HONOR BOUND (The Spare Heir)

by Southwick, Michael G.

  When they looked up at him the reaction was exactly what he was hoping for. “Our clumsy little prince has fallen again.” He could see it in their faces even though they didn’t actually say it. The cook waved with his knife toward the corner counter.

  “There’s a basin of cold water over there. Rinse it off an’ I’ll get some salve.”

  Jorem walked to the counter and carefully put his hand in the basin. He was doing his best to act as though it didn’t hurt but the shock of the cold water on his injured hand made him gasp. The next thing he knew the cook was at his side. The man peered into the basin at Jorem’s hand.

  “Looks to be a bit more than a scrape, Prince Jorem,” the cook said. “Jen, get me a jar of salve. Fran, get a cloth from the linen bin.”

  For such a large man, the cook was amazingly gentle as he bound up Jorem’s hand. The salve eased the stinging but did little for the deeper throbbing. As the cook began wrapping Jorem’s hand with a cloth he looked at Jorem thoughtfully.

  “I hear tell you’re a friend of young Lady Andrews,” the cook said.

  It took Jorem a moment to realize that the cook was referring to Jennifer. “She’s been kind enough to teach me to dance.”

  The cook nodded and said, “I’ve been told that her lessons for healing have not gone so well lately. It’s good that she has someone close that she can talk to. An understanding ear can help more than most folk know.”

  Jorem wasn’t sure what the cook was talking about. Jennifer seldom spoke of her own lessons when they were together. Her enthusiasm during his dance lessons had diminished over the past few weeks but Jorem had thought she was just getting tired of constantly correcting his missteps. She had been so incredibly patient with him that he couldn’t blame her.

  Not sure of what to say, Jorem just nodded to the cook. Anything he might say would just be a guess. Jen had actually become a good friend, but she didn’t talk about her healing lessons. Jorem had figured that as a healer there were things she wasn’t supposed to talk about. That she was having problems had never crossed his mind.

  “There, that should do,” said the cook as he finished bandaging Jorem’s hand. “Keep it clean and put a fresh wrapping on it each morning. I’m no healer, but I’ve dealt with more cuts from kitchen knives than I care to remember.”

  “Thank you sir,” Jorem replied. “It feels much better. I’d best go let the gardener know I made a mess of the rock garden and you can get back to your cooking.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” the cook said. “I’ll send Fran here to let the gardener know about his precious rocks. You go get yourself cleaned up. You look as if you’d been set upon by bandits.”

  As the cook herded him out of the kitchen, he saw Fran go out the door. ‘And so the story begins to spread,’ he thought. Satisfied that he had played the part of the stumbling prince as best as he could, Jorem headed to his room to get out of his torn and bloody clothes.

  Back in his room Jorem set about cleaning himself up. Stripping off his blood stained tunic he washed off the dirt and sweat with a rag soaked in a basin of cool water. He dampened his hair and ran his good hand through it to smooth it out. He still wore his hair long, the same as his brothers. He stepped into a clean pair of pants and had just slipped a new tunic over his head when there was a knock at his door.

  Straightening the tunic, he stepped to the door and pulled it open. Standing in the doorway were two men dressed in the uniform of the palace guard.

  “Prince Jorem,” one of them said. “We have orders from the King to escort all members of the royal family to the council chambers.”

  His first thought was “Wow, that was fast!” The guards seemed to get nervous at his hesitation. Noticing their hands twitching near their swords, Jorem gathered his wits and responded, “Well, we mustn’t keep the King waiting. Lead on.”

  “After you, Prince Jorem,” the guard stated.

  Jorem had the distinct feeling that he was being arrested rather then escorted. The whole situation seemed a bit much for falling down and scraping a hand. He began to worry that someone had told his father of the incident with Trenton. His mind began racing. He was trying to come up with something that would satisfy his father and keep Trenton out of trouble.

