Charming, Volume 1

by Jack Heckel

  The wench at the bar cackled, “No indeed, Your Lordship, but then you are the very model of manliness.”

  Charming watched a pleased little smile flicker over Will’s face. The Prince raised an eyebrow. This was not the William Pickett he had left on the bridge. Whether it had been born from the night’s revels, or his defeat of the troll, Charming knew that Will finally believed himself to be a hero. From personal experience, he also knew how dangerous and heady a feeling it was. Perhaps the odious little man from last night had been right—­perhaps it was time to take “His Lordship” down a few rungs. Charming would, however, make sure he was there to save the day!

  WILL CRADLED HIS head in his hands as the room spun about him. He tried listen to Charming going on about whatever he was going on about, but the Prince’s long-­winded prattling was beginning to wear.

  “ . . . so, my point being, Will, that the Red Renegade, or the Scarlet Scoundrel, or whatever it is, is planning an ambush on the forest road bridge. Anyway, someone has to stop them, and—­”

  Will cut him off. “Fine. I’ll take care of it.” He smacked a hand on the table and bellowed, “Tomas!”

  The squire awoke with a start and fell back off his chair. With a colorful curse, he began to gather himself from the ground.

  Charming looked at Will with wide eyes. The fool was actually planning on riding out, unaccompanied, against a band of brigands? The Will he knew would never—­ But then, this was not the Will he knew. He had to stop this, now, before his betrayal was made real.

  “Wait! No, you don’t understand! I thought we would both go. We don’t know how many of them are out there. More importantly, the Count isn’t . . . are you listening? It’s a mistake to go alone.”

  The Prince waved a pleading hand at Tomas for support, but the squire seemed unsure of even where he was and just kept repeating, “Wassat? Wassat?”

  Charming’s words were barely discernable over the buzz in Will’s head, and his stomach was a roiling knot. Will needed to end this conversation now. Besides, Will suspected the “mistake” was that he would, once again, get all the glory. So Will decided to preempt any lengthy discussion the only way he knew how, by talking about the dragon and the Prince’s battered face. “Look, I defeated the dragon and the troll. I can handle a bandit. Besides, you need your rest. You look terrible.”

  With that, Will lifted Tomas to his feet and strode away, half dragging the wobbly squire to the door. As he reached the threshold, though, he realized he had no idea where he was going. He looked back at Charming for a moment. “Um”—­he bit his lip—­“where is the . . . ?”

  The Prince was strangely silent. He looked up at Will, eyes wide and mouth open. The serving wench answered instead. “The bridge? Further along the forest road, Your Lordship. A few leagues short of the King’s hunting lodge.”

  Something the woman said seemed to shake Charming out of his momentary silence, because he sprang to his feet and called out, “No! Stop! Will . . . Lord Protector, please, you don’t understand—­”

  But Will never heard whatever it was Charming wanted him to understand, because the Prince grabbed at his head, swayed violently on his feet, and toppled forward. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  Will leaned Tomas against the doorway, ran to Charming and knelt down beside him. “Damned fool! Doesn’t he know you can’t jump about like that when you have as many knocks on the head as he has?”

  “Probably not,” Tomas rasped from the doorway. “I don’t know that he’s ever been knocked on the head before. Well, except the tree and the armor . . . still . . .”

  Will gestured to the barmaid, who fluffed her hair, pulled the neck of her dress down to expose as much bosom as possible, and swayed her way over to him. “Yes, Your Lordship?”

  He gave her a winning smile and asked, “Can you get some of the men to carry my friend up to his room?” She looked at Charming dubiously and Will shoved a ­couple of silver coins into her hand. “It would mean a lot to me.”

  She winked and gave him a black-­toothed smile. “Anything for you, Lord Protector.”

  Outside Tomas handed Will a water skin and a pouch full of sunflower seeds. He choked out, “The salt should . . . hmmm . . . help with the sickness.”

  They both chewed on the salty seeds and emptied their water skins, trying to clear their heads and settle their stomachs. It was while spitting out shells and some other unidentifiable things from deeper in his gut that Will explained their task. The squire’s reaction was not particularly encouraging.

