King's Errand

by N. J. Layouni

  All alone.

  Left to suffer the countless days until they were finally reunited with their beloved.

  The withdrawal from such a deep love was intolerable, nigh on impossible to bear.

  Were Anselm to live for another hundred years, nothing would induce him to partake of that particular poison again. Not willingly. No matter how comely the container, he would prefer to abstain.

  No. Love was a fool’s game.

  At long last the interminable song ended. As the final note drifted away on the breeze, one by one, the men lapsed back into silence. This time Anselm left them to wallow in their misery. He dared not ask for another song for fear of what their next choice might be.

  He was relieved, therefore, a short time later, to see a group of riders waiting for them on the road ahead. ’Twas Lord Reynard and his men, unless his eyes deceived him. As much as Anselm disliked the fellow, he sincerely welcomed the prospect of a change of company. Surely Vadim would rally now that his old friend was here?

  Behind Lord Reynard sat a surly-looking rider. Even from this distance, Anselm could sense the waves of raw anger emanating from him. Oh good heavens. Was that… Fergus? No. Surely not. He must be mistaken for no one had heard from the lad in months. But at that moment, the rider cast back his hood, confirming his identity as Reynard’s wayward son.

  Anselm reached over and nudged Hugh. “Have you seen who’s back?”

  “Who?”

  “Look over there, you dolt.”

  Hugh gasped, along with one or two of other men who had also recognized him. “Is that… young Fergus?”

  Yes. It was Fergus all right. A paler, thinner, more gangling version of the young man they’d known, but with that shock of carroty hair Anselm would have known him anywhere. Even more surprising was the way Fergus was glaring at his father, a man with whom he’d previously been so close.

  Not any longer, apparently.

  Eyes glinting dangerously, his mouth set in a grim line, Fergus regarded his sire with a look of utter loathing. Even worse, he seemed not to care who witnessed this display of naked animosity.

  What could all that be about? Anselm sat a little straighter in his saddle. Suddenly their journey promised to be that much more interesting.

  “Reynard, Fergus.” Vadim tried to hide his surprise at seeing Fergus again. “Well met, my friends.” He sincerely hoped his expression didn’t give him away him for he was astounded to see the lad again, especially looking so ill.

  Fergus resembled a wild man, so unkempt did he now seem. His hair stood proud of his head in thick tangled knots, and his hands and nails were ingrained with dirt. He’d lost weight, too, more than his already skinny frame could afford to lose. What could have happened to him?

  “Vadim.” Reynard inclined his steel gray head in greeting. “You’re looking as well as always, my friend.”

  Fergus said nothing at all. He glanced about him and fidgeted constantly, seeming quite unable to sit still. His movements were tense, twitchy. For all the world, he put Vadim in mind of a cornered fox.

  Reynard could not help but notice how Vadim’s eyes kept on returning to look at Fergus.

  “Yes, as you see, the wandering sheep has finally returned to the familial fold. Not before time, too.”

  Fergus rolled his eyes and muttered something unsavory beneath his breath before announcing loudly, “I’m off to take a leak.” Clearly, the other men had had the same idea for there was a steady stream of them heading to and from the bushes at the other side of the road. “Unless, of course, you have any objection, honored father?”

  Vadim winced at the insincerity of Fergus’s smile, not to mention the cloying politeness of his words. Reynard, however, did not react at all. He must have had time to become accustomed to this new incarnation of his son.

  “Go on, then,” he said. “Just be quick about it.” Reynard’s face resembled stone. “Don’t wander too far.”

  “No, indeed. I would hardly dare, m’lord.” Swinging one long leg over his gelding’s neck, Fergus leaped to the ground and swept his father a low, rather mocking bow. “You may come and watch me piss if you like. Either way, I care not.”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  As Fergus turned away he happened to notice that Anselm and Hugh were watching him.

  “Ah, good. Yet more of the family ties that bind us all so tightly. Your turncoat of a brother is still with you, then, Lord Vadim. He hasn’t tried to slit your throat yet?”

