by B. K. Parent
“The merchants and crafters see the infringement on your rights as just the beginning and wonder when the Regent will make a move to restrict their ways of earning a living and governing themselves. The nobles are not happy with the Regent’s agents asserting their authority over the local peacekeepers without their leave. This roadblock on a royal road is really going to cause a dust up because it infringes on a long held belief that all are free to travel the royal roads. They are also not pleased that the Princess is not making a tour of the land as she should this year, it being an even year. Her mother felt rulers could not rule successfully if they never visit the land they ruled, and so she would set out every other year to traverse the land and visit with not just the nobles but also the common folk. She would invite folks to speak with her and her advisors, so she could make good decisions for Sommerhjem. The Princess comes of age this summer and should be out and about learning first hand what is happening in the land she will come to rule. At least that is what my aunt and uncle think, and they are not alone. But enough of this serious talk. Tell me what it is like to live the life of a rover,” Beezle cajoled with a disarming grin.
And so I told him several funny stories about living on the road, but I had tucked what he had told me away to think on when I was alone.
Chapter Nineteen
It continued to rain for the rest of the day and by the time it was beginning to be almost too dark to continue traveling, Beezle suggested we take a side lane. Said he knew the dairy farmer who lived down this lane, and he was certain that we could pull in there. The farmer had a nice big barn that would be a lot dryer to sleep in than pitching tents in the rain. Thought there might even be space for the horses to get them dried off and fed. All were in agreement that a dry barn sounded very enticing. I found I had enjoyed my ride with Beezle more than I thought I would. He had been good company and very entertaining. His stories about the goings on among the nobles had my sides hurting from laughing. What I could share with him was limited since I was living a make believe life. When he would start to ask me about my life, I would urge him to tell me another story, which he did with very little encouragement. There were also long periods of time that we just rode in companionable silence, which was equally fine. I found I liked having a passenger and gave thought to maybe asking one of Oscar’s or his brother Bertram’s children to ride with me on the road from Glendalen to Crestbury.
What I had seen so far of the land under the management of Glendalen Keep was very favorable. The farm land was rolling between taller hills creating rich farm valleys, and the roads were well maintained, even this side lane we were now traveling on. This was dairy country, so there were large pasture lands for the cows and also fields of hay and other grains. The taller hills were covered with thick forests which provided lumber, firewood, and a rich habitat for game. Glendalen cheese was well known through out the land for its varieties and flavors.
Beezle had told me the farm we were heading for was a large one and the producer of a cheese called Glendalen Fancy, which he said had a rich nutty flavor and was a favorite of his mother. Beezle said his family’s holdings also produced cheese. He had often traveled to this farm with their head cheese maker to exchange ideas and new techniques with the head cheese maker here, who just happened to be the sister of theirs. As we turned down the drive leading up to the farm, I could see very little in the dark, but soon spotted the glow coming from the windows of a very large farmhouse. We pulled our wagons into the circle drive, and Beezle jumped down. As the farmhouse door opened spilling light across the yard, Beezle shouted a greeting and soon a small lithe figure dashed out the door and threw herself into Beezle’s arms.
“Hello Moppet, and just what are you doing up so late?” he asked.
“What are you doing here? Who are these folks? Are you going to stay? How long are you going to stay?”
“Take a breath Moppet and I will try to answer all of your questions, but first I need to talk to your mother,” Beezle answered with a grin in his voice. “Take me to her now if you please,” and found himself being dragged to the farmhouse door by an eager young friend.
After Beezle explained to Mistress Deaver what had brought him to her farm and asked if they might stay in the barn, she bustled out of the doorway, drying her hands on her apron. With brisk efficiency she squelched anyone’s objections about coming in and staying in the farmhouse for the night. She insisted on putting together a hot meal.
“You come along now, all of you and bring some warm dry clothes. I’m sure you would not object to a warm bath before we sit down and break bread together. Happen to have the great good fortune to have a nice little hot spring not too far which provides water for the bathhouse. Has a men’s and a women’s side. Should be clean towels and soap a plenty. Have to with a farm this big and workers can’t come to the table smelling like the milking barns, now can they? You show them the way, won’t you, young Beezle, to where they can put their wagons? Miles is in the second barn and he and some hands can help them settle their horses. I’ll just get supper started,” stated Mistress Deaver.
We pulled our wagons around to the leeside of what was called the second barn, which would give the wagons some protection from wind. After Beezle introduced us to Mistress Deaver’s husband Farmer Miles and the two hands, getting the horses unhitched and settled in the clean dry barn took very little time.
The bath following was a true gift after a day on the road in the rain. The bathhouse was a low, sturdy stone structure located not more than twenty-five feet east of the farmhouse. The women’s side of the bathhouse consisted of a changing room with benches along the walls, hooks to hang clothes upon, a washing room, and a room which held pools of various depths and water of various temperatures, allowing for the height and preference of the bather. The first order of business was to wash up, so I took a bucket of warm water and poured it over me, standing over a washing drain. After lathering up, I rinsed myself with another bucket of warm water and then went into the pool room for a good soak. As I sank into the hot water up to my neck, I had the thought that here might be a great place to stay for the night and just skip dinner. I had forgotten how wonderful really hot water felt on tired, sore muscles, especially after a long rainy day riding in a homewagon.