  “You’re bloody kidding, right?”

  “No, Tomas, I am not.”

  “Are ye still drunk?”

  “No.” At least Will did not think so. “No! We must save Count . . . um . . . well the count.” Will tried to remember what Charming had said, but on reflection it all seemed muddled. “It does not matter who the man is, Tomas, the important point is that he needs my help.”

  “But, we don’t know squat about these woods, Will. We could be walking into a hundred men for all we know.”

  Will considered the point, but felt that he had to live up to the title he had so proudly claimed the night before. He stood, putting his hands to his hips, and assumed a commanding tone that he hoped sounded like the Prince. “I am committed, Tomas. There is no point arguing. Now, let us away to our—­” It was at this point that Will noticed their horses were nowhere to be seen. “Tomas . . .” he croaked, then swallowed hard in a vain attempt to clear his throat. “Hmmmm . . . where are our horses?”

  The squire looked blearily about and spat, “Probably still in the stable, Yarrr Lardship. Unless they got smart and took a runner.”

  “Well, would you, I mean could you . . . ?” Will pleaded lamely.

  The squire muttered to himself as he stomped off toward the stables. “He has about as much sense as the damned Prince.”

  When Tomas returned, he was not leading Will’s much-­beloved horse, Jasper, from the stables, but the Prince’s dramatic and ill-­tempered white charger. Will massaged his temples, “Um . . . Tomas, I think you have the wrong horse there.”

  “No, Yarr Lardship,” he replied as he led the champing stallion toward him.

  “But that is the Prince’s horse.”

  “Yes, Yarr Lardship,” Tomas said as he helped Will up into the high stirrup of the creature.

  “But I am not the Prince,” he said with a grunt as he struggled to control the horse.

  “I had thought not,” said the squire flatly as he mounted his own brown gelding. “But you’re making a good go of it this morning.” With that, the squire spurred his horse forward, leaving Will to stare openmouthed at his retreating back.

  The two men rode in silence through the thickening woods. He wanted to explain, but each time he tried to strike up a conversation, the squire would mutter darkly about “young fools” and “swelled heads,” so he gave up. Perhaps it was the dark nature of the forest, or the squire’s attitude, but as each mile passed, Will’s uneasiness grew. This was madness! What was he doing? Tomas was right. He should turn back now. But then what? What was the point of being Lord Protector if he could not protect the ­people?

  While his mind was spinning on these thoughts he half heard the sound of wood echoing beneath the hooves of his horse. He looked up. They had reached the bridge. It was a narrow thing constructed of planks laid over enormous logs. He signaled to Tomas to hold up and, dismounting, led his horse onto the middle of the span.

  It was a pleasant spot. Beneath marching lines of vaulting gray-­green trees, a shallow sun-­dappled stream laughed its way over a pebbly bed of smooth rocks. A light breeze swirled now and then through the leaves, bringing with it a coolness that hinted at the just-­departed winter. The only disturbances to the tranquility were the harsh calls of a flock of crows roosting in the high branches of a dark-­trunked tree th
at loomed over the far bank. Seeing no threat, he motioned for the squire to join him.

  “No sign of the count or the bandits,” he said with a casualness he did not feel. “Maybe this whole quest will turn out to be nothing after—­”

  “AHA!” came a shout, which made him flinch and spooked the crows into a noisy, panicked flight.

  Will saw a figure flying through the air at the end of a long rope. The man let go and gracefully landed at the other end of the bridge. He was tall and thin and elegantly dressed in a forest green tunic and matching tights, all topped off with a large feathered cap. He had a sword at his hip, a bow around his chest, and a quiver of arrows at his back. A gleam of confidence shone in his eye and he smiled as he looked at Will and the squire.

  With a flourish of his feathered cap, he bowed to them. Then, putting his cap back on his head, he twisted the end of an elaborate mustache and shouted. “Aha! I am the Scarlet Scoundrel, Champion of the Poor, Hero of the ­People, Terror to Tyrants and these”—­he made another elaborate flourish with both hands, and from the trees on either side of the bridge dozens of green-­, black-­, and brown-­clad figures sprang out of hiding, surrounding them—­ “are my Horrible Hooligans.”

