Death of a King

by Robert Evert

  “It was a fake!”

  “Bollocks!” Sir Edris slapped the table. The candle in its center, having long since burnt low, threatened to plunge the already dark tavern into blackness. “What I would’ve given to find it. We searched for the better part of a year! It was infuriating. Where was the blasted thing?”

  “We all searched. Evidently, it was up north somewhere. Who knew?”

  “At least Andy didn’t win,” Sir Edris said, relieved. “I tell you, I would’ve left the business if I had to deal with him winning the Iliandor Quest. At least now everybody knows him to be the fraud that he is!”

  Sir Oliver drained his goblet, then fumbled for an unopened bottle in front of Sir Rowan. He knocked it over. If it hadn’t been for Natalie, the bottle would’ve rolled off the table. She handed it to the drunk knight.

  “Sir Andrew insists he didn’t know it was a counterfeit,” said Sir Oliver, jerking the cork from the bottle. “But I wouldn’t put it past him to pull something like that. Do you recall what he did during the Quest for the Crystal Vase?”

  “Yes. Yes,” Sir Edris said. “He’s a cheat. We’ve all known it for years. Now it’s out in the open.” He motioned for them to continue. “But one tale at a time. Go on, Row. And so help me, if you two rogues are pulling my leg!”

  Sir Rowan lifted his hand again and began to say, “On my honor—” but fell off his chair and lay laughing on the floor.

  “I’ve been in your company too often to give your honor much regard,” said Sir Edris, laughing now with the rest. “Hurry up and finish your story. We’ll all be dead of old age soon.”

  Sir Rowan gasped for breath, still sprawled across the tavern floor. “Okay! Okay!” He exhaled, eyes blurry from alcohol. “So…so, so this little fella, he, he brings the Star to old Yellowhair…”

  “The imbecile,” said Sir Oliver. Wine trickled down his bearded chin as he drank from the bottle.

  The bartender emerged from a storage room where he’d been sleeping and checked on his only customers. Natalie silently indicated they didn’t need anything else to drink. He shuffled back the way he came.

  “…and he says, he says—now, keep in mind he has this horrid stutter and can’t get two coherent words out.”

  “If you could get two coherent words out, we’d all be the better for it!” Sir Edris said. “Now what in blazes hap—?”

  The door to the tavern flew open. In the doorway, silhouetted against the scarlet glow of the rising sun, stood a young knight clad in full plate armor. In one hand, he held a bejeweled longsword, in the other, a polished helm with a fluffy green plume. The three inebriated knights looked at him, then at each other, and then burst out laughing.

  The young knight stalked into the tavern, armor clanking.

  “Oh, ho!” Sir Oliver snickered, noting the emblem on the newcomer’s breastplate. “He’s one of Yellowhair’s. Think he heard us?”

  “Boys,” Natalie said, “play nice.”

  “You’re Edris.” The young knight lowered his blade at Sir Edris’s throat.

  The other knights quickly sobered up.

  “Pup,” Sir Edris stood, the sword point following his neck as he rose, “that’s Sir Edris to you. And if you don’t sheathe that blade, we’ll have more than words.”

  The two knights glared at each other, orange candlelight flickering across their tense faces.

  Natalie scrambled to her feet. Sir Oliver and Rowan followed her example. Sir Rowan drew his sword.

  “Now let’s—” Natalie tried to get between Sir Edris and the newcomer, but Sir Edris’s hand guided her to one side.

  “Perhaps,” Sir Edris said to the young knight, “you have recently taken the oath to your king. Perhaps you don’t know any better. But there’s a code of behavior those in the knighthood follow. I suggest you lower your sword and announce yourself.”

  The young knight retreated a half pace but didn’t lower his sword. “I’m Sir David, son of Sir Donald, son of Lord Dendrick.”

  Sir Edris relaxed and laughed. “Don’s boy?” He laughed harder. “By the gods! You gave us quite the start! How the hell is your father? I haven’t seen him in a dog’s day.” He turned to his companions. “This is Donnie’s boy!”

  Sir David put the tip of his sword under Sir Edris’s throat. “If you so much as utter my father’s name again, I’ll cut off your head.”

