King's Errand

by N. J. Layouni

  “That’s uncommonly civil of you, Anselm. Thank you. I think I will.”

  As Hugh hobbled away, rather gingerly, one or two of the unafflicted men laughed and jeered at him, but not Anselm. There was nothing funny about a burning ring-piece. Poor fellow. Once they reached the city Anselm resolved to visit his favorite apothecary to buy his friend a soothing salve for his arse, and perhaps some powders with which to settle his troublesome bowels.

  From where he lounged against his horse’s flank, Fergus glanced at Anselm, the ever-present sneer etched onto his gaunt face as always. “What’s up with you being so helpful all of a sudden?”

  Oh, wonderful. Old sourpuss was back to take another bite out of him. Of all the troop, Fergus was the only one who persisted in baiting him. After traveling so many leagues together, one might have expected a change in Fergus’s juvenile behavior by now. Alas, it wasn’t to be.

  Suddenly and quite abruptly, Anselm finally reached the end of his tether. Keeping the peace was all well and good, but even his tolerance had its limit. He was sick of biting his tongue where young Fergus was concerned.

  “It’s called making an effort, dear boy,” Anselm replied with careful politeness. “Perhaps you ought to try it sometime?”

  Fergus’s sneer turned into a scowl. “I don’t need any advice from the likes of you, you stinking traitor.”

  Anselm rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Traitor. Is that really the best you can do dear boy? Whatever will you call me after the king pardons me, eh? I suppose you’ll have to wrack your miserable brain for a new—and hopefully wittier—insult. Won’t that be a challenge for you?”

  “Pardons you?” Fergus snorted. “So you still intend keeping up this pretense of yours, then?”

  “What pretense might that be, eh?” Not that Anselm wanted to hear more of Fergus’s twisted opinions or vitriolic bluster. Any sympathy he’d had for the lad had died many days ago. Now all his sympathy was for Effie. Poor girl, binding herself to this boorish lout. Craning his neck, Anselm strained to see if the queue ahead of them was moving. No such luck.

  “This pathetic act of yours… pretending to be everyone’s friend all the time… pretending you’ve changed.” Letting go of his horse’s reins, Fergus swaggered over to where Anselm stood. Leaning in, Fergus’s face was suddenly much too close for comfort. The crop of ripening pimples upon his forehead glistened unpleasantly in the sun. “Need I go on?”

  Anselm’s right hand tingled with a sudden, desperate urge to punch Fergus right in those noxious yellow pustules that adorned his greasy face. It would be a difficult task, however, while still holding two horses. Bored with all this inactivity, Arion and Bruce, Hugh’s gelding, had started taking crafty bites at each other.

  “I sincerely hope you won’t,” Anselm replied in a carefully measured tone, one that a wiser man might have been wary of. “Harken to me for a moment, young Fergus. For too many hours we have all been forced to endure the trial of your constant carping, whining, and sniping, but no more. I for one have had enough.”

  Perhaps he was hearing things, but Anselm could swear that he heard someone cheering from somewhere behind him.

  “You now have two choices before you,” Anselm continued in the same steady manner as before, “either kiss me tenderly or get your ugly mug out of my face… preferably before I’m forced to do you harm. You may consider that your final warning.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Fergus sneered with a smile. “Show yourself for who you really are.” But he didn’t back off. “Ah, now I see you. There’s the Anselm I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Yes, well done. I rather think you’ve found him. Which is a great pity, really, for you look so much better with a smile.” With no further ado, propelled by anger, Anselm slammed his forehead straight into Fergus’s face.

  With a shout of pain, the lad fell backwards, hitting the ground hard in a tangle of arms and legs. Silent and bleeding, he lay sprawled in the dust, moaning, with his hands cupped over the crimson fountain spurting from his nose.

  Fergus must have annoyed more people than Anselm had realized, for this act of violence elicited several rousing cheers from the ranks.

  Shocked by the unholy din, even Arion and Bruce ceased biting at one another. Instead, they shied and danced on the spot like the elegant buffoons they were. Coaxing them with gentle murmurs, Anselm soon had them back under check.