  There was a stir among the men surrounding the bridge and one of them, a short fat fellow, sprinted forward till he was standing just behind the Scoundrel. For a half-­beat, the green-­clad bandit tried to ignore the man’s presence, though he was clearly straining to maintain his brilliant smile.

  “Ahem . . .” The henchman cleared his throat and tugged at the Scoundrel’s sleeve.

  The Scoundrel’s smile vanished, and, sighing deeply, he held up a finger. “I am sorry, Lord Protector, if you will but give me a moment to confer with my henchman here.”

  He turned his back on Will and a soft, if heated, discussion ensued. They could only make out bits and pieces, but it seemed to have something to do with the name he’d used for his henchmen.

  “ . . . ruining everything . . .” the Scoundrel hissed.

  “ . . . we agreed . . . Hoodlums . . .” his henchman shot back.

  “Are you sure? . . . Heinous . . . better alliteration . . . intimidating . . .” The bandit captain ticked off points on his fingers.

  “ . . . voted Merry Men!” the fat man hissed.

  Suddenly, the Scoundrel raised his voice, “Merry Men? Bah! We shall deal with this later.” He spun back toward Will and the squire. “Sorry about that Lord Protector. We are still working out our noms de guerre. Anyone in our line of business will tell you the right name can make all the difference, but please do not let this trouble you, I assure you both, we are professionals. The point is, these are my men, and I am the Heinous Highwayman—­no, no, dammit, they’ve got me all confused now, the Scarlet Scoundrel . . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  Will and the squire both watched quizzically as he twisted his mustache and looked up into the trees. After a few deep breaths, he reconstructed his smile, lowered his gaze again, and shouting, “AHA!” once more, drew his sword.

  Will fumbled with the sword at his side, but only managed to pinch his finger in the scabbard before yelping out, “Aha what?”

  The Highwayman or Scoundrel smiled and laughed. “Aha, Lord Protector, you are my prisoner! I’m holding you for ransom.”

  Will wasn’t exactly sure what to do, but this was not going the way he thought it would. He looked around. There were at least two dozen of them, if not more, and every one had an arrow nocked and aimed in their general direction. Oddly enough, though, they looked as nervous as he felt. This gave him an idea. A mad idea to be sure, but still it was something to work with.

  Will puffed up his chest in his best imitation of Charming, and announced, “Well, I am the Lord Protector and Dragon Slayer, and as far as I am concerned, you are my prisoner, as are all of your men. I shall give you one chance to surrender, and I will remind you all that when I killed the dragon, I didn’t have my sword with me, and when I defeated the troll I didn’t even bother to draw it. So, you may wish to try me, but I wouldn’t.” He punctuated this last by placing his hand very deliberately on the pommel of his sword.

  “And,” one of the men, who looked vaguely familiar, shouted from the leafy border, “he drank a dozen mugs of ale at the Cooked Goose.”

  At this, a collective gasp came from the men, and even the bandit captain quailed.

  “My God, man, what sort of stuff are you made of?” asked the Scoundrel. He waved a hand and his men lowered their bows. “I see we are at an impasse—­you, with your legendary skill at arms and epic constitution, and I, with my overwhelming odds and ever-­growing reputation, but I have something up my sleeve, a hidden ace.”

  The Scoundrel clapped twice. Two of his men disappeared behind a dense screen of undergrowth. When they emerged a few moments later, one was holding His Royal Majesty, the King. The other was holding a fair-­haired man in royal livery. One of the henchmen prodded the liveried man with a dirk and the prisoner announced in a booming, yet nervous voice, “Presenting His Royal Majesty, the King in captivity, prisoner of the Red Renegade and his Bleeding Brigands.”

  “AHA!” the Scoundrel shouted at Will, then he spun on the captives, “No, wait, weren’t you at the meeting this morning? I am now the Scarlet Scoundrel, and my men are the . . . the, ahem—­at least I’m the Scarlet Scoundrel, that is without dispute.” He put his hands to his hips and glared. “You call yourself the Royal Herald. I have to say I am very disappointed.”

