by Clare Smith
Jonderill smiled and looked away. “I’d like to do that but they don’t pay bound servants like me.”
“That don’t seem right but no worry, my father owns the Soldier’s Rest just beyond the palace gates. Just come on in and ask for Barrin, I’ll be there all night.”
He clapped Jonderill on the back and gave him an encouraging grin before taking hold of the larger pail and heading in the direction of the pig pens. Barrin disappeared through the yard gate, whistling brightly, before Jonderill had chance to say a word of thanks. He smiled to himself and finished washing the grease from his arms at the trough by the door. Later he would have to clean the great cooking pans in there when the cooks had finished with them, another job he hated, but for now at least, he had his first opportunity to escape his tedious life and the possibility of making a new friend.
Jonderill let the sleeves of his course brown tunic cover his wet arms and picked up the bucket of meat scraps, disturbing a cluster of black buzzers which had come for an early lunch. The bucket was lighter than it should have been and he prayed this was because the half eaten joints had been salvaged from the banqueting table last night and not due to his negligence with the swill bucket. If they had been rescued there would be cold meat for lunch and perhaps pickles to go with the usual hot flour-roots and steamed vegetables. His stomach rumbled in anticipation and he found himself humming Barrin’s happy tune as he hefted the bucket of scraps and headed for the kennels.
The stables, with their adjoining kennels, lay one step lower than the palace with its elegant towers and its tall spires inlaid with gold but still within the high stone wall which held back the moat and separated the palace from the city below. Built on the peak of a craggy rock protruding through naturally rising upland, the palace and capital city of Alewinder stood at the head of a lush valley.
The home of Vinmore’s royal family could be seen from every part of the kingdom and stood like a banner proclaiming the peace and prosperity which King Steppen and his predecessors had given to the land. On a day when the sun shone from a faultless blue sky and lit up the stone walls, the colour of wild honey, nobody could doubt how good it was to be alive and living in Vinmore.
Walking along a back path beneath overhanging white and cream blooms of honeyvine, listening to skysoarers sharing their pairing call and assailed by the climbing vines heavy perfume, even Jonderill could forget the emptiness of being alone, the nameless property of another man. He knew it was a tradition of the servants’ hall that the newest amongst them was called nothing but ‘boy’. “It keeps you in your place until you learn to respect your betters,” the Housecharge had told him that first day but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Jonderill was his name, a warrior’s name, given to him by Maladran. It was the only thing which Maladran had given him which he still possessed and nobody was going to take that from him. With renewed determination to overcome his present loneliness and with a real hope he could make Barrin his friend he lengthened his stride and turned left off the pathway, one opening too soon. Jonderill realised his mistake the moment he ducked underneath the low stone archway and into the brilliant sunshine of the stable yard. The kennels, which were his destination, stood to his right behind a low wall and tall metal railings with gold painted points. He could hear the hounds calling but only just over the noise and confusion in the yard in front of him.
A dozen or so ponies and at least a dozen larger animals, saddled and bedecked in bright colours, milled around in a nervous state shaking heads and pulling at reins. They were clearly unsettled by the noise of the band which played in one corner and the flapping banners which each animal carried attached to its saddle. An assortment of stable hands, many of them inexperienced yard boys conscripted for the day, clung onto the heads of fractious animals. Some helped small riders onto mounts which were far too big for them. Several more of the children were shouting at the men holding their mount’s bridle to help them up whilst others were screaming to be taken down.
In the middle of the chaos and confusion stood a magnificent grey stallion, its ears laid back and the whites of its eyes showing. Yet it was not the stallion which held Jonderill’s attention but its rider, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Her long hair, the colour of pale honey, hung down her back, held neatly in place by a wide meshed net of gold thread studded with pearls. Her eyes were the blue of a mountain lake beneath crystal summer skies and her red lips the colour of wild red berries. The rider’s complexion was soft and faultless and already her girlish figure showed the signs of what the woman would one day be. Jonderill stared, his mouth agape, unable to take his eyes off her.