  When they entered the council chambers Jorem looked quickly about. He saw the King and a few of the King’s councilors. The captain of the guard, the weapons master and his brothers were off to one side. With a sigh of relief he realized that Trenton was not here. Then, with a start he noticed the condition of his brothers. They looked much as he did after his roll in the rock garden, if not worse.

  The King stood up from his chair and the room became deathly quiet. Looking at his sons the King asked, or more accurately, demanded, “Tell me exactly what happened and who did this to you!”

  The four brothers shuffled their feet and glanced at one another. Prince Daniel, the second to the oldest stepped forward. Clearing his throat, he glanced back at his brothers one last time and then faced the King. “We went to town this morning to inspect a new shipment of swords. We spent some time trying to find a blade of quality. Not finding anything we wanted, we started back to the castle.”

  As Daniel spoke his words became surer. It seemed to Jorem as if his brother was reading from a script.

  “We had just left the town,” Daniel continued, “when we were set upon by a band of ruffians. We thought to do battle with them but we were greatly outnumbered. We fought our way free of them and fled to the castle.”

  Daniel looked back at the other brothers and they all nodded their heads in agreement. The King looked furious. Jorem saw the captain of the guards glance over at the weapons master and give a slight nod. If he hadn’t been standing so close to the captain Jorem would never have noticed the signal between the two men.

  Weapons Master Gregorio approached the King and whispered something in his ear. The King glared at the weapons master, but Gregorio stood his ground. After a moment the two began a hushed conversation that no one else in the room could hear. It took only a few moments and then the weapons master stepped away. The King once more faced the room. The look on his face had changed and, if anything, looked more dangerous than before. “Captain,” the King snapped, “this was reported to you when my sons arrived?”

  “Yes, your majesty,” the captain answered. The captain stood stiffly at attention. “A patrol was sent out immediately. A dozen men were found camped at the edge of the forest near the town. They have been arrested and are being held in chains in the courtyard.”

  When the captain of the guard had finished he gave a quick salute and stepped back. Jorem noticed that his brothers looked pale. The King was silent for a moment and then spoke.

  “Come, let us see what manner of men would attack the royal family at our own doorstep!”

  The King gave a measuring gaze at his sons and strode from the room. Everyone else followed in the King’s wake. Jorem walked behind his brothers and noticed them whispering somewhat heatedly to each other. The King didn’t even glance back at them as the group passed through the front entrance to the palace.

  As they reached the courtyard Jorem saw a group of men in chains. They were surrounded by a patrol of palace guardsmen. The men wore the clothing of workers and farmers. The clothes were made of tough and sturdy cloth that would stand up to abuse. The chained men were roughly the same age as his father except for a few who were much older. By the look of their weathered faces and graying hair the older men were likely as old as Pentrothe.

  “So,” the King said turning to his sons. “These are the bandits who attacked you?”

  The King watched as his four oldest sons fidgeted and refused to look him in the eye. The King folded his arms and took a deep breath. Turning back to the prisoners the King looked over the group of men. Pursing his lips he looked at the captain of the guard.

  “Hang them. Hang them all!” The King spoke loudly for all present to hear.

  “No!
No, Father, you can’t!” A voice blurted. Lauren was Jorem’s closest brother in age. He stepped forward as he spoke. “These men didn’t attack us. We got in a fight at the tavern.”

  The four brothers stood together, their heads hanging with shame. The King looked over to the weapons master and gave a nod towards his sons, “See them to their quarters.”

  Turning back to the prisoners the King asked, “So what shall we do with these bandits?”

  “I’m no bandit!” demanded the oldest of the men in chains. “I fought beside your father, King Grendith, in the battle of Darkfield, before you were born.” Even though the man was aged, his face wrinkled and weathered from exposure to the sun, his eyes sparked with anger.

  “Grendith gave me a plot of land in reward for my service. My family and I have farmed that land ever since. We’ve brought our harvest to market. These others traveled with us for safety in bringing their flocks to market.”