  The Scoundrel looked back to Will. “Where was I? Oh yes . . . Aha! As you can see, I have His Royal Majesty, the King. So surrender, or else.”

  “Or else what?” Will asked with honest curiosity.

  “I’ll have to . . . you know.” The Scoundrel drug one finger across his throat.

  “Why, you bloody fiend,” hissed the squire, “I’ll . . .”

  Will raised his hand to silence the squire. All he needed now was for the man to try something heroic and get them both killed. “Now, Tomas, don’t worry. I’m sure the Scarlet Scoundrel has no intention of harming His Royal Majesty.

  “I wouldn’t count on that, Lord Protector. We are desperate men . . . the Terrors of the Trees, the Fiends of the Forest, the Wastrels of the Woods . . . the . . .” The Scoundrel stopped and gave Will an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, that last one didn’t work very well.”

  Will lowered his voice again. “Just an observation, but I think you’re using alliteration a little too much. I mean it’s nice on occasion, but if you overuse it, well . . . it can sound silly.”

  The bandit nodded his head in agreement and said quietly, “I know. I guess you could call it my fatal flaw.” Then his features hardened “But don’t think I will allow you to exploit my weakness. I will give the order to execute the King if you force my hand.”

  Will almost asked the man how he could possibly exploit his penchant for first-­syllable rhyming schemes to defeat him, but decided that they really needed to get back to the matter at hand. So Will put as much concern as he could into his voice and said, “What? You would kill the King?” Will shook his head sadly. “I guess you are the expert in banditry, but I can’t say that would be my plan. If you hurt the King, he won’t be worth much ransom, and then, of course, every knight in the land, including me, will have to come after you.” Will made a low whistling sound in his teeth. “I don’t like your odds. Killing him will make you the most hated man in all the kingdom. How can you be a ­people’s hero if the ­people hate you?”

  “Well, I hadn’t . . . Why are you making this so difficult?”

  Will shrugged. “Sorry.”

  They stood in a shifting uneasy silence for a time, and, though he didn’t want to break the impasse, Will had to admit this was getting awkward. Looking about for some inspiration, he noticed that the crows were returning to their tree in a fluttering cloud of black.
The crows and the little pouch of seeds Tomas had given him earlier brought an idea to his mind. Despite the dire situation, he smiled. It probably wouldn’t work, but it was a better plan than waiting for the bandits to tire of his bluffs and fill him full of arrows.

  “Perhaps,” said Will, “I have a resolution to our standoff.”

  The Scoundrel’s smile broadened, “Really? Because I have to tell you I am at a loss. For my part, I have to apologize. I really think this would have gone better had I had gotten the name right at the beginning.”

  The man was obsessed. Will closed his eyes in aggravation, but said softly, “Don’t beat yourself up about that, Scoundrel. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.”

  “That’s very big of you, Lord Protector.” He laughed aloud again, “Now, what’s your resolution?”

  Steadying his face, Will said, “If you have a sling among your men, then you and I can settle this conflict ourselves in a contest of skill. If you win, I surrender peacefully. If I win, you let me have the King. Either way, it will make a great story and will expand our legends greatly.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Plus, it has the distinct advantage of not requiring one of us to die.”

  The Scarlet Scoundrel winked at Will. “I get your meaning . . . it’s genius,” he said softly. Then, in a much louder voice, he proclaimed, “That is an excellent idea. What sort of contest did you have in mind, Lord Protector?”

  This was the craziest idea Will had ever had. He tried not to think about the fact that he was surrounded by a group of armed, and possibly dangerously deranged, men. He gestured at the Scoundrel and projected his voice so that all could hear. “I suspect that you consider yourself a great archer, Scarlet Scoundrel. So I propose a contest of shooting skill.” He pointed dramatically at the crow-­laden tree. “Do you see that tree full of birds? I wager that I can bring down more birds with one loose of a sling than you can with three shots from your bow. The man who brings down the most birds wins.”