  Bloody Fergus. His head ached like buggery now, damn it. Still, it was worth the pain. Anselm couldn’t recall a time when hurting someone had given him more pleasure.

  Reynard swept back through the ranks like an angry crow, cloak a-swirling.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “What happened?” Crouching down in the dust, the outraged father attempted—and failed—to examine his groaning offspring’s face. “Did you do this?” Reynard demanded, glaring up at Anselm.

  Anselm nodded, then wished he hadn’t for his head throbbed most painfully. “I’m afraid so, m’lord. But it was entirely unintentional, I assure you.”

  “Unintentional?” Reynard seemed less than convinced. Fergus said nothing. He only regarded Anselm with his bloodshot eyes as dark clots of blood slipped like bloated leeches between his fingers.

  “Yes, indeed. ’Twas a most unfortunate incident, m’lord. As I was putting some coins back into my purse, I happened to drop one. However, as I bent over to pick it up, I had the misfortune to strike poor Fergus with my head. Believe me, had I known he was standing so close it never would have happened.”

  Reynard’s eyes narrowed. “That’s your story?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s as true as I’m standing here.” Albeit, a slightly embellished version of the truth. “But if it’s any consolation, I feel absolutely dreadful about it, m’lord.” And sore. Very, very sore.

  Reynard glanced around the circle of grinning onlookers. “What say you, Harold? Does Anselm speak the truth?”

  It was a measure of just how weary everyone must be with Fergus for the big man merely shrugged and said, “It sounds about right to me.”

  “Indeed?” Reynard’s gray eyebrows rose so high they almost met his hairline. “And what about you, Tom? Did you see what happened?”

  The younger man shook his head. “Sorry, m’lord. I wasn’t looking.” Another liar. Anselm smiled through his pain. Who could have guessed their troop housed so many of them?

  Thrusting a pristine ’kerchief into his son’s hand, Reynard addressed him with the same question. “Is that what happened, Fergus?”

  With so many men staring at him, what else could Fergus do but slowly nod his head?

  Apparently satisfied, Reynard got up and brushed himself down before extending a hand down to Fergus, forcibly pulling him from the dirt. “You look a mess, boy. Go and clean yourself up at that water trough over there.” With a last lingering glare, Fergus shuffled away, but then it was Reynard’s turn to move his face close to Anselm’s. “I’m not quite sure how you managed to reach into your purse whilst holding two horses, but I’m prepared to let it go, Sir Anselm. This time.”

  Damn it.

  Reynard didn’t miss a trick, did he?

  When they finally reached the head of the queue, Vadim handed the pile of papers Rodmar had given him to the gate-keeper. The mere sight of the king’s official red seal was enough to work wonders. Giving the rest of the papers only the most cursory of glances, the guard smartly stepped aside and, with a wave of his arm, gestured for the gate to be opened for them.

  With no more delays, their troop passed beneath the sandstone gateway and into the city. This was Vadim’s first glimpse of Rodmar’s version of Stanrocc, and he wasn’t disappointed. Truly, it was a sight to behold.

  During his reign, King Erik had allowed the city to slip into disrepair, choosing to line his own coffers with gold rather than spend any of it. King Rodmar, howev
er, was cut from a very different cloth.

  New buildings—homes, shops, and taverns—had sprung up everywhere, and the constant chink-chink-a-chink-ing of countless masons working their brand of alchemy on stone echoed down every street. Even the older buildings hadn’t been overlooked. Encased within their web-like timber scaffolds, they awaited repairs or a smart new coat of paint.

  Although Vadim had not often ventured to the capital in recent years, the changes being wrought here were quite remarkable. Truly, he was impressed. Rodmar had achieved a good deal in a relatively short period. Governed by his guiding hand, the future of the Norlands looked extremely promising indeed.

  Having dismounted, the troop led their horses along the cobbled street down by the embankment, following the long meandering line of the tradespeople, musicians, jugglers, and everyday folk who had passed through the gate before them.

  Even the mighty river, Vadim noticed, had not escaped the new king’s attention. Spanning the loops of shimmering water at its narrowest points, two new bridges were under construction. Presumably, they would soon replace the much-used and rather dilapidated wooden bridge that served to connect the two banks of the river. But the new bridges were nothing like their ramshackle predecessors, for these were made of honey-colored stone; these miracles of engineering a declaration of permanence, a promise to serve the city for years to come.

  Down by the pier, a huddle of water-men conversed together. Smoking their pipes and scratching their gray beards, the old fellows watched the new bridges slowly rising from the swirling water. Once all the building work had been completed, what place would they have in Stanrocc’s future?

  Progress. There was no stopping it. For all of its benefits, it would never suit everyone. The days of the ferrymen were well and truly marked, their time as river-kings almost at an end. Soon they would be naught but a memory. A story to recall of how the world used to be.

  As they neared the heart of the city, three huge, wide carts piled high with horse dung, came slowly trundling in the opposite direction, obliging their troop to move to the side of the road to let the carters go by. Two massive horses hauled each steaming, towering cart down the narrow, cobbled street, their powerful neck muscles straining beneath their gleaming coats. No doubt they were bound for the outskirts of Stanrocc, to the fields that kept its citizens supplied with seasonal fruit and vegetables.

  Nothing went to waste here. With so many mouths to feed, they could ill afford that luxury.

  They came to a crossroads and, distracted, Vadim took the left-hand turn, leaving the flow of ordinary foot traffic behind them. Unfortunately, he’d inadvertently selected the wrong turn, and it soon became clear that they’d entered the bordello district of Stanrocc. Their unexpected arrival soon attracted a great deal of attention.

  At the junction of a side street, several scantily-attired women emerged from a tall whitewashed house. Blinking hard, they shielded their eyes from the sun’s bright glare, clutching at one another and giggling like excited maidens. It might be early, but the sight of such a well-shod company of knights had attracted them as easily as a wasp to honey.

  “Well, hello, Sir Knight!” With their womanly assets on display at the precise advantageous angle, the street soon rang with their lusty siren calls. Smiling and flirting, the ladies waved and beckoned to the men, begging them to ‘come tarry with me a while’.

  Yet more women arrived, their hair hanging loose and wearing flimsy shawls that revealed far more than they concealed. Soon the narrow street was lined with these gaudily painted butterflies, all calling out, and some shamelessly exposing their various charms.

  As he was fending off the amorous overtures of one particularly enthusiastic young lady, Lord Reynard happened to catch Vadim’s eye.

  “I don’t think much of your shortcut, m’lord.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Harold remarked, cheerfully as two women squabbled over him. “It’s always good to stop and chat with the locals.”

  Vadim sighed, cursing himself for their ill-advised diversion. Ah well. It was probably quicker to go on than turn back.

  “Coo-eee, handsome!” One particularly bold girl came across and began pawing playfully at Vadim’s tunic with her pointed talons.

  “Mmm… mmm.” Licking her lips, the harlot ran her eyes appreciatively over his body, the palms of her hands pressed flat against his chest. “Is the rest of you this hard, I wonder?” she purred. “How about you come along with me so I can find out, eh?” She was young and blonde, and her two comeliest attributes were almost spilling over the bodice of her low-cut dress.

  Vadim could not help but smile. Although he wasn’t interested in sampling her wares, it cost him nothing to be kind. “I’m afraid I must decline, dear lady. For men about the king’s business, there is little time for such pleasure.”

  Smiling coquettishly at him, the girl looked up, displaying her set of blackened teeth. Or perhaps they were made of wood?

  “Well then, what say you come back and visit your sweet Mary when he’s done with you, eh?” She trailed a rather dirty finger over his bicep. “I have something for you that you might like.”

  However unlikely that was, Vadim inclined his head in a respectful farewell. He turned and looked over his shoulder hoping that none of the other men had succumbed to the assortment of temptation currently being flaunted their way.

  Apart from a few lusty smiles and the odd lingering look, the majority of the knights and foot-soldiers were behaving themselves perfectly well. Predictably, Anselm was the sole exception, the only one actively sampling the goods, as it were.

  Much to the amusement of his companions, Anselm’s face was buried in some woman’s cleavage, up to the ears in plump, pillowy softness. Vadim chuckled. How was he even able to breathe?

  Although the whore had her hands—or bosom—full, Anselm’s comely companion began beckoning to Percy. “ Don’t stand there gawking at your master, young lover. Come over here. Believe me, there’s more than enough for you both to enjoy. Come on, dearling! Get your face in here and let us see what other treats your pretty Alice has in store for you.”

  Poor Percy. Rooted to the spot, the lad instantly turned beetroot red, his eyes almost popping from their sockets.

  “Ugh!” Grimacing delicately, Reynard looked around for aid. “Ah, Harold. Would you please be so kind as to remove Sir Anselm from that unfortunate woman’s chest? Preferably before he suffocates.”

  “With pleasure, m’lord.” Grinning, Harold did as he was bidden. Scruffing Anselm by the back of his tunic, he yanked him away from his pouting whore with the speed of a cork from a bottle.

  Red-faced and laughing, Anselm emerged from Alice’s bosom and was greeted by a chorus of raucous cheers. Grinning at Lord Reynard, Anselm said, “Have a care, m’lord. If I didn’t know you any better I’d swear you were beginning to care about me.”

  Later that evening, Vadim emerged from a secret meeting with the king, a meeting to which only Reynard and himself had been invited. There, in that sealed chamber, their destination was finally revealed.

  “Wendelsae?” Anselm gaped at Vadim. “What the devil will we be doing all the way down there?”

  “I have no idea.” With a sigh, Vadim threw his hauberk over the low bench beside the fire and sank down wearily beside his brother. “Rodmar wouldn’t disclose anything more.” After the meeting, his mind still reeling from the orders they’d been given, Vadim aimlessly roamed the empty streets of Stanrocc until he found himself outside Anselm’s temporary lodgings.

  Feeling more than a little lost, he experienced a sudden urgent need to speak with his brother for, not only was he family, Anselm was also a vital link with home, with Martha. But the hour was late, and Stanrocc’s many nightly diversions had barely even begun, so Vadim had not really expected to find Anselm at home. To his astonishment, however, he found his brother sitting in a comf
y chair warming his toes by his fire. Why he wasn’t out wenching or touring the taverns with the other men?

  “When do we leave?” Anselm asked softly, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames in the hearth.

  “In two days.”

  Wendelsae. So far from home. So far from her… from them.

  The bulging waxed satchel at his side contained the sealed orders, maps, gold, and all the official documents they would require for the journey. Foolishly, perhaps, Vadim had expected Rodmar to send them on a brief jaunt in some minor quest or other; a token mission to somewhere not too far off yet distant enough to test the fealty of all the knights who sought his pardon.

  Such blind folly. How cruelly those hopes of a quick return to Edgeway had been dashed.

  His vow to Martha that he would be back home before the leaves turned brown now seemed a foolish hope. For, as all experienced mariners knew, the sea was an unpredictable, often brutal, mistress. No journey could be considered entirely free of risk. Even in fine weather, a journey across the great sea was always fraught with peril, for collosal storms could rise out of nowhere.

  He must write to Martha at once—this very night—and break the awful news. But what could he say to her? He dared not speak too freely lest his message was intercepted on the road. Besides, he had very little to tell for the king was still being infuriatingly tight-lipped. All the same, Vadim had a strong inkling of what their mission would be.

  While Rodmar might not be talking, the same could not be said of those who had followed him into exile and kept him company for so many years. Men such as Blaine and Warner, Agatha’s soldier sons.

  During the siege of Edgeway, on one long ago night, they had spoken a little of their life in exile and, albeit fleetingly, of the wife and family Rodmar had left behind in the south when he’d set out on his campaign to take the throne. When pressed, they revealed little more than a vague location, and that was all they were prepared to reveal. Although Blaine and Warner trusted Vadim and their Uncle Reynard implicitly, they were the king’s men down to their very marrow, their loyalty to their liege lord unwavering.