With a Jester of Kindness

by K. C. Herbel

  Billy straightened his legs and stuck his feet through the bottom of the cage. While sitting, he leaned forward, putting his face between the bars and his hands outside. It was uncomfortable and restricted his movements, but it was only a small inconvenience for Billy’s exceptional talents.

  Billy juggled the three balls, slowly at first and then more quickly as he grew bored. Juggling usually brought him pleasure, but now he felt none. Even his audience became bored. He continued to juggle, occasionally changing the pattern, and thinking about his escape. How will it happen, he thought, . . . and when?

  Out of the blue, Billy was struck by an idea. Immediately he dropped one of the balls. It rolled to Ergyfel who was standing a few feet away, beside a young noblewoman. Ergyfel looked down and picked up the ball. Not wanting to interrupt his conversation, he tossed the ball back to the guard next to Billy’s cage, who carefully handed it to Billy. Billy began to juggle again and then purposely let another ball slip. This one he rolled to the feet of the woman talking with Ergyfel. Again Ergyfel bent down, picked up the ball, and returned it. Billy liked the idea of making Ergyfel fetch his “stray” balls, and so, after a short while, he allowed yet another ball to interfere with Ergyfel’s politics.

  “That is enough!” said Ergyfel angrily.

  “Why not let him out of the cage?” said the lady with him. “He could fetch for himself.”

  Ergyfel eyed Billy suspiciously. “Very well,” he said, “but he will need to be guarded.”

  “I will be his keeper,” said Don Miguel Scarosa, appearing from behind a column. He looked exactly as Billy had seen him that first night in Cyndyn Hall—a pompous black bird. The only changes were the absence of his lute and the addition of some stylish black gloves.

  Ergyfel eyed the man, and Don Miguel gave him one of his flamboyant, pretentious bows.

  “Don Miguel,” said Ergyfel, “would you care to watch our prisoner?”

  “My lord,” said Miguel, giving Billy a menacing smile, “it would be my pleasure.”

  Billy did not like the way Don Miguel stared at him. He liked the idea of being left in his care even less. Billy still remembered his triumph at the royal wedding and was sure that the jealous Scarosa did as well.

  Ergyfel instructed the guard to release Billy from his cage and to fasten a collar and chain about his neck. The only such device available had been fashioned for Ergyfel’s loathsome pets. Billy recoiled from the putrid troghoul leash until two guards held him while a third fastened it around his throat.

  “Come along, my little pet,” said Don Miguel, pulling Billy’s chain.

  Billy followed Scarosa to the center of the hall. There, Don Miguel sat on a bench and ordered Billy to juggle.

  “Juggle, my little monkey,” said the Spaniard.

  Billy glared at his keeper. Then, instead of doing the man’s bidding, he sat on the floor and crossed his arms.

  Scarosa stood and yanked Billy’s leash. “Juggle, I say!” commanded the Spaniard. “Juggle!”

  Billy was pulled over by Miguel but quickly righted himself and retook his obstinate pose. A number of the nobles and servants giggled.

  Don Miguel Scarosa turned beet red as he approached Billy and slapped him on the head. He then pulled Billy up to his knees and kicked him in the seat. “I say to juggle, you little fool, and I meant it!”

  Billy still refused, and Miguel pulled him to his feet. The troubadour raised his hand to strike.

  “Don Miguel!” shouted the king.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said the Spaniard, pulling Billy behind him. He then bowed humbly and said, “I apologize for my monkey, but he will no juggle.”

  A gaggle of giggles flew from the crowd’s lips. Unbeknownst to Don Miguel, Billy had begun juggling behind his back. Even the king chuckled at Billy’s joke. Puzzled by this response, Scarosa glanced from side to side. The giggles became laughter. Finally, the Spaniard spun around when he realized he was the butt of a joke emanating from that quarter. Billy instantly stopped juggling. The crowd applauded but quickly fell silent when Scarosa dropped Billy to his knees with a kick to the stomach.

  The nobles booed Don Miguel. The more outspoken of the servants hissed. Scarosa looked to Ergyfel, who frowned and held up his hands.

