Journey's Middle

by B. K. Parent

  “I think whoever was slinging rocks at us probably is either gone or has been trampled underfoot,” Beezle whispered. “I’m not having a good night. First, you try to bean me with a bucket, then I get bowled over by a hunting cat, and now I am up a tree, hoping not to get knocked out of it by some maniac with a slingshot and really large rocks. So, who have you angered lately that they would come after you with intent to harm?”

  “What makes you think those rocks were being aimed at me? I could be the innocent bystander here, you know.”

  “Well, no matter who the rocks were aimed at, they would do some serious damage if they connected. It was our good fortune that one of the rocks took out the lantern.”

  “One of the rocks also did a good job taking out my right shoulder,” I quietly muttered.

  “Were you hit? Are you alright?” Beezle asked with a great deal of concern in his voice.

  “Nothing’s broken, but I’ll have quite a bruise by tomorrow. Good thing I’m not anticipating attending a ball soon in an off the shoulder gown, for I would look a fright.”

  “Nice to see being almost stampeded to death has not robbed you of your sense of humor. Look, a number of lanterns are heading our way.”

  I had an almost overwhelming urge to laugh, for I had a vision in my head of lanterns moving across the meadow, unassisted by folks, but I resisted the urge. Hopefully the folks carrying the lanterns had heard the commotion and had come to check on the horses. With any luck, they would either shed light literally on who had tried to harm us, or at the very least, scare the attacker away. We waited until we could recognize some of the folks who were trying to calm the horses before we descended from the tree. We joined the group nearest to us, as if we had arrived with them and their lights rather than just dropping in. Once the horses were settled back down, we walked back to the campground, finding safety in numbers.

  Back at our campsite, by the dying embers of the cook fire, Beezle and I tried to muddle through what had just happened. Was someone trying to harm one of us, or had it been just a random act mischief that could have turned deadly? Of the two choices, I would have preferred a random act of mischief. I also wondered why Beezle had grabbed my arm rather than just call out my name when he approached me in the pasture. It certainly would have saved him a few bruises.

  “First things first,” I said to him. “Why did you grab my arm when I was reaching for the lantern?”

  “I just wanted to get your attention and was going to offer to get the lantern down for you, but before I could say anything I was tumbling over backward under your furry friend, and a bucket was swinging far too close to my head for comfort. You have very fast reflexes, and I should have called out first. I’m sorry,” stated Beezle contritely.

  With a slightly rueful grin, he went on to explain he had come out to the pasture because he was worried about me being out there in the dark alone. He guessed he need not have worried about me, now that he knew about the dangerous bucket I carried. I should not have been surprised that his good humor helped some of the tension of this night’s adventure melt away.

  “So, Beezle, who have you ticked off lately that they would be slinging rocks at you?”

  “No one that I know of, and you?” he replied.

  “None that I can think of. Do you think it was a prankster, or were we specifically targeted?” I asked back. “We should go back at first light, and maybe we can find something that will give us an idea of what just happened.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Beezle.

  We said our goodnights and retired for the night. At first light, I heard a light knock at my door. After quickly dressing, Carz and I joined Beezle and headed back to the pasture where the horses were grazing. With the sun just peeking over the top of the distant hills, and the campground just beginning to stir, the day presented a peaceful setting, so different from the activities of the night before. The birds were beginning their morning songs, the dew was heavy on the grass, and there was almost no breeze ruffling the leaves of the trees. If it were not for the dark purple bruise on my shoulder, I might be able to imagine that last night’s fright had not happened.

  Beezle and I crossed the meadow to the tree we had been standing next to the night before and found my lantern still hanging off a branch. The glass was shattered, but otherwise the lantern was still intact. I carefully picked up the glass shards that I could find in the trampled earth. It would not do for either beast or folk to cut themselves on them. After that we looked around the tree, trying to see if we could find what had been whizzing by us in the dark. It was interesting to note that someone had been here before us, because we could see faint footprints in the dew on the grass in places where the grass was cropped short. I wondered if someone had come here before us to make sure they had left nothing behind that would give a clue to their identity.

  We found nothing on the ground or embedded in the tree trunk and were about to give up when I remembered the splash I had heard after one of the stones had rushed past my head way too close for comfort. I began to walk along the bank of the stream, thinking that this was a pretty hopeless endeavor since the bottom of the stream was lined with a scattering of rocks. I wondered how I was going to distinguish a stream rock from a rock that had been airborne the night before when I spotted something. Embedded in the sand near the opposite shore, barely visible, was something that caught the light and looked just a little too smooth to be a natural object. Mindful of my new boots, I took them off and rolled up my pant legs before entering the water. While my feet did not instantly turn purple from the cold of this spring fed stream, I was glad it was neither very wide nor very deep.