  With great effort, Vadim managed to remain composed. “Sir Anselm has reformed and is now intent on performing his duty to our king.”

  Fergus raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? How admirable of him.”

  “At least Sir Anselm has had the good sense to acknowledge the error of his ways and is prepared to atone for his sins,” Reynard snarled. “Unlike some.”

  Vadim was too shocked for words. Reynard was defending Anselm now? Had the whole world turned on its head? What the devil was going on?

  With one final sneer, Fergus headed off for the bushes wearing his surliness like a cloak.

  Reynard watched him go with a weary sigh. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing him along, Vadim.”

  “Not at all,” Vadim assured him quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly. “Fergus is as family to me. You know that.”

  “Hmm.” Although Fergus was out of sight, Reynard continued staring in the direction in which he’d vanished.

  “When did he come home?” Vadim asked, softly.

  “Two nights since.”

  “And Effie?” As much as it pained him to cause his old friend further injury, he had to know, for Martha still fretted over the fate of her former maid. They’d had no word of her or Fergus in months.

  “Yes,” Reynard admitted with a sigh. “The girl, too, and a sorrier-looking pair I never did see. I hardly recognized them when they turned up on my threshold. Effie looked even worse than Fergus, if you can believe such a thing.”

  Vadim frowned. He didn’t understand. As a former outlaw, Fergus was well accustomed to living out in the wilds, scratching an existence from the land. Although life beyond the borders of society could be harsh, for men like themselves survival was not impossible. What could have gone so terribly wrong?

  As if he’d sensed the unspoken question, Reynard turned, regarding Vadim through heavy, bloodshot eyes. “It seems they’d been hiding out in one of our old caves up in the hills. When the sickness came, it… it t-took the babe from Effie’s womb, and it almost killed her too.”

  A baby lost? “Oh, Reynard. I’m more sorry than I can say.” What raw agony that must be. The mere thought of losing either of his own children was enough to make Vadim’s heart shed tears of blood.

  “Yes… well. Perhaps it’s for the best.” Despite the matter of fact tone of Reynard’s words, his voice bore a hint of a tremble. Hastily looking away, Reynard cleared his throat several times before adding, softly “At least it brought them home again, eh?”

  Vadim had many more questions, but sensing the other men straining to hear their conversation he said no more. Instead, he squeezed Reynard’s arm in a useless gesture of support.

  Poor Fergus. No wonder he was so altered. If Vadim lived to be an old man, he would always remember the horror of the day he’d almost lost Martha. But to lose a child… Unthinkable.

  As he so often did since the twins had been born, Vadim sent up a silent prayer of gratitude for all the blessings he’d been given. If the spirits were merciful, he would never have to experience such grievous loss first hand.

  The journey south continued as it had begun, without incident or major mishap. Beyond the occasional bout of lameness and the odd cast horseshoe, there was little to delay their progress.

  Traveling along the Great Road, the vast highway that bisected the country from north to south
, their route was lined with many hamlets and villages, allowing them to replenish their dwindling supplies at will.

  As the days slipped by, the weather slowly improved, and the spells of blustery rain they’d experienced since leaving Edgeway eventually gave way to sunshine and more settled skies, something for which they were all extremely grateful. Drawing wagons along roads that had been churned up into deep channels of thick clarty mud was an arduous task, while trying to dry sodden garments whilst constantly on the move was all but impossible.

  As he accustomed himself to the rhythms of the road Vadim gradually relaxed into the journey and began to enjoy himself. During his fugitive years, he’d once roamed these lands as freely as any of the wild creatures that lived upon it. In his heart, he still missed the freedom of those long-ago days.

  ’Twas often said that the passage of time gave even the most unpleasant memories a particularly golden luster, and in Vadim’s experience this proved quite true. Being chased by a pack of hungry wolves or charged by an angry boar were no longer terrifying scrapes with death, but fond recollections to be retold with a smile beside the comfort of a good fire.

