by Jack Heckel
Will cradled his head in his palms and, leaning his elbows heavily on the table, stared at the residue floating at the bottom of his third mug of beer. “You know, Tomas, I’ll never be a hero.”
“What are you talking about, Lord Protector?” said the squire, suppressing a belch. “You have now defeated a dragon and a troll, and saved the lives of Princess Gwendolyn and Prince Charming. That’s a career for most, and I should know. The Prince is my third knight,” he remarked, holding up two fingers.
“Huh,” said Will, snapping out of his trance. How had the man gotten the idea that he had defeated the troll? Hadn’t he been watching? Maybe he was drunk or distracted by sickness. The beer was really bad; it seemed to be numbing his tongue. He worried that his sense of taste was being permanently damaged.
With an effort he brought his thoughts back to the squire. “You know, I hardly had anything to do with defeating the troll. Charming did all the fighting, except for the end, and it was the goat that knocked the troll off the bridge. And as for the dragon . . .”
He looked the squire in the eye and chewed on the side of one finger. It was time to stop hiding from the truth. A saying from back home in Prosper popped into his head: The man who turns his back on his problems, will find them kicking him in the ass.
“The dragon, well— Ah, hell! The dragon impaled herself on my pitchfork by accident. I was hiding in a cornfield when she died.”
There, he had done it. He had finally told someone the whole truth, and now the entire kingdom would know what he already knew, what Liz had tried to tell him. He wasn’t a hero. He downed the dregs of his ale and, plunking the mug down heavily on the table, braced for the other man’s response.
The squire laughed. The heat of Will’s shame flushed over his neck and cheeks. He was being mocked, and rightly so. To be sure it was no more than he deserved. The man slapped his knee at the joke and then, noticing Will’s crestfallen expression, suppressed his sniggers and, in a lowered voice, said, “You’re serious?”
Will nodded. “Tomas, I had nothing to do with killing the dragon.”
The man shook his head. “No, no, I mean you seriously don’t believe you’re a hero?”
Will didn’t know what to say, so he stared mutely at the surface of the table and wished, despite all good sense, that he had another tankard of ale.
Tomas reached across the table and grasped Will’s shoulder, forcing him to make eye contact. “Lord Protector William Pickett, what does it matter how the dragon died, or whose hand, or horn for that matter, defeated the troll? The fact is you rid the land of the dragon, whether by skill or luck, and Gnarsh the Troll, again either directly or indirectly, and in between you also rescued the Princess and saved the life of Prince Charming himself.” He dropped his hand from Will’s shoulder and put it to his breast. “On my honor, Your Lordship, I would trade a hundred swordsmen like the Prince for one man, like you, who can get things done.”
Without another word, the squire hopped up on his chair and, wobbling slightly, looked about the smoke-filled tavern. He shouted, “WHO HERE BELIEVES THAT THE LORD PROTECTOR WILLIAM PICKETT IS THE TRUE HERO OF THE REALM?” There was an uncomfortable silence as the half-stoned assembly looked blearily up at him. Will tried to pull him down by the cuff of his pants, but Tomas would not be dissuaded. “I said, WHO HERE WOULD RAISE THEIR GLASS WITH ME TO THE LORD PROTECTOR AND DRAGON SLAYER, WILLIAM PICKETT?” With that, he grabbed Will’s wrist and pulled him to his feet with a strength that belied the man’s size and paunch.
There was but a moment’s pause and then an overgrown-looking man at the bar blinked and his eyes went wide, then he sprang from his stool, pointing with a shaking hand, “Holy hell! It—it—it’s the Lord Protector! I saw him wiff me own eyes when ’e firs’ come to the castle wiff the dragon’s blinkin’ head!” He grabbed a tankard at random from the bar and raised it in matching salute. “You’re one of us, Your Lordship, and I’ll stand by you any day!”
“Das right, das right,” slurred a fat, balding man with a dubious mustache further down the bar. “I seen him too. I will never forget dat face, ever,” he continued without apparent irony. “Proudest moment o’ my whole life.” He stood and raised his cup unsteadily in the direction of Will.
