The strangers were riding from the south in a horseback procession, dark shapes on a snowy road. They wore heavy cloaks and hoods against the cold. The horses, steaming in the cold air, slowed as the party entered the village. The first rider carried the emblem of the king on a flag that hung from his lance. After him came a severe-looking man who pushed his hood back and surveyed the village. He had a narrow face with a hooked nose, and dark eyes that simmered under a heavy brow. His long hair and sharp beard were the color of rust. For a moment his glance lingered on the sign above the door of the tailor’s shop.
After this man came a mounted servant, leading two horses with no riders. Then another servant, driving a light wagon pulled by a pair of horses. And finally, two more important-looking men, with swords by their sides.
People stepped out of their homes and shops to see the visitors. The blacksmith bowed respectfully, and while his head was bent he secretly inspected the shoes of the horses, hoping there might be some business for him down there. The baker came out holding a tray with an assortment of his goods.
Patch heard John whistle in appreciation, and he knew that the tailor was admiring the fine clothing that was parading by. “Oh. That trim on the cape, very nice. Lined with fur, too—rabbit, I’ll wager. And look at the tall one with the coppery hair, Patchy—that purple tunic you can see under his cloak? That’s the kings shade of purple, no one else is supposed to wear it unless they’re on his business. And all that gold piping and the gold belt—that’s a lord, or some other nobleman for sure.”
The potter’s wife, Cordelia, was returning from the village well with a bucket of water in each hand. Never a shy one, she stopped to offer a cup to the tall lord with the dark eyes. Cordelia blushed as the man spoke to her—Patch could not hear what he said—and she responded by pointing down the road toward the inn.
“Maybe they’ll stay at Bernard’s for a few days,” said John.
“If they can stand Bernard’s company that long,” Patch replied.
“Ha! Well said. You know, though, there might be some work for us in it. Wouldn’t that be an honor? Never sewed anything for a genuine noble before.”
As the party approached the inn, the door burst open and Bernard rushed out to welcome them. Even at a distance, Patch and John could hear his flustered, booming voice.
“I most humbly and properly welcome you, my sirs … sires … graces … uh, worships?” Bernard blathered, grinning up at the mounted men with a look of growing panic. He seized the tall lord’s hand and pulled it toward his lips, trying to kiss the glove. “Please enter my domain and rest your weary … er … nobleness …,” he fumbled on. The glove slipped off the lord’s resisting hand, and Bernard stared at it blankly. Then startling everyone, he bellowed over his shoulder, “Boy! Stable boy! Come get these bloody horses, you worthless toad!”
At last the entire party had dismounted and disappeared into the inn, practically shoved by Bernard, leaving the horses and the wagon to the hapless stable boy.
The tailor and his apprentice went back into the warmth of the shop, shaking their heads and chuckling. Patch tried to return to his work but found himself wandering to the window again and again to look down the road toward the inn.
“Master, do you suppose …”
“Oh, go on, Patch, find out what’s going on over there. And see if any of them needs a little tailoring while you’re at it, eh? A torn sleeve, a frayed cuff, a missing button …”
Patch got up to run, but John had one more thing to say. “Patch—just a bit of advice before you go. You might want to keep quiet. I know you, you’re never shy about speaking up, but you haven’t been around these noble types much. They like us common folk to know our place.”
Patch grinned, tapped a finger against his lips, and dashed outside.
Seconds later he arrived at the inn. Even as he opened the door and stepped inside, he could hear Bernard’s voice, unhappy and blustering. “But Lord Addison, you can’t take them. I mean of course you can, a noble gent like yourself can do whatever he wants. But it simply isn’t fair! A man has a right to his livelihood, don’t he now?”
Patch stepped into a dark corner by the door, watching. Inside the inn, in the big room full of long tables where meals and ale were served, the tall man was speaking to Bernard.
“I would hope,” Lord Addison said evenly, “that for the good of the kingdom you would gladly part with these bones. But whether you would part with them happily or unhappily is beside the point.”
At these words Bernard’s shoulders drooped and he hung his shaggy head.
“However,” Addison said, producing a small pouch from his pocket, “a certain compensation might be appropriate, were you to have the remains loaded onto our cart by sunrise.”
Bernard dropped to one knee and held his hands out to accept the pouch. “Thank you, your lordship!” He smiled crookedly at Addison through his bushy beard. Patch noticed his fingers greedily working the pouch, trying to guess how many coins might be nestled inside. “I thank you kindly. It was my honor and duty to help rid the kingdom of this scourge.”
Addison put one leg up to rest on a bench. “Indeed? Did you slay the creature? We were told by many people that a young tailor struck it down by himself, with only a shepherd’s staff for a weapon.”
Bernard’s knees popped and crackled as he got to his feet. “Well, your lordship, Patch, that’s the little tailor’s name—an apprentice, actually, not a real tailor—he was on the bridge when the troll lost its balance and stumbled into the river. But it was me who hauled the troll out with a team of horses and hacked it to pieces before the beast could come back to its senses. Why, with one blow of my axe …”
Patch, standing in the shadows, gasped so loudly at this lie that one of Addison’s men, a younger knight with a pleasant, handsome face, turned to see who was there. “Hello, boy. When did you sneak in?”
Bernard’s eyes widened in a sudden flash of panic when he spotted Patch, and he began to babble. “Why here’s the little apprentice now, my good sirs! Of course, when I said the troll lost its balance, I meant that Patch here caused it to lose its balance, because as you so wisely pointed out, he did strike the troll with a shepherd’s crook—the blind troll, did I mention that the troll was blind? Fell right off the bridge, the sightless oaf. But in a way, I suppose Patch did—” Bernard stopped talking abruptly as Addison held up a gloved hand.
Another of Addison’s knights, a burly man with a sprawling black beard, stepped forward for a closer look at Patch. “Him? This little pup killed the troll? Slew the beast in that box? I find that hard to believe.”
“Well,” Bernard said, piping up again, “it was a particularly old and feeble troll. And lame. Full of maggots, nearly dead …”
Patch was watching Addison carefully. His face hardly changed expression. But with the subtlest shifts—his eyes narrowing slightly, his nostrils dilating a fraction of an inch—he directed his gaze on Bernard in a way that made the innkeeper’s jaw snap shut before another word could spill out. “Innkeeper, perhaps you should busy yourself preparing our rooms and our meals,” Addison said quietly.
Bernard’s ears turned red. “Of course, your lordship.” He shuffled out of the room. The moment he passed through the doorway and disappeared, Patch could hear the sound of coins being emptied from the bag into Bernard’s palm.
“And some ales while you’re at it!” shouted the burly one after the innkeeper.
“Right!” Bernard called back, his voice cracking. There came the sound of coins hitting the floor, followed by muffled cursing.
Addison exhaled loudly, drew out a chair, and sat at one of the tables. He pulled the gloves off his hands, finger by finger. “Young tailor, please tell me that you are not as talkative as that innkeeper.”
“No, my lord,” said Patch. “I mean yes. I mean I’m not.”
“I’m glad. Now come over here and tell us: Did you really kill that troll?”
“I did,
my lord. At least, I knocked him into the river, where he was trapped under the roots of a tree and drowned. Although I believe the troll would have died soon anyway. He was old and very sick.”
Addison brushed his rusty beard with the back of his hand. “An honest answer. And is it true that there was an old man with you, a friend you were trying to save?”
“Yes, my lord,” Patch said softly.
The younger of the knights sat down beside Patch. “That must have been quite an adventure, boy. Not everyone who confronts a troll is so lucky.” A shadow crossed the young knight’s face suddenly. He looked anxiously at Addison, as if he might have offended him somehow.
Addison’s expression did not alter, and he waved his hand. “Never mind, Gosling.”
The burly knight approached, holding something that might have been mistaken for a square of leather, but it was a couple of inches thick. Patch recognized it for what it was: a piece of hide that Bernard had taken from the drowned troll. “Have you seen this, Lord Addison?” he said, handing it to the rust-bearded nobleman.
Addison took the hide in his own hands, hefting it and running his fingers across the pebbly outer surface.
“It’s very tough,” Patch said. “It took Bernard a long time to saw it off.”
Addison offered Patch a frosty sideways glance. He passed the hide to Gosling, saying, “We should take this as well. It would be difficult for an arrow to pierce all the way through, wouldn’t it?” Gosling nodded.
The door to the kitchen banged open, and Bernard returned bearing a tray with three mugs. He put these down on the table where Addison sat, then tucked the tray under his arm and stood there, rocking on the balls of his feet and glancing nervously toward the piece of troll hide.
“Something to eat, if you please,” said Addison. “For us and the boy. Then you will kindly leave us be.” Bernard looked down at Patch, offered a fleeting, fraudulent smile to Lord Addison and the knights, and then left the room again, muttering when he thought he was beyond earshot. Gosling laughed and leaned back in his chair. “What a charming fellow. Don’t you think, Mannon?”
The burly knight snorted. “Northerners.”
“Your name is Patch, is that correct?” asked Addison.
“Yes, my lord.”
“I will get directly to the heart of the matter. My name is Lord Addison. My companions here are Gosling and Mannon.” The two men nodded at their introductions, Gosling with a smile and Mannon with a grunt. “Word of your encounter with the troll has reached Dartham, and King Milo has taken a particular interest in your story. I have been sent to find you and bring you back to Dartham. There you will be introduced to the court and will tell them about your encounter with the monster.”
Patch’s mouth had slowly opened as Addison spoke. He stood there blinking. Dartham, the castle on the river. Home of the king. He’d dreamed of seeing it one day, but had never imagined he’d ever walk inside.
Addison said, “I trust you will not object. The king was adamant.”
Gosling leaned forward, grinning. “Addison, I think you’ve stunned him. Shall I shake him until he recovers?”
Patch found his voice at last. “It’s just so—I never expected—of course I don’t object!”
“Very good. Not that it would have mattered. Like that pile of bones, you would have come either way,” said Addison without emotion. “There is an important council in three days, and we must reach Dartham by then. Which means we leave in the morning.”
apprentice, going to meet the king. And the young queen as well—I’ve heard she’s a beauty! My mind can hardly absorb the idea! Here, Patch, take your tools, you might find some work along the way.” John stuffed the coffer into a bag with the rest of Patch’s belongings.
“You’ll send word to my parents, won’t you?”
“Of course. Patch, they will be so proud.”
Patch knotted the cord at the top of the bag, but his eyes were on the tailor, warming his hands before the fire again. “Master, you’re certain you’ll be all right without me?”
“Sure, Patchy. The hands are fine, it’s just this cold makes ’em stiff. But this winter has to end sometime, doesn’t it?”
Somewhere not far away a rooster crowed, and as if that were his cue, Addison stepped into the tailor’s shop. The nobleman was so tall he had to bend a little as he came through the door. “Are you ready to go, young apprentice?”
“Yes, my lord. I don’t have much to bring. But there’s one thing I’d like to do, if I can have a moment….”
Addison tugged at the cuff of one glove. “If it won’t take long.”
“No, my lord,” Patch said. He turned to the tailor. “I’m just going to run over to say good-bye to Osbert.”
John’s eyes crinkled, and he smiled. “Of course you are. Then come back and give me your farewell.”
Patch dashed out, leaving Addison and the tailor behind in the little shop. John cleared his throat and said, “Pardon me, but I notice the end of your sleeve is frayed. Perhaps we can do something about that while you wait?”
Patch stood on the hill overlooking Crossfield, among the snow-covered gravestones. He had said good-bye to his friend, but Osbert of course did not answer.
Below him the town was waking. Still in the clutches of the longest winter in memory, it was a dormant place with just a few traces of activity: fragrant smoke curling from the baker’s chimney, a steady clanging from the blacksmith’s shop.
Outside Bernard’s inn, Patch saw Addison’s knights. Mannon, who seemed like a surly beast who would best be avoided, had thrown a rope over the high branch of a tree and was holding one end. At the other end, suspended a dozen feet above the ground, was a fat round sack. Gosling was standing several paces away with his bow and arrow ready. While Mannon pulled on the rope to keep the sack bobbing and swinging, Gosling fired arrows at the target. When the first one struck, the sack spun around, and Patch saw the ugly face that had been painted there. The practice ended suddenly when Addison strode out of the tailor’s shop and began calling instructions. Mannon released the rope and gathered up the target, and Gosling ran to retrieve the arrows that had missed. The rest of the party from Dartham emerged from the inn and the stables. The wagon, with the troll bones already on board, rolled into view.
It was time to go. Patch hurried down the frozen hill, stepping in the same tracks he’d made on the way up to the cemetery.
Addison said they would ride all day to the town of Half, where they could eat and rest before the next day’s journey to Dartham. Patch hadn’t been on a horse for a long time, and it took an hour or two before he felt steady in the saddle. A bitter wind was blowing, sending flecks of ice into every gap in his clothing. Everyone in the party kept their heads down and their hoods drawn up against the cold.
Patch was stuck in the procession with the wagon and servants behind him and Mannon in front. “Will this winter never end?” Mannon growled. He shook his fist at the gray skies and went on muttering to himself. Patch decided not to try to strike up a conversation with that ill-tempered knight, though his mind was full of questions.
In the afternoon the road widened, and Patch was glad to see Gosling spur his horse past the wagon to ride beside him. Gosling had a happy bearing about him and a face that seemed to naturally settle into a smile.
“Hello, Patch.”
“Hello, Sir Gosling.”
“Gosling will do,” the young knight replied. “This must be exciting for you. Have you been to Dartham before?”
“I’ve never even been to Half before,” Patch said.
“A grim and grimy little outpost. Big stone tower, wooden walls around the village. King keeps a small garrison there to maintain order in these parts. And speaking of the king, he must be eager to meet you, to send an important man like Addison all this way.”
And Addison doesn’t seem too happy about the chore, Patch thought. “Do you know, sir, what the king wants with me?”
Gosling
grinned. “Well, let’s just say that King Milo has a soft place in his heart for heroic peasants. You’ve heard of the Giant Killer, I presume? The Brave Little Tailor?”
“Yes, sir. Heard stories, anyway.”
“Sure you have. Will Sweeting, that’s his name. Slew a giant or two in his day. Though I imagine the stories have been, um, embellished after so many years. ‘Seven at one blow,’ all that stuff. Will was almost as young as you. Became a real hero to the common folk, and earned himself a handsome reward from Milo’s father, who was the king back then. From what I hear, Milo grew up thinking that Will Sweeting was the cleverest, bravest man who ever lived.” Gosling’s horse suddenly jerked its head up and whinnied. The young knight bent down to whisper in its ear and pat its neck before turning back to Patch. “What was that all about? Anyway, all these years later, King Milo hears about this boy who knocked a troll off a bridge. And I suppose he thought, ‘Well, the Brave Little Tailor might not be slaying giants anymore, but now we have the Brave Little Apprentice. The Troll Killer!’”
Mannon turned to glance back at them with a sour look. He pressed a finger against one side of his nose and blew, sending a giant gray gob flying from the other nostril. He kicked the side of his horse to put some distance between them.
“I don’t think he likes me,” Patch said.
“Ha! Only you and the rest of humanity,” Gosling laughed. “Don’t worry about Mannon, Patch. I know he acts like a brute, but he’s truly a good fellow at heart, and the best friend I have. He’s just angry over this errand the king sent us on.”
“Oh.” Patch looked back beyond the wagon, where Addison rode. “Is that why Lord Addison doesn’t like me either—because he had to come all this way to get me?”
Gosling slapped Patch on the shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, little tailor. Addison doesn’t like or dislike anyone. He just does what he has to do, and does it better than anyone. He’s a good man, Patch. Maybe the best the kingdom has. And he has his reasons for being grim, I suppose.” Gosling scratched his horse’s mane. He seemed to be deciding whether or not to continue. “He was never the most carefree fellow to begin with. But he lost his brother not too long ago. Hasn’t been the same since.”
The Brave Apprentice Page 2