  “My gentle lords,” said the King’s First Advisor, “let us not forget what this ruffian—nay, this villain—has done!”

  The guests and servants quieted.

  “And our good friend, Don Miguel,” continued Ergyfel, “who has entertained us with song and good cheer to brighten many a dull night . . . Have we forgotten common hospitality?”

  Ergyfel approached Billy, who still knelt doubled over on the floor. He crouched beside him and whispered, “Now boy, I suggest you entertain us with some juggling, or I swear you will entertain us with your execution!”

  Billy looked up to Ergyfel’s face. The king’s cousin stared back at him, frigid as an icicle.

  “Tonight,” added Ergyfel, before standing.

  Billy dragged himself up to his feet. He held his side and stared after the magister until Don Miguel pulled on his chain. Billy then turned his attention to the Spaniard, whose lips quivered in restraint of a smile.

  Billy, despite his desire to do otherwise, began to juggle. Again there was no pleasure in it for him. Don Miguel took every opportunity to humiliate him. First Scarosa would trip Billy then make him search for the lost balls on all fours like a dog. When Billy tired, Miguel kicked him in the rear to keep him moving. Most of those present, not wishing to appear sympathetic, hid their faces and tried to focus away from this deplorable activity. There were, however, those who enjoyed Billy’s torment and even participated in it. Billy wondered whether they were eager to earn points with Ergyfel or just plain hateful.

  “There’s a good little freak,” said Don Miguel as Billy retrieved one of the dropped balls.

  Billy felt angry, humiliated, and frightened all at once. He started to think about his impending execution. There seemed to be nothing he could do to prevent it. In truth, some part of him began to wish for the release it would bring. It presented a kind of escape.

  In the vision, his mother had said his chance for escape would come soon. If this is what she meant, thought Billy, then let it be soon.

  The word “soon” echoed in his head. It caught painfully in his dry throat as if he had tried to speak it. Tears flowed down his face as he choked on the dusty taste of his fate.

  Two feet stepped into view before Billy. He didn’t care whose feet they were. I’ll attack them, he thought, and confound Ergyfel if he wants to execute me! Billy prepared to pounce on the legs and scratch them until they bled. And if I can get my gag out . . .

  “Your Majesty,” said Don Miguel from behind Billy.

  Your Majesty? thought Billy. His mind was so focused that the words sounded foreign. It took a moment for their meaning to register.

  Billy’s eyes followed the legs upward. He came to a man’s withered hand with a large signet ring upon it. His eyes continued up the man’s body until they came to the face of his king.

  Anger and hatred did not mask King William’s face, as Billy expected, but rather sorrow. His tired blue eyes looked into Billy’s with an expression of regret. Billy noticed wetness welling up in the corners of the king’s eyes.

  Without warning, King William reached out and gently touched Billy’s cheek where tears had made it wet. It was the same way John had done when Billy scraped his knee, or some other childhood hurt had caused him to cry. With childlike innocence, he reached up and touched the king’s hand. In that instant, Billy saw the bright white light and knew that he was entering the strange world of memories.

  Once again, when the brightness cleared, Billy found himself in the queen’s garden. He watched as the king entered the garden with Ergyfel on his heels. The king gritted his teeth and gripped the sword at his side. As he turned the corner at the far end of the garden, he pointed a finger and shouted in a surprisingly c
lear voice.

  “Eleanor!”

  Billy jumped, startled by the volume and clarity of the king’s voice. It was a shock that drew Billy further into the vision.

  “Yes, my husband,” answered a sweet melodic voice.

  Billy turned to look at the queen. His brain came to a sudden and complete stop when he saw Queen Eleanor’s face. It was the face he had come to know as his mother’s. The king shouted something, and the queen answered, but Billy didn’t hear them. He was still staring at Eleanor’s face. Then, as a hammer struck to an anvil, Billy’s mind rang with the truth that his mother was indeed Queen Eleanor; his father, King William. The enormity of this revelation was too much for Billy. An endless cascade of questions and emotions washed through and over him, causing a shudder from deep within like an angry, primal scream.