A burly fellow with a jet-black beard sitting at one of the long benches rose ponderously and, pounding his fist on the table, thundered, “WHO SAYS THEY WON’T DRINK TO WILLIAM PICKETT? That bloody dragon et my Da’, and it’s ’cause of him that my family can sleep safe at night. I’d give my life to you, Your Lordship.”
One of the older serving wenches screeched across the room, “AN ’E’S SO MUCH MORE A MAN THAN THAT FRAUD CHARMING EVER WAS.”
“Too right! Pickett’s a true hero!” echoed a thin man whose deep baritone voice was ill-matched to his body. “Charming’s a fop. Only thing he ever conquered was the kingdom’s virgins.”
There was a wave of laughter at this and more voices joined in the raucous chorus. Chairs were pushed back and men stood in uneven salute to the young man. The proprietor, who had eyed Will suspiciously at first, saw a chance for commerce and seized the moment, shouting, “FILL YOUR TANKARDS AND RAISE ’EM TO RAFTERS, FELLOWS. Three cheers for our honored guest, the Lord Protector and Dragon Slayer, William Pickett!”
There was an enormous roar at the suggestion, and then the rough voices of the drunken mob sounded, “Huzzah, Huzzah, Huzzah!!” in a rising crescendo.
Will was struck dumb at the crowd’s display of affection. Every face in the room was turned in his direction when someone yelled, “SPEECH!” Another wave of cheers washed over the Cooked Goose.
Maybe the squire was right. Maybe he was a hero. A buxom, if not entirely comely, barmaid pressed her bosom against his chest and refilled his mug with warm beer from a pitcher. His heart raced and his face flushed; and encouraged by her smiles, and the not insubstantial amount of drink he had imbibed, he raised his hands and a sudden hush descended.
“To you . . . my people . . . the people of the realm! Thank you all! I, William Pickett, Lord Protector of the Realm, swear that I will defend you all to my last breath, no matter what is asked of me!”
There were more cheers and jubilation and someone started to play a flute. Soon a tambour joined in, the tables were cleared away, and a merry dance was begun. Will felt a tide of euphoria rush through his body. He knew now what it must have been like for Charming. This adoration was intoxicating in a way that the beer in his hand could never be. Several of the increasingly attractive serving maids pressed around his table and someone started singing a bawdy tune about the dragon and flagons and tarts and farts, and the from there Will’s memory became increasingly hazy.
On the balcony overlooking the common room of the Cooked Goose, Prince Charming stood, gripping the rail, his ears burning. The people thought he was a fop and a fool who preyed on innocent girls. They believed that Pickett had saved them and would keep them safe. Were they wrong?
Will had saved them. The dragon was dead, the Princess restored. Gnarsh the Troll was gone, and he owed Will his life for saving him from the beast. Somehow, despite all his planning, it had all gone terribly wrong again. Before Will, everything had been right. After Will . . . well, after Will nothing had been right.
At just this moment, a man with a long crooked nose and a distinct hunch came sliding up beside him. “Good evening to you,” he said in a breathy voice that reeked of badly brewed ale. Charming recoiled from the smell. The man, undaunted, moved a little closer so he could be heard above the celebration below. “My name is Oliver, Ollie to my friends. Didn’ the Lord Protector bring you in?”
“Yes, he did,” croaked Charming.
The man looked at him from behind shifting eyes. “What a great honor it must be for you to ride and fight with ’is Lordship.”
The Prince looked at the floor, unwilling to meet the stranger
’s eyes. He didn’t want to talk about William Pickett. Still, he owed Will his life, and that meant acknowledging his debt publicly. “Yes, a great honor,” he said flatly.
The man, Ollie, must have heard something in Charming’s response because he cocked his head to one side and then ran a finger down along the side of his long nose and tapped the end. “I get your meanin’, friend, say no more. You and ’is Lordship, maybe you had a fallin’ out, but maybe it’s not your place to bad-mouth ’im, eh? Maybe he’s the reason your face looks like a couple a miles of bad road?”