I found myself drifting in the warm water, just drifting off, when suddenly I shot straight up sputtering and coughing, for I had dozed off and slipped under the water for just a moment. It was time to get out, though I was loath to. After drying off and donning clean clothes, I headed over to the farmhouse. The rain had stopped, and the air smelled fresh and clean. The warm, relaxed feeling did not last long, for the conversation during the meal was somewhat disturbing. Mistress Deaver’s husband and the head cheese maker, a woman called Mahoganee, were discussing the news they had received recently concerning a fee put on their cheese.
“Said it was a licensing fee that had to be paid annually which allows us to make cheese,” Farmer Miles angrily stated, setting his tankard down on the table with considerable force. “We already tithe our fair share of ten percent to Glendalen Keep and the Crown, and now we are being asked by the Crown to pay even more for a license. What are they going to do if we don’t pay, shut us down? That’s a bit like cutting their noses off to spite their faces. Our good Lord Hadrack is none too pleased. And then, there is the matter of the Princess. She should be at the fair to be a guest judge. Do you know what it means to your product if the Crown judges it to be the top one? Gives you the right to stamp a little crown on the cheese for the year, and folks from all over Sommerhjem will want it. It was to be Glendalen’s turn this year to get the Princess as a judge, and now she’s not going to show up.”
“I had a new cheese I have been working on over the past several years that I think might have been a winner too,” stated Mahoganee. “Have had it aging for two years, and it was just right. All that work, and now I have little hope that the
re will be a last minute change and the Princess will be at the fair. The only other place I could enter my cheese would be the fair at the capitol, but I dare not leave here this summer. This is such a busy time of year for us as it is, and besides, I have my first grandchild due any day now.”
“Mahoganee, do you have to be present at the fair at the capitol, or just your cheese, and if just your cheese, can it travel for weeks in a wagon?” asked Trader Jalcones.
“Only the cheese needs to make it to the fair at the capitol, and if packed properly, as long as it is kept out of the direct sun, the cheese can travel quite well, for many weeks, for this is a hard cheese. Why?” Mahoganee answered.
“My young rover friend here, Nissa,” he said, pointing at me, “has taught me that in return for use of land for camping, or in this case a fine warm bed for the night, I need to pay in kind by helping the farmer whose land I’m using. Seems it would be a fine repayment to carry some of your cheese in my wagon to the capitol. If it’s as good as you claim, and it wins the right to the crown stamp, then you might need a hauler to deliver your cheese about the land. Thought I would put that idea up front, after all, I am first and foremost a trader,” Trader Jalcones said with a twinkle in his eye.
“An excellent suggestion,” said Mahoganee. “If you are finished with your dinner, let’s go take a look at your wagon and discuss if and how we could send the cheese with you and have it arrive at the capitol in good shape.”
Once Trader Jalcones and Mahoganee had left the table, others began to get up and head towards their sleeping quarters. I turned and began to head outdoors. Just as I reached the door, Mistress Deaver called out and told me I was more than welcome to sleep in the farmhouse. I thanked her very much for both the dinner and the invitation, and then explained that I had a hunting cat in the homewagon and I did not want to leave him out there alone. I did not want to hurt her feelings by telling her I was much more comfortable in my own bed. Just as I was about to slip out the door, a small hand found its way into mine. It was the young child Beezle had called Moppet.
“Do you really have a hunting cat?” she asked.
“Yes, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he has me,” I answered.
“Could I see him?”
I was going to say no, but there was such a look of longing on her small face that I changed my mind. “We’ll need to ask your mother, for I’m sure it is very late for you and past your bedtime,” I said.
Mistress Deaver had no objections and admonished her youngest, whose name was Dalia, not to stay long for it was past everyone’s bedtime.
“Is your hunting cat big and vicious? Do you need to keep him in a cage?” Dalia asked.
“Well, he’s big compared to house or barn cats, and I imagine to the animals he hunts he can seem pretty vicious, but he’s always been very friendly towards most folks. No, I don’t keep him in a cage. He’s free to come and go as he chooses. I just always hope each time he leaves to go hunting he’ll come back, and so far that’s been the case. He approved of Beezle. Would that make him a good hunting cat?”
“A most excellent hunting cat. I am going to marry Beezle when I grow up, did you know that?” Dalia asked.
“Are you now?”
I was glad it was dark so she could not see my smile. I wondered if Beezle knew. Our conversation was cut short when I noticed a light moving behind the curtains of Bertram’s homewagon. Oscar and Bertram and their families had still been at the farmhouse lingering over tea, and I knew none of them could have passed us and gotten to the homewagons before us.
“Dalia, be very quiet,” I told her in a whisper. “Someone is in Bertram’s homewagon that shouldn’t be. Are you a fast runner?”