  Sir Edris pushed the blade away. “What the devil—? What’s gotten into you? Blast it!” He said to his friends, “See! This is what happens when kings like Lionel knight every puppy they find crapping in the streets.”

  “That’s it!” Sir David thrust his helm on his head. He took a defensive stance, sword aimed at Sir Edris. “On your guard!”

  Sir Edris pushed the blade away again, but it immediately returned. “What the—! Pup, if you don’t—”

  “I challenge you to a duel!”

  Sir Edris jabbed a finger at the young knight. “Now, you think about what you’re saying.”

  “I know perfectly well what I’m saying. You’re scared, you fat coward.”

  “I’m not fat, you little runt!” Sir Edris roared. Natalie tried to calm him, but Sir Edris pushed her away, this time making her stumble into the wall. Sir Oliver and Sir Rowan got in between Edris and David. “By what right do you call on me?”

  “You damn well know what right I have!” the younger knight bellowed. “I know what you’ve been saying about my family. You think I wouldn’t hear your lies? You filthy, fat has-been. I said, on your guard!”

  “Why you little—!”

  Sir Edris lunged for Sir David, shoving the much smaller man. Tables and chairs flipped over as Sir Oliver and Sir Rowan fought to get in between them. Sir David sprang forward, his sword scoring across Sir Edris’s left bicep. Sir Edris cried out. The bartender reappeared from the storage room, now more frightened than sleepy.

  “Son of a bitch!” Dark blood trickled through Sir Edris’s fingers as he clutched his wound. “What the hell are you doing? Have you no honor!”

  Sir Oliver and Rowan, swords drawn, drove Sir David back.

  “Stay your weapon!” Sir Oliver commanded the young knight.

  “The fat pig insulted my family!” Sir David panted. “You heard him! You all heard him!”

  “I heard no such thing,” Sir Rowan said.

  “We all know your family,” Sir Oliver added. “Donnie is a damn good friend of ours, youngster. If you were his son, you’d know that.”

  Natalie examined Sir Edris’s wound. It wasn’t deep, but it was long and arcing across the top of the muscle. Sir Edris would have to keep the arm immobile or it’d be slow to heal. “Let’s get this tended to.”

  “I want satisfaction!” Sir David called over Sir Rowan’s shoulder as the older knight heaved him toward the door.

  “And you shall have it!” Sir Edris shouted.

  “Then come outside where there’s room for you to die properly!”

  “That’s it!” Sir Rowan slammed the pummel of his sword into the side of Sir David’s helm.

  Sir David staggered, dropping his weapon. Dazed and leaning against a table, he took off his helm. Blood dribbled from a gash across his temple. “By the gods!” he cried to Sir Rowan. “I have no grievance with you. This is none of your affair!”

  “You come in here and attack a fellow knight and a comrade, I dare say I have a grievance with you, lad.”

  “I announced my intentions!” Sir David protested. “It’s his fault he didn’t draw his sword.”

  “Son,” said Sir Oliver, “you have a lot to learn about the code of honor. You announced your intentions, yes. However, it is up to the challenged to set the time and the place.”

  “And the weapon!” Sir Edris shouted from across the tavern, still holding his arm. “Who trained you? Not your father! He and I are going to have words next time our paths cross.”

  “Words?” the young knight shouted. “We are the aggrieved party! You insulted my family!” />
  “You come here suited and brandishing your sword against a fellow knight whose sword is in its sheath—by all rights,” Sir Oliver said, “we could execute you where you stand.”

  Sir David moved toward him, bloody sword raised. “You may try!”

  Sir Rowan approached, a longsword in one hand and a dirk in the other. “Is that how you want things?”

  Sir David surveyed Sir Oliver and Sir Rowan, then growled, “No.”

  Sir Rowan shoved him closer to the door. “Then go home, lad. You’ve done enough harm to yourself and others today.”

  “I want satisfaction!”

  “And I said you shall have it!” Sir Edris called to him.

  “When?” Sir David hollered.

  “Tomorrow! An hour after sundown, with two-handed weapons!”

  Sir Rowan and Oliver spun about.

