopped trimming, and as best he could he gathered the cuttings to put into a pile, then he noticed marks on the ground. There were two parallel ruts, not very deep, about two feet apart, giving the appearance of something dragged along the ground. These grooves immediately reminded Gerald of a wooden frame pulled behind a horse. Caught up in the mystery before him, he abandoned his work to investigate.

  The ruts led further into the maze, and he ducked under the branches to move deeper through the labyrinth. There was enough light filtering through to see his way, but the branches here were wild and tugged on his sleeves as he made headway. More than once he had to stop to extricate his crutch from the tangle of branches that interfered with his progress. He had spent enough time in the north tracking down raiders that he knew how to follow a trail, and thankfully the parallel marks were relatively straightforward to follow. Whoever had come this way knew where they were going, but were not trying to cover their tracks.

  Eventually, he came across an open area, the centre of the maze. It was five yards on each side with two entrances; the one he now stood at, and another to the left. Directly opposite him, against the far hedge wall, was a simple stone bench. Numerous weeds were growing, but to his right, he could see a patch of ground that had been cleared to reveal three rows of recently turned over earth.

  Moving into the clearing, he noticed a watering can sitting nearby. There was still some water in it, the rest obviously having been poured onto the dug-up area. It dawned on him that someone must have planted something, but his mind struggled to determine who would do such a thing. He moved around the area looking for anything that might give him some clue as to who was responsible and groaned when his lame foot struck an object among the weeds. He let out a curse that would turn a Holy Father crimson and looked down. The glint of metal revealed two tools at his feet, hidden within the bed of weeds. The trowel and hand rake!

  “So,” he muttered, picking up the tools, “you’ve been using my tools again, but this time I’ve found your secret hideout!”

  His musings were interrupted by the sound of rustling branches, and he turned quickly, wincing at the effort. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, looked at the entrance, but nothing was visible. It occurred to him that it might be prudent to leave the area, so he moved back to the entrance, only to hear a low growl. Again, the branches moved to give way as the monstrous dog appeared. The creature’s head was even with his chest, and he quickly calculated that the beast had several pounds on him.

  Gerald froze in place. He was not scared, but his experiences told him not to move, not to bring attention to himself. There was nowhere to run, even if his leg had let him. He was trapped here, blocked by a creature that he had no doubt, could kill him if it wanted to.

  Time stood still while Gerald observed the creature. Its ears picked up unexpectedly, then it turned suddenly, disappearing back into the maze.

  Gerald let out a sigh of relief, making his way to the bench. If truth be told, he was a little weak in the knees from his unexpected encounter. Perhaps, he thought, he should carry his sword from now on.

  Somewhat shaken by the ordeal, he retraced his steps to the entrance of the maze, only to realize that in his haste, he had dropped the very tools he had discovered. Not to worry, he thought, whoever took them would return them, of that he was sure.

  It was evident to him that someone was using the maze as a private garden, but he couldn’t fathom why? There were far more accessible areas that were suitable for growing plants. He put all thoughts of it out of his head, returning to work on the entrance.

  By the end of the day, the opening to the maze had been cleaned up nicely with the first corridor now neatly trimmed, along with the outside wall. He marvelled at the progress he had made, taking pride in a job well done. He wandered down the corridor, but as soon as he made the first turn, it became overgrown again. More work for the future, he thought to himself. He took the clippings back to the cottage where he started a bonfire to burn them. Pulling out a rickety wooden stool, he sat upon it while he fed the flames, drinking some cider as he worked and tried to stretch out his right leg.

  The cider and the chair soon relaxed him, and his thoughts turned to the people here. They were decent enough but seemed reluctant to interact with him. He was an outsider, that he understood, but they were more distant than he had expected. Only Hanson, Turner and the Cook seemed even vaguely interested in talking to him. Perhaps in time, he thought, he would win their trust.

  The next morning saw him busy. The Cook, Mrs Brown, sent him into the village with a cart. She had arranged for him to pick up some plants from Mary Sandlewood, a local farmer’s wife, herbs to replant in a small garden near the kitchen. He took the offer of Sam, the saddle maker, to join him for an ale at the local tavern, then made his way to the Sandlewood farm. It was a bright day, and as the sun rose, he could feel its warmth. Soon he was sweating as he rolled the cart up
to the farmhouse. He saw a young girl, perhaps ten or eleven years old, run toward him and call out as he approached. “Mother,” she called back to the house, “there’s a cart here!” She slowed her pace as Gerald brought the horse to a halt. “Are you from the Hall?”

