With a Jester of Kindness

by K. C. Herbel

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but what are you doin’ here?” he asked. He kept his head bowed to give her an opportunity to cover her breast. She did so and without a word crossed the floor and took the milk from John’s hand.

  “Thank you,” she said as she closed the door. “He was hungry and so I was pacifying him, but this is what he really needs.”

  John looked down at her waist as she closed the door. There on her hip was the beautifully wrought long sword he had seen worn by the slighter of the two mysterious riders. He urgently wanted to leave. The last time he had felt so prickly was just before he thrust his nose into the wrong place and got it bloodied. He glanced about in haste, feeling uneasy to be in the room, alone with the mysterious and well-armed woman.

  The woman, seeing his discomfort, implored him to sit.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possible stay, I’ve so many chores to attend to.” He turned to the door and grasped the latch. A dagger appeared in the door just above his hand with a thud.

  “On the other hand,” prattled John, “I suppose this room could use a good tidying up.”

  The lady began feeding the goat’s milk to the child then said, “Oh dear, I seem to have misplaced my dagger. Oh, there it is. Would you be so kind as to bring it over to me? I don’t wish to disturb the child. You understand, don’t you?”

  John understood only too well what she meant, but he did not understand why all this was happening. Maybe, if he could just return the dagger and leave quickly without asking any questions, without any answers, without any shortening of his life . . .

  “Please,” she prompted.

  John fumbled momentarily with the blade and then removed it from the door with a tug. He was tempted to return it in the same manner in which it had found its way to the door but thought better of this and started slowly across the floor.

  Patiently the woman waited for him to approach. She reached out her hand, and John carefully placed the weapon in it. He recoiled immediately, anticipating a possible attack.

  “You silly man,” she said, “if I had wanted to harm thee, you would already have felt my steel.” Her words betrayed no emotion, and John felt that perhaps the blade would have been less chilling. He could not stifle a shudder.

  The woman saw him shake and said, “Good John, forgive my brutish manners, but I am not accustomed to dealing with such gentle folk. I am afraid that you have discovered a woeful secret, and now I feel that you . . .”

  “I don’t need to know anything, ma’am,” blurted John, starting for the door. “Now you take my gentle wife, she loves a good story. And the stable boy . . .”

  “Shush and sit yourself down, John.”

  John knew that she wasn’t going to let him go until she had explained everything. So he sat himself down and mentally prepared for his beating.

  “John, as you have undoubtedly guessed, I am the very same man who came here earlier this evening.” She gestured to the small table next to the bed. John looked to it and saw a queer sight. There on the table, next to the candle, was the beard of a man, without a face to hold it up. “There is the rest of my disguise,” she continued. “I’m afraid it was necessary to deceive you and your guests for our purposes—that is, for the purpose of keeping this child safe. I must keep this child a secret. I dare not tell thee of the child’s origins, even now, for fear that it may bring you trouble in some manner if you knew, and perhaps endanger the child.

  “Put your mind at ease, good John, I have not stolen this child, but was charged with his safety. Let me just say that what I do for this child, is only what any decent person would do, if they but had the courage to take up the task.”

  She took a deep breath and continued. “This child would be murdered by those who seek him, John. And that would surely be a foul deed, bringing great sorrow and suffering to . . . Well, to many good people.”

  When John heard her speak his name, he felt as if she were on her knees pleading with him, as if it was he who waited with a cruel blow leveled at the infant. He looked into her face and saw the gentle tears of a woman rolling down her cheeks. He thought at this moment of her weakness that she was more beautiful than any he had seen before.

  John found a handkerchief in his apron and offered it to the woman, saying, “Here, gentle lady. I know now what this child means to you, and I will not let my mouth carelessly drop the strings of the bean sack.”

  The woman grabbed his hand and said, “Swear it, good John. Swear it! If not for this innocent babe, then for the goodness in your own heart, which I see is great.”

  John was taken aback by her demand of an oath, but he saw the way she cradled the child with such devoted love. “I swear,” he said, “I swear it by the love that you have for the child.”

  “No!” she insisted. “You must swear on thine own love. I may be dead sooner than you have need to keep the secret from his enemies, and my love will not help you then.”

  John’s heart nearly broke at the thought of this strange but gentle woman’s death. Her tired red-rimmed eyes stared pleadingly into his, and he saw the truth of what she said. He looked at the child again, and the little one’s sleeping face melted his heart. It was so innocent and vulnerable, and the woman’s words made him aware that he did want to love this child.

  John and Moira had only recently, after years of trying, been blessed by a child of their own. It occurred to John that their son William was not much older than this baby. At that moment his mind spun about, and he saw his own son, hunted by murderers, running for his life, innocent and helpless. He wanted someone to help his son, a hero to save him. His eyes met the lady’s, and he saw in them the courage of just such a hero.

  John knelt before the child and whispered, “Little one, I swear to you, by your innocence and by the love that I now feel for you, that I will protect ya and your secret for as long as I have the strength to love.”

  The woman placed her hand on John’s head and said, “Well spoken, noble John. Well spoken.”