  I plunged my hand into the water, pulled out the shiny round object, and returned to the bank. Beezle reached out to take the object, but I shook my head and indicated we should wait until we got back to my homewagon before we looked at it. Others had begun to arrive in the meadow to look after their stock, and I did not want to draw any more attention to us than my walk in the stream might already have done. Before we headed back, we quickly looked over our horses to make sure they had not been injured. Once back, we sat on the back steps of my homewagon, and I pulled out the object I had found in the stream. It was roundish in shape, made of lead, and about the size of a walnut.

  “I have heard about the making of these, but I have never seen one,” Beezle told me. “Someone was shooting slingballs at us last night. These lead balls are made only at the tower forge in the capitol for the royal guards and peacekeepers. Not a comforting thought. I suppose someone other than a member of the royal guards or peacekeepers could get their hands on slingballs, but it is even more worrisome if our attacker is affiliated with either of those two groups. Both are under the direction of the Crown, meaning at the moment, under the control of the Regent.”

  “I think they were after you,” I told Beezle, “maybe because if something happened to you, it would distract your uncle, making him less effective in his endeavors to keep the Regent accountable. Your uncle is too well-liked and supported by a great number of the nobles for the Regent to attack directly.”

  That idea was a mixed blessing for would mean they were not after me, but I did not like the thought that someone wanted to harm Beezle.

  “I don’t like your conjecture, but unfortunately it makes some sense. I’ve been able to come up with nothing else to explain what happened last night. At first, I thought maybe someone was slinging rocks at you, thinking you were harming me, but that didn’t make a whole lot of sense because what we thought of as rocks came much too close to hitting me too,” said Beezle.

  “Or they could have been aiming at you because they thought you were going to harm me, but that makes about as much sense as your idea. What I do know is we had best be watchful and only travel in pairs or more, and only during the daylight hours. I think I will be glad to leave Snoddleton. By the way, was there
any other reason you came out to the pasture last night, besides wanting to protect me from night creatures and other things that roam after dark, for which I thank you?”

  “Yes, I heard that they are going to close the fair a half day early. There are a great many rumors going around as to why.”

  “Such as?”

  “The most prominent one is that there will be a lengthy check out making sure none of us are carrying contraband or have somehow or other violated the Regent’s edicts. Some think they are still trying to find that Pedersen fellow and others who have recently been named as ‘folks of great interest’ to the Regent. Of course, they never do come right out and tell you what any of these folks have done to garner so much interest.”

  At the mention of Da’s name, my heart began to race. I had a very strong urge to leap up, dash to the Hall of Masters, and find him. Before I could make a total fool of myself by jumping up, leaping over the fire, and dashing into town, Master Clarisse sat down beside me.

  “Heard about your adventure last night,” she said, directing her comments to both of us. “Are both of you alright?”

  “Other than wounded pride and dignity, I’m fine,” Beezle responded, “but I do suggest you stay away from Nissa when she has a bucket in hand.”

  After I gave him a look that suggested dire things would be done to him, much worse than being beaned by a bucket, I told Master Clarisse I was fine also.

  “I heard you talking about the rumor that the fair will close early because they want all the wagons leaving town to undergo an inspection. There is a great deal of protest going on from Lord and Lady Snoddleton and their citizens. Folks seem to scream the loudest when a loss of revenue is involved,” Master Clarisse suggested. “The general population cares little if the Regent is seeking certain folks, since they do not appear to be dangerous individuals, nor does it seem that they have committed any horrendous or despicable crimes. Most of us don’t see why we should lose a half day’s revenue, and then in addition have our wagons searched when we try to leave town. Once again the Regent has chosen a way of getting the common folk a little riled up over some ruling. There is a group of merchants, townsfolk, guild masters, and nobles gathering right now to decide what to do and to confront the Regent’s representatives.”

  “Has anyone thought of appealing to the Princess?” questioned Beezle, looking to Master Clarisse for an answer.

  “That is the other odd thing going on, for it seems that the Princess has cancelled her appearance at the fair this day, and no one is sure if she is in town or not.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Clare found herself muttering to herself as she climbed the backstairs of the royal manor, following the housekeeper. She had come to the Snoddleton fair excited to be included in the head royal baker’s party and had anticipated spending the time she was not helping with the baking, or working on her own entry for the fair, observing and learning from other bakers. Instead, she had been summoned by the housekeeper of the royal manor to come and help clean once more, and the head royal baker had suggested strongly she answer the summons. Was this some kind of punishment? Had she done something to displease her father, the head royal baker? She had won in her division. Did that not count for something? These thoughts kept going round and round in an unending loop in her head, until she reached the top of the stairs and almost ran into the backside of the housekeeper. What was so urgent about dusting and sweeping that she had not even been given the opportunity to take off her cloak and shake the raindrops off of it? Standing on the landing of the stairs, dripping onto the floors, only added to Clare’s concerns.

  “Come along, lass. Don’t dawdle,” said the housekeeper.

  Clare thought to herself that she was not the one who stopped abruptly on the landing.

  “Come along, briskly now,” the housekeeper said, marching down the corridor past the royal guard outside the rooms of the Princess.

