Gareth imagined naively that the captain was referring to a bucket of water standing nearby, which he’d put out for the dog, and so he paid no attention to this statement.
“The whole bloody court knows it,” muttered the veteran, but he looked uneasy and glared at the boy, who had no idea what he had done to offend him.
“Dagnarus doesn’t like to read books,” Gareth said, thinking that somehow the soldier was disparaging the prince.
“Don’t mind Barr; he’s in a bad temper over a wench who spit in his eye last night,” Argot said, adding unexpectedly, “I have no duty today, and my horse needs exercising. Since His Highness cannot come, perhaps you would like to learn to ride, Gareth.”
The boy was amazed and vastly pleased. It was many years before he realized, looking back on the incident, that Argot was hoping to distract the child, induce him to forget Barr’s unfortunate remark. At the time, Gareth thought only that Argot was being unusually kind. The captain led his big warhorse out of the stables and tossed a blanket over the horse’s broad back. Lifting Gareth, he settled the boy on the horse and told him to grip with his legs. Argot kept hold of the reins.
Gareth stared down from what seemed to him an immense height, half-fearful and wholly thrilled. Reaching out timidly, he patted the horse on its gray-spotted neck. The horse was accustomed to the weight of Argot, in his full battle armor, and made no more of the child than if he’d been one of the flies buzzing around its ears. The horse swiveled a bored eye at Gareth, shook its neck, then nuzzled Argot, hoping for an apple.
Argot led the horse with the boy astride out into the yard in front of the stables. They walked around slowly and with every moment that passed, Gareth’s fear eased. He wound his hands in the horse’s gray mane and once even dared kick the horse in the flanks with his heels—not very hard, the horse probably didn’t even feel it. But in that moment the boy saw himself a warrior.
Argot walked the horse around the courtyard for about ten minutes. Gareth’s backside soon started to hurt where it bumped painfully against the horse’s spine, and his thighs ached, but he would not say a word of complaint or ask to be taken off, not for all the silver tams in the kingdom.
Argot praised the boy, saying that he sat a horse well, and was telling how his own father had taught him to ride before he could even say the word “horse,” when a soldier, out of breath, came clattering into the courtyard, shouting for the captain.
“Here!” Argot waved his arm.
“Captain,” the soldier cried, saluting. “We have caught Shakur!”
Argot stopped walking and so did the horse. Argot spoke a word of command and the horse froze in place, standing stock-still in the yard, with the boy on his back, while Argot went over to speak to the soldier.
“He fought like a demon, sir,” the soldier continued. “Hanuit may lose his arm over it. They’ve carried him to the healers.”
“What of Shakur?” Argot demanded. “Is he dead?”
“No, Captain.” The soldier grinned. “Though Hanuit had his revenge on him. We followed your orders and took the bastard alive. They’re bringing him here now.”
A troop of soldiers entered, their armor clashing and rattling. Two of them carried between them a man whose arms had been bound behind his back with bowstrings. Gareth could not distinguish any features on the man’s face for the blood that covered it. All Gareth could see were two eyes, black and malevolent, above a gruesome wound. The man was lucky he still had two eyes. The sword slash had barely missed the right one. His cheek was laid open from the right cheekbone beneath the eye, his nose was sliced almost in half. The wound continued down the left cheek to the jaw, baring bone and cartilage to view.
He was a man of average height and no very great girth, but inordinately strong. His arms were lumpy with muscle, his thighs bulged, his calves were bigger around than Gareth. Sinews, tendons, and blood vessels formed tree-branch patterns beneath his brown, suntanned skin. His hair was shaved close to his head, as was the fashion of many of the soldiers, to make it easier to deal with lice, and for coolness beneath their heavy helms. His brows were black, as was his short-cropped beard. His face was dirty and seamed with licentious living.
He did not come tamely, but fought his captors every step, planting his feet and refusing to move. The skin on his upper arms was cut and bleeding. His body gleamed with sweat. The men dragging him along were also hot and sweaty, covered with his blood, and seemed worn-out from their efforts.
