The Boy Who Was Wanted Dead Or Alive - Or Both

by Dominic Barker

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘my name is Kmoch. Is that your granddaughter with you?’

  Capablanca grunted his assent.

  ‘Tell me now, would she be wanting a tour of the village?’

  Capablanca grunted his disapproval.

  ‘I have five cows of my own and I stand to inherit a whole herd when my father dies,’ the young man informed him. ‘And between you and me he’s not looking too well.’

  ‘Your cows do not interest me, stranger,’ said Capablanca gruffly, continuing to walk towards the tavern. ‘And nor does the well-being of your father.’

  The haughty tone of Capablanca’s dismissal merely heightened Kmoch’s desire to know the name of his granddaughter. Surely, he reasoned, this maid must be rare indeed if I am not worthy to know her name. Like many young men, emboldened by his imagination and watched by his peer group, he spoke rashly.

  ‘What if I were to offer her my own name?’

  Capablanca stopped and stared at Kmoch.

  ‘You want to marry my granddaughter?’

  Kmoch nodded. Blart buried himself even deeper in the wizard’s cowl.

  ‘Even though you’ve never seen her face or heard her speak?’

  Kmoch nodded again. ‘She is obviously a shy and modest maiden. I would be the envy of all here if she were to take my hand.’

  ‘I don’t want to get married,’ squeaked Blart and in his desperation to get his message across his voice rose even higher.

  ‘I think my granddaughter has made herself clear,’ said Capablanca firmly. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, we are going to seek out rooms in the local tavern.’

  And with that Capablanca ushered his granddaughter away from the suitor.

  ‘I shall not give up,’ Kmoch shouted after them. ‘I shall pursue your fair granddaughter with renewed ardour, and I am confident of success!’

  Chapter 13

  ‘We would like a room for the night,’ Capablanca told the landlady of The Rabid Dog when she finally emerged from the cellar. ‘I see from a sign outside that your rooms are only one crown, which is very reasonable.’

  ‘A room?’ said the landlady, looking as though such a request was most unexpected. ‘Why?’

  ‘To stay in overnight,’ explained Capablanca.

  ‘Will you be wanting a bed in it?’ said the landlady.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You should have said,’ the landlady told him.

  ‘Surely beds are standard?’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Not in this tavern,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, we would like a bed,’ confirmed Capablanca. ‘In fact, we would like three beds.’

  ‘I think we can manage that,’ agreed the landlady. ‘Now, will you be wanting a door?’

  ‘A door?’ Capablanca was even more staggered. ‘Are you telling me your rooms don’t have doors?’

  ‘Some do, some don’t,’ said the landlady enigmatically.

  ‘Well, we would like one that does,’ Capablanca informed her. ‘How can a person sleep soundly without a door to close behind them to give them privacy?’

  ‘You want to sleep?’ the landlady exclaimed. ‘You really are fussy customers.’

  ‘Didn’t I say I wanted to sleep?’ demanded Capablanca.

  ‘No,’ said the landlady. ‘You said you wanted to stay in it overnight.’

  ‘We want to sleep,’ confirmed Capablanca.

  ‘So that means you’ll want sheets and a pillow and a blanket. All these extras are going to cost you.’

  ‘The room does come with four walls, a ceiling, a floor and a window?’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Of course it does.’ The landlady looked hurt. ‘Eleven crowns. Payment in advance, please.’ Grimly, Capablanca reached into his purse and counted out eleven crowns.

  Grumpily, the landlady showed them up to their room.

  She could not depart soon enough for Blart, who was finally able to pull his face out of the repulsive folds of Capablanca’s cowl. He rushed to the window and breathed in deeply.

  ‘We have a problem,’ said Capablanca. ‘I only have one crown remaining. Do either of you have any money?’

  ‘Uther won all mine at Muggins,’ said Blart from the window.

  ‘But unfortunately,’ added Uther swiftly. ‘I had no notice that we were about to leave when we did and so was unable to gather any of my fortune. I am as penniless as Blart.’

  Capablanca shook his head.

  ‘This is no good,’ he said. ‘We are on the run and we have no money. We will be even more vulnerable to capture. Still, I must use my last crown to buy Blart some new trousers and a shirt. And then we must trust to fortune.’

  And so saying Capablanca left the room to search the village for bargain trousers.

  Blart and Uther were left alone together.

  ‘Fancy a game of Muggins?’ said Uther.

  Blart shook his head in a statement of absolute and final refusal.

  ‘Go on,’ said Uther.

  ‘I shall never play Muggins again,’ said Blart.

  Five minutes later, Blart was sitting on the bed, looking at a pair of nines. He had lost the pig that he had so recently gained.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Uther mildly.

  Blart said nothing. He simply stomped back over to the window. Having spent so long inside the folds of Capablanca’s cowl he now had a much greater respect for fresh air. As soon as Blart poked his head out of the window he was greeted by an excited cry.

  He looked down. Below him was Kmoch. And he was carrying a lute.

  ‘What light from yonder window breaks?’ shouted Kmoch.

  Uther pulled Blart back into the room. He was well aware that any less than a fleeting glance at Blart would reveal that he was no fair maiden.

  Unfortunately, the sudden disappearance of Blart from the window merely confirmed to Kmoch that his love was as shy and modest as he had hoped.

  ‘My love,’ shouted Kmoch with a preparatory strum of his lute. ‘I have written you a ballad and I have come to serenade you.’

  Blart was horrified. Kmoch was out of tune. But it didn’t stop him. He twanged his lute again and began:

  ‘My lady in red

  Her name is unsaid

  She’s gone up to bed

  And I wish I were dead

  Without my lady in red.’

  Blart put his fingers in his ears to drown out the sound. Five minutes later he pulled them out again. Kmoch was still singing. A few minutes later he had moved on to an instrumental solo, before embarking upon a finale of loud strums on the lute, accompanied by whoops. A final shuddering chord brought the song to an end.

  ‘What was that?’ said Capablanca, coming through the door, holding a pair of trousers and a shirt.

  But nobody answered him. Blart had eyes only for the clothes – he dashed up to the wizard and snatched them.

  ‘Manners,’ said Capablanca.

  Blart tore off his red dress, threw on his new clothes and within seconds he looked like himself again. Only Blart considered this to be an improvement.

  ‘I’ll be going out for a few moments,’ said Uther.

  ‘I thought you were travelling incognito,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘So I hoped,’ said Uther. ‘But we are in dire need of money and I suspect that I am the only one amongst us who has the acumen to make it.’

  ‘How do you propose to do that?’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Do I ask you how you cast spells?’ replied Uther. ‘Leave me to my own devices.’

  ‘Don’t attract any attention to us,’ said Capablanca sternly.

  Uther laughed hollowly in response.

  ‘Attract attention?’ he said. ‘We’ve got a youth outside the window, making more noise with his lute than ten tom cats in a sack because Blart has driven him mad with desire, and you ask me not to draw attention to us.’

  Without further ado, Uther opened the door they had paid extra for and went out into the town, where night was already falling.

&nbs
p; ‘That door squeaks,’ observed Blart.

  Uther did not return for many hours. Capablanca and Blart had no money and no food, and time passed slowly. Blart occasionally broke the silence to whine at Capablanca that everything bad that had ever happened in Blart’s life was Capablanca’s fault. Capablanca occasionally broke the silence to threaten to turn Blart into a toad. Eventually, bored by each other and by themselves, they grumpily went to bed. Both of them were sleeping deeply when Uther slipped into the room later in the evening, As he retired to his bed there was the chink of gold coins in his pocket.

  Chapter 14

  Blart was dreaming he was running in the orchard with his pigs. All was right with the world.

  Then there was a huge crash and the door was smashed to smithereens.

  He shot up in his bed.

  A hulking figure brandishing a sword stood in the doorway.

  All was obviously no longer right with the world.

  ‘Where is the damsel in distress?’ demanded a deep voice.

  ‘There’s no damsel in here,’ said Uther.

  ‘I refer,’ said the deep voice that belonged to the hulking figure, ‘to the damsel sold into marriage against her will. I have come to rescue her.’

  ‘Uther,’ said Capablanca. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘It was a fair deal,’ insisted Uther. ‘We spat on our hands and shook on it.’

  ‘Be silent,’ said the deep-voiced hulking figure. ‘Hand over the damsel in distress. This is your last chance.’

  ‘There is no damsel,’ protested Uther. ‘You’ve been misinformed.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ said the hulking figure. ‘I know that someone in this room sold a shy damsel to Kmoch and his father earlier this evening and I am here to rescue her.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Blart, who regarded self-preservation as the most important thing. ‘It was him.’

  The hulking figure approached Uther’s bed.

  ‘Let’s not be hasty,’ placated Uther. ‘I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.’

  The hulking figure raised its sword.

  Blart thought it was a pity that the room was so dark because he wouldn’t be able to see Uther cut to pieces.

  ‘I shall cleave you in two,’ pronounced the hulking figure.

  There was something familiar to Blart about that phrase. In fact there was something familiar about the voice. In fact …

  ‘What’s going on in here?’

  The landlady was standing at the door, holding a lantern.

  ‘What have you done to my door? When I rent out a door I don’t expect my guests to turn it into firewood overnight.’

  She stepped into the room.

  ‘Why is nobody listening to me?’

  The landlady was right. Nobody was listening to her. Instead they were staring at the hulking silhouette, coloured in by the landlady’s light to reveal the big, bronzed, burly, bearded figure of Beowulf the Warrior (known to his acquaintances as Beo) – the man who had travelled with Blart and Capablanca and Princess Lois of Illyria when they had journeyed to the Terrorsium and defeated Zoltab, the Dark Lord.

  ‘What’s the matter with everybody?’ demanded the landlady.

  Capablanca was the first to regain his composure.

  ‘Beowulf!’

  ‘Capablanca!’

  Beowulf turned to Blart

  ‘Thingy.’

  ‘Do you all know each other?’ asked Uther, who had never met Beowulf the Warrior before. While the others were all wide-eyed and slack-jawed with disbelief, Uther was wide-eyed and slack-jawed because he thought he was about to be cleaved in two.

  ‘Yes,’ said Capablanca. ‘We know each other.’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ said Uther evenly, ‘perhaps you could ask your friend to lower his sword.’

  ‘Nobody said we were friends,’ pointed out Blart.

  ‘Acquaintance, then,’ said Uther in exasperation.

  ‘I don’t care whether he’s a friend or an acquaintance,’ interrupted the landlady. ‘He is a non-resident and he shouldn’t be in a resident’s bedroom after nine-thirty at night. Especially if he smashed the door down to get in.’

  ‘Beowulf, I’m sure it would help us all if you were to lower your sword,’ agreed Capablanca.

  But Beo stood firm.

  ‘I cannot do so until the damsel is freed from distress and the foul cur who besmirched her honour lies dead.’

  ‘Nobody besmirches anybody’s honour in my inn,’ said the landlady. ‘It’s in the rules. Just under the bit about evacuation procedure in case of fire.’

  ‘You can put up your sword,’ Uther reassured Beo, ‘because there is no damsel in distress. In fact, there’s no damsel at all.’

  ‘You’ve murdered her,’ accused Beo, taking a firmer grip on his sword.

  ‘Murdered her!’ shrieked the landlady. ‘That’s even more against the rules than honour-besmirching. I’m not putting up with this. I want you all out right now. Come on.’

  Finally the landlady had managed to grab their attention.

  ‘Woman,’ said Capablanca, ‘let me inform you that we are good people who are at risk of being the victims in a terrible miscarriage of justice. I appeal to you to overlook these minor infringements and allow us to stay.’

  ‘Door-smashing, honour-besmirching and murder are not minor infringements,’ insisted the landlady. ‘I want you out.’

  ‘I appeal to your human spirit,’ pleaded the wizard desperately.

  ‘I’m adamant,’ said the landlady firmly. ‘Nothing will change my mind.’

  ‘How about some gold?’ said Uther, reaching under his pillow.

  The landlady turned on him.

  ‘How dare you suggest you can buy your way out of this! Rules are rules and –’

  ‘Three crowns,’ offered Uther.

  ‘Seven,’ said the landlady.

  ‘Five and you leave the lantern behind when you go.’

  ‘Done.’

  The landlady grabbed the gold and swept out of the room.

  ‘Everybody has their price,’ observed Uther wryly.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Beo, who felt that he had rather lost control of the situation. ‘But what about this damsel in distress?’

  ‘There isn’t a damsel,’ repeated Blart, Capablanca and Uther.

  ‘If there isn’t a damsel,’ said Beo, dramatically pulling out a shabby parchment that he had hidden beneath his livery, ‘then explain this.’

  Capablanca squinted at it.

  ‘I, Uther the Uncle,’ Capablanca began – Uther looked uncomfortable – ‘do sell my niece, Blartarina the Shy, to Kmoch for the purpose of marriage, with or without her consent and regardless of the distress caused. Price: five gold crowns. Handling fee: half a crown. No refunds under any circumstances.’

  Everybody in the room looked at Uther.

  ‘You misunderstand,’ Uther insisted. ‘We needed the money and I simply sold Kmoch his dream. Tonight he will be happy thinking about his future wife. Only later will he discover that his bride never existed. And then he will simply return to being miserable, but he will cherish for ever the memory of his one night of happiness.’

  Uther looked at the others. They didn’t look impressed by his solution.

  ‘And I shall leave the dress behind as a souvenir.’

  Denied his damsel in distress, Beowulf stood deflated.

  ‘So, Beo,’ began Capablanca with a forced cheerfulness, ‘what have you been up to since our quest came to an end?’

  Beo sighed.

  ‘Capablanca, I’ve had terrible trouble,’ he said. ‘At the end of our last quest wasn’t I made a knight of Zoltab? But when I came back nobody would accept that I was a proper knight. Twas some technicality about Zoltab being a terrible force for evil unable to create a force for good. So it turned out that I had not achieved my dream and still remained a mere warrior. I have spent the past year wandering from place to place, trying to do deeds of chivalry in
order to attract the attention of a king or queen who would bestow on me the title I crave.’

  Capablanca nodded sympathetically.

  ‘I’ve had special trouble with damsels,’ lamented Beowulf. ‘There is not a damsel in distress to be found. Every damsel I meet seems to be happy. They’ve never had it so good.’

  Capablanca nodded sympathetically again.

  ‘And what is worse,’ bemoaned Beo, ‘I have a terrible pain in my arm whenever I lift my great sword. A doctor told me that I have “warrior’s elbow”, caused by excessive brutality, and that if I do not rest it then I will lose my ability to cleave my enemies in two. Even threatening your friend with death has caused me much anguish.’

  Beo looked very sorry for himself. The wizard was at a loss how to proceed. Fortunately Blart was on hand to help.

  ‘You’re wanted dead or alive,’ he told the warrior.

  ‘What?’ said Beo, grasping his sword firmly once more and then grimacing with pain.

  ‘And it’s all the wizard’s fault,’ added Blart. ‘He got all the research wrong and now everybody thinks we’re Zoltab’s friends and wants to kill us.’

  ‘Is this true?’ demanded Beo.

  ‘There is some truth to what he says,’ agreed Capablanca ruefully and he swiftly explained to Beo what had recently occurred. Blart noticed that Capablanca rushed through the part where it emerged that the wizard had made a large mistake in his research which entirely invalidated the previous quest, and instead focused heavily on the fact that they were all wanted men, tracked by soldiers who had orders to take them dead or alive and who had expressed a preference for dead.

  ‘What?’ repeated Beo. ‘Even me?’

  ‘You are a known associate of Blart and myself,’ confirmed Capablanca.

  ‘Blart!’ Beo was outraged. ‘You mean I’m wanted dead or alive because of my association with that vile boy?’

  He turned to face Blart, his sword gripped menacingly.

  ‘If I was to cleave him in two then nobody could say I was his associate.’