  The royal guard was the one Clare knew, and he gave her a nod as she passed by. The housekeeper led Clare to a set of rooms across the hall. She told her to hang her cloak in the wardrobe and follow her into the next room, handing her a feather duster and a polishing rag upon entry.

  “We need to get this room ready, so dust first and then use some elbow grease when you apply the beeswax to all of the furniture. I’ll be in the next room doing the same.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Clare acknowledged and grudgingly went to work.

  As an apprentice, Clare knew she was subject to the commands of the master she was assigned to, but she had expected to be covered this day with flour rather than dust and remnants of cobwebs, and there was a lot of dust. From the looks of the condition of the room, whoever had been in charge of housekeeping for this royal manor had not been working very hard. As time passed, Clare fell into the rhythm of rubbing wax on and rubbing wax off the tables, chairs, bedstead head and foot boards, and chest to the beat of the pounding rain upon the window pane. She decided being inside on a wet rainy afternoon rather than standing duty, trying to keep the baking ovens going, might be a good thing. She could hear the housekeeper working in the room next to her, catch words in conversations as other workers stopped by to ask the housekeeper questions, and then there was silence for awhile.

  Just as Clare ran the final rub on the last area she needed to wax, and was about to go to the next room to ask the housekeeper what she wanted her to do next, the housekeeper walked into the room and looked around.

  “Come along, lass, it’s time to quit. You’ve done a good job here. I will send my thanks to the head royal baker with strong praise for a job well done.”

  Clare felt some relief that the housekeeper would let the head royal baker know that she had done well on this rather unusual assignment. She opened the wardrobe to grab her cloak, thinking that since the rain had stopped a short while ago, her walk back to the bakers’ area at the fairgrounds would be dryer than the walk over. She would only have to avoid puddles and being splashed by water thrown up by carts, wagons, or riders passing by and would not be drenched by a second heavy downpour. These scattered summer showers were great for growing things but a nuisance to have to walk in. Clare opened the door and reached for her cloak, only to discover it was no longer hanging there.

  “Those dolt heads,” exclaimed the housekeeper when she noticed the wardrobe was bare. “I told them to leave your cloak and take only the moth eaten robes and other rags pretending to be clothes to the rag picker’s place. Well, there is nothing to be done about it now. Hope it wasn’t your favorite.”

  “Well, ma’am, I would be hard pressed to say whether it was a favorite or not for it was my only cloak,” answered Clare politely, as she had been taught, all the while worrying about how she was going to explain the loss of her cloak to the head royal baker.

  “This is just dreadful and not your fault,” stated the housekeeper, with a vexed look on her face.

  Clare felt the housekeeper must have been reading her mind, for in the next breath she told Clare she would write a note for her, explaining that the loss of the cloak was not Clare’s doing. She told Clare if there were any negative repercussions, she should come immediately to her. Straightaway the housekeeper sat down at a small writing desk, took out paper, an ink well and a pen, and wrote the note for Clare. It did not occur to Clare at the time to question the availability of the fresh paper, ink, and pen in a room that looked to have been closed up for a long time.

  Once Clare had been given the note, the housekeeper slipped her a small bit of coin with the suggestion that she treat herself to something at the fair to reward herself for her hard work, and Clare exited the room into the hallway. She looked for the royal guard she knew and waved to him on her way to the backstairs.

  Gerta, the housekeeper from Crestbury, had not wanted to get the head royal baker’s apprentice in trouble and so hoped the note she had written had hel
ped. An overly honest woman, it bothered her that she had lied to Clare, but she had needed the cloak. Everything now depended on timing and luck. Keeping an eye on the door across the hall, Gerta continued to look busy straightening and dusting the main room of the suite. As the hall clock stuck the hour, she heard the royal guards change in front of the Princess’ door and knew the time had come.

  Just as Clare reached the bakers’ area of the fair and was about to report in, the sky opened up once again, and it began to rain. She dodged the raindrops and ducked into the royal bakers’ pavilion just in time to avoid to being thoroughly soaked.

  “You, apprentice, get over here,” barked Master Bröt, the head royal baker. “You are late.”

  Clare knew better than to mouth off to her father, but she did think it was a little unfair to be reprimanded for being late when it was he who had sent her off to the royal manor and had not told her to be back at any certain time. Now she was feeling just a touch of dread, for here she was soaking wet, apparently late, and he had just reprimanded her in front of a great many folks. It was when she noticed who those folks were that she wanted to find a convenient hole to crawl into. Standing with the head royal baker were at least half a dozen other master bakers. She could only hope he did not notice she did not have her cloak.

  “Front and center, lass, and be quick about it,” Master Bröt demanded.

  Clare swiftly did as he asked, trying not to show how very nervous she was. When Master Bröt started very seriously saying, “It is the learned opinion of the Bakers Guild . . .,” the real panic set in. Was she being asked to leave the guild because she had lost her cloak? No, that was ridiculous, she thought. It took a moment for her mind to click back in and really pay attention to what he was saying.

  “. . . that you have achieved a level in your craft to warrant the title of journeywoman.”