But there was an air of grim triumph about them when they brought the man before their captain. The prisoner ceased to struggle. He stood staring at Argot with a defiant leer made hideous by the terrible wound.
Flies buzzed around the prisoner, drawn by the blood. Gareth was frightened and sickened, but horribly fascinated at the same time. Part of him wanted to run away, but part didn’t, which was good, because he wasn’t going anywhere. He could not dismount the horse without help, and Argot had forgotten the child’s existence.
“Shakur,” said Argot, his voice grating, “you are accused of thievery, lying, and desertion. I won’t ask how you plead, for you’d only lie, and the very fact that you were captured five miles outside of the city limits is proof that you are a deserter. Still, I will give you a chance to speak in your own defense.”
Shakur laughed and spit in Argot’s face.
One of the soldiers holding Shakur drove a fist into his stomach, doubling him over. The other drew a knife and, grabbing hold of Shakur’s head, bent it backward, exposing the man’s throat.
“Let me finish what Hanuit started, Captain,” the soldier begged, brandishing the knife.
Shakur held still, made no protest, showed not the least fear.
“No!” Argot was stern. “The King alone may sentence a man to death. Take this wretch to the dungeons, there to await His Majesty’s pleasure. Send one of the healers to see to his face.”
Argot rounded on his heel, turning his back on the man to show his disgust. The soldier, grumbling, thrust his knife back into its sheath on his belt.
Shakur’s arm muscles bulged, he gave a grunt and a shudder. The bowstrings that held his arms pinned behind him popped loose like so much silken thread. He knocked one soldier to the ground with the back of his hand, felled the other with a blow from his fist. Shakur lunged straight at Gareth.
The deserter did not want the boy. He wanted the horse.
Terrified, Gareth kicked at the man with his feet, acting more out of panic than bravery. The child was nothing but an annoyance to Shakur, however. Grabbing the boy by the leg, Shakar heaved Gareth up off the horse’s back and sent him flipping head over heels into the air.
Had Gareth fallen on the hard-packed ground, he would have ended his days as whipping boy by breaking his neck. As it was, he landed in a hayrick. His body smashed the flimsy wooden manger to splinters, but the hay cushioned his fall. Dizzy and breathless, he lay amidst the ruins, shocked nearly out of his wits and amazed that he was not dead.
Shakur leapt on the horse’s back and drove his heels into the animal’s flanks. The captain’s horse was a battle-tested war mount trained to respond to an unfamiliar rider. Argot whistled in a certain way. The horse heard the command to rear, which is one of the first a warrior teaches his mount, and stood up on its hind legs to try to throw off the unwanted rider.
Shakur wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck, nearly strangling the beast, and fought grimly to hang on. The horse was prepared for this maneuver, however. Lowering its head, it kicked with its back hooves. Then the horse reared up on its front legs again, shaking its head and baring its teeth, and finally succeeded in throwing the man.
Shakur landed on his back in the dust, where he immediately curled himself into a ball to escape the slashing hooves. Only another whistled command from Argot—a command given in no great hurry—saved Shakur from being trampled.
The horse cantered to Argot’s side, where it stood glaring and snorting and stamping a forefoot. S
oldiers had come running from all directions by then. Several of them picked up Shakur, who had finally had the fight knocked out of him, and hauled him away. More soldiers helped their fallen comrades, one of whom lay unconscious for three days from Shakur’s blow.
Argot cast Gareth a glance. Seeing that the boy was alive and breathing, the warrior went to his horse. Argot made certain the animal had suffered no harm, then he ordered one of the stable hands to return the horse to its stall. After that he came over to see about the child.
Gareth bore the man no grudge for the delay. The horse was a valuable animal. He was only a boy, and the whipping boy at that. Embarrassed and feeling guilty, as if somehow it had all been his fault, Gareth tried to sit up.
Argot shook his head and ordered him to lie still. Bending down, he felt him all over for broken bones.
“Does your head hurt? Is there a ringing in your ears?” he asked, peering into his eyes. “Do you see two of me? What is your name?”