“Yes, I’m a very fast runner,” she whispered back.
“I want you to run back to the house and ask your mother or father to send Bertram and his brother Oscar here to me. Tell them to come quietly. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You stay at the house until we find out what’s going on. After, I will bring Carz up to meet you. Alright?”
Dalia was right, she was a fast runner, and shortly thereafter Bertram and his brother Oscar arrived. I silently pointed out the light which was still moving behind the curtains. Oscar suggested I stay behind him, and using a hand signal, motioned his brother to take the front of the homewagon while he took the back. Something must have alerted whoever was inside, for before Bertram made it to the front of the homewagon, a darkly-dressed figure emerged through the front door and dove off the opposite side, running down the side of the barn and turning the corner. Bertram, Oscar and I gave chase, but by the time we turned the corner of the barn, there was nothing to see but dark and shadow. Nothing moved and without more light, our intruder would be able to easily hide and remain undetected. Suddenly out of the darkness, two horses and riders flew by us, bowling Oscar over as they passed by.
“Are you alright?” Bertram asked his brother as he gave him a hand up.
“About as right as you can be covered with mud and soaked through. I couldn’t fall onto a hay bale, oh no, not me. I had to fall into a mud puddle. That’s a good bath wasted,” Oscar said disgustedly, as he tried to find a clean place on his clothing to wipe his muddy hands. “Best go check out the homewagon and see if there’s any harm done, see if anything was taken. Did you lock it up before we went into the bathhouse?” Bertram assured us that he had.
The back door to Bertram’s homewagon was still secure, but the front door was open. He went in and brought a lantern out, held it close to the door lock, and we all could clearly see the metal had been scratched.
“Looks like they used something to pick the lock,” Bertram said. “You must of come upon whoever was in here right at the beginning of their search, for only the cupboards under the children’s beds have been pulled out. I’m beginning to think working the fairs this year may not be such a good idea. Maybe we should just head out to the smaller villages what with everything that has been happening lately, and now this.”
That was the most I had ever heard Bertram say, for normally he was a very quiet taciturn man. I could understand how he was feeling, but I reminded him that he did not need to make a hasty decision this late at night. Maybe we should sleep on it, and besides, did he really want to give up a prime spot at the Glendalen fair? It would be a long time before we came across an opportunity like that again. He said I had a point, and he would sleep on it. We then went to check on the other wagons to make sure nothing else had been disturbed.
Oscar’s homewagon did not appear to have been disturbed, and my homewagon was still locked tight. Carz, who had met me at the door with an “about time” attitude, as if I had left him for days within the homewagon, seemed relaxed. While I was checking the homewagon out, a thought occurred to me. Our first reaction to the intruders was that they were looking for something within Bertram’s homewagon. What, if rather than looking to take something out, they were there to put something in? We had been stopped this day, singled out because the Regent’s agents were looking for contraband and “wanted” folks. I quickly exited my homewagon and took my idea to the brothers. Bertram re-entered his homewagon and took another look.
“You are one smart gel, yah know that,” Bertram said, coming out of the homewagon carrying a small bundle. “Found this tucked way back behind my son’s clothes, and I suspect that this bundle is not his. Let’s take it up to the farmhouse and take a look at it in good light. Everybody is still up anyway and will want to hear about what has just happened.”
I motioned to Carz that he should come with us, for despite what had just transpired, I still needed to keep my word to Dalia that she could meet Carz. Oscar said he would stay at the wagons to make sure our homes were safe, and Bertram said he would send his oldest son and Oscar’s oldest daughter down to join him. When we arrived at the farmhous
e, light spilled out from most of the windows confirming that no one had gone to sleep yet. We reported the break in, and then Oscar set the bundle down on the kitchen table.
“Beezle, you’re the closest thing we have to anyone in authority, so would you do the honors and open this bundle?” Oscar asked.
What Oscar had just said gave me a start, for in all our time sharing the ride this day, I had forgotten that Beezle was nobility. A minor one to be sure, but still one of the ruling class. It was hard to equate the young man who stepped towards the table, looking serious and in charge, with the young man who had told me tales while riding through the rain. He carefully peeled back the wrapping, and we were astonished by what was within.
Chapter Twenty
Beezle slowly opened the bundle and exclaimed, “Mercy, would you look at that!”
Mercy is exactly what would not have happened if Bertram had been caught with what we were looking at. Wrapped in the bundle were several very well-made coin pouches with distinctive crests on them and a very finely crafted knife with an ebony handle topped by a fine fox head with emerald eyes. What was worse was I knew who had made that knife blade, and who had made the handle.
“I know this knife,” said Beezle. “It belongs to Lord Crestly, who was visiting Tverdal fair representing the Crown and who was complaining loudly and often to anyone who would listen about his missing knife. We all thought he was being rather obnoxious about it, as though he had lost an ancient family heirloom.”
“Only if you think being four years old is ancient,” said Bertram dryly.
“Lord Crestly?” Beezle inquired with a slight teasing tone to his voice.
“The knife,” stated Bertram. “The fox head is my work.”