He would probably have stayed in the same mesmerised position all day if the grey stallion she rode hadn’t tired of the noise and confusion and backed into the milling crowd behind him. The girl dragged on the reins, sawing at the horse’s mouth and brought her whip down over its shoulder. With a scream of temper it kicked out at the roan pony which had careered into its quarters and then jumped forward several strides to give itself more room to continue its violent protest. Its young rider lost her reins in the unexpected leap forward but held onto her seat by entwining her hands in the horse’s long flowing mane.
Feeling its freedom, the horse reared up with its front legs pawing the air, scattering the men and children around it. Immediately the girl slipped down the back of the saddle, dislodging her pennant and riding whip but still holding tightly to the animal’s mane. The horse’s front hooves hit the ground with a shudder which further unseated its rider and then tensed its muscles again in readiness for another attempt at dislodging her.
Jonderill was not particularly brave and had no real liking of horses but there was no way he could stand by and watch the beautiful girl crash to the cobbles and be trampled beneath the horse’s hooves. He dropped the bucket of scraps, threw himself across the courtyard and managed to get both hands on the horse’s bridle just as it was about to launch itself into the air again. His sudden weight brought the horse’s head down and he held it there whilst the horse stood shaking and sweating in fear and temper. The touch of the horse’s flesh brought a sudden recognition to Jonderill although it had been two summers since he had been witness to Maladran’s blessing.
He spoke softly and quietly calling the horse’s name, knowing the animal would understand him and was rewarded by an easing of the horse’s taut muscles and a pricking of its ears. Jonderill stroked the sensitive nose and calmed the horse with gentle words whilst its beautiful rider pulled herself back into the saddle and gathered the reins into one hand. Her blue eyes blazed with anger as she searched for something missing from her saddle. Behind her the stable hands had finally brought all the other mounts under control and some semblance of peace and order existed. The rider next to her, a young man of almost twice her age, sidled up to the girl, a mocking laugh curling the edge of his lips.
“I thought you knew how to ride,” he sneered.
“I do,” snapped the girl, her anger being fed by the young man’s disdain, “but this animal has yet to learn to obey my commands, however I will teach it a lesson it won’t forget.” She looked around until she sighted the object she had lost and then turned her attentions to Jonderill. “You, boy, pass me my riding whip.” Jonderill felt Sansun shudder under his hands.
“No, My Lady, this horse needs reassurance not a beating.”
“Insolent boy!” screamed the girl, beside herself with anger. “How dare you defy me!” She turned in the saddle and without asking snatched the riding whip out of her companion’s hand. With all her force she brought the whip down across Jonderill’s face, drawing a line of blood and then another across his shoulders.
The young man next to her looked horrified and caught her hand before she could land a third stroke of the whip. “No, Daun, don’t do that in front of all these people, it’s not ladylike.”
Daun glowered at him. “Mind your own business, Pellum, I’m not having this dirty m
ongrel touching my horse or disobeying my commands.” She pulled her hand free of Pellum’s restraint.
“Then let the Stablemaster punish him for his audacity, his hand is heavier than yours.”
The Princess looked at Pellum with her anger slowly subsiding but a spiteful gleam coming into her eyes. “Boy, take yourself off to the saddle room and wait for the Stablemaster, he will put some salve on that cut so it won’t scar too badly.”
Jonderill looked into the impossibly blue eyes and bowed, seeing only beauty and not the coldness there. He released Sansun with one last affectionate stroke and hurried to do as the princess bid.
Daun turned back to Pellum with a satisfied smirk. “The Stablemaster is old and soft and is frightened to death of the Housecharge. At best he will give the boy a talking to but I know someone who will teach the boy his manners.” She stood in her stirrups and beckoned to the tall assistant Stablemaster who hurried to her side.
“You saw the boy take hold of my horse without my permission?”
“Yes yer ‘ighness, ‘e deliberately upset yer ‘orse in an attempt ter unseat yer.”
Daun smiled viciously. “Then the boy deserves to be taught a lesson.”
“Most definitely,” replied Tarris, returning her smile.
“So I can rely on you to ensure the boy knows his place in future?”
“Your wish, Me Lady.” Tarris stepped back looking supremely happy.
Daun turned to Pellum and the others who had come to help her celebrate her birthday and gave them a look of withering contempt.
“Now you have finally managed to get your nags under control I suppose we can leave.”
She dragged Sansun around and heeled her mount out of the gates and onto the drawbridge, giving Tarris one last conspiratorial smile.
Jonderill had done as the princess commanded and had made his way to the saddle room where he now sat on the long table holding a damp cloth to the shallow cut which ran from cheek bone to jaw. He felt as miserable as he could get. It wasn’t so much the thought of the scar he would likely carry for the rest of his life but the beautiful girl who had given it to him. If she felt so little for him now that she would use a riding whip on him, what hope was there for the future? There could be none, he knew that, he was just an unpaid servant and she a princess and heir to the throne of Vinmore. So lost in his thoughts was he that he didn’t hear the tall man enter the saddle room until Tarris’s strong hand clutched the back of his neck in an inescapable grip.
“Well if it aint me friend the magician lover.”
Jonderill recognised the voice instantly; he should have known that if the grey stallion was here, Tarris would not be far away. “Leave me alone, Tarris, you can’t do anything to me here, you’ll get sent away if you touch me and I tell the Housecharge.”
“I aint scared of you or the old dish scrubber, ‘cause I got special permission from ‘er royal ‘ighness to teach yer some manners an’ that’s just what I’m goin’ to do. If the old man wants to object ‘e can take it up wiv ‘er ‘ighness but it’ll be too late for you, I’ll ‘ave ‘ad me fun wiv yer as I should’ave done a long time ago.”
Tarris’s grip tightened around Jonderill’s neck as he pushed him downwards across the table whilst his other hand pulled at his belt. Jonderill panicked. Despite two summers having passed since their last meeting he was still not strong enough to fight the bully off and the stables were deserted. He tried to resist but Tarris was pulling his tunic up around his waist and laughing sadistically. Jonderill closed his eyes and desperately sought some way to escape.
His mind was suddenly assaulted with brilliant light and Tarris screamed in fear and pain, releasing Jonderill and jumping back clutching his hand. A smell of burning flesh mixed with smouldering straw filled the air. Stunned, Jonderill scrambled from the table to face his attacker who was rubbing a singed hand and stomping on the smouldering floor. Tarris looked at Jonderill with a mixture of fear and hatred.
“Yer possessed!” stammered Tarris but seeing the look of confusion and fright on Jonderill’s face made his own fear disappear. “So yer old magician taught yer a fing or two did ‘e? Well now I’m goin’ to teach yer something too.”
Jonderill was too slow to dodge the blow which caught him in the stomach and doubled him over or the kick which took his breath away as he tried to gasp for air. Tarris hit him again and then bound his wrists and fingers so tightly with rough twine that the circulation ceased. Tarris pulled him across the table by his wrists and held him there.
“I’ll teach yer not to use any of yer filthy magician’s tricks ‘ere.” He picked up a riding whip which had been left on the table waiting repair and brought it down onto Jonderill’s back. “Burn me would yer?” He brought the whip down again with a force driven by his anger. “Well I’ll teach yer a lesson yer never goin’ to forget.” The third cut, harder than the others, made Jonderill cry out with the pain.
“Tut, tut, now where have I left my spying glass?” muttered a warm, mellow voice from the doorway. “I am sure I put it on that table before I went looking for Plantagenate.” The fat magician blinked short-sightedly at the two boys in the frozen tableaux before him. “Have either of you boys seen my spying glass, I’m sure I left it here?”
Tarris hid the cane behind his back but continued to hold Jonderill in place. “I aint seen no spyin’ glass, sir, this ‘ere’s a stable not a work room.”
The magician’s brow furrowed in consternation as he peered at Tarris. “Just so, just so but I was here looking into mice and I distinctly remember putting my spy glass on that table, or at least one very much like it.” He pointed to Jonderill’s prone figure. “You boy, get up, you must be lying across my spy glass.”
He fussed around Jonderill’s shoulders and pushed Tarris’s restraining hand from the boy’s back. Tarris stepped away with a scowl and Jonderill stood on shaking legs, propping himself up on the edge of the table for support.
“No, it’s not here, how disturbing. You, boy, put that thing down you are holding behind your back and run to the kitchen and ask the Housecharge if I left my spyglass there. I might have done you know, perhaps the mice were in the kitchen.” Tarris didn’t move. “Go on, boy, I don’t have all day to look into mice, I have more important things to do.”
Tarris looked at the fat magician defiantly but suddenly had an irresistible urge to be elsewhere else. He dropped the riding whip on the floor and ran.
“A most unpleasant young man,” muttered Animus, absently sniffing the air as if he was searching for something. “I don’t suppose he was the one who created the elemental pong was he?” Jonderill looked scared and said nothing. “No, it couldn’t have been him so it must have been you, now that’s interesting isn’t it?” He put his podgy arm around the shaking boy who winced at the pressure on his reddening welts. “Perhaps the little missy didn’t find me in time after all,” he muttered to himself. When Jonderill didn’t say anything he removed his arm from around his shoulders and began leading him to the door by his bound wrists. “Now you come with me, young man, Plantagenet has some special balm for welts and cuts and I’ve just made a nice fresh pot of herb tea.”
*
Jonderill sat on the low stool by the fire, clutching a steaming mug of herb tea and feeling foolish. Animus had taken his brown tunic, leaving him with just his small clothes and sandals and Plantagenet had spread a good amount of evil smelling, yellow balm across the welts on his back. He had another thick blob covering the cut on his face and some around his wrists where the rough twine had grazed them. The room was exceedingly warm, with a huge fire burning in the hearth he sat next to and another smaller one in the hearth at the other end of the circular room. However it wasn’t the fire which was making his cheeks flush, nor the herb tea fortified with grain spirit but rather the presence of the pretty young woman in a well made but plain riding dress who sat cross- legged on the chair opposite him. He wished he had his tunic back or a blanket around him instead of
just his brief loin cloth.
“Now, young man, perhaps you would like to tell us what that was all about and why that unpleasant man was using a whip on you.”
From Jonderill’s position on the low stool, Plantagenet looked even taller than he normally did. His high forehead and beaked nose made his face appear elongated but not out of proportion to his height, which was a good two hands above the tallest man Jonderill had ever seen. Plantagenet’s long arms seemed to dangle almost to his knees, finished by long aesthetic fingers which had been surprisingly gentle as he applied the balm to Jonderill’s stinging back. Animus came and stood next to him clutching a bowl of tea and giving the pair of magicians a decidedly comical air. Animus was half the height of his counterpart but at least four times the width with rosy cheeks, a shinny bald head and soft podgy hands. Looking at the mismatched pair it wasn’t surprising that the mention of the king’s magicians brought a smile to everyone’s lips.
“It was the Princess Daun,” interposed the young woman. “She lost control of her horse and Jonderill calmed it but when she wanted to give the horse a beating Jonderill wouldn’t let her so she hit him instead.” Plantagenet frowned, his forehead wrinkling in a dozen parallel lines whilst Animus tut-tutted. “When Pellum stopped her she told Tarris to teach Jonderill a lesson.”
“A most unpleasant boy,” muttered Animus, “but there again most Leerslanders are.” The young woman pouted and looked offended. “No offence meant to you, My Lady,” he quickly added at the look of hurt on her face. “I meant just the men of course and then only common men, the stable hands and such like.” Jonderill looked up at him with a frown and Animus coughed and spluttered knowing he had said the wrong thing again.
“He does seem to be unpleasant and violent,” interrupted Plantagenet before Animus could make things worse. “You were very lucky, young Jonderill, that the Lady Tarraquin went to find help.”