  Billy’s mind returned to the scene, which seemed determined to play itself out to its unforgettable, unalterable end. In the back of his head he continued to wrestle with his newfound identity. It refashioned his view of the world and his place in it. This new role gave him special purpose, which he also knew was as immutable as the past—as unswerving as the fate that brought him to Castle Orgulous and to the discovery of many incredible secrets. There was nothing done which he could undo. All that remained was to accept what was on his plate and push forward.

  “Where is my son, woman?” shouted King William. “You’ve killed him, haven’t you?”

  “No, my lord!” answered Eleanor.

  “Then what have you done with him, harlot!”

  “My King . . .” pleaded Billy’s mother, kneeling before her husband.

  “What have you done?”

  “Our son is safe, my lord,” said the queen.

  “You’ve stolen him!” spat King William. “You’ve taken him to your people, haven’t you? Haven’t you?”

  “I’ve not left Orgulous, my lord!”

  “You’ve betrayed me!”

  “No!”

  “Liar!” shouted the king.

  The king struck Eleanor, bashing her to the ground. Billy’s stomach twisted in knots. The vision was so real that he felt he was part of it, but he was unable to affect anything.

  Mother! Mother!

  For a moment King William hesitated. To his horror, Billy could only watch as the king swooped down and wrapped his hands around his mother’s throat. Billy became dizzy and nauseous. Suddenly his mind filled with the blinding white light, and he felt himself return to the world of the present.

  Pain shot through Billy’s hand as the flat of a sword knocked it away from the king. His stomach was still churning, and he felt what little food he had eaten coming back up. Without thought he grabbed his gag and ripped it from his lips.

  When Billy’s head and stomach stopped spinning, he looked up and saw the king dolefully staring at him. Billy was sick at heart as he considered his country’s ruler. The man whom he had loved—the hero he had admired—instantly reduced to a loathsome murderer. Billy had never felt so confused or trapped.

  You killed my mother, thought Billy. But Ergyfel . . .

  Billy was filled with hatred and pity—hatred for the man who had killed his mother, pity for the king who had fallen victim to scheming and sorcery. Both emotions, like branding irons, burned themselves into Billy’s heart. His entire body ached from wanting to fold in on itself. Tears of anguish flowed from his eyes.

  “It was you . . .” he croaked hoarsely.

  * * *

  Billy awoke with a headache that started in his toes. It was dark and cramped, so he thought he must be back in his cell.

  “Billy,” said a familiar voice. “Billy.”

  Billy squinted. It was definitely not his cell, as it was far too light, and Gryff’s face was before him. Billy blinked away the haziness and saw that he was back inside the small spherical cage, still in the king’s great hall. He started to speak, but his gag was also back in place.

  “I’ve come to help you,” whispered Gryff.

  Billy scanned the hall. Most of the noble guests had left, while some few had remained to drink themselves into a stupor and pass out. Their sleeping, snoring bodies lay draped over the tables, giving the impression of a gruesome battlefield.

  Quietly, Gryff fit a key into the cage’s lock and opened it. Once Billy had climbed out, they removed his manacles.

  “Shhh,” warned Gryff as Billy removed his gag.

  “I wasn’t gonna say anythin’,” whispered Billy.

  “Good, but . . .”

  Someone grunted directly behind them, and they spun around. A man sat with his hands wrapped around a tankard and a dull, glazed expression on his face. He grunted again.

  “Milord!” said Gryff bowing quickly. “I was just . . . just . . . taking the prisoner back to his cell.”

  The man remained still, staring straight ahead. He took a deep breath and grunted.

  Both Gryff and Billy froze, waiting for the nobleman to do or say something. Time passed slowly. Again the man inhaled deeply and grunted.

  Billy cautiously stepped forward, watching for a reaction from the lord. There was none. Then he took another step, and another, until he was just inches from the man’s face. Billy then waved his hand before the noble’s eyes. The only reaction was another grunt. Billy jumped back and held his breath. He waited for a moment before pulling on his cheeks and making faces at the man, all with no response.

  “He’s asleep!” whispered Billy.

  “Never seen anyone sleep with his eyes open,” whispered Gryff as he approached. “Gives me the hives. Come on. No tellin’ how long he’ll be sleepin’ it off. We better get movin’.”