  “Yes, Mrs Brown sent me. I’m here to get some herbs.”

  An older woman came out of the house. She was slightly stocky of frame and had on a well-worn apron; her brown hair tied loosely behind her back. “Mrs Brown?” she asked.

  Gerald nodded, “She told me you’d be expecting me.”

  “I’ve got what you need over here,” she said. “Come this way, and I’ll show you where they are.”

  He climbed carefully down off the cart and followed her around the back of the house where a small garden sat. “I have what she needs here,” she said. “Molly can help you load them up. I’ve got some small clay pots, but I’ll want them back when you’re done.”

  Gerald was impressed. “You must do this a lot, to have pots. I don’t think I’ve seen them outside of the city.”

  Mrs Sandlewood smiled, “Well, most of the village folk come to me when they need herbs, and the extra coin doesn’t hurt.”

  With the help of young Molly, they loaded the plants into the back of the cart. He gave her the small bag of coins Mrs Brown had provided and was soon on his way back to the Hall.

  His trip completed, he pulled the cart up to the side of the house to unload his cargo.

  He carefully laid the potted plants on the ground and took the wagon back to the stables, returning to the garden plot after stopping by the cottage to pick up the tools he would need. Upon arriving back at the garden, he began taking each plant out of its pot and placing it into a small hole that he dug up with his spade. He was almost done the first row when he came up short. He was missing two of the plants. He examined the first row of ginger root and counted the plants. He knew he had purchased twelve, yet he had planted only ten. He looked over the still potted plants, and with a shock, realized that not only was he two ginger root plants short, but several other pots were missing as well. He resolved to look into the matter, but must finish planting those he had first.

  Sometime later he placed the last blackroot plant into the ground. He was filthy with dirt and headed back to the cottage to wash up and return his tools. When he opened the shed door, he saw that more tools were missing. The culprit must be tending to their garden back in the maze!

  By Saxnor's Beard, this was the final straw! It was one thing to use his tools; it was quite another to steal his plants! He made his way to the cottage where he strapped on his sword and grabbed a knife, tucking it into his belt. He looked at his chainmail armour hanging on the wall, wondering if he should don it. He could make out the newer links that had been used to repair it over the years. It was not the prettiest suit of armour he had seen, but it had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  "I'm being silly," he said out loud, "it's only a dog." He left the armour hanging on the wall but decided to keep the sword and knife. He was just about to exit the room when he remembered he had food, some leftover cheese, wrapped in a cheesecloth. He took the knife and cut off half a hands worth of cheese, wrapping it in some cloth. “What dog doesn't like cheese?” he thought out loud.

  He made his way to the maze. He hadn't had the opportunity to do any more work on it, but the entrance was still empty. He crept into the labyrinth, treading carefully, trying not to make any noise. He had a hard time remembering the route to the centre and had to backtrack several times, but eventually found the plot he was after. Peering around the corner, he saw a small girl, perhaps six or seven, carefully digging up the ground and placing a plant in it. Across from her, the large dog was lying quietly until it saw him, then it raised its head and growled. The girl dropped what she was holding and ran for the hedge wall opposite the entrance, crawling through the bottom by squeezing her small frame between the bushes. The dog stood up and growled. Gerald put his hand on his sword hilt as it advanced. The dog slowly approached, allowing him time to compose himself and think. He removed the cheese from his satchel and, holding it out in front of him, unwrapped it, then placed it in the palm of his hand.

  The great beast stopped just short of him, nose up to the hand holding the food. Sniffing, it let out a huff of air. Gerald flattened his hand, moving the cheese closer to the animal, watching it lean forward a tiny bit more, and then gently taking the treat. It stood, eating it, occasionally looking at Gerald, who started to relax. He inched ever closer to the animal, taking care not to move suddenly, lest he startle the creature. He reached out tentatively, touching the top of the dog’s head, rubbing it ever so slightly. The dog's ears suddenly perked up, then the dog sat down, and lay on all four legs. Gerald bent halfway to scratch the dog’s head, pleased that the dog let him. Now that he could see it up close, he was once again astonished at the scars visible through its fur. Old wounds covered the dog; only a dog that fought in the pits could be so badly marred.