  The pattern of long days and early nights soon became routine, and so in order to relieve the bouts of boredom on the road, the men relied upon conversation and song to while away the leagues. The addition of dice games served to divert them during their leisure hours. Other than that, there was little else to be had in the way of entertainment, for Vadim and Reynard would not permit any drunkenness or carousing until they reached the capital.

  Among their one hundred and sixty strong troop of knights, squires, and foot-soldiers, Vadim had already noticed the budding of several friendships. The men had, in general, settled down well together and even Anselm wasn’t excluded from the ongoing banter. At the start of the journey, of course, he’d come in for a good deal of unpleasant attention, but Vadim was pleased to see the ease with which his brother had dealt with all constant ribbing and the occasional unsheathed barb of hostility.

  By nature, Anselm was a natural raconteur, and by means of relating some amusing anecdote or other—often at the expense of himself—he managed to deflect the aim of the worst remarks. It wasn’t long before he had the other men howling with laughter in their saddles as they heard Anselm tell of his various escapades, and as the leagues slipped by even Lord Reynard was known to crack a smile or two.

  The only person to remain determinedly dour was Fergus.

  Lost in his own private suffering, the lad never smiled and seldom spoke to anyone. Vadim often wondered if it might have been a greater kindness to have left him at home with Effie. He said as much to Reynard one afternoon when they had broken ahead of the main column, well out of earshot of the other men.

  Reynard was quick to confess that he might have done that very thing had it not been for the distinct frostiness between the young couple. Whereas once Fergus and Effie had been all merry smiles and tender glances, upon their return from their self-imposed exile they now seemed terribly ill at ease with one other.

  One night at dinner, hoping to banish the heavy silence at his table—which Reynard feared was beginning to interfere with his digestion—he broached the subject of their upcoming quest. To Reynard’s astonishment, Effie immediately declared that Fergus should accompany his father, if he had a mind to, for she intended to return to Edgeway in order to resume her position as Martha’s maid—if, indeed, her mistress would have her after such a lengthy absence.

  ’Twas a peculiar, not to mention a most uncomfortable, moment. But if Fergus had been shocked by Effie’s announcement, he disguised it well. Making no comment, he continued staring deep into his bowl as if all the mysteries of the world were contained therein, stirring at his cooling broth with a spoon that had yet to touch his lips.

  Not knowing what else to do, Reynard had offered Fergus a place within his troop. Although Fergus had grumbled and complained, his protests had been tepid at best, naught but a token show of reluctance. In fact, despite the way he was currently behaving, Fergus had barely put up any resistance at all to the idea, seeming just as eager to be gone as his wife was to be rid of him.

  Even on the morning of their departure, Reynard detected no symptoms of a thaw between the young couple. Indeed, as she watched her young hero riding out of the gate, Effie had looked almost pleased.

  Fergus had behaved in a similar careless manner. They each exchanged a brief word of farewell without a parting embrace and not even so much as a smile to warm the separation of the frosty pair. Upon riding away, Fergus hadn’t looked back. Not even once.

  Reynard had, though.

  Curious to see how Effie was dealing with the prospect of such lengthy separation from her husband, he glanced back over his shoulder and was just in time to catch a glimpse of Effie’s back as she scurried back inside the dark sanctuary of the keep.

  Resigned as he now was to his son’s unwanted union, Reynard could only hope that a few months apart would help to mend the rift between the estranged lovers.

  Or perhaps it would drive them apart forever.

  “Who knows?” Reynard said smile. “There may yet be hope for a union between Lady Juliana’s family and my own.”

  Vadim sincerely doubted it, but he kept his counsel and diverted their conversation to lighter matters.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After a little over two weeks on the road, their party caught their first glimpse of the capital city. Shimmering like a jewel before them on the horizon, Stanrocc beckoned them onward.