“No, sir,” the child said, blinking back tears at the kindness in the man’s voice. “Gareth, sir.”
“You’ll do,” Argot said, and smiled. He helped the boy to his feet and brushed the hay and wood splinters from his clothes. “That was a brave thing you did, lad. Kicking at that bastard like that. He might have torn off your leg.”
“I did not mean to be brave, sir,” Gareth said, trying hard not to cry with all of the soldiers standing around, staring at him. “I was only frightened.”
“Well, lad,” said Argot, “and what do you think bravery is?” He rested his hand upon his shoulder. “We’ll make a soldier of you yet.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’d rather not,” Gareth said earnestly.
Argot laughed and clapped the boy on the back.
“You are a stout fellow. The prince is lucky in his choice of a friend. You are welcome to come along with the prince anytime, and I will continue our riding lessons.”
Gareth thanked him politely, though he privately resolved that if he never came near a horse again in his life it would be too soon. He asked anxiously what would become of Shakur.
“If the gods are just, he’ll rot in the dungeons and be eaten by rats,” said Argot.
After the incident, Gareth limped back to the palace, his limbs stiffening, and hid himself in his dark closet, to nurse his wounds and have his cry in private. There, Silwyth found the boy. The elf did not say a word, but stripped off Gareth’s clothes, bathed his scratches, removed a wood splinter or two, and washed his face, which was covered with dirt and slobber.
Dagnarus appeared in the doorway. Silwyth faded back into the darkness.
“So, Patch,” the prince said in a stern voice, “I hear you have been having adventures without me.”
Gareth truly thought the prince was angry. Ducking his head, he said he was sorry, he never intended such a thing, which was certainly the truth, and he hoped with all his heart that an adventure never befell him again, which was also the truth.
To Gareth’s surprise, Dagnarus started to laugh. He was in an excellent humor and, bounding into the room, flung his arms around his friend and gave him a hug, which made Gareth wince.
“Argot told me the whole story, Patch. I am proud of you. I should have liked to have seen it!” The prince regarded the boy with undisguised envy. “It’s too bad we can’t split ourselves in twain and be two places at once.”
Gareth agreed that this was a shame and asked if His Highness had enjoyed the levee.
“No,” Dagnarus said, pacing about the small room, for he could never stand still. “It was boring and stupid. I do not know how my father stands it. Listening to these wretches whining and complaining about the King’s decrees. One even had the nerve to say to the King’s teeth that he thought my father had passed a bad law.”
“What did the King do?” Gareth asked, shocked.
“He listened to the fool, and said he would take the matter under advisement. I would have had him whipped down the palace steps,” said Dagnarus, frowning. “When I am King I will make what laws I choose, and no one will dare criticize them.”
He came and sat down on the bed beside Gareth, his green eyes shining with excitement in the light of the oil lamp Silwyth had placed upon a shelf.
“And do you know what else I learned, Patch,” Dagnarus said. “A king does not need to be educated! He has advisors, Patch! People who tell him whatever it is he must know.” He put his hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “You will be my advisor, Patch, so you must study very hard.”
Three days later, they heard news that Shakur had escaped.
Gareth lived for days after that in unreasoning terror, imagining that the convict would seek his revenge upon him. Countless times the boy woke up in cold sweat in the night, imagining the man with a knife in his hand, ready to slit his throat.
“Don’t be silly, Patch,” Dagnarus said scornfully, when the boy ventured to relate his fears. “The man is long gone. Why should he risk being thrown back into the dungeon over you?”
That made sense, and Gareth ceased to worry about Shakur. As for Evaristo, his hopes of turning the prince into a scholar (and thereby gaining rich reward himself) were dashed. His Highness was rarely in the schoolroom after that and, eventually, Evaristo quit beating the whipping boy, seeing that it did no good.
Royal Audience
A week after Gareth’s adventure, Silwyth woke the child earlier than usual, which was already early enough.
“What is it?” Gareth grumbled, shivering in the cold of the morning. The palace, with its massive stone walls and stone floors, was cool on the hottest days, and this was the middle of winter, when the wind raced down from the mountaintops, carrying the snow with it. “Why do I have to get up now?”
“You are to have an audience with the King,” said Silwyth.
The boy went colder than the stone floor on which his bare feet shivered, and he was wide-awake in a moment.
“He’s…he’s going to get rid of me,” Gareth said, quaking, his teeth chattering.
“Don’t be silly,” Silwyth said. “He has heard of your bravery and would like to do you honor. Eat your breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.” Gareth couldn’t have swallowed a mouthful. “And I wasn’t all that brave,” he added, squirming as Silwyth rolled up the woolen hose, preparatory to sliding them over the child’s skinny legs.
“I trust you will not say that to His Majesty,” Silwyth admonished.
“Oh, no!” Gareth cried, terrified at the thought. “I won’t be expected to say anything to him, will I?”
“You are not mute, child, nor are you a barbarian. You will be expected to carry on a conversation like a civilized person.”
A conversation with the King! The boy couldn’t imagine such a thing, and he was even more frightened than he would have been had he been told that His Majesty was planning to cut off his head.
“Stop shaking,” Silwyth ordered sternly.
“What do I talk about?” Gareth quavered.
“His Majesty will guide the conversation, asking you questions, and you will answer them. Do not speak until he speaks to you. Reply politely and graciously, but concisely. Speak out clearly, holding your head up. Don’t stare down at your feet and mumble as you did the other day when Crown Prince Helmos came into the schoolroom.
“Bow low on entering, then stand erect. If you are fortunate enough that His Majesty beckons for you to come near him, walk forward to within two paces of him, bow again, and stand still. Do not fidget or tug at your clothes. Keep an eye on His Highness. Dagnarus will alert you if you are doing something wrong.”
“He will be with me?” Gareth said, cheering up.
“Certainly. You are to accompany the prince on his morning visit.”
The boy was vastly relieved. He had envisioned himself called to a formal audience in the Great Hall, and the prospect of meeting and chatting with the King by himself with crowds of courtiers snickering behind their hands was terrifying. If Dagnaru
s was with Gareth, he felt he could handle anything, from escaped prisoners to conversing with the King, Dagnarus’s father.
Gareth felt so much better he was actually hungry again, but Silwyth refused to allow him to eat anything, for fear he might spill crumbs on his good tunic. He did permit the child to drink some milk, so that his stomach wouldn’t make unseemly sounds. He held the cup to Gareth’s lips, first draping him with the blanket and warning him not to dribble.
Gareth attended the prince at his rising. Dagnarus smiled at his friend, pleased with the honor being accorded him. The attendant lords, who were always hanging about the prince, currying his favor, were much more respectful to the whipping boy, and he understood, to his confusion, that this audience had improved his standing.
His newfound courage seemed to ooze right out of his soft leather slippers, however, as he accompanied Dagnarus to his father’s study. The prince laughed at his fears.
“My father is pleased with you,” he said. “Don’t be nervous. No one can possibly be afraid of him.”
“How did he come to hear of what I did?” Gareth wondered.
Dagnarus shrugged. “How does he come to hear of anything that happens in the kingdom? He listens.”
Gareth considered this. It was true that King Tamaros knew all there was to know about what happened in his court, in his kingdom, and in the world. Only the monks of Dragon Mountain and the all-seeing gods were said to know more. As it happened, Captain Argot had reported the story of Shakur’s capture to his friends and, pleased with Gareth’s courage, Argot had included the boy’s part. The captain’s friends had spread the tale, and one of the courtiers, always hoping to ingratiate himself with the King, had told His Majesty of the bravery of the prince’s friend, implying, of course, that the prince was the one responsible.
Snow had fallen in the night—a heavy, wet snow, for which the farmers were grateful—and the morning was cloudy and cold. A gray day outside meant a gloomy day inside the castle’s stone walls, for the windows, long and narrow in order to foil possible attackers, did not admit much light even on the brightest days.
Well of Darkness Page 8