  He was feeling sorry for the creature, when it suddenly decided to lay down on its side, thus presenting its stomach. The dog wanted a belly scratch! Gerald relaxed and started rubbing the dog’s belly, noticing the dog’s collar. It was old, and quite worn, but had a small brass plate on it, similarly worn and tarnished. Engraved upon it was ‘Tempus’. This must, he thought, be the dog's name.

  "Tempus," he said aloud. The dog responded by sitting up and looking at him. "You've had a tough life from the looks of it." He moved closer, leaning on his crutch, scratching the dog under the chin. "Looks like we're both old and scarred. How did you come to be here of all places?"

  A small voice came from the hedge, "He's my friend, don't hurt him!" Perhaps overcome with fear for her dog, the little girl stepped out from between the branches.

  She was about three and a half feet tall, wearing a rather worn and dirty green dress that fell just past her knees. Her feet and legs were covered in dirt, while her long blond hair was matted. Her blue eyes peered out from behind the hair that fell in front of her face with an intensity he had seldom seen in one so young.

  "You hurt him and I'll hit you!" she said bravely, her voice quivering.

  The conviction in her voice touched Gerald. "I'm not going to hurt him. I was just petting him. He's very nice." He tried to soften his voice so as not to sound threatening. He straightened up, backing away from Tempus while keeping his hand outstretched to the side to show he meant no harm.

  The girl advanced timidly. She was clearly devoted to the creature, but still scared. She came up beside Tempus and placed a protective hand on his back. It was almost comical for, even with the dog sitting, the girl had to reach up to touch him.

  "My name is Gerald Matheson. I'm the groundskeeper at Uxley Hall." He waited for her to acknowledge his words with a slight nod. "Who are you?"

  "Anna," she answered. "I live here."

  Chapter 11

  Anna

  Summer 953 MC

  HE had expected to find a servant, perhaps one of the stable boys or maids, but to find a small child was entirely unexpected. His mouth gaped open as he struggled with what to say. He finally settled on, “Is this your garden?”

  The child nodded but said nothing more.

  He pointed to the plants as he spoke, “You planted these?”

  “Yes,” was all she replied.

  “You’re the one that’s been using my tools,” he realized, frustration rising. He had dealt with children before, but not in years. Was the child touched in the head? Did she not understand she was stealing?

  “The tools belong to the estate,” she informed him.

  He felt like her eyes were boring into him and found it slightly unnerving.

  “You stole those plants,” he accused.

  “I needed them,” she whispered.

  He could feel his temper rising, and raised his voice, “You can’t go around stealing other people’s property, that’s theft.”

  His t
emper was threatening to erupt. He had dealt with difficult people before, but now this strange circumstance, along with the constant agony his leg was in, combined to overwhelm him.

  “Saxnor’s Balls!” he yelled in irritation.

  He immediately regretted his outburst, for the girl’s eyes began to tear up. He had been a brute, and he was annoyed at himself. His leg was on fire, his face was flush, and he needed to catch his breath. He limped over to the bench, sitting down, breathing heavily. What was wrong with him? Why was he like this? He sucked in a big breath of air, held his breath then let it out slowly.

  He took out a small leaf and bit into it, feeling the relief flood through him. He closed his eyes as the calmness spread, and then he opened them again. The girl was still there.

  “I’m sorry girl; I shouldn’t have yelled.”

  “Anna,” she reminded him gently.

  “Anna,” he repeated, “tell me, how long have you lived here?”

  “All my life,” she replied timidly. She was standing close to Tempus now, her arm trying to drape over the dog’s neck.

  “And you planted…,” he swept his arm theatrically at the plants, “these?”

  She stood up straight, brushing the hair from her face. “I did!”

  He rose to his feet, moving closer to the small plot, examining it in more detail.

  “Do you know what that is?” indicating one of the plants.

  She shook her head.

  “It’s blackroot, and it’s going to die. You haven’t dug the roots in deep enough. These are plants, not seeds.”

  Anna came closer, leaving the dog behind.

  He eased himself to the ground and sat beside the row of herbs. “Hand me that trowel. We need to re-plant these.”

  She gave him the tool, and he drove it into the dirt. “We need about a hand’s length for blackroot; otherwise it’ll dry up. It’s a thirsty plant. Now, we’ll move the plant into the new hole.”