“You could say that,” he spit out, and then wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t entirely true. Could he really blame the man for everything that had happened: being brained by a tree, the suit of falling armor, Rapunzel, the troll? Besides, this man was obviously a blackguard of the lowest order.
“Come with me, my friend. Let’s go out back and get some air. It’ll be easier to talk without these drunkards about,” said Ollie, placing a hand on Charming’s shoulder and directing him somewhat forcefully toward a dubious-looking plank door hanging crookedly over an opening in the back inn’s wall.
There was enough of the Royal Prince left in Charming that he was instinctively offended that this peasant would dare touch his person, and he shook the hand off.
Ollie took a step back and squinted at him. “Is there a problem, friend?
“I’m Pr—” he started to say and then stopped. No one on earth would recognize him as Prince Charming; and given his current condition, he was ashamed to reveal his true identity. He mumbled, “No, nothing.”
“Good, because I think I may have just the way to take ’is High and Mightiness down a couple of pegs. Now, I ask you, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” asked Ollie as he started down the creaking wooden stair behind the door.
Charming didn’t answer. He wanted to be left alone. Ollie, however, must have taken his silence as assent because he kept up a steady chatter until they reached the mud that lay at the bottom of the stair. An old mule stood tied to a post in a fetid pool of foul-smelling water near the back wall, his nose buried in a trough filled with a fragrant mixture of hops and barley. A barmaid was standing near the rear of the mule, holding a large wooden bucket. She glanced at them nervously, then scuttled through a door and into what looked like the kitchen. A roar of noise filtered out into the still alley as the door opened, and muted again as it slammed to a close.
“Tell me, friend, do you think ’is Lordship is lookin’ for more . . . adventure, more . . . glory to heap on ’imself?”
“I suppose,” said Charming uncertainly. At this point, all he wanted was for this Ollie to leave him alone. His face hurt, his body ached, and his head was swimming.
“You jus’ tell ’im that the local count, a man of great importance, will be travelin’ up the road into the wood near midday tomorrow. Also tell ’im that the Masked Rascal and his, um . . . happy highwaymen—no, no his boisterous bandits—yeah, that’s better . . . Anyway, um, well, tell ’im that the Scarlet Scoundrel and his men are planning to ambush the count at the firs’ bridge.”
Anyone else might have bought Ollie’s story, but if Charming knew one thing it was the identity of every noble that resided in his father’s kingdom and another two-dozen neighboring kingdoms besides; and he knew for a fact that there was no count within a week’s ride of this forsaken place. There was not even so much as a penniless baroness that would bother to claim these lands as her own. This scum was asking Charming to betray Will—to knowingly send him into the clutches of some sort of desperate band of cutthroats.
Charming stepped away from his new “friend’s” embrace and looked, really looked, at him. A cruel yellow, crooked smile appeared under Ollie’s long hooked nose. “I think he’d be quite pleased with the news, friend,” the man said in a mocking singsong voice. Then he handed the Prince a single silver coin. “For your trouble, my misshapen friend.”
To think that anyone would suggest such a plot? To imagine that any man would attempt to bribe him, Prince Charming, with a single piece of silver? It was monstrous!
Charming felt his hands clench into fists. He advanced on Ollie, who drew back, confused but sensing the menace in the air. Perhaps the story would have ended with Charming thrashing the villain, but just then the kitchen door to the Cooked Goose was once more thrown wide by a barmaid, this time carrying an empty wooden bucket. The hearty sound of drunken mirth came rolling out the door into the alley, and a clearly drunk Will bellowed out, “And, you should have seen the look on Charming’s face when Lady Rapunzel punched him in the nose—”
The door slammed shut, cutting off the rest of Will’s story, but it could not mute the roar of laughter that followed. Charming’s body slumped. He had become a joke, to be ridiculed in the same public houses in which he had once been toasted. Anger at the unfairness of his situation and his turn in fortune returned. Will had stripped him of everything. In the mind of his subjects was he really any better than Ollie? He twisted the silver coin between his fingers. He knew he could not do this, but when he opened his mouth he said, “I will tell him.”