  The King turned away from the old man as if he hadn’t heard a word the man had said.

  “Send them on their way,” the King said to the guardsman nearest him. Looking at the castle, the King watched the four princes disappear through the doorway. The sigh that escaped his lips said more than words ever could. Resolutely, the King turned and marched back to the castle, his councilors and guards following him in silence.

  Jorem watched as the farmers and herdsmen milled about. Their complaints that they had lost a full days bargaining at the market was not lost on Jorem. Pentrothe had told him several times that a kingdom was nothing without the people. These men were part of what Pentrothe called the backbone of the kingdom. They deserved better than to just be dismissed after what they had been through.

  “Excuse me sirs,” Jorem interrupted their discussion. “Would you say that your crops and livestock are of good quality?”

  The men turned to Jorem, their irritation obvious in their faces. “You’ll not find better,” said one of the men. “What does it matter to you, boy?”

  “I speak with the Kings cook on occasion.” Jorem replied. “If you would like, I could ask him to take a look at your produce and animals. If they’re as good as you say he might have the Treasurer purchase them from you. I can’t guarantee a sale, but you would get a better price without having to pay the market fees.”

  The men discussed Jorem’s proposal amongst themselves for a while. Some of the men spoke in excited tones while others looked unsure. One of the men approached Jorem.

  “Exactly how do you come to know the King’s cook?” Jorem could tell that the man didn’t believe that a boy could sway the cooks mind.

  “I pass through the kitchen once in a while,” Jorem said, trying hard not to smile.

  The old man that had spoken of Jorem’s grandfather walked over to them. As he came neared he looked Jorem up and down, then peered into his face.

  “What happened to your hand, lad?” the old man asked.

  “I stumbled and fell,” Jorem said, looking the old man squarely in the face.

  The old man looked even closer at Jorem. His stern face slowly softened in a slight smile. “That would make you Prince Jorem,” the old man said softly. “You have your grandfather’s look about you. He was a good man and a fine leader.” He hesitated for a moment then continued. “Go talk to your cook. He can find us camped just this side of the city proper near the river. We’ll be expecting him. And lad, thank you. It’s a fine thing you’re doing for us.”

  The men spoke for a few moments and then began their trek back to their camp. Jorem headed back to the castle. He wasn’t sure how he was going to convince the cook to go look at a bunch of goats and grain, but he was sure that he had to try.

  Chapter IX

  Convincing the cook was far easier than Jorem had expected. As soon as he had described the old man the cook had rushed to grab his jacket. The cook was nearly gone before Jorem could tell him where the men were camped. Apparently, the cook knew the farmer and was well aware of the quality of the man’s goods.

  When Jorem arrived at Pentrothe’s quarters, he found the wizard deeply engrossed in a large leather bound book. The book was obviously very old, the pages yellowed and fragile. Jorem peered over the wizard’s shoulder but the lettering was nothing he could read. It looked as if someone had dipped ants in ink and let them run about on the paper.

  “It’s an ancient language from a people that disappeared long before I was born.” Pentrothe didn’t even look up when he spoke. “I’ve been trying to decipher it for years and I think I’ve finally found a key to its meanings.”

  Pentrothe sat back and stretched. “We’ve lost so many things to war. Knowledge that could make our lives so much better.”

  “If things were so much better, why were there wars?” Jorem asked.

  “Why indeed!” Pentrothe responded. “People always want what everyone else has—land, riches and power, anything and everything. It’s the nature of man I suppose, never to be satisfied with one’s lot in life.”

  The wizard gently closed the book and placed it on a shelf filled with odds and ends. Jorem saw that the workbench was empty so there wouldn’t be any experiments today. That usually meant Pentrothe would assign him a book to read. After he’d read the book they would discuss the people and events from the book. The books were often about historical events or distant lands. Jorem always enjoyed learning about different places and people. He knew it wasn’t the same as actually going to these far away places, but it fascinated him to read about them.