  Gryff took Billy by the hand and quietly led him to a corner behind the dais of the king’s great hall. There he pushed on a stone, and a small passage opened behind the nearest tapestry.

  “A secret door!” whispered Billy.

  “Shhh,” hushed Gryff, pulling Billy through the opening. He then closed the stone door and lit a lamp. “Not many know ’bout this one,” he said softly, “an’ I only know ’bout it by chance.”

  Gryff led Billy by the hand through the narrow dark passage. They continued down several flights of steps and then entered a long twisting tunnel with an arched ceiling. The floor was damp and slimy, the air close. The dank odor and appearance reminded Billy of the catacombs under Cyndyn Hall. He became anxious and felt trapped, but before the feeling could overwhelm him they came to another set of steps. At the top of the steps there was a ladder.

  Gryff climbed up the ladder. As he reached the top, he blew out the lamp, leaving Billy in the dark. Then Billy saw Gryff silhouetted against a small cluster of stars.

  “Come on,” said Gryff.

  Billy rapidly climbed the ladder. As he reached the top, he saw a rock rolled to the side. He inhaled the cool, clean night air and looked into the sparkling sky.

  As Gryff helped him to his feet, Billy saw the pale outer walls of Castle Orgulous bathed in the light of the quarter moon. They stood in a small clearing surrounded by a dense bramble a short distance from the great castle. Billy remembered the first time he had seen Orgulous. He had been filled with the joy of expectation and curiosity. It had embodied a lifelong dream. Now it represented only a nightmare, and the last place on earth he wanted to be.

  “Wyte!” said Billy, remembering the cellmate he left behind.

  “What?” asked Gryff.

  “I promised Wyte I’d take him with me.”

  “Ya can’t help him, Billy.”

  Billy thought for a moment. “I know,” he said regretfully.

  Just then, there was movement in the brush and a heavy sound on the ground. Billy scanned the edge of the tiny clearing and saw a horse grazing near a tree, saddled and ready to ride.

  “I packed a few things for you in the bags,” said Gryff, walking Billy to the mount. “Dana sent you some victuals for the road as well.”

  As Billy got close to the animal he recognized it as Briallen, Pri
nce Gaelyn’s horse. “I can’t take her!” he exclaimed.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s the prince’s horse!”

  “Look lad, Prince Gaelyn would have given her to you himself, had he been able. I’m sure of it.”

  Billy mounted Briallen and took the reins from Gryff. “It’s a good thing the prince taught me a little about his riding style,” he said. Then Billy sat back in the saddle and took a hard look at the man who had saved him from certain death. He was a plain, honest man. One who befriended a strange boy, took him in, listened to him, and trusted him. Now certainly, he put his life on the line for him.

  If he only knew who I really am, thought Billy, feeling the wheels of fate turn once again. “How can I ever repay you, my friend?”

  “Escape,” answered Gryff. “Get away from this place—live. That will be my reward.”

  Billy leaned over and clasped Gryff on the arm. Each of them stared at the other’s face, knowing there were still many dangers ahead for them both.

  “Now hurry,” insisted Gryff, breaking away.

  Billy nodded, and Gryff swatted Briallen on the rear. The regal mare and her small rider sped down the only path from the clearing and were swallowed up by the darkness.

  Gryff looked up into the starry sky and sighed. “Lord,” he said, scanning the heavens, “keep Your hand on the lad. Guide him to safety . . . and give me the strength to do what I must.”

  Chapter XXII

  The Hunt Begins

  Sir Hugh rode up the King’s Road to Nyraval. He had parted company with Lady Myrredith only two days previously, having reluctantly left her in the care of Earl Finney’s guardsmen and Malcolm the Magnificent.

  The king’s messenger had caught up to Aonghas’s funeral procession two days out of Hillshire. The uncommonly quiet page handed Hugh the king’s summons and then refused to comment other than to say that he was to return with Hugh to Castle Orgulous.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked Lady Myrredith. “Surely the king knows that Sir Hugh is escorting me back to Dyven.”

  “I can not say,” answered the page.