  “Ed—” said Sir Rowan.

  Still holding his bicep, Sir Edris grimaced in pain. “I can manage! Let’s see if this runt can!”

  “Tomorrow an hour after sundown it is!” Sir David said. “Where?”

  “A mile north of town. There’s a field with three juniper trees.”

  The young knight stomped out of the tavern and into the early-morning darkness. “I’ll be there!”

  “As will I!” Sir Edris shouted. Then he snarled, “Filthy son of a bitch. I’m going to teach the bastard some manners.”

  “Ed,” Sir Rowan said, his voice full of concern.

  “Don’t ‘Ed’ me. The little prick called me out. What did you want me to do—buy him a drink?” He turned to Natalie, who was pressing her handkerchief against his wound. It was slick with blood. “How bad is it?”

  “It isn’t good,” she said.

  Sir Edris peeled away the handkerchief and examined the cut. “It’s fine. Row, get your gear and stitch me up. Not too tight. I’ll need to be able to move my arm tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Tell me again.” Sir Edris held his head as he sat on the edge of his unmade bed. Dark bags hung under his bloodshot eyes. It was approaching the dinner hour, and the effects of his early-morning drinking were still lingering. “What exactly did he say?”

  They were in his suite at The Maggie. It was inappropriate for Natalie to be alone with him in his private quarters, but with Reg having left the previous week, she had been acting more and more like the knight’s squire.

  She checked the bandage. Sir Rowan had expertly stitched the wound shut; however, there was going to be an ugly scar across the top of his bicep. Then again, Sir Edris had scores of scars. He wore them like badges of honor.

  “He said you insulted his family or some such nonsense.”

  “Insulting one’s family is no frivolous matter,” Sir Edris said gravely. “Had he insulted you, I would have called on him as well.”

  The fact he insisted she was his family warmed her heart.

  “Donnie…” Sir Edris went on, perplexed, “Donnie? When have I ever said anything about him? Sure, we’ve had our differences. We all have. But I’ve never—” Natalie smeared Sir Edris’s greasy substance over the wound. It smelled like mud and rancid meat, but the knight swore by its healing properties. “Have you ever heard me say anything about Sir Donald?”

  She dressed the wound in clean bandages. “To be honest, I have trouble keeping all you men straight. Sir this and Sir that. Half of you are named after fathers and fathers of fathers who were adventurers as well. I should make a list of names so I can follow who you are talking about.”

  Sir Edris chuckled. “That would be a long list. A long list, indeed.”

  “And”—Natalie nudged him, sensing he was about to go melancholy again—“yours will be right at the top as the greatest adventurer of them all.”

  Sir Edris brightened slightly, then the light in his eyes dimmed.

  “Not yet. I need two more.” He frowned up at the dark wooden beams crossing the ceiling. “Two more. One to tie. One to—” He noted Natalie grinning at him. “I suppose it’s all childish codswallop to you, isn’t it? Trying to win the most quests in history?”

  Natalie sat on his bed next to him. “Not at all. You have every right to think about posterity. Who wouldn’t want to be the best of the best? You and Sir Drake and Barton the Black…you’ll all be remembered forever.”

  “Forever is a long time.” Sir Edris arched an eyebrow at her. “And how do you know about Barton the Black?”

  Natalie waved a hand. “A girl has to know these things, now don’t we?”

  They laughed.

  “At any rate,” Sir Edris said, the sadness returning to his tired face. “I passed his tally years ago. But he was one for the history books. Shame what happened to him. He should’ve retired when he had the chance.”

  Natalie still wasn’t sure what had happened to Barton the Black, but she wasn’t about to ask. Sir Edris stared contemplatively at a picture of the rolling ocean on the bedroom wall.

  “But Drake…” Sir Edris went on wistfully. “I’ve been so close for so long. One more quest to tie him. Just one more!” He bowed his head as if praying. “Just one more.”

  Natalie stroked his arm and waited.

  Eventually, he continued. “If only this last quest would’ve worked out. All of that subterfuge with your cripple.” She fought the urge to correct him. “All of that work and planning for nothing. Blast it! I wasn’t even in the right realm.”

  “There’ll be another quest soon,” Natalie reassured him. “Won’t there?”

  “Perhaps in the spring, when King Lionel returns from his war up north.”

  “There you go! Rest up for a few months and enjoy your time with Sir Rowan and Sir Oliver. You’ll be sleeping in ditches and sloshing through bogs before you know it.”

  “Perhaps.”

  For a moment, Natalie thought she saw a tear in his bleary eyes. He shook himself and put on a grim smile. “First, I need to address this matter with Donnie’s son. Insulted his family? What under heaven? I’d never—at least not openly. And nothing worth calling me out over. Are you sure he didn’t say something more specific?”

  “No. Not a word.”

  “It’s the damnedest thing.”

  “Are you really going to fight him?”

  “The term is duel. A fight is with fists. And yes, I have to. I accepted.”

  “But you’re hurt. Even Sir Row—”

  “Now, none of that, Nat,” the knight said sternly. He rocked himself to his feet, the bed’s springs squeaking in relief. “You know how I live my life. Honor is—”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, mockingly. “Honor is everything.”

  He stopped pacing. “Nat—”

  “Okay. Don’t mind me. You boys and your rules.”

  “Rules are what separate us from the animals.”

  Natalie tried to lighten the mood. “I’ve seen you knights eat. Trust me—you are animals.”

  Sir Edris didn’t appear to hear her.

  “Rules…” he said again. “That’s what’s so blasted curious about this whole business. The bastard isn’t playing by them. Who stabs a knight who isn’t on his guard? And to call me out like that? Was he drunk?”

  “Not that I could discern. He seemed more nervous than anything.”

  “Nervous, eh? At least that’s something.” Sir Edris winced as he moved his left arm.

  “Are you okay?” she asked pointedly.

  He batted the comment away, though he was plainly in pain.

  Natalie wouldn’t be so easily dismissed. “Are you going to be able to—?”

  She didn’t want to finish her question. She knew the answer. Sir Edris, for all his fame and physical prowess, was getting old. His beard was flecked with gray. His eyes no longer shone with vigor and vitality. He routinely grunted when he got out of chairs. And, although Natalie hated to admit it, much of the bulk that had been solid around his chest and shoulders two years before was now sagging slightly around his middle. During the last
quest, he hadn’t spent much time hunting for the small box that reportedly hid Queen Cassandra’s secret diary. He mainly stayed in inns and taverns while Reg raced here and there, collecting information. She watched him absentmindedly rub his injured arm.

  “Why did I say two-handed weapons?” he mumbled to himself.

  He flexed his bicep. One of the stitches must have torn; a spot of blood seeped through the white bandage. Natalie tended to it. The edges of the wound were red and irritated. She lathered it with more medicine and changed the bandage, this one tighter than the first.

  “Is there—?” She had to ask, despite how he might take it. “Is there any way you can postpone the duel? I mean, are there any rules allowing for a delay due to injury?”

  The knight shook his head. “Technically, I was injured prior to him calling me out.” He gave her a pensive smile. “But don’t you worry. I’ll be fine.” He led her to the door. “Now, my dearest daughter, you best leave me so I can prepare for tonight.” He picked up a sword that was taller than she was. It appeared clumsy in his hands.

  Something occurred to Natalie. She blurted out, “But the fight isn’t until tomorrow!”

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘tomorrow night, an hour after sunset.’”

  Sir Edris pondered this. “Did I?”

  “Yes! And that was said this morning. The sun was rising. So—”

  The relief in Sir Edris’s face broke Natalie’s heart.

  “Yes. Quite correct. It’s tomorrow night, then. Even so…perhaps I should rest. My head is pounding. Be a dear and bring me some food from the kitchen, will you? Whatever you think is good. Maybe a steak, or soup, or something. I think it’s best if I stayed out of sight until the duel.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Natalie sat in The Maggie’s busy common room, waiting for the kitchen staff to bring her Sir Edris’s meal.

  She always knew this day would come. As Reg had once said, “Few knights ever died of old age. Sooner or later, a younger, faster, stronger knight was bound to come along and want to make a name for himself.” She just didn’t think that day would be tomorrow.