  Pentrothe pulled a slender book from another shelf and handed it to Jorem. “I believe you’ll enjoy this. It’s about a people who rejected the ways of man and found another time to exist in. It’s difficult to read but I think you can work it out.”

  Jorem sat down at the workbench and began reading the book. Whoever had written the book was definitely not a great writer but the people he had written about were, to say the least, amazing. That an entire city’s population could transport themselves into a place where time doesn’t exist was fascinating. Jorem turned back to the cover page to see if it had the author’s name on it. The writing on the cover was quite faded. Looking closely, Jorem could just make out the writing. “The Folk” by Grendith, Son of Dohran. Jorem had to go over the lettering twice before he could accept this revelation.

  The Folk were just a legend. No one actually believed they existed. But here, in this book written by his grandfather’s own hand, was an account of their lives. King Grendith had died long before Jorem was born. He didn’t refer to himself as King so it must have been written in his youth. That would have been fifty, maybe sixty years ago. Switching to one of the more comfortable chairs, Jorem immersed himself in a tale that left his mind swimming with questions about both the Folk and his grandfather.

  Jorem wanted to ask Pentrothe about what he had read, but the wizard was nowhere to be found. A glance out the window told him that more time had passed than he’d thought. Walking to the shelf, Jorem replaced the book in the space it had been in. It looked out of place and he couldn’t remember seeing it there before, but Jorem had learned some time ago not to question Pentrothe’s actions. He always had a reason.

  The main hall was already crowded by the time Jorem arrived for the evening meal. Seating himself at the first table he came to, Jorem noticed that the chatter was louder than usual—all except for the table his brothers were sitting at. Their normal boasting and laughter had been replaced with a sullen silence. “Not a good sign,” Jorem thought.

  A serving maid whisked past balancing trays of food and drink in both hands. With deft movements, she deposited a plate of food and a mug of juice in front of him. Jorem could just imagine the disaster that would occur should he attempt such a graceful act. For himself he found eating with his left hand almost more than he could cope with. His right hand seared with pain whenever he tried to move it.

  Jorem was just sopping up the last bits of gravy off of his plate with a piece of bread when the King stood
up. Apparently everyone was expecting this because the room fell instantly silent. “Really not a good sign,” thought Jorem. “What else could have happened while I was reading?”

  “We have received an invitation from the Duke of Broughbor to attend the knighting of his eldest son Pertheron.” The King’s voice sounded tired. “As Broughbor is some distance, we shall be leaving at first light in order to arrive in time. My sons shall be accompanying me on this visit, along with my personal guard.”

  It looked as if the King had more to say but instead he turned and left the room. The silence continued for a few moments, then pandemonium broke out. Jorem was reminded of a hornet’s nest after being struck by a stick. Everyone began rushing about and with so many people speaking at once it was impossible for anyone to be heard. To prepare for a royal outing in just a few short hours was something Jorem couldn’t fathom. Unless he was mistaken a lot of people would be going without sleep tonight.

  When he left the hall he meant to go to his rooms to start packing. Instead he found himself standing at the door to Lord Andrew’s suite. Absently he knocked on the door and waited. When no one answered he knocked again. Perhaps Jennifer had been called away for something. He was just about to give up when the door slowly opened.

  Jorem was a bit startled by Jennifer’s appearance. Her eyes were red and her cheeks puffy. Everything about her seemed to droop. She wouldn’t even look him in the eyes. All of her sparkle was missing. She didn’t even say anything, just turned around and walked back into the room.

  Jorem closed the door and followed the young girl into the sitting room. When they got there Jennifer sat down in the corner of a couch and pulled her feet up beneath her. She picked up a small pillow and held it tightly in her lap. She still hadn’t looked at him and didn’t even look up when she spoke.

  “I’m not really in the mood to dance tonight. I hope you don’t mind.” Her voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper.