by Thomas Sabel
“Oh, dearie! You made me completely forget. Ulrik, did you remember that it’s your turn to take your father his dinner. He’s having a bad day and is dining in his bedchamber.”
With an elegance unsuited to the vulgar fare Helga carefully spooned the gruel into a polished crystal bowl and set it on the center of a silver tray bearing the royal seal.
“Do you remember the great banquets I once prepared for his Majesty? The roast boar, the venison, the baked carp, and once an entire stuffed oxen when he won the war . . . and now all his Lordship can swallow is gruel. At least this is the best that can be made,” She laid a freshly pressed linen napkin to the bowl’s left, to its right lay a highly polished silver spoon that flashed in the noon-day light. After one final inspection, she handed the tray to the prince.
Ulrik found this new role of meal-bearer that the Mage lay upon him embarrassing. The Mage explained that the fewer who knew of the king’s condition the better, and limited the visitors to the Mage, Ulrik and Rupert, the king’s chamber servant.
With the tray in hand, Ulrik carefully made his way through the corridors and stairways leading to the king’s chamber. He had to make three sharp turns that he found especially tricky. He counted the successful passing through each a victory. He had passed the first and was nearing the second when Rupert came to him.
“Oh, let me give you a hand with that young prince,” said the old servant as he hobbled down the hallway on arthritic feet.
“Thanks,” said Ulrik, all too ready to hand the tray over to Rupert’s practiced hands. While it was Ulrik’s time to serve the king, that didn’t mean he had to carry the tray by himself. The pair walked side by side through the empty passage. Taking a deep breath Ulrik said, “Rupert.”
“Yes, young prince?”
“How long have you been serving my father?”
“Oh, goodness me, it’s been a great long time. Back to before your father was king. I was his second squire, you know. I don’t recall what happened to the first, but I was the second. And, if I don’t mind bragging a bit, the better of the two.”
“Then you remember when the Mage came to the castle?”
“Sadly I do. You had just turned three years old when your poor mother took sick. She was powerful sick, sad to say. Don’t know what hit her, but it hit her hard. Sent her right to bed and kept her there. Weak, she was, too weak to take care of you. If it weren’t for Helga, I don’t know what would have happened to you. Helga took you under her wing like a mother hen, she did. And she did a fine job of raisin’ you up right, if I can be so bold as to say.”
“About the Mage . . .” reminded Ulrik.
“Oh, yes. Sorry about gettin’ so distracted. He warn’t called the Mage then. He called himself Behdeti, Healer of Egypt. Had quite the reputation he did, which was why your father invited him here. Seems the regular doctors couldn’t do a thing for your mother. No matter what they tried, she never got much better. Then your father heard of this Behdeti, that he not only could heal the sick, but he could raise the dead as well, and your father commanded him to come, promising a great fortune if he would heal your mother.” Rupert and Ulrik passed the second turn and continued up the first stairway to the landing.
“What happened?” asked Ulrik. “Why didn’t he heal her?”
“I’ll get around to that in a minute, just be patient. Let’s sit here awhile so I can let my breath catch up with me.” said Rupert, taking a seat on the deeply carved bench set along the landing’s wall. He handed the tray to Ulrik, who held it carefully on his lap. He felt the heat from the porridge through the silver tray. The servant took a deep breath and continued.
“Your father may have been grief stricken over your mother but he kept his wits about him (not a bad lesson for a young prince to learn, eh?). He didn’t rightly trust this Behdeti. He made Behdeti swear that he would harm neither him nor his family in any way. Your father went so far as to make him swear by his own god. That oath ceremony was the most terrifying thing I saw in all my days.”
“What kind of ceremony?” asked the prince.
“Not the kind I likes to remember. I was there, in the background, sort of. We was up in the tower, the one the Mage now has taken over as his own. The king thought the tower would be far enough away from everyone else. Are you sure you want to hear this? It gives me the willies to recall it.”
“Yes, I have to know what happened.”