  John felt odd at being called noble, but it also gave him a feeling of purpose—of strength—of nobility! He rose to his feet, gave the lady a slight bow, and started to exit the room. There was nothing he could say. There was nothing he needed to say.

  John stopped momentarily and asked, “Shall I open the shutters, milady?”

  “No!” she said sharply.

  “But the night will be mild. The sky is clear.”

  “It will not remain so.”

  John felt a chill once again at the certainty of her gloomy prediction. He nodded to her and turned to leave.

  As John reached the door, it opened abruptly, and in stepped the woman’s large companion. His eyes immediately took in the scene, and he glared at John. His hand flew swift as a hawk to draw the sword at his side and thrust it at John.

  “No!” cried the woman.

  The broad gleaming blade of the sword stopped at John’s chest. The large man, frozen in his stance, looked over at the woman with a puzzled look on his face.

  “You fool!” she said harshly. “You use your sword as most men do, too quickly and without thought. Dost thou think I would sit here and let him leave if I thought that he would betray us?” She paused and glared long into his eyes. A small line of blood ran down the broad blade of the sword. “And now you have wounded him. Do you not understand that to injure him is to injure the very people we do this for?”

  The large man watched the blood run down the edge of his blade, and then he saw John’s wide eyes and trembling hands. He lowered his sword then in one quick movement removed the blood and sheathed its elegant blade.

  John immediately sank to the floor. He put his hand over the wound on his chest and felt himself blanching.

  The large man closed the door and stepped over John. As he crossed the room, the woman began to interrogate him.

  “And where were you?” she hissed.

  “After the horses, I checked all the shutters and doors.”

  “An
d are they all secured?”

  “They are now.”

  The man arrived beside the lady, and they began whispering. John stayed back near the door. In a few moments, the titanic man turned around. His face was red with shame and drawn by lament.

  “Good sir,” he said, “I am afraid that I have wronged thee, both in body and character. I have been too long at war. Please forgive me, and allow me to tend your wound.”

  John nodded, and the two strangers helped him to sit on the corner of the bed. The lady immediately went to work cleaning the wound, while her companion tore some cloth into strips. Once the wound was clean, the man began wrapping the bandage around John’s chest.

  Before they could finish, there came a loud creaking sound. The beams of the roof groaned and the shutters rattled.

  “A storm?” said John. “That sure came up sudden.”

  The lady shook her head from side to side and whispered, “That’s no storm.”

  Her companion nodded. “I hear no winds.”

  The noise increased as if a great weight were pressing down on the roof of the inn and squeezing in on its walls. The room darkened as the moonlight peaking through the shutters was snuffed out.

  The warrior silently handed John the remainder of the bandages and stood. He then drew his sword and backed into the corner next to the window.

  The shutters began to buffet violently. Suddenly one shutter unlatched and swung open a crack. The ruckus stopped and a ropelike stream of smoke snaked through the narrow gap. It blindly pawed at the floor and slowly crept toward the bed, drawing more of itself into the room.

  The warrior raised one finger to his mouth and motioned for the others to move back. John leaned back and lifted his feet onto the bed. The woman calmly took the child and quietly scooted to the far side.

  The smoky probe seemed to hesitate and then move towards the warrior. It inched right up to his foot, but he held his sword.

  At that moment, the baby began to cry, and the tentacle coiled up into the air. It bobbed side to side, seeming to eye the child, and then it lunged forward.

  Instantly, the poised warrior chopped off the alien limb. There was a flash of fire, and it flopped to the floor with a squeal. The darkness outside the window immediately lifted, retreating into the distance with a screeching howl.

  John stared in amazement as the severed extremity transformed in the shafts of moonlight into adder heads, bat wings, and blood. These promptly sublimated into a sulfurous vapor and vanished.

  John was hardly aware of his guest’s hushed and anxious words to each other. He was still in shock as the warrior finished his bandage. The man looked John in the eyes and said, “Tis pity you cannot tell a soul about this fine battle scar, friend. Be content to wear it proudly yet secretly as a reminder of thine oath to the child.”

  John got to his feet and bowed to them both. Amazingly they appeared unshaken by the supernatural events of the evening. As he backed out the door, John said, “I shan’t forget my promise.”

  John jumped with a start as he bumped into Moira in the corridor. Abruptly he turned and closed the door, all but a crack.

  “Your horses and supplies will be ready for you, on the morrow, my good sirs.” He promptly shut the door, grabbed his wife’s hand, and charged down the stairs—Moira whispering questions in his ear, and his mind spinning with all that had transpired.

  Chapter II

  Of Parting and Sorrow

  The morning stars were winking out their last “good morrow” as the eastern sky began to glow with the promise of another day. The air was still, and a thick fog had descended on the low lands. The fog had silently crept its way up the road like a thief and surrounded the inn. It choked out the light of the early morning sun, making the whole of the first floor dark as night.

  The baying of a hound, down in the hollow, broke the early morning quiet. Then another joined in, and another, until all the dogs in the valley were in chorus.