Ollie cackled and, pulling the hood of his cloak up, stalked away into the night.
The Prince closed his eyes and collapsed back against the wall of the tavern. After a time spent staring into the deeper black of the night sky, wondering whether he would go through with this betrayal, he shuffled back to his room and sat on the straw cot, tired but unable to sleep. In his palm lay the silver coin. He stared at it in the smoky light of the room’s lone candle and saw a vague hint of his reflection, a purple and blue stain on the face of the shining circle.
Chapter 11
Through the Woods Darkly
IN EVERY FAIRY tale there is a point in the telling when the fire dies low and the dark of the night grows deeper and the children gather closer together and the storyteller lowers her voice and whispers, “Now, dear ones, this is the scary part.” And then, inevitably, into the story steps the villain, and whether an evil queen or twisted stepmother or foul beast, the listener begins to doubt, maybe the hero doesn’t make it, maybe there is no happily-ever-after.
Two days after her confession to Elle, as Elizabeth Pickett fled from Castle White, she assumed that the scary part of her story was at an end. That nothing could match the constant terror she’d felt at living under the power of Princess Gwendolyn. Sheltered in her deep cloak, she was content to watch from atop the back of a pretty gray mare as Elle’s surprisingly stoic valet, Collins, led them slowly toward a darkly shadowed gap in the eastern horizon where the road left the open meadows of the cultivated countryside and entered the forested wilderness beyond.
While she was glad to be leaving, she wished they were doing it a bit quicker. Liz did not like the almost reluctant pace the man was setting. She felt naked out here in the open within sight of the castle walls, and kept expecting to hear the cry of the guard and the sound of pursuing horses.
Suddenly, a deep tolling gong rang out across the blue twilit fields. Liz started at the sound, and fought the urge to spur her horse forward into the gathering dusk, before recognizing that it was only the chapel bell striking the evening hour. She turned in her saddle to look back. The distant white stones of the palace shone under the silver moonlight like bleached bone. In the quiet of the coming night, it seemed otherworldly and dreadful.
For the love of light, Liz, get hold of your imagination.
Deliberately, she forced her eyes back to the road ahead. Despite her guide’s apparent lack of urgency, they had come upon the forest with an eerie swiftness, and an unexpected shiver of dread passed through her body as the silent, brooding man led them under the first trees and into the dark of the wood. The reaching boughs closed in above their heads, obscuring the silver moon and the glittering stars. Between one breath and another, all was dark.
Collins stopped just within cover o
f the wood. There was the sharp sound of stone on stone and a series of bright firefly sparks, then a flash of yellow-orange as the man lit his lantern. He turned about and regarded her behind the flickering light. The man’s cloak was deeply hooded so that the light from the lantern concealed his face in a ghoulish mask of flickering shadows. The effect was disturbing and Liz recoiled involuntarily. He did not seem to notice her reaction, or at least did not comment on it. Nodding at nothing, he turned back around and spurred his horse forward, jerking the string of horses behind him into a reluctant walk.
What is wrong with you? she lectured herself. Here you are escaping, and instead of being relieved, you’re jumping about like a child on All Hallows’ Eve. Now, calm down or Mr. Collins will think you’re a madwoman.
Still, she was unnerved. Liz had been so relieved that she was finally leaving the castle and the Princess behind that she had not really considered the nature of her guide, other than to note that he smelled a little like freshly baked pie. Now she studied him. Elle had warned her that he was not a proper valet, but more of a huntsman that her father had forced on her as a chaperon. Still, Elle had marked him as quite an affable fellow. But either he was changed, or Elle had very low standards, because Liz doubted he had spoken two words to her since their meeting in the stables. For the sake of her own nerves, she decided to try and strike up a conversation.
“Collins—” The sudden sound of her own voice in the stillness of the wood made Liz jump, and her horse pranced nervously in response. She breathed in deeply. “I say, Mr. Collins, I wanted to thank you for your help.”
“My-pleasure-Your-Ladyship.” His answer came in an unpleasant, broken monotone that belied his words.