“Well, Behdeti had set all these pots of foul smelling incense burning, filling the place with enough smoke to choke on. Then he takes this reddish stone and draws some kind of circles and stars on the floor and stands in the middle of them. He commences to howl nonsense and shake all over, like he had the ague. Your father stood right near. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. Then the tower starts to shake and the floor starts to heave. I wanted to run but for the sake of the king, I didn’t. The smoke got thicker and thicker while Behdeti howled louder and louder. Then . . . are you sure you want hear this?”
“Yes, Rupert. Please continue.”
“Then out of the smoke comes this image, this form, this ugly thing. Behdeti bows before it, scrapping the floor with his forehead and all, and calling it Behomet, my Master, my Prince of Darkness. And then- I promise you this is as true as I’m sitting here- a voice comes out of the smoke as plain as day asking what he wants. Behdeti pleads that this demon witness the oath he’s about to make. The demon agrees and says that if the oath be broken Behdeti would be his slave in hell for all eternity. And just to give him a taste, the demon flicked his little finger and a bit of flame flew to Behdeti and Behdeti was thrown to the ground, writhing in agony. Then the demon disappeared and Behdeti stood. He was shaken, I tell you. I’ve seen men shaken in the worst kinds of battle, but that warn’t nothing compared to what he endured. He’d tasted hell and he was scared of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean, young prince, is that your Mage, this Behdeti, may be evil as all get out, but he’s scared of what might happen to him if he breaks his oath to your father. He may not do much to help you, but he won’t harm you, not you, nor your father.”
“But what about my mother? Why didn’t he heal her? Why did Behdeti let her die?”
“Ah yes, your mother. Pride finally done her in. Not her pride for she was as gentle and humble as any woman I’ve ever met. No, it was the Mage’s pride. He let her die. He let her die so he could show everyone his power to raise the dead. He left her dead for four days, one more than three, as he bragged at the time. But that was too long. As much as he tried, as much as he chanted, and danced, and poured his bloody potions, she remained dead to the world. That broke your father, it did. For three days he lay on her coffin, motionless. Then, when he did rise to his feet he was a shattered man, not really caring about anything. Not even you, his own son, I’m sorry to say. He went through the motions of being king, but it weren’t like the old days, not at all. Well, we best get on with our duties before the porridge freezes over. Do you want me to bring it in or do you want to?”
“I will,” said Ulrik, holding the tray and walking up the stairs the rest of the way without mishap.
He entered his father’s chamber. Ulrik was only able to approach his father since he had taken so ill. Before the king’s illness, Ulrik observed his father from a distance as a mere member of the royal household in the weekly audiences held in the Great Hall. Each Friday the household members bowed before the king and awaited his Majesty’s nod of dismissal. Twice in eleven years the king smiled at his son, once when Ulrik joined the boar hunt and again when he struggled to wear the king’s own oversized armor.
Ulrik’s entry failed to awaken King Arnuff. Heavy curtains hung over the long windows darkening the chamber. The prince vaguely remembered a time when sunlight filtered through the stained glassed windows and filled the room with bright blues, greens, and reds. All that was long past, a time when his mother tried to catch the colors for him. Gloom now reigned and the cham
ber bore the faint scent of the Mage’s tower. The prince stepped in, steadying the tray as he walked. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he made his way to his father’s bedside where he set the tray on the side table.
“Father?”
No response came from the royal bed. Ulrik wanted to turn and flee from the dark and into the light but duty forced him to stay. Timidly, he touched the blankets feeling for his father’s arm.
“Father?” He nudged the shape beneath the covers. It moved.
“Father?” He nudged again and waited for a response.
“Your Majesty?” King Arnuff moved and groaned.
“Who?” wheezed the king.
“It’s Ulrik, your son.”
“Son.” The word returned as an echo.
“Yes, Father, “I’ve brought you your dinner.”
The old king looked at the bowl and licked his lips and began to sit up to receive his food. Ulrik picked up the silver spoon and loaded it with gruel, but then returned it to the bowl. He looked to his father and yearned to reach out with his words, except that his words exploded in a torrent of anger and frustration, “The Mage says you’re dying and that I have to go find a special flower to make you well. But I don’t know what to do, Father. I don’t know what to believe. What should I do? I need to know. Shouldn’t I stay here with you, to help you, to take care of you? Don’t you need me here?” He struggled to keep back his tears, fighting the urge to cling to the old man. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you.”
“Son.” The hollow word rattled from the king’s throat.
“Yes, Father, it’s me, Ulrik. Help me now, please. What should I do?” pleaded Ulrik.
“Who?” questioned the king.
“It’s me, Ulrik, your son.” He looked into his father’s eyes. The king stared past him, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall.
“Your Majesty,” said Ulrik as he adjusted the old man into a sitting position, “let me help you with your meal.” Ulrik again took a spoonful from the bowl and fed the once mighty king, making sure to wipe the flecks of gruel from his father’s chin.
Duty done, Ulrik settled the frail man back in his bed. As he adjusted him, the king’s hand shot out from under the covers and grabbed Ulrik by the shirt, pulled him closely and brought Ulrik’s face before his own. His eyes flashed with ancient strength and the voice that thundered over battlefields commanded, “Ulrik, my son, help me. Save me.” The king collapsed back onto the bed. The vacant stare returned to his eyes. Trembling, Ulrik took the tray, left the royal bedchamber, and returned to the kitchen.
The fragrance of apple pies in the oven embraced the troubled prince with a feeling of life. The bright fire in the hearth created an island of light and warmth.
“I know what I must do, but I don’t want to do it,” Ulrik finally said to Helga, after describing the visit with his father. Helga listened closely as she set the tea kettle on the fire and went about the other business in the kitchen.
“What should I do?” he continued. “If I go, I will be abandoning my father. If I stay then hope for him will be lost.” He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked slowly. “I can still see his eyes looking into me. Remember how powerful and strong his eyes were when he prepared for battle? That same, strong look bore into me for a moment, ordering me to go, but pleading for help, too. I’ll never get his look or his command out of my mind. What should I do?”
“When I’m in a worrisome spot,” Helga answered, “I look for a special word of help. Go and get the book.” Ulrik went into the pantry, opened the hidden cupboard and eased the book out. Countless hours of reading and study had worn the calfskin cover thin in many places and the repairs revealed the book’s long history. Remnants of the original gilding remained on the edges of the pages. A spine made of flour sacking bore witness to its present owner.
Helga muttered, “Your mother gave me this before . . .” A tear rolled through the wrinkles on her cheek. “You were so young and just beginning to . . . Ach, enough of that. Hand me the book.” She put the rolling pin down and wiped every grain of flour from her large hands and received the worn volume from Ulrik. She laid it on the table, opened it, and thumbed through the pages, looking for that one long remembered word. Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. Ulrik looked to her and reached out to grab the book in order to hide it again. Too late. The shadow of a large man filled the doorway.
“Uley?” It was Edgar. Helga reached out to him from the table, “Come join us. We’ll be having some tea and pie in a minute or two.”
“Smells good.” When he saw the book on the table he smiled.
“We’re looking for a word to help the prince. Ah, here it is. Ulrik, read this to us.” She handed him the open book and pointed to a specific place.
“The cords of death bound me. Sheol held me in its grip,” he looked up after reading the words. “Sounds like life in the Mage’s tower.” He continued reading to the others, “Anguish and torment held me fast, then I invoked the Lord by name, Lord, deliver, I pray.” He looked up and wondered if it had been written for him. Helga’s closed eyes showed that she had been pondering the passage. Edgar reflected her comforting calmness.
Ulrik’s quandary slowly dissipated. He knew what he had to do, not because of the Mage’s command but because of his father’s urgent plea, because of his love for and honor to his father.
“I have to go,” he quietly announced.
Edgar looked at him, bewildered. “Go where?”
Helga explained the charge laid upon Ulrik as simply she could, hoping Edgar would understand.