  Rascal tugged at the end of Moira’s apron, making her drop her basket of fresh eggs. He barked as he scampered out of the way and to the door.

  “Rascal!” exclaimed Moira. “Ya miserable, good for nothing, trouble making, flea bitten . . . mangy . . .” Moira struggled for the right words to dismiss her sudden urge to have broiled leg of mutt for breakfast, but the only ones she could think of were the swear words of sailors, teamsters, and vagabonds. She pushed them all aside with an exasperated, “RASCAL!”

  Moira went to the door, opened it, and shooed the anxious dog out with a swift foot to his rear, an unnecessary act, which only served to alleviate her frustration.

  “And stay out!” she yelled at the escaping hound as he galloped into the fog.

  John was in the commons room stoking up a good fire when the two mysterious visitors came charging down the stairs. Once again they looked like two men, except the woman’s face was without whiskers. John could see fear in her eyes and wondered what could make such a brave soul afraid.

  “John,” she said, “we must leave immediately!”

  “What’s wrong?” asked John.

  “Good John,” spoke her large companion, “have you our provisions?”

  “Why, yes. They’re in the kitchen. But . . .”

  “No time for explanations, John,” said the woman, as they made their way to the kitchen. “The Lord hath provided us with a good alarm. Now we must make the most of it.”

  They all three entered the kitchen. John picked up their supplies and followed them out the back door.

  “What’s goin’ on . . .” started Moira, as she rose from cleaning up the eggs.

  “Just shush, and close your eyes, good wife,” John commanded. “Just turn ’round and pretend ya never saw any of this.”

  Hastily John escorted his guests to the stables. The lady gently placed the infant into John’s arms. Immediately she and the man began to rig their horses. They threw the provisions onto the back of the mare and mounted.

  The lady leaned over and kissed John on the cheek. As she pulled away, John pulled back the blanket, which covered the infant, and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

  “Good-bye, little one, I shall remember always.”

  As he handed the baby back to his protector, she said, “I know you will, noble John.”

  Once again John’s mind filled with noble feelings and thoughts and prayers.

  “But beware,” she continued, “his enemies are close at hand, and will certainly come here. Be brave John. Be strong . . . for the child’s sake. And may the Lord go with thee.”

  “And with thee,” John responded. Somehow saying this simple three-word phrase never seemed so important before, but John’s throat tightened this time as he gave it voice.

  With the baby safely cradled into a special pack, the lady turned her horse and urged it into a gallop. Her companion stopped and stared John firmly in the eye then solemnly nodded his head.

  “He also serves . . . who runs indeed the finest inn in the valley.” With this he smiled and reached down and touched John on his sword wound. “Courage, my friend. Your badge is hidden, let it shine through you and give you strength. God be with you.”

  John gripped the man’s arm and replied, “And with you, friend.”

  Then the man gave a quick kick to his handsome mare and charged off. As John watched him disappear into the mist behind the woman, he remembered the pouch of coins they had given him.

  John reached into his tunic, brought out the purse, and held it aloft. “Wait!” he yelled into the fog. “You’ve left your money!”

  “It’s yours,” came an answer from the murk, “for the finest night I ever had in an inn.”

  John started to protest but knew it would do little good. He put the bag back into his shirt and continued to stare into the dense fog. He could see no sign of his mysterious guests. They had been a mere hiccup in his life, and yet their departure left a void in his gut.

  He was brought back to his senses by the loud howling o
f Rascal, who had come to his side. The hound paced back and forth, crying balefully. The other dogs of the valley were still strangely boisterous.

  John turned his attention down the road towards the hollow. The fog was beginning to lift as the rays of sunlight penetrated and burned it away. He could make out the small clump of trees at the bend in the road, but beyond that was a blanket of white. He prayed that the fog would hide his recently departed guests from whatever enemies might be coming.

  Several dark figures suddenly pierced the whiteness. They had arms and legs somewhat like men but were running on all fours, much in the way of a strange animal John had once seen in a traveling circus.

  As they came closer, John could see that these were not ordinary creatures, but twisted, nightmarish monsters. Long brown scraggly hair covered their bodies along with patches of ugly grey and pink flesh. Their hands and feet were longer than those of a man but constructed in a similar manner, with long black claws at their extremes. The ghastliest portions of this visage were their horribly contorted faces. They were something like barefaced men with long snouts and mouths full of jagged fangs. Occasionally their ugly dirty faces came up from the mud to sniff the air.

  John watched them for a moment, frozen in his tracks. However, the paralyzing fear soon became terror when men on horses came galloping through the curtain of fog behind the beasts. John ran into the inn calling for Rascal to follow.

  Moira was cooking at the stove when John came charging into the kitchen. It had been a long time since John had moved so quickly. She looked up in surprise. John held up his hand to signal her to stay quiet and listen, but at that moment Rascal came bounding into the kitchen.

  “Get that scruffy mutt out of here!” she ordered.

  John closed the door behind the hound and looked to his wife, who stood with her arms crossed impatiently. “Moira, don’t just stand there!”

  “Well what would ya have me do, your highness?” she riposted.