  At last, the mighty stronghold where King Reynard had chosen to settle with his vast household now stood before them. Seated atop of the steeply-sloping hill that had given it its name, the ancient citadel of stone-rock looked out over the walled city like an ever-watchful guardian. And it had good cause to be vigilant for control of the citadel was coveted by some of Erde’s most powerful warlords.

  Over the years, the city had flourished considerably, growing so rapidly that even the land beside the river was now crammed with dwellings and businesses. Flowing through the center of everything, the deceptively slow-moving river was the city’s very lifeblood. Being both wide and deep, the river served its citizens in a variety of ways. From transportation to bathing, and through to shipbuilding, it was a useful and extremely versatile friend.

  As it meandered downstream, the gap between the river’s opposite banks slowly widened, rather like the jaws of some giant mythical water snake, until at last, the river joined with the open sea.

  ’Twas often said that whoever took charge of the river would, in turn, govern the sea, and time and again, this adage proved to be true. Stanrocc was not just a fortress. Its port was renowned the world over for the skill of its boat builders. By all accounts, King Rodmar was currently enjoying a particularly profitable harvest, most of this wealth brought home aboard a fleet of his own ships, each vessel laden with the bounty of a flourishing overseas’ trade.

  King Eric had been an unpopular ruler, both at home and abroad. So when word of his death reached foreign shores there was a sudden surge of flat-bottomed ships braving the short sea crossing and subsequent journey upstream to Stanrocc.

  Back on the road, their party advanced ever closer to the city. Suddenly the road was teeming with traffic of every description, from humble pedestrians to huge horse-drawn carts teetering with all manner of goods.

  Anselm fancied he could see all manner of life making the trip to and from the capital.

  There was no dawdling here in Stanrocc, no ambling or bimbling. It might be a noisy, rather smelly place, but it was exciting, too. Life and vigor seemed to ripple through the very earth here. People walked, talked, and rode faster than they did elsewhere in the Norlands, whipped on by some unseen urgency of purpose in this city where time was valued almost as highly as gold.

  Taking their place in the line, their troop joined the queue for
the city gates, waiting for their turn to enter the city. Anselm was positively jigging with excitement. He’d always loved visiting the capital. He and Lord Godric had made the journey perhaps a dozen times over the years, not nearly as often as Anselm would’ve liked, though, for Stanrocc’s diversions were as many as they were varied.

  Although the fabulous bordellos he remembered were beyond his reach now, there was more to this city than the charms of its sweet-smelling whores.

  “Here, Percy. Catch.” With a sharp ping, Anselm flipped a silver coin in the air which his squire deftly caught with one hand. “Go buy us a couple of meat pies from that fellow over there,” Anselm said, jerking his chin toward a portly, bald pie-man who was touting his trade by the roadside, his wares much in demand by their fellow travelers.

  “Yes, m’lord.” Rising a little stiffly, Percy relinquished his spot on the grassy bank where he’d been lounging in the sun with the other squires. The journey had been something of an adventure for the lad. Likely this was the first time he’d ventured so far from home.

  Was Percy still a virgin? Anselm smiled. If so, they may yet have cause to visit some of those delectable bordellos.

  “Oh, and while you’re about it, see if you can find us some ale to wash down our lunch.” He flicked another coin at his deft handed squire. “Hugh?” Anselm turned to the old warrior who was returning from the direction of the bushes, hastily refastening his trews. “Do you want anything to eat?”

  “I thank you, Anselm, but no. Truth be told, I am still suffering the effects of that stringy fowl I ate last night.” Hugh still looked rather pale and a little wobbly on his pins.

  “Do you still have the squirts, my friend?” Anselm schooled his face into something faintly resembling sympathy. “You poor wretch. I’m heartily glad I decided to have the vegetable pottage.”

  Hugh wasn’t the only one to be afflicted by yester-eve’s late supper stop at the filthy roadside inn for several members of their party looked equally gray. “Go and sit in the sun for a while. I will mind your horse for you.”