“Uley’s going away?”
The prince and the cook nodded.
“Edgar goes, too.”
“Edgar,” Ulrik stood up and walked around the table to the big man. “You can’t go. I don’t even know where I’m going or what I’m looking for. It could be dangerous.”
“Then Edgar keep his friend safe.”
“Edgar, I have no idea how long this will take . . . this is going to be far away from here. You’ll get tired, and I’m not strong enough to carry you.”
Edgar’s face lit up and he jumped away from the table, grabbed Ulrik with a practiced motion, and put the startled prince on his back. “See, Edgar can still carry Uley, like when he was little.”
“Edgar!” Put him down,” yelled Helga. The big man then grinned and laughed. Ulrik hung on his friend’s neck and laughed along with him.
“All right, all right, you can come along,” agreed Ulrik.
CHAPTER THREE
Leaning casually with one shoulder against the doorpost, Barty blocked the way to the stable. He idly toyed with the pair of dice in his hand, making them go click-clack, click-clack. When the prince tried to pass, he stuck out his leg hoping to cause a stumble. “Have a nice trip,” he sneered.
“That’s an old joke.” Ulrik said and stepped over Barty’s leg, fighting the temptation to kick it out of the way.
“I know. I thought it fit considering all the gossip I hear about you. You’re making many a tongue wag in the castle. From way down in the guard’s barracks through the servant’s quarters up to the donjon, ‘What’s the crown prince up to? We heard he’s been given some kind of mission, and on and on. I’m completely bored with it. No one wants to do anything but talk about you.”
“How would you know what everyone is talking about?”
Barty held up the dice to let the sunlight reflect off the polished ivory surfaces. “My two little friends here take me into all sorts of places. They’re like magic keys used to open all doors. Many like to play with me and my little friends. The worst luck for them; I loose bets only at my choosing.”
Ulrik looked at him, wondering how the two of them could be related.
Barty held the dice to his ears. “Do you hear? My little friends are calling. Time to fleece a few before noon.”
Ulrik continued to the stable without bothering about Barty’s plans. Here was another haven from the
castle’s intrigues. The Mage and his minions avoided this stable the way they avoided the kitchen. The ceiling soared high into the air, far higher than a stable had any right to. Intricate stone tracery wove its way through the supporting pillars pulling the eye from one place to another and then another in exultation. The tracery framed open spaces that held remnants of pictures made of small, colorful tiles scarcely visible under the layers of grime. The shards of stained glass in the great round window on the east wall proclaimed another time and use for the stable. Nearly all the glass was broken from the window, leaving the wind and weather to enter unopposed, though enough glass remained to lure the prince into a story half-told, a story revealed through fragments of a face here, a hand there, the image of a lamb.
He climbed the ladder into the haymow, its clumsy construction a sharp contrast to the craftsmanship surrounding it. The mow had been hastily thrown into place by uncaring workers following orders when the building was turned into a stable. The mow looked slapdash, built of scavenged lumber and ill-suited to the grandeur of the ceiling, walls and window fragments. Ulrik crawled over the hay and sat at the enormous window’s base. An old toy soldier of his, carved by Harald, the chief archer, remained on the sill where he had placed it several months back. Toy soldiers then, and now . . . Now he knew he had to give up his childish ways. Duty called him to make the journey for his father’s sake, but his heart cried out to stay in the safety and security of Helga’s kitchen. He picked up the toy. Harald had carved a bit of a pot-belly onto the soldier. Like me, thought the prince rubbing his plump stomach. Closer inspection also revealed a smooth face on the toy, unlike the real soldiers he knew with their proud beards and elegant mustaches. He put the toy back on the exact same spot on the sill, and descended the mow, knowing what he must do.
Edgar had been pestering Ulrik, “When are we going to go?” Edgar had packed his knapsack for the journey the moment he learned he would join the prince. With Helga’s help his bags were ready, but he kept taking out the clothes he needed until he had completely unpacked and was as